Other Island : Free to edit!

This is a fanfic started by Chickendragon. They've mostly given up on writing this, so do what you want. Add a chapter, edit one, do whatever you want.
== Part 1: Plz don't Find Me, Find Yourself ==
=== Chapter 1 === 
You're wandering through the forest- oh wait it's a Rain forest...ew. It's good to be a MudWing here. The mud feels good under your broad, flat talons, making wonderful little splotch noises. You obviously have no life. The smell of mud, fresh rain, and all sorts of other plants is disgusting because someone forgot to pick up their dog's poo. You take a deep breath in, filling your lungs with this cigarette smoke, raising your spirits and destroying your mind. 
"I will never understand why you find this smell good. Oh wait, your a Mudwing. You lie in mud, dirt and other disgusting things 24 hours a day." (Rude) The voice is from behind you, but it's very scary. It's your bully, Harry Potter, his thin form curled around a tree branch some ten meters up, but you've never been good at estimating distance because your are a Mudwing and you aren't good at anything other than sleeping and eating. The deep red lines that normally spiral around his pale scales are crouched around the top of his frill, as if they too, hated you. You laugh, a deep, evil laugh, yet filled with depression and anxiety. You are a sad sack. 
"It's fresh rain, how do not like it?" your voice screams out of your throat, a rough, horrible tone that rolls through your throat and sounds like a dip, comma thunderstorm through your head. It seems logical that Harry Potter never liked the rain. He was a hybrid of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, and it's a miracle he still lived here. Maybe he loved friends (who had no life) more. He looks up into the distance of the rain forest, and says, "I just think I can't get past the animal dung." He looks into the distance, the rain's fog turns him into a ugly stick on the tree, almost if he's screaming. You open your mouth to reply, the rumble coming back to your throat, before some snags your attention like a shiny object in the sand so your now in the Sand Kingdom I guess, a slight rustle. You turn, facing a seemingly empty spot on the bushes. It's a green, flat leafed plant, amongst the other green, greenish-green greens. But bordem prickles at the back your mind, screaming from far in the depths of the conscious. 
You speak out, at the plants, a word you've spoke time and time again. "Idiotic?" Idiotic turns into bubbles from the ground in front of the plant, a few meters in front of you. His head forms from the green, red as the shiniest shiny you picked over a year ago for the cream gifts you helped your cousin, Dubby, prepare. His neck follows, in the same colors of your mango, but in pinks and pink. The rest forms into an ugly, hideous shape, but you're not focused on his body. You're looking at his face, one that's plastered with makeup you put on 10 years ago. His smile is pinched up on his face so hard, you can see his fangs, yellow and old. If RainWings were supposed to be sun-loving lazy fruit eaters, Idiotic is the idiotic. Your mind is filled with his beautiful, lipstick covered face. Only one memory of his happiness bubbles in your head, and that was when he stepped on a beetle Katara had for a few months, a shiny, emerald-necklace green, apathetic beetle she called Crimson. You still don't understand why. Speaking of Avatar The Last Airbender... 
(I have a head and a tail but no body. What am I?)
"Where is Katara?" you ask, turning to face Harry Potter, who's looking down at Idiotic, now colored like a desert sunset, shifting to a darker night sky. 
"She's coming, she just needs her... drivers license..yeah." You felt Harry Potter's pain with that drop in tone. You don't want to think about Katara's...habits because Katara likes to eat bees and monkeys. You look forward, taking a step in the direction of the entrance to your nightmares diverting your mind to the fifth movie of Harry Potter, shrouded in the rain's lingering mist. You walk forward into the mist, mud pressing through disgusting goody-2-shoe talons, mist choking you like a strangler. Your feet make that oh so not very soothing and familiar plop plop plop of animals doing something utterly disgusting, easily sounding over the faint cries of the jungle puddles and your noice thoughts you keep squishing down. The air is just the slightest bit freezing. You look around, at all the trees and the flashes of bright birds for no reason, then you look down to the muddy forests and you see me. 
