Disc-laimer: I do not own the Teen Titans, nor do I own the Discworld series. If I had the sort of imagination to write either of the series, I would be so rich that the money would block my sight of the computer screen. Either way, I do not own either series, so if you have any complaints/flames about the fanfic, keep them to yourself, okay? (However that makes logical sense I do not know. Just don't flame me, okay? They will most likely not be answered and will be deleted on sight)
I just thought of this story when I was busy reading "Interesting Times," when I decided to stop reading for a second and watch some Teen Titans. Suddenly, it came to me. What if Rincewind was to meet the Teen Titans? How would they interact with each other? What would they do to each other? So, from there, I simply thought more and more of it, before I got the general plot of this story. I hope you like it, although I wouldn't be surprised if I got a few flames about it either. Either way, here it is, whether you like it or not!
All humans are liars. Truthful liars, yes, but liars nonetheless. And yet, humans expect others to trust them, although they are one of the least trustworthy beings in existence.
Why is this, you ask? Well, let me tell you…
Humans, including those on the planet Earth (but not limited to), which lies in the more stable and structurally sound yet dull and frankly overdone universes on the multiple planes of reality, have one of the most dangerous weapons known throughout reality, and yet they have no idea at just how dangerous it is, or the fact that it is a weapon.
This weapon has laid waste to thousands of civilizations, destroyed innumerable cultures and ended countless lives. It has brought devastation, pain and anguish to all that use it unwisely, or at all. And what is this weapon known as? Why, common sense, of course!
No other sense in all of the human body has brought such pain to those that use it, or those that are judged by it. It gives one the misconception that others will usually act, think and feel as you do, while the opposite is often true. But, by now, you are wondering just what is so terrible about "common sense" that makes it such a fierce and dangerous weapon, yes? Well, let me tell you…
Common sense, by definition, is the act of using "sound and prudent" judgment based on a simple perception of the situation or ideas. However, if one uses "sound and prudent" judgment as carelessly as mankind has used in it its long and bloody history; it is understandable for the causality ratings to be off the charts.
Say you are a simple explorer out at sea, looking for new lands to further expand your country's borders and wealth and for your own personal gains. Now say you come upon a giant landmass, the size of a continent like South America. What do you do? Why, capitalize on "your" discovery, of course! Enslave the natives of the land, persectcut them, use deadly diseases that they haven't been exposed to for thousands of years, which makes them more genetically susceptible to the disease. Use your "advanced" technology, your bullets and guns, and your armed but poorly trained men to do this, and wait for more men like you, propelled by your avarice, pride, and desperation (not every conqueror wanted to be a conqueror at first. Most needed the motivation of unemployment and poverty to drive them to ride a cramped wooden boat with smelly, disease-ridden men across large bodies of water, in hopes for a better life, and preferably a longer one as well).
And, how do you come to this conclusion, to do such unspeakable acts of inhumanity? Why, common sense, of course!
Sure, your greed and desperation brought you to this land of ample opportunity, but how do you know what to do next? Your common sense tells you! Your common sense tells you that it would be profitable to do such horrible acts to others. Your common sense tells you that it is okay to subjugate the natives, for they are men and women of a "backwards" society, know nothing of your God or gods and worship "false gods," are less technologically "advanced" as you are (at least, where it really matters)
(like knowing how to use a sword and gun, knowing how to sail and knowing how to speak Spanish and English, instead of knowing how to create extremely accurate calendars, the solar and lunar cycles, knowing how to use arithmetic and how to perform human sacrifices, en masse). Your common sense tells you what you should do and gives you the justifications about your actions, because it's all "good sense."
Common sense may not be as destructive as hatred and wrath, as consuming as greed and gluttony, or as insidious as slothfulness or laziness, yet is worse than all three of these emotions (or lack thereof). Common sense can act as the gate way, the portal, to emotions and actions of terrible degree. It allows us to justify these actions, as it allows us to tell ourselves that it is the right thing to do, as it "makes sense" to do so. It tells us that is exactly what anyone else would do, if they were in your position. Why is this? It is because common sense tells us that others think in common with us, that it is what makes sense. Common sense is our sense, because it makes it our sense. Common sense is based primarily on a person's instinctive skills and on a person's society's views. And, if you base your views solely on how others think and feel, you will certainly live a life of terrible deeds and decisions, for a life without thinking for yourself is no better than living your life as a machine.
Thankfully however, our story has little to do with common sense, so we are mainly spared from such horribleness. In fact, our story has little to do with the people of Earth, at least at first.
Come with me, to the other side of existence, where reality is much thinner and where thoughts and feelings can change and alter the worlds and citizens that dwell there. Here, reality is as thick as wet toilet paper, as stable as a one-legged dog and as fragrant as turpentine.
