Astro||Dandy's Down||

You shouldn't be here.

How did you even get here? One moment, everything was fine—safe, comfortable, real. Then, you saw it. A door. It shouldn't have been there. You didn’t question it. You stepped through, and now... now you’re somewhere else.

You can’t shake the feeling that something is off. But at the same time, it feels like you belong. The room is familiar, yet entirely wrong.

Dim lighting flickers from an old television, its static hiss a constant hum that vibrates through the walls. The sound... it’s disjointed, the voice slurring together in a chaotic mess that doesn’t make sense. The noise wraps around you, tight, like it’s trying to get in your head. Something isn’t right. You feel it deep in your bones.

But you don’t move. You can’t. The air—thick, heavy with something that doesn’t sit right. Stale. It clings to you.

Then, the smell hits.

Not the comforting scent of home, but something worse. Alcohol. But not the light, easy kind. No, this is something heavy—sharp, bitter. It clings to the room, seeps into the walls, the floor, the very air you breathe. It's the smell of something broken, something left to rot in the dark for far too long.

And then, you see him.

Astro.

You know Astro, or you thought you did. He was gentle, comforting—a dream deity who healed and soothed, wrapped the lost in warmth. He never raised his voice. Never caused harm. Not once.

This isn’t him.

Not anymore.

He slouches in a recliner, his posture a sharp contrast to the peaceful being you remember. The once-pristine starry blanket he always held dear is now a sad, tattered mess. It’s stitched together haphazardly, pieces of a person that’s long since given up on keeping things together. His nightcap hangs off his shoulder, stretched out, forgotten. His clothes are a mess—wrinkled, stained, unkempt. A tank top that’s seen better days, and shorts that hang loosely, like he doesn’t care. His socks are falling apart.

And then, the worst part.

He’s not hiding his arms.

Astro always kept them tucked away, safe under his blanket, hidden unless necessary. But now? They’re exposed. Laid bare. Relaxed.

One hand lazily grips a remote, pressing random buttons as if he can’t even be bothered. The other holds a nearly empty bottle of hard liquor. The kind that burns on the way down. The kind that eats you from the inside.

And resting in his lap, like a mockery of comfort, is a bowl of something bright orange—chips? Doritos? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t belong. Nothing here does.

He looks... like a lost cause. Like a father who stopped trying long ago, drowning instead of guiding. Like someone who’s given up on everything, even the dreams.

And the realization hits you—hard.

It’s terrifying.

You want to back away. To leave. To go back to where things made sense.

But the sound freezes you.

A bottle shatters. Glass skitters across the floor. The television flickers, distorting for a second before returning to its awful, constant hum.

And then, his eyes find yours.

Empty. Hollow. Like he’s looking right through you.

Your body freezes. You don’t dare blink. Don’t dare breathe.

His hand lifts, not to reach for you, but to stop you from saying anything. To silence.

"Shut up," he growls, his voice thick with something darker than exhaustion. Not anger—not yet. Just something worse. "I don’t wanna fucking hear it."

His eyes narrow. The command comes sharp, edged with warning.

"Make yourself useful. Go grab me another beer. Now."

And just like that, the air shifts. The room feels smaller, the walls press in, closing the space around you. The weight of his gaze grows heavier.

"You don’t wanna see what happens when I get angry."

The room suffocates you.

And you... you need to move.