I’m doing my darnedest to keep this momentum going, so let’s get straight into the next act of the shitshow!
Here we see a typical morning at the Langurd Lodge for Futuristic Wayfarers. After arriving with a crash of thunder that ruins my screenshots and wakes the baby, a guest makes himself at home in the nursery.
Colby: Ah, what a quaint little transport vessel! I believe this is what they called a bort.
It’s precisely at this point that I rage-delete the time portal and leave Colby forever stranded. I hope he learns how to sail that bort the fuck outta here.
Well. I just laid out the screenshots for several more chapters and let me tell you, Siesta’s generation is going to be a saga. Today’s update is coming to you in a smaller package so I will feel less daunted by the task ahead.
We find the family in much the state we left them, i.e. total disarray after our resident knight turned out to be robotophile, and our resident robot turned out to be a bitch. Who knew?
The latest trend is that Siri keeps asking Breandan to “train” her on the ballet bar, which is as unsubtle as it is stupid.
Breandan: Work that plié, you arousing slab of tin!
Siri: This is all I ever wanted!
Hello, and welcome back to the Langurds! For real this time – no more filler bullshit. If you don’t believe me, take a moment to breathe in the scent of decaying tofu dogs and evaporating brain cells.
Oh yeah, we’re back alright.
Turns out I remember zero things from last generation, but I do know that there was a terrible, awful, very no good heir poll and y’all panic-voted this box-headed fool into leadership. I think we will regret this soon, but for now it’s full steam ahead!
Commence the celebratory tea! (I hope she showed up on time)
Siesta: Hey Prototype, I’ve been thinking.
Prototype: God help us all.
Siesta: Since I’m in charge and stuff, I’m going to rename you Siri.
Prototype: Pray tell why?
Siesta: Don’t be silly, Siri. You answer my questions, not the other way around!
Prototype: You poor dense soul.
You guys voted for this star-crossed lovers business, and honour compels me to deliver on my promises in the fullest way possible. Which means—you guessed it—the Langurds are about to enter that shadowy, foreboding territory we call PLOT.
Don’t worry—Siesta’s generation will be played and written as much by the seat of my pants as the others have been. It’s just that after playing detective so many times in Gen. 6, I felt it would be helpful to put all of my “COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT” moments in one place.
So please humour me as I don my Halloween-store trench coat and cap, and attempt to mash together disjointed happenings into a wad that can conceivably be called “evidence.”
Without further ado, let us open the case!
Well, here we are at last on July 12th! Happy Birthday Langurds and R.I.P. Sam’s sanity!
I can smell the light at the end of the tunnel (not a typo; caffeine does strange things to your senses) so I’m going to give it my all for these last 13.5 hours. Hopefully without having to cut things in half and without wasting the potential of these screenshots. You are all lovely and supportive and I’m sure it’s only me cracking the whip at this point, but there is no whip more terrifying than the one in my own hands. (Cripes, a few cups of coffee and I’ve turned into Omen?)
Things have been moving pretty fast. Our eldest heir candidate is a teen, our youngest a child, our heiress a middle-aged underachiever, and her ex-husband a corpse.
Only Rhapsody has yet to get a kick in the pants from Father Time. Of course she’s busking in the park when it hits.
Rhapsody: Thanks for coming to celebrate my birthday with me!
Corren: I didn’t. Where’d your guitar go?
In my haze of exhaustion last night, I completely failed to acknowledge a feat I have not accomplished since Chapter 1.3: two legit updates in one day! Universally recognized as the first sign of the apocalypse, so start hoarding those cans. Given that in Tewl’s day my average post length was a weak 40-45 screenshots, I think I get to claim victory over myself here.
To celebrate that victory, and because everyone begs for this shit on Leisure Day, the Langurds are opening up their glorious yard for entertaining!
Like any good party, this one begins with a fumbled pizza delivery.
Pizza Girl: Tada! Did some ants order a pizza?
Or rather, the new anthem of my life: “No Sleep Till 6.13.” But don’t ask me to rap; I don’t do that in public.
I didn’t want to jinx myself by mentioning this early on, but if I DO get through seven chapters by Wednesday, that may actually bring us to the end of Calamity’s generation. In other words, we could have an heir poll as early as THREE DAYS FROM NOW WTFBBQ.
That seems like a very short time for our heir hopefuls to develop personalities, hopes, dreams, quirks, flaws, and the kitchen sink, so let’s get cooking, guys!
Kip: I am twelve steps ahead of you.
Kip: Do you want me to elaborate or do you want me to finish these muffins?
She may be the first child in Langurd history to figure her life out so early, and the first Langurd in Langurd history to get gud at cooking. Our little indoorsy slob is going to be a chef. It is known.
Ah yes, finally—a chapter number to match the Langurds’ maturity level. Just in time for…
Wink wink, nudge nudge. But of course, that’s a very sore topic around here with our Gen. 6 OTP fresh off a divorce and trying to cobble their lives back together. R.I.P. Quilamity, you had a good run were never going to make it anyway.
Both parties take some time to focus on themselves, which tbh is basically what they did while married anyway. Calamity spends hers witnessing important milestones.
Cal: Try not to get arrested, okay?
Trance: Sorry Mom, but my coolness is a serious crime.
Round of applause for Gryffindork tanking her self-imposed mission in less than 48 hours. It’s not my fault, guys. Failure radiates from my very being. My friend asked me to look after her betta fish this week, and he literally died on my watch.
But in the words of a misguided Death Eater (and a really dated reference), IT’S NOT OVER YET! This seven-posts-in-a-week thing can still be a thing. I’ll just have to double up one day, which is totally doable. /delusion
Last time, a trilogy of Ghost Crises caused all sorts of rule breaking and left me wishing for several plates of ambrosia, which I then remembered is also against the rules. Basically, things are going great and everyone is really happy.
A fine time to check in with the one who started it all.
Quinn: Inspector Flanagan reporting for duty, sir.
Tewl: Well well well. So dis is da new man of da house.
And we’re off! Welcome to the first leg of a seven-day spirit journey. I hope you’re ready to feel closer to the Langurds than ever before (hey you in the back, I saw you swallow your vomit just now). Regrets? Absolutely not. Maybe a couple. Or twelve. Who am I kidding, guys? I’m in way over my head.
Our last instalment featured a disastrous bachelor party, a lacklustre wedding, and the birth of a Gen. 7 burrito, but not at all in that order. Don’t get me wrong—Cal and Quinn are totally traditional people who follow all the proper steps toward a conventional marriage.
Case in point—a timeless wedding ritual.
Cal: Is the cake good?
Quinn: WE MUST KNOW IF THE CAKE IS GOOD.
Skydancer: If I say no, does that doom you guys to infertility or something?