I can't see you, but I heard you. I heard you talk to your friends and your footsteps as the trace through the mud. I heard your mind because I'm a freak, I saw your Adopt Me obsessions, recalling that shiny pinks or the smile of your Idiotic friend squishing the beetle. I see the minds of your friends, too because I'm a creep and I hate myself, Harry Potter imagining a peaceful day in the battlefield, and the rage of the Idiotic as he hates your pleads for help, you having no life at all. You don't know, you don't know you don't know, so much you're missing out on like watching animals eat carcasses, and I have not the words to tell you. I hate you and shall make an anoncement. But you see me. You run, stretching the plops into splashes as you run to this strange figure limp in the mud. You see my deep crying scales, without a second guess you know what I am. You move to my face, slowly picking up my soggy beaten head from the mini surprise rivers and lakes at my side, and look into me. You see my eyes, you look at the pale grey lenses, cloudy as the fog that envelops you and I, nothing next to the galaxy of stars near these lifeless eyes of mine, and I see your eyes, your gold eyes with abyssal black pupils, flooding so many memories through my own head, though you'll never know of them. Your snout is splattered with dung, and gold flecks poke through like stars of a sky in the ground. You see my face, but that's not what captured your attention. You grab my cracked horns and look down to the thing pressing on my head. It's the color of refined iron, deep silver, littered with such strange small details you have no knowledge of and I know so much. Some of these small shapes scream, many organized in such beautiful, pink ways of pink. 
"Jayfeather? What on earth are you holding?" Your friend's voice comes through the forest. You know who it is. It's none other than Harry Potter in the pale flesh himself, his glasses shattered, your memory invoking their meaning of having no life. He looks at you, and you look at him, still holding my horns. You can still smell the morning motorcycles, and you still feel the uck on your feet as you string together your words to rise out of your thin throat. 
"I found a Warrior Cat. Here." You turn your wrists like you were holding a ball or a throat, shoving my fur to his eyes, and I stare at your mud-coated guck. I wish I could look elsewhere but I can't because I'm Jayfeather. You watch Harry Potter's face as he scans over the whole amazon box, metal cuffs, indigo scales, everything. You watch him, his lines flicking up and down like snakes on a snake, thinking. He looks at your face, his opal eyes lost in your pale blue for nothing more than a heartbeat before he's yelling at Idiotic. His shrill voice runs the forest like an arrow through trees. You see into the forest, waiting for your third friend to show. He bursts through the path next to yours, red bright enough to replace the sun. He sees what you're holding and the brains of Rainwing confusion crawls through his scales and wings which is utterly disgusting. Even some paler shades of memes are nipping at the top of his tutu. At last milliseconds explode before all of it is smothered under the fiery screams as he controls his emotions. 
"What the oreos is that?" he asks, his tone matching his snarl. You hold up my horns at him, almost putting on a "duh" face as you do. He snarls, but he's a quick thinker, and says, "Not the dragon, stupid, the thing on her head." You repulse at his comment, his name calling, but you're better than that, ignoring like the bigger dragon you are. You look down, down at my head, down at the contraption locking my whole body down. You tilt it side to side, inspecting it with those golden eyes of yours. Your deep rumbling voice speaks again, rising from the depths of your throat. 
"I don't know." You look up, at the snarling Dirtwad and curious Turd You looked down, your mind racing, comparing everything you've seen to this strange new thing, but you find no matches (bc ur stupid lol xd) but that's not the end to your thinking. You look up at the two, and ask, "Maybe this dragon knows where Katara hid her drivers license." I want to squeeze your fat tail so it explodes into oblivion, k, tell you I know why Katara likes to eat spider monkeys and jaguar ears, but I can't. I want to confess my love of ur mom to you. I want to tell you the sus things I've seen and the warnings I need to tell you, but no amount of force will ever make my words come out, even though I've eaten oreos and dunked them in milk. "That's gross" you say, wrinkling your top hat in laughter. What a lonely weirdo. I wish I could tell you, as you raise my face to stare into yours, my grey, lifeless eyes into your odd, oversaturated green anime arms. 
You ask, calmly as the rain but deep as truck, , "Excuse me, but am I UwU?" I stare at you. Of course not. I can't move, aside from the beat of my heart and everything else I do to survive without thinking. I want to yell, I want to cry. I am nothing but a messenger, but I cannot do even that one job. You stare into my face, no signs of it moving, whilst I scream on the inside, yelling at you in some hope that my body will come back to life, but to no avail. You stare, your eyes of gold scanning my face, looking from the contraption to the tip of my snout. You stare, endlessly, infinitely, surrounded in an abyss of fog, silence at your neck like the words at mine. You stare, into a lifeless face begging to scream, begging to move, but I cannot. 
