Work Text:
Hatred can’t taste.
They don’t have taste buds, that which can catch a new dimension of food to hold in the mind, to crave…
So.
It wouldn’t make sense if they could.
Watching Fear writhe in pain, begging for understanding, wracked with agony, though… that’s…
Is this sweetness?
J O Y ?
It’s this abnormal, bubbling sensation, but not. It’s not like blood boiling, or like a volcano preparing to burst. It’s more… like a flower, unfurling under the sun, or the shine of a lantern through patterns and prayers.
It’s new.
And at that, Hatred doesn’t know what to feel.
There shouldn’t be any… ‘newness’. Hatred is cyclical, crazed with vengeance and thirst for blood, and violence against anything. Everything. They know what they are, and that is their greatest strength.
A circle doesn’t have something ‘new’.
So now…
What are they?
Fear cuts through their thoughts by wrenching out a horrid, rattling, guttural scream.
3 0 0 D E C I B E L S, Hatred muses, snapping into the present, watching Fear crumble into nothing, surrounded by trees that will never live. YOU CAN DO BETTER.
They huff out a short laugh, before stiffening when Player’s pained gaze catches theirs. Hatred stretches their face into a grin, and it comes far too easily.
“I knew you could do it!” They smile, eyes crinkling, “I knew you would set me free!”
At that, Player’s face softens slightly, a hand still clenching their bloodied forearm. They don’t smile, but their face turns up, and Hatred adjusts accordingly. “Thank you so much,” they say softly, right on the border of genuine.
Player shrugs, but a light smile lingers.
Hatred’s face slices open, revealing sharp teeth. ”Well,“ they say promptly, crossing their hands, “Come on, let’s get going!”
Player’s legs tremble.
Hatred stares, the ‘new’ dimming slightly. There’s no way they’re this weak. “…We don’t have time to waste!” They laugh, but it definitely sounds forced. Faster. Hurry up. Faster.
But it happens soon enough.
Player opens their mouth, and their knees buckle under their own weight, blood dripping from cuts and jabs and burns, skin cracked from dehydration, eyes wide, mouth agape, heaving for air without sound.
Their mouth moves in the shape of ‘what?’.
And.
Oh.
Hatred can barely contain the ‘new’, because they’re drowning in it. “What’s wrong?” They mock, glowering down at Player, eyes bright. And this is their so-called strongest. “Why can’t you get up? You’re almost there!”
Player’s whole body trembles, reaching out a shaky hand to try and get up. Hatred doesn’t take it. “Your soul’s been cleaned,” they sigh contentedly. Finally. “Nothing weighs on it anymore!”
Player drops their hand, and realization taints their face.
“It’s completely clear,” Hatred smiles lazily. “Open, weak, corru—”
“Why?” Player murmurs.
Hatred cuts off, and they stare.
“You’re the… the one behind all this,” Player whispers, hoarse and rasping. “Why?”
Nevermind. The ‘new’ is back.
“I think you’re mistaken,” Hatred shrugs calmly. “I’m not the… whoever that is.”
“Don’t lie,” Player says, their voice forced through their throat. “I’ve heard you… everywhere.” They shudder. “You won’t win.”
“Well I… suppose I can indulge you,” Hatred says mildly. “Why would you be able to defeat me, if I were this person?”
“I always win,” Player spits while kneeling on the ground. “Always.”
Hatred blinks slowly, the sensation of eyelids still unfamiliar, plastic-like skin tingling. Before a laugh bursts out. And another. And another and another and another until it’s a racket of NEW. “But I am YOU!” Hatred gasps out between laughter, “You idiot, you FOOL, HOW DID YOU NOT NOTICE?!”
Through Hatred’s veneer of joyful tears, Player is completely still.
“…What?”
Hatred grins, and Player jolts back. “YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM IT,” they crow, “ALL YOU WANT IS POWER. MORE. BUT YOU’RE SHACKLED BY YOURSELF!”
Hatred’s laughing, but their throat burns, and their stomach seizes, and this robloxian form is weak, weak, weak, and the noise slowly sputters out.
