Work Text:
Your name is Sollux Captor. You are the ever-living, ever-dead god of Doom. You haven't slept in six days, and haven't eaten in... well. Longer than that.
You are currently shaking, trembling from exhaustion. Your insides are an empty pit of hunger and pain. You're getting to the point where you can't type properly. It doesn't matter.
You gods are immortal, but as such you're also all alive. That's what “Living Gods” means. You all need to attend to the minutiae of living, such as eating, sleeping, and breathing, or else suffer just as a mortal would. Most of the others do not find this burdensome. Terezi, for example, likes to eat all sorts of things, traditionally edible or not, enjoying her general immunity to silly things like poison and infection. Overall, your fellow gods seem to enjoy, or at least not mind, taking time to attend to bodily functions.
There are exceptions. Feferi can manipulate her own biology past the need for sleep and oxygen, if she wants to. You have seen her turn green and leaf out like a bush, drinking in sunlight so as to not require food. Tavros sometimes just frees himself of these needs, though other times he indulges them.
You, also, are an exception. You find sleeping and eating an utter waste of time. So, you just carry on with your work, and work, and work, until you physically reach a point, like now, where any further work accomplished will be of a quality not worth keeping. By now, you know this point with precision, and don't even need to reach out into the universe to find the answer.
Fuck, you're so tired.
You can give yourself a proper reset in many ways, but these days you've made it a bit of a ritual, the way some people make a ritual out of washing and dressing in the morning or the evening. It's not entirely necessary, no, but it keeps you sane. Maybe.
You have a special room for resets, deep in your mansion and retina-locked to you. Inside it's lined with antiseptic stainless steel: easy to clean and with a drain on the bottom. You go in and decaptchalogue a simple folding chair, disposable. You sit in it and double check that you're wearing your godhood. Everything is where it needs to be.
Then you blow your head up.
The first time you ever “overclocked” your psionics on purpose it was for a different reason. You were very young, and sitting on your Quest Cocoon. It had been difficult and painful – took you a full minute to ramp up your psionic feedback loops until you hemorrhaged to death.
What an amateur. These days you can atomize your brain in less time than it takes to register any sensation at all.
You get up from the remains of the chair and pick your way through the fine layer of dirty yellow blood and splinters of bone matter coating the interior of the room. You feel pretty good. Refreshed. No hint of hunger or exhaustion.
You exit the room in your self-cleaning god tier robes, seal the door behind you, and use your tablet to activate the cleaning cycle. The interior will be bleached and shiny again in no time.
Break's over, and it only took about five minutes.
See? Efficient.
Time to go back to work. You have a picture you really need to send to FF.