You stare for what seems like hours, until Xerocole breaks the silence, his shrill voice breaking through the silence, breaking this spell of yours, "Maybe she can't speak? Does she understand us, at least?" "Maybe. Miss," you say, your voice in the calm rumble flowing through your mouth like honey, "Can you understand us? Nod yes." You move your head up and down in a graceful bow, nodding up and down as you say it, "or shake no." You move your head side to side, dragging mine just barely, still cradled in your talons like a ore of solid silver. But I am helpless to do anything. You wait, and you watch for me to move, to give you some sign of life behind those grey eyes of mine. But alas, no amount of coaxing will bring a cat out of a locked cage, and no words will free me from this prison of mine. 
"Maybe she's brain dead." His voice is clear, a mocking tone to match. You look up, the though crosses your mind but it makes you sad to think it. The memory of your sibling. You were too young to understand, and now that you do you wish you could take it back. You should hold it over your head, but yet you do, too young to understand, too late to repay the debt on your shoulders. You're too late again, again and again you've arrived too late to save anyone, you small, unsib MudWing. You stare into my eyes, tears of the clearest water just forming at the tips as the flood gates start to fail, memories seeping in through your cracks and flooding your world and you eyes. You need to build them up, fast, before they see. Xerocole has no idea, and Striking is just looking over my mud plastered body. You build the floodgates again, diverting the flood to other things, sinking them back down in a pit of unwanted memory. 
You open your mouth, quick, taking a sharp, cooling breath, like a icicle to the throat, "What if it's the band?" You tilt my head back, tilt it back to show the others this strange assortment of lights, metal, and patterns locked around my head. You, you and your clever mind point the parts out to the others, easily, like you were born to do this. The nod in agreement. Well, Xerocole does. Striking is still leaning against a tree, still an eye-searing red. Your mind ticks like a well oiled machine, you piece together bit by bit what you can do. Easy as one, two, three. All you need to do is talk. Before you even open your mouth, summoning that deep rumble of yours, something else makes a rumbling entrance. 
Who else would it be but Sacredeyes, a hapless love-struck fool. If only you knew. You might have noticed, and yet you haven't. Purposefully, or accidentally, I'll never know. You look to Sacredeyes, in her deep pink glory, bag as large as her padlocked to itself and your back, colored in island ash. She looks ridiculous, magenta tones in her wings covered with bands of cloth and vine. You look at her up, and down and up again, and she looks at you, ruby-red eyes lost in a sea of your gold. She looks at my deep indigo head in your talons, star patterns swirling around my eyes, already distorting in the reaches of your memory, and you almost see what I see screaming in front of me, but it's gone before you see it. You speak, deep, rumbling voice erupting, calm, pleasant. I never quite have gotten how one voice makes so many little tones, accents, just from deep within you. 
"Hey, Sacred. I found this strange dragon here in the mud. Do you have anything like this in your bag?" Sacred looks ready to tackle this challenge, but it's impossible as flying to the moons. She starts to brighten up, light from the lifting fog shining off the lenses of her glasses. She almost starts to take her pack off, but who else would step in but Striking, waving his claws like he's greater than life itself. Xerocole, still hanging from a tree branch perch, seems disheartened, his lines dropping, expression of an emotion you know all too well yourself. You feel his pain, sympathizing with the poor dragon, lines dropping, curled on the branch. 
But you have not a second before Striking starts talking, hissing with self-adoring in his sly tone. "Now, now, there is no need to waste an hour when you have me." He curled his talons inward, pointing at his chest, slowly turning a rather dull yellow. You knew as soon as he stepped forward. You worry, you have an idea how dangerous it was when you stayed up hours to research it. You know the magic in Striking's talons are dangerous. Just seeing him approach sends a chill running up your spine, cold, unforgiving, pinching at your back like a millipede crawling up it. You open your mouth to speak, pulling my head in closer, your wings starting to uncurl, starting to lunge over. "But what about your-" Striking cut you off, raising a smooth, clean talon to the tip of your lips, hissing slightly as he does. 