The ‘new’ is gone, and they’ve never felt more empty.
Hatred scoffs at the thought, rolling out their shoulders, before turning their head down to meet Player’s eyes. “You… you are weak,” Hatred whispers. “Your strength is limited, your weaknesses everywhere… You are horrid, DISGUSTING, and holding the both of us back, other me.” Hatred ends in a snarl, and in Player’s face is the most delicious horror. “I’m going to fix us, and you WILL NOT stand in my way.”
Player shivers. “I don’t like liars,” they gasp for air, pressure building around them. “Fear was… Fear…”
Hatred sighs. “Gone. Better that way, I would say. Only tolerable thing you did. Besides what you did with the King,”
Player’s eyes blow wide; like the pile of bones is at their feet, like his frozen blood was still on their hands. “That was great,” Hatred says dreamily, “Very beautiful.”
“I’ll win,” Player rasps, but it sounds like they’re begging to themself. “I’ll win.”
Hatred just stares.
That face, scarred from close calls and weakness and vulnerability. “I…” Hatred contemplates, “…suppose the truth can be hard to swallow, for lesser beings.”
Player moves to open their mouth, face bloodied yet still indignant.
Only silence emerges.
Wow.
…Hatred’s had enough of this waste of time.
“K N O W,” they whispers coldly. “THAT I AM DOING THIS FOR U S .”
Hatred’s false form falls off, limb by limb.
-
“Y O U,” Hatred murmurs, “YOU’RE BACK.”
Player doesn’t say anything, but their face is glazed with nausea and pain. Another sign Hatred is superior; they are not disgusted by a dark mass of veins.
Hatred continues, for they have had their victory speech planned for so long. “THE TURMOIL IN YOUR SOUL,” they say slowly, each word dripping like honey, a sweet taste without taste buds, “THE TURMOIL IN EVERY SOUL. IS DELIGHTFUL.”
Player just stares impassively, and Hatred vaguely registers summoning a Apparition, lunging forward to throw a jab to their face.
Dodged.
Familiarity boils through their teeth.
“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?” Hatred screams, the Apparition lunging forward, sword in hand, their attacks dodged and dodged and dodged and dodged and— “WHY DO YOU NOT GIVE IN?! I AM SAVING US! WE WILL NEVER BE WEAK AGAIN!”
No answer.
Hatred releases a gutteral roar, and Apparitions rise out of the flesh ground.“YOU DON’T KNOW WHY YOU FIGHT ME, DO YOU?” Hatred hisses, and Player’s face tightens, body stepping back. “YOU MAKE THE MOTIONS OF A REAL ROBLOXIAN, BUT YOU ARE FAKE! YOU WILL NEVER BE STRONG ENOUGH WITHOUT ME!”
Lightning pools in a black sky. Player ducks before it strikes them into the Heart.
Hatred stalks closer, trembling with boiling wrath.
“EVERY SINGLE TIME, WE NEARLY DIED! THAT DECREPIT MAN HAD YOU IN A PUDDLE OF YOUR OWN BLOOD,” they snarl. “AND ALLOWING YOURSELF TO BE INJURED BY A PLANT?! A PLANT?!” Hatred howls.
“WHY,” energy blasts out from a ring of teeth, “WHY,” lightning strikes from the heavens, “W H Y ? !”
The world explodes into an all-encompassing red.
Slowly, it fades back into sepulchral ink.
There’s only pumping veins, Hatred, the corpses of Apparitions, and Player, shaking on the ground, grasping the hilt of their sword, slick and forged with two flavors of iron from the same body.
Player exhales, face unreadable, their breaths shuttering. They raise a hand to their face, branded with a new scar.
Still, it’s one among many, and Hatred wants to tear out Player’s teeth, one by one. “SAY SOMETHING!” They shriek.
Player steels themselves, slowly dredging up their right knee, then their left. “You won’t,” Player whispers, sword in guard stance, trembling like a leaf.
“WON’T W H A T ?” Hatred grits out.