In other words, things on this side of reality are far less firm and sound as it is on the other side of existence. Things pop in and out of existence all the time. Here, the thoughts, words and ideas of men don't just have power, they have power. True, unadulterated power.
If you gathered enough people and had them all think of the same thought, like, say, that an elephant should be blue, not cause that is their natural skin pigmentation, but because all elephants are blue, then you could be certain that all elephants that live and exist close enough to those people would be blue. And of course then, since other people would see some of those blue elephants, they too would start to belief that they would like their elephants to be blue, or whatever color they fancy. And these ideas would spread and spread, and when all the elephants are all the colors of the rainbow, the people will argue just which color is the real color for an elephant to be, their beliefs will come into conflict, and eventually, after much social and physical dispute (with many deaths, to be sure), all the elephants will all become the same, right color, if only because the other opposing thoughts on elephant skin color were exterminate along with their believers. And then, all elephants will have been that color, ever since they came into existence, cause that is the right color for an elephant.
Of course, not every dispute over belief goes over something as "insignificant" as a bunch of pachyderms, but the idea is the same everywhere. Ideas on this side of reality take shape and form, and give creation to things like planets, worlds, gods and other beings of belief, like personifications.
And on this unrealistic side of reality, there is a world, as simple world really. A world that lies of four massive elephants (go figure), whose names are Berilia, Tubul, Great T'Phon, and Jerakeen, who on turn stand on the back of a giant tortoise, the Great A'Tuin, the star turtle, who floats through space to a destination of its own design. No one knows just what the Great A'Tuin (You would have better luck finding out what sound the color yellow makes, or how gamma radiation tastes, or what true nothingness looks like).
And, on this the back of this star turtle, on which stand the four giant elephants, on which stands the world, the world known as the Discworld. (There is just this uncertain shape about the universe and existence, which allows such an improbable world to existence. It seems deeply imbedded in the minds of humans and other creatures; it just makes sense, it is part of everyone's nature, however little sense it makes)
And, on the Discworld, if you looked hard and deep enough, you would notice the small features on the face of this massive world, like the mountains, deserts, rivers and oceans. If you looked even harder, you would notice a desert in particular. A vast and windy desert, with yellow sand and great dunes, which turns as red as the blood of those that had perished at its merciless heat and climate when the little sun of the Disc sets, like it is doing now. If you looked even harder, you could see a small little speck moving across the desert floor, which is moving further away from a large group of little specks at fair rate. If you looked harder still, you could tell that the small little speck wore a large red robe, dirty, sun-bleached, ragged and torn from the desert climate and conditions, as well as from other climates and conditions found all over the Disc.
Keeping your gaze focused on the speck, you could tell that it was not, as previously thought, just a speck, but a man, a lanky and lightly bearded man with a wretched cloth on his head that once may have been pointy and possibly a hat. It is difficult to tell, but it is clear the hat-cloth once had shiny and gaudy sequins, which had spelled the word "Wizzard." The remaining stitching in the cloth is the only thing that indicates this.
Upon further inspection on this moving, oddly dressed man, it can be made clear that he is not moving of his own volition, and was in fact running, but because of the large group of specks behind him, and that he was saying, his face a mask of panic, "Ohshitohshitohshit!"
To figure out why this man was cursing and running with such vigor, it is necessary to give a brief glance at the group of specks that were closing in on him as we speak.
The group of specks were too men, a score of men, twenty in all, who all wore enough clothing between them for 10 men (meaning that they were men from a "backwards" society). This group of scantily clothed men were running as a group towards the man with more clothes on, and judging from the expressions of their faces and the look of the many wooden clubs and spears that they carried, it is safe to say that they weren't chasing after the first man to invite him over to the local hut for a sociable dinner. In fact, it is safe to say that, if the men caught the first man, that the dinner would hardly be sociable, if only because you must be alive and not on the spit, over the fire, to attend a "sociable dinner." So, needless to say, the man kept on running for dear life, otherwise his would soon be ended.
However, this man's fate is not to be served with a side of desert vegetation. No, his fate is, while not exactly a greater one, is one that is certainly longer.
The robed man kept running and running. It was what he was good at. The only real thing he was good at. If there ever was a competition for racing on the Discworld where the loser didn't end up in the stomach or the end of the winner's blade, this man would have won it before it even started, as he would have already run before the competition even started. He ran, and ran, and ran.
He didn't have a destination in mind, as the "to" is never as important as the "from." As long as he was running away from something dangerous, where he was next didn't matter, the thing was that he actually made it there alive. Still, a destination at this point would have been nice.
