Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shaking, trembling.

The little beast will cry out.

Hollow mind, frigid space.

Warmed only by the blood,

Of the little beast.

Its claws found something, wrapping heavily around the first thing it could reach. Something about how fear stirred under its flesh like burrs sparked it further on, awakening its body as its mind stayed behind.

Fabric. It was scratchy and stuffing spilt from a tear, not denying that it was its own doing as it tugged the mass closer. Acting on instinct, bringing it to its chest when it knew nothing else. The world spun and its chest would sputter and shake with every breath it took.

Its gills bleed as it scrapes itself against the bed, smearing red on the already stained sheets.

Everything in it feels impossibly cold. So impossibly cold.

The night terrors haven't ceased in the months that it came to this accursed world, with gadgets and items too futuristic for it to comprehend. Life originally so far from water yet even further from cities left the beast dizzied with every step it took. Arguably, it should've settled somewhere else- but the affordability of the ill-kept apartment drew it in. Though cash was few and far between, somehow it managed to keep up. For now.

Even worse were the beings joining it each journey on the rickety elevator. Such talkative things, people who came and went in small packs just to finish their assigned "Daily tasks," and the even stranger things that were far from human. (or, Robloxian as they called it. Human was a better word, it’d tell itself.) Players never seemed to interact with it as though it were their own, only talking with each other or dousing it with petals much like other commongoers. It's never seen more than 3 of them, almost never the same one more than once, and it's had to drag them out of pits more than enough times to make its skin crawl, even on some of the most simple of puzzles.

The first time it died here was shocking and left it reeling for days, and yet no one else seemed bothered when they fell. They just got back up. That's something it never understood.

And now it stands, right back in that hollow box, alone for now besides one player and their 20 or so tickets. They were arguably just as garbage as the rest, and yet they persisted. The doors had opened and closed more times than it could count and it was sick of how many times it's had to stick behind with its bag and watch the thing run off. Player2 was here for the money- it was always here for the money. Slacking meant having less, so it tossed its leftover water and went back inside.

Jobs were hard to come by out here. Impossible, even, it tells itself as its hands prop against the railing once more. The player rises again, seeming to... What's the word- It's giving itself a headache to remember the opposite of "fade." Materialise, maybe, but that's not the word it wants.

Whatever, it doesn't matter.

Jobs often required things it couldn't do, or a uniform it couldn't get in. Shockingly, when you want a job, you can't typically wear a hood over your head, regardless of how much you need it. (And they never took the excuse of religion when the jacket had punk ideal.)

"It's quiet here, huh?" The player seems to ignore the question, simply swaying to the elevator before the door opens. A mall, tall and abandoned. It's a sort of like a green room, one of those domes growing plants, yet filled with statues. One slides in, the only one seemingly sentient, kneading a sleeve between their fingers as their moss-covered tail just barely scrapes past the doors.

Sequoia. The name takes a while to come to it. Player2 gives a grin, sliding toward his side of the elevator. Was there a reason everyone always took the corners? Was it a sort of respect? Stupid to waste so much space when you could easily just... Stand right beside them. As long as it didn't actively touch the statue-bug-thing, it was in the green zone.

"Hey! It's been a bit, how are you doing?"

Only when the elevator doors close does he respond.

Finding, reaching, approaching.

Glass eyes, empty and blank.

Inhaling the smoke, letting it flood.

The beast crawls out,

Ripping mud and roots with devil horns.

Everything always seems quiet when Player2 is around. It only ever really seemed to be DrRETRO who talked to it nowadays. She had managed to teach it a lot about how this place worked.

"Prrmm, merow! (It's like a game to them!)" A game, she had called it. "Mrrp mew, (Robloxians don't talk to us all that much. They don't see us like we see them. We each play our own role, though!)" It was weird. Not once has it been so ignored and interacted with at once.

After a while, she seemed to have found out its schedule. She'd slide in when it wasn't paying attention, joining it for its ride until it was too tired to keep moving. When its skin burned, she'd strike it with something green that it utterly hated, but somehow kept it moving. Healing, as she called it. Something she did to everyone. Sorta.

Now it leaned against her, fingers tangling against thin fur. It hadn't found much interest in the past few floors- mostly things that were just there for looking at. Their conversation was dimmed, sliding out of its grip like sludge. Too little was left for them to say.

"Prmm, (I've been avoidin' tellin' you something)," her mewl cuts through the near-silence. It hopes it's not 'Hey, you're leaning on me too much. Get off.'

"Yeah? What's up, Doc?" it tensed as the machine carrying them lurched, pulling them back and forth as it steadied for a new floor. The cat-ball doesn't wince, far more used to the 'rough landings' of the blasted thing. Player2 would be begging someone to fix it, if that were even possible.

"Murrreow mrrp, mew, (There's a commongoer on the elevator I don't want you talkin' to, Sugar,)" she sounds almost grave, and yet her expression doesn't change. It doesn't bother to wonder how she speaks without opening and closing that maw of hers. She continues to speak before it can even think to ask who.

"Mew meerw, (She's a parasite,)" DrRETRO begins. "Meow meewow mrew, (Give her any chance and she'll spread your worst fears out on a table for anyone to see,)" despite how she warns it, the beast can't help but feel an entire lack of fear, though far less disinterest. Maybe the thought of some being of torture meant finding something new to do. Something tangible. But maybe it was just the way she said it, utterly disgusted and perhaps fearful of the potential harm to come to it.

"Uh-huh," part of it didn't believe her. Maybe it should, given she's not lied to or misled it thus far. She's been almost motherly, and it has found itself drawn to her. Besides, being around her had its advantages- regardless of how it saw her. "Do you mean the parasite part literally, or?"

The lights flicker before completely going out, and there's a distant crash. This floor was not its strong suit. It winces as the intercom goes off, and it decides against genuinely listening to whatever the thing had to say.

"Merow (Sorta)," she glances around before nudging it off her. "prrmmmew! (But don't dwell on it, Sugar! You've got work to do,)" And she wasn't wrong. At least it gave good cash.

Curiosity is a wicked thing.

Seeking something tangible,

Finding only a mere distraction.

Fickle things have fickle minds.

Mistakes can only be made once.

Days always seemed to blur together out here. Maybe the off-and-on cycle of "Get to the elevator. Talk to DrRETRO. Get off the elevator. Sleep," was starting to tire. There was always a sense of being watched that the others noticed, especially when it was around. Conversations seemed to run short when it was near, before turning to mumblings about a parasite. Despite the exhaustion webbing its limbs, it strengthened its curiosity.

But curiosity wasn't enough; it would think to itself as it sank into its cheap mattress. Life was beginning to wear it down. Or maybe it was the way the night seemed to close in on it, a blinding red in the crevices of its mind as it would reach for something that made sense when sleep fell to it.

Its claws would find flesh. Every night, they always did. A vibrant red sky bled onto it as it gripped a girls arms. Her hair, short yet braided on the sides, was the only thing it found familiar besides the taste. The scent of blood and rotting wood would fill its head, clouded into one unanimous shape as its body became that of a monster. Its teeth sank in with uncontrollable hunger, though there was no desire to the needs it kept. An awful thing, kicking away the arrow meant for it.

Blood welled against its lips, coating its black tongue before it tore. Her neck split open with a crack that echoed in the rye farm. Though her fingers and blunt nails found a catch on its skin, it was far stronger. Maybe it was adrenaline that spurred it on. Maybe it was fear. Whatever it was, it burned. It yanked the beasts head back, commanding it to swallow the meat in its throat.

Eat

It can't. It doesn't want to. Please, don't make it.

Eat.

Bile rises from its chest to its throat. It can't. It can't. Something hot wells up in its eyes.

EAT.

It slides down, thick and red. Blood coats its chin raw, and it gags on the taste, sickeningly sweet and bitter in the same bite. It wants to reach inside of itself, to rip into its stomach and tear out the red that burned it. But it can't and it won't, as its body was merely a vessel for this sinful act. Something was watching it, the beast knew. Its head rose and its chest hiccuped with tears. Choosing to ignore the way she still lived, the way blood bubbled out as she attempted and failed to make any sort of noise, body limp yet twitching, it rips her arm from the shoulder, listening to it split as it bore its teeth against bone and snapped the tendons holding it still.

Something watched it, and it had little choice in the matter.

The moment it woke up, the world held little remorse for its mind as it scrambled to lurch beside the bed, spilling up its guts onto the wooden floor. It coughs and whines as it expels whatever its body can, making its tongue burn. With its claws digging into its thighs, drawing blood from its knees, it gasps for air. As quickly as it had begun, it ended.

