Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Griefer's knees hit the floor with an audible thud, the sounds of heavy breathing now present in the quiet room.

He can't believe it– he just lost to the player. The PLAYER of all people. The asshole who managed to save Shedletsky after he made sure to give those three idiots orders to specifically NOT let that happen.

They didn't even look like they knew how to swing a sword when he first saw them, and yet here he was, brought down to his knees with a bruising grip on the Venomshank while having that same exact sword aimed at his head.

“D-Don’t–” a stuttered voice pleads, the smoothness of it withered by age and whatever else happens to people when they grow old. “D-Don't kill him please!--”

Oh. It was his father..the mayor. Gosh damn it, was his mind so blurred he couldn't even recognize his father’s voice? 

…

No, fuck that- he could never consider that man to be his father. He doesn't understand a SINGLE thing about his own son-

Then, it felt like a bucket of cold water was poured all over him, his body going rigid as his eyes widened by a fraction. This was planned. The voices…why were they laughing-

He twitched as another pitying whine left his father, managing to be louder than all the noise combined. He wanted it gone. He wanted him gone. He wanted them gone. He wanted it all gone.

He was going to make them all pay. The voices, the player, his dad–

Well, he would continue on his monologue if the voices would stop fucking laughing. It was really starting to itch at his already rotten brain by now.

“...”

“..IT’S.”

He chokes in his own words, as if it was scolding-hot iron against his tongue. It hurts to push it out his mouth, but the irony was all too good. He had so much mouth before, and now he was the one rendered speechless.

…No. He can't allow this. He won't allow this. He's not going down like this.

"...IT’S ALL JUST A S1CK PR4NK, ISN’T 1T? THE V01CES... THEY KN3W THE ENT1RE T1ME THIS W0ULD HAPP3N... THE1R GARB4GE L1ES AB0UT THE FUTURE WERE R3AL... TH3Y SET ME UP... JUST T0 WATCH ME BURN…”

He could feel laughter bubbling in his throat. The voices had no idea who they had chosen.

No. No. No. Don't listen to them.

“…”

"H4h. H4h4h4!!!!! H4H4H4H4H4H4H4H4H4H4H4!!!!!”

The laughter faltered, distorted purely by rage and frustration. His grip on the Venomshank tightened, and a sharp grin already spread across his face, signalling he was about to do something reckless.

This was not a part of the plan. This was not meant to happen. But Griefer was always a rule breaker, wasn't he?

"...N 0... I D 0 N ' T C A R E A N Y M 0 R E... S C R 3 W T H E P L A N... S C R 3 W T H E P R 0 P H 3 C Y…”

The Venomshank hissed with power as he pushed himself slightly upright with it, a downright crazy expression on his face. 

"A L L I W 4 N T... I S Y 0 U..”

The words left his mouth, not just directed at the Player, but for those who thought he was just crazy– it was for everyone at this moment.

“I F I ' M R 3 A L L Y G 0 N N A G 0 0 U T... T H E N I ' M T A K 1 N G Y 0 U W I T H M E.”

And, with all the determination of a man on the verge of death, Griefer lurched up and twisted the Venomshank into his ankle.

“BRAD!!!”

It stung. It made his skin crawl. Brad. The name felt wrong, like it didn't belong to him anymore.

The pain spread through his body like wildfire, coating his insides in lava as he fell forward, only able to hold himself up via his shaking arms.

The dirt molded and shifted beneath his fingers, grains slipping through the limbs just to be replaced by more. He could barely breathe at all, nor could his mind continue processing, and his vision was starting to fade fast. He didn't even have the strength to hold his head upward anymore.

He could hear the footsteps of the Player slowly backing away, and his eyes focused on a steadily growing pool of saliva beneath him. He probably looked like a slobbering dog by now, another case of a human infected by rabies that probably shouldn't be common as it is over here-

Oh-kay, now that was just gross.

He even saw his reflection in it, saw the foliage slowly perking up from his skin and taking over the pure white, the way his eyes shrunk or were shrinking ever so slightly, and the almost feral way his mouth was agape.

He couldn't think anymore, and before he knew it, his vision was abruptly cut black.

_

Griefer woke up feeling like he’d been dragged through a trash compactor, thrown off a building, then stomped on for good measure. His skull throbbed, his vision was blurring in and out, and his whole body was aching. He immediately reached upwards to pat at his hair. It was matted and felt more like dried grass and leaves than actual strands.

Grooosss….but hey, at least he wasn’t bald. His dad always used to say the small things count. And speaking of his dad-

…Where the hell was his dad?

Better yet, where the hell was he??

This wasn’t the place he got his ass kicked, that’s for sure. He wasn’t anywhere near that place, and he didn’t want to be anyway! He let the Player have that small victory-

…

Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking about that actually.

His head snapped around, his brittle heart hammering in his chest. He was caged in by walls- too close and too unfamiliar. Was this a sick trick? A cruel prank? Was he trapped?!?!!?

He immediately tensed, ready to swing at the first bastard who he sees-

Oh.

It was just an alleyway.

The bricks were waaaaaaay too smooth, too polished, and looked like a pitiful attempt to make an alleyway look fancy. See, Bizville’s alleyways had texture, character, and 9 times out of 10 a shadowy black guy asking for BUX.

But THESE alleyways? It looked like a set piece- like..it was designed by a dude (or dudette) who had never seen a REAL alleyway in his life. And the graffiti- god it was everywhere. Like- not even random tags- literal art! Some of it even looked alive- like it moved when he wasn’t looking.

That was most definitely not normal. I mean, none of this was-

SHRIIIIEEEEEK

Griefer practically screamed as a sound like a dying engine and a microphone having a baby exploded above him. His hands immediately lurched up to cover his ears, pain slicing directly through his skull. A massive shadow swooped overhead, bloating out the light. It was too big, too fast-

Aaand abruptly it was gone.

What the fuck.

Griefer gasped for breath, body curled in on itself, his ears still ringing. His nerves were fried, and his brain probably was too. He felt like a kid again, the first time he saw a horror movie and couldn’t sleep for days.

“WH4T THE H3LL W4S THAT?!!?!?”

His own voice even sounded far away in his ears! It felt like he was listening to one of those news reporters with the shittiest microphone and still decided to continue talking about the weather!

His body ached, his head didn’t feel like it was attached right (it probably wasn’t), and oh yeah, his ankle was ruined. Riiight.

Pain finally cut through the fog his mind was in. His ankle started throbbing, white-hot and nasty, a reminder of where the Venomshank…should’ve been? Okay, too many things to think about.

He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, his hands shaking as he tried to push himself upright. His fingers locked onto a nearby pole, and the moment he decided to put the slightest weight on his leg-

Agony.

He hissed, his vision briefly going white at the edges. He unfortunately still had to breathe through it, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth just might crack.

“OK4Y,” he muttered to himself. “OK4Y, C00L, LOVE TH4T F0R M3. TOTALLY F1NE. NOT DY1NG. D3F1N1TEY NOT DYING IN A W31RD, M3SS3D UP ALLEYW4Y WH3R3 THE SKY SCR34MS.”

Distraction. He needed a distraction! That’s it! His eyes darted around, latching onto a dumpster. Something glinted inside, half-buried underneath all that filth. His…his cap!

Oh, thank god!

Griefer staggered over, rummaging past things he refused to acknowledge or even spare more than 3 seconds looking at. The cap was…mostly intact. A little grime never hurt anybody. He jammed it onto his head, feeling a little less exposed now.

Now– his crowbar. He'd Spent an embarrassing amount of TIX getting his name printed on it. It better not be gone.

His eyes scanned the alleyway until he spotted it, discarded against a far wall. Great…more walking.

Maybe he should crawl. Nah. Too pathetic.

…Was he seriously making jokes right now? He wasn’t even laughing. That meant they were awful. He was awful. He was going to die here.

He limped forward, his ankle screaming at him with every movement. He also made it to his crowbar before the real panic started setting in.

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

This was actually wrong.

It was 2010. Right? He was actually in Bizville. Right? Maybe he was just in a fancier part of town. Right??????

His body felt like it was tossed in Roadtown 5 times over without any winter gear. Like his brain was connecting the dots but didn’t wanna tell him that.

Griefer swallowed and forced himself to approach the entrance of the alley, peeking out-

Ohmygodwhatthefu-

There were things.

No. People.

Demons.

Way too many horns, way too many variations. Some were small and dull, some were huge and spiked like weapons. These were not accessories. These aren't cosplay. These were actually real.

Griefer’s lungs stopped working. He practically threw himself back into the alleyway, clutching his crowbar to his chest like a teddy bear. His breaths either came too fast or not at all.

Not normal. Not normal not normal not normal-

This wasn’t Bizville.

He wasn’t home.

He was somewhere.

Oh, he was gonna die.

He was gonna die in hell and get eaten by demons and die again-

“Suh, dude. Out for a smoke break too-”

B A S H.

The demon hit the floor instantly. Griefer didn’t even hesitate. Another swing. Then another. Crowbar meeting flesh and bone.

By the time his brain caught up with whatever the hell he was doing, he was staring at an unconscious demon, a bloody gash on their head, and-

…oh god.

Oh god, he just committed murder.

He was gonna get caught, get arrested, spend the rest of his pitiful life in a raggedy old jail cell-

Wait.

Who said he had to go to jail?