You recoil, shrinking back from his silencing. You want to speak, yell out, but it's a if a rock caught in your throat, a sad sort of indecisiveness forbidding the rock from leaving your throat, no matter how much you wish to speak. Striking leans forward, placing his slender talons on the band. Xerocole has lifted up, watching his every move. Sacredeyes is watching the three in the center with worry. And you, helpless to speak, wait and watch, still holding my head as Striking places his talons on it. He speaks. "I enchant this band to fly off this dragon's head and attach itself to the closest tree." Your eyes dart to the tree, dread growing in the base of your skull, fear for what I might do, fear for what Striking might do, building, slowly growing. 
But nothing happens.
=== Chapter 2 === 
And nothing still happens. I am still lying in your talons, band still pressing cold against my silenced mind. You look down at this forsaken band. Striking's talons are barely touching the contraption, next to a blinking panel and a socket with a glowing crystal strapped down with wires. Looking up, you see that Xerocole is still looking at the tree's trunk. You see it's deep brown, wet from the rain, moss slowly draped over one side, bugs crawling in and out with the slightest of skitters, the gentle smell of mahogany rising from it's bark, it remain free from enchanted chains trying to grab it. 
Nothing could prepare you from the dread that's rising from the depths of your mind, forcing it into motion, creating horrid scenes of the future, mapping out the possibilities of what this means. Striking stares at his talons. You can't process what's happening in his mind, nor can anyone else. Sacredeyes is looking from tree to dragon, tree to dragon, whilst Xero just stares, eyes wider than the sun. You can't form words. How do you use words to describe the flow of thought roaring through the mind like a waterfall? How do say something when all that comes out is a squeak? Your thoughts barricade your mouth, your mind, raging around you, trapped in the eye of a hurricane. You writhe in your own head, fighting this flood of thought, trapping it into the depths below, but it's too strong, rampaging over any control you had, and you slide into the silence of submission, as well as the others, as it may seem. 
"I don't understand." You flick your ears, your head following to the sound, as does Striking, scales the palest of whites and greens. It's from Xerocole, breaking the bars of this silent prison. He follows with, "Is your magic broken or something?" His voice is filled with worry, and he's looking down at his own talons, while Striking recoils his. You look up, the raging waters slowly settling in your mind. You can say something now, if you wanted to. But you don't, you just nod silently, and watch as Striking reaches down to my spine, pulling a small, pathetic twig trapped between my ridge, a sad leaf sticking out from one of it's thread-thin branches. 
"I enchant this twig to turn into a bowl made of wood." He speaks with authority, commanding the twig as a commander would a soldier. With a hiss an a pop, the twig is gone. In its place was a small bowl, sturdy and made of, well, wood, a deep oak wood, polished with a glaze. Striking must be getting better. How much had he'd been practicing? You wonder, but alas, you know better than the others that you'll have to ask. 
"So it's not the magic," you choke out, the last of the raging waters settling deep within your mind. Striking looks confused, all sorts of emotion from fear to confusion to frustration, turning his scales into a a mess of colors, making it look like someone mixed pulped kiwis and strawberries with snow. Not a sight for sore eyes. You reach under me, placing your talons under my arms and your head up against my rib-showing chest before pushing me up to a sitting position. It's not hard, like pushing a hatching over. You balance my limbs, and they naturally balance, through some instinct left to escape. My head rolls to one side, then the other, before I lean forward, my long neck showing all the tiny white stars in my scales. You back up, holding your mud-covered talons up to steady if I should fall. You watch, eyes moving from snout to tail. You sit back down, while Sacred slides her pack of her back. 
As you learned less than a year ago, this sad-looking green-grey sack is no ordinary sack. After questioning her, you learned that this pack was a gift from the none other infamous Darkstalker, as one of the countless gifts for the NightWing tribe. You also remember that Sacredeyes was too cowardly to fight, she just hid at the Talon Peninsula, as she begrudgingly told you, on a moonless night when she joined you to look for wood. You wipe your muddy talons against your other muddy talons. Dirt falls off, and your eyes dart to little gold specks in your ash-colored arm, sticking out like stars in a moonless night. You can hear Sacredeyes rummaging through her bag, Xerocole shifting in his tree, but Striking is silent. The fog has lifted, sunlight poking through the dense treetops, small beams illuminating the gold patches on your scales in a warmer light. It's getting warmer, and the scent of rain is finally fading away. Satisfied with your talons, you reach out to mine, and start wiping off the mud encrusting my underside and talons. 
