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Chapter Text

October 19, 2025

3:32 AM

They can still feel it in their hands—warm, surface a sickly orange as was the glow emanating from it— pulsing , a gentle thrum that had lingered and was lingering somewhere in their palms; yet another unorthodox scar of theirs. 

It’d felt so wrong, really. They were meant to die, had cheated certain death twice over now. Once because of a flawed system, another head placed under the guillotine that had merely delayed their own fate. Then twice, even more wrung from luck, plucked seemingly randomly out of a crowd to be favoured by the powerful ghost(?) of a man who’d been through two wars—not that they had any problem with it; a guardian angel was a guardian angel. Because it’d carried them through the Blacksite and into its promised freedom, no matter how many times they’d made mistakes. (They’re there because of him, not you.) A second chance. One they absolutely did not deserve.

A single punishment, that was all they’d gotten. Tied up like a puppet, moving as if in a dream, not even their thoughts had been free from the script. Every meaning they’d tried to convey to themselves was through sentences predetermined. But that was hardly undeserved. Lenient, even.

(They’d fallen asleep in the seat of that armoured van, sheer exhaustion overpowering the caution, the promise to stay awake while being transported. They’d dreamed of you, holding the rods, strings jerking as they’d died over and over, hardly able to tell themselves they deserved it…)

And now, to where? Back to regular life? Like shit that was what they got for all of that. They’d stuck through the job because they didn’t like leaving things not tied up. Not because they’d really wanted the reward. Why they’d even signed up in the first place instead of rotting in prison was probably intuition, some kind of destiny’s guidance. It certainly wasn’t because they’d actively been trying to chase down that part of their life. 

Yet here they are. About to rejoin the community that recent findings had proven they indeed were not at fault for destroying. 

Or they could go back. Do something that isn’t awful for once in their life. 

(Thankfully, the van hasn’t driven off yet.)

October 19, 2025

10:22 AM

Blood. Everywhere. His blood. Hand by hand, he moves by centimetres across the floor. It burns into him.

(Across the Blacksite, the lights had flickered. Fitting, really; such had always preceded doom. For the expendables, though. He’d always been safely sequestered away, making bets with himself as to how many bodies there’d be when he arrived at the scene.)

When would they come back? Where had they gone? He could have hours, minutes; maybe even mere seconds. He doesn’t know how long they’ll take, it turns out he can’t predict as well as he’d thought or he wouldn’t be here. 

(This time was different, though. For after the lights had gone from bright to dim to bright to dim, they’d stayed there. Dark.)

So he moves. For all he knows it’s all for naught. Better than dying; he is not letting them win lying down.

(That was when he’d known he’d failed. The grand jailbreak, that moment of what couldn’t have been anything but the stars aligning, the site-wide havoc he’d wreaked and that brilliant moment of coordination and chaos, it’d all be a mere blip in a few months.) 

His tail is in spasms, contracting into curls and refusing to listen, too attracted to the screaming signals of pain and hurt. He can’t focus himself either. The world is the light at the end of this cold tunnel and him, a grain of dust set ablaze, ash in nanoseconds.

(Then came the doors. Navi-paths dying out, some doors opening randomly and others closing. In the distance, he remembers, water had started thundering down. A gate failing without power, perhaps.)

Nobody comes to cheer him on. His mind cannot conjure up anything besides hand by hand by hand by hand. 

(He’d thought about that last bit some more, something failing without power, and by the time he’d pinned down that itch in his head he’d been too late.) 

Are those bootsteps he can hear? He does not dare think about what happens if it is. He already knows. It’ll be him slammed to the ground in a hail of hurt, should they realise the body they’ve come for still contains its soul, then fire and brimstone for all eternity. He tenses, thinking about it, sending a wave of shivers through his already wracked body.

(It’d taken him a minute to dash across the site, another minute to get through the chain-link. Fast, considering it all. Not fast enough. Painter, even after he’d freed it from mining, had still consumed electricity hungrily, needed it, could never charge up fully because of how he’d used everything the wire had given him the second he’d gotten it. Painter, who’d thrived with the high-power sockets (well, performance-wise) , able to perform so efficiently. Even if that performance had been used in Roblux mining. And later on, in aiding him.)

Perhaps he is an expendable, listening out for danger, knowing he dies in the end anyways.

(Painter, and the wire, lifeless and tucked under his arm as he’d brought them both back to his hideout. Where he didn’t think about how to bury a computer.)

Close now. So close. 

(He’d taken off the SCRAMBLER—realising just how much his shoulders had hurt—to consider it for a while. The thing needed charge, too. In turn, he’d need it if, no, when Urbanshade decided to come back to the site. Maybe four days, he’d give it. For now, he’d conserve it and its charge. Hell knew what’d happen should it give out in the middle of a chase.) 

The walls make it easier; now he can push on the sides instead of having to lift himself up and drag himself. It’s dark for a moment; then he can see again. There’s a reason for it but he can’t conjure it up for the moment. The agony has morphed from a thousand knives into the rhythmic cleaves of a dull axe; it’s there, still, but he can work around it with effort. With one last, hard shove, he gets his last arm out and in front of him. His ring twinkles on it. Encouragement. Hope.

(He’d failed. The Blacksite would be manned and running again. He can’t save any of the others; only himself. He needs to get out of here. Maybe he follows his original plan. Gather research and use that to broker a deal with the other corporations. Only this time, he doesn’t have the cover of a mass breach, but he can adapt. Hide out until the power comes back, then lay low until he can secure a ride…somehow…)

He’s left a blood trail, which isn’t ideal, but at least shooting into a vent is harder than shooting at a target right out in the open. Barely. No, what he needs is to get out of here, this tiny room, walls closing down on him, he’s thrown himself into a dead end here—

(It’d be his last few days to gather supplies. So out he’d went, without its heavy, reassuring weight on his shoulders, and…)

Breathe , he tells himself, but that’s likely where the problem is. The room is, well, was , airtight, the only flow coming through filters and ventilation. Some kind of muster point, maybe. Designated evacuation room. The air had been clean in his shop where he’d lingered, save for the traces the expendables had brought in, but out in the corridor, the fumes of Paranoia’s Box had most definitely diffused and spread. He’d read the file. He knows it’s not real. Just his mind being screwed with. Or the relentless stinging in every bit of him, the vignette in his vision. He finds himself rubbing his ring like a genie’s lamp—please, he’d wish, please bring me back to it all.

(One day. No, not even. It had taken them the span of a single night to regroup and send reinforcements back through the site. He’d been so wrong…)

He needs to leave. And he’s lucky, because there’s a vent system. All-round ice pack for my tail , he thinks. He knows the cold is going to do nothing but sizzle on his scales. He also knows doing anything other than forcing himself through who knows how much of the ventilation system is certain, painful death by the hands of Urbanshade. So, really, he has no choice.