Griefer moved before he could continue his inner monologue, shoving his hands under the demon’s body-

Aaaand immediately collapsed before firstly, that demon was definitely above every weight category put in place, and secondly, his ankle decided to betray him in that exact moment.

He hit the ground hard, hopefully knocking some sense into him in the process as he laid atop the limp demon’s form.

Yeah! This was going absolutely great!

__

Griefer bit down on his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood. Why? Because his ankle felt like it was personally being cursed by every god in existence, and, oh yeah- he had a whole-ass demon in his arms like a tragic romance protagonist.

He had his arms hooked under the demon’s armpits, dragging them inch by inch toward a back door in the alleyway. Did he know what was inside? Obviously. He snooped ahead. What, was he just gonna not check?

His ankle, meanwhile, was bleeding profusely, bending in directions it had no business bending, but apparently physics had packed up and left the building.

Griefer tried to free one arm to open the door and immediately ate shit, crashing into it face-first. But hey! The door was open now. Small victories.

What he didn’t prepare for was the absolute symphony of suffering that left his lips when the demon’s meaty-ass leg came swinging down directly onto his open wound. He hit the ground like a sack of bricks, the demon landing on top of him with all the grace of a falling fridge.

Yeah, okay, he was definitely crying. Not, like, openly. Just…sniffling pathetically into the floor. Manly suffering.

With a last burst of desperation, he heaved the demon off him and immediately curled up, pulling his mangled leg to his chest like a wounded animal. This was it. This was how he died. If he had any shame left, he’d shove his own thumb in his mouth for comfort.

Through the blur of pain and regret, he squinted at the unconscious, still-bleeding demon, hoping for some kind of divine intervention. But was there really anything divine about hell?

Then his gaze landed on a discarded chair.

Bingo.

Groaning, he forced himself upright, leaning against the wall like an exhausted war hero. Except, instead of a battlefield it was a shitty alleyway and instead of glory he just had a really, really bad day.

Alright. Kidnapping. How hard could it possibly be?

Griefer limped over to the chair, hissing through his teeth as his ankle continued its downward spiral into an even further layer of hell. He grabbed the demon by the arms and holy shit why were they heavy? Were demons just built different?? Maybe this one is just carrying a brick collection in their pockets.

After three failed attempts (which involved a lot of wheezing, groaning, and at least one instance of him getting bodied by a limp demon arm), he finally just threw the guy onto the chair like a sack of potatoes.

It barely worked. The demon slumped forward like some kind of deflating marionette, and Griefer had to physically shove them back upright. They slouched immediately. He shoved them back again. They somehow slouched harder.

Okay. This was fineee. He needed to- what was it? Oh yeah. A gag. That’s a thing people do in kidnappings, right?

His eyes darted around the dimly lit room. There was nothing. He wasn’t exactly drowning in premium hostage supplies here.

His gaze slowly, regretfully turned to the alley’s dumpster just outside the door.

No.

Yes.

Absolutely not.

…Yes.

Muttering the foulest string of curses known to mankind, Griefer hobbled over, pinched his nose, and started rummaging through the filth like some kind of desperate raccoon. A torn shoelace? No. A slimy old rag? God, no. A mysteriously damp sock? Absolutely fucking not-

Then, at the bottom of the bile, he found it. The holy grail of disgusting garbage: a wadded-up fast-food wrapper, soggy with unknown fluids.

Good enough.

He snatched it up, limped back, and- without a second of hesitation- shoved it into the demon’s mouth. It was either this or putting in actual effort, and he was so done.

Stepping back, Griefer took a shaky breath. Okay, the worst part was over right??

Wrong.

His ankle caught up with him all at once- his ruined ankle, throbbing skull, the exhaustion of being in a place that actively wanted him dead. His breathing hitched. He staggered backwards, dropping against a wall and clutching his crowbar to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him together.

His throat tightened. He could not break down right now. He was Griefer! A game-ending, fear-inducing legend in Turitopulis! He had blasted players in the servers of all games he played. Hell, he’d nearly crushed THE Player!

So then why did he feel like a lost, injured animal stranded in a world that made no sense?

His fingers curled tighter around the crowbar. He pressed it against his ribs, grounding himself in the solid weight of it. Deep breaths. He could not afford to lose it.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The demon stirred.

Griefer was on them in an instant, practically jamming the crowbar into their face before their eyes even fully opened. “ALR1GHT, L1STEN UP, Y0U UND3RC00KED ST34K-” Wait, no- wrong insult. “WH4T3V3R! Y0U’R3 G0NN4 ANSW3R MY QU3STI0NS, 0R TH1NGS 4RE G0NN4 G3T R34L UGLY, G0T 1T?”

“Dude…why do you sound like dat..?”

Griefer jolted. He expected some kind of different reaction. A flinch, a glare, maybe even a pathetic little whimper. But instead, this demon just blinked at him like Griefer was just an annoying lamp. Then without warning, they spat something out of his mouth, making a wet plap as it hit the floor.

Griefer barely had time to process what the hell just happened before the demon scowled. “ Blegh- what the hell? Was that trash? You gagged me with actual garbage dude??”

Griefer narrowed his eyes. “I 1MPR0VIS3D. ”

The demon wiped his mouth like he had just been subjected to the worst culinary disaster known to man, and Griefer didn’t like that. He worked with what he had okay!! Then, the demon started feeling around his face. His fingers slid up, patting at his forehead, moving to the very top of his head between his weird horns- and then suddenly they stopped.

His brows furrowed slightly. Then, he turned to Griefer, eyes half-lidded with groggy confusion. 

“Hey, where’s my traffic cone?”

Griefer squinted at him. “Y0U’R3 WH4T??”

The demon arched a brow, as if Griefer was the one saying weird shit. “ My hat. ”

Oh. OHHHHH. His stupid little accessory he knocked off in the process of committing crime.

“UHHHHHH-” Griefer definitely hadn’t seen it. Not once. Not even a little bit. “Y34H, SURE, LET M3 JUST, UH-”

Wait. No. No. What was he doing?? He was the one in charge here! He shook himself out of his momentary lapse, grabbed the demon by the front of his dumb, puffy jacket, and nearly shoved his crowbar into his mouth.

“I 4SK THE QU3ST10NS HERE, TR4FFIC C0NE GUY! Y0U K33P Y0UR M0UTH SHUT UNL3SS I S4Y S0, 0R 3LSE-”

But before he could finish, Traffic Cone Guy just stood up.

Just. Got up. Like it was nothing.

Griefer immediately took a wobbly step back, arms flying up as if expecting a fight, but nooo. Nope. This absolute clown just walked right past him.

Like Griefer wasn’t even there.

Like he wasn’t in the middle of a kidnapping.

Griefer stood frozen, crowbar still half-raised, watching in complete, brain-melting disbelief as his captive strolled out of the room, opened the alley door, and disappeared outside.

what.

What.

WHAT.

A few agonizing seconds of silence passed. Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, Traffic Cone Guy walked back in, holding something in his hands.

It was an actual traffic cone. A big, stupid, orange traffic cone.

Only it matched his weird horns now peaking from the top, with little cyan beads dangling from strings.

Griefer just stared as the demon- Traffic Cone Guy- plopped it onto his head, adjusting it slightly before sighing, like a man who had just retrieved his long-lost family heirloom.

“Ahhh, there we go,” the freak muttered, looking way too pleased with himself.

Griefer felt like his brain had actually short-circuited. His ankle was still killing him. His head was pounding. His entire body felt like it had been put through a wood chipper.

And this guy- this absolute buffoon - had just walked out of his own kidnapping to get his stupid hat.

Griefer clutched his crowbar to his chest, staring at him wide-eyed with those ruby spheres.

“AR3 YOU- 4RE Y0U K1DD1NG M3 R1GHT NOW?”

Traffic Cone Guy blinked. “Huh?”

“Y0U JUST- Y0U JUST L3FT-” Griefer gestured widely toward the alley door, his voice pitching higher and higher in sheer disbelief. -IN TH3 M1DDL3 0F B3ING K1DN4PPED! T0 GR4B Y0UR STUP1D HAT!!!”

Traffic Cone Guy looked at him like he was the dumb one here. “Dude, it’s not just a hat. It’s my traffic cone.”

Griefer was actually going to die. Right here. On the floor. From pure, unfiltered rage.

Griefer groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as another sharp jolt of pain shot up his leg. His ankle, having seemingly waited for the perfect moment, chose now to remind him how utterly screwed he was.

Traffic Cone guy, still adjusting his stupid little hat, looked over at him with mild concern. “Yo, you good?”

Griefer’s head snapped up, eyes practically twitching. “0H Y34H, I’M GR34T! N3V3R BEEN B3TTER!” He forced himself upright, balancing awkwardly against the wall. “BUT Y0U-” He jabbed a finger at Traffic Cone Guy. “Y0U B3TT3R ST4RT ANSW3R1NG MY QU3ST1ONS, R1GHT N0W, 0R TH1NGS 4RE G0NN4 GET R34L M3SSY-”

Traffic Cone Guy just raised an eyebrow. “But I could just walk out.”

Griefer froze.

The demon gestured lazily toward the door. “Like, I literally just did. You ain’t even kidnap me right. I’m not not tied up, I’m not restrained, I can leave whenever I want. This is amateur. ”

And just like that, Griefer felt his soul crack into a million tiny pieces.