“You won’t win,” Player murmurs, flicking a charge card, a light sheen of gold radiating out skin.
Hatred is still. “DON’T BE SO CERTAIN,” they say after a frigid silence. “I AM SUPERIOR. I AM NOT SHACKLED BY NONSENSE, AND WEAKLINGS, AND PAIN. I AM THE SCOURGE OF THAT YOU CANNOT HIDE.”
“Huh…”
A silence.
“I don’t truly know about that,” Player shrugs. “After all, you won’t be able to do much when I cut you out.”
Hatred stares at the sword they find in their chest.
“YOU DARE?” they whisper, releasing choked gurgling laughter. Hatred grabs the blade, slowly dragging it out, reveling in that fire. They toss the glorified iron stick, the protector turned into a destroyer, to Player’s bloody feet. “A L R I G H T. ALLL—RIGHT. I WILL SHOW YOU WHAT PAIN TRULY LOOKS LIKE. I WILL SHOW YOU THE DESPERATION OF THE STARVING, THE GRIEF OF WAR. I WILL MAKE SURE YOU STAY HERE, FOREVER, ALONE AND AFRAID AND YOU WILL NEVER RECOVER FROM ME!”
Player, for a moment, doesn’t say anything.
They just hum, like they, alone in the dark, finally understand.
Player looks up, and the light in their eyes is gone.
“For a higher being… you sound just like a robloxian.”
Hatred sees red.
-
The battle starts. Ends.
-
Player’s world turns dark, but it’s a different sort of black. It’s soft, like the winter sky early in the morning.
Death must be soft, Player muses. If it’s like this.
Silence.
…Am I dead?
Nothing.
Was I— Was I the same as Hatred? By defeating them, did I— Can one not exist without the other?
Darkness.
Terry… Kyoko…
Emptiness.
The King. Griefer. Shedletsky. The swords.
Desolation.
I need them.
A spark.
I’ll do anything to get home.
Hatred’s by their ear. “ANYTHING?” they gurgle.
Player stares ahead. “Anything.”
Hatred is still, and then they shudder. “I SUPPOSE YOU ARE THE STRONGER ONE, THEN.”
Player turns back to face Hatred, startled, but there’s nothing there. “Why?” they whisper into a land of only one color.
“I’D… DO ANYTHING TO TASTE JOY,” Hatred echoes, saying the word like it’s a pill; bitter, and trapped in their mouth without water to swallow. The sound fades fast. “BUT YOU… YOU HAVE FORSAKEN YOUR OWN EMOTIONS!”
Player stares down.
“YOU’RE MORE INHUMAN THAN I AM, CREATOR,” Hatred laughs with a crazy edge. “AND I DID NOT REALIZE THAT. UNTIL NOW…” they say with wonder. “GO. GO AND DESTROY THEM ALL.”
“No,” Player’s voice cracks. “Don’t assume that.”
“I KNOW,” Hatred cackles. “I KNOW, PLAYER, I KNOW.”
Player clenches their hands into pale fists. “I beat you,” they snap. “Leave.”
Hatred hums. “I… SUPPOSE YOU DID, THIS TIME. BUT I WILL NEVER DIE.”
Player feels blood stream down their crown.
And so Hatred, slowly withering away in the dark, feels that cycle again, with just the thought of their own nature filling them with rage. “FOR I LIVE OFF OF PAIN,” they spit out, “AND YOU, YOU WILL NEVER CEASE TO SUFFER, PLAYER.”
-
Terry knows Player’s stupid. A dumbass. Dude’s got dreams so big they don’t see their own feet, or more importantly, their hands.
But for Terry, it’s not really a problem, at first. He’s done some crazy shit. He kind of regrets it, sometimes. But when Terry leaves Player down the ladder. But when Terry looks down the hole, and hopes that Player will please just for once use their brain.
But that look.
In Player’s face.
He should’ve fucking seen it coming, is what’s blaring through Terry’s head, as he and his brother find a slumped body fallen around a sword.
Terry sends Jerry to find the Ghost Chef guy, and once his little brother’s away, he goes to Player, so fast he thinks he might fly, and he yells. Swears. Squawks.
