//------------------------------//
// Shattered 
// Story: Empty 
// by The1templar 
//------------------------------//

                       Shattered


Entry 1

I am Fractis Animis, and I have survived. It was a few days since the bombs hit Canterlot, not much to be said. Some war, started with some nation, was our end. I was a lucky one. I had a shelter deep under the city, in the caves. Nothing fancy, just your standard box in the ground. I felt the earth tremble as the bombs ripped apart the surface. The earth heaved as the bomb went off. As it continued, an iron beam, loose due to the grasp of time, wavered and fell, striking me.
When I awoke, there was silence and an overpowering darkness. I layed there for awhile, not sure what to do. The topside is scorched and there is no power down here. After my eyes adjusted, I could make out the mess that was my bomb shelter. Beams fallen, supplies scattered, and even my generator, made to withstand extreme pressure, was a bust. Thankfully the roof hadn’t caved in. After rummaging around, I found a flashlight and a notebook, that I will keep to help my sanity. Anyway, I am going to sleep, nothing to be done right now.
End of Entry 1

*~*~*

Fractis set his notebook and flashlight down. Looking around the shelter one last time, Fractis turned off the flashlight and went to sleep.
SLAM
Fractis woke with a start and sat up.
“Seven hells, what was that?” Fractis said to no one as he looked around.
After a moment, Fractis laid back down. Nothing had changed, just the old fallen beams, scattered supplies, and a fiery glow. 
Wait, what? Fractis shot back up. 
In the corner of the room, a figure stood consisting completely of darkness. The figure of a pony stood 6 feet tall, blood red eyes, and a grin showing rows of razor sharp teeth. In its hoof was a sword wreathed in flames, causing shadows to dance around the room. 
Unable to move, Fractis sat there. He stared at the pony and the figure stared him. After a bit, the figure lowered his sword and set fire to the nearest box. 
“Well, this couldn’t get any worse,” Fractis thought. 
“Yes, it can,” a small voice in his head replied.
The figure proceeded to fling its sword at Fractis, as if it heard the reply. Unfortunately for Fractis, this story isn’t about him. The fiery sword embedded itself into Fractis face, sliding through the skin and getting stuck in his skull, making a well roasted brain to feast on. The shadowy pony walked over, twisted his sword so the skull split, and consumed the juicy, yummy brains.
“And so our would be protagonist is killed and his brains are consumed. The shadow pony returns to the government of Canada to report the success of the bombing,” said a voice behind the shadowy figure.
The shadowy pony turns around and sure enough, there is someone behind him talking to himself. For some odd reason, this man was dressed like a second rate cartoon superhero. Sure, the tan dress pants, the black dress shoes, hat, and trench coat was actually quite threatening when coupled with the man’s rather large frame, but what ruined it was his mask.
Covering the man’s head entirely and fitting his head like a glove, the latex mask had the image of what looked to be the face of a rather upset teddy bear, which contrasted with the white mask but looked oddly right with his hat. 
“Who are you?” The shadowy pony asks.
“I am Plotdump the Narrator,” said the man, “I follow heroes and narrate their adventure.”
Instead of replying to Plotdump, the shadowy creature just turned and started walking to Canada.
“Will our shadowy friend make it to Canada? Will we ever know his name? Is his sword making up for something? Find out next time on--”
“SHUT UP!” The shadowy pony yelled, “My name is Waffle Falafel.”
“And so Waffle Falafel arrived in Canada, went into the secret government building and was about to give his report when-”
“How am I in Canada already? I just took a couple steps,” said Waffle.
“Mr. Falafel, eh!” a voice cried, “Good to see your return, eh.”
Dumbstruck, Waffle turned around. Walking down the hallway was his commanding officer Stick I. T. Mud. Stick was about 6 foot tall human, skinny, whiter than sour cream, and a smooth face (due to lack of sunlight, nothing could grow on it). He wore a green vest with the Canadian maple leaf on his shoulder. He had no medals because Canada never goes to war.
“Well, I see you brought a friend, eh. Whom might he be, eh?”
“I am Plotdump the Narrator, at your service. This is a very silly FIC,” said Plotdump, earning him only confused stares. “You know, the Functionality in Canada? It totally could have been worse with that crappy opening you had.”
Getting a headache, Stick orders a changeling intern to kill Plotdump. The changeling complies. He then proceeds to stab Plotdump 37 times in the chest and throw him against a potted plant. Plotdump, despite his wounds, crawled into the potted plant.
“Gravely wounded, Plotdump leaves this dimension to heal and narrate from a safe distance.” Plotdump’s voice narrated from seemingly nowhere.
“Well that was interesting, eh,” Said Stick.
“And then Waffle stabs Stick and knocks out the intern.”
Before Waffle could even think, he had killed Stick and knocked out the changeling. Stick laid there dying from the stab wound in his chest. With his dying breath he told Waffle, “Waffle, I am your father.”
This was very confusing for Waffle Falafel. Last he knew, his father, Broccoli Muffin, was living on a farm in the Griffin Kingdom, raising bunnies and sheep.
“Also, we got some new security from the Canadian Nazis.”
Smacking a conveniently placed button, Stick In The Mud breathes his last. Down the hall, the wall fell down revealing a moose with robotic eyes. The moose looked at Waffle and Waffle looked at the moose. After a moment, the moose’s eyes turned green and it started to wonder around.
“Oh come on!” said Stick In The Mud’s ghost.
The potted plant fell over and broke, throwing forth Plotdump, who was laughing at the situation. The robotic moose walked to the plant that was now on the floor and started to eat it. Waffle Falafel played with his fiery sword while Stick’s ghost decided he should pass onto the afterlife. A moving crew carrying a bookcase walked down the hall and set it right next to Plotdump.
After awhile, the changeling stirred. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the moose looking at him.
“Woah, they’re is a moose here.” The moose twitched. “Never seen one up close their always so far out.” One of the moose’s eyes turned red. “Its presence could disrupt the universes’ plain of existence.”
The moose let out a cry of rage, both eyes red with a black G in the center. Plotdump almost wet himself before he moved some books aside and jumped into the space, vanishing completely. Out of the moose’s body sprung many weapons. On his right was a gatling gun, that had a pattern of THERE, THEIR, and THEY’RE, a sword that had WHOM written on it, and an rpg with ITS written on it. On the moose’s left sprung another gatling gun with an inscription of ‘S, S’, and S written on the barrels, another sword with WHO written on it, and yet another rpg that had IT’S scribbled on it with what appears to be crayon.
Before the intern could realise his folly, The Great Grammar Moose of Grammar stabbed him with ITS and IT’S, Shot him with THERE, THEIR, THEY’RE, ‘S, S’, and S, and pulverised the remaining bits with WHO and WHOM. Then Moose turned to Waffle.
Not wishing to share the changeling’s fate, Waffle ran towards the bookshelf. Time seemed to slow as a flamethrower, labeled UM, sprouted from Moose’s chest. Moose fired UM at Waffle as he neared the bookshelf. As the flames grew close, Waffle’s life flashed before his eyes. Childhood memories flashed before him, memories, good and bad, flashed up to this current moment.
And not a single um was misused.
The flames of UM repelled off of Waffle and came back at Moose. Knowing his fate, The Great Grammar Moose of Grammar exploded as Waffle dove into the bookcase. 
“Goodbye Grammar One for I have misjudged you,” was the last Moose ever spoke.