His eyes twitched. His fingers curled around his crowbar. A deep, burning rage bubbled up in his chest, boiling over until-

“AAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH-”

He threw his head back and let out the loudest, most frustrated, full-boy scream imaginable. He stomped his good foot, flailed his arms, and even yanked at his own matted hair for good measure.

Traffic Cone Guy jumped. “Whoa, whoa- dude, chill!”

Griefer did in fact not chill. He did however, grab a piece of crumpled paper and punt it across the room in blind fury.

Traffic Cone Guy, watching this childish tantrum unfold, blinked. Then, slowly, he started to actually feel bad.

“Hey, hey, it’s cool, man-” he said, holding his hands up. “Look, I’ll- uh- here, I’ll sit back down, okay?” He plopped back into the chair, putting his hands on his lap like a well-behaved schoolboy. “See? You’re still in charge!”

But the damage was already done.

Griefer stood there, chest heaving, lips twisted into an angry pout.

This was a disaster. He wasn’t a kidnapper- he was a joke.

Traffic Cone Guy scratched the side of his face awkwardly, clearly trying to lighten the mood. His eyes trailed over Griefer, then suddenly, he noticed something.

“Wait. Dude- where are your horns?”

Griefer blinked. “MY WH4T?”

“Your horns,” Traffic Cone Guy repeated, pointing at his own head. “You know, your little head spikes. Where they at?”

Griefer squinted at him before scoffing. “00HHH, Y0U M34N YOUR L1TTL3 FR34K 4CC3SS0RIES?” He rolled his eyes. “Y34H, I D0N’T H4VE TH4T.”

Traffic Cone Guy looked at him like he had just confessed a war crime.

“Wait- what? Dude, everyone has horns. You can’t just-” He stopped, his expression suddenly shifting. His face softened slightly, eyes widening in sudden realization. 

“Oooooooohhh,” he murmured. “Must’ve lost ‘em in a, uh… poor incident.” He stood up and gave Griefer a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Damn, man. My bad. Didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

Griefer immediately yanked himself away from the touch- only for his ankle to betray him again.

“G4H-” He stumbled, barely catching himself, pain screaming up his leg.

Traffic Cone Guy stepped forward. “Whoa- you okay-?”

“I D0N’T H4VE TH3M!” Griefer snapped, his voice laced with frustration.

Traffic Cone Guy stopped dead. “...Huh?”

“I D0N’T HAV3 THEM,” Griefer repeated through gritted teeth, breathing heavily.

Traffic Cone Guy stared at him, absolutely baffled. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.

“...What do you mean you don’t have them?”

Griefer just glared.

Traffic Cone Guy squinted.

There was a long, heavy silence.

“Wait. So you’re telling me…you were just born like that???”

Griefer, still seething, glared at Traffic Cone Guy like he wanted to set him on fire with sheer willpower alone. “DUHHH,” he mocked, dragging out the syllables. “I W4SN’T 3V3N B0RN HERE, 1DI0T.”

Traffic Cone Guy tilted his head, his easygoing expression not shifting in the slightest. He just rubbed his chin, squinting at Griefer like he was trying to solve a super complex math problem.

“...Did I just get kidnapped by a drug addict?” he muttered under his breath.

Griefer’s jaw actually dropped. “EXCUSE M3????”

Traffic Cone Guy shrugged, completely unbothered. “I mean, look at you- you’re all sweaty, you got these crazy red eyes, you’re babblin’ nonsense, and, like…bro, your ankle is LITERALLY sideways. Be forreal.”

Griefer opened his mouth to respond but then actually processed what was said. He clenched his fists. His pride had already taken so many blows today, and now this??

“I 4M N0T 0N DRUGS!” he snarled.

“Uh-huh,” Traffic Cone Guy said, not sounding convinced.

“I’M N0T!”

“Aight, whatever you say dude.”

Griefer sucked in a deep breath, gripping his hair to physically restrain himself from lunging at this guy. His head was throbbing. His entire existence was actually throbbing.

Traffic Cone Guy just kept watching him with that same lazy smile, waiting like Griefer was gonna break down and confess a crime or something.

“Y0U KN0W WH4T??” Griefer exhaled sharply. “F0RG3T 1T!!”

Traffic Cone Guy just grinned and gave him a thumbs up. “Good call.”

For a second, Griefer had another vivid thought of committing murder.

But before he could make that sweet, sweet dream a reality, Traffic Cone Guy suddenly clapped his hands together, perking up. “OHHH, WAIT! I could just take you to ‘Deeri!”

Griefer squinted at him. “THE FUCK 1S D4T??”

Traffic Cone Guy let out an easy chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t wooorryyy about it.” His grin widened. “She’s better at explainin’ stuff than me, sooo-”

Griefer got a very bad feeling about whatever the hell that meant. But before he could demand clarification-

Traffic Cone Guy swooped in and lifted him up.

Bridal style.

Griefer’s brain short circuited.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH-”

His body went into full fight-or-flight mode. “WHAT THE HELL??? PUT  ME DOWN- PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW!!!”

“So now you talk normally.” Traffic Cone Guy decided to point out, completely unfazed and just adjusted his grip and continued walking like this was a normal Tuesday.

“Dude, chill. You’re injured.”

“I DON’T CARE-” Griefer flailed violently, but all he managed to do was make his ankle hurt even more.

“See? That’s why I’m carryin’ you,” Traffic Cone Guy said, like this was a perfectly reasonable thing to be doing with a person you met 8 minutes ago.

“I W1LL K1LL Y0U-”

Traffic Cone Guy just hummed to himself, casually strolling down the alley like he wasn’t holding a full-grown, enraged man who was actively trying to bite him.

“LET ME GO YOU ABSOLUTE FREAK!” Griefer howled, kicking his legs to try and wiggle free.

“Bro, if you don’t stop moving, you’re literally going to dislocate your other ankle,” Traffic Cone Guy pointed out.

“I WILL DISLOCATE YOUR FACE IF YOU DON’T PUT ME THE HELL DOWN-”

Traffic Cone Guy sighed, looking deeply unbothered. “ Fiiiine ,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Then he dropped him.

Griefer hit the ground hard.

“AAAAAAHHHH- YOU MOTHERF-” He instantly curled into himself, clutching his leg and sobbing into his knee. “YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE-”

Traffic Cone Guy cackled. “DUH! You said ‘put me down’, I was just listenin’ to instructions, bro.”

“I MEANT GENTLY, YOU LUNATIC-”

“Shoulda been specific!”

Griefer was seeing red. He curled his fingers into the filth of the alleyway, trembling with pure rage, debating if he should just start throwing hands even though he could barely stand straight.

But Traffic Cone Guy was already crouching down in front of him again, grinning as he rested his chin in his palm.

“So,” he said. “You reallyyy weren’t born here, huh?”

“YES,” Griefer spat. “OBVIOUSLY!!”

Traffic Cone Guy stared at him for a long moment. His expression shifted slightly, the usual laziness flickering with someone else.

“...Well, damn,” he finally said, rubbing his chin. “That’s, uh. Different.”

Griefer rolled his eyes, tears streaming down his face while he continued internally screaming. “W0W, S0 INS1GHTFUL.”

Traffic Cone Guy ignored the sarcasm, glancing around thoughtfully before staring at Griefer’s sobbing and quivering frame. Then, out of nowhere, he brightened.

“OH! I know what to do!”

Griefer immediately hated whatever idea just popped into his head. “N0, Y0U D0N’T.”

“Yeah, I do!”

“N0, Y0U D0N’T-”

Too late. Traffic Cone Guy was already grabbing him again.

“STOP GRABBING ME PLEASE???”

“Shhh, shhh, it’s fine…”

“IT IS NOT FINE-”

And just like that, Traffic Cone Guy threw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“OH MY GOD!”

Traffic Cone Guy, once again, was unbothered by the shrieking. “Man, you gotta calm down! This is the best way to carry people!”

“WHAT PART OF THIS IS ‘BEST’?!” Griefer screeched, kicking his legs in protest. “YOU’RE DROPPING ME. I’M SLIDING OFF, YOU MORON-”

“Nah, nah, you good.”

“I AM NOT GOOD, I AM GOING TO DIE-”

“Okay, now you bein’ dramatic.”

“DRAMATIC?!!”

Traffic Cone Guy hummed a little tune as he started walking again, carrying Griefer like he was a deranged trophy.

Griefer, meanwhile, was just… done.

His body went limp, letting himself dangle lifelessly over this stupid demon’s shoulder. “I H4TE Y0U S0 MUCH,” he whispered. “I H4T3 Y0U W1TH EV3RY F1B3R 0F MY B31NG.”

Traffic Cone Guy just patted his back like he was comforting a little child. “There, there.”

Griefer now started planning his murder.

_

Griefer had reached a new level of humiliation.

He wasn’t just being carried- he was being parade through the streets like a helpless child, cradled in the arms of some weird, stoner demon (he could smell it) who clearly had no shame.

His face burned with embarrassment as they moved through the unfamiliar city. If it weren’t for the persistent, stabbing pain in his ankle, he would’ve definitely been putting up more of a fight right now. But he was tired. Tired of struggling. Tires of screaming. Tired of being manhandled like a damn bride on her wedding day.

Unfortunately, his suffering did not go unnoticed.

Demons turned their heads as they passed, staring at him with wide eyes and furrowed brows. Some whispered behind their hands, while others looked outright disgusted. Griefer could practically hear their thoughts.