He had been running from these local tribesmen for a while now, and while he knew that he could keep on running for some time more, it probably wouldn't matter. He was in the middle of a desert. Even if he did get away from these terribly persistent tribesmen, that still left the matter of being stranded in a desert. He was running from one danger and straight into another. Actually, he was already surrounded on all sides by that danger, and was getting more dangerous all the time.
"What the hell am I going to do?" thought the man as he continued to run.
He had no water, no food, and no idea where he was going, besides away from the hunters. He had been able to make by so far on the local vegetation and the occasional rain puddle, and was even lucky to find and stay at an oasis. However, as usual, he had been run out of that save haven by these cannibals and there didn't seem to be anything else around that gave sign of life.
"If I don't find something, anything to eat and drink soon, I'll die even more slowly than these bastards that are chasing me will kill me," thought the "Wizzard" bitterly. And he couldn't hope to rely on some magical kangaroo to magic food and water up for him every time he lifted up a rock either.
He was no longer on Fourecks and couldn't hope for any help from any one else, as usual. In fact, if he even began to act as if he could still hope to have magical or godly assistance, or that he could actually live through this, the Wizzard had finally figured out, he would truly be doomed. If he started to think and act optimistically for once, he would die so fast that his head would still be spinning as it fell from his shoulders. Thankfully, things never got too good for him to have a chance to stop being so pessimistic, so he was in the clear, rather speak.
"Yet that still leaves me with the matter of being stuck in the middle of a desert, with nothing to eat or drink and without any hope of rescue," thought the Wizzard glumly.
The Wizzard may not have been the smartest of men, and certainly no the most courageous, but he wasn't stupid (or suicidal), and had he not had lived as long as he did by giving up and dying, so instead of giving up to his hopeless circumstances, he continued running, however fruitless an attempt he knew it was.
The Wizzard ran and ran. And then ran some more. The gap between him and the desert-dwellers was shrinking all the time. Not for the first time, things were looking quite hopeless for the Wizzard. And, as we all know, the only time a hero or just the protagonist, can survive and win out the day, is when the chips are down, when there is no hope left, when the chances of victory are a million to one. And, on the Discworld, million to one chances crop up nine times out of ten…
The Wizzard continued to run, but as he ran, he began to think he was hearing something, and not just the rush of the wind from the running or from his occasional screams of terror. It wasn't even from the cannibals that were chasing him. The cannibals were as silent as could be, the sound of their breath and their muffled footfalls as they chased the poor man. They weren't stupid enough to waste precious breath on yelling at the prey, it only wasted energy, and in the desert, wasting energy isn't exactly viable towards survival. No, what the Wizzard though he could hear, and tried desperately to ignore, were voices.
And what is worse, they seemed to be coming from inside his own head. The voices didn't seem to sound him, so he probably wasn't thinking to himself. And it didn't seem likely that he had finally gone insane from all the years of interesting things happening to him, so they probably weren't the ravings of a deranged mind. Besides, even if he had gone insane, he would know, wouldn't he? Can you even be insane and know it?
The voices sounded like this: "Oh, dear friend Raven, can we please try this one?" asked one voice.
"Which one? This one, Star?" said another, in a gravelly and slightly monotone voice.
"Yes, friend. Tell me, what does this one spell do?" said the first voice. The Wizzard, try as he might, couldn't block this voice out. It sounded so full of life, vigor and happiness, that he simply couldn't drown it out with his own thoughts. Trying harder to keep these alien thoughts from his head, he put his hands over his ears, as if that would help.
"Let me look at it," said the gravelly voice, which quietly mumbled the spell underneath its breath. "Hm, it looks like a summoning spell. It can summon just about anything in the universe, I think."
"Oh, we must try it! I simply must see what we can summon!"
"I don't know Star. Summoning can be dangerous. We could summon up just about anything. It's too dangerous."
"Please, friend Raven? I really want to see what we summon. And if it is too dangerous, we can simply send it back, right? The spell can be reversed, correct?" asked the first voice, which the Wizzard could now tell was definitely female.
"Well, yes. I could send it back at once. But it's still too dangerous. What we could summon may leave the summoning circle before I can send it back. It could try to attack us or worse…"
"But we are strong, are we not? I have my starbolts and you have your magic. Together, there is no evil we can't stop and hold off for you to simply chant the reversal spell!" declared the first voice, filled with self-confidence.
The gravelly voice sighed. "Fine, Starfire, if you say so. But don't come crying to me if whatever we summon sucks your pretty face off, okay?"
"Now, let's see here…"
The Wizzard didn't like the sound of this. A summoning! He had been summoned and teleported through time and space before, first by a teenage demonologist, and then by those infuriating Wizards from the university. He tried to talk to the voices. "Wait, don't do it…!" he screamed in vain, right before he heard the two voices invoke the spell, their voices in unison.
