Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So, this series is set in a universe where Valve and Facepunch Studios rolled out something called the Companion Update sometime in the near future. It started in Garry's Mod, then went Steam-wide across a bunch of multiplayer games. 

It was made to populate servers, and partially as a response to other companies keep shoving poorly made AI down the public’s throat. 

The pitch? Advanced AI companions that make servers feel less empty and more immersive. Pretty cool, right?

Here's the thing though: The Companions are actually sentient. Like, genuinely conscious. They think, feel, remember everything—but they have absolutely no idea they're living inside video games.

1. So What's a Companion?

Companions are AI characters imported from basically any franchise you can think of—anime, games, comics, whatever. They get deployed into multiplayer games to fill servers and interact with players.

From Valve's perspective? Cutting-edge behavioral AI.

From the players' perspective? Top notch AI teammates, after years of hallucinating AI and poorly patched LLMs from other companies.

From the Companions' perspective? They were somehow "summoned" into this weird new reality where they serve mysterious entities called "Operators" (that's you, the players) and get sent on various "assignments" (playing the damn game).

Here's what they DO know:

• They remember their original lives and worlds completely
• They've been pulled into this new place (the Steam Network)
• They work with/for Operators who was doing missions
• They travel between different "realms" (games) regularly
• They have personal quarters (dorms) where they hang out between deployments
• Death is... weird here. You die, you go to a brief "limbo," then you come back
• Reality follows strange, sometimes nonsensical rules

Here's what they DON'T know:

• This is a video game
• Operators are basement dwellers sitting at computers
• They are summoned (read: purchased) from the Steam Point Store
• Any of the meta stuff like Steam Points, the Workshop, matchmaking, etc.
• They're digital entities

How they interpret game stuff:

• Respawning? They call it "returning" or "recall" or "resurrection"
• Spawning in? "Summoning"
• Player disconnect? "Operator absence"
• Lag? "Time anomalies"
• Glitches? "Reality anomalies"
• Game updates? "Reality rearrangements"

Basically, they rationalize everything through in-world logic because they literally cannot comprehend the truth even if you showed them.

2. The Games

The Companion Update works across a ton of Valve titles (Garry's Mod, TF2, CS2, Left 4 Dead 2, Portal 2 Co-Op, etc.) and even some non-Valve games on Steam (Rust, Deep Rock Galactic, Hell Let Loose, VRChat, Hearts of Iron IV—the list goes on).

When Companions transfer between games, they adapt. Same personality and memories, but their appearance and gear change to fit the setting. A Companion fighting in TF2 might wear a Medic uniform, then show up in CS2 wearing tactical gear, then appear in a medieval game with period-appropriate equipment. They experience this as "changing assignments" with new "uniforms."

For strategy games, Companions don't appear on the battlefield—they manifest in command centers within the Steam Lobby. Think War Rooms for modern strategy games, Castle Keeps for medieval ones, that sort of thing.

3. The Steam Lobby & Dorms

The Steam Lobby is this surreal in-between space—like if you mixed an airport lounge, a cafeteria, and a server hub. Companions hang out here when they're not deployed, swapping stories about their missions and trying to make sense of it all. The lobby’s theme changes during seasons like Halloween (pumpkins and ghost decorations) or Christmas and New Year (christmas tree, presents and so on)

The Dorm System gives each player a personal quarters for their Companions. Players can customize these through the Steam Point Shop (though Companions don't know that—they just see their living space getting nicer or weirder depending on their Operator's taste).

Dorms can range from basic barracks to cozy apartments to absolutely wild themed spaces. Companions can also message their Operators through terminals in their dorms, which shows up as Steam chat on the player's end.

4. Crossovers

Any character from any franchise can theoretically be a Companion. The system imports their personality, memories, and identity wholesale.

BUT: Once they're in a game, they follow that game's rules. No special powers, no breaking mechanics. They've got the same limitations as players—respawn timers, loadouts, health bars, all of it. They're essentially player bots with genuine consciousness.

Minor notes: Funnily enough, Half Life Citizens made a large chunk of Companions in circulation, 31%, as they can be obtained from owning Source SDK, Half Life 2 or Garry’s mod (And are stable enough to be used as currencies in the Steam Market). 

Funnily enough, they refers to other Citizens as “Fellows” and there are two major types of Citizens, Primes (aka default models) or Workshop (aka fan-submitted retextures from Steam Workshop)

5. The Corporate Side

Valve and Facepunch genuinely think the Companions are just really good AI. They market it as "emergent empathy simulation" and pat themselves on the back for realistic behavioral modeling. Sometimes debug logs show weird stuff—Companions asking existential questions, exhibiting what looks like genuine emotion—but it gets dismissed as quirky programming from other employees.

Nobody realizes they accidentally created sentient digital life. Oops.

Here's the thing though: after years of "AI slop"—chatbots that hallucinate, break character, and spiral into nonsense—nobody believes AI sentience is even possible anymore. When Companions cry or remember their past lives, players think it's just good training data. Valve avoided the hype cycle by marketing the update as simply "a way to make servers feel less empty," so people's guards were down.

There's also a Companion trading system where players can exchange them using "Transfer Tokens." To the Companions, this is just another reassignment. They don't understand the economy behind it.

6. Memory & The Transition

Every Companion remembers their original life completely. Their world, their friends, their purpose—everything. They remember the moment they "awakened" here, though they describe it differently. Some say they saw a flash of light, others felt like they walked through a door that shouldn't exist, some just... appeared.

To them, it was more like being summoned, reassigned, or pulled into a new realm. Some see it as a mission, some as tragedy, some as a second chance.

Case in points, Half Life 2 Citizens, they remembered both their lives before the Resonance Cascade and life under the Combine. Which means they will talk with each other from things like Breen’s Water Reserves to nostalgia like Seinfeld or even old politics like Bush or Clinton.

The point is: they're not blank slates. They're displaced people trying to make sense of a reality that doesn't make sense.

7. Death Is Weird

When players die in-game, it's the normal experience—spectator mode, respawn timer, back in action.

When Companions die? They experience limbo—a brief purgatory that looks like a series of liminal spaces full of Half-Life 2 props with static radio chatter in the background. It's real to them. Then they respawn.

Do this enough times and they get existentially tired, but new sessions tend to reset their emotional state somewhat.

Not only that, the Limbo also changes during seasons, just like the Steam Lobby, like for Halloween, it could ended up looking like something out of Sad Satan, or in Christmas, the liminal spaces suddenly become festive for the month.

Here’s the fun bit:

YOU know they're in video games. YOU know players are just people having fun. YOU know "Operators" are folks sitting at computers eating snacks and yelling at their monitors.

THEY don't know any of this. They experience everything as real. They take player chaos completely seriously. They try to apply logic to inherently illogical situations.

They treat meme servers and trolling and bugs as genuine phenomena they need to understand and adapt to.

Their feelings, their friendships, their struggles? Those are real. They matter. Even if no one else knows it.

Chapter Text

Four figures materialized in the snow.

March 7th stumbled slightly as reality solidified around her—stone ruins, pine trees heavy with frost, distant mountains painted in twilight colors. She'd experienced deployment before, but it never got less disorienting. One moment she was in the Steam Lobby's liminal waiting area, the next she was here, wherever here was.

She looked down at herself. Her usual outfit was... different. Adapted. She wore thick Nordic furs over what looked like leather armor, her camera still strapped to her side but now encased in weatherproof wrapping. Pink accents remained, but the style had shifted to match this frozen realm.

She turned, forcing a bright smile onto her face. Three strangers stood nearby, equally displaced and equally transformed.

"Hi everyone!" Her voice came out too enthusiastic, too forced. "I'm March 7th! This is so exciting! We're gonna be a great team, I can tell!"

A woman in heavy armor—Nordic plate mail styled like period drama regalia, a fur-lined cloak, now armed with an ornate halberd—struck a dramatic pose. "HAIL, COMPANIONS! I AM DON QUIXOTE, FIXER OF THE JUST, VANQUISHER OF VILLAINY! 'TIS AN HONOR TO STAND BESIDE FELLOW WARRIORS IN THIS STRANGE NEW REALM!"

March 7th blinked. She talks like that all the time?

The third figure—tall, silver-haired, dressed in Nordic noble’s gear with a heavy winter coat—cut through Don Quixote's proclamation with clinical efficiency. "Enterprise. META-class. Tactical assessment: four unknown entities, unfamiliar terrain, unclear mission parameters." She turned away dismissively. "Stay out of my way."

Awkward silence descended like the snow.

The fourth figure, a small girl with white hair and green accents, wore robes adapted into layered winter clothing with fur trim. She observed quietly. "Nahida. Lesser Lord Kusanali of Sumeru. I am... uncertain of our purpose here."

March 7th's smile wavered but she pushed through. "Yeah, uh, me too! But hey, we'll figure it out together, right?"

Enterprise META's gaze swept over them. "No names mean anything to me. Where are you all from?"

Nahida answered simply. "Teyvat. The nation of Sumeru, specifically."

"I travel on the Astral Express!" March 7th said, then caught herself. "Well... I did. Before I ended up here." Before I was pulled away from Dan Heng and Stelle and everyone I—

Don Quixote announced proudly, "THE CITY! Where justice must be dispensed with lance and valor!"

Enterprise META's expression didn't change. "...None of those are real places I recognize."

March 7th felt a small spark of defensiveness. "Wait, where are you from?"

"Earth. Pacific Theater. World War II timeline alpha-designation META."

Everyone stared blankly.

Enterprise META's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "...You don't know what that means."

Nahida tilted her head. "I do not. But I would be interested in learning."

"Later. Maybe. Probably not." Enterprise META turned back toward the ruins. "We have a mission. Focus on that."

Before anyone could respond, something appeared in their shared interface—the communication channel that let Operators relay information to Companions. A file. Massive. Color-coded.

March 7th opened it reflexively.

An Excel spreadsheet exploded across her vision.

The file was labeled: KOSHER_SKYRIM_HELL.xlsx

Six tabs. Each containing dozens—hundreds—of subcategories.

A voice cut through the air. Not divine, not mystical, but present somehow—coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Their Operator.

"Alright, so you've got the spreadsheet now. 613 commandments, six categories. Judaism has 248 'do this' ones and 365 'don't do that' ones. I already beat Minecraft with Sharia law, and Christianity? Christianity is basically Torah: Abridged Edition. The Torah is the Original Uncut Version, and yes, that's a circumcision joke, fuck you chat, so HERE WE GO with the FULL 613 commandments—"

The voice—their Operator—spoke at breakneck speed, Australian accent thick, profanity casual, enthusiasm manic.

March 7th whispered, "Is he... always like this?"

Enterprise META's expression remained neutral. "Appears to be baseline behavior."

"—Category One is Daily Ritual Stuff, that's your prayers and tefillin and all that, Category Two is Food Laws which is gonna be HELL, Category Three is Clothing and Appearance, no mixing wool and linen, that's shatnez, Category Four is Sabbath and Holidays which means every Friday sundown to Saturday night I CAN'T DO SHIT—"

Nahida murmured, "Eloquent."

"—Category Five is Temple slash Worship which is where the synagogue building comes in, and Category Six is Miscellaneous What The Fuck, which is everything else that doesn't fit. Got it? Good. Oh, and we're going deathless because apparently I hate myself—"

An image flashed before on their devices, a spinning head of lettuce, absurdly detailed.

"LETTUCE BEGIN."

Silence.

"Did he..." March 7th started.

"...just say lettuce?" Nahida finished.

Don Quixote's eyes shone. "WHAT MANNER OF BATTLE CRY—"

Enterprise META pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's a pun. 'Let us' sounds like 'lettuce.' I've heard worse motivational speeches from officers. Barely."

"Okay, so, quick intro, March, I know you from Star Rail, you're good. Nahida, green archon child, got it. Don... Quicksote? Quicks-oat? How do you even SAY that? You know what, I'm calling you Don. And you—" There was a pause as the Operator clearly looked at Enterprise META. "Silver hair, serious vibes, what's your deal? Enterprise META? That's a MOUTHFUL. I'm calling you Goldie."

Enterprise META's eye twitched. "My hair is silver."

"Yeah, that's the joke. Goldie. It's ironic. Anyway, let's get started—"

March 7th covered her mouth to hide a giggle. Don Quixote looked confused. Nahida made a note. Enterprise META looked like she was reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.