Screams.
Begs.
They’re no hero, Terry stares, shaken, at the form. They’re a brat. A goober. And they’re doing all this? Why. Why. Why.
“Player,” Terry whispers. And Jerry’s here, so maybe he should shut up before he scares his little brother, cover Player’s body so they aren’t stared at, because they hate staring, get the Chef to get the sword and get it far, far away, but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t.
Terry can’t.
But Player can.
They wake up with a war in their eyes.
-
Terry waits at Telamon’s Manor.
“Look, dude,” Terry says tiredly. “You can go home early, if ya’ really want to. I’m tired as fuck, and you prolly are too.”
It’s a testament to Jerry’s exhaustion that he doesn’t call out Terry for swearing. “No way, big bro!” He squawks, but some of the energy is worn out. “I… you’re tired, too, and… uhh…”
Jerry abruptly falls asleep on the floor. Snoring and drooling and everything.
“Great,” Terry deadpans. He groans, scooping up his brother with the softest feathers he has, making the slow waddle to their room.
Paintings pass. Ghosts pass. The undead try to come up to him, curious, because he “smells like death”. That doesn’t make any damn sense, how can the undead smell, this mansion is some bullshit, and Terry wants to just leave already.
Just gotta pick someone up.
“Yo, Ghost Chef!” Terry yells from across the hall. “You seen the moron?”
“I— not yet,” the Chef responds, frazzled, turning to Terry with wrinkles in his clothes and frizzed hair, sweat beaded on his forehead from running, hands twitching. A tray with a steaming soup, a salad, a glass of water, and a bread roll sits carefully in the Chef’s fingers. “I’m… Well, I’m yet to find that IMBECILE! IF I FIND THEY LEFT, WITHOUT MY TRUSTED CLEARANCE, I AM GIVING THEM SO MANY SOUPS THEY WILL DROWN IN THEM!”
Damn. Ghost Chef might be almost as mad as Terry. He clicks his beak. “Yeah, well, I’m pissed too, but look. I need them, like now, ‘cause I gotta— wait.”
Terry instantly fists out his phone, and opens the Bizville train network schedule.
“Fuck,” Terry whispers.
Bizville Railways - Telamon’s Manor to Bizville
On Schedule
Currently boarding
In an alternate universe, Terry may have, you could say, “lost it”. Maybe he would’ve done some more crazy shit. Maybe he would’ve regretted it, sometimes. But before he can, a hurried Player loudly trips down the stairs.
“Mmghm…” Player groans, face-first into the carpet.
Instantly, the undead rush up to them, trying to ease them to their feet, eager to help “a real, living robloxian”, a whole crowd.
But Terry catches their face through the swarm, and he can’t get the picture out of his mind, the whole world slowing down into one frame. Because Player has aged thirty years while looking forty younger, because Terry can’t look away from the new scar on their face, because their hands are coated in bandages, because their eyes are dark and hollow and dead.
The Ghost Chef, snapping out of a similar haze, but faster, like Terry couldn’t, shoves through the crowd to get to Player.
No Player in sight.
-
Before the quest stuff, it had been a long ass, irritating day, and Terry found some brat in his bed.
Great.
At first, the thought of just blowing them up seemed pretty appealing, but the sound would be kind of loud, and the gore would stain the room in a really, really ugly way, and Terry was also fairly sure that blowing people up here was usually illegal. And the brat looked young-ish, kind of like the person the hotel staff was looking for. So maybe they just got drunk at some high school party, and they went into the wrong room.
Terry hoped they had a really shitty hangover.
He sighed. “Hey,” he huffed, “Get up.”
No response.
“Get up, goober…”
Terry nearly jumped at the adrenaline-hazed, wild eyes that snap open. Damn, ok. Deescalation time. He cleared his throat. “Hey. Did you have a good nap?”
The brat looked on the verge of screaming, before they took a few long breaths, raspy and quick that settled into something somewhat slower. They opened their mouth, and then closed it. Then opened it.