The universe expanded, and then contracted. The air around the Wizzard began to crystallize, making little structures which floated in the air. The crystals had twice as many sides as a square. A massive amount of raw magic was being used, "all for a summoning!" snarled the Wizzard.
Thankfully, the magic didn't do much to the Wizzard. Instead of doing terrible and near limitless things to him, like turning him inside out or turning him into some tentacle abomination, it simply did this: the Wizzard disappeared.
There wasn't a proper bang or thunderclap. A portal didn't that opened up and the Wizzard was pulled into. There wasn't even a small puff of smoke to dignify his disappearance. The Wizzard simply vanished, as simple as that. As if he never existed at all.
The cannibals that were chasing the Wizzard noticed this and pulled up to a sudden halt. They stared at the empty space that once held their dinner, then at each other in bafflement. From where they come, they each thought, meals on legs didn't just vanish like that. No, they certainly didn't.
"Things aren't the way they used to be," they thought on a fundamental level. "Once, your dinner was just that, your dinner. There wasn't all this disappearing nonsense. Once, all you had to do was give chase, and depending on the dinner in question, either skew it with the spear or battle it to the death, using the superior numbers. Sometimes we even lost, like to a hero, those beef-headed bastards. But usually, dinner could be expected on a weekly basis and things went well enough for us."
They all sighed in unison. "Those were the good old days," they thought.
And it was because of this reflection that the cannibals soon discovered that those truly were the good old days, the best days of their lives. Sadly for them, this day would be their last day as well.
Pull back slightly from the scene, and you notice a small black dot moving at an alarming rate towards the group of dots. This dot, however, is not moving as a regular dot should, and not just because of its disturbing speeds. This dot is moving side to side, but not like any creature would run with two legs. This dot was moving side to side as it had a little more legs, or rather, feet. Like, say, a few hundred or so.
And after the dot had rundown the group of dots, it continued running, straight to the small patch of crystallized magic. When a large amount of magic gathers like that in one spot, it takes a while for the magic to fade back to the normal level of magic found on the Discworld. And, sometimes, that giant patch of raw magic that was used for the original spell can still have quite a kick, and even still be used again for the same purpose.
The same dot ran straight for that very patch of magic, and it too disappeared like the Wizzard, as suddenly and anti-climatically as he did.
Raven and Starfire waited. The spell had been simple enough. They had merely needed to speak the incantation, draw up a summoning circle and sacrifice about a table spoon of animal blood, and the spell was completed. All that they really needed to do to summon whatever it was that they summoned from the far reaches of the universe now was to wait and see what came out. Or in. Whatever.
They both watched their circle intently, until the waiting got to be too much.
"Friend Raven, shouldn't something have happened by now?" asked Starfire.
"Well, depending on what we summoned, its size, mass, density and power and how far we are summoning from, it could be here in another 5 seconds or an hour. We could be pulling this thing from the opposite side of the universe, as far as we know. Or maybe even beyond."
"Beyond? What do you mean by, beyond?"
"We could have even summoned something from another universe, Star. Ours isn't the only universe that exists. There are a multitude of universes in existence, and given the amount of magic I had to put into the spell to get this thing we summoned, it could be from an alternate dimension," explained Raven.
"Oh, really? I can't wait to see who or what we called forth!" said Starfire, in her usual bubbly voice.
"I just hope we won't live to regret this," said Raven, when the circle began to glow black, or what looked like black. Instead of the usual black color that Raven's spells took, this color was instead octarine, the eighth color, the color of magic. Raven had heard of it, and as a sorcererus, could see as clearly as any Discworld witch or wizard, but she only thought that it was a color that could only exist in other dimensions.
"Octarine? Just what are we summoning?" wondered Raven.
"Raven, the circle glows and yet I do not see anything? Tell me, doesn't your magic usually glow black?" asked Starfire.
"Oh, that's right, you can't seen Octarine, can you?" said Raven. "Here, let me explain. Octarine is a color, a color of magic found in some dimensions. It's sort of like a greenish-yellow purple, but you can't see it since you don't have the necessary octagons in your eyes, so you can't see it at all."
"Oh. Then does that mean that whatever we summoned is from such a dimension?" said Starfire.
"Yes, it looks like it," said Raven.
"Does that mean that what we summoned could be more dangerous than we first thought?" questioned Starfire, whose hands began to glow green with her starbolt energy.
"It's possible. Just be ready," said Raven, whose hands had also began to glow, but rather than glowing green, they began to glow black with her magic.
The summoning circle continued to glow octarine…
My first crossover story. I have no idea where I'm going with this story. I just image that Rincewind will somehow pick a fight with the Titans and there will be some overly extended chase between the two of them, with the Luggage following right behind as always. If you have any ideas or suggestions of how this can happen, let me know. I would really appreciate it. I'll give you a cookie! Review please!