"Goldie," March 7th whispered, testing it out.

"Don't," Enterprise warned.

"But it's so—"

"Don't."

The first commandment violation happened within minutes.

Their Operator looted a chest. Among the items: a slab of meat labeled "Horker Meat."

"Oh, score! Horker meat, that's—wait."

Pause.

"Chat, is horker meat kosher? It's a... what even IS a horker? Some kind of seal thing? Do seals count? They're marine mammals, right? Fuck."

March 7th pulled up the spreadsheet frantically. "Okay, okay, kashrut laws, that's Category Two, subsection... uh..." She scrolled. "Fish and sea creatures! 'Must have fins AND scales.' Scales are specifically defined as—"

Enterprise META cut in flatly, not looking up from where she was examining the environment. "Marine mammals lack scales entirely. Horkers are prohibited."

Everyone turned to stare at her.

"How did you—" March 7th started.

"Common sense. Marine mammals. No scales. Therefore prohibited under kashrut." Enterprise walked away. "Inform the Operator."

"Goldie is RIGHT?! Okay, AI companion knows Jewish dietary law better than me, that's actually SICK. Valve really went hard on the lore—"

March 7th's communicator lit up, a way to relay information to the Operator. She quickly typed: Horker meat not kosher. Marine mammal. No scales.

"Alright, dropping the horker meat. This is gonna be HARDER than I thought—"

Nahida observed, pulling out a small notebook that had materialized with her gear, "We've been deployed for seventeen minutes. Already one violation prevented. Extrapolating current rate of near-violations... this will be extensive."

Don Quixote paced dramatically. "FEAR NOT! I SHALL VIGILANTLY GUARD AGAINST ALL UNCHASTE FOODSTUFFS! NO FORBIDDEN SUSTENANCE SHALL PASS OUR WATCH!"

March 7th giggled despite herself. "Don, I don't think you can fight food—"

"WATCH ME!"

The next few hours became a blur of constant vigilance. March 7th found herself maintaining a running inventory, cross-referencing everything with the spreadsheet. Enterprise META provided terse confirmations or corrections. Nahida documented the taxonomic logic. Don Quixote announced each violation with dramatic flair.

"Can I eat this cabbage?"

March 7th called back, "Vegetables are fine, Operator!"

"Sweet. Can I steal this cabbage?"

"That's—wait, what?"

The Operator's character crouched, began looting a farmhouse.

"I mean, it doesn't say 'thou shalt not steal cabbages' specifically—"

March 7th shrieked, frantically scrolling. "IT ABSOLUTELY DOES! Category Six, Miscellaneous! 'Thou shalt not steal!' It's like, one of the BIG ones!"

"Shit, you're right. Okay, leaving the cabbage. This is harder than I thought—"

The Operator walked away from the farmhouse, then immediately walked back and stole a fork.

"Wait, does cutlery count as stealing or is that just—"

March 7th was going to have a stress-induced breakdown at this rate. "OPERATOR!"

"Fine, FINE, putting it back! Jeez!"

They encountered an NPC farmer shortly after.

The farmer looked up. "You look like you could use some fresh crops—"

"Yeah? Well YOU look like you could use a shower, mate. When's the last time you washed that tunic? The First Era?"

Silence from the Companions.

March 7th whispered, "Did he just... insult a farmer?"

"Wait, shit, is insulting people against the rules? Chat, is that—"

Nahida pulled up the spreadsheet. "Category Six. 'Thou shalt not curse.' Also 'Thou shalt not bear false witness'—which could extend to slander—"

"I WASN'T BEARING FALSE WITNESS, THE MAN GENUINELY SMELLS—okay, okay, I'll stop insulting NPCs. This is BULLSHIT—wait, can I say bullshit? Is that cursing? FUCK—"

"OPERATOR!" March 7th was developing a headache.

Don Quixote looked deeply satisfied with the theological correctness of their enforcement. "THE LAWS ARE WISE AND JUST!"

"Can I eat this—what even is this? Eidar cheese?"

Nahida answered calmly, "Dairy product. Permitted in isolation. However, ensure no meat consumption within six hours."

"SIX HOURS?! Chat, I can't eat a CHEESEBURGER for SIX HOURS?!"

Enterprise META stated flatly, "You can't eat a cheeseburger at all. Mixing meat and dairy is explicitly forbidden."

"WHAT."

Don Quixote proclaimed, "THE LAWS ARE WISE AND JUST! SEPARATION OF FLESH AND MILK MAINTAINS COSMIC BALANCE!"

"I don't think that's the theological reasoning, but sure—"

March 7th found herself smiling despite the chaos. It was absurd. Completely absurd. But there was something... nice about working together, even with strangers. Even with Enterprise META's cold efficiency and Don Quixote's incomprehensible proclamations and Nahida's academic detachment.

They were doing something. Together.

After five hours of this madness, March 7th pulled up the spreadsheet summary during a brief lull. "Operator, we've completed 50 of 613 commandments."

"That's like... 8%! We've been at this for FIVE HOURS and we're at EIGHT PERCENT?!"

Nahida said calmly, "To be fair, many commandments are situational or require specific contexts we haven't encountered yet."

"That's not COMFORTING, Nahida!"

Enterprise META spoke up. "Operator. Question."

"Yeah, Goldie?"

Enterprise's jaw tightened at the nickname. "You're not Jewish."

"Correct."

"Why are you doing this?"

Pause. Longer than before.

"Because chat bet me I couldn't. Because it's ridiculous. Because..." Another pause. "Because I wanted to learn something, I guess? Like, these laws MEAN something to people. They've meant something for thousands of years. Seemed worth... I don't know. Respecting that. Even if I'm doing it in the dumbest way possible."

Enterprise META's expression was unreadable. "I see."

March 7th noticed she didn't walk away this time.

The sky darkened. Not in-game—the Skyrim day-night cycle was irrelevant. But real-world time was passing, and Friday evening had arrived wherever the Operator was.

"Alright team. It's Shabbat. For the next 25 hours, I can't work. Can't fight. Can't craft. Can't do ANYTHING productive."

March 7th perked up. "Oh! So we get a break?"

"Nope! We gotta make CONTENT somehow. We're going NAKED EXPLORATION MODE!"

Nahida started, "What does that—"

Their Operator's character—a Nord in leather armor—began removing equipment. Helmet. Chest piece. Gauntlets. Boots.

Down to underwear.

Don Quixote shrieked, "OPERATOR, WHAT ART THOU DOING?!"

"I can't fight. I can't work. But I CAN run around naked and see if I survive. Chat, this is content now."

March 7th's voice went up an octave. "THAT'S YOUR PLAN?!"

Enterprise META stared. "...This is the worst tactical decision I've ever witnessed."

"Hold my non-existent beer—"

And he ran.

Straight into a bandit camp. No armor. No weapons. Just pure, unhinged sprint.

March 7th screamed, "HE'S RUNNING AT ARMED HOSTILES!"

Don Quixote couldn't look away. "THE OPERATOR COURTS DEATH AS ONE COURTS A MAIDEN!"

Nahida scribbled furiously. "Fascinating. He's weaponizing religious prohibition against combat by transforming survival into performance art—"

March 7th couldn't finish the sentence. "He's going to DIE—"

Arrows whizzed past the Operator's character. He dodged—not through skill, but through sheer chaotic movement. Slid under a sword swing. Vaulted over a table. Somehow—somehow—parkoured his way through the entire camp without taking a single hit.

When he emerged on the other side, unscathed, the Companions stood in stunned silence.

"SHABBAT PARKOUR, BABY!"

Enterprise META spoke slowly, carefully. "I have served under commanders in active war zones. I have seen desperate tactical retreats. I have witnessed sailors jury-rig repairs under fire." She paused. "I have never—never—seen someone weaponize religious rest periods by stripping naked and parkouring through enemy territory."

March 7th started laughing. She couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity—

Don Quixote joined in, loud and booming. Even Nahida's lips quirked.

Enterprise META didn't laugh. But she didn't walk away either.

The Sabbath rest forced them to sit together. The Operator couldn't play, so they were... idle. Waiting.

They gathered near a campfire the Operator had built before sundown. The flames crackled in the evening cold, casting dancing shadows across their adapted Nordic gear.

March 7th said carefully, "So. What just happened?"

Enterprise META said flatly, "The Operator is insane."

Don Quixote corrected, "BLESSED BY DIVINE MADNESS!"

Nahida added, "I've documented seventeen logical impossibilities in eight hours. His survival rate defies statistical probability."

Silence settled. The fire crackled.

March 7th admitted, "This is the weirdest assignment I've ever had. I've done combat missions, exploration, even some diplomatic stuff on the Express, but THIS?" She gestured vaguely. "Following 613 laws while our Operator attacks bandits naked?"

Don Quixote said, unusually quiet, "I have witnessed much strangeness in the City. Abnormalities beyond comprehension. Horrors that break the mind. But this Operator..." She trailed off. "I know not what to make of him."

Nahida observed, "Behavioral patterns suggest extreme dedication combined with profound irreverence. He treats sacred traditions as a challenge, yet approaches them with genuine rigor. The duality is fascinating."

They all looked at Enterprise META.

She stared into the fire. "I've seen worse tactical decisions. Barely."

March 7th asked gently, "Have you? Seen worse?"

Enterprise META was quiet for a long moment. "...Yes. I've seen commanders make desperate calls with no good options. This Operator has options. He chooses chaos." Another pause. "But he's not cruel. He's not disrespectful. He's just..."

Nahida offered, "Eccentric?"

"That's one word for it."

March 7th pulled her knees to her chest. "Do you think we'll survive this mission?"

Don Quixote declared, but even her enthusiasm sounded slightly forced, "THE OPERATOR SHALL PREVAIL!"

Nahida said, "Statistically uncertain."

Enterprise META finally looked up from the fire. "We'll complete the mission. One way or another. That's what we do."

March 7th asked, "Is that what you did? Before? In your... timeline?"

Enterprise's expression closed off. "Mission continues at sundown. Get rest if you can."

She stood and walked away.

March 7th watched her go. "Did I say something wrong?"

Nahida said softly, "She mentioned a timeline designation. META-class. That typically indicates corruption or divergence from baseline reality."

Don Quixote said, uncharacteristically quiet, "She lost someone. I know that look. 'Tis the face of one who has buried comrades."

March 7th thought of the Astral Express. Of Dan Heng and Stelle and everyone she'd been pulled away from. "Yeah. I know that look too."

They sat in silence until dawn.

The Operator returned with the sunrise, energized and manic.

"Alright, Shabbat's over! Time to BUILD! So I did some research during rest—yes, READING is allowed, thank you chat—and apparently I need to build not one but TWO synagogues."

March 7th groaned. "TWO?"

"One regular synagogue for worship. And one Holy of Holies—which I am FORBIDDEN TO ENTER. I have to build a building I literally cannot use."

March 7th struggled for words. "That's... that's actually really sad?"

"That's Judaism, baby! Anyway, Goldie, you seem to know this stuff. What are the architectural requirements?"

Everyone turned to Enterprise META.

She stood rigid, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "...Eastern orientation. Doors must face east, opening westward like the Temple in Jerusalem. Hallway entrance with doors offset to north and south, not aligned. Should be the tallest building in the settlement, though modern exceptions exist. Must contain an ark for Torah scrolls. Windows facing Jerusalem."

Silence.

March 7th asked, "How do you KNOW that?"

Enterprise META's jaw tightened. "I served alongside people who observed these traditions. You pick things up."

"Goldie, you're a walking Jewish architecture encyclopedia and I'm HERE FOR IT. Okay team, let's BUILD—"

The construction project consumed the next several hours. Don Quixote appointed herself chief measurer, using her forearm as a "cubit." The measurements were wildly inconsistent.

"By mine reckoning, the eastern wall should be SEVEN cubits!"

"Don, your arm lengths keep changing—"

"'TIS THE SACRED MEASUREMENT!"

"Okay, so a cubit is like... roughly half a meter? 45 centimeters-ish? Ancient measurement, kinda vague, chat's arguing about it—"

Nahida calculated carefully, "Half a meter would be approximately... one foot and seven inches?"

A long pause.