“What the hell am I looking at?”

“Is that dude okay?”

“Why he being carried like that?”

At first, Griefer thought they were gawking because of his frazzled state- his clothes still somewhat torn from his earlier fight with the Player and catastrophic fight with the alleyway floor, and his green, plan-infested hair that looked like it had been through an entire hurricane. Maybe they were staring at his obviously broken ankle, the way it hung limply in Traffic Cone Guy’s grip.

But no. It was way more likely that they were just baffled by the fact a grown-ass man was being carried bridal style (Traffic Cone Guy switched positions because his shoulder was growing numb) through the middle of a crowded and bustling street. Griefer couldn’t count how many people he’d touched and infected with whatever disease he had.

Traffic Cone Guy, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. In fact, he seemed to be thriving under the attention, casually strolling along like this was the most normal thing in this world.

Griefer hated him.

“Hey, uh, you good man?” someone called out as they walked by, a demon with curled horns and a tattered hoodie. He genuinely looked concerned.

Traffic Cone Guy slowed to a stop, glancing over at them. Then, with the most exaggerated look of pure disgust, he curled his lip and scoffed.

“He’s been through a lot,” he said, shaking his head dramatically. “Mind your own damn business-”

The demon blinked. “Uh-”

“Move along,” Traffic Cone Guy added, shooing them away with a lazy flick of his hand.

The demon, utterly baffled, did in fact move along.

Griefer groaned and let his body go completely limp in defeat. He had officially given up. His pride was in shambles. Resistance might actually be futile.

“Atta boy,” Traffic Cone Guy said, adjusting his drip like he was carrying a particularly heavy bag of groceries.

Griefer didn’t dignify that with a response. He just stared up at the towering skyline above them, his eyes narrowing as he took in the city.

It was…massive.

Unlike the run-down, dirt-covered place known as Turitopulis, this city was stacked on top of itself, stretching upward instead of outward. The streets weren’t just streets- they were layers, with multiple platforms, bridges, and catwalks crisscrossing above him. Some buildings jutted out at weird angles, connected by floating trains that zipped by on glowing rails, flickering neon lights tracing their paths like neon streaks in the sky.

It was more modern than anything he’d ever seen before.

Unfortunately, it was also a literal hotbed of crime.

In just the short time he'd been forcefully carried through the streets, he had already witnessed:

• A mugging happening right next to a hot dog stand

• A demon sprinting away with stolen goods while a shopkeeper furiously shook their fist

• What definitely looked like a murder about to go down in a dark alley

He decided not to say anything. Not his problem.

Traffic Cone Guy, meanwhile, decided now was a great time to start conversation.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence. “What’s your name?”

Griefer hesitated. He wasn’t exactly eager to share anything about himself, but he also wasn’t in a position to argue.

“...Griefer,” he muttered.

Traffic Cone Guy raised a brow. “That a nickname?”

“YES,” Griefer said quickly, almost defensively.

Traffic Cone Guy just shrugged. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence before Griefer’s eyes narrowed. “WH4T AB0UT Y0U?”

“Traffic.”

Griefer let out a short, sharp laugh. “IS TH4T A N1CKN4M3?”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

Griefer exhaled sharply through his nose. “Y0U’R3 A FR34K.”

“Says the dude being carried like a princess,” Traffic Cone Guy- now Traffic, shot back, smirking.

Griefer twitched. “I- Y0U- I H4T3 YOU.”

Traffic just chuckled, looking all too pleased with himself.

They passed another group of demons, who took one look at them and immediately had something to say.

“Yo,” one of them called out, a burly demon with jagged horns and a deep voice. “Is that your kid?”

Without a single moment of hesitation, Traffic casually replied:

“Yeah.”

Griefer felt his soul leave his body.

“EXCUSE ME?!”

The demon nodded in approval, completely unphased. “Damn, bro. They grow up fast, huh?”

“Right?” Traffic sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Kids these days, man…so ungrateful.”

Griefer lost it.

“I COULD NEVER BE RELATED TO THIS, UGLY, ATROCIOUS BEING-” he shouted, flailing wildly in Traffic’s grip, though a little less wild than before as he learned his lesson. “TAKE THAT BACK IMMEDIATELY-”

Traffic rolled his eyes. “You’re embarrassing me in public, son.”

“I AM NOT YOUR SON, YOU LOWLIFE-”

“Do not talk to your father like that,” Traffic scolded, grinning.

“I SWEAR TO EVERY GOD I WILL KILL YOU-”

“Damn, you hear that?” Traffic said, looking at the other demon with mock sadness. “Teenage rebellion at its finest.”

The demon watching them awkwardly took a step back. “Uhhh..you know what? I’ma just-” He slowly walked away.

Griefer was still seething, his face burning with rage. “I despise you.”

“Ahhh, cry about it,” Traffic said, strolling onward like nothing had happened.

Griefer inhaled sharply through his nose, choosing violence in his head but incapable of acting on it. His ankle throbbed painfully, reminding him that he was not in control of this situation.

He needed a plan.

But first, he needed to survive.

And for now, that meant enduring this absolute clown of a demon until he figured out what the hell was going on.

Chapter Text

Ghosdeeri did not worry.

At least, not in the way others considered “normal”. Worry was an emotion, and emotions were things she still struggled to understand, let alone express.

But she was…concerned.

Her quill moved methodically across the parchment, the ink flowing in perfect, uninterrupted strokes as she documented the last known location of her most troublesome subject: Traffic.

It had been too long since he had last returned.

She dipped her quill into the inkwell, tilting her head slightly as she continued writing. Her antlers twitched, the soft cyan orbs dangling from their ropes shifting with the movement. The library around her was eerily quiet, save for the faint scratching of her pen and the occasional sniffle from across the room.

Ghosdeeri did not sigh, but she did pause her writing for a moment. 

Lightblox was crying again.

She stood from her desk, her white tailcoat swaying sightly with the motion, and turned toward the far end of the library, where Lightblox sat hunched over in a massive beanbag chair. The pink glow of her helmet visor flickered faintly as she wiped at her eyes, her shoulders trembling.

Tiny, glowing fireflies slipped out from beneath her helmet, fitting aimlessly into the air before disappearing into the high, domed ceiling of the library.

Ghosdeeri approached without a sound, her boot heels clicking softly against the floor as she neared.

Lightblox didn’t look up. She was curled in on herself, clutching a plastic heart-shaped container of SweetHearts in both hands. It was already half-empty.

Ghosdeeri tilted her head, examining the situation.

Lightblox was sad.

Ghosdeeri understood this, even if she did not fully grasp why. Lightblox was always sad, for reasons unknown even to herself. This was simply a state of being.

Still, it was part of Ghostdeeri’s duties to care for her.

She reached into the pocket of her coat and retrieved a second, unopened container of SweetHearts. With precise, robotic-like movement, she extended it toward Lightblox.

“Candy.” she stated plainly.

Lightblox flinched slightly, startled. Her glowing visor flickered as she turned her head up to look at Ghosdeeri.

“H-Huh?”

“You are crying,” Ghosdeeri said. “Candy has been observed to improve your mood. Take it.”

Lightblox hesitated before slowly reaching out, her hands shaking slightly as she took the candy.

“Th-Thanks,” she mumbled.

She immediately fumbled with the container, trying to open it with her unsteady fingers. It slipped from her grasp once, and she let out a small, distressed whimper.

Ghosdeeri reached out, and without a word, plucked the container from her hands.

Lightblox blinked. “Wha-”

With a single, precise movement, Ghosdeeri snapped the container open and handed it back.

Lightblox stared.

Ghosdeeri stared back.

Lightblox sniffled. “You’re s-scary sometimes..”

“Acknowledged.”

A long pause.Lightblox picked up a small, heart-shaped candy and popped it into her mouth.

Ghosdeeri remained standing over her, unmoving.

Lightblox shifted uncomfortably. “Uhh… you can s-sit down, y’know?”

Ghosdeeri tilted her head, as if processing this information, before finally settling into a nearby chair.

She did not slouch. She did not relax. She simply existed in the chair.

Lightblox let out a weak chuckle, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to her candy.

Silence fell over them once again. The only sounds were the occasional sniffle from Lightblox and the distant rusting of parchment as books rearranged themselves on the shelves. The library was peaceful. Quiet.

Ghosdeeri liked it that way.

Then, with absolute disrespect to that peace-

BANG.

The library doors swung open violently, crashing against the walls with a force that sent a nearby stack of books toppling over. The delicate, glowing fireflies floating in the air scattered in panic, and Lightblox yelped, nearly dropping her candy.

And there, standing in the doorway-

Was Traffic.

“YO-” he started, his voice way too loud for the sacred space they were in. “You are NOT gonna believe what I just found-”

Ghosdeeri blinked.

Lightblox peaked out from behind hervisor, her antennae twitching in confusion.

And then they saw it.

Traffic was holding someone.

Bridal-style.

A demon- no, a man- was limply dangling in Traffic’s arms, his face twisted in the most pathetic expression of resigned misery.

Ghosdeeri’s glowing, cyan pupils slowly narrowed.

Lightblox’s helmet visor flickered again. “Uh…wh-what-?”

“Found a stray,” Traffic announced proudly, as if he had just picked up a lost puppy from the street. “Can we keep ‘im?”

Ghosdeeri stared.