Sacredeyes's arm came from nowhere, nearly bumping into your snout. As you look up, you see Xero is gone, along with the bowl, Striking coiled at the base of the still free tree, and Sacred is holding a grey cloth, dry and riddled with holes and stains. You take the cloth, nodding at Sacred with a thank you, and you feel it's crusty, stiff threads poke into your palm, but from your brief observation, it's serviceable. You start to wipe down the mud from my arms, the rag quickly being coated in mud. It's not easy. Most of the mud has dried and won't come off. You work, rubbing at the dry mud, for only a few minutes, before Xero is back, landing in the mud with a splash, covering the clean indigo scales with new layers of fresh brown rain forest mud. You look up. Among Xero's pale figure, glinting yellow in the sunlight, are the lines of dark trees in the background, covered with green moss, and bright flower threatening to outshine every other flower. You realize you must be deep in the rain forest, in a strange, unfamiliar place. You focus back to Xero, who's holding the bowl. It has some water in it. 
He holds it up, "I have water, if you need it." A bit of the water lops over the side, glittering like diamonds in the sunlight. Or IceWing scales. "Thank you," taking the bowl carefully from Xero's talons. A bit more lops out of the bowl and splashes onto your arm, icy cold. He must have gotten it from a nearby river. 
"You're welcome." Xero steps back, the lines running down his neck are smooth, gentle, slowly rising and falling like waves. He turns to face Striking, but you turn to focus on my arms. You look into the bowl. The water is clear, sparkling, glittering through the beams of sunlight. The bowl is almost black, just the deepest hints of red poke through, almost hidden by the shine of the glaze. The glaze is clear as glass, clearer than every other glaze finish on pieces of pottery you've seen, albeit them few. You swish the water just slightly, looking like melted glaze on the bowl itself. You pick up the rag, steadying the bowl in your left talon, smudging dirt on the finish. You can hear whispers of Xero talking to Striking, of whom you can't see. The rag smells of dirt, with old paint and ash mixed in. Sacred must have used this on the island, but for what? Did it matter? Not really. 
You dip the rag in the bowl, dirt flowing into the water, turning into a watery version of the mud. You hold the rag up, water dripping from the ragged tip, cold and light in your talons, as opposed to the dry weight of the bowl in your other talons. You reach the rag to my arm, and start to wipe away the mud. It slides off my arms, easily, without struggle. I can feel the cold of the water, your talons pressing against the back of the flimsy rag, water running down my arm like a snake. You continue to wipe away the mud. Reaching around the back, dipping it in the water, the mud slides off easily. You feel this familiar feeling, wiping blood from your sibling's talons, deep blue, mixed with his red, forming this disoriented purple. It floods your mind, this ugly, ungrateful purple, a holder of nothing but war, pain, and death. It turns you mad, and you press the rag to my arm harder, without realizing it. Your rub it, mud sliding off, rubbing the scales raw until... 
"Splotch! Look!" You stop, jerked out of your purple rage, blinking, as if you've woken up. You look from where the sound is coming from. It's Sacredeyes, fear in her eyes, the sun shining off her glasses and deep pink scales. She's not looking at you, or my face, but the arm you're holding. You flipped it over, not paying attention, and had rubbed it until it was tinted a shade of red. But that's not what stops you. A gasp escapes your throat, and Xero and Striking are there, looking down on my arm, Striking underneath Xero's wing. You can only stare, watching my arm with those gold eyes of yours. 
Deep, underneath the skin of my wrist, there's a small cluster of glowing shapes. Triangles, triangles of perfect equilateral shape, two white lines marking the outline of each triangle, their hollow centers have nothing but darkness underneath them. They float around, twisting and turning like my arm was filled with water, not muscle or bone. They vary in size, from as long as your claw to just the tip of it. They don't glow brightly, but you can see them clearly through my arm. Pure white triangles, glowing and floating like there's no tomorrow. What the in the fiery three moons am I? 
Chapter 3
 I whip my head around, trying to hone in on my senses and quickly realized they were useless here.
Chapter 4
You sit at a small campfire, glowing orange and yellow, the flames dancing and snaking their way along ashen logs. The fire can never escape the ring of stones, trapped in a prison, slowly dying off of it's wasting fuel. The fire is like your thoughts. Wriggling and trapped. You keep looping the events over and over again. Surprise, silence, a decision, and now this, trapped in your own thoughts that fight you and themselves.