Player2 has gotten into the habit of eating dinner sooner in the day, knowing just what its dreams made it do, amongst other things. It muses on this- maybe it should drink less before bed, too. Everything in this moment made it filthy, so climbing into a bath was its second option after cleaning up.

The morning after started as any other. File what it can into rent, save the rest for food, shift into a far more human-like body, then leave. Rarely did it lock the door behind itself. There wasn't much for it to leave behind, since it took its money with it. Somehow, it always managed to find something useful to buy on the elevator.

The first face it saw besides the players was DrRETRO and that dog it never bothered to talk to. He was yapping off to the bug (that, somehow, took it longer to see than it did to smell), so it opted to just leave them be. What's the point in prodding at strangers already busy?

Player2 took its usual place against her, kneading fur between two fingers despite the way it probably pinched at her skin. Things were taking a toll on it- for once, even DrRETRO felt like a threat. It was a baffling thought, considering she's seen it at its most vulnerable, even with its own will.

"Mrrp prrmeow, (Hey, Sugar. You're shaking,)" She snaps it out of its daze, and its gaze falls to her, though blurry. The regretevator returns to its ascention. There are about two players here, neither harbouring more than a few tickets. Their pockets were just slightly full, hanging with enough cash to fund at least two meals.

"Sorry," it pulls away. Showing weakness here was about as idiotic as jumping right into a Clover. "I guess I'm about as frail as a leaf t'day?" The energy it wills for does not find its words.

"Mewwow, mrew? (You don't look bad- something up?)" It wants to say no. Something cold rises to its chest that makes it want to unsheathe its claws.

"Eh, nothin' I can't handle. What, y' think I'm gonna turn to fish flakes?" it snickers as it attempts (with an ugly sort of failure), to change subjects. DrRETRO chooses to ignore this.

"Purrow meow, (You can't lie to me, sugar,)" she turns (slides? Tilts???) to look at it, her voice becoming hushed despite the literal dog. Not like it mattered- he was distracted. And the one thing it had learned about him in the little time they've been around each other is that he wouldn't prod into something personal.

Or, at least, it hopes so. It wasn't sure about the bug, but it didn't think he'd bother them.

"Fine, whatever," it grumbles. "Let's see what the next floor is, and maybe I'll tell you aaaaaall about it," but it held no truth to its words. The doors open to reveal a low-quality green room of thick, short grass, with the sun high above, reflecting off the pink carapace belonging to Bugbo. It was dazzling, almost. Maybe even blinding.

It didn't care to focus all that much on what the pink thing told it to do. Somehow, this was one of the hardest floors for it to do well at. When your vision is far from complementary, it leaves room for error. The most amount of rocks it managed to get was 6, but at least it got a few extra coins tossed into its pockets. Any cash is good cash.

Go along with it. Complete the task. One of over 80. It was an essential part of the loop- to act on it. To follow it. Blindingly servicing yourself to the machine and whatever living thing was watching. Bugbo's gaze always seemed to follow it, a disgustingly sticky mass to its flesh despite how nonphysical it seemed. It never liked the ugly bug's grin. (Though, it's not like it's ever gotten a good look at it. It really should work on getting some glasses. Or maybe some eye contacts.)

Simple spaces like these with little risk gave room for the mind to wander. After a while, its mind has returned to the parasite. It's been doing that recently. Hearing clippings of conversations over the past few weeks, restless or torn between hate and fear toward such a thing. It's begun to ask questions about her, toward anyone it didn't think would go to the Doctor for- it shouldn’t worry her. They spun an image of a shadowed mass of hatred and malice with talons as sharp as blades and an eye more vibrant than the brightest of flowers. The hare would stammer on her words over the mere mention, stumbling back and wanting out as soon as possible. "Was she here? Is- Is she c-coming?" It found her petrified voice to be annoying. Others gave even less lacklustre answers.

"Who is the parasite?" Mark was one of the first it had asked, and he'd frowned and shaken his head.

"Don' be askin' 'bout her, partner. You wanna be as far from ‘er grasp for as long as possible. Be grateful y' 'aven't met," was what he'd said. So it huffed and asked someone else once he was gone. Sadly, it'd been the hare, which, as stated, had only pushed it away.

Next was the princess, who only huffed and turned her nose to the question, and wasn't kind toward it. Something about "Scaring her friend," whoever that was. Person after person it got more useless answers until it met Wallter. He was tall and perhaps even handsome if it weren't for how stuck-up he seemed.

"Oh, you mean my friend Folly?" Folly. A mistake or a fool. Who names their child that? Player2 had simply nodded to him, electricity buzzing under its skin. Finally, it hoped, some answers. But sadly, even Wallter didn't have much.

"She's a being of dreams. I enjoy sharing my classical music with her, and she shares poetry with me in return. She's quite a good author, ignoring her taste. Though I don't know that much besides that she's one tough woman."

Well, more mystery for it to solve.

Ten rocks lay in its arms when the timer goes off, and it's flung right back to the boxes. It dumps them beside the measly five the players managed to grab. They seemed distracted, almost. Though that's always how they seemed, flicking back and forth and balancing on the railing til the next floor. Sometimes players talked, but they never talked to it, despite its totally convincing disguise. It had been better at home, but everything here was wrong. It's not sure if home will ever come.

Would it even take the chance to go?

Shoving the new 36 coins into its back, it jumps back into the elevator, ignoring the friendly wave from the dog.

"Mew? (So?)" Right. DrRETRO wants to talk. It lets out a mumble about something or another as it leans against her, as usual.

"Don't you have like- other things to worry about?" Player2 attempts to snuff the idea. Weaknesses can't be shared. Weaknesses can't be out in the open. It doesn't need someone listening in, especially not the players or bug (who, arguably, looked like it would kill it the first chance he got.) "Not sure why I'm always the forefront of your mind."

"Mewow meow purr. (You're new here, Sugar. I'm just looking out for you,)" She nudges it, gentle for something so big. "Meow meoow mrrp mrow, (You're gonna be in the forefront til everything's settled. So, tell me what's up.)"

Gross. Care and attention specifically where it didn't want it. Player2 was meant to be undeniably strong, unstoppable, better than human. Something worth keeping alive rather than killing for food and medicine. Though people never saw the difference. They'd rather kill all reefdwellers rather than keep the one good one around.

It found that out the hard way.

"Whatever," it huffs and leans against a wall. "I've been having nightmares about something I did a while back. Repeatedly. I've never really dreamt before coming here, so," the beast shrugs. "I just assumed it was the stress of the new place. Doesn't help that I get sick all over the place, like, immediately after. It's taking my throat to shit."

"Mrow? (Nightmares?)" She seems uncomfortable. Her tone is something of worry and something else as she stares at it. Or, at least it thinks she is. Bad vision means not being able to see her expression well. Did it ever change, or did she genuinely just constantly look the same when she was like this?

"Uh- Yeah? Not sure why you're so freaked out," it thinks there are more eyes on it now than there were before. The bug leaves the next floor.

"Purrow mreow, (I'm just hoping it's not for the reason I'm thinking of,)" she hums, and that's that.

A ghost awakens,

Sliding into the minds.

She breathes in deep,

And fills her prey.

Their lungs, dark and black.

For a while after, it doesn't see her. And not long after does Player2 begin waking up with scratches and blood on its skin. Its arms and back would end up raw, even in places it couldn't reach, with thin, scabbing lines that ended up unbelievably angry and red. At first, it thought it was somehow doing it to itself, but even after lying on thoroughly checked blankets and wearing mitts over its claws, it figured out it wasn't the case.

It was awful. Every night it woke up bleeding and had to stop itself from getting sick on top of it. The terrors only got worse, repeating even more than once or changing stories but getting worse each time it’d replay. It would be stuck in the same empty field, yet there were arms reaching up from the grasses, from between fronds of rye too thick to see even an inch in front of anywhere it could stand, and lashing at it. They grabbed and tore, ripping into its flesh and pulling it down as something it couldn't see graced its scalp with talons before boring down on its spine and ripping its flesh. Blood would well and drip down its sides as it was forced onto its belly, gore spitting out from its maw.

Even when it would awaken, gasping for air, it would hear laughter echoing from the walls. Despite the nausea in its chest, it would feel something warm stir within it from the sound. Such a pretty voice for something entirely a part of its imagination. (It had to believe it was. The alternative was distressing.) Listening to it, the distant murmur after the blight of the storm, made it easier to breathe. It was grounding, almost, despite the way it was most definitely not built in reality.