It’s long. It’s torturous. 

By some miracle, he makes it.

Chapter Text

October 19, 2025

7:30 AM

The guardsman had actually laughed , not that they could blame her for it.

“Seriously? You want to go back into Hell?” She’d given them an eye roll. Leaned back against the driver’s side door, where the other guard had just put his hands on his hips and stared. Waited for confirmation they couldn’t give beyond a nod, but it’d been the heartiest they’d ever tried making something. Aside from the initial point of I want to go back there .

“Oh, what the hell. Not like there are people jumping to work in the depths of that place. And you succeeded, didn’t you?”

They stare calmly back. The stare of someone who had to. They think she can figure out the meaning of that one crystal clear.

“I assume you already know this is stupid, but I, nor the guy who actually does the hiring people part, will be opposed to having one more person on my crew when we sweep the Site in—” and she’d checked her watch. “It starts at nine, so T-minus five hours. Are you sure you want to do this.”

They’d walked past her and sat themselves into the passengers’ seat. 

“Well, okay then,” she’d said.

And now they’re back, after some finicky paperwork and more questions they’d already answered. Sitting on their assigned bed, in their assigned room, watching everyone else unpack. They have nothing, save for a toothbrush and standard issue ‘Perforator’ gun. It’s a burst rifle, someone had told them. Opens monsters up in the best case scenario. People, too—and rather literally, he’d said, before clapping them on the shoulder and striding off. 

They stand. One leg is asleep. They walk to the washrooms—each is one room, sink and toilet both behind a lockable door. The one they choose (it’s just the first one) reeks of piss, but they aren’t planning on using it either way. Instead, they meet their own eyes in the mirror.

They can pick up features, though not the details, not when they ask themselves questions like what colour and what shape . They point. That’s an eye, that’s their hair, and moving down—that’s where their vocal cords would be, a bit further back. Close enough, at least. 

They try to force their words out. You don’t need to know how. The most important thing is that it fails.

(Looking up at what they’d caused. Feeling that surge of anger upon meeting the unimpressed glimmer in his eyes. Because he’s being difficult, and not even for the right reason why. He’s meant to help, but he won’t, not much, and they don’t have the right to be furious for it.)

But there’s improvement, at least, now that they can form their own thoughts. The next step is always further away, isn’t it? To make those thoughts come out of their mouth.

(They were clean now, even though they’d never been.)

They try again, putting more force into the motion. A fist against their sternum too, now. Hard shove, the knuckles of four fingers upward. 

(Not innocent. Reminded over, and over again. They hate him so much.)

Silence, as always. If they’d eaten anything, it would’ve been in the sink. But they need to learn, need to be able to speak later on. To tell him.

(Marred beyond recognition. Mute, most likely permanently. Like death. Like…)

 Someone raps on the door. 

“I’d like to piss one last time before I get eaten,” the person outside shouts.

They give themselves a moment to settle, swallow the sourness behind their tongue. 

(They hate him so, so much. No, take away the him . The reason they’d even been needed, the reason for all the things that had hurt, eaten, mauled them. The reason they couldn’t just turn around and leave and enjoy what they had won.)

So this is what unfinished business does to a person.

Good. Let it hurt. Let it drag them back into Hell (as it had, indeed) and let them finish it. 

They pick up the rifle again, the subconscious tightening of their grip leaving smudges of damp on the cool metal. 

The waiting person shoots them a dirty look as they leave. They deserve it.

“All personnel marked for the site flushing procedure, please report to the Armoury now.”

October 19, 2025

6:28 PM

In the stitches, he sees not the crooked work of someone desperate to stop losing blood, but old, rippling fabric of cherished clothes, mended again and again with loving hands. Pink thread on jeans, which he’d protested against, until with one sharp tug— poof! —the absolutely abhorrent colour had disappeared into the fabric, as had his crying vanished too.

If both reality and memory are poisonous barbed things, he’s stuck between a medical sharps disposal and a school of lionfish. Or he could focus on his work—nevermind, the needle was also a poisonous barbed thing. How long ago had the kit’s use-by date been? Likely as long as this needle had passed sterility.

Just now, he’d woken up in what he’d thought was a pool of cold sweat—it’d been his blood. Beading up in between the folds of his tail where his wounds were. Sliding down, leaving little crackly lines of maroon all over his scales, like the markings of a zebra. He hadn’t even known he’d fallen asleep, though it was reassuring nobody had found him in the— how many hours? It could be two, could be ten; he didn’t have a clock nor could he exactly look through a window and judge by the sun’s position. There’d been clocks outside, as well as Painter, but he didn’t dare attempt to find the former now and the latter, well. No outlets here. Not that any outlet save for the ones specially designed for the server rooms could keep him above semi-consciousness.

Outside. It’s off-limits now, with the constant stream of noise—steps, guns, conversation—coming from it. The Blacksite has already been repopulated. With that, all the security, all the manpower. He’s powerful. He is not (yet) powerful enough to face ten SMGs and live, not without the element of surprise. 

Similarly. The SCRAMBLER is powerful, too. The SCRAMBLER is not powerful enough to jam the entire site while he sends more offers to whatever labcorp. A problem he has to solve. He survives until then. Which brings up more pressing matters—food, water, secure shelter. The basic needs. It’s food, mainly; clear water is (thankfully) in marked pipes and there’s one he’d been tapping into. He’d been raiding the cabinets for dry food stores. Cannibalism was something he drew the line at; it was useful applied as a rumour, making sure every expendable that arrived at his doorstep was adequately terrified, not as a method of sustenance. Urbanshade hadn’t touched his mind, and this was proof. Maybe just to himself, but still. It’s worth something.

(Was it even cannibalism at this point?)

Maybe he could pop down from the ceiling in the cafeteria. Steal someone’s lunch. (Not even in prime condition would he have been able to support himself with less than half his tail upside-down.)

He wonders what his status is for the staff. Presumed dead? Missing? Did they think they’d killed him, and the Angler had gotten him? Why had they even left the Angler roaming? Had they been unable to recapture that, too?

He sleeps again, again involuntarily, and dreams of monsters, and mothers.

October 21, 2025

5:59 PM

He’d found a dead walldweller wedged behind the locker in the room, the centre of its ‘chest’ riddled and shot through with bullets—but otherwise whole. It had hurt to pry it free. Some newbie had probably seen it coming after them and killed it, not knowing it was one of Urbanshade’s subjects. Poor newbie. 