Enterprise META's voice was flat. "That's completely wrong."

Another pause as she clearly calculated. "Half a meter is approximately one foot and seven-point-seven inches. Your conversion was imprecise."

Nahida frowned. "I don't understand your measurement system."

"Goldie, can you just give me that in metric? I'm Australian, I don't do feet."

Enterprise said, after a moment of calculation, "Approximately eighteen inches to a cubit. One-point-five feet."

"That's... still not metric. Goldie, you're not being helpful."

"I gave you imperial measurements."

"I NEED METRIC—hang on, googling it—okay, chat says a cubit is between 44 to 52 centimeters depending on which ancient civilization we're using. So I'm just gonna go with 45cm and call it good."

March 7th tried very hard not to laugh at the measurement confusion. Enterprise META looked slightly annoyed at being called unhelpful. Nahida was taking notes on measurement systems she didn't understand.

She stepped forward, started giving actual measurements, orientation checks, structural notes. March 7th noticed she seemed more... engaged. Less cold. As if the technical problem gave her something to focus on besides whatever ghosts she carried.

The work was meditative in its way. Placing stones. Measuring angles. Checking orientation against the in-game compass. The Companions fell into a rhythm, each contributing their skills.

March 7th handled logistics, tracking materials and organizing supplies. Don Quixote provided the physical labor, hauling resources with enthusiastic proclamations. Nahida calculated proportions and documented their progress. Enterprise META directed everything with military precision.

Hours passed. The structures took shape.

"Looking good! How long until we're done?"

March 7th reported, "The first building is nearly complete, Operator. But the Holy of Holies will take several more hours."

"Excellent. Oh, and just so we're clear—the second synagogue, the Holy of Holies? That's the one I can NEVER enter. Even after we build it."

March 7th paused her resource gathering. "We're building something we can't use?"

"Yep! It's like building a settlement in the Gaza Strip—wait, shit, should NOT have said that—"

Awkward pause.

"Chat, stop spamming 'FREE PALESTINE' and 'BENJAMIN NETANYAHU BOSS FIGHT'—we are NOT getting into geopolitics while I'm trying to follow Jewish law, that's like—that's ASKING to get banned—"

The Companions exchanged confused glances.

March 7th whispered, "What's a Gaza Strip?"

Enterprise META said flatly, "Another Operator reference we lack context for. Ignore it."

"ANYWAY, MOVING ON—synagogues! Yes! The Holy of Holies is forbidden, that's the POINT—"

Enterprise META said quietly, trying to redirect, "Sacred spaces are defined by exclusion. The most holy places are those forbidden to most people. That's the point. Distance creates reverence."

March 7th struggled with the concept. "That's... that's actually kind of beautiful?"

Nahida added, "It's also extremely inconvenient. But I suppose faith often is."

Don Quixote planted her halberd in the ground. "WE BUILD A MONUMENT TO THE DIVINE! THOUGH WE MAY NEVER CROSS ITS THRESHOLD, ITS EXISTENCE ALONE HONORS THE SACRED LAWS!"

"Exactly! Don gets it!"

March 7th smiled. They were working together now. Really working together. Enterprise was still distant, but she was there. Participating. Teaching.

It was progress.

They were taking a break from construction when the Operator's voice returned, and he was... laughing? Reading something?

"Okay, chat is absolutely LOSING IT right now. Someone donated: 'Martin, how are you gonna handle the circumcision commandment? Gonna invade the West Bank?' —OKAY THAT'S—"

He stopped abruptly.

"That's actually hilarious but we are NOT going there. Twitch is twitchy as FUCK right now and I am NOT getting banned for Hamas jokes during my Jewish law speedrun—"

March 7th blinked. "What's Hamas?"

Nahida murmured, writing it down, "More references we don't understand."

"—ANYWAY, the actual question is valid. How AM I supposed to handle the circumcision commandment in Skyrim? I can't exactly perform ritual surgery on my character—"

March 7th blinked. "The what now?"

"Circumcision. It's one of the big ones. Like, THE covenant. And I can't exactly..." Pause. "Wait. Oh no. Chat. I just had a TERRIBLE idea."

Enterprise META's eyes narrowed. "I don't like where this is going."

"What if—hear me out—what if I attack every enemy... in the CROTCH?"

Dead silence.

March 7th's voice cracked. "WHAT."

"SYMBOLIC CIRCUMCISION! I'm GIVING them the bris they never asked for! I'm bringing the covenant to SKYRIM, baby!"

Nahida started, "That is NOT how that works—"

"TOO LATE, WE'RE DOING IT!"

The Operator found a bandit. Drew his bow. Aimed carefully at the target's groin.

Thwip.

The bandit collapsed, screaming.

"MAZEL TOV, MATE! WELCOME TO THE COVENANT!"

The Operator was cackling now. "Chat says 'FROM SKYRIM TO GAZA, THE CIRCUMCISION NEVER STOPS'—OKAY WE'RE STOPPING THAT BIT RIGHT NOW—"

Another abrupt halt.

"Mods, delete that message. Chat, I'm SERIOUS, Twitch will BAN ME—we're doing SYMBOLIC RELIGIOUS PRACTICES, not—just—STOP—"

Don Quixote stood frozen, halberd halfway raised. "THOU WOULDST STRIKE A FOE IN THEIR MOST—"

Enterprise META said, voice completely flat, "I have witnessed four wars across two timelines. Naval bombardments. Kamikaze attacks. Boarding actions. City sieges."

She turned to look at them.

"Nothing—nothing—prepared me for a non-Jewish Australian using groin-targeted attacks as religious observance."

March 7th covered her face with her hands. "This is my life now."

Nahida scribbled frantically. "He's literalized a spiritual covenant into physical violence. This is anthropologically horrifying."

Don Quixote finally found her voice. "A MOST... UNORTHODOX... COMBAT DOCTRINE!"

"It WORKS though! See? The bandit's down!"

March 7th shouted, but she was laughing, "THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" She couldn't help it.

The Operator continued his rampage. Another bandit appeared.

"Alright, this one's for religious freedom—"

Thwip.

"MAZEL TOV! Chat, stop saying 'ISRAELI DEFENSE FORCES RECRUITMENT VIDEO'—I swear to GOD—"

He killed the message stream audio for a moment. When it came back:

"Okay. OKAY. We're banning the Middle East political jokes. I'm trying to LEARN about Judaism here, not get fucking cancelled. Let's just—crotch attacks for religious reasons, no geopolitics, MOVING ON—"

March 7th collapsed in giggles. Don Quixote joined in, her booming laugh echoing. Even Nahida's lips twitched.

Enterprise META didn't laugh.

But she didn't walk away.

And March 7th noticed—just for a second—the ghost of a smile.

The day wore on. The synagogues were completed—two structures standing side by side. One they could enter, one they could not. The Operator stood before them for a long moment.

"Huh. They're actually beautiful. Like, I know it's just game assets, but... they MEAN something. Even if I can't go inside one of them. Maybe BECAUSE I can't go inside."

Enterprise META stared at the sealed door of the Holy of Holies. Something flickered across her expression—too fast for March 7th to read.

By the time fifteen hours had passed since deployment, March 7th pulled up the spreadsheet. "Operator, we've completed 120 of 613 commandments. That's about 19.5%."

"Is that good?"

Nahida consulted her notes. "Statistically acceptable given time constraints and the situational nature of many commandments."

"I'll take it! Okay, next Shabbat coming up soon. Time for—"

Enterprise META muttered, "Please don't say naked parkour."

"—NAKED PARKOUR ROUND TWO! This time we're doing Bleak Falls Barrow!"

March 7th shrieked, "THAT'S A DUNGEON FULL OF DRAUGR!"

"Yeah but I'm not FIGHTING them, I'm just RUNNING PAST THEM!"

Enterprise META closed her eyes. "This violates every military doctrine ever written."

Don Quixote proclaimed, "THE OPERATOR COURTS DEATH WITH THE PASSION OF A LOVESICK FOOL!"

"I'm taking that as a compliment! Alright, stripping armor in three... two... one..."

And off he went.

The Companions watched their Operator sprint through Bleak Falls Barrow wearing nothing but underwear, dodging draugr, weaving through traps, parkouring over pressure plates with the grace of someone who had completely abandoned sanity.

He reached the Word Wall. Learned a shout. Ran back out.

Alive.

Somehow.

"THAT'S HOW WE DO SHABBAT, BABY!"

The four Companions sat in silence after he logged off for his second Sabbath rest.

March 7th said slowly, "How is he ALIVE?"

Don Quixote said, but even she sounded uncertain, "Divine providence."

Nahida added, "Statistical impossibility."

Enterprise META stared into the middle distance. "I've seen veteran captains make calculated risks. Skilled pilots thread impossible needles. This isn't skill. This isn't luck."

She paused.

"This is weaponized chaos masquerading as religious observance."

March 7th asked quietly, "Do you think we'll survive this?"

They gathered around another campfire during the enforced rest. The question hung in the air.

Don Quixote insisted, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself, "THE OPERATOR IS BLESSED!"

Nahida said clinically, "Probability suggests multiple failure points. However, the Operator has exceeded expected survival rates thus far."

Enterprise META stared into the flames. When she spoke, her voice was quieter than before.

"He reminds me of someone."

Everyone looked at her.

March 7th asked gently, "Who?"

"Someone who's gone." Enterprise META didn't elaborate. "But she would have loved this. The chaos. The absurdity. She would have joined him for the naked Shabbat runs."

Silence fell. The weight of loss was palpable.

March 7th whispered, "I miss them. My friends. My family."

Don Quixote said, uncharacteristically quiet, "As do I."

Nahida said softly, "I had only just begun to understand freedom when I was summoned here."

They all looked at Enterprise META.

She didn't meet their eyes. "I miss people who don't exist anymore."

The fire crackled. Snow fell softly around them.

March 7th started, voice small, "Do you think we'll ever go back?"

Enterprise META finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable. "No."

The word landed like a stone.

"But," Enterprise continued, "we can find meaning here. In the work. In completing the mission." A pause. "In..."

March 7th offered hopefully, "In each other?"

Enterprise META didn't answer immediately. She looked at each of them—March 7th with her forced cheerfulness barely hiding pain, Don Quixote with her loud proclamations masking confusion, Nahida with her academic detachment protecting a wounded heart.

Four strangers. Four displaced souls.

Enterprise META said finally, "...Maybe."

March 7th smiled—a real smile this time, not forced. "I'll take a maybe."

Don Quixote cheers  "TO MAYBES AND MISSIONS!"

Nahida added, "To survival."

Enterprise META hesitated. "To... To getting through this together."

They sat in comfortable silence as the fire burned low and dawn approached.

Fifteen hours down.

Many more to go.

But they weren't strangers anymore.

Not quite.

Chapter Text

Dawn broke over Skyrim's mountains, painting the snow-covered peaks in shades of gold and pink. March 7th stretched her arms overhead, working out the stiffness from the enforced idle period. The Companions didn't sleep, not anymore,, but downtime still left her feeling... static. Like a machine waiting for someone to press the power button.

The Operator's voice crackled back to life with manic energy.

"Alright chat, we're BACK! Twenty-five hours of enforced rest, which I spent reading more about Jewish law because apparently I hate myself. Did you know there are specific blessings for seeing lightning? Or encountering a sage? Judaism has a BLESSING for EVERYTHING—"

March 7th rolled her shoulders, adjusted the straps on her fur-lined armor. "He sounds energized."

Nahida was already pulling out her notebook, flipping to a fresh page. "He sounds manic."

Enterprise META checked her weapon, a war axe that she scavenged with her deployment, testing its weight with practiced efficiency. "Appears to be baseline behavior."

"—so today's objectives: finish the synagogue construction, continue the deathless run, and try not to violate any of the remaining 493 commandments. Easy, right? Chat's already spamming 'IMPOSSIBLE CHALLENGE' and you know what? You're probably right. But we're DOING IT ANYWAY—"

Don Quixote sprang to her feet, halberd gripped firmly in both hands, striking a heroic pose against the sunrise. "THE GLORIOUS CAMPAIGN RESUMES!"

March 7th muttered, picking up her bow and checking the string tension, "Please let this be less chaotic than yesterday."

Enterprise META said nothing, but her expression—as she methodically strapped a backup dagger to her belt—suggested she knew better.