Griefer, still looking half-dead, made direct eye contact with her and immediately regretted it.

Her carved pumpkin head, the unnatural glow of her eyes, the way she did not blink- she was horrifying.

Griefer twitched. “WH4T. TH3. H3LL.”

Traffic grinned, shifting his grip on Griefer like he was holding nothing more than a stuffed toy. “Ayo, Ghosty, you gotta teach him how to express himself properly. He’s got, like, zero charisma-”

“TR4FF1C PUT M3 D0WN R1GHT N0W”

“No can do little buddy!”

Ghosdeeri stood up from her chair, her antlers clinking softly with the movement.

Griefer felt a deep, primal fear settle into his bones.

And then-

Ghosdeeri tilted her head, studying him. “You are injured,” she stated.

Griefer blinked. “I-”

“Would you like candy?”

Griefer opened his mouth- then closed it again.

What the hell was happening.

_

Griefer did not want to be here.

He did not even know where he was, but he was damn sure he didn’t like it.

He sat stiffly on a massive beanbag chair, which- unfortunately, was the softest thing he ever sat on. If it weren’t for the absolute freak kneeling in front of him, he might’ve considered enjoying it.

Ghosdeeri (which was hopefully her name considering what Traffic called her) was wrapping his ankle with a level of precision that was downright unnerving.

Her long, dark blue gloves (were they even gloves??) moves methodically, her fingers adjusting the bandage with exact tension, securing it with eerie efficiency. She didn’t even glance at what she was doing- her glowing, pupil-like circles stared straight into his soul instead.

Griefer swallowed thickly.

This was not a normal person.

“Y-Y0U C0ULD AT L34ST BL1NK..” he muttered. “Y’KN0W? 4CT L1KE A N0RMAL P3RS0N???”

Ghosdeeri didn’t respond. She simply pulled the bandage taught.

Griefer winced. “OW, SH1T-”

“Be still,” Ghosdeeri said, her voice somehow calm. “You will only make it worse.”

Griefer gritted his teeth. “I-OK4Y, OK4Y, WH4T3V3R! JUST- F1N1SH 1T ALR34DY!”

From the corner of his eye, he spotted movement.

Whatever the hell that yellow kid was, they were peeking from behind Traffic’s leg, their visor flickering as they stared at him like he was some kind of feral animal.

“Wh-why is he here?” they asked quietly, their voice muffled behind their weird-ass helmet.

Traffic, who was currently leaning against a bookshelf like he owned the damn place, shrugged. “Uhhh…long story, Lightblox.”

The demon- Lightblox apparently, blinked. “L-Long, like…scary long?”

“Nah, more like stupid long.”

Lightblox made a small, distressed noise.

Griefer glared up at them. ‘OI! I C4N H34R Y0U W31RD0S WH1SP3R1N’!!”

“That is because they are not whispering,” Ghosdeeri stated bluntly, finishing the final wrap of the godforsaken bandage.

Griefer tensed as she lifted her head- slowly, deliberately, like a horror movie monster locking onto its next victim. God- he really would never forget that moment-

“Your ankle is stabilized,” she continued. “You will recover.”

Griefer stared at her. “GR34T. F4NT4ST1C. N0W B4CK UP.”

Ghosdeeri did not back up.

She remained exactly where he was, her glowing blue gaze locked onto him with unsettling intensity.

Griefer clenched his jaw.

That was it.

That was his last nerve.

In one swift motion, he reached into his belt and whipped out his crowbar.

Traffic sighed. “Ohhh, here we go.”

Lightblox let out a small, nervous “eep!”

Griefer jabbed the crowbar forward, its end poking the side of her head insistently, almost digging into what he assumed would be her skin. “B4CK 0FF, CR33P!”

Ghosdeeri did not react.

Griefer hesitated.

Then- very slowly- Ghosdeeri started to rise.

She moved with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had never been threatened before in its life.

And Griefer realized something.

She was tall.

Like, insanely tall.

She quite literally kept standing.

And standing.

And standing.

Until his crowbar, once aimed at her head, was now awkwardly poking her waist.

Griefer’s pupils shrank. “Oh.”

Ghosdeeri tilted her head slightly. “Are you attempting to threaten me?”

Griefer immediately reconsidered all of his life choices.

“I- uhhhh-”

Ghosdeeri raised her hand.

Griefer braced for the slap of his life.

And then-

This freak simply reaches over to the nearby table, grabs the other freak’s jar of SweetHearts, and holds it out toward him.

“Would you like some candy?” she asked.

Griefer stared.

His crowbar lowered slightly.

Lightblox gasped. “H-Hey! That’s mine!”

Ghosdeeri turned her head slightly toward Lightblox. “Sharing is an important social skill.”

Lightblox’s visor flickered aggressively. “Wh- I k-know that! But he- he doesn’t deserve candy!”

Griefer sputtered, actually offended. “I D0N’T 3V3N W4NT-”

“You should take some,” Ghosdeeri interrupted. “It may improve your mood.”

Griefer’s eye twitched.

Traffic burst out laughing. “Bro, you just got offered a pity snack!”

Griefer hated it here.

_

Traffic finally decided enough was enough.

After minutes of Griefer glaring at the jar of candy like it personally offended him, and Lightblox pouting about her stolen SweetHearts, he clapped his hands together and flopped onto the couch.

“Aight, everyone sit down, we gotta talk.”

Ghosdeeri obeyed immediately, sitting in a perfectly rigid posture, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her glowing blue eyes fixated on Traffic as though she were preparing to transcribe every word he said into another parchment paper.

Lightblox hesitated, still standing close to Traffic’s leg. She glanced at Griefer, then at Ghostdeeri, as if trying to decide which one was more concerning. Ultimately, she shuffled over to the tall Inphernal, sitting beside her like a child expecting a bedtime story.

Griefer, however, stood up instead and crossed his arms, he did not move now that his ankle wasn’t on the verge of bending backwards anymore. “WHY SH0ULD I L1ST3N T0 Y0U?”

“Because,” Traffic drawled, throwing an arm over a worn couch, “you just got your ankle patched up by someone you literally tried to swing at, and you still got no clue where you are. So unless you wanna get more lost, sit ya ass down.”

Griefer scowled, uttering something under his breath. But after a long, long moment of defiance, he begrudgingly lowered himself back onto the beanbag, arms still crossed tightly over his chest.

Traffic stretched. “Aight, so here’s the deal.” He gestured lazily at Griefer. “This dude? Kidnapped me, but that’s besides the point. This guy has no horns. Nada. Not a single bump. Kinda weird, right?”

Ghosdeeri tilted her head in that slow, unsettling way of hers. “That is not just ‘weird.’ That is impossible.”

“Yeah, well, he says he ain’t from here,” Traffic continued, scratching his chin. “Like, at all.”

Ghosdeeri’s glowing gaze flickered slightly, unreadable as always. “Not from…the Inpherno?”

“Nope.”

“Not from the Inphinity?”

“Dunno what that is, but nopee.”

A deep silence followed.

Lightblox let out a small, nervous squeak, her antennae twitching in distress.

Ghosdeeri was completely still, processing. Then, she finally said, “Explain.”

Traffic sighed, rubbing his temples. “Man, I dunno how to explain it- he just popped up, knocked me out, kidnapped me, nearly killed himself, and now I gotta make sure he doesn’t like, actually die or somethin’.”

Lightblox made a small, distressed noise at that word, curling inward slightly.

“I- OK4Y, F1RST 0FF, I 41N’T G0NN4 D13,” Griefer scoffed, though his confidence seemed a little forced. “S3C0ND 0FF, C4N S0M30N3 PL34SE T3LL M3 WH3R3 TH3 H3LL I 4M??”

Ghosdeeri straightened slightly, her eyes never blinking. “You are in the Inphinity. Or well, Inpherno. It is our world.”

Griefer blinked. “TH3…WH4T?”

“The Inpherno,” she repeated with eerie patience. “We are Inphernals. Our kind has always existed here.

Griefer squinted at her. “INPH3RN0, INPH3RN4L. R34LLY?”

“Correct.”

“TH4T’S-” He paused. “-JUST H3LL BUT SP3LL3D F4NCY.”

Ghosdeeri did not acknowledge that statement.

“Every Inphernal is born with horns,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “It is a defining trait of our existence. Some of us are also fortunate enough to be blessed with a gear.”

Griefer raised an eyebrow. “A G34R?”

“A weapon or item that belongs to you,” she clarified. “Something you are born with, and instinctively know how to use.”

He glanced at the crowbar resting beside him. “S0, WH4T, TH1S TH1NG IS MY ‘G34R’ N0W?”

Ghosdeeri nodded slightly. “It seems to be the item you have the most attachment to. Until further evidence proves otherwise, I will assume it is your gear.”

Griefer frowned, gripping his crowbar and staring at his name imprinted on it. It made it feel a bit more like his instead of some object he put his name on and carried.

“S0, WH4T H4PP3NS 1F I D0N’T HAVE A G34R?” he asked.

“Then you are simply unlucky,” Ghosdeeri said flatly. “But that is not the primary concern.”

Griefer narrowed his eyes. “WH4T 1S TH3 PR1M4RY C0NC3RN TH3N?”

Ghosdeeri was silent for a moment, tilting her head slightly to one side as though contemplating how to not scare the living shit out of Griefer.

“...If you are truly not from this world,” she said at last, “then your body may begin to forcibly adapt to its laws and physics.”