He remembers finding the first one out in a corridor, dragging it back to the shop, wondering if it would do anything—it had. Who’d he sold it to? The one that had succeeded (doomed them all) ? Coincidences. Or maybe not. Maybe walldweller meat granted one luck. Heaven knew he needed that. So eat it , he tells himself, claws digging further into the chunk he’d carved off. And he hadn’t been able to force himself to eat it. So here he is now, even hungrier.

He remembers laughing at the expendable as they’d bought the chunk of monster. So you will buy anything, huh? And when they’d actually eaten it—torn into it, in fact, with primal hunger and rage—that had actually drawn disgust out of him. That part and the associated feeling is vivid in his mind. So he’d let them know, too, and had unwittingly earned a glare so sharp he could’ve sharpened a bullet on it. Then they’d looked away again and that was the extent of the eye contact he’d had with the one who’d gotten the Crystal.

(He remembers trying a caramel apple for the first time, having it shoved into an already full mouthful by a giggling Zerum.)

Again, ring between his fingers, spin, spin, spin.

You sold a random piece of meat to a terrified prisoner, he can hear her say, hear her laugh, surely the world’s greatest salesman can convince himself it’s worth a shot!

Yes, right, now he just had to sell it to himself, not an expendable. What would convince him, besides the hunger itself?

This, or you find a body instead, and you’re the primal beast Urbanshade thinks it made you. Which is what does it for him. He holds it up, sniffs it, forces himself to take a bite and swallows before his tastebuds catch up.

Sour. 

Painfully sour. To the point he can taste it even still. To the point of being caustic, maybe. 

He drops the rest, practically inhales a few mouthfuls of water, and it’s still not enough. Even the air is salty now because of the aftertaste. He coughs, like a wet cat would, maybe dramatising it a little. Then he stops because it hurts. 

The rest of the dweller lies there, tauntingly. 

His meals until he can do better.

October 23, 2025

9:47 PM

They lay in the sheets, wide awake. The steel mesh holding another bed and its occupant stares back at them. Around them, hushed conversation. The lights are already out, and so should they be, but the men here are not boarding school students and will not be treated as such, it seems. Rumours float free in the air; some believable, some not. The word-of-the-minute ranges from what’s going to be in the meals tomorrow to whether or not the legendary Saboteur is still lurking. He’d been turned into a bogeyman, now hiding in every dark corner and behind every high-clearance or jammed door, waiting to satisfy some sort of perverse, sadistic desire. That was what a stranger would make out from the hushed chatter at least.  Mostly inaccurate, given how the last anyone had seen of him was a bleeding mess. And then they’d made the mistake of proceeding forwards, assuming the body would be there to collect when they returned. 

“Maybe he’s still alive, and listening to us this very moment!”

“Watching us. Choosing who to eat next.”

“The Saboteur lives, guys.”

They certainly hope so. 

They’d seen him. In the sweep—almost a week ago? Nobody had been doing anything else; all hands on deck for the sweep. Although the patrol had split up in certain bits, they’d ended up in the set that had caught sight of him. 

He was taller (longer) than they’d remembered. Or maybe that was because he was out in the open corridor, uncoiled at last, all fierce and lashing tail, instead of boxed up in his shop. He’d met them with the power of a semitruck, reared up high with most of their bullets going into his lower half. 

And yes, yes he’d killed someone. At least three. One powerful slam and five heads had been smashed against the floor, grey matter leaking out, now pink and red with blood. But faced with a dozen guns and no longer wielding surprise, he’d fallen quickly too. 

Around twenty minutes later, they’d eaten. They’d held up a spoon overflowing with thick soup. Observed the way it oozed out. Like the brains out of their skulls, look; even the splatter as a drop falls onto the plate mimics the way the stuff had splotched and mottled the tiles. 

They’d been hungry. Or maybe their mouth had just been bored, with no conversation to make (nor the ability to do so in the first place) . They’d seen the opposite all around the large room; plates being pushed forwards in favour of slightly uneasy talk. An insect-humming of words focused around recent events. The more gory the more attention it garnered, even if nobody actually seemed to be enjoying it. 

And that had been lunch every day since then. They wonder if the one-week mark will also mark the day the subject grows boring in the bunks. Somehow they doubt it.

Chapter Text

October 25, 2025

10:43 PM

Stare at wall. Try to listen if there are people outside. Try to deem if it’s safe or not. Deem it unsafe. Continue to stare at wall. Take small bites of the walldweller, when the hunger outweighs the taste. Try to sleep. Fail. Further fortify door. Shove every last piece of furniture in front of the door. Wonder if they’re going to change their mind and check the small supply closet. Imagine what happens if they do. End up thinking of things. Said things being the past…

And it all comes back to that fateful moment, really. A bad case of wrong place, wrong time had turned him from any ordinary guy, into this . Massive monster heavily injured, languishing in a top secret facility far, far under the water, cause of a disaster that had killed hundreds and brought several crews of death row inmates in to die for the chance to resolve it. It sounded insane, wasn’t though. Not for him. 

Just another day of reality. 

For a brief moment, he wonders if he could swim out and hijack a sub. Okay, maybe not when it was already in the water; any vessel that could take the crushing depths could take his assaulting. But if he popped up at the Docks right as they were closing the door, took the captain hostage…then again, they’d probably still shoot if his file was anything to go by. 

He resists the urge to slam his head back in frustration.

Bribe someone to take a message, maybe? Someone unarmed at the time of approaching. He’d have to keep watch on the outside somehow, with some way to jump out when the right person passes by, but no way to be detected until then. Might take a while to get one, might not. Might even be tomorrow. 

May as well fortify and lay low, seeing as he’s going to be here for the foreseeable future. Maybe even forever.

Might take forever, but I will find you again.

October 25, 2025

3:32 PM

They’re getting into the actual guard stuff now. 

“Up higher,” the commander tells them. They still don’t know her name—they’d never bothered to learn it, and it was late enough that asking would be strange. Again, not that they could.

(At least they can think it now. At least they have the liberty of that.)  

She paces back to the side, head craned in a way that makes it clear she’s addressing everyone now. 

“Now, I can see it on your faces. Wondering why we’re even training you like this. You may be thinking, we have this whole place under control now! ” She pauses. Clears her throat. “Which was exactly what the newbies in this very training room then were thinking, too, as Z-13 killed half in the room and left the other half crippled. Take your jobs seriously. Because you’re also going to clear up the rest of the breaches—no, the senior ones are not doing it all for you, you’re going to need some actual experience someday—that’s literally your job. Getting fishies back into their tank.”

“Are y’all going to give us the cool mods, miss?” The guardsman raises a hand to vaguely gesture around their neck and ears. 

