A Life in Decline

Our Little Misfortune

Author's Note (Alpha): I'm so relieved that everyone's stuck behind this story through undoubtedly the part I worried the most about. But we're never going to be out of the woods. Perhaps this is the chapter that turns opinions? Or maybe not.

After the heightened emotions of the previous three, it's time to revel in misery before we get into some cool-down chapters.

Onwards!

Sunday came with the ferocity of a sloth. The delicate balance of the Loud House, already unevenly mended, had just been shattered again.

One versus twelve. As it had been in the past, as it was again. But unlike those old days, Lincoln won. Some tiny part of him wished he didn't. That boy he used to be beat at his current self. The Lincoln of before the Incident would never forgive who he was now. And perhaps ominously, that old Lincoln warned him in his sleep the most sinister threat to ever pass through his mind: This ain't it, chief.

But oh well, whatever. Never mind the doubts. All he needed to do was wait it out and everything would reach a new normal. A better normal. Everything would be okay. Everything would be okay. He just needed to wait for better days, and everything would be okay.

Down in the bunker where the sun could not reach, Lisa continued work on her assistant robot, not focusing on the mechanical aspects— that, she left to the help of Lana, who wasn't available at the moment. Rather, she worked on the schematics, revising and refining the design until she pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

She sighed.

"Vindictive sibling," she said to herself as she stared upon her reflection, cast back at her from upon the surface of an indistinct steel slab. "Your actions aren't out of enhanced caution for your own physical and psychological wellbeing, are they?" She set her glasses onto a table and looked up at the ceiling. "Our grayscale sister unit is not a victim of vengeance, is she? If I may hypothesize upon the moment, you rather aim to utilize her for the expressed purpose of inflicting a communal sororal sense of disciplined understanding. She is but a victim of circumstance."

In English, 'You're not actually upset with Lucy, are you Lincoln? You're just making an example out of her.' She spoke as if she knew this to be true, despite the doubts and frustration.

To a modicum of chagrin to this little prodigy, Lisa understood just as well as the rest that some sisters were closer to Lincoln than others. She most certainly was not high on his list of favorites, and to some degree, she participated in actively accentuating this increased disregard for her. The weaker bond she had with others, she often said to herself, the greater she could focus on her own pursuits.

"And look at where such schizoid disregard for my fellow genetic relative has left us." Her work this morning done, her time down there spent, she returned to the surface and into the central den of the Loud House. She looked upon what had once been a mighty case of awards for herself. These accomplishments might, she knew, have been the last she'd ever bring home. They might not.

And there, resting upon the edge like a cackling witch mocking her and her worldview, was "Most Improved Brother."

What a joke. What an insult. No one was there to tell them of their ways before it spiraled so catastrophically out of control. The slippery hands of karma had its way with them. As it should have.

How illogical to entertain the existence of "karma." There is action and there is reaction. There are actions and there are consequences. What the superstitious called 'karma' was only consequence that behaved according to our socially accepted understanding of justice. It all could have been so different, as it had once been.