Not long after, it began making out the scent of smoke. With a nose meant more for smelling when underwater, it made it hard to actually tell what was around it. At first, it thought something was burnt in the apartment- even other tenants complained in the hallways about the "stench," and even stranger, just how cold it got. But nothing was ever on fire, and nothing suggested anyone was smoking inside. (Beside Player2, maybe, but it preferred to do it on its upstairs neighbours' balcony when they weren't home, and they seldom were.)

The smell was always strongest on its bed before fading by midafternoon. Sometimes it'd miss the way it clung to its skin, but a cigarette could easily fix that. That is, if it even felt like dragging itself further onto the path of a nicotine addiction, which it was shockingly partial against doing.

Thankfully, though, the landlord could give less of a crap about how badly the apartment smelled as long as they got paid.

Player2 didn't know what got it walking out of bed that morning. Change forms, file what it could into rent, save the rest, eat, and get to the elevator. Player2 thrived in the mindlessness of routine, despite the boredom of doing the same thing daily. Even when hours, days, and months blended together, it still did the same thing over and over.

Heave players over ledges, teach them how to survive the flood, don't lose your money, don't get a curse, breathe. Even when things became heavy and it would be reminded of how it was damaging the muscles of its body, it kept moving.

Folly. The name barely left its mind. It wanted to find her, to see her with its own eyes, even in low definition. Player2 didn't know what was making it need to seek her out so badly, especially as it downed cheese in order not to pass out from blood loss before the next floor began. Every night made it yearn for something different, an escape or distraction, even as it got sick or felt parts of its body give up on it more and more. (It was disgusting for this, it'd tell itself. More money is being spent on disability rather than keeping it alive.)

It needed to keep going, to learn what it could and to find her. To know her. Maybe it was a death wish, sacrificing itself to something it didn't yet understand. But after everything, it cared not for life but rather only to find answers in things that made it live just a little longer. And when that was over, it'd probably kill itself. Though that seemed awfully boring when it could do almost anything else.

Another day. Just another day.

Everything within it was tense, sliding through its limbs in an eternal buzz that it couldn't push out. Every breath was laboured, and the space was empty besides the one player it couldn't be bothered to interact with. They might've been expecting it, as they all eventually begin to do. The mindless things were just as stuck in the loop as it was, walking along the well-trodden path that many others had already gone along. It sees each pattern, watching it, engraving it into its mind like a thick sap along its cartilage skull. To flatten its muzzle, to snuff out every natural movement of its tail, to follow. Sink into the paths the others dealt out for you and live with it.

It's grown tired of following footsteps. It will not rot here like the rest of them.

The elevator violently jerks, lights shutting off as everything earns a vibrant red hue. It's no longer sure whether it's awake or asleep when its shoes hit pale ground.

Something wicked controls this space. The player stumbles beside it, hitting the floor with a thud, whereas the beast stays on its feet. Laughter echoes through the space, so strangely familiar as something dark stares down at them. It looks to her and sees her, something petrifying and large, even on her tall stand. Comprehension fails it- she's a vivid picture against a blur of red, white, and black. Despite the lack of contrast between her and the world around them, it can see her clearly. It's the most clear thing it's seen since it was a child, and it wonders if it's mere imagination or if she's real enough to penetrate the fabric of reality.

"Prove your worth."

It echoes around it, rooting it in place. She's loud and quiet at the same time, clouding its mind yet invading every part of it. It can see forests of blood and eyes and the grace of something long dead. When mirrors slide up from the ground, it tries its hardest to shake it off, the raid of its mind by her hand. Or, it at least thinks it is. To be so close to her was both exhilarating and disorientating, as though it could feel her claws scrape at every part of its being and ruin any sense of privacy from its mind- even if it was privacy it never truly felt it had. Did everyone get this effect from her? Was she-

A beam strikes it, snapping it out of its trance long enough to run. Its body burned with sudden, welting agony that split its flesh. Nothing hot spills down its body- as quickly as the wound was made, it was cauterised. Maybe she'd said something- it wasn't sure. The player seemed fine, however.

Bodies formed from smoke, just as vivid an image as she was. They'd rise, as dark as the night and fueled by something that made them stamp across the ground, faster than it had expected, toward it. The beast scrambled, shoes sliding slopily against the pillar before it gained proper traction. Despite this, claws still sliced its skin, creating angry red marks along its arm that slid down its fake sleeve and down its fingers. Agony split through it, but so did adrenaline, turning it into something hollow and fear-driven.

"Feeling dizzy yet?"

Her voice made its head hurt.

The dark mimicry faded, smoke billowing with a slow breeze that didn't match the situation. Player2 could feel its blood drip against the ground, quick and rhythmical. Every breath was as quick as it was laboured, as it ran purely on instinct.

The mirrors were back, bright red slabs with little reflection. Sliding out of it, the woman lands heavily in front of a mirror almost perfectly opposite to where the beast stood. It can almost hear the way she thuds before quickly dissipating, returning to the mirror.

Player2 has to recognise her game. It has to do something-

Follow the mirrors.

Like a game of cups. It tries to follow whichever one she'd gone into. If it were lucky, it'd be right. Not sure whether its movements were its own, it rushes to where the mirror it was following stilled.

One.

Every mirror cracks. Splinters of glass hit the ground.

Two.

Only one breaks further. It can see something behind it. Where was the player?

Three.

The woman falls out of it, and up close, it can see the scowl in her expression, despite the way the mask obscures her face.

She's beautiful. Her claws flex as her head turns slightly to stare at it as though it were prey. She doesn't care to speak to it, merely judging it with something cold and calculated.

Folly. This was Folly. The monstrous parasite everyone described as something utterly despicable. She was tall, almost twice its size, and everything it could've ever imagined. Her build was heavy with a pale sweater obscuring her torso and arms, but everything else left little for imagination.

It was almost like her body couldn't stay the same for long. The dark mass of her head and malice shifted like smoke and steam, eyes of malice opening and closing from the change in her body. They all stared at it in the little time she stood beside it, taking in the visuals of it and absorbing its every thought.

She was beautiful, and she was far from flattered by its attraction.

The rest of the time there goes on in a blur. Its body never stops moving, even for a second, lest it crash into the depths of mortality just waiting to claim it for everything it was. Danger was something Player2 always knew, something that followed it since the day it escaped its hatchery. And here it was, chasing danger as she chased it, striking it down again and again to the point it considered passing out from blood loss.

It did not. Somehow, it stayed alive to watch her become more exhausted and even perhaps damaged, as though finding the mirror she resided in took out more than she could chew. In the end, she joined the ascent of the regretevator, leaning against the far wall with a hand resting against her chest.

Player2 falls onto the floor when it's over, gasping for air and soaking most of the ground with red. It was hard not to gag and instead patch its wounds with shaking hands. The bandages almost instantly turned as red as her hate, but, as far as it's aware, they do the work of stopping the bleeding.

"Seems you're the only survivor," her voice doesn't hurt as much outside of her domain. She looks at it as it looks to her, either disinterested or disappointed. "I would've enjoyed more of your blood on my claws in honour of our formal meeting," it assumes the latter.

The beast sucks in a breath it didn't realise it needed. "Formal?" Its voice is quieter than it'd like, barely breaking from its chest and sounding more like a whimper than anything. It needs to get off the floor, but it can't find the energy in its legs, let alone the will. Many of the effects of being around her still stayed- it was powerless in her horror.

"I've been watching you, mhmhm," her laugh is familiar. It's warm and comforting to it despite just how cold she intended it, like a kitten brushed with a wet toothbrush. While it wasn't something it could hold on to, it was grounding and eased something within it. "Recognise me, killer?"

Oh. It recognises the very intent in her words almost instantly, as though she conjured the very image into its mind herself.

She doesn't give it the right to respond. "Remember this voice of mine? My claws on your back?" There's something in her expression that brightens at the sight of its fear. "I know you well, Pallas. I know you very well, and I don’t think you quite belong here."

She shouldn't know that name. Something rings through its head as adrenaline returns to pulse under its skin. It felt hot, like its body was on fire, and in the same breath, it was frozen, frozen not only in place but in the way everything around it was more than just uncomfortably colder. Air seems to catch in its chest, and it can't let it out.

"Well? Nothing to say for yourself? Mhmhmhahaha!" Folly's laughter doesn't cease until the player finally returns, but the sound still echoes in its head. Everything was pushing and pulling Player2 in a million different directions, yet its jaw remained taut. "I am not fear-mongering. This is all really happening. I'm sure you will remember our meeting."

Only when she was finished did she look away, seemingly happy with her work of ruining the beast.

Running is futile,

It learned this best.

Hiding worked well,

But it killed you just as much.

Play the part of an alien instead.