She snorts. “When you earn it. CRISPR isn’t cheap on the scale you’ll need.”

Not just monetary, what it cost, they can’t help finishing in their head, picturing that glowing blue glare from so high above. Judgement day. 

They and some others have, indeed, been sent to put said fishies back into said tank. Diving canisters. Mask, snug. That tight, clammy wetsuit—it doesn’t absorb any of their sweat, leaving their skin to get damper and damper, and they’re still on dry land. It’s like there’s something binding them—not chains, just the thin silken strands of a puppet…

They know how to not panic now. The extra seconds in a locker while their heart had already been trying to escape a cage of its own. The cool head, even while gunfire rained down around them and a voice so very far away mocked them for wetting themselves in terror. The afterimage of elongated white eyes and gaping teeth-filled mouth they’d forced themselves past, because there was shrieking in the distance and they needed to hide. Some twisted version of evolution, except all of the deaths were on one individual. Teaching them, over everything else, to stay calm. No matter if they couldn’t. 

They force their hands still. Force themselves to listen as they’re briefed on how the gear works, how they’ll track down the shark, using themselves as bait, and how to kill it swiftly. 

No, their limbs just will not stop shaking, and so they wrap themselves in a hug and look at the floor, trying to make themselves focus on nothing but counting the cracks in the tile; then the little lemon shapes in the diamond steel plate. Count them. Trace their shapes with a finger, okay, failing that, just their eyes. They can already feel the depths closing in, can already see the green flares and hear the crackling and hollow screaming in the background…

“Cold?”

They nod. They’re shivering and their fingers are starting to go numb. Maybe they are. 

Someone pulls the lever, and the airlock behind them closes with a loud hiss. Water starts to pour in, first wetting their toes, then up to their ankles, and then swirling around their necks. They have the urge to begin treading water; instead, they force themselves to duck under. Better to get the submersion part over with, before their head grazes the ceiling and they’re forced to. Besides, nobody else is panicking. Not externally, at least. 

They don’t know how, but they end up being the one to hold the ‘shark stick’, swimming out in front. Leading everyone. 

(If they squint, they can see blood at the end of the stick. All over their hands.)

They don’t remember anything else but a muffled crack, and regret. It’s like the memory has transferred over to real life.

It’s not the shark that they watch themselves kill.

October 25, 2025

3:59 PM

It keeps happening. He keeps awake for a few days at a time, and then all of a sudden something fishes him out of sleep. It’s not a loud noise this time, but it practically shakes the room, jolting him out of the weird half-doze he’d apparently fallen into. The half-finished can of Bloxy Cola he’d scavenged is knocked over by a flail of his tail. Bad luck; he’d been running off it for a while and counted on doing so for at least another day.

(It’d been a cabin in the woods. A little family getaway, on his birthday. He’d been collecting firewood, then-scrawny arms piled up high with twigs and little branches. That night, a rash had broken out all over his arms, courtesy of the litre tree within his haul. Thank goodness his sister had thrown it out before they’d burnt it.) 

His sister. She’d been working on the generator in the cabin, and it’d backfired some way or the other, and that was the pop he’d heard. Except that pop had sounded in real life too, and all of a sudden the dark, rustling woods and itching palms were gone. A moment of desperation, of please, no, let this be real , even though he knows it’s not because he can see the faintest outline of the generator—

It’s the radio—he’d dragged it into this new room, if only for something to do—and the Painter, though, forming the vague shape of it. He’d kill for it to be an actual generator. To play around with it. Rig up something, anything. And a generator could, if he was lucky (and skilled enough) , give Painter a chance. He recalled enough from his major, even cut short as it’d been. He’d only missed, what? Six months of the course? He could do this. The radio, it’s useless anyways, spitting out nothing but garbled whines and hisses, though that’s likely the SCRAMBLER’s fault. He makes himself think the budding idea through again, but he’s already decided. What use was a radio, even functional, to him, besides getting him sniffed out? The parts from that, plus maybe a few bits, mainly magnets, from the SCRAMBLER, and he’s good to go.

And he’s good to go. He could probably do this, really! He could bring—he could bring the Painter back—yes, he can already visualise the build, the parts clicking together, how he’d go about doing it, yes, it’s practically done. 

My genius man, she’d said. And later on, my genius husband. When had she ever been wrong, really?

He can’t keep the fast-forming grin off his face. Can’t hold himself back from giving the Painter a pat and giving a cheery whisper of ‘fix ya’ right up!’ . And then he gets to work.

Chapter Text

October 25, 2025

8:58 PM
He doesn’t know why he ever expected it to work. Why he’s shifting back and forth, staring at the Painter’s screen so expectantly, sitting in a dim room watching a dead piece of tech, because it would never have worked and he’s a stupid fucking idiot for thinking he could actually rig up a generator that could generate power on par with the server room outlets. It’s not going to work. Painter’s dead and he is too and it’s going to sink into him eventually. Now he has no radio and a SCRAMBLER missing a few magnets (albeit magnets that had probably just been holding the casing together—a screw worked just as well) .

He checks the screen again—nothing. At all. Just as well, too. For a human, the chances of them coming back to life without some sort of major brain issue or being able to speak non-gibberish are slim to none. He doesn’t know how exactly that translates over, but he can guess.

Nothing. At all. Why is he getting his hopes up? Why do they continue rising? The Painter was a tool, he tells himself furiously, an ally at most, and he’d been useful but they’d failed, they’d all ultimately failed, and he’d given his life in that attempt. A neat little package of existence, wrapped up wholly in one event. He should be glad it’d been clean. Probably nice, too, slipping slowly into sleep. Forever. There were people who’d beg for that to have been their dead loved ones. 

His family, for one.

Still nothing. The screen is void. Devoid, of anything at all. It’s a black screen; it has no right to draw his gaze to it so much. 

He cries. He can’t help it. Tears, fast-falling and feverishly hot, forming rippling puddles over the floor, keyboard, his tail. It’s over, truly. Little thing created to be a friend and an artist, yet another thing, no, yet another soul torn into tiny shreds by Urbanshade. 

For the first time, he gives the Painter a hug, fully leaning into the motion for support. 

And it burns . 

He leaps back. Painter is hot enough to singe his claws and add an edge of scorched brown to his jabot and coat. Hot enough that he dashes to the water pipe and gives himself a quick three-second spray to his entire front with it. 

“Painter?” He asks, cautiously. There’s no response. He’d plugged a dead computer into a homemade generator designed to output levels of power that required entire tanks of dielectric solution to dispel the heat of. No wonder it was hot, yeah. 

