Flip it Four Ways - Orange
Flip It Four Ways - Prologue
Orange
He pulled one of the records off his time tables and had a good long look at it. He'd long ago (thirty seconds and a full month and an eternity) ago memorized every groove, every line in its surface.
But thus far he'd only been working with one track. The same song, played over and over again, ad infinitum. He hadn't even hit side B yet.
“So, is this even possible? Or a good idea? I mean 'cause I'm all for changin the scheme and alterin the mood, but...” asked Dave.
“I never tried it,” Davesprite responded. “And I don't think jumping tracks is gonna cut it. You'll need new records.”
Dave looked over at the alchemiter, then back at the disk.
“Okay. Hypothetically, worst that could happen is a pile of dead Daves. Shitty, but it keeps happening anyway.”
“Truth.”
“Best that could happen... pile of fucking sweet loot, ability to get to God-tier despite Terezi saying I never do it - just do it in some alternate universe and nobody's the wiser - and generally learn how to do these fucking timetables better.”
“You already decided to do it, dumpass, remember? Fucking alchemize the shit already.”
Dave picked up a blue clown hat, a stray bit of purple yarn, and a bit of white dog fur that his future self had dropped off, with only the enigmatic “You're a fucking dumbass but here you go” as greeting. Which didn't bode well, but he had the stuff, he'd better go do it.
“Let's fucking rock the house.”
He pulled out the blue record and played; a funky beat came out, some kind of weird 70s disco thing. He slid, turned, and changed the wind.
Orange
He pulled one of the records off his time tables and had a good long look at it. He'd long ago (thirty seconds and a full month and an eternity) ago memorized every groove, every line in its surface.
But thus far he'd only been working with one track. The same song, played over and over again, ad infinitum. He hadn't even hit side B yet.
“So, is this even possible? Or a good idea? I mean 'cause I'm all for changin the scheme and alterin the mood, but...” asked Dave.
“I never tried it,” Davesprite responded. “And I don't think jumping tracks is gonna cut it. You'll need new records.”
Dave looked over at the alchemiter, then back at the disk.
“Okay. Hypothetically, worst that could happen is a pile of dead Daves. Shitty, but it keeps happening anyway.”
“Truth.”
“Best that could happen... pile of fucking sweet loot, ability to get to God-tier despite Terezi saying I never do it - just do it in some alternate universe and nobody's the wiser - and generally learn how to do these fucking timetables better.”
“You already decided to do it, dumpass, remember? Fucking alchemize the shit already.”
Dave picked up a blue clown hat, a stray bit of purple yarn, and a bit of white dog fur that his future self had dropped off, with only the enigmatic “You're a fucking dumbass but here you go” as greeting. Which didn't bode well, but he had the stuff, he'd better go do it.
“Let's fucking rock the house.”
He pulled out the blue record and played; a funky beat came out, some kind of weird 70s disco thing. He slid, turned, and changed the wind.