The time with her was paralysing. It couldn't breathe whenever she moved, let alone spoke. Every word she said spun a web through its mind that made it impossible to think. In every way, it was stunned, encapsulated by everything she did. She thrived with this power in the way it crumbled beneath her, crushed under her hooves into a fine powder. When it'd finally managed to return home to the cold hollow space of its apartment, it simply slumped to the floor, glued in place. She was more than life itself, an eternal grace of horror that no mortal would ever be able to comprehend.

Folly was watching it. She was watching it. Why it? Why Player2? Did she expect some sort of prize out of it, to flay it alive and earn something from the meat of its bones? What power did she need over it? Was it some new plaything for her? Is it because she knows it’s better than the rest? Nausea returned to it, thick and clotting from the way its head spun. It hadn't recovered from the fight against her, and it doubted it ever truly would.

She was watching it. Fear had found its home within its heart, curling tight and spiking out against its ribs and lungs, flaring its gills and sharpening its claws. To comprehend the mortal danger against something that wasn't possible to win against was terrifying. This was all really happening. It was real and awful, and its head was splitting with an agony it didn't understand. Danger it couldn't escape loomed over it, thick and ever-consuming.

What can it even do? How do you escape something from a world not like your own? It doubt it could ever return to the blood-stained home it knew. After 20-some-odd years in that town, ignoring most of its childhood, it was just another casualty. Knowing its luck, there's already a bounty for its head.

"Fffuuuhh-" it coughs and sputters as it swallows back cries. "Fuck- FUCK-" it shouts at the ground and rips at the carpet with unsheathing claws that darken at the ends. It can't steady itself as it trembles, probably drooling onto the ground. With its body receding parts of it into itself, returning to its natural state, it finds it knows nothing of what will come to it next.

And yet it wants more. It wants more of this fear, more of the way Folly's words wormed through its mind, eating away at its thoughts and self-assurity to leave away a hollow vessel. Pallas wants the pain she causes to consume it, to ruin it and reform it into a new, more agreeable beast. Something to clutch between her hands for a few moments before crushing it beneath her thumbs and letting its blood splatter and coat her palms. Through the freezing terror that clouded its thoughts, it felt an undeniable warmth that drew it toward her.

It needed to live. It needed to see more of the catalyst of thought and the beast that ravaged its mind with a lack of remorse for its very being.

To learn is to change.

To deny change is to deny yourself.

And yet it is futile.

Against heavy winds,

All will give in.

Shockingly, the nightmare did not return that night. A sollumn grace for it, it supposes. Age made sleep come easily, despite the way it still had youth left to live. And still it had been restless, tossing and turning in the bed and barely resting. When it closed its eyes, flashes of red eyes covered its vision, attempting to consume its very being. And for that, it would wake out of fear of becoming just some meal.

That morning was far calmer than usual, rain beating down the window in its room. That was the only window in the house, so it was a prime spot to lay its nest. Light was nature's alarm, just behind excited children and the farm's local rooster. Hehe.

...Its humour fell flat even for it. Man, it needed new material. Maybe it was a matter of situation compared to “Whatever makes you laugh is childish to the point even kids would hate it. Screw you.”

A slow, shaking inhale rattles in its chest.

Just another day.

Player2 took the morning slowly. Eat what it can (and ignore the tremors of nausea when it sees eyes in the corners of its vision), see how much money it has for this month's rent (almost enough. Just 30 left), and save the rest. It was sure to write somewhere on the pack of sticky-notes it glued to the fridge what it needed next when it came to food. Primarily, it stuck to cheap things- Canned beans and vegetables were enough to keep it going but it still needed meat.

Meat. Like from a f

It pushes the thought away. Not now, Not ever. The memory was not and will never be important.

Food was something Player2 needed to prioritise more. Something about how eating mould was going to get it phenomia, or whatever it's called. It wasn't exactly the best at remembering DrRETRO's ramblings to it about its health, but when it's a part of a species she's never even heard of, it doesn't take a whole lot to become a medical anomaly in her eyes. Not that it didn't appreciate her care, but it was an awful lot to be prodded at on a medical table when you didn't have the time to mentally, let alone physically, prepare.

Reefdwellers are shapeshifters. Born from sharks, they split off genetically a few million some-odd years back and yet retained similar traits regardless. Here, they didn't exist, and would likely seem like some god-awful fantasy book species that didn't quite fit in with any story. When humans began populating more and more of the earth, reefdwellers adapted to join them.

"Desert" or dry-sand reefdwellers were pale and more adept to the salty waters around Africa, and would frequently switch between the warm waves and the scorching overland. From what Player2 could remember, they originally got along with the people inhabitants, before eventually being hunted when Christianity became popularised. They had the most natural array of colours, ranging from browns to golds and maroons, and were the most human-looking of the species. They blended in well enough with humans that there are tales of men being "tricked" into lying with their kind, as though they could stay shifted even in their sleep.

"Deep-Sea" or spiney reefdwellers originally resided under deep water pressure before rising to the surface. They were big and had long snouts and darker colours of blacks, deep grays and blues. Some of them had keratin "scales" that grew with a chemical that glowed to attract prey, and were adept hunters.Solo survivors, the whole bunch. And yet Player2 has never met either of the two species.

"Bay" or black-tipped reefdwellers were the arguable middleground. Despite being the shortest of the two species, they had the widest range of colours and a strange mix between the alien appearance of spiney reefdwellers and the human-ish appearance of dry-sand reefdwellers. They resided in shallow waters and bays in large groups, far more sociable than the 3 groups. Player2 never heard of any others, but it assumed there were likely more than just the 3. The instinct of its species still ran deep through it. They followed the moon compared to the sun, as light made it hard to see.

From pictures it's seen, despite the way they were so diverse, Player2 felt like the worst possible example of a black-tipped reefdweller. It was taller than the others. It had longer horns than the others. Something about it was just wrong, and yet it's never had the chance to find out what.

Still, despite whatever knowledge it brought with it from its world, it was still just that- some medical anomaly for DrRETRO to learn about before inevitably getting bored of it, much like the rest. Maybe it was for the greater good, it'd tell itself. No good ever came from being near it- that much it has learned. Regardless, it was still better than most. Smarter and stronger despite how its body seemed to reject the mere idea.

Player2 stubs its toe on the "kitchen" counter. It really should pay better attention to its surroundings, but it's hard to when it's avoiding looking into whatever was watching it from the corner of its eye. That, and its vision is utter garbage.

The quickest way for it to get even just a few groceries was the regretevator. Even if it was just one floor that was an actual grocery store, thieving wasn't exactly something it was against. Big corporations never amused it regardless. Instinct made its skin prickle with wariness- part of that elevator was her domain, and it didn't doubt that she'd be more willing now to show up. Perhaps to scare it off from boarding it again, but something tells it that nothing she can do for that would actively work.

Maybe it was stubborn, or maybe it just enjoyed the idea of being sought out.

To become more human,

Is to reject your identity.

Being less than that,

Is to nurture your shame.

Either route allows only agony.

Fall was beginning to nip at it, leaves coating the grounds outside of its apartment and even the grounds around the main building you boarded the elevator on. The cold was far from welcoming, freezing the end of its scarred tail. Winter wasn't far off and it dreaded the potential frost. Thankfully, ignoring the doors that didn't always shut right, the lobby to the elevator was warm and welcoming. The beast skitters to catch up to the doors before they'd shut behind the player boarding, nothing visible on their person other than the clothes they wore and a single fanny pack.

Player2 barely avoids slamming its side into the wall, skidding to a stop when it feels the elevator dip slightly with its steps. The ascent begins not long after, and Player2 can see a bit more clearly now. Only the lamp and the now two players were here. It almost wonders just how close Lampert had to be to the elevator for them to actually find him.

"Hey, cleanfreak," it chooses to stay a far more respectable distance from him. He wasn't exactly the best conversationalist, so it wasn't certain just how much he'd be willing to talk about. Mostly, it wanted a distraction. Something to think about other than her.

"Thank you for minding the gap this time," his voice is low, a mumble that seemed to recede into itself just as he did when it approached. His limbs creaked with every movement he made, squeaky and very clearly robotic. "I'm not exactly a fan of the smell of vanilla. Or salt," Lamperts gaze flicks from one corner to another, searching. It doesn't bother to ask what's up.

"Figures. But hey, it's all natural!" it snickers.

"Natural doesn't exactly mean adequate. Whatever soap you're using can still be garbage.”