He doesn’t like this. He’s going…well, not insane, but he’s not as sharp as he should be. Because of a lost cause. Painter wouldn’t want him to die because he was too busy sniffling.

Arms held high, just as he’s about to slam the computer onto the floor, the screen cracks, a glowing horizontal line. The crack widens, vertically. Great, so he’d already broken it, even without the dramatic—

“ Sebastian?! ”

He’s practically blinded as the screen lights up all at once, display pure white save for a blinking text cursor. Instead of flinching and dropping it, he grips the casing as tight as he can before setting it down.

“It’s you! It’s…hi! Hi!!” His face is composed of a colon and a zero, the latter quickly replaced by an opening parenthesis. “Oh no, why are you sad??”

He sniffs as hard as he can and settles into a smile, one that no, he doesn’t actually have to fake. “It’s…it’s been a while. Do you…what’s the last thing that happened for you?”

Three dots, bouncing up and down in a looped GIF. “The power cut out.” There’s a bit of a questioning lilt to his voice. “Didn’t get to watch that expy’s gear go boom.”

And now he has to say it. Deep breath.

“Painter, we…they got the Crystal. We failed.” He waves two hands at the room. “Brought you here. New hideout. Here’s what we’re going to do, yeah?”

(He’sd been procrastinating. Telling himself waiting around is part of the plan. Not anymore, not with the Painter, not for his sake.)

“Oh no, I’m—I’m so sorry, Sebastian, I tried to—”

“Painter, no. Not your fault.” He grabs it by the top, looking this time not at the face but directly into the Painter’s camera. “Look, they were going to throw people at us until they got it, and we…”

“We were doomed to fail,” Painter finishes for him, slowly, sadly.

He pulls back. The logical conclusion, but…it doesn’t sound right.

“We were destined to take a different path,” he hedges. “Just you and me this time.”

Slashes fill the Painter’s screen. He ignores it.

(He’d given the Painter his first kill, watching over him as he’d sicced a turret on someone for the first time. Filled with bullets just for opening a door. That familiar expression of a child staring into a bloody body and realising they’d done it. Horror, pleasure, an emotion somehow both things at once…they’d all just been children, hadn’t they?)

“We,” he says, swallowing a somehow , “get a message to, let’s say, Innovation Inc. Same plan as before, really! Just a bit derailed.”

Painter doesn’t reply.

“Yeah?” He prompts again. “Does that sound good—”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, accompanied by a flicker of a wince. “Just, not feeling so great. I can’t really have a head ache, but…”

There are sparks coming from where the wire is plugged in. 

“...do the riverbank again?”

“Huh?” He’s not focusing, not really, senses occupied trying to gather information about the sparking without having to touch it. 

“Could we do the riverbank again?” Painter asks. The screen is blank, just a lit, empty text page. “I like sketching the ripples, and it’s cooler there.”

Fever dreams. He knows all too well how bad it’s going to sting when Painter hits the curb of reality again. 

Fever dreams. So he has to lower the fever. 

Water, that’s a coolant, right? Except it’s also a conductive liquid and a fire is not optimal.

He fills the empty medkit up with water and puts it under the computer. 

“I can’t see it…sir, is there something wrong with my camera?”

“I’ll fix it later,” he hears himself reply, and he knows he will. Something to do while he waits for the ride, fix Painter up. 

“Thank you,” he says, almost akin to a sigh. Then: “For everything. Making me…letting me do all of this…you’re so awesome…” He makes a sound like a cat about to nod off for the sixth time in a day. Probably needs to, too.

“Sleep now,” he tells the Painter, now rhythmically stroking the top of it too. And then, right before his patient does:

“I love you.”

No response. Just as well. 

“The doctor is in,” he mutters to himself. “Techie.” He knows the basics of this field, at least—high power, high fry. Painter wasn’t built to handle that sort of electricity, he doesn’t think, yet he still needs it to function…

Or maybe, since it’s been so long, he just needs a while to warm up. In his opinion the computer’s plenty warm. He’ll give it some time, though. Right, yes; that was probably the best course of action instead of further messing with everything.

He lowers himself, just enough to comfortably pat the Painter. He looks dead, again—and with that one little thought, the panic arises again. Had he really been dead, then what? 

“You’re…you and I, huh?” His hand comes down slightly harder on the shell. “Fighting against gods. You’re really tough.”

“And brave. And helpful.” Fuck, he’s crying again. “Painter, you worked so hard—for me, really. Thank you. Why…” Hard swallow, tamp down the prickle in his voice. “I hardly deserve you, do I?”

The room isn’t big enough for him to ‘pace’, but he’s trying anyway. Spacing out his words so he doesn’t cough them all up at once. 

Now he’s paused, he can’t remember what he was going to say.

“I’m sorry,” his mouth adds for him.

It almost feels like Painter’s trying to work up the strength to say something, a fevered person fighting off the fog of sickness to tell the watching caretaker. Take your time , he thinks, unable to glean a pattern from the flashes of white and black.

Soft strokes. The motion he recognises; petting his cat on a damp morning, giving it warmth and receiving in turn. Soothing milk-white fur beneath his touch…plastic casing under not skin but scales.

He exhales, sharp. Not the time to dwell on that. Pat, pat, pat. It occurs to him that maybe Painter can feel it, albeit not in the traditional manner, perhaps; he had mentioned feeling a headache. Well, in whatever way, he hopes it’s getting through.

So he waits, idly stroking a computer, watching the flickering of the screen, a fireplace in all but the flames one would have. Still, there’s heat, a hypnotic pattern in random bursts of light. Bright-dark-bright-dark and warm, just them in the little room, this time not claustrophobic but cosy.

For the first time in years, he relaxes. Tension melting off his back and tail like sand cascading down a ramp. He sleeps. Not collapsing, not passing out without his will. He can sense it coming, and he lets it, and the Painter is a warm pillow. 

He sleeps, and his rest is gloriously empty. Nothing but a dark void and the subconscious letting time tick by as he’s warm and not alone, not anymore, and safe maybe.

His breath warms the back of his palm; cool air whisking around the fin on his tail. In the distance, the whoosh of a door opening; more importantly and closer by, Painter’s quiet whirs and hums. He snuggles into it like he would Alpine, which is face-first. And though the hard casing and awkward keyboard is nothing like the fur, he can almost imagine it, being at…home. With his cat not under the yard but under him and preening and purring as he’d thrown his books aside in favour of cat.