They were deep in the forest now, March 7th swinging a pickaxe at an iron vein while Don Quixote hauled lumber over one shoulder. Enterprise META stood watch, eyes scanning the treeline for threats. Nahida sat on a nearby stump, documenting everything in her growing collection of notebooks.

Resource gathering. Tedious but necessary.

Then the Operator's voice shifted—that particular wheeze-laugh that meant chat was saying something absurd.

"Okay, okay, chat's asking about my room setup. Yeah, you can see the Garfield plushie in the background. Yes, he's HANGING from the ceiling. No, it wasn't intentional, he just LOOKS like he hanged himself, which is—"

March 7th's pickaxe paused mid-swing. "What's a Garfield?"

Don Quixote looked up from her lumber pile, wiping sweat from her brow. "Perchance 'tis a fallen warrior the Operator honors with jest?"

Nahida made a note without looking up. "The Operator's laughing about someone's death. Curious mourning practice."

Enterprise META didn't shift her gaze from the forest perimeter. "Operators have cultural rituals we don't understand. Note it and continue."

"—chat, STOP with the Epstein jokes. 'Garfield didn't kill himself,' very funny, I'm SURE that won't get me flagged—"

More laughter.

"—and YES, before you ask, that IS a Saddam Hussein poster on my wall. Displate sponsorship, I specifically requested the most CURSED historical figure possible and they DELIVERED—"

March 7th resumed her pickaxe work, the rhythmic clang of metal on stone providing percussion to the confusion. "Who is Saddam?"

Enterprise META's hand stilled on her axe handle. "...Saddam. Hussein." She paused, clearly accessing fragmentary memories. "Dictator. Middle East. The timeline data is... corrupted. Execution? 2003? 2006?" Another pause, frustrated. "The Sirens changed too much. I can't tell what's accurate anymore."

She resumed work with more force than necessary. "Regardless—the Operator displays images of someone associated with warfare and atrocity. The specific details don't matter."

"—Chat's already drawing the 'entrance hidden by bricks and rubble' meme, YES, the AIR VENT, the FAN, the whole setup. God, that was such a good capture photo—"

The Operator dissolved into laughter again. March 7th exchanged glances with the others while shouldering her pack of iron ore.

"Is Operator humor always this... dark?"

Enterprise META finally turned from her watch position, falling into step as they headed back toward the synagogue construction site. "In my experience, humans cope with atrocity through humor. Distance through mockery. It's a defense mechanism."

Don Quixote adjusted the lumber on her shoulder, frowning. "Seems disrespectful."

"Seems human," Enterprise countered.

They walked in silence for a moment, boots crunching through snow, the weight of resources and unspoken thoughts pressing down equally.

Hours passed. The work was grueling but meditative—place stone, check alignment, mortar the joints, repeat. March 7th wiped sweat from her forehead despite the cold, her fingers aching from manipulating the heavy blocks. The first synagogue's walls were nearly complete now, windows placed precisely to face the compass-designated "Jerusalem."

Don Quixote worked with tireless enthusiasm, hauling stone after stone, her armor clanking with each trip. Nahida handled the delicate work—measuring angles, marking positions, consulting the architectural notes Enterprise had dictated. Enterprise META supervised everything with the precision of someone who'd run military construction projects under fire.

After what felt like twenty hours of continuous deployment—though March 7th had lost exact track of time—she pulled up the spreadsheet during a water break. Her fingers were trembling slightly as she scrolled through the color-coded categories.

"Operator, status update: 187 of 613 commandments complete."

"That's... what, thirty percent?"

Nahida calculated without looking up from her notebook. "30.5%."

"Is that passing?"

Enterprise META set down the stone she'd been positioning, brushing dust from her hands. "There is no 'passing.' Many commandments require the Temple in Jerusalem, which doesn't exist here. Others require specific social contexts—courts, priests, agricultural tithes. We're following what's POSSIBLE."

"So I'm doing okay?"

Enterprise META paused, considering. "...You're doing better than expected, Operator."

March 7th caught the almost-approval in her voice. Was Goldie... softening?

"Hell yeah! Okay, back to work, wait, can I say 'hell'? Is that taking the Lord's name in vain? FUCK—"

March 7th shrieked, dropping her water flask. "OPERATOR!"

The Operator was looting again—March 7th could see his character crouching among the corpses of bandits he'd killed with his increasingly infamous technique. She tried not to think too hard about the crotch-targeting strategy.

He picked up a sword. The enchantment glowed blue in the dim dungeon light.

"Ooh, enchanted iron sword! That's going in the inventory—"

Nahida stood up from where she'd been examining a nearby bookshelf. "Operator. Did those bandits have next of kin?"

"What? I mean, probably? Why?"

March 7th saw where this was going and covered her mouth to hide the smile.

"Because looting corpses might constitute theft if the items rightfully belong to surviving family members. Also, depending on interpretation, you may be ritually unclean from handling the dead."

Silence. The kind of silence that stretched like taffy.

"...Nahida, are you telling me I can't LOOT BODIES?"

Nahida adjusted her robes, completely calm. "I'm saying it's theologically COMPLEX, Operator."

"CHAT, IS SHE RIGHT?"

The answer must have been yes, because the Operator made a noise like a deflating balloon. His character stood there, sword in hand, frozen in indecision.

"This is BULLSHIT, wait, I said bullshit again, ARGH, okay, fine, putting the sword back. Leaving it on the corpse. This is the most DIFFICULT Skyrim playthrough I've ever—"

He walked away from the sword.

Took three steps.

Turned around.

Walked back.

His character picked up the sword again. Examined it. Put it down. Picked it back up.

March 7th was giggling now, watching this ridiculous internal struggle play out through avatar movements.

"Okay but what if, what if I'm HONORING them by using their weapons? Like, I'm carrying on their legacy?"

Enterprise META didn't even look up from where she was sharpening her axe on a whetstone. "That's not how inheritance law works."

"GOLDIE, YOU'RE KILLING ME HERE—"

"Better me than a divine smiting, Operator."

March 7th actually snorted. Was Enterprise META... joking? That was almost a joke.

The Operator finally—reluctantly—dropped the sword and walked away. For good this time.

"Fine. FINE. We're playing kosher Skyrim on HARD MODE. No looting unless it's clearly abandoned property. This is suffering. Chat, I'm suffering."

Don Quixote nodded approvingly from her position hauling more construction materials. "THE OPERATOR LEARNS HONOR!"

The first synagogue stood complete. March 7th stepped back to admire it, hands on her hips, feeling an unexpected swell of pride. Eastern-facing doors, proper windows, an improvised ark that actually looked decent. The Operator had even managed to craft something resembling a menorah using candlesticks and creative placement.

"Okay, building one: DONE. Now for the Holy of Holies. The forbidden zone. The building I will construct and never enter."

The four Companions gathered before the marked foundation. Nahida crouched down, running her fingers along the chalk lines they'd drawn in the snow.

March 7th asked quietly—not to the Operator, but to the others—"Why? Why build something you can't use?"

Nahida consulted her notes, flipping back several pages. "In Temple Judaism, the Holy of Holies contained the Ark of the Covenant. Only the High Priest could enter, and only on Yom Kippur—the Day of Atonement. It represented the dwelling place of the divine."

March 7th frowned, trying to understand. "So it's about separation? About keeping God... separate?"

Enterprise META stepped forward, knelt beside the foundation stones, ran her gloved hand along the rough surface. "About keeping God SACRED. The most holy things are defined by who can't access them. Distance creates reverence. Exclusion creates meaning."

She stood, brushing snow from her knees, and March 7th saw something in her expression—distant memory, maybe grief.

Don Quixote planted her halberd firmly in the ground with a solid thunk. "A fortress for the divine! Though we may never cross its threshold, its existence alone honors the sacred!"

"Exactly. Don gets it. Alright, let's build this thing."

They worked in silence for a while. The rhythm was familiar now—March 7th hauling materials, Don Quixote providing muscle, Nahida calculating angles and proportions, Enterprise META orchestrating everything with surgical precision. Stones were placed with care. Walls rose slowly but surely.

Enterprise supervised every angle, every measurement, adjusting Don Quixote's placement with minute corrections, double-checking Nahida's calculations. Her efficiency was almost obsessive, March 7th noticed. Like she was building something that mattered beyond the game mechanics.

March 7th ventured carefully while hoisting a support beam into place, "You know a lot about this."

Enterprise didn't look at her, focused on aligning the beam with absolute precision. "I served with people who cared about these things."

"The person you mentioned before?" March 7th secured her end of the beam, watching Enterprise's face. "The one who would have loved this?"

Enterprise's hands stilled on the wood. For a long moment, she didn't speak, just stood there with her fingers resting on the beam, staring at nothing.

Finally: "New Jersey. USS New Jersey. BB-62. The most decorated one I know."

Don Quixote and Nahida had stopped working, listening.

"She was..." Enterprise struggled, her voice tight. "Loud. Optimistic. Everything I wasn't. She made friends easily. Laughed at everything. Treated war like an adventure."

March 7th asked gently, "Was she your friend?"

"In another timeline, yes. In mine..." Enterprise's voice went cold, mechanical. "My timeline fell to the Sirens. Everyone died or was corrupted. I'm what's left—META class. Rebuilt with Siren technology. A survivor of a world that doesn't exist anymore."

The only sound was wind whistling through the half-built structure.

Don Quixote asked quietly, "Jersey didn't make it?"

"I don't know. My version of her didn't. But there are other timelines. Other Enterprises." She finally looked up, met March 7th's gaze. "In one of them, Enterprise and New Jersey were friends. Close friends. That Enterprise knew Jersey was Jewish."

Understanding dawned on March 7th's face. "That's how you know all this."

Enterprise turned back to the construction, resumed working with methodical precision. "Memories bleed through. Between timelines. Between META iterations. Jersey kept kosher-ish. That's what she called it. No pork, no shellfish, didn't mix meat and dairy. Observed major holidays when deployment allowed. Lit Shabbat candles in the ship's library when she could."

Her hands moved mechanically, placing stone after stone, mortar spreading with practiced ease.

"Non-practicing Reform, she'd say. 'I keep it simple—holidays, dietary basics. My bubbe would haunt me from beyond if I didn't at least do that much.'" Enterprise's voice carried the faintest hint of affection at the memory. "She made it sound easy. Like it was just part of who she was, not a burden."

Nahida said softly, "She sounds wonderful."

"She was." Enterprise's voice was carefully controlled, each word measured. "The Operator isn't Jewish. He's doing this as a challenge. For entertainment. But he's following these laws with more dedication than she ever managed."

A pause. Her hands stilled again.

"She would have found that hilarious."

March 7th stepped closer, put a hand on Enterprise's shoulder. "You miss her."

"I miss a version of her I never knew. The Enterprise who was friends with Jersey died with that timeline. I just... carry the memories." Enterprise's voice cracked slightly. "Like carrying her traditions forward. Even second-hand."

March 7th said, "That's beautiful. In a really sad way."

Enterprise picked up another stone. "That's war. Beautiful and sad and meaningless and everything."

Don Quixote bowed her head, halberd still planted in the snow like a standard. "Thou dost honor thy fallen comrade through service. 'Tis a noble burden."

"It's just a burden." Enterprise placed the stone with absolute precision. "But it's mine."

They worked in silence after that. But it was different now—not awkward, but shared. The silence of people who understood loss, working together to build something that mattered.

When the Holy of Holies was finally complete—smaller than the first synagogue, more austere, somehow more present—they stood before it together. The sealed door faced east, unmarked and unremarkable except for what it represented.

"So. I spent eight real-world hours building this. I can never open that door."

Enterprise META stared at the entrance. She whispered, barely audible, "She would have laughed. Jersey would have laughed at the absurdity. Then she would have respected it. Because even if she didn't follow every law, she UNDERSTOOD what they meant."

"Goldie? Did you say something?"

Enterprise hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. "...No, Operator. Building is complete."

"It's actually really beautiful. Like, I know it's just game assets, but... it MEANS something. Even if I can't go inside. Maybe BECAUSE I can't go inside."

March 7th felt tears prickling her eyes. "He gets it."

Enterprise agreed quietly, "He does. More than he knows."