It doesn't comment about how its soap smells nothing like vanilla or salt. Can't take a fish out of the sea and expect it to smell like a forest when rinsing it with Pine Sol, or whatever they say. That's a soap, right? The fish would just end up smelling like chemicals, actually. It doesn't even pay attention to the doors opening, just sliding out when Lampert is already running off. There goes the only chance of conversation it had.

All escapes are futile.

Player2 never cared for the cardboard mansion, always opting instead to sit around until it was over. Finding 50 rooms with a player who'd slip off into the abyss the moment they had to jump a simple gap found itself to be near impossible every time around. The money scattered about also never found much interest for Player2. There wasn't enough for it to go scavenging about like a kitten over catnip. Regardless, it meant thinking about anything other than the blinding red creeping along its vision.

It follows the players slowly, before branching off in its own direction when they, too, split off. The space was dimmer than it remembered, brown walls of carboard shockingly tall and looming despite the fragility of the material it was built from. A cat purrs as the beast approaches the couch it laid across, its body stiff yet as fluid as any other mammal. The same brown as anything else here. It opts to leave the cat behind, not wanting to carry something that could get killed if it brought it along on its "adventure."

It's cold here. Colder than it should be. The next room surrounds it, a concave space. There it was, that same gap it's watched countless fall off. It was almost ironic when it was one of the first areas- it would get to bet on whether or not someone would survive the tremendous leap in the few times it'd join them.

The air was stagnant as it approached. It didn't know what made it stop in this moment, looking down into the depths of the hollow space. The end of the descent always led to death, no matter how sturdy you were. Death on the regretevator was inevitable, and you can only get back up again.

It falls in.

Revival was startling. It awakens on the floor, gasping for air as it pushes away the feeling of everything within it breaking simultaneously, skull crushed by the pressure of its fall. Air does not want to find its lungs, and yet it still gasps, attempting and failing to draw as much as possible into its chest.

Death did not come to Pallas easily, and Player2 kept that law strong. Since day one, it's fought tooth and nail for survival, keeping itself alive in a world that would strike an arrow against its clear ribs the moment it knew what it was. While survival was its strong suit, that didn't mean it thrived. No matter how true this was, it had just died in the most avoidable way. It was a stutter that cost it time, and time was money. That was no mistake it would ever make

Swearing under its breath, it returns right back to square one. Thankfully, respawning still had its perks- For the amount of floors it survived, it would earn tokens. Said tokens now hung heavy in its fist, little square coins that it didn't know how they showed up. It didn't exactly know how anything here showed up, but that was not a point that mattered to it. There were about 18 or so this time around. Player2 rarely ever failed, so the number seemed accurate. Maybe.

It shoves them back into its front pockets and walks back in when the doors open to greet it, closing behind it in tandem. This was its final chance to turn back, and it rejected it.

Getting up was apart of the nonsense of this place. You fail, you try again. The only consequence was wasting your time, and yet this entire place felt like a waste of it. Many members just used it as a form of sporadic travel, letting them see places no man would ever comprehend the mere idea of seeing. Others used it much like Player2 did, a quick cash-grab with the consequence of trauma that followed you. This place, besides that, also gave answers. Questions, too, but answers to things it found itself needing to know. When the questions would dry up, maybe then it'd stop coming.

That afternoon went just as agonising as the rest. DrRETRO showed up far later than it was used to, after maybe 32 or so floors of watching the two players die time and time again. Sometimes their bodies acted as ragdolls in some situations, flinging them like playdough to the ground as they slumped to the floor, unmoving and idiotic. It was as though they liked not being able to get up, laughing when floors disappeared beneath them, when they should be clinging to the wire walls instead of letting their bodies get crushed or splattered across walls. Did they enjoy the pain? Could they even feel at all? It almost wishes they'd answer.

DrRETRO seemed to recognise the change in the air. She looked far different from how she used to, a different body and yet the same voice, mind and scent. The feline was taller than it still.

Player2 could see the way she tensed with that coat draped over her like a second skin, and yet it was ill-fitted for her with how loose it seemed. There was too much fabric and not enough her. Ignoring this, her fur was spiked up, and her ears flicked with every noise. It was the first it has seen such anxiety from her. Somehow, it found such a thing pitiful if not concerning. It was the same sort of reaction everyone has had around it as of recent, as though it were infected with parasites that could jump from its skin and onto theirs. Now that would be something to write home about.

"Purrreow, murow (We're not alone)," it was the first thing she said to it outside of greeting Player2. After such a long amount of silence and her simply shaking her head any time it prodded at her, the most obvious thing as "it's cold out," is what she says. It almost wants to remark, "No shit, Sherlock, there are players," but something tells it that's far from what she meant.

They were being watched, and they had no choice in the matter.

It's not sure when that feeling started, but it knows it's gotten bad enough that anyone it comes near can feel it just as well. Eyes so angry, penetrating its skin and yet never leaving any sort of damage. Being watched became a fact of life for it here, and now it was doing things even further beyond its control.

"I mean, yeah, I guess," it doesn't know what else to say. What can it say, when there's nothing to be done? Words only have as much consequence as you'll give them, and Player2 wasn't a fan of consequence. "But when have we ever been?"

She stares at it, taking in its words as slowly as they came. "Mew, mrow, (I'm not sure, Sugar,)" it comes out sort of as a hum, as though if she talked low enough their 3rd (or technically 4th) party wouldn't hear. But she did, and they knew.

Whether or not Folly wanted to be seen again mattered none to the players as one shoved a ticket between the doors. That was likely not at all how they were meant to be used, but they had the desired effect as the lights flickered off, a red glow emanating through the room.

The space was quickly replaced by something that shifted with sleep. It felt too soon to see her again, that same dark, tall figure that didn't obscure herself against the blur. And yet it wasn't soon enough. Her eye found it as it had found her, and it was no gentle grace. When she speaks something, it finds itself knowing she's said countless times before, despite only hearing it once, it splits through its head and returns its mind to the very ruin it sought to escape. Every word is like a dagger to its skull that allowed thousands of her talons right back inside. Through the pain, it found itself warmed by the experience, leaning into the fear she struck it with and letting it fester like an infected wound.

Player2 does not let the trance end, but it still moves, determined to watch where her chosen mirror goes even through its sudden haze.

Left, right, down, up on the left side, each direction was based entirely on perspective, but it still managed to follow. Maybe it was just easier the second time around, or maybe it was being guided by the way it seemed to glow just a little more than the others. The players join it at the stand and wait.

One. Two. Three. The mirror splits open to expose her, nearly knocking the beast aside with her landing.

"Ngh... How stubborn," She does not lurch more than she lets herself, claws flexing as she quickly stands straight. Just as quickly as she appeared did she dissipate into smoke.

This world never stayed the same for longer than a few moments. Shifting, changing, spiralling all for her. The guardian stands tall, wounds weeping a bright red as its eyes watch their battle closely. Something about it made it hard for Player2 to look toward its direction, and it was even harder to look away from Folly.

Pillars rise suddenly from the ground, knocking the beast onto its side. Its hood slips off its head, but it doesn't bother to pull it back up, despite the sudden reduction of its vision. Hiding itself didn't matter here; she already knew everything there was to know.

Get up.

Standing is a sudden struggle despite the energy pulsing in its veins. Something within it doesn't seem to be working quite right, perhaps splintered or torn. This does not stop it, and it refuses to let it do so.

Survival came naturally to Player2 at this point. Something taught to it by life itself, time and time again, changing it and forcing it to adapt even when there was nothing to adapt to. It climbs over the ledges as quickly as it can while the flood closes in, dark and red. The overwhelming stench of rot and iron fills its lungs, and it can make out nothing else, even when it reaches the safety of the tallest pillar. Both players survive, despite their slow ascent.

She's irritated, it can tell. Even when she's so far away, it can feel her dig into it, needing to crush it under the weight of the suffering she instils. Not just it, but the players themselves for disrupting her rest. The parasite, who kept her distance, has never felt so close.

The floor collapses beneath it, and its spine hits the floor with an agonising thud. It thinks, maybe, that the back of its head cracked open, and the heat flooding its scalp and scorching away the frost that closed in on its body might just have proved it right.

Get up.

It hurts. No matter how much adrenaline it creates to drown it out, it will feel that pain. It's not sure if there's permanent damage, and it's not sure it wants to know. When it begins to consider lying flat on its back and giving up, it pulls itself to its feet without thinking.

It's dizzying. It can't see where the mirrors are going, and it can't think to try. They've become one unanimous shape that stirred and stirred around it, flies impossible to catch in your palms. Balance fails it as it stumbles backwards, falling onto its ass and in front of a mirror.