Not cat. Painter. The screen keeps flickering, now far more frenzied. He finds himself pressing his head into the pixels and shushing the computer. And what the hell, his arm moves on its own too, in one fluid motion to wrap around Painter. He can feel his eyes slowly sliding shut again, breath now pressing up against the glassy surface, cooling and condensing. His tail coils back over to rest over them, like an umbrella of sorts, and he watches the world through the narrow slit it turns his vision into. Even that’s getting blurrier and blurrier. He’s going to fall asleep again, and he can’t help smiling; screw carpe diem because he’s worked hard enough and he’s tired and he deserves this, Painter even more.

The door bursts open.

“Gettem! ” A battle cry, a pointed finger.

Everything is ablaze. Bullets ping sharply off of the walls, floor, ceiling, vent cover. Some embed into him, sparking a different kind of fire. He’s being killed. He’s dying. 

“Scrambles finally ran outta juice, huh?”

No. He’d broken it. In a stupid moment of impulsiveness he’d broken the one thing that had kept him alive and they’re all here now and he’s a dead man, a dead man! Front, back, left, right, there’s no escape, he’s a picture pinned to the wall being torn apart into shreds hemmed in, nothing but him and the piercing KAKAKAKAKA of the bullets and the clinks as the casings smack into the floor his chest hurts so bad, he can’t breathe, smoke from the inferno and smoke in his head. 

“D-don’t be eeee —” 

He watches the Painter display a sideways smile, right as a guard with a tear-smeared visor dropkicks him into the wall. Both crack; the wall holds, but the Painter is reduced to a pile of scrap and splintered circuits, pieces further desecrated by a hard grinding from the heel of the guard’s boot. It’s personal, he can tell, and so is the 

They’re no longer just stars in his vision, but full on suns , clouding out his sight. Flash beacons. He hears the whine of one and that’s what snaps him back, the noise, the moment of clarity after being blinded now extending to his entire mind. He can’t go forward. Can’t kill fast enough to not die, so he bolts up instead, smashing through where the wall and ceiling meets and diving through and continuing to move he has to, he has to, he has to. 

Air. He manages to suck in a breath before the retching starts, something he can’t control either. Cold sweat is pouring down him, turning him clammy. His mouth remains dry. Nothing but his own panic to wipe away and swallow. Nothing in him anyway.

Pain . It’ll hit him soon. His heart isn’t beating, nor pounding; it’s slamming against his chest, any semblance of a coherent pulse gone. He can’t stop now, though. He has to keep going, before the adrenaline wears off. And they’ll just follow him. And keep shooting…

Before the idea has fully formed in his mind he’s there. Wrenching the bolts off a window, punching through it with all the strength he’s been given, diving through, dim light of his lamp glancing off the shattered glass. The sound of the water cascading in is thunderous, easily drowning their voices out. He can guess what they’re ordering each other to do, though. Within ten seconds they’re gone, room sealed off. He pulls his tail through, ignoring its protests. A haze of red blossoms in front of him.

He screams . 

Even without the resulting flurry of bubbles he’d be blind. The salt seeping into all of his wounds has him in its grip; he can’t help the violent jerks and spasms as some long-gone part of him with legs still tries to kick away at the danger. The hurt. Nor can he stop two more shouts from escaping him. He’s keening too. He doesn’t notice it at first. Not until he has to push himself through the water hard for more air—no matter, it’s all muffled by the heavy blanket of water. Unwittingly, he takes a sharp breath of it as the sting picks up again; saltwater fills his lungs, and while it doesn’t kill him—his gills, damn those things, are the ones breathing for him now—it sends him into a spiral of coughing and soon he’s not just hacking out water, but hoarse wails as well. For…all of it, all of it. 

Painter. 

Don’t be!

His final words, before being utterly destroyed. Painter recovering had been unlikely enough, but even that’d been lucky. Now? Impossible. 

He puts his shoulders into the racking sobs, too, and relinquishes control to his crying, and when his eyes finally stop welling up with tears he does feel a little better, maybe. 

Swimming back into the room gives him an instant headache. The floor feels like it’s coming up to meet him on occasion, and the ceiling is equally as stifling. He crushes the cameras he sees, pries open the door, tears a muscle closing it just as water begins to seep in too. The floor of the entire office now glitters gold with water, but he’ll take it. There’s no glass windows like with some of the other (underpaids’ office) ones, which is what he likes the most. He sweeps his gaze over the room, eyes especially drawn to the corners, and for good reason, too—there, a tiny camera lens’ glint. He breaks that, too, but he knows they’re watching, and they’ve most definitely seen him already. For a brief moment, he wonders how many he could take out if he hid…and when they came in, he struck—

Growl .

Chapter Text

October 25, 2025

9:30 PM

They’re sitting alone, as usual, twirling their steak-knife around its sauce-stained tip. Half of their fellow Junior Guardsmen have been called into a patrol of some kind, prompting many complaints and yawns. They’d rather be there than here, eating, but offering to swap would be suspicious and they don’t want to die yet.

(Though they should.)

There’s exactly one reason why they’re still in the Blacksite and they will not die before they do it. 

And maybe after that’s done, they can get out. Serve the remainder of the month and leave, and then expand the list of their targets. 

Solace, although the main one, isn’t the only person they have to find. Isn’t the only person they owe something to. 

Their grip tightens on the knife. It leeches the heat from their palm. 

They stare into the shiny metal plate. Again with their reflection—they can’t distinguish anything. Like they’re looking through a fire. They know where their eyes are, where their hair is, they can pick out features but again, it’s frustratingly blank. They could even be looking at him right now and oh, there, his features are immediately mapped onto their own. Glowing blue eyes, muted hatred, inhuman smile. The picture is all too clear in their mind. 

With a stab of the fork, the image is disturbed and disappears, their gaze freed.

“—come to get my laptop with me?”

They look up. A researcher—soft details, tall, bright face, hair the brown of his eyes—meets their gaze. The binder he holds is slowly losing its contents to gravity.

“I’m still a bit jumpy given all that’s ah, happened, you see.” He finally notices the papers about to slip out and uses his knee to shove them back in, balancing awkwardly. “Monsters everywhere, still, right? I presume that if they’d managed to kill them we’d all be hearing about it nonstop.”

Something to do. They aren’t hungry anyways. May as well walk for a bit. 

(May as well try to find him now. Even if they don’t have a plan yet. What they’re doing is simple enough, really.)

With a jolt of energy they hop to their feet and out of their seat, startling the poor man into a few steps back.

“So, uhm, you don’t mind?”

They simultaneously shake their head and swing their rifle around, disengaging the safety on it. Then, a jerk of the head: Lead the way .

His steps are long strides they have to double their own pace to keep up with. It goes unnoticed. 

“I realise Urbanshade sells the service you’re so kindly providing me now for free,” he says, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “I mean, it just feels safer, but if you want me to pay you back, well.”