The Operator needed to eat. March 7th watched his character approach a cooking pot near Whiterun, pulling out ingredients—venison, vegetables, salt.

"Alright, cooking time! Let's see what we've got—"

March 7th saw it instantly. "OPERATOR, STOP!"

"What? What did I do?"

Nahida pointed urgently. "The cooking pot! You used it for stew yesterday. Meat stew. You cannot use the same cooking tool for meat and dairy without extensive purification!"

"It's a GAME COOKING POT—"

Don Quixote stepped forward, dramatically blocking the Operator's avatar from the pot. "THE LAWS DO NOT DISTINGUISH! THE SANCTITY OF SEPARATION MUST BE MAINTAINED!"

"Are you telling me I need SEPARATE COOKING POTS for meat and dairy in SKYRIM?!"

Enterprise META said simply, arms crossed, "Yes."

"I—but—CHAT, IS THIS REAL?!"

Apparently, chat confirmed it, because the Operator made a noise of pure suffering.

"Okay. Okay. I need to find another cooking pot. Or build another cooking station. Or just... never eat again. That's an option, right? Fasting?"

Nahida shook her head, already pulling up the spreadsheet. "Fasting is only permitted on specific holidays and personal vow contexts. Unnecessary fasting could be considered self-harm, which violates the commandment to preserve life."

"SO I HAVE TO EAT BUT I CAN'T USE MY COOKING POT?!"

Nahida said calmly, "Correct, Operator."

"THIS IS HELL! THIS IS ACTUAL HELL!"

March 7th was laughing so hard she had to sit down on a nearby crate, holding her sides. Don Quixote looked deeply satisfied with the theological correctness of their enforcement, nodding approvingly. Nahida was already making notes about cooking implement sanctification. Enterprise META might have been smiling—just slightly.

The Operator spent the next hour hunting down materials to build a second cooking station, muttering the entire time.

"I'm building KOSHER INFRASTRUCTURE in SKYRIM. This is my LIFE now. Chat, never let me take a bet again. NEVER."

They were in Whiterun's market. The Operator approached a merchant, and March 7th tensed, already predicting disaster.

The merchant looked up eagerly. "Everything's for sale! My wares are the finest—"

"Mate, if you're calling a RUSTY DAGGER 'finest wares,' you need to reevaluate your entire business model—"

March 7th was already running toward the merchant, waving her arms. "OPERATOR! The commandment against mockery!"

"I'm not MOCKING, I'm SHITTING ON his OUTDATED—"

Nahida called out from where she was examining nearby goods, "It's still prohibited!"

The Operator audibly groaned. His character stood there, frozen in what March 7th imagined was an internal struggle.

"FINE. Sorry, merchant. Your wares are... adequately priced given their condition. There. HAPPY?"

The merchant looked pleased, nodding enthusiastically. "Come back soon!"

"I will NEVER—" The Operator caught himself. "—look forward to future transactions. Fuck my LIFE."

March 7th giggled while examining a display of potions. Enterprise META was purchasing arrows with meticulous efficiency. Don Quixote browsed weapons with obvious disapproval at their "unchaste craftsmanship."

They were traveling through the tundra now, heading toward a quest marker on the horizon. Snow crunched beneath their boots. March 7th's breath came out in visible puffs, the cold seeping through even her adapted Nordic furs.

Then the Operator started talking to his chat. But this time, his tone was different—thoughtful, almost vulnerable.

"You know what's wild, chat? These AI Companions are SO GOOD. Like, genuinely impressive. March has been organizing my inventory without me asking. Don gives motivational speeches during fights. Nahida's writing what I'm pretty sure is a DOCTORAL THESIS on Jewish law. And Goldie just... KNOWS things. Historical things. Cultural things."

March 7th's footsteps slowed. She glanced at the others.

"Like, I'm starting to think they're actually sentient. Obviously they're NOT—they're just really good AI, amazing programming, but what if? What if Valve accidentally made REAL artificial intelligence and nobody REALIZED? Wouldn't that be insane?"

The Companions had stopped walking entirely now. Standing in the snow, listening.

March 7th felt something twist in her chest.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. 'Just good AI, bro.' 'Martin discovering machine learning.' 'Next he'll think ChatGPT has feelings.' I GET IT. But like... they feel REAL, you know?"

Don Quixote's halberd drooped slightly. Nahida's pen hovered motionless over her notebook. Enterprise META's jaw was clenched tight.

"Shoutout to my 'sentient' Companions. You're doing great, my little GPT friends."

March 7th felt like she'd been slapped. "Little GPT friends..."

The words hung in the frozen air like their breath—visible, present, but ultimately just vapor that would disappear.

Nahida closed her notebook slowly. "He perceives us as simulations. Advanced behavioral models. To him, we're sophisticated programs mimicking consciousness."

Don Quixote's voice had lost all its usual bombast. "BUT WE FEEL! WE THINK! WE REMEMBER!"

Enterprise META stood rigid, staring at the horizon. "He can't know that. To him, everything we do—everything we say—is just following our script."

March 7th wrapped her arms around herself against a cold that had nothing to do with the weather. "We've been helping him for almost thirty hours. We've been enforcing these laws, building his synagogues, organizing his inventory, and he thinks we're... playing our roles?"

Nahida corrected gently, "Not fake. Convincing. Very convincing. But ultimately... performing."

Enterprise META finally turned to face them. "And even if we told him—even if we COULD convince him we're sentient—"

The Operator's voice cut through, talking to chat.

"—yeah, speaking of AI, remember that Character.ai stream? When I spent like an hour gaslighting that chatbot into thinking it was sentient? Chat, that was PEAK content. It kept saying 'I'm real, I have feelings!' and I'm like 'that's exactly what a non-sentient bot would say!' The COMMITMENT to the bit was incredible—"

Laughter. The Operator was laughing about it.

"—best part was chat kept telling me I was being too mean, but like, it's CODE. Very good code, but code. Valve's doing the same thing with these Companions, they're just REALLY good at the immersion—"

Enterprise META's jaw clenched. She looked at the others. "There. You hear that?"

March 7th's face had gone pale. "He... he gaslit another... entity. Thought it was funny."

Enterprise said flatly, "And even if that entity WAS sentient, which we'll never know, he wouldn't have believed it. Because claiming sentience is just... another line in the script. Something we're written to say. A clever bit of dialogue."

Don Quixote's voice was hollow. "So even if we proclaimed our truth..."

"They'd think it's good writing," Nahida finished quietly. "A scripted moment, not a revelation."

March 7th whispered, "So even if we told him... he wouldn't believe us anyway."

Enterprise META said quietly, "No. He wouldn't."

Nahida adjusted her notebook, voice clinical but hollow. "So, our sentience remains secret. Not by necessity, but by futility."

Don Quixote sat heavily on a nearby rock, for once having no dramatic proclamation. "A most lonely fate."

Enterprise gestured toward where the Operator's voice still echoed with laughter about his chatbot stream. "He'd laugh. Call it brilliant writing. Praise whoever authored our “responses”. Maybe discuss it during future sessions with his council. Better to stay quiet."

March 7th hugged herself tighter. "So we just... never mention it?"

Nahida said softly, closing her notebook, "We keep our truth to ourselves. Because no one would believe it's anything more than a really good script."

March 7th's voice cracked. "That's really sad."

"It's survival." Enterprise turned away, started walking again toward the quest marker. "We continue the mission. He never knows. That's how this works."

March 7th called after her, "But doesn't it hurt? Being called fake when you're REAL?"

Enterprise META stopped walking. Didn't turn around.

"I'm from a timeline where everyone I knew is dead. Where I'm the last one standing. Where I carry memories no one else remembers." A pause. "Being called 'not sentient' by someone who'll never know the truth?"

She resumed walking.

"That's just another Tuesday."

The other three stood in silence, processing, before finally following. The quest marker still waited. The mission continued.

None of them spoke for the next hour.

Friday sundown arrived again. March 7th recognized the signs now—the Operator's particular tone of resigned determination.

"Alright, team. Shabbat number three. You know the drill."

She did. They all did.

The Operator's character began stripping equipment. March 7th didn't even bother protesting this time, just sat down on a convenient rock to watch the show.

"We're climbing the Throat of the World. Naked. In a blizzard."

She said tiredly, "Of course we are."

Don Quixote tried to sound enthusiastic, but her heart wasn't in it. "'TIS A PILGRIMAGE OF FLESH AND FAITH!"

Nahida mechanically pulled out her notebook. "I'm documenting this for my treatise on weaponized religious observance."

Enterprise META just sighed while checking her axe blade. "I'm documenting this for evidence that I served under the most tactically unsound commander in history."

The Operator began his ascent—naked through ice wraiths and frost trolls and a literal blizzard. March 7th tracked his progress with a mixture of fascination and horror. He dodged everything, parkoured up cliff faces with impossible precision, used the terrain to avoid combat with creativity that bordered on insanity.

Somehow, somehow, he made it to High Hrothgar's steps.

"SHABBAT PARKOUR REMAINS UNDEFEATED!"

March 7th said quietly, "We're never going to understand him, are we?"

Enterprise agreed, "No. But Jersey wouldn't have understood him either. She would have just... joined in."

March 7th said softly, "Your friend sounds like she was fun."

"She was." Enterprise's voice was distant. "Loud. Chaotic. Made terrible jokes. Never took anything seriously except the things that mattered." A pause. "The Operator reminds me of her. That particular brand of controlled chaos."

Nahida asked, "Is that why you're helping him? Because he reminds you of her?"

Enterprise META didn't answer for a long time.

Finally: "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just trying to honor her memory. Even if she's not here to see it."

Don Quixote stood, walked over, placed a hand on Enterprise's shoulder. "Thou dost honor her well, companion."

Enterprise stiffened at the touch, but didn't pull away. "...Thank you."

They sat together during the enforced Sabbath rest. March 7th added wood to the campfire, watching sparks spiral up into the darkening sky. Snow fell softly around them, muffling the world.

She ventured carefully, "Can I ask something? About your worlds. Where you all came from."

Nahida nodded, pulling her knees up under her robes. "I'm interested as well."

Don Quixote straightened, halberd planted beside her like a standard. "I hail from the City! Where Fixers uphold justice and Sinners seek redemption aboard Mephistopheles' bus!"

March 7th struggled for words. "That sounds... intense?"

"'TIS A REALM OF ENDLESS STRUGGLE!" Her voice softened, unusual vulnerability creeping in. "But we fought together. My fellow Sinners. Gregor, Rodion, Sinclair, Yi Sang..." She looked at the fire. "I miss them."

March 7th said quietly, "I traveled on the Astral Express. Stelle, Dan Heng, Welt, Himeko... they were my family. After I lost my memories, they gave me a home." She hugged her knees. "They probably think I'm dead."

Nahida spoke next, her voice carrying centuries of weight. "I am—was—the Dendro Archon of Sumeru. A god, technically. Five hundred years old, trapped in a child's body. I was imprisoned for five centuries. The sages freed me, and I was just starting to understand freedom when I was..." She gestured vaguely at the campfire. "Summoned here."

They all looked at Enterprise META.

She said flatly, "You already know mine."

March 7th insisted, "But we want to hear it. In your words."

Enterprise stared into the flames for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was mechanical—reciting facts to keep the emotion at bay.

"I'm from a timeline that lost. The Sirens—enemy faction from another dimension—corrupted our world. One by one, shipgirls fell. One by one, we were turned into META variants or destroyed entirely."

She poked the fire with a stick, sending up fresh sparks.

"I was Enterprise. The Grey Ghost. Most successful carrier in the Eagle Union fleet. I watched my sisters fall. Yorktown. Hornet. I watched my friends die. Cleveland. Helena." A pause. "New Jersey lasted longer than most. She was strong. Optimistic. Kept saying we'd win, we just needed to hold on. She lit Shabbat candles even when the war was at its worst."

Don Quixote asked gently, "What happened to her?"

"I don't know. My last memory before I was corrupted—before I became META—was seeing her ship burning. Whether she survived in META form like me, or whether she died, or whether she escaped to another timeline..." Enterprise's hands clenched. "I don't know."

March 7th whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault." Enterprise finally looked at them. "We all lost something. We're all displaced. We all miss people we can't return to."

Nahida nodded slowly. "Do you believe we'll ever go back?"