One. Two. Three. The mirror shatters to expose her. Somehow, it managed to be the right mirror. Great! It has plot armour! This is sure to go swimmingly.

Player2 can't think. It's cold and warm in ways it didn't think possible. When it manages to stand, it's already surrounded, claws slashing in its direction and catching on its skin. Laughter echoes, a "Great," contrast to the battlefield that it was stuck in. Its own blood leaves trails and splatters on the ground that get smudged by the steps of the clones that rushed for it. One manages to knock it to the ground, and it rolls toward the edge, barely able to pull itself away when it dangles half-off.

This was her game, to watch and see just how others fall. She encouraged it, flicking a claw against the fracture in the glass and watching them shatter. It should be angry at her. It should loathe her just as she despises it. But for some disgusting reason, it can't. Her very being soaks every crevice of its body, and it wants to drown in it. It yearns to be controlled by her every move, A moth to a calloused flame that willingly singes its wings. For reasons it can't explain, this was a grace it reached for.

Before its skull can be crushed by the closest clone, they disappear into smoke.

"Seems I've gotten bored. I'll be joining you on your descent."

That didn't feel like how it was meant to go, but before it can properly comprehend the intent, it's rising back in the elevator.

Descent, huh? It could've sworn the elevator was going up.

Wounds instantly begin closing as DrRETRO strikes it with the green thing, not saying a word when Folly rises in her plume of smoke. It's almost disappointing to have the effects left behind by the parasite fade. Two, however, persist.

It's not as close to a panic attack this time around. It takes in everything about her far better than before. It's only as much as she allows, and it's more than it needs. Something tells it that it needs to run. Even more tell it to be closer to her, to rub its muzzle against her palm so she'll crush it in her fist. Where its body wants it to scream, cry, run, anything to get as far away from her as possible, its mind is being drawn in by an invisible string that she has curled around her wrist.

It's quiet. DrRETRO doesn't want to speak, the players don't say a thing, Player2 can barely find the energy to get off the ground (it's spent more time with its ass to the floor than it seemingly has doing anything else), and then there's Folly.

Folly is just standing there, but no matter how she tilts her head to take in the space around her, the beast can feel her gaze on it. It was exhilarating. Fear melted into a need it didn't recognise. A need for her attention. Her grace.

Finally does it get up from the ground, stumbling to its feet. The haze never seemed to really fade, as though it were high on the smoke she rose from. Now that would be interesting.

"Mrow, prrrm? (You alright, Sugar?)" DrRETRO finally speaks up when the doors open again, yanking it back to reality when its mind was elsewhere. Even if it still was one foot in a daydream, it still had enough comprehension to listen.

"Yeah, I'm fine," better than fine. It's never wanted something more than it wants to be by the parasite now. It was such a reckless need, one that it knew would end with it being put through the same sort of metaphorical paper shredder Folly had been putting it through up until now, but in this moment, that didn't sound terrible.

It sounded like a gift. A gift she deposed upon it, and one it thrived under.

"Mrrow- (You look-)" she pauses, finally glancing toward Folly in the opposite corner. "Mrrp, prrrrrrm. (Shaken. Why don't you rest, sugar? Maybe you can leave with me on the next floor-)"

Folly cuts her off. "So quick to leave, doctor? It's been a bit since last we spoke," she leans forward and tilts her head at the feline, swatting away a player when they fell too close. "You can't protect everyone, you know." There's a sense of danger to her tone, dark as her golden pupil spots every little insecurity.

"Meerow, (You speak a lot but you say nothing)" DrRETRO maintains composure, straightening the moment she was spoken to. "Meow mew, mrow (I protect those I care about. Sad to know you can't comprehend this)."

Player2 could feel the crackle of energy between them. One long, drawn-out rivalry, or maybe Folly just brought out the worst in everyone. It hardly recognised the change in itself that said I need her to do the same to me, that same change that caught on its cheek and reeled it toward her.

DrRETRO still leaves the next floor, and when she urges it to follow, it does not. This might as well be the first time it's done something right.

Something wicked finds its rest.

Nestled deep, drawing blood.

Fangs sunk into the rabbits hide.

The gore leaves its trail,

And the hungry follow it.

Morning finds it terribly. Most mornings do. That loop that consumed it has been fading to rest, adapting to it as it would adapt to change. For once, this change was accepted. It decided this long before it slid out of bed and rummaged for the medkit it stored under the frame.

Mornings were taken slowly. Bathe, change bandages, file what it can into rent, and save the rest for food. More days have been spent inside now, its body often too sore to continue on. Patches of skin have been losing feeling more rapidly than it was used to, brought on by the way it never stayed itself for long. DrRETRO has been straying from it, leading this consequence to fester more as it refused to leave the safety of its human face. It'd predicted she'd get bored of it, if she didn't end up seeking its head on a stake. That much was apparently true to it. While she was still friendly, she came around less, not willing to deal with the parasite always hiding around the corners. (If it asked, maybe she'd help it. But asking was a weakness Pallas did not have the grace of using.)

Hunger stirred in its stomach as it wrapped the last of the roll around its arm, the three thick lines not wanting to heal quite right. It hoped infection wasn't around the corner, but knowing its luck? The wound could kill it in a week. Maybe not literally, but suffering just wanted to follow it like a snotty mutt.

Player2 wasn't typically one for metaphors, despite how crescent moons seemed to surround it even on its own skin. The moon was what it looked towards, a reminder of silence and a vow to sew your jaw shut. Its own silver charm always hung heavy on its chest, clinging to its neck from a thick dog collar it chose at the ripe age of 16 or so- it thinks. Memory never held up well for it, gaps often thread through its head, leaving things worse for wear. The only thing it had was its typical schedule and the reminders that it left around its apartment (which, recently, have been going missing. It assumes it's just tossing them without realising it). It doesn't like how the only reason it remembers how it's there is because it remembers why it's there.

Shaking off sleep didn't usually take very long. Once it actually got moving, it was harder to stop. Besides, it didn't exactly want to stay in its more than lacklustre apartment. The place always seemed to be hiding water damage in the corners, and the paint would peel in thick clumps from the walls, scattered across the floor and getting everywhere, no matter how many times it tossed the scraps in the outside bin. It looked and felt just how dirty it was, and it didn't care to complain. Just somewhere to stay, even if it was far from comfortable.

Winter, however, would spring in without warning. Whereas Fall bit slowly, dusting the world in grays and browns, winter was as sudden and unforgiving as Player2 remembered. The apartment would feel (and probably even be) uninhabitable soon if it didn't find a way to keep it warm. It's started considering moving its bed to the empty living room- anything to keep itself alive, at least.

Right. It was hungry. The longer it's spaced out, the more likely it'd end up falling in some sort of internal ditch and have its body collapse. It wasn't common for it to go days without food before shoving as much as it could into its body. Again, memory wasn't exactly its strong suit. Maybe that wasn't something its ancestors needed when residing in tide pools and munching on clams.

Or something like that.

It's gotten used to the near constance of Folly's presence, watching it in ways that it didn't understand. If it weren't so ashamed to take proper care of itself under her gaze, it'd likely enjoy it more. It was a simple sort of attention, one that lacked that overwhelming feeling of being prodded at. (That was the one reason it had trouble caring for DrRETRO even when it wanted to. It was too much to be around her.)

If it listened closely, it could hear her, despite her not really being there. As terrifying as she was, it was proud to be the victim of her affections.

Well, it was far from affectionate, but it liked to think it was. It wasn't sure of the intent behind anything she did, outside of cruelty and morbid curiosity. She was far above what any mortal mind could ever comprehend. In dreams, it would find itself in the aspen forest again and again, surrounded by her shadows. They couldn't harm it in dreams the same way she could, being something lesser than. Regardless, it was a grace it thrived under.

The beast decides simply to eat the last of the stale white bread in its cupboards, ignoring how it was beginning to grow patches of green. Even bread was too expensive to waste. Sure, maybe it eats mould sometimes. But at least it's not a kleptomaniac like that stupid bug that just has to take things from its pockets. More than once has it gotten into a tussle with him.

Its body hurts. Everything hurts from how it would shape itself to look more human. Where it wasn't numb, it ached with the pain of thousands of fire ants digging their jaws into its skin. Yeowch. It thought too much about how much it suffered and would whine and whine about bullcrap that mattered nought. What mattered was her.

Things for Player2 often turned out to be a sudden switch. Where at one point it'd grin and tug someone closer, the next it'd snap its teeth at their fingers and hope it doesn't miss. It was animalistic, maybe, but otherwise it was in its nature. Maybe that nature was just that- a sudden, uncomfortable change that only bothered those around it. This change was no different for Folly, just only being in reverse, or maybe it was some lingering trauma response that drew it toward her so readily.