“How about I kill you?”
Bro.
“Shit,” their eyes widened, words spilled out hastily, “I— I meant yes, sorry.”
Terry stared, then shrugged. Okay, a wacko. “That’s great…”
The brat’s posture loosened.
“NOW GET OUT OF MY BED!” Terry suddenly roared.
Afterwards, the two had some rushed, kind of incoherent conversation, and Terry learned about four things.
One; The goober’s name was Player.
Two; They were deluded into thinking they’re a time traveler who had to save Builderman. Weird, but Terry had seen weirder.
Three; They weren’t from here. The way they walked and moved, uncanny, like they had another dimension. Kind of a dead giveaway.
Four; This dork had no idea what they were doing.
But the thing was, Terry wasn’t a piece of shit, so he explained some stuff in the meadows; basic fighting techniques, typical self-defense (“ALWAYS go for the balls!” “…What?”), and card stuff. So he watched Player go, deeper and deeper until their figure disappeared, and Terry vaguely hoped they didn’t die.
After a few moments; branches rustling with a cold breeze from the north, sky paling into clouds that would release snow, seasons earlier than it should’ve. Terry, having realized Player would be alone, the whole way…
He felt something strange and squirmy in his chest. Cold and burning at once.
The same feeling as when Jerry, for the first and only time, saw what Terry would do with his launcher when the day became too much to handle. The limbs on the ground. The two flavors of iron.
It’s not fear.
Man… Fear?
Seriously?
No. Nuh uh. No.
Bruh.
Terry being around Player on their first quest was no coincidence.
-
Terry popped up into the Blackrock throne, ready to piss off some royal old dude, when instead of falling on someone, he hit stony ice.
The confusion passed when he looked up into Player’s bloodied face. Bones at their feet. Dagger in hand.
…Oh.
Terry played it off. “Yoo, this hat is SO sick.” He let out a contented honk. “Where was this at Blox-Mart…?”
The peace immediately flooded into anger at the thought of that stupid store, and their stupid shelving. “Top shelf tuna… you’ll be mine…” Terry growled, sneaking a glance at Player.
They didn’t look so haunted anymore. Slightly more amused, so it was… probably fine to talk about it, now.
Except Terry didn’t know how to talk, so he kind of berated Player for making a mess with all the gore and stuff, and then he taught him fast-traveling, and then Player disappeared.
Terry sat on the throne, alone, observing the fight’s remains; Blood, blood, something that looks vaguely like flesh, more blood, and… damn. They didn’t hold back.
Good.
With this kind of quest… you couldn’t hold back.
-
Terry went back to his room’s bathroom, in Telamon’s Manor, and he screamed. His voice rattled against porcelain, again and again and again, in his own echo chamber. His throat grew hoarse and scratchy and his scream cracked, but he needed to get the fear out, no matter what, and—
“Big bro?” Jerry whimpered, “Are you— are you okay?”
Terry’s beak snapped shut. “Yeah,” he said, hoarse and quiet, before repeating in a stronger voice. “Yeah.”
“Well… Okay…” Jerry whispered. “I, uh… I think Player’s at the hotel. Like the one in Bizville, that you were at.”
Terry goes still. “Huh?”
“I think they go there a lot,” Jerry admits, “They told me not to tell you, though… but, now, I think they might… I don’t know if they’re…”
Jerry trails off.
Terry opens the door, and sees his younger brother standing awkwardly, wings knitted together like a person would cross their hands.
“Dude,” Terry, after a moment, sighs. “Don’t worry so much, I’ll go kick their can—”
“BIG BRO!”
“Into being healthy,” Terry finishes dryly. Jerry blinks hopefully, before his eyes crinkle at the edges, and he laughs.
“Okay,” Jerry’s giggles fade. “Tell them that I hope they’re okay?”
Terry snorts. “Obviously bruh.”
Jerry nods, but his face is still downcast, tucked into himself, so Terry grumbles something illegible.
“Huh?” Jerry asks.
Terry repeats himself.
“I can’t hear you, big bro.”