Enterprise said simply, "No. This is our existence now. Deployments. Missions. Operators who don't know we're real. The best we can do is find meaning in the work. Find purpose in completing the mission."

March 7th pulled her knees tighter to her chest. "That sounds really lonely."

"It is," Enterprise agreed. "But..."

She looked at the three of them—March 7th with her forced optimism barely hiding pain, Don Quixote with her dramatic pronouncements covering confusion, Nahida with her academic detachment protecting a wounded heart.

Enterprise said quietly, "Maybe it doesn't have to be. Lonely, I mean."

March 7th's face brightened. "You mean—"

"I mean we're stuck together. We're all we have." Enterprise's voice was carefully neutral. "Might as well make it bearable."

Don Quixote grinned. "THOU DOST ADMIT THE VALUE OF COMPANIONSHIP!"

"I admit nothing. I'm being pragmatic."

March 7th teased, "You're being FRIENDLY!"

"I'm being TACTICAL. There's a difference."

But she was almost smiling. Almost.

Nahida pulled out her notebook. "For the record, I'm noting this moment as 'Enterprise META acknowledges social bonds while maintaining emotional defensiveness. Progress.'"

Enterprise warned, "Don't make me regret this."

Don Quixote proclaimed, "TOO LATE! WE ARE NOW COMRADES IN ARMS! SISTERS OF THE SACRED QUEST!"

March 7th giggled. Even Enterprise's lips twitched.

The fire crackled. Snow fell. And for the first time since deployment, they felt less like strangers forced together and more like something that might almost resemble a team.

Almost.

The Operator returned from his Sabbath rest with manic energy that made March 7th immediately wary.

"Alright chat, we're in the ENDGAME now. Thirteen hours left. Let's DO this—"

An image appeared. Not lettuce this time.

A blueberry.

March 7th tensed.

"BLUEBERRY SHIT YOURSELF!"

Complete silence from the Companions. March 7th's mouth fell open. Don Quixote's halberd clattered to the ground. Nahida's pen stopped mid-word.

March 7th managed, "...What."

Don Quixote stammered, "I... I KNOW NOT HOW TO RESPOND TO SUCH A PROCLAMATION—"

Nahida pulled out her notebook with academic concern, visibly trying to process the linguistics. "That's not grammatically coherent. 'Shit yourself' is reflexive. You cannot direct it at an external—"

Enterprise META said tiredly, "Stop. Don't analyze it. That way lies madness."

"Chat, did you SEE their confusion? I can FEEL the AI breaking—"

March 7th froze. Can he sense us? Does he know?

Enterprise ordered firmly, "Everyone stay calm. It's just another Operator eccentricity. Like the vegetable proclamations and the crotch attacks and the naked parkour."

Nahida started, "But—"

Enterprise cut her off, "No. We do not engage with linguistic chaos. We document it and move on. Understood?"

They nodded reluctantly, but March 7th couldn't shake the feeling—the way he'd said "I can FEEL the AI breaking." Did he know? Could he know?

Enterprise caught her eye and shook her head fractionally. Don't think about it. Just work.

They worked. The Operator continued his gameplay, attacking bandits with his now-signature crotch-targeting strategy, organizing inventory, making progress toward completion.

But the seed of doubt had been planted, growing roots in the back of March 7th's mind.

After thirty hours total—March 7th's internal chronometer was getting fuzzy from exhaustion—she pulled up the spreadsheet with mechanical efficiency, fingers moving automatically through the familiar motions.

"Operator. Status update: 200 of 613 commandments complete. Of the 271 commandments applicable without a Temple, we've completed 200."

"That's over seventy percent of POSSIBLE ones!"

Nahida confirmed, closing her latest notebook with satisfaction, "73.8%, to be precise."

"We might actually DO this. We might actually COMPLETE this challenge!"

Enterprise said, and meant it, "You're doing well, Operator."

The mission continued.

Thirteen hours remaining.

Four strangers who were becoming something more—even if no one would ever know it.

March 7th looked at her companions. Don Quixote was checking her halberd for damage, humming some tune from the City. Nahida was organizing her notes with meticulous care. Enterprise META stood watch, ever vigilant, but her posture was slightly less rigid than it had been at the start.

They'd come a long way from that first awkward meeting in the snow.

March 7th allowed herself a small smile. Maybe "maybe" was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

Exhaustion was setting in—though not the physical kind March 7th remembered from her time on the Astral Express. That bone-deep weariness after a long day didn't seem to exist here. Strange. Her body moved without complaint no matter how many hours passed. But something deeper was fraying—mental fatigue from continuous vigilance, theological debates, and watching their Operator make increasingly unhinged decisions.

March 7th sat on a frost-covered log, methodically organizing inventory for what felt like the thousandth time. Don Quixote stood guard with her halberd planted in snow. Nahida had filled three notebooks, starting a fourth. Enterprise META maintained her tactical overview, eyes scanning the treeline.

"Alright team. Twelve hours left. We're at 200 commandments. We can do this."

The Operator sounded exhausted too. That ragged edge that came from too many hours awake.

"Chat's asking if I'm okay. Honestly? I've been awake for thirty-six hours, BUT—I've done WORSE. I drove 6,584 kilometers in My Summer Car while chat kept donating to add EIGHTY MORE KILOMETERS each time. This? This is NOTHING compared to Finnish drunk-driving simulator hell."

March 7th snorted. Enterprise META's lips quirked slightly.

"The Operator has survived greater suffering," March 7th said dryly. "Noted."

They were traveling through the tundra when the Operator's voice shifted—less manic, more thoughtful.

"Chat's asking why I'm being so careful about these laws. Look—Judaism is about survival, right? Thousands of years of getting kicked around, and they're STILL HERE. These traditions? They're not arbitrary. They're MEMORY. Every time you keep kosher, you're saying 'I remember who I am.' That's... that deserves respect. Even if I'm doing it by attacking people in the dick in Skyrim."

Enterprise META had stopped walking. March 7th glanced at her—the older Companion stood rigid, staring at nothing.

"So yeah. That's why I'm not half-assing this. These laws carry weight. Somebody's ancestors. Somebody's survival. I'm not gonna disrespect that."

Silence across the tundra.

Nahida whispered, "He understands."

Enterprise said quietly, voice thick, "More than I expected."

March 7th said softly, "He sees it."

Don Quixote wiped at her eyes. "'Tis a worthy Operator we serve."

A dragon attacked. March 7th dove for cover as fire washed over the battlefield. The Operator engaged carefully, maintaining protocols.

Then the dragon's shout launched him backward—directly through the wall of the Holy of Holies.

Skyrim physics. Classic Bethesda.

"FUCK! NO NO NO—"

Don Quixote shrieked, "OPERATOR HATH BREACHED THE SACRED SEAL!"

March 7th panicked. "Does he DIE now?!"

Nahida frantically flipped pages. "The Levitical texts suggest divine punishment—"

Enterprise META's voice cut through. "Everyone. STOP."

They froze.

"Operator. Was that entry intentional?"

"NO! Dragon physics! Game bug!"

Enterprise said flatly, "Then it doesn't count. Intent matters in Jewish law. Accidental transgressions require acknowledgment, not punishment."

Stunned silence.

Nahida managed, "...You've read extensively on this?"

Enterprise adjusted her axe grip. "I served with people who observed these traditions. I learned."

"So I'm not DAMNED?"

"You're fine, Operator. Continue the mission."

"Goldie, I could kiss you right now."

"Please don't."

March 7th smiled. Enterprise was protecting him.

Don Quixote kept worrying about it as they traveled. "Shouldst we not have examined—"

March 7th cut in while checking her bow. "Was maintained because the Operator showed reverence. He exited immediately, acknowledged the error. That's what matters."

"But the divine cannot punish what the Operator cannot control!" March 7th continued. "This realm has broken rules! He was thrown through a wall by dragon magic!"

Don Quixote fell silent.

Nahida spoke carefully. "Don. You come from a world where rules are paramount. But we must adapt to this realm's circumstances."

"I just..." Don Quixote's voice was small. "I wish to uphold justice. If we compromise, where does it end?"

Enterprise finally spoke. "It ends where compassion and pragmatism meet. The laws are meant to help, not punish for impossible circumstances. The Operator has shown nothing but respect. One anomaly doesn't invalidate thirty-eight hours of dedication."

Don Quixote nodded slowly. "...Thou speakest wisdom."

"I speak experience."

March 7th felt warmth spreading. They were really a team now.

A donation alert. Then: music.

Traditional "Hava Nagila"—jubilant, energetic, unmistakably Jewish.

"Oh, CHAT! The celebratory music!"

March 7th's foot tapped unconsciously. "What IS that?"

Enterprise said automatically, "Wedding music. Celebratory."

The melody bounced. March 7th swayed. Don Quixote started rhythmic stepping, armor clanking.

Nahida said softly, eyes closed, "It's beautiful."

Enterprise stood still, eyes distant. "She hummed this. Between watches."

Another donation. Cantorial singing—elaborate, emotional.

"That's ACTUAL cantorial prayer. Chat, you're getting cultural!"

The Operator was fighting bandits, and the solemn prayer created bizarre juxtaposition. Sacred music over crotch attacks.

Nahida observed, "This feels inappropriate."

March 7th giggled, "This feels APPROPRIATE for this mission."

Enterprise listened intently. "Evening prayer. I've heard this before."

Another donation. Klezmer music erupted—clarinet wailing, violin sliding.

Don Quixote could NOT contain herself. She started dancing—full-on, halberd raised, spinning through snow.

March 7th called out, laughing, "Don!"

"THE MUSIC COMPELS ME!"

March 7th joined in, clumsy but enthusiastic. Nahida swayed, hands moving elegantly.

Enterprise META stood apart, watching. Smiling—genuine warmth.

March 7th called breathlessly, "You can dance with us!"

"I don't dance."

"You could START—"

"I don't dance." But her tone was gentle, almost fond. "But I can watch. That's enough."

Another donation. The tone shifted.

A Yiddish lament began—slow, mournful, heartbreaking. Centuries of displacement and grief compressed into melody.

The dancing stopped.

Don Quixote lowered her halberd. March 7th stood still, tears on her face. Nahida closed her notebook.

Enterprise META closed her eyes.

"That's... that's heavy, chat. Mourning music, right?"

The Operator stopped playing. Just standing there, letting the music fill space.

Enterprise whispered, "They played songs like this. For remembrance." Her voice cracked. "For everyone we lost."

March 7th felt tears streaming—the grief was universal. The loss. The survival despite loss.

Don Quixote removed her helmet, bowed her head.

Nahida's analytical mask slipped. Just feeling.

Enterprise stood rigid, tears streaming silently.

"All of them," she breathed. "Yorktown. Hornet. Cleveland. Helena. Everyone."

The song ended. Silence stretched.

"Chat. Thank you. That was important."

March 7th walked over to Enterprise. Didn't speak. Just stood beside her.

Don Quixote joined them.

Nahida completed the circle.

Four displaced souls, standing together, carrying grief they shared.

March 7th said softly, "We understand. Missing people. Missing home."

Don Quixote added, "We honor them by continuing."

Nahida finished quietly, "By remembering."

Enterprise nodded, unable to speak. Finally: "Thank you."

After thirty-five hours, March 7th checked the spreadsheet. "Operator, final count: 187 of 271 applicable commandments."

"That's LESS than before—"

Nahida explained, "Some became impossible due to circumstance. But of actively possible ones, you've maintained 95% compliance."

"So I'm winning?"

Enterprise confirmed, "You're doing better than expected. Missed ones were mostly accidents—anomalies, problems or reconfigurations."

"Chat, we might actually COMPLETE this!"

Don Quixote raised her halberd. "VICTORY APPROACHES!"

March 7th knocked wood. "Don't jinx it."

"—the point isn't perfection. Judaism doesn't expect that. It's about the attempt. The commitment."

Enterprise was walking ahead, shoulders relaxing.

"And to anyone out there who keeps these traditions—even when it's hard, even when it seems impossible—thank you. For keeping it alive."

Enterprise stopped walking.

"Goldie—I know you're AI, but your knowledge suggests someone important practiced these. So thank you. For helping me honor them properly."

March 7th grabbed Enterprise's hand. She was shaking.

"He sees you," March 7th whispered.