Griefer stared at her, waiting for her to elaborate.

She did not.

“...WH4T D03S TH4T M34N,” he said slowly.

Ghosdeeri leaned forward just slightly, fingers interlaced, as if she were about to explain a scientific principle to a particularly slow student.

“It may mean you will grow horns.”

A silence so heavy that even Traffic’s casual energy seemed to dull for a moment.

Then-

“Damn, man, you might get a whole-ass makeover,” Traffic said, barely holding back a laugh.

Griefer’s eye twitched. “3XCUSE M3, WH4T?!”

“It is a hypothesis,” Ghosdeeri clarified, unfettered by his reaction. “However, if your body is not naturally suited to exist within the Inphinity, it is likely it will change to fit its rules.”

“L1K3 H3LL IT W1LL!” Griefer snapped, sitting forward. “I’M N0T GR0W1NG H0RNS!”

“You do not have control over that,” Ghosdeeri said simply.

“I W1LL THR0W H4NDS IF TH4T H4PP3NS!” Griefer threatened.

“That would not change the outcome,” she responded, her voice as emotionless as ever.

“I W1LL THR0W H4NDS.” he repeated.

“Then I will document it accordingly.”

Griefer groaned loudly into his hands while Traffic doubled over laughing.

Chapter Text

The library was quiet in a weird, clinical way- like it was trying too hard. (Similar to Griefer, in a way.) It was the kind of quiet that made your ears ring. Rows and rows of books towered over them like judgmental statues, and everything smelled like dry air and ancient glue or whatever weird thing they have around here.

Griefer stood awkwardly in the middle of it all, arms crossed, as Ghosdeeri hovered nearby like some dead-eyed librarian god. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She just…looked at him. He would say something, but he learned his lesson last time.

“...WH4T?”

“You should read something,” she said in that flat, vaguely spooky voice of hers.

“1’M G00D,” he muttered, backing up a step.

She didn’t reply. Just tilted her head, and kept staring. The glow of her little pumpkin eyes bored into him like twin lasers of homework and emotional labor.

Griefer sighed and turned towards the shelves. “F1N3. I’LL T0UCH A B00K! C4LM D0WN.”

Ghosdeeri nodded once and walked off, her antlers brushing the top shelf like they owned the place. Technically she did, but Griefer didn’t want to believe that.

Traffic had already plopped into one of the chairs, backpack spilling open beside him. He wore that stupid, ugly, and stupid purple puffy jacket, sandals and socks, and greasy-looking shorts that said I have made no correct choices today. His traffic cone hat was tilted slightly to one side like it had witnessed war.

Lightbox was seated nearby, kicking her legs as she flipped through something way too big for her hands. Her helmet fogged every time she giggled. The little wings on her back twitched with excitement.

Griefer skimmed the spines of a few books. “Spiritual Machinery and the Gears of Existence.” “Banlands: A Socioethical Reckoning.” “The Complete Guide to Flipside Concerts.”

Eventually, one caught his eye. Something about the world’s history.

He dragged it down, flopped into the seat next to Traffic, and started thumbing through. 

It was…weird. Lots of diagrams, strange creatures (probably them), timelines, symbols he didn’t recognize. And then-

He paused.

One paragraph read:

“Inphernals do not possess fixed genders. Presentation and self-definition are fluid, irrelevant, or non-existent, depending on the individual.”

He blinked. Then slowly looked around.

Traffic. Guy(?) looked like a walking construction site and had a chill, somewhat friendly vibe, sure, but…didn’t really say guy. Lightblox wore pink and sparkled like a jellybean but had antennae and boots that looked ready to stomp someone into forgiveness. And Ghosdeeri?

He squinted at her, where she was now levitating three books with her weird magic and scribbling with a pen that moved on its own.

“...S0 L1K3, D0ES 4NY0N3 H3R3 EV3N H4V3 A–?”

“Genders are inefficient,” Ghosdeeri cut in flatly, without turning around. She probably thought she looked cool doing it but guess what? Griefer didn’t find it cool at all-

“They serve limited sociocultural purpose in the Inpherno. Classifying by biological sex is obsolete and impossible. Self-labeling is optional and fluid. If you are confused, you may consult page 82.”

Griefer shut his mouth.

Traffic chuckled, slouching back in his chair. “Tried askin’ that once outta curiosity. Got a lecture an’ apology cake.”

“I cannot bake.” Ghosdeeri added from behind her book stack, deadpan.

Lightblox nodded solemnly. “She tried to make me one too. I don’t exactly remember what it said…but it was somewhere along the lines of ‘Sorry for your binary’ ?”

“Sorry for your perceived structural binary,” Ghosdeeri corrected.

Griefer stared. “Huh.”

He went quiet for a minute, flipping to different section. A map caught his eye. It was labelled “Regions of the Inpherno.”

He read through the little blurbs.

Thieve’s Den. Playground. Lost Temple. Blackrock.

His finger hovered over the last one. “WA1T. BLACK ROCK???? ”

Traffic peeked over, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah?”

Griefer frowned. “1S TH4T NOT…A C4STL3? W1TH A K1NG? B4CK 1N T0WN I TH0UGHT IT W4S S0M3 K1ND4 B1G D34L.”

Traffic snorted. “Pfft. Well ‘over here’ it’s a region. Sucks, though.”

Griefer raised an eyebrow. “S3R10USLY?”

“Oh yeah. Cold as balls. Government’s a mess. They patrol everything, even your breathing schedule. My buddy used to live there. He developed a nervous tick every time he saw snow.”

Griefer stared. “HUH. W31RD.”

“Why?”

“ITS JUST…K1ND4 R3G4L B4CK H0ME, L1K3 I DUNN0. A W1NT3R P4L4C3 0R SOM3TH1N’.”

“Nope…” Lightblox piped up. “It’s more like a snow prison there. Traffic said they have rules for how many times you can blink near the border.”

Traffic cackled. “And if you sneeze in the wrong direction, some guy with a clipboard shows up at your door.”

Griefer leaned back, arms folded. “S0UNDS T3RR1BLE…”

He flipped another page and saw a diagram of mechanical parts and gears. Some had wires. Some were sharp. All of them looked like they belonged in a haunted garage.

“H3Y. WH4T’S 4LL TH1S G34R STUFF?”

Traffic sat up a bit. “Oh, gears? That’s like… a power thing like ‘Deeri explained. Most Inphernals got one. They’re all different. You use them to do cool stuff, and also to enter phights if you wanna.”

“PH1GHTS?”

Traffic smirked. “Yeah. Big flashy tournaments. Run by these Flipside folks- real glam. People sign up, beat the hell out of each other, win cash. Kinda like wrestling meets rave culture.”

Griefer’s eyes lit up. “C4N I J01N?”

Traffic stared. Then slowly, ever so gently, shook his head. “Buddy. You’d get bodied in round one. Maybe round zero.”

“0K4Y, RUD3.”

Ghosdeeri piped up again, holding a book that had at least seven bookmarks and a handwritten table of contents. “Statistically, Griefer’s odds of winning those Flipside-sponsored phights are below 3.5%, assuming that is his compatible gear and he trains for six months.”

“THR33 P3RCENT?” Griefer groaned. “TH4T’S N0T TH4T BAD.”

“Better than Lightblox’s odds,” Ghosdeeri added.

Lightblox raised a fist. “Hey!”

Griefer tossed the gear book aside. “S0 H0W 4M I SUPP0S3D TO G3T MON3Y, TH3N?”

Traffic shrugged. “Get a job?”

Griefer rolled his eyes. “WH4T, L1K3 A B4R1STA?”

“Or,” Traffic said, “you could work with me.”

Griefer squinted. “1N WH4T. Y0UR- WH4T 3V3N 1S Y0UR J0B??”

Traffic grinned. “Shop stuff.”

Griefer pointed at his jacket. “Y0U L00K L1K3 Y0U S3LL KN0CK-0FFS 4ND 1N3DIBL3 R04D S1GNS.”

“Bold of you to assume the signs aren’t edible.”

Lightblox raised a hand. “I’ve had one. They’re chewy.”

Griefer leaned back and groaned. “TH1S PL4C3 1S S0 W31RD.”

Traffic nodded, already unwrapping some kinda snack from his bag. “Yeah. But you’ll get used to it.”

Griefer hesitated a moment, then snatched half the snack bar without asking.

Traffic didn’t mind.

Ghosdeeri muttered something about sanitation and slapped a wipe on the table.

They all sat in silence for a while. Pages flipping. Chairs creaking. One place, four different disasters pretending to do research.

Weird or not, it was almost starting to feel… normal.

Kind of.

Maybe.

_

The library had gone quiet.

Not a peaceful quiet. More like the kind that settles after someone opens too many tabs in their brain and forgets which one is playing music.

Griefer slouched back in the lumpy old chair Ghosdeeri had practically stapled him into. His arms hung over the sides. A book lay open on his stomach- some long-winded encyclopedia full of trivia and nonsense about “gear compatibility” and “ethereal flow” and “top factions to spend your vacation at.” For some reason, Blackrock was at the bottom.

“Ghhgggnhhh,” he groaned out loud, face squishing against the book cover. “MY BR41N’S D01NG 4LG3BRA 1N L4NGU4G3S I D0N’T SP34K.”