Their raised finger of objection goes unnoticed. 

“Oh, yeah, here it is!”

It’s sudden enough to make them jump a little.

“ Thank you so much, really,” he says, opening the door and reaching for the light switch, “Psychological benefits really cannot be over—“

Claws shoot out of the darkness and crush the man’s neck in one smooth motion before pulling him back inside. 

They open fire. Even with only one gun it’s still deafening. Yet it doesn’t do anything to drown out the guttural roar that follows, nor the CLACK—

—of their weapon being tossed to the side. It skitters across the floor, bounces off the wall, and comes to a rest.

They pull out their secondary—the Patron, bolt-action shotgun—and fire, instinct pulling the trigger for them. Another shot, just to buy a second for them to flip the lights on. 

Oh, fuck .

The researcher is dead already. Sebastian is not; merely stunned. They can’t do shit to raise the dead, nor will they be rewarded in any way for doing anything other than—

Firing.

Their heart makes the choice for them. Lift, aim, shoot. 

He moves faster. 

The shot leaves a long laceration where it grazes him. He roars again, rearing up to as high as the ceiling allows. Stares them down with nothing but pure fury .

And lunges. 

Inhuman speed. Their legs are forced still with one arm, their arms twisted behind them with the other two. Blood drips down their fingers, lines of freezing cold.

“Drop the gun,” he hisses. They obey. He passes both wrists into one palm and crushes them into each other. They can hear the crunching of tiny bones.

The free hand now slams into the back of their head, gripping hard at where their neck begins. They can feel that cold blue gaze burning into the back of their skull.

(Now’s their chance. Face to face. The closest they’ll ever be to paying it—

He lifts them up, even closer, scrutinising them; for one heart-pounding moment there’s nothing they can think except he knows and they wait, and wait, and wait for him to tear them apart inside out.

“You.”

With that, he digs his claws into their chest, around their ribs, and hedge-drags them across the wall. 

Their skull cracks, like an acorn.

Chapter Text

October 29, 2025

4:00 AM

It’s not even his choice anymore. Eat, or die. 

That skirmish how long ago had been close, he recalls. He has the battle wounds to show for it. Previously capable of handling an entire patrol of guardsmen, now reduced to bleeding before the barely trained expendable who’d caused all this mess in the first place.

Eat, or die. He can feel his claws shaking. He’s tired, he can’t sleep; he’s hungry, but he can eat, so why not fix one thing?

He stares down at the corpse. It’s a new guy, in the sense he doesn’t recognise the face at all. Doesn’t mean the researcher is completely innocent, maybe he’d done the exact same only to some other poor creature.

So that justifies it?

He shuts his eyes and slices off a finger and pops the nail off, and it bleeds still. And he puts it in his mouth and closes his mouth and chews, feeling the skin give under his teeth without much protest. 

So it is true, that anything will taste good once one is hungry enough. He takes two more digits, this time unable to hold back with that delicious sharp bacon-y flavour still rich in his mouth. Keratin lodges in his throat and he forces it down, feeling it cut as he does so. 

Three less fingers on the man, his dead eyes and jaws agape looking back up at him, a permanently affixed face of terror as he’d been faced by…

“Fine! ”

His voice is far louder now than he remembers it being. 

“Fine, you win! I’m a fucking monster! Congrats, you really did it, you succeeded and you’ve punished me for my supposed crimes! You win! ”

Look at him now, not a shred of humanity left, eating like a rabid dog. Could anyone look upon him and call him a person? And even if someone could, does he deserve it at all?

Almost unconsciously, he finds his wedding band with his right hand. Slips it down. Hurls it against the back wall, where it bounces off with a ting! and disappears into the shallow layer of water covering the floor. He realises his mistake too late.

“No, no, no! ”

He sweeps his palms across the slick floorboards, wrist-deep in the stale seawater. With every violent smacking salt splashes up and stings his eyes, prickling. 

“No, please .”

The floor is completely smooth and bare. He punches it. Once. Twice. 

“Where is it? Where is it? Oh no, Zerum, I’m…I’m so sorry…”

He reaches up and yanks on his lamp. Brighter. He needs it brighter. Fucks’ sake why is it still so dim he has a, a, no, his wedding ring to find!

There is no ring. All that his lamplight illuminates is water. 

“He’s there!”

“Oh, shit! That’s a lot of blood!”

“At least one dead; possibly two. Standby in case backup is needed.”

His lips form the word please , even as he knows nobody will care. Not the guardsmen about to kill him. Not the universe about to let him die out of holy matrimony and all that. In the future, a new scientist, one eager to stick needles into people like him, will find the ring and dream up what sadistic career its owner must’ve shared as an inspiring story, and then it’ll be off to the pawnshop…

With a slap from his tail fin, the panelling of the drop ceiling gives way. He pulls himself up and through, focusing on nothing but getting out. Déjà vu blooms like a corpse flower within him; he ignores it. 

Someplace that isn’t there, where he’d probably lost Zerum forever. Painter’s gone. His wife is gone. Do they even exist if he dies as the sole carrier of their memories down here? Because if it ends with him, he’ll die truly alone. Like he won’t already. All of it, false comforts he’d made himself, when Painter had been ruined by him in the first place and Zerum…well, maybe her too, or maybe she was doing far better without his criminal self around, forgetting him already, or did those now around her refuse to let her past it? Was he dragging her down even now so far away?

Someplace far from the grave of that unification.

He punches a panel out and falls into his old shop. 

There’s someone else in here too. His lamp can only highlight the basic shapes and edges of the person, the main body stays impervious to it. Dark.

Before he jumps forward to grab the man’s throat and crush the windpipe within, he holds a hand up, palm facing him.

“I believe you have need of me,” he says.

October 28, 2025

3:30 AM

Their dreams are a green haze. There are clawing hands around their shoulders, dragging them upwards. Hauling them. They kick, trying to resist, but the force is too strong, whoever is lifting too powerful.

No , they beg. No, that isn’t my fate, you can’t put me up there!  

The world smells of cigarette ash. 

Not if I have to do it again, I can’t, not even in this place, even if it’s not real! I’m sorry, please, just let me go!

“I’ve paid your tab.” 

Clink! A flip of a coin. The voice whisks them away. Their chest is tempered glass, green. It cracks, and shatters.

Boop. Boop. Boop.

A flurry of butterflies and pain. 

“They’re alive!”

The sleep and blurriness is still in their eyes. Everything is tinted green, green, green. Seared into their brain are two watching eyes, bright and neon. Green. 

“Such a workaholic. Couldn’t trust us alone with the site, huh?”

“Bet they made themselves live solely ‘cause of that.”