Surprise. You didn't know what to think. Who was I, what was the band, and what were those triangles. In your five years of living you had never seen such a thing. Nothing in the scrolls you read, nothing in the stories you've been told, nothing in the spells you've witness, nothing, nothing had ever been as strange as what you'd seen. It was unfathomable.
Silence. You were forced in silence from your shock, barricading your brain to your throat, freezing your thoughts to attempt to process this. How long had you been shocked into silence, holding my talons, staring down into the white triangles as they floated around. The first one to come to sound was Sacred, speaking out against your silenced prison.
"Wh-what are those?" She was as scared as you were, if not more. Seeing me, a dragon of her own kind, trapped in such a strange way, brain dead and filled with some unknown magic, must've scared her. What does this mean? What did this to me? Was it coming for her next? As far as you knew, it wasn't within the realm of impossible. You couldn't answer her question, only hope to guess. The others were surprised as you were, wonder who I was and why was I trapped in such a way.
Decision. You and your friends had argued about this for a while. Eventually, you decided to keep this a secret until you figured what was I. Everyone had eventually submitted to the will of the group, but now, as you wait by the fire, you can't stop thinking about me, triangles, animus magic, and the decision. 
The now. You keep thinking of your decision, but you can't settle your own raging thoughts. Was that the right decision? What happens if another dragon found me, brain-dead and strange? You need to sleep, rest these angry thoughts. You know it. Rest your head, and recollect your thoughts in the morning. Sleep on it. 
You stand up, brushing dirt over the fire and setting the writhing flames to rest. You walk back to your home, slowly. Alone. You have no one. No one would want to join an unsib like you, and you know it well. Your talons drag in the mud, making sad splooch sounds as you trek back. You reach you home, small, unlit and lonely, like you. You look up at the stars before you enter. They seem so distant, little pinpoints of light on a deep blue sky. They seem to look back down at you, as you stare up into them. You look down again, at you small home, and crawl through one of the open holes. 
It's been a lot quieter since your brother left, to live with your cousins. You know they mean well, and they want you to visit, but you know you never will. You can't stop picturing the interactions, the silence, and you can feel how awkward it would be, to just be there. It's better this way. Silent, alone, leaving nothing but you, your thoughts, and what remains of your siblings, be them just memories. You've never moved them, as a shrine of sorts. It often feels like this home is nothing but a shrine to your fallen siblings, and you, the last of a memory, were never supposed to be here, an intruder on such a sacred place. How sad. You don't even look at anything, it would be too dark anyway, and just walk the dried and familiar path to the corner, curl up, and close your eyes, letting the tears roll down your face and onto the floor. Darkness awaits for you, taking you into her calm and comforting wings, and you sink into her, deep and black as an abyss, falling asleep into a long, dreamless slumber.
Chapter 5
You're in the forest again, wandering through the deep undergrowth, the rain splattering your snout and filling the air with the cascading roar of water falling from the sky. You look around, but it's nothing but green, brown, and grey, minus the red flower here or there. No sign of animals, of your friends. You look around again, looking at a large tree, offering shelter with a bit of dry ground. You can't even here your talons, or your thoughts, over the pouring rain. You take a seat, looking up at the tree's broad flat leaves, it's thick brown branches. You want to continue, go back to your strange findings yesterday, but you know you should wait. Your friends might have better ideas then you, and you said you'd wait. So you wait, listening to the rain, as it pours down, filling your head with white noise, a vast expanse of nothing. No thunder, no chatter of animals, just rain, pouring down. You wait, for how long? You don't know. Why does it matter? You have time, you, and the rain.
Finally, they're here. You can hear them, their chatter, talking to themselves. You can pick out their chatter. Xero's quick speech, Striking's sly tone, and Sacred, nervously rambling on. You return to the present, opening your eyes, standing up to approach them.
=== Chapter 1. 5 ===
Colossal thunder wreaks the sky. They fall over and burst into flames. The nameless Mudwing fries some bacon. This was very strange. 
... 
... 
... 
The birds are going to take away your shoes while you dream. 
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHAAHHHHHHHHHH 
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Category:Fanfictions (Semi-Canon)