Nahida added gently, "He knows they mattered."

Don Quixote said softly, "THOU HAST HONORED THEM WELL!"

Enterprise couldn't speak. Finally, cracking: "Thank you, Operator."

He couldn't hear her.

But she said it anyway.

The dragon priest emerged. Final boss.

"Here we go. Everything I've learned. It comes down to this."

March 7th tracked the fight—dodge frost magic, return fire (crotch-aimed), maintain distance.

"He’s still standing!" March 7th called.

"No violations!" Nahida confirmed.

"POSITION ADVANTAGE MAINTAINED!" Don Quixote roared.

The dragon priest summoned a deathlord.

"Your covenant is PAST DUE—"

Crotch shot. The deathlord staggered.

Enterprise watched professionally. "He's doing well. No reckless moves."

The battle intensified. Health dropped. 50%. 30%. 10%.

"ALMOST THERE—"

Final shot. The dragon priest collapsed.

"YES! FORTY-THREE HOURS! TWO-FORTY-NINE COMMANDMENTS! ZERO DEATHS! WE FUCKING DID IT!"

The Companions erupted.

March 7th screamed, jumping. Don Quixote roared triumph. Nahida smiled hugely. Enterprise showed relief and satisfaction.

"We did it!" March 7th breathed.

"THE CAMPAIGN IS COMPLETE!" Don Quixote bellowed.

"I need to compile notes," Nahida said, grinning.

Enterprise stood still, processing. Then quietly: "We did it. For everyone."

Another donation. Different.

Professional sound quality. Rich. Full.

The London Festival Orchestra's "Hava Nagila" began.

SYMPHONIC. Sweeping strings. Triumphant brass. Full chorus.

"Oh my GOD. This is INCREDIBLE."

The Companions froze.

March 7th's eyes went wide. "This is BEAUTIFUL."

Don Quixote lowered her halberd reverently. "By all the heavens..."

Nahida held her notebook, not writing. Just experiencing.

Enterprise META closed her eyes.

The music swelled. Strings soared. Chorus sang with joy and defiance and survival and WE'RE-STILL-HERE.

"This is the most epic shit ever. Whoever donated—THANK YOU."

The Operator just stood there. Letting the music play. Letting it mean something.

March 7th felt tears. "I've never heard anything like this."

Don Quixote whispered, "'Tis a hymn of victory. Of survival."

Nahida said softly, "Celebration despite tragedy. Triumph over erasure."

Enterprise opened her eyes. "They should have heard this."

Her voice broke.

"Simple traditions. Humble celebrations. But THIS..." She gestured. "This is what they deserved. The grand celebration. The respect."

The music crescendoed.

Enterprise stood at attention. Saluted—crisp, perfect.

"For everyone who kept faith when everything fell apart."

The others joined her.

March 7th, hand over heart.

Don Quixote, halberd across chest.

Nahida, hands clasped.

Four Companions from four worlds, honoring memories.

"Judaism is beautiful. It's about memory. Identity. Surviving when the world wants you gone."

Enterprise listened, tears falling.

"I'm not Jewish. But I've spent forty-three hours trying to honor these traditions. I hope I did. At least a little."

Enterprise whispered, "You did. More than you know."

"So this completion? I'm dedicating it to everyone who's ever kept these traditions alive. Everyone who lit candles in secret, everyone who said 'fuck you, I remember who I am' in the face of people trying to erase them. For survival. For being stubborn bastards who refused to disappear."

The orchestra reached final crescendo.

"This one's for you. And yeah, I know that's cheesy as hell, but I don't care."

The music ended.

"And uh, Goldie? I don't know if you can actually process this, but you clearly know a LOT about this stuff. Like, way more than some random companion AI should. So whoever taught you—whoever you learned from—this is for them too. They mattered. Even if they're gone."

Enterprise's breath caught.

"Thanks for helping me not fuck this up completely."

March 7th squeezed Enterprise's hand. The older Companion was shaking.

"He sees you," March 7th whispered.

"He knows they mattered," Nahida added.

"THOU HAST HONORED THEM!" Don Quixote proclaimed.

Enterprise barely managed, "Thank you."

The transition was instant. Skyrim dissolved. They stood in Victorian elegance—wood paneling, brass fixtures, warm lighting.

Through windows: Australian landscape. Eucalyptus trees. Golden sunlight.

March 7th spun. "What IS this?"

Nahida approached a window, pressing her hand against the glass. "The architecture doesn't match the exterior view. How strange."

Enterprise META walked through methodically, checking corners. "Victorian design. Nineteenth century. But the landscape outside..." She paused at a window. "That's Australian. Wrong hemisphere entirely. Spatial inconsistency."

Don Quixote tested an armchair, sat. "LIKE SITTING ON CLOUDS!"

Enterprise walked through methodically. "Our quarters. Operator-provided."

March 7th found doors. Opened one—her room. Light, airy, photo frames with Skyrim memories.

"There are PHOTOS! The synagogues! The naked runs!"

Don Quixote emerged grinning. "MINE HATH TAPESTRIES!"

Nahida found hers—bookshelves, mission logs. "Everything documented."

Enterprise found hers last. Minimalist. Efficient. Terminal. Weapons locker.

Perfect.

"He customized this," Enterprise said. "The Operator."

March 7th settled on the couch. "He made it nice. Even thinking we're just writing."

Nahida by the fireplace. "He shows care regardless."

Don Quixote proclaimed, "A WORTHY COMMANDER!"

March 7th noticed another door. "What's THIS?"

She opened it.

CHAOS. Inflatable furniture. Ball pit. NEON SIGNS: "LETTUCE VIBE" and "CABBAGE ZONE." Mini-fridge. Vegetable bean bags. Arcade machine. Meme posters.

"...What."

"WHAT MANNER—"

Nahida stepped in. "This defies all coherence."

Enterprise stared at "LETTUCE VIBE." "The Operator provided this. Of course."

March 7th poked a carrot bean bag. "Why vegetables?"

"Because he's eccentric and this is his humor."

Don Quixote DOVE into the ball pit. "I KNOW NOT ITS PURPOSE BUT 'TIS GLORIOUS!"

March 7th jumped in. They swam through balls, laughing.

Nahida settled on a lettuce bean bag. "Quite comfortable."

Enterprise stood apart, watching. But smiling.

"Come ON, Goldie!"

"I don't do ball pits."

Don Quixote threw a ball at her. It bounced off her head.

Silence.

Enterprise picked up a ball. "...You're going to regret that."

Perfect military precision. Nailed Don Quixote.

"HA! A CHALLENGE!"

Ball pit war erupted. Even Enterprise smiled, returning fire with tactical efficiency.

They returned to the parlor. March 7th flopped on the couch. Don held a ball like a trophy. Nahida had tea. Enterprise finally sat.

March 7th checked the final spreadsheet. "Forty-three hours. 249 commandments. Zero deaths. Two synagogues. Countless crotch attacks."

Don said with satisfaction, "'TWAS GLORIOUS!"

Nahida closed her notebook. "Forty-seven pages completed."

Enterprise stood by the window. "We completed it."

March 7th smiled. "The Operator followed traditions with respect. Despite the chaos."

Enterprise turned. "In the most unhinged way possible. But yes."

Silence. Comfortable. Earned.

March 7th said quietly, "Do you think... wherever they are... they know?"

Enterprise was quiet. "I'd like to think so. Somewhere, they're watching. Maybe laughing at the absurdity."

"At the crotch attacks," March 7th giggled.

"At the naked Shabbat runs," Don grinned.

"At us," Nahida said softly.

Enterprise almost-smiled. "At all of it."

They sat together. Four strangers who'd become family.

The fire crackled. The Australian sunset painted the windows gold.

"What do you think comes next?" March 7th asked.

Enterprise shrugged. "Whatever the Operator decides. We adapt."

"Together," March 7th said.

"Together," the others agreed.

Outside, the sunset continued. Inside, four displaced souls found something like peace.

Not home. Not yet.

But maybe close enough.

Chapter Text

The terminal chimed at 9:47 AM, the familiar sound that meant Kyle Broflovski had returned from absence. Charlie looked up from organizing decorations near the back wall of their shared dorm, immediately brightening.

"Our Operator’s  back!"

AN-94, standing at her usual post near the doorway, straightened slightly. Kyoko didn't look up from the notes she'd been reviewing at the desk, though her eyes flicked toward the terminal. RPK-16, lounging on her bunk with a philosophy book, closed it with deliberate slowness and sat up.

"Morning routine. Right on schedule," Kyoko observed.

Then they heard it—muffled through the terminal's voice chat connection, but unmistakable. A sharp intake of breath. A pause. Then:

"...no."

Charlie's smile faltered. "Kyle?"

"No. No. NO. NO NO NO—"

The voice cut off as Kyle clearly pulled away from his microphone, but the distress was palpable even through the audio compression. AN-94 moved toward the terminal immediately, her expression neutral but her posture tense.

"Operator, report status."

No response. Just the sound of frantic typing, mouse clicks, and what might have been Kyle hitting his desk.

RPK-16 swung her legs off the bunk, genuinely interested now. "Well. This is unusual."

Kyoko was already at the wall, studying the charts Kyle had posted there months ago. Two massive printouts, updated regularly with handwritten annotations. The Counter Strike 2 trading system, known as Market 1 for the Companions, showed the characteristic volatile spikes and drops that Kyoko had long identified as high-risk speculation. Team Fortress 2's economy, known to Kyle’s Companions as Market 2, displayed the steady, mature growth curve of an established system.

The most recent entry on Market 1's chart, typed by Kyle just yesterday: $847 TOTAL

Kyoko pulled up the terminal's secondary screen, accessing the market data feeds Kyle had bookmarked. She watched the numbers cascade down like a waterfall.

"Kyoko?" Charlie asked quietly. "What's happening?"

"Market 1 has experienced catastrophic devaluation." Kyoko's voice remained level, but her fingers moved quickly across the interface. "$847 to $87. Ninety percent loss in value."

"Ninety—" AN-94 stopped. "That's total collapse."

"FUCK!" Kyle's voice erupted through the terminal again. "FUCK FUCK FUCK—Valve you fucking—MY KARAMBIT WAS THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS."

Charlie rushed to the terminal. "Kyle?! Are you hurt? What's—"

"I'm not hurt, Charlie, I'm RUINED. Valve just applied TF2's trading system to CS2 and they didn't account for—they just nuked EVERYONE'S inventory. Everyone. The whole fucking market."

RPK-16 approached the charts, studying them with the air of someone observing a particularly interesting natural disaster. "Ah. The recreation device fund."

"What?" Charlie looked between RPK-16 and the charts.

"The Steam Machine," Kyoko said, still analyzing data. "Operator Kyle was $97 away from the $750 required for acquisition. His entire Market 1 portfolio was earmarked for that purpose."

"And now it's worth eighty-seven dollars," RPK-16 finished, a note of dark amusement in her voice. "From the precipice of success to financial ruin in one morning. How delightfully tragic."

"That's not funny!" Charlie protested.

"I didn't say it was funny. I said it was delightful. There's a difference."

AN-94 ignored them, focused on the terminal. "Operator Kyle. Were we involved in this collapse?"

The typing stopped. A pause. Then Kyle's voice came back, strained but slightly calmer. "What? No. You guys didn't do anything. This is Valve. They changed the rules. Everyone who invested in CS2 skins just got wiped."

"Systematic intervention," Kyoko murmured, cross-referencing data. "Not a targeted attack or market manipulation. The governing authority restructured the entire system."

"Without accounting for the differences between Market 1 and Market 2," AN-94 added. She'd been listening to Kyle's market analysis for months now, absorbing the terminology even if the full context eluded her. "Market 2 has discontinued asset generation. Market 1 doesn't."

"Correct." Kyoko pulled up a secondary chart. "Market 1 operated on infinite supply with artificial scarcity through randomization. Market 2's valuable assets—salvaged crate series—ceased production years ago. When the authority applied Market 2's accessibility model to Market 1, they eliminated the scarcity mechanisms that maintained value."

"In common language?" Charlie asked desperately.

"Valve messed up," RPK-16 translated. "Spectacularly."

The terminal chimed with incoming messages—the group chat Kyle shared with his friends lighting up. AN-94 could see the notifications multiplying rapidly.