“Alright now, shoo. Give them some space.” To them: “You’re a hardy garden weed yet, are you? Pulled through. Congrats.”

(Saved, saved, once again, given mercy and salvation. The green will not leave them alone, it seems; this guardian angel is clearly not one sent by an actual higher being of pure morals or they would not have been chosen. Saved, again and again, each time deserving it less than the last time too. Why, it makes them want to scream, why won’t you just let me die? Why can’t you just let me go?)

“I think you actually died for a minute. Your recovery was nothing short of miraculous, according to the doctor. So celebrate yourself for a bit, yeah?”

(That had probably been their last chance. One given to them out of whatever god’s mercy. And they’d just gone and ruined it.)

“I know, I know, I’ll stop talking at you now. Rest up. As soon as you’re recovered it’ll be back to work, hear?” 

With two hearty pats of the bedframe she stands and leaves.

October 29, 2025

6:00 AM

Lopee, otherwise known as the most annoying person in the Blacksite, sits across from him, left leg crossed over his right. Even shaded by the hat, his green gaze is painfully conspicuous. Like it’s seeing right through his arm and examining his tears.

Lopee withdraws a pack of Woodbine from the inside pocket of his coat. Holds one out in silent offering. He takes it, lights it, nearly chokes on the first breath. Ages—it’s been ages since he’s last had a hit of nicotine. The stuff is good, though he’s unused to it; it sinks in, pressing his thoughts into wool and wrapping his mind in a blanket.

“In another world, another form, I am called four-triple-nine,” Lopee suddenly says, a wistful expression creeping onto his face. “I am glad to know that I hold roughly the same purpose there, too.”

“And what is that?” He would rather do anything but play Lopee’s game right now but no, he doesn’t have a choice.

(Can’t a man just leave another to himself?! Can’t a man have sympathy for his fellows?)

“It has been a while since I was last summoned here,” the man says, instead of answering. “I thought they had succeeded—indeed they have, and my attention was drawn to you.”

Of course. Always that one expendable’s fault.

“Go away,” he snaps.

“Believe me, I would gladly. This place disagrees with me, and I would love to have nothing more to do with it. Unfortunately we are all bound by duties of some kind. So, tell me. What role may I play to assist you?”

“No tricks.”

“None whatsoever.” 

There’s no charming nor coy grin after that. Just the expression after a fact stated.

Very slowly, he speaks again.”You…you could help me take a message to the surface.”

Lopee waits, clearly expecting more.

How does he go about doing this? Begging is suspicious, sure to reap nothing, but there are no reasons for another corporation to send someone down here, period.

Think, Solace, think . He reaches down—

—his finger is bare.

Right.

It takes some tremendous effort to keep his shoulders slack and breathing calm.

“You’ve been through quite a lot lately, mmm?” 

“Yeah.” Deep breath. “Yeah, no shit! ” He puts the cigarette out, lashing tail catching a burn from it. “Lopee, you—it’s pretty damn obvious you’re not on my side. Never were. What are you trying to get at here?”

And he isn’t provoked in the slightest. Of course.  

“My offer was, and remains, genuine. I see you need some time to think over…your plans, I assume. Find me when you’re ready.”

He’s frozen as he watches Lopee stand, give him a respectful nod, and vanish once more.

Chapter Text

October 31, 2025

12:33 PM

It’s worse now. From just seeing it, to being able to taste the blood in the air. Sometimes, it’s even their own, the past mixing with, well, the more recent past. Teeth like skewers tearing into their limbs, rending their soft flesh. Once, severing their lower half from their upper, just as they’d burst from the locker doors trembling, gasping for air. It’d come back. They remember seeing their entrails hooked on a tooth, the feeling of their intestines unravelling, then the sharp tug and burst as it’d been severed.

No, they need to stop thinking, that’s what they need. Their hand tightens around their flashlight, sending the beam of light into a frantic spin as the force escapes as shaking. A complete cessation of the mind. Turned off. They could slam their head into the wall, temple first, pray it knocks them out clean. 

“Hey, you want a free snack?”

They jerk upright and whip around. One hand is already on the Perforator. 

“Mister Dumbass got his chips stuck in the vending machine trying to prove you could get free stuff by typing in trick-or-treat . Whoever gets it out splits it half-half with him. And since I’m referring you, I’ll be taking a quarter of your share.”

Before they can turn and walk away, the other guardsman puts an arm between them and escape. To lean on the wall, but that’s not his main intention, they can tell. 

“Hey. I saw you with that bangstick. Held that thing practically still in the water. You’re strong, aren’t you?”

He’s not going to give up on this. It’s the most determination they’ve ever seen in the pursuit of a tenth of a bag of chips. Might as well reward that. 

One good kick to where the machine’s crotch would be, and the prize falls out like a broken tooth, to the widespread cheering and calls of the crowd. 

“Gonna impress those new guys when they come, huh?”

“They’re training up for it, aren’t they? Get out of this damned place. What’s it—Indentation or something? Heard they get bonuses every other week! And they’re not trapped in an underwater coffin, that’s fun too.”

“Oh, stop it, you all.” Referral Guy slings a heavy arm across their shoulders. “You’re confusing them, you know?” 

The short one rolls her eyes. “Not our fault they’re not up-to-date on literally the single thing everyone is talking about.” Shoulder check. The chip they’re holding falls out of their hand. “They’re just a hard worker. Urbanshade’s best and brightest, huh?”

She’s pushed off them by Referral Guy. “Innovation Inc—well, some of their reps—are coming in…in a few days,” he explains, “cool, huh?”

More like why in the hell would they do that . They’re no corporate mind but even they know that rivalling companies with more than ‘shady’ practices don’t talk to each other out of the blue.

They consider motioning for something to write with, maybe, ask questions with. What was the trigger, did something happen? Because the Blacksite’s up and running again? 

Then again. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid idea from a smart company, and those are apparently common. 

“Maybe if we make a good enough impression they’ll offer us a job, yeah? Aboveground.”

“Not how that works, I think. Besides, we’ll be pointing guns at them. Heard the commander say something about shoving a stapler up whoever next tries to shove an extra job into her schedule’s a—”

“So we’re dumb enough to let them in but smart enough to watch them?”

“Correct.”

“Probably going to be taking hostages then.”

“Correct again. Although they’ll have force of their own.”

It’s a stupid plan, no matter how they try to twist it. High risk without an appropriate reward. Why would Urbanshade even want out of this? What do they gain?

It’s a stupid plan and Urbanshade isn’t stupid.

It’s not their plan, then.

(Their mind connects the dots for them, as it always has, as it always will.)

It’s his .

(And they’ll have to interfere for it.)