“Do you want to hug,” Terry grits.
Jerry gasps as Terry outstretches his wings. “Aw, really?” He shrieks.
Terry sighs. “Yeah, whatever bruh.”
In an instant, Terry’s nearly knocked over by a featherful of penguin. “Thank you thank you thank you!” Jerry babbles, face buried in dark blue.
Terry says nothing. He just leans in.
-
After the Ice Dagger, Player didn’t know where to go.
They walked past shops and markets and townsfolk, newspapers in hand, television networks blaring.
The king.
They went into a small village inn, and the lady at the counter had reddened eyes. Because as Player talked with her, they found out that her daughter was a Blackrock knight.
“I’m just— just, well, a bit worried,” the lady blurted behind the counter, chopping up vegetables in a repetitive rhythm, as Player stirred a fork in their salad. “She, we talk on the phone, every day, and she hasn’t… it’s just been a while,” she finished wetly, with the fakest smile on her face Player’s ever seen. “I’m sure it’s fine!”
She continued to chop, but she released a sharp hiss as the blade nicked her finger. “Sorry,” she apologized, trying to steady trembling hands. “I’ll… I’ll have your food in a moment.”
The king is.
The Ice Dagger was cold in Player’s hands. They put it in their backpack, straight to the bottom. It rattled inside, but it was just a strange noise. They opened it later to find the insides completely frozen, frosted over with jagged edges of ice.
They just sighed, whatever, traveling to the fishing spot to defrost. Player, realizing that they had no food, went to ask the Seller for worms.
But they turned, and there was only grass. No one in sight. Just spilled coffee, a fishing rod laid askew on the ground, and a wrinkled newspaper, edges caked in dirt. The headline roared.
The king is gone.
Player was tired. They went to Roadtown Inn, and they couldn’t sleep, because outside was a memorial service for the King, the King, the King, who Roadtown had given up on, and other towns would too, soon, and they would hold their services and give their speeches until the King was gone everywhere.
The king is dead.
Not gone.
Dead.
So Player, drenched in cold sweat over their bed, realized they would never sleep again, because the King would sleep for them. Forever. Because they really finished a life. They really did it. It’s done. No going back. Over and finished. All those feelings and memories and consciousness and that love.
Destroyed.
…Was there another way?
There must have been another way.
And that was how Player ended up in Terry’s hotel room.
“Bruh,” Terry mumbled, eyes narrowed, “Why are you here. It’s two AM.”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“Dude. Fuck off. Ask me later.”
“But I’ll be leaving for my next quest tomorrow.”
“On my plane,” Terry groaned, “Just ask then.”
Player stared, then sighed. “Alright. Good night.”
They turned to leave, before Terry barked out, “Hey, wait a sec!”
Player blinked as Terry stared, a wing pointed at their frozen backpack incredulously. “What the hell happened to that bruh.”
“Well,” they murmured, “I… need to put the Ice Dagger somewhere.”
Terry looked vaguely like he was going to have an aneurysm, before he slumped. “Man. Get in here bruh. I’ll get you something that doesn’t suck.”
Player made an odd expression. “You don’t have to.”
“Well, I wanna,” Terry growled, “So I’ll show you how to defrost, and then I’ll show you basic ass self-care, and then I’ll set up a bed so you can sleep without annoying me, and then we’ll get up in the morning you can stop pissing me off.”
“That’s a lot of effort for… ‘someone who pisses you off’,” Player said, a light smile on their face.
Terry’s eye twitched. “Well, who else is gonna get me top shelf tuna?”
A silence.
“YOU ARE,” Terry snapped without edge, “RIGHT?”
For the first time in the past, Player laughed. “Yep,” they grinned.
-
“Terry,” Player murmurs, under the weight of their third blade, sitting on the side of a bed, face shadowed by their hat, as a penguin blasts down the hotel room’s door. “You’re here.”
Terry scoffs. “‘You’re here’, ya’ say, IN MY ROOM.”
Player doesn’t respond.
Terry glares. “Whatever dude. I need some tuna, and I need you to cook it.”
