Work Text:
The Captain is almost certain that he's still stuck in the Simulacrum.
Why else would it conjure grassy isles, and abandoned cities filled with what might be some relative of kudzu?
Why else would it give him a city to roam in, cafes to possibly socialize in, and people to meet?
...And yet he's holed himself up in an attic, and makes somewhat of a living by selling goods, looted from security chests that he'd paid for by slaughtering lizards that had their own songs, and masked beings that flickered like fire.
Even using the chat service has given him mixed results on whether or not this is another simulation.
A particular girl that resembles a shark in both word and image springs to mind. A rival, perhaps. To challenge him?
The tournament is another thing. It's a challenge. A test to see what he'd react to.
The Captain is unsure. Sometimes people in the chatrooms are kinder. Sometimes they're worse than what might be fabricated memories of high school.
His own file is corrupt, and he has no contact with the UES Safe Travels. He can't call down any airstrikes or beacons, but that doesn't scare him. He's been through fields within the void's highest levels without them.
...Yes, this must be a simulation. To try and test what he'll react to, to see what he fails at. Mold him until he's the perfect soldier for what's running the show.
He needs to get out. Out of here, out of this simulation - but to what?
...The foster kittens. A daughter? He can't remember his own name.
Was it Atticus? Or is this a replacement? The thought feels like it is his own, but how can he tell whether or not it was inserted by something else?
He remains in the attic. He's not sure if he wants to move.