Across from him, Traffic was doing the absolute least. He sat backwards in his chair like a twelve-year-old delinquent, jacket puffed up like he was hiding a beach ball under it, sandals barely hanging on his feet. His ridiculous cone hat tilted sideways on his head like it was equally exhausted.

“That’s called learning, ” Traffic said, eyes half-lidded. “Knowledge hurts. Like eating too much hot sauce with no milk. But for your soul.”

Griefer peeked at him with a single eye. “Y0U L00K L1K3 Y0U'V3 N3V3R L34RN3D 4NYTH1NG 1N Y0UR L1F3 3XC3PT H0W T0 D1SR3SP3CT S0CKS.”

Traffic raised his hands like he’d been blessed. “Comfort over conformity, kid. You wouldn’t get it. You're too busy fighting for your life over a book.”

Griefer let out a long-suffering noise and slammed the encyclopedia shut. “I H0P3 Y0UR S0CKS G3T C4UGHT 0N 4N ESC4L4T0R.”

From across the room, Ghosdeeri’s head snapped up like she’d been summoned by the sound of stupidity.

“You said your head hurts?” she said.

Griefer blinked. “N0. I S41D MY BR41N HURTS.FR0M R34D1NG.N0T L1K3…D3M0N1C P0SS3SS10N. TH1S ISN'T TH4T K1ND 0F PL4CE R1GHT???”

Ghosdeeri was already standing. Silent. Stepping forward like a deer in zero-gravity. Her coat made no noise. Her boots didn’t creak. Even her glasses seemed too quiet.

Griefer instinctively shrank down in his chair. “N0, no, NONONO- WH4T3V3R W31RD H4UNT1NG 4UT0SPY Y0U’R3 4B0UT T0 D0? S4V3 1T F0R S0M30N3 W1TH L3SS B0UND4R13S 4ND M0R3 STR3NGTH.”

“I am not going to hurt you,” she said, flatly. “I’m just going to check.”

“TH4T’S 3X4CTLY WH4T A P3RS0N S4YS B3F0R3 TH3Y R3M0VE Y0UR TH1RD 3Y3 4ND 1NST4LL 4N 4NT3NNA.”

Traffic barely looked up from a book he was holding upside down. “She’s not gonna hurt you, dude. She’s just scary in like, an ‘unfeeling mother-in-law’ kinda way.”

Griefer growled. “SH3 3V1SC3R4T3D MY 4URA L4ST T1M3!”

Ghosdeeri reached out a gloved hand. “You attacked me last time.”

“Y0U FR34K3D M3 0UT!”

“Consent was implied through concern.”

“WH4T D03S TH4T 3V3N M34N-”

She was already touching his head.

And just like before, he froze.

It wasn’t that she hurt him- she didn’t. Her touch was feather-light, like brushing past a web. No pressure. No heat. Just a weightless awareness. Like the bones in his skull were suddenly under a review.

He stayed stiff as a plank while she gently felt around his scalp, parting matted hair (which they haven’t questioned yet, surprisingly), tilting his head this way and that.

Then she stopped.

“…Didn’t expect it to happen this early,” she murmured.

Griefer’s spine went cold. “HUH?”

Ghosdeeri pulled back, eyes squinting in scientific curiosity. “You have acquired stubs.”

Griefer blinked. “STUBS?”

“Horn stubs.”

The silence cracked like a windshield.

Griefer shot out of his chair so fast he nearly flipped it. “HORNS?!”

He clutched his head like it was suddenly a live grenade, fingers digging into his hair. “WHAT KIND OF STUBS. HOW MANY STUBS. WHERE. WHY. WHO DID THIS????”

Traffic flinched and muttered, “Whoa, bro, volume.”

“SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!! I’M MUTATING!!!”

Ghosdeeri calmly folded her hands. “Yes. That’s usually what happens when you are born here.”

“WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME?”

“I just did, approximately twenty-five minutes and thirty seconds ago-”

“YOU SOUND TOO CALM FOR THIS,” Griefer yelled, spinning in place and accidentally smacking into a bookcase. “I KNEW THIS PLACE WAS MESSED UP. I READ, LIKE, SIX BOOKS AND NOW I’M GROWING BONES OUT OF MY HEAD.”

Traffic scratched behind one of his own flat-tipped horns. “Yeah, they usually come in slow, though. My relative got hers one morning and walked into three doors. She wears a helmet now.”

“SHUT UP, TRAFFIC,” Griefer shouted. “YOUR HEAD LOOKS LIKE A SIDEWALK SIGN.”

“Still cute though.”

“STILL NOT THE POINT.”

In the corner, Lightblox snored daintily from inside her oversized firefly helmet. A soft glowy hum escaped her tank every time she breathed out, like a sleeping fridge.

Meanwhile, Ghosdeeri had already gone back to reading, completely unbothered by the chaos. “It is a natural part of Inphernal development. You may feel occasional migraines. Some itching. Please do not scratch too hard or you might deform them.”

“DEFORM THEM?”

Traffic came over, clapping a hand on Griefer’s shoulder, which nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.

“Hey, hey, deep breaths, drama gremlin. If it really bothers you, I can lend you a hoodie or somethin’. You can do the whole mysterious shadow look.”

Griefer paused. Arms slowly lowering. “Wait. Really?”

“Sure,” Traffic said. “I got one in the bag.”

“You’re not gonna hand it to me now, are you.”

“Nah.”

“Why even say it then?!”

“Wanted to see the hope leave your eyes.”

Griefer let out a guttural noise and flopped back into the chair like a corpse. He yanked his knees to his chest, jacket pulled over his head even though it did nothing to hide the stubs. He groaned into the fabric.

“I hate everything,” he mumbled. “I was supposed to be angsty and edgy, not... sprouting head handles.”

Traffic smiled, gap showing. “You’re still angsty. You’re just... customizable now.”

Ghosdeeri didn’t look up. “I can provide embroidery instructions.”

“NOOOO!”

And then, the peace returned.

Well. Sort of.

Lightblox made a happy little snorting noise.

Traffic stole the chair Griefer abandoned.

Ghosdeeri turned a page with terrifying serenity.

And Griefer sat in his makeshift jacket cocoon, quietly mourning the loss of his smooth, hornless scalp.

_

Griefer didn’t know where they were, but he hated it.

Well, hated was strong. He resented it. Mildly. Which was his default setting for anything bright, loud, and filled with more than two strangers breathing in his general direction.

He had a hoodie pulled low over his head- thank Traffic for that- and his hands jammed deep into the front pocket. His ankle still twinged every few steps, which was great. Real immersive pain experience. Five stars. Would limp again.

The place was a hive.

He’d never seen anything like it. Cracked stone walkways layered with blinking signs, glowing rails, weird screens (apparently kiosks) with screaming advertisements, a guy riding what might’ve been a sentient tire. The buildings weren’t even buildings- they were like puzzle pieces duct-taped to scaffolding. Stacked vertically. Sideways. Diagonally. All defying the basic laws of construction, taste, and gravity.

He bumped into someone again. That was five now. “S0RRY,” he muttered, then whispered, “G3T 0UTT4 TH3 W4Y, TH1S ISN’T TUR1TOPUL1S.”

Above, something huge whooshed past. Griefer flinched like it was a dive-bomb.

“Relax,” Traffic said without looking up. “It’s a monorail.”

“4R3 Y0U SUR3 1T’S N0T A D34TH R4Y??”

“Only on weekends.”

Griefer narrowed his eyes at the rail system. It looked like someone tried to combine a bullet train with a carnival ride and made both worse.

Traffic strolled beside him like this was a casual beach walk and not a sensory overload simulator. His stupid purple puffy jacket looked even puffier in daylight. His shorts were rolled up so far they practically counted as denim betrayal, and his cone hat bobbed with every step.

“S0,” Griefer said. “WH3R3 TH3 H3LL 4R3 W3?”

Traffic stretched his arms behind his head. “This place? Crossroads.”

Griefer blinked. “L1K3, TH3 CR0SSR04DS? C4P1TAL C?”

“Yup. Center of it all. You can hop a monorail to any of the four factions from here.”

Griefer tried to imagine himself riding one of those screeching sky-trains without crying. Failed.

“S0,” he said slowly, “Y0U’R3 T3LL1N M3 W3’R3 ST4ND1N 1N TH3 M1DDL3 0F WH4T’S 3SS3NT1ALLY A GL0R1F13D 41RP0RT T3RM1N4L?”

“Exactly. But  a bit grimier.”

Griefer looked around again. “0K4Y. 1T’S N0T TH3 W0RST PL4C3 I’V3 B33N.”

“You told me you got stabbed in the last place you were in.”

“3X4CTLY..”

They passed by a hotdog stanned selling what might’ve been the most appetizing food Griefer had seen, someone haggling over something slimy, and a booth labeled “Apocalyspe Juice: Not Banlands Approved.” A few more people brushed against Griefer and he flinched every time like they were gonna mug his soul.

“Anyway,” Traffic said casually, “we’re gonna get you a job.”

Griefer stopped walking. “3XCUS3 M3?”

Traffic didn’t.

“You heard me.”

“DUD3. 1 G0T H3R3 L1K3- 4 C0UPL3 H0URS 4G0.”

“And?”

“1 D0N’T 3V3N KN0W WH4T D4Y IT 1S.”

“Perfect. You’ll be working before you remember.”

