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Twisting the Narrative

Summary:

The summer was rough, and everyone still struggles to comprehend and accept what happened.
But at least Sunny can take the next year in the city to recover from everything and not interact with anybody he knows, right? Right??
aka
I take the entirety of OMORI and promptly dump it straight into Twisted Wonderland. It doesn't change as much as it should.

Chapter 1: ⁰¹⁰⁰¹¹¹¹ ⁰¹⁰¹⁰¹¹⁰ ⁰¹⁰⁰⁰¹⁰¹ ⁰¹⁰¹⁰⁰¹⁰ ⁰¹⁰⁰⁰⁰¹⁰ ⁰¹⁰⁰¹¹⁰⁰ ⁰¹⁰⁰¹¹¹¹ ⁰¹⁰¹⁰¹⁰⁰

Chapter Text

Basil's eyes were wide and wild, reflecting light in a way reminiscent of a cat or wolf. Sunny took a step back but Something prevented him from leaving the room, almost herding him towards Basil, ink climbing slowly up their legs.

Black dripped down over Basil's eyes, leaving latticework flowers in its wake. A crown of thorns pushed itself through his scalp and weaved around bloodstained hyacinths, the bright amethyst colour almost glowing in the pale light of the moon. The ink swept over his arms, leaving vine-like burns over freckled skin. A rough rope wrapped into a noose and pulled tight with a silent cry, revealing pointed fangs in the place of his usual dull human canines, needle-like and far sharper than those of beastmen or most fae. His clothing tore and lengthened at the edges, thorns winding around his limbs and digging into his flesh, drawing bright beads of blood that only served to stain the ink-black roses intertwined throughout even darker. His moonlit eyes burned with aquamarine fire, its harsh light reflecting onto his skin, highlighting its ghostly, bloodless pallor. Ink rose up behind him in a large black cloud, full of tangled hair and knashing teeth and large, glazed eyes. The flesh of his left hand almost seemed to melt into his garden shears, fusing it into the bladed implement, jade green and aquamarine swirls winding down the length of it.

Sunny was no better, shades of black and white ink dripping down his arms and staining his skin and clothes in harsh monochrome. His nails grew razor sharp in clenched fists, easily slicing through his palms. Ink swept over his throat, branding him with void-black trebleclefs and quarternotes. Dozens of blood-red hands burst through from between his shoulder blades, the bow of a violin slicing cleanly through his ribcage. Black poured down his face in sharp contrast to milky white eyes lit in white-hot fire, reflected in the single large eye of the looming black phantom behind him. His right hand gripped a wickedly sharp steak knife with a bright scarlet blade.

As one, they struck.