Was it, perhaps, her doing? Much like the fear she instilled, could she instil a sense of obsession toward her captives? It wanted to doubt it, since it wanted to be the only one with such a feeling toward her. No, it needed to be the only one. If she drew affections from any other being, it might just grow as hateful as her. Pitiful, to pawn its mortal desires onto her. Not like it cared much. She thrived in the nonphysical attention, much like it did.

Sickeningly, it yearned for her claws on its flesh once more, to punish it for such disgusting ideals. PALLAS WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS I’M NOT WRITING YOU ANYMORE.

When it escaped the dusty space of its apartment that day, it didn't plan on getting to the elevator. With its shoes dragging on concrete, its only goal was to bin the garbage bag it hooked over its shoulder and head back inside. But it had still put on its backpack and began the descent down the stairs, where it would reach the frosty outside air. Every day now would get a little colder, and every day would risk freezing its fins no matter how well it tucked them close. The worst part about being a part of a species meant for warm, tropical climates was not being built to handle the exposure of winter. Twice a year, it'd get violently ill, lasting two to three months for two very different reasons.

It'd take winter over pollen up its nose any day.

It's nice, sometimes, to just sit outside in the grass and watch the clouds go by. The only bonus to the apartment besides the affordability was the location. Even if it couldn't see it from its bedroom window, the area around the apartment was still nice. Just a few walks away from the back door was where the hill it was perched upon ended, exposing a nice expanse of grass. A thick forest was not that far off, spreading as far as anyone could see. One time it had asked the complex owner how far the forest went, and the old woman had explained there was no telling. Somehow, it was the only good thing left in the town, untouched by the rapid urbanisation of the late 1800s, or whatever. It was something that only got worse with time.

Maybe it could sit here with Her sometime. Doubt sticks to it at the thought.

The day no longer mattered to it, heading right back inside. A nap would do it some good, it decides, even if sleep meant being reminded of the blood stuck to its hands. Autumn was always the season of naps, as Winter was the one of sleep. When there's no rigid schedule, dreaming hours always come quickly.

Player2 didn't always dread the nightmares, especially when it meant awakening to smoke sticking to its skin. It dreaded more the thought of there not being an aftermath, just awakening to suspiciously warmer air and a just-as-empty room. The beast wanted to be haunted. Maybe it liked that lack of privacy.

The dim apartment complex did not welcome it as it strided back inside. its neighbours, ever the loud bunch, were arguing again. They never seemed to shut up, always spitting insults when they weren't far too friendly. More than once has it told them to mind the thin walls, and more time than it can count have they ignored its pleas.

Disgusting things, humans were. If its entire world hadn't surrounded around their promises, then maybe it would be more accepting of them. Even as the halls grow quiet and it returns to its small apartment, it still finds that hate festered in its gut. Maybe if it accepted, she would accept it further.

Sometimes it wonders the point of giving DrRETRO its address. It remembers this sometimes, when it finds mail sent to it by her when it strays from the elevator for too long. Yet not once has she come to it to find the answer herself. Maybe she, too, was afraid of people. The vile things that lied and lied, as if it was the only thing they knew how to do. Not a single one had been good.

Not a single one.

It crawls right back into its bed. The wired thing was something it got from a garage sale, haggling with some old woman who's days were numbered until she gave in and handed it over cheap. For good reason, too- the damned thing sucked worse than the one it had in its own home. It was stained yellow and a sort of brick colour (the red being more of a recent attack on the fabric outside). Player2 considers, occasionally, putting it in a dump and finding an air mattress, but it most definitely didn't have the resources to blow it up.

It curls, knees to its chest as its body recedes. Sometimes it wonders how it'd feel to always be itself, but no matter how welcoming this world is, it'd be futile to consider it safe. Threats always followed survivors, no matter how far they ran.

A low rumble rises from its chest as it sinks deeper into the mattress, its mind slowing with sleep. It could do this forever, it thinks, as red covers its vision, bright and thrilling.

The blank and dark world from behind its eyelids is replaced by something vivid. This world was dead, filled with trees that gaze at it, burning holes in its body. In its truest form, it was sat, pale grass prickling its skin. A shudder slides through its body, the cold unwelcoming against its skin. With dark claws scratching the ground, it rises to its feet. This place, unfamiliar to its mind but known in its heart, was a domain built from dreams.

Loud rustling comes from the grasses. When it tried to look through the gaps of the trees, in the hopes of seeing whatever followed, it could see nothing but bark. Terror chilled its horns and scalp, spreading down to the back of its neck. This was dangerous, being here alone with no idea where its enemies lie. Not like it could know, but still.

Laughter. It's gotten familiar with the way her giggling made it hurt. The haze, however, did not control it now. Maybe it was a type of exposure therapy- get beaten up by a parasite mentally and physically, in return for being able to not have your skin split open just from her voice. A great trade, clearly.

Crimson malice follows it with every step forward it takes. Her eyes opened around it in packs, following it slowly as it found the most well-trodden path through the forest. Words find themselves in its chest, but it bites them down. Perhaps it'd be disrespectful to imply something odd when welcomed into her domain. (Though it was her fault for allowing it here when it had a tongue it could still easily use.)

The forest was much like any other, yet devoid of its natural colours. Instinct finds it as its hands run along the grain of a particularly nice tree, its eyes turning to follow it.

Mind your claws.

It takes its hand away and curls its fingers, using its knuckle instead to feel the grooves in the wood. A breath it didn't know it was holding escapes it at the way pressure within it slips out of it. The beast should be gracious to her (far-from) sacred lands.

Pebbles seem to want only to make it bleed, prickling the soles of its feet no matter how many times it shakes or brushes them off. When one breaks skin, it gives up fighting it, letting blood trail the grasses.

It's not sure what it's looking for out here. Everywhere it looked was simply more and more forest, just as thick as anywhere else. If it had started to thin, it couldn't tell. Looking up gave just as little answers.

Footsteps. Something was coming for it. It was faster than it and dove between trees, far more well-practised at knowing the layout of the land. Something in it screams to run as they got closer, and yet it is still as the shadow leaps at it, knocking it to the ground before disappearing. Its spine, somehow still sore from every time it's ever fallen, aches with the impact.

Run. This is your only warning.

That's why it's here. Another game. It's a willing pawn, perhaps, as instead of fighting to awaken, it hopes for sleep to keep it in its grasp. It scrambles to stand once more, gasping for air before mentally preparing to run.

Player2 can hear them. Beyond the trees, several of her shadows come closer, their hooves crushing the grass beneath them. For a moment, it wonders just how they can do such mortal things. They breathe and move just as fluidly as any living being, and yet they are only fragments of her, bending at her will as she moves each one, using her power to change them.

It runs. It's ran so many times before, away from danger. In the distance, the clones begin to sprint, and it has half the mind to look behind it. When it can't find balance, it uses its hands to scratch at the ground, not once letting itself be still. If it stopped, the hunt would be over, and it knew in its heart that Folly loved a good hunt. So, as her willing doll, it would be the perfect prey.

If it weren't for the way she saw everything, the thin, spotty trail of blood would be more than enough to find it wherever she wanted. Despite the pain, it does not give in, even as claws rip into its tail.

It bites back a yelp, focusing on gaining distance. Player2 needed to be the perfect prey.

The beast avoided her aspens. If it scraped them, that would be a crime it would never make up for. Yet its shoulders and tail still managed to brush against them, earning itself nasty splinters that burrowed under its skin. Even when it ached and burned it fought against giving up.

She slams into its side, knocking it against a hill as it rolls down. Rocks scrape its skin as it struggles to find its footing. Before it can, a hoof stamps its back, forcing it to stay to the ground. It's warm- the warmest thing in this place. She herself radiated heat, despite always sucking it out of wherever she decided to reside.

"Hi, Folly," a laugh bubbles up from its chest, some sort of anxious habit that it's never been able to permanently abandon. When the pressure on its back leaves it, so does the ground as she yanks it up. Her hand finds the skin behind its shoulders, and she turns it effortlessly to look it in the eyes. Her head tilts as she looks it up and down, and it can't help but want to wither away in embarrassment.

"Pitiful fleshbag, disappointing me so terribly," she hisses as though it insulted her entire bloodline and then some. "You failed because you did not feel true fear. Why? Do you not know the harm I could inflict on you?" Folly brings it closer, glaring into it. "The harm I want to inflict on you?"

She drops it before it can reply, and it hits the ground with a thud. Rude.