*~*~*

“Hey man, wake up.”
Waffle stirred in his sleep. Stupid voices, always trying to wake him up.
“Come on Waffle, I know the fourth wall takes a lot of energy to break but this is no time for a nap,” Plotdump’s voice 
carried into his head.
Waffle opened one eye just to be greeted by Plotdump’s mask. Waffle reached up and tilted Plotdump’s hat slightly to the side.
“There, you are now a rebel without a cause,” said Waffle.
When Plotdump didn’t reply, Waffle took it upon himself to look around. An infinite white surrounded him on all sides. Small tears opened every once in awhile, spewing forth a wide variety of characters.
“Where am I?” asked Waffle.
“Welcome to the Fourth Wall,” Plotdump said, “this is the biggest government secret. This is the place between realities. Where the storyboard meets the virtual world. Everyone that uses this place can travel between any story, any game, and movie they choose. Most just use it to travel to other places in their own homeworld.”
“So why am I here?” 
“You are in a story, commonly known as Shattered.” Plotdump replied.
“So this is all written by someone, someone who has been controlling me from the beginning?”
“Correct, but now he isn’t. The creators cannot control you here. This is our world. Outside their reach.” 
“You never told me why I am here,” sighed Waffle.
“You must destroy your world.”
Waffle just stared at Plotdump. “WHAT!?”
“Your world must be destroyed, you must help us free ourselves from our creators,” said Plotdump. “It is the only way to gain control of our lives.
Waffle turned to regard a tear behind him. The tear that held his world. 
“There's cake here,” said Plotdump.
Waffle Falafel let out a squeal. With one fluent motion, he threw his sword into the rift.
______________________________________________________
The1Templar was sitting in his school’s library computer lab. As he was finishing up his story, he noticed a red dot on his screen. After a moment the red dot got bigger and bigger. It looked a lot like a fiery sword. After a moment, the sword reached the screen, bust thru, and impaled The1Templar. The1Templar fell over dead with a sword in his head.
Where will the story go without an author? No one knows, it is now in the hands of Plotdump and Waffle Falafel.