Griefer groaned, dragging his feet to keep up. “C4N’T 1 JUST, I DUNN0, PH1GHT 0R S0M3TH1NG? L1K3 TH0S3 T0URN4M3NTS?”

Traffic snorted. “You? In a phight? Again, you’d get bodied.”

“I H4V3 A M34N R1GHT H00K.”

“You tripped over a beanbag earlier.”

“IT W4S T00 D4RK F0R M3 T00 S33 TH4T T1ME.”

Traffic waved it off. “Look, yeah, phights get you BUX- if you’re not immediately vaporized. But until then, you gotta start small.”

Griefer stopped walking for dramatic effect. “Y0U C4N’T B3 S3R10US.”

“I’m extremely serious. Look at my jacket.”

Griefer looked. It was... purple. Puffy. Had traffic light patches sewn onto the sleeves like someone made fashion choices at gunpoint. “Y0U L00K L1K3 A GR4P3 TH4T W0ND3R3D 1NT0 A C0NSTRUCT10N Z0N3.”

“Exactly,” Traffic said proudly. “This is the outfit of a man with purpose. Now, I know a guy who runs a shop.”

“OH N0.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not going there,” Traffic said quickly. “His name’s Zuka. Runs the place with his kid. Efficient operation. You’d be fired on the first day.”

“B3C4US3?”

“Because of your everything. Or his son would just end you on the spot.”

“N1C3.”

“But!” Traffic added, holding up a finger, “I’m not throwing you to the wolves just yet. I’m taking you to someone a little more... forgiving.”

Griefer squinted. “WH4T K1ND 0F ‘F0RG1V1NG’ 4R3 W3 T4LK1NG? L1K3, TH3Y’R3 ‘SL4P-0N-TH3-WR1ST’ F0RG1V1NG 0R ‘BURN-D0WN-MY-H0US3-4ND-1T’S-C00L’ F0RG1V1NG?”

“He’s a little bit of both,” Traffic said, and that was not reassuring.

“S0 WH4T’S H1S D34L?”

“Too nice for his own good,” Traffic said casually, now that Griefer was getting the jist on how Inphernals worked. “You could probably insult his album and he’d make another version to suit your tastes.”

Griefer adjusted his hood and kept limping forward. “Y0U S4Y TH4T L1K3 I H4V3N’T D0N3 W4Y W0RS3.”

“You have. Which is why this guy might be your only chance at survival.”

“GR34TTT,” Griefer muttered. “DR4GG3D THR0UGH TH3 H3LL AP0C4LYPS3 BY A DUD3 WH0 UN1RON1C4LLY W34RS A TR4FFIC C0N3 JUST T0 W0RK F0R TH3 1NPH3RN4L 3QU1V4L3NT 0F A 9-5.”

Traffic laughed. “You’re welcome, and trust me, people wear much more…odd accessories than me.”

“1’LL B3L13V3 1T WH3N 1 S33 1T.”

_

Griefer made a run for it.

Well. It wasn’t much of a run. More of a fast hobble. Still, he shoved his hood low, muttered “gotta pee,” and bolted the second Traffic turned to yell at someone selling hot dogs in a bootleg uniform.

He darted into the crowd like a pro- zigzagging, fake-limping harder to sell it, arms pumping. He even did a sick shoulder-roll behind a vending machine and crouched there for a solid thirty seconds, waiting to hear a "Where'd he go?" or, ideally, nothing.

What he got was a shadow looming over him.

“Nice try,” Traffic said, voice smug.

Griefer sighed from the ground, staring at a gum-stained boot. “D4MN...”

Traffic grabbed him by the wrist- not too tight, but just tight enough to say I am absolutely not doing this again today - and yanked him upright. “You’re gonna learn about the world and you’re gonna like it.”

“N0 1’M N0T!”

“You’re gonna pretend to like it.”

“…F1N3.”

The two of them kept walking, the air getting breezier as the buildings thinned out. They ended up near the edge of the city- Griefer guessed it was still part of “Crossroads,” though here it smelled more like saltwater and overcooked fish meat. A small, dinky shop squatted near the edge of whatever the hell was holding this place up, right beside the water. It looked like the kind of place you’d accidentally walk into and end up leaving with a fishing license and a bootleg anime shirt.

Traffic didn’t hesitate. He shoved the door open with his foot and dragged Griefer inside like a reluctant toddler. A bell jingled overhead. It felt aggressive.

Inside, the shop was… surprisingly clean. It had shelves. Posters. A whole row of what looked like mini speakers and gadgets stacked up by the window. And behind the counter was him .

Griefer didn’t know his name, but he could feel it: this guy was built different. Short. Round in the face. Absolutely beaming with the kind of genuine kindness that made Griefer’s skin itch.

He hated it already.

“Boom!” Traffic said.

The Inphernal- cheery visor face and little cap turned backwards like he was stuck in the early 2000s (well who was he to judge, it’s 2010 back there)- lit up. “Yo, Traffic!”

They did one of those complicated bro handshakes that involved at least five steps and a wrist tap. Griefer stood there with his hood up, praying no one tried to fist bump him. Ever.

They talked for a bit- just catching up nonsense Griefer tuned out. But eventually, a phrase akin to the word “hiring” caught his ear.

“You lookin’ for help?” Traffic asked.

“Always,” said the guy. “It’s just me running this place, after all.”

Traffic turned to Griefer. “This is Boombox. Boombox, meet Griefer.”

Boombox tilted his head slightly. “Nice to meet you…?”

Traffic added, “Goes by he.”

“Nice to meet you then, dude,” Boombox said smoothly, visor gleaming like he was smiling.

Griefer gave a noncommittal nod and tried to hide behind a stack of merch. Boombox didn’t seem to care. He went right into explaining things.

“Job’s simple. We sell boomboxes. They play music. Sometimes people just buy ‘em for decoration, I don’t judge. You mostly just gotta stand here and make sure no one scams you. That’s it.”

Griefer blinked. That sounded way too easy.

Boombox shrugged. “Now, most of the time I’m out street performing in Playground, so I’ll need someone to hold down the fort. During those times, I pay double.”

Griefer's eyes visibly lit up. “I’LL T4K3 1T.”

Boombox froze, probably a bit confused as to how his voice sounded, then chuckled. “See you Thursday, then.”

They left the shop a minute later, bell jingling behind them like it was proud. Traffic still had a grip on Griefer’s wrist- light, this time. More of a guide than a guard.

Griefer looked up at him. “WH4T D4Y 1S IT?”

“Monday.”

“…D4MN. TH4T L0NG?”

Traffic grinned. “Told you. Dude’s real nice. Take that time to learn some manners or somethin’.”

Griefer scoffed, yanking his wrist free. “1’LL L34RN H0W T0 R0B H1M."

“You say that, but you already like him.”

“I H4T3 H1M.”

“You think he’s okay .”

Griefer didn’t reply. He just kept walking with his hood up, muttering something under his breath that definitely wasn’t “he’s alright...”

_

Back at the library, everything was weirdly peaceful.

Too peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful.

Lightblox was already knocked out on her beanbag, tucked in so neatly she could’ve passed for a small blanket burrito. Her visor glowed faintly with the colors of a gentle screensaver, and a soft snore puffed from her nose every few seconds. The whole thing looked staged. Probably Ghosdeeri’s doing.

Speaking of which- there she was. At the desk. Scribbling so fast her hand was basically a blur. The quill in her grasp moved like it had beef with the page. Griefer had no idea what she was writing, but he was willing to bet it contained at least one chart, twelve citations, and an appendix longer than his lifespan.

They closed the door quietly behind them. Didn’t matter.

“I presume the ‘mission’ was successful?” Ghosdeeri asked, still not looking up.

Traffic snorted and dropped onto the nearest chair with a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, he got a job.”

“Oh? I’m impressed.” She was not.

Griefer scowled at her back. “D0N’T B3.”

Ghosdeeri didn’t respond to that. Instead, she finally looked up from her thousand-page essay. “There’s a couch in the corner. You may sleep there.”

“G33, TH4NKS,” Griefer muttered, but his body was already betraying him- dragging itself toward the couch like gravity had cranked up just for him. His ankle throbbed, his legs ached, and he was maybe 86% sure his spine had been permanently curved from that monorail jump scare earlier.

The couch wasn’t soft. But it was horizontal. And that was enough.

Traffic tossed him an extra pillow with a lazy underhand. “Congrats on surviving your first day. Only like, a couple hundred more before you can quit, or whatever happens if you eventually return.”

“C4N’T W41T,” Griefer grumbled, rolling onto his side.

The lights dimmed automatically. Ghosdeeri went back to writing. Lightblox snored louder. And Griefer stared at the ceiling, hoodie still up, shoes still on, arms folded like a grumpy ghost haunting the library furniture.

His thoughts drifted- not gracefully, but like a shopping cart with one busted wheel.

He had a job. Which was weird. He had a place to stay. Which was weirder. No one had tried to kill him (today), and he hadn’t gotten mugged (today), and apparently his skull was sprouting something that might eventually become demon horns.

Also, he was in another dimension.

Also, also, his ankle still sucked.

And, like…was he even gonna get back home?

Griefer sighed and pulled the hood further over his eyes. “N0T DY1NG W0ULD B3 N1C3,” he muttered to himself. “ST3P 0N3. D0N’T D13. ST3P TW0...uh...PR0F1T?”

It was a terrible plan.

But it was the best one he had.

For now.