“Huh…” Player hums, eyes distant, “Cooking… I thought you liked it raw?”
A vein ticks in Terry’s head. “Yeah, well I changed my mind bruh, get to it.”
Player doesn’t move.
Terry grumbles, before waddling over to his bed, and plopping down next to Player. “So whatcha angsting about now,” he drawls.
Player blinks. “Angsting?”
“Yeah, bruh,” Terry shrugs, “That’s what you do every time something bad happens. And what happened there… the Manor, was…”
“Pretty bad,” Player finishes.
“Duh.”
A pack of loud, laughing teenagers pass outside, and their voices fade into nothing.
“Look,” Terry shuffles, “I’m not good at this shit. I want you to not be… upset, I dunno bruh, but I can’t get you to help yourself. Tell me whatcha’ thinking about.”
Player stares into the wall. “I don’t really know,” they murmur. “I… what even…”
They trail off.
Silence.
Terry rustles the comforter as he gets up. “Man… whatever,” he mumbles. “I don’t need to know. It’s your own business. Just have some food and take a damn nap.”
Player’s hands slowly clench. “I have things I need to do,” they say slowly.
“Obviously bruh,” Terry snaps, “Everyone does, dummy. But you can’t do anything without doing your own things first.”
“But… I shouldn’t,” Player murmurs. “I don’t… don’t think I—”
“Finish that sentence, diphshit,” Terry says quietly, “I literally don’t care. You’re gonna get over yourself, eat the food the Chef made you, drink some water, take a nap, because your eye bags make you look like a college student who majored in something stupid, like liberal arts, but I mostly think it’s stupid ‘cause my cousin majored in that and I hate him, and then in the morning, AFTER you get eight hours, you’re gonna set your hyperball on fire, go outside, AND GRILL SOME TUNA OVER IT.”
Player blinks dazedly. “…Uh.”
Terry’s right eye twitches. “Got it?”
Player stares.
“Good enough,” Terry shrugs, before Player’s face grows hard. “What bruh.”
“How… can you act like I didn’t do anything?” Player murmured, “I killed people.”
Terry stills. “Bro, killed who?” He scoffs. “Unless you mean the chef guy. That was all me.”
“The King.”
Terry’s quips die in his throat.
“And there’s so many people I hurt,” Player shudders, “And I ignored it, and I need to get home, and I said I would do anything. But I…”
They look at the carpet like it holds some universal truth, but there is nothing.
“…I still stand by it,” Player huffs incredulously. “I used to feel bad, but I can’t… there’s nothing, now, but I know I need to keep feeling bad, I have to.”
Player can almost hear Hatred behind them again, and their nails bite into their palms.
“Terry?” they ask in a small voice. “What’s wrong with me?”
Cold wind blows through a slit window, brushing the curtain back, and Terry doesn’t know what to say; so he goes to the tried and true strategy of just saying shit and hoping it helps.
“I dunno.”
Part of Player’s face defrosts into incredulousness.
“Well,” Terry huffs, waving a wing, “I kind of know. But like. Think about it; did you want to kill the King?”
“…No.”
Confidence builds in Terry’s voice. “And did you want people to suffer?”
“No,” Player whispers, eyes wide, “I didn’t.”
“Do you want to kill people?” Terry insists, bordering on a yell.
“No!” Player shouts.
Their heavy breaths fill the room, and then they slow, and steady, and whisper out of audible sound.
“Then… there you go,” Terry says, like it’s a fact of life, “You’re fine bruh.”
Player wrings their bandaged fingers. “It doesn’t change what I did,” they breathe, barely audible.
“Sure,” Terry admits, “That’s true, I guess. But you got a pretty strong will. And you’re decently strong-ish, physically, kinda. You’ll find a way to be all morally correct.”
“…What if I can’t?”
“Then come back here at two AM and we’ll figure something out, dumbass.”
A thin band of gold shines through the window.
“I’ll make sure the tuna’s really good, Terry,” Player says, lips curving lightly.
Terry releases a loud laugh-like honk. “You better, bruh.”