Chapter 20:

Round 1, Match 7: Fuzzy Rabid Usagi vs Supersession. Supersession:

Community Sudden Fiction Tournament Arc

Round 1, Match 7: Fuzzy Rabid Usagi vs Supersession.

Prompt: Giant fucking robots

Participant: Supersession (

“This has to be one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard from you.” “Really? I think if I pull it off well, I’ll manage to be famous.” “No.”

Jason was never the type to pay attention to how the world worked. His favourite subject in school was History—and though there’s nothing wrong with liking History, making that your degree of choice in university is the same thing as admitting you have never felt hardship in life. You’re not in touch with the real world where professional degrees rule supreme. You have no respect for employability. When I begged him to accept the offer to study Law instead, he replied that he had ‘no desire to study something that wasn’t his passion’.

I don’t like his dreamy attitude.

I don’t like his refusal to accept this is not how the world works.

“I think it’s going to be great,” Jason said. “This story is going to be amazing. It’s gonna be like the lovechild of Code Geass, Gundam and Evangelion. I’ve even done some worldbuilding and planned out all the plot twists beforehand.”

“Have you even gotten stuff published before?”

“Manuscripts,” Jason said. “The correct term is ‘manuscript’. And no, the publishers always reject my works. They don’t seem to respect my craft. Anyway, I don’t want to bother with pandering to the masses, because that’s not what I want to achieve with my writing.”

“Is the first draft done? Can I take a look at it?”

“Hah. Unfortunately not. I just have an outline so far,” he replied. “But I have all the hard parts down, which are the designs for the mechas, the worldbuilding and the plot twists.”

“I see.”

Jason’s main passion in life was to be a writer. There’s nothing wrong with that. When I was 20, I also harboured ambitions of being a novelist, and so I’d publish my garbage online and beg others to read the same way girls whore

themselves out for a shot at clout. It was a quick and easy way to endorphins, because the site was an echo chamber of introverts jerking each other off like they were all God’s gift to writing. No one would ever call another persons’ writing bad to their face—those who did immediately were immediately struck down and whisked away into obscurity. That was a no-go when all of us were losers who craved external validation. No views, no happiness. Criticism was to be delivered in bubble wrap; no exceptions.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of letting Jason see that site.

“Mecha, though? I think the trend nowadays is more Isekai, or maybe—”

“No,” Jason said. “As I’ve mentioned previously, I don’t want to pander.”

“But you’re commissioning an artist. You need to think of your book’s commercial viability.”

“I just need to write well,” Jason said. “The rest doesn’t matter.”

Giant fucking robots or smut or romantic comedies or wannabe mangas disguised as novels. It didn’t matter what you wrote on that site, every single piece of garbage was celebrated and somehow managed to get readership. The mediocre works would get pushed to the top and described as masterpieces. It was revolting. No one wanted to put their foot down and say, ‘Hey, you’re garbage. Please quit while you’re still young.’

“Why don’t you think this over a bit more? The art can’t be cheap.” “It’s fine. I have money,” Jason said.
“No, you have Grandma’s money.”
“Which I inherited, so it’s my money now,” Jason said.

“You don’t even have a real job.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jason said.

I couldn’t bear to listen to Jason any longer. Jason can’t write. His verb tenses are written in the past, yet his monologues seem to be in the present. There’s constant slippage. He probably can’t do descriptions, since he never seems to

acknowledge anything physical within his writing. His narratives are perfunctory. He likes light novels, which are not real books, and commissions art for them using money he doesn’t even earn himself. His style shows his incapability to write anything similar to real literature. I fucking hate Jason. I will never be like Jason.

“Good luck with it, I guess.”

After having yet another pseudo-argument with Jason, I come to the realisation that not listening to my psychiatrist was probably a bad choice. I go to the kitchen, pop a few pills of Thorazine, and pray to God that he doesn't invade my psyche ever again. 


Judge's Feedback

znf: I actually like the interpretation of the prompt, I just think the phrasing could be changed to make it more apparent. Generic premise but the sardonic/searing voice and tone can be used somewhere because it's engaging.

OscarHM: Dubious interpretation of the prompt. I really like the way this reads, a lot of character in it. It is however very vindictive sounding and I think too much of it relies on our knowledge of who you are, as opposed to who the narrator is. The twist at the end goes some way to alleviating that but I think more should've been done.

otkrlj: really funny interpretation. really liked the twist at the end, and the commentary about the real world was really well implemented

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