"I'm sorry," it doesn't flinch when she crouches to its level. (Or, well, as close as she can. She's too big, instead casting a shadow over it.) "I can do better- I will do better."

"You will," she agrees. Her accent is heavy and not something the beast recognises, and yet it warms it all the same. "I'll make sure of it."

Her hand dives forward, and it's back on its rear. The parasite's claws dig into its gills without mercy. It shouts as she spills its blood, staining the grass around them, all the while Pallas flails, failing to push her away as she tugs and tugs at its thin bones.

Something cracks, and the flesh of its ribs is peeled away with it.

Giving in to hate is thrilling.

Letting it consume, letting it wound.

Critters crawl to meet thine claws.

They want only,

For their gore to spill.

"GOD-" Player2 coughs and clutches its chest, the agony still fresh in its mind. Everything in it trembled with fear and something entirely exhilarating. Is it dead? Is this the heaven it was given when it should be in hell? "God- Dammit," it's panting as it sits up in its bed, the lingering scent of smoke still on its skin.

It's not sure how long it's slept, nor does it want to know by the fresh morning light spilling in from its window. Did every chapter of its life begin like this, waking up with its room bright and cold? Was that really how it's supposed to go?

Folly. The memory of her is more warming than anything it's ever known. This is more than it deserved.

It's quicker this time, starting the day. Lazing around would mean disappointing her, it rationalised.

Barely giving itself the time to think, it ends up right back in the regretevator's lobby not long after.

There were always some others unshaken by the way Folly seemed to leave a haze around it, but most of those others equally found it just as distasteful. Turns out, when you're frequently "coarse" or "unkind," you won't exactly earn yourself a kind crowd. Not like it ever mattered to the beast- the fewer people to hurt it, the better. (It says, as though it does not actively seek out the woman who wishes to break it the most.)

The few who stayed around when it entered were the dog, the statue (Sequoia. It has to be better at remembering his name), the mimic, the princess, the sick one, and DrRETRO. Not that DrRETRO was unbothered by the way Folly hovered it from a distance- in fact, she often seemed the most bothered. It was uncomfortable, really, how she would change from treating it like a friend to acting as though it were a fallen doe awaiting rescue. (Pallas didn't need rescue, and Player2 kept up that law.) There might be others that stayed, but memory was not something it was good with.

The regretevator is weirdly warm when it enters. It lacks that particular pressure it was used to. Inside was the single player and that dog that always padded after the bug. He always had a smile, warm and stupid, that made it want to rip into him with teeth and claws. It's not sure what made it so aggressive toward him, but he arguably didn't seem to care. His fur is pale outside of the green on his ears and near his paws, which always reveals his gummy-looking skin from where it stopped growing. He was a fluffy thing with enough fur to cover a town if he dared shaving. It even covered his eyes, which was a bit stupid for someone who clearly worked at a pizza place. Despite this, he was reasonably handsome.

"Hey, you alright? Your hair looks a bit matted," his voice cuts through its thoughts as he gestures to its head.

"It always looks matted," it remarks with a huff.

"That's uh-" he pauses and sucks in air through his teeth. "Not... Great. You should probably take better care of that."

"Yeah, yeah," this conversation was equally boring as it was useless. "What's with the uniform? It's a bit late to be heading to work and even earlier to be heading from."

"This isn't really my uniform, I just like wearing the hat mostly," he laughs a bit as he leans back against the railing. "Besides, no one works on a Sunday."

"I'm sure plenty of people work on Sundays," the beast almost wants to ignore him, but it finds itself standing directly in front of him instead, listening to every word as though it were a witness to a priest.

Things are a bit quiet after that, and they don't speak for a while. He seems to notice things that it doesn't, and regards things it can't. To be near someone better than it was infuriating.

"You smell like Folly," he states it as casually as asking the weather. "It's weird."

"I didn't realise she smelled like anything," pride finds its way up in its chest. Good. She's left her presence on it.

"You can't tell? It's like uh-" he gestures with his paw a bit. "Ashy? She smells as if you decided to huff a campfire, blood, and a bundle of rotting flowers all at once," the dog grimaces at presumably a memory. "She needs to get a job."

"Hell's that supposed to mean? How does that relate to- eugh, whatever," Its skin prickles in defence. "Besides, she has a job," everything in it tells it that she could give less of a care to how this mutt felt about her, and yet it needed to defend her.

"I need to like- see her as the cashier at Wendy's or something. She's the worst," his jaw clenches slightly and his lip curls. "When she's done tormenting my partner, maybe I'll think of her differently."

"She's not the worst. She's everything," the words find it before it can think them. "Besides, have you ever considered maybe your 'partner' deserves it?"

Despite how it can't even see most of his face, it can tell he's offended. Deeply, at that. He scoots further away, seemingly disgusted, just like everyone else eventually becomes. It was inevitable, really. Player2 had that effect on others, and for good reason. His presence has made it forget the real reason it's here- but maybe spreading her propaganda was more important.

"That's- What the hell is your issue?" he's startled, mostly. Baffled by someone thinking in such a way. "Do you have bees in your brain? She's harmed everyone who sets foot here, and you think someone you don't even know might deserve it?"

"Maybe," it doesn't know what else to say. How can it argue when it doesn't even know half of what it's fighting against? "Most things here do. I'm just the only one who has the mind to appreciate her work."

"Appreciate her work?"

Its hands find each other, kneading its thumbs along where its claws sit sheathed. "You know. Her torment. I like what she does, even when she almost kills me. If I am to die, I want it to be by her hands," these words, so foreign despite being exactly what it's felt since it truly met her, felt right on its tongue. It doesn't stutter or pause, entirely sure of everything it said.

"Oh, you're a freak," his words make it tilt its head. They're not said in the way you'd call a monster or a weirdo a freak, but rather something depraved and needy. "I think that's the worst way I've ever heard someone talk about her."

"It's far from like that," it can feel its face heat up significantly.

"Yeah, no, I seriously doubt that," he sticks his nose up at the suggestion. "Anyway, no one deserves how she treats them, especially not Pest. Keep your- y'know- far away from your opinions of others."

Player2 sighs, knowing it's most definitely not winning this discussion against him. It's irritating, knowing he refuses to see the correct side of things, but it decides to accept the defeat. "Sure, whatever. Just quit acting like I'm perverse."

His nose twitches, but he doesn't respond, watching it quietly. The reminder comes to it suddenly- he's a dog. He knows it's not human, and likely other things it keeps under lock and key. Can he smell the death on it? Can he tell its every sin? Nausea thickens like glue in its chest, and it decides to get a head start on the next floor when the elevator doors open.

It can almost feel him watching it- though it's hard to tell the difference between his eyes and Folly's. Still, it rushes out and dives right into one of the cars, not caring when the player left without one starts shouting.

Player2 cannot, in fact, drive. But it will learn how. Probably.

This world came with a sort of spectre that nothing else did. It was amazing how something could change and shift while still being tangibly attached and in the sort of way that, despite the lack of sense, still went together. It was colourful and bright and blocky in ways that it could barely comprehend, as though it were made to surround the very idea of freedom. That, while something it would never have, made this world worth visiting, even beyond the cash ideal.

Player2 cannot drive. This is for certain, and it is being restated with purpose. It's crashed the car five times just getting up the first hill on the track, and it's not getting any bit closer toward the end. It considered raising its white flag if it weren't for persistence being a tribute to survival. Though it was dizzying, it would continue on.

Its time with neither the parasite that watched it nor the doctor that seemed to poke and prod at it left it with a loneliness it couldn't quite catch. It was a pressure in its chest that thickened and clotted under its bones until something scratched at it well enough to relieve it, if only partially. For some reason, the beast did not do well without eyes on it, no matter how much it festered with disgust at the thought. Without attention, there wasn't much beyond its blind ignorance to remind it how it was better than anyone else. (It wasn't, it knew, but it needed the thought to follow it lest it collapse.)

There wasn't much telling what the doctor saw in it. Some sort of pitiful thing that needed guiding, perhaps. Though it was neither pitiful nor needing of such kindness (this was a lie), she still managed to figure out how to put her paw on its shoulder and push it forward. Sometimes it was infuriating. It didn't want her sweet words nor her encouragement, and yet it needed them. Being without her left it no better than a sniffly rat. Maybe it was idiotic to yearn for someone beyond itself to care for it in the way a mother should've in its youth.

Basic empathy was such an illness.

The road was smooth at times, though it often had things jutting from the ground that were impossible for it to drive over. It learned quickly to drive around instead, taking the risk of bumping the near indestructible thing into equally untouchable trees or buildings. As nauseating as the ride was, it got easier as you went.

At least until it drove over a mine.