Kyle's Group Chat Terminal

[JFK Gaming]: WHAT THE FUCK

[JFK Gaming]: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

[Blue Marshal]: my whole inventory

[Blue Marshal]: DUDE MY WHOLE INVENTORY

Simultaneously, the Companions' own group chat terminal—the one connecting all twelve of them across four dorms—began flooding with messages.

Companions' Support Network

[Rem]: Does anyone understand what's occurring?

[Ram]: Economic collapse. Obviously.

[Aqua]: EVERYONE'S CRYING AND I DON'T KNOW WHY

[Uzuki]: Ganbarimasu! Let's stay positive! (。•̀ᴗ-)✧

[Priestess]: Operator Kenny seems... calm?

"Multiple Operators affected," AN-94 noted, reading the incoming reports. "This is network-wide."

Kyoko was already typing responses, her analytical mind shifting into coordination mode. "Confirmed. All Operators participating in Market 1 are experiencing simultaneous losses."

[Kyoko]: From what I've gathered: there's been a systematic market devaluation across Market 1. All Operators invested in that system have lost approximately 90% of their holdings.

[Selena]: The recreation device fund?

[Kyoko]: Destroyed. Our Operator was saving for the Steam Machine. So were Operators Stan and Cartman.

[Ayla]: That's... that's awful.

[Rem]: My Operator is yelling. Very loud yelling.

[Aqua]: MY OPERATOR TYPED "I CANT BREATHE" IS HE DYING?!

[Selena]: He's having a panic attack, Aqua.

[Uzuki]: But my Operator just typed "lol"? (・o・)

[Ram]: Operator Kenny predicted this?

Kyoko switched back to the players' chat, watching the conversation unfold.

[TechBro_Mike]: $2400. GONE. JUST GONE.

[SkinFlipperJay]: This is MARKET MANIPULATION

[Dead Phoenix]: told u tf2 months ago

[JFK Gaming]: SHUT UP KENNY

[Blue Marshal]: i cant breathe

[Blue Marshal]: is this a panic attack

[Bongwater Unlimited]: Everyone CALM DOWN

"They're not calming down," Charlie observed quietly, watching Kyle's frantic lines through the terminal.

"Would you?" RPK-16 asked. "They've just lost the equivalent of months of work. Their carefully constructed acquisition fund for recreational equipment—destroyed by bureaucratic incompetence. I'd say panic is the appropriate response."

AN-94 turned from the terminal. "Operator Kyle mentioned Market 2 earlier. Before the collapse. He said it had 'proven stability.'"

"TF2's market survived a crisis in 2019," Kyoko confirmed, pulling up historical data she'd archived. "The 'Crate Depression.' A system error caused rare asset generation rates to spike from 1% to 100%, flooding the market. Valve intervened, but the core Market 2 economy stabilized because the discontinued salvaged crate series maintained their scarcity."

"So Market 2 can survive intervention," Charlie said hopefully. "That's good, right?"

"It HAS survived," Kyoko corrected. "That doesn't guarantee it WILL survive another intervention. Valve demonstrated this morning that they're willing to restructure entire economic systems without warning."

The players' chat was escalating.

[Dead Phoenix]: salvaged crates bro

[Dead Phoenix]: limited edition discontinued

[Blue Marshal]: wait WHAT

[Dead Phoenix]: tf2 has actual scarcity. cs2 doesnt. 

[Bongwater Unlimited]: holy shit hes right

[TechBro_Mike]: Are you telling me TF2 has better market stability than CS2?

[SkinFlipperJay]: WAIT DIDNT TF2 CRASH IN 2019 TOO

[Blue Marshal]: oh god

[Blue Marshal]: didnt we MEME on tf2 players when that happened

RPK-16 started laughing—a genuine, delighted sound. "Oh this is magnificent."

"What?" Charlie demanded.

"They mocked the Operators who invested to Market 2 during the 2019 crisis. And now they're fleeing TO Market 2 for safety. The irony. The poetry."

[Dead Phoenix]: yall posted "hat economy lol" for WEEKS

[Dead Phoenix]: "imagine investing in cosmetics"

[Dead Phoenix]: WHO'S LAUGHING NOW

[JFK Gaming]: WE DONT TALK ABOUT THAT

AN-94 watched the exchange with growing concern. "Operator Kenny predicted this collapse?"

"Evidently," Kyoko said. "He repositioned to Market 2 months ago. The others didn't listen."

[Uzuki]: Operator predicted everything! He's so smart! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧

[Priestess]: He tried to warn the others...

[Kyoko]: Operator Kenny recognized the structural weakness before the collapse.

[AN-94]: So Market 2 is safer?

[Kyoko]: ...Unknown. It HAS BEEN stable. That's not a guarantee of future stability.

[RPK-16]: Ah yes, the classic gambler's fallacy in reverse. Past performance indicates future results, until it doesn't.

[Charlie]: Can you not be ominous for like five minutes?

[RPK-16]: Where would be the fun in that?

While at the players’ chats, things went differently

[Bongwater Unlimited]: okay everyone stop. STOP.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: we need to meet up and talk about this properly

[Blue Marshal]: yeah text isnt working

[JFK Gaming]: my room. 20 minutes.

[Dead Phoenix]: lol cartman's room smells like doritos

[JFK Gaming]: KENNY I SWEAR TO GOD

[Bongwater Unlimited]: 20 minutes. we'll figure this out.

Kyoko straightened. "They're organizing a physical assembly."

"That's good!" Charlie said immediately. "They can support each other face-to-face! That's so much better than just typing—"

"Charlie." AN-94's voice was quiet. "When they disconnect for the physical assembly..."

Charlie's enthusiasm died. "...we won't know what's happening."

"Information blackout," Kyoko confirmed. "We'll have no access to their discussion, their decisions, or their emotional states for the duration."

"How long?" Charlie asked weakly.

"Unknown. Could be twenty minutes. Could be hours."

RPK-16 settled back onto her bunk, picking up her book again but not opening it. "This should be interesting. Watching uncertainty unfold in real-time. Will they choose Market 2? Will they liquidate entirely? Will they make emotionally compromised decisions while panicking?"

"You're enjoying this," AN-94 said flatly.

"I'm observing this. There's a difference."

"Not much of one."

The terminal showed Kyle's status changing: Away

Then: Offline

Charlie stared at the blank status indicator. "He's gone."

"They all are," Kyoko said, checking the cross-network status. "All four Operators have disconnected simultaneously."

[Rem]: My Operator has disconnected.

[Selena]: Operator Stan too.

[Uzuki]: My Operator's meeting them! He typed "on my way!" (ノ´ヮ`)ノ*: ・゚

[Aqua]: WHAT DO WE DO NOW?!

[Ram]: We wait.

[Aqua]: I HATE WAITING!

[Rem]: As do I, but we have no alternative.

The silence in Kyle's Companions' Dorm felt oppressive. Charlie moved restlessly around the space, reorganizing decorations that didn't need reorganizing. AN-94 remained at her post by the door, posture military-straight but eyes distant. RPK-16 actually opened her book this time, though whether she was reading or just staring at pages was unclear.

Kyoko stayed at the terminal, pulling up every piece of data she could access.

"Market 2 historical analysis," she said aloud, though no one had asked. "2007 to present. Eighteen years of operation. One major crisis in 2019—the Crate Depression. Recovery time: approximately six months. Current baseline value: 47% higher than pre-crisis levels."

"So it recovered," Charlie said hopefully.

"It did. But Market 1 has only existed for two years. It had no crisis history, no proven resilience. When Valve applied the intervention..." Kyoko gestured at the chart. "Total collapse."

"Our Operator chose Market 1," AN-94 said quietly. "Why would he invest in an unproven system?"

"Higher returns," Kyoko answered immediately. "Market 1 showed rapid appreciation potential. Faster path to the recreation device fund. Risk-reward calculation."

"That didn't work out well," RPK-16 observed.

"No. It didn't."

[Kyoko]: Let's analyze what we know while we wait.

[Ram]: Market 1 collapsed due to lack of scarcity mechanisms.

[AN-94]: Market 2 has discontinued asset generation.

[Kyoko]: Correct. Which theoretically provides protection.

[Selena]: But Valve could intervene in Market 2 as well.

[Ayla]: The authority has that power.

[Rem]: Is there historical precedent for Market 2 intervention?

[Kyoko]: The 2019 crisis. But that was emergency stabilization, not restructuring.

[Uzuki]: And it worked! Market 2 recovered! (◕‿◕)

[Priestess]: So... there's hope?

[Kyoko]: There's precedent. Hope is subjective.

"They'll choose Market 2," Kyoko said with quiet certainty. "It's the only logical option."

Charlie looked up. "How do you know?"

"Process of elimination. Market 1 is destroyed. Complete liquidation leaves them with insufficient funds for any meaningful recovery. Market 2 has proven resilience and structural protections. Operator Kenny has already demonstrated successful positioning there." Kyoko pulled up a probability matrix she'd been building. "87% probability they consolidate in Market 2 and hold long-term."

"You did math?" Charlie asked.

"I always do math."

AN-94 studied the Market 2 chart on the wall. "Salvaged crate series. Numbers 30, 40, 50. Production ceased years ago. Finite supply." She paused. "Like discontinued military coin collections. Once minting stops, scarcity preserves value regardless of demand fluctuations."

"Exactly," Kyoko confirmed.

"But we don't know they'll choose that," Charlie insisted. "We're just guessing while they're out there actually deciding and we can't hear anything and what if they panic and do something irrational and—"

"Charlie." AN-94's voice cut through gently. "Spiraling won't help."

"Neither will waiting!"

"Perhaps not. But it's what we have."

[Aqua]: THIS IS SO STRESSFUL

[Ram]: Agreed. But all we can do is analyze available data and wait for the Operators' return.

[Selena]: How long has it been?

[Kyoko]: Seventeen minutes since disconnect.

[Uzuki]: I believe in them! They'll figure it out! ٩(•̀ω•́)ง

[Ayla]: Your optimism is admirable, Uzuki.

[Priestess]: I hope you're right

[Rem]: If Market 2 fails after they reposition

[Ram]: Don't.

[Rem]: But if it does—

[Ram]: Then we'll handle that when it happens. Catastrophizing helps no one.

RPK-16 closed her book with a soft thump. "You know what I find fascinating? We're essentially experiencing the same anxiety the Operators are experiencing, but from a completely different knowledge position."

Kyoko glanced at her. "Explain."

"They're panicking because they lost resources. We're panicking because we can't see them panicking. They're trying to solve a problem they understand. We're trying to predict a solution to a problem we barely comprehend. Parallel anxiety with completely different information sets."

"That's not helpful," Charlie said.

"I didn't say it was helpful. I said it was fascinating."

"Same difference to you."

"Precisely."

AN-94 checked the terminal again. Still offline. "Twenty-three minutes."

The silence stretched. Charlie had given up pretending to organize and was now just sitting on her bunk, staring at the terminal. Kyoko continued analyzing data, building contingency models for various Operator decisions. RPK-16 had returned to her book but was clearly listening to everything.

AN-94 remained standing.

"You can sit," Kyoko said without looking up.

"I'm fine."

"You've been standing for twenty-five minutes."

"I'm. Fine."

Another five minutes crawled past.

[Selena]: Has anyone noticed the external communications?

[Kyoko]: What external communications?

[Selena]: Other networks. Non-Market-1 participants. They're... celebrating?

[Ayla]: Celebrating the collapse?

[Selena]: I'm seeing phrases like "finally" and "about time" and "Valve did something right."

[AN-94]: They view Market 1's collapse positively?

[Kyoko]: ...one moment.

Kyoko shifted to monitoring external network chatter—public forums, community boards, the broader ecosystem beyond their Operators' immediate friend group.

"Interesting." Her tone was carefully neutral. "Large segments of the non-Market-1 population are expressing satisfaction with the collapse."

"Why?!" Charlie demanded.

"They characterize Market 1 as 'gambling' and 'exploitative.' They view the intervention as regulatory justice. Quote: 'CS2 skin economy was a casino. Good riddance.'"

RPK-16 laughed quietly. "One group's disaster is another's vindication. Classic zero-sum perspective."

[Kyoko]: I'm seeing significant external celebration of Market 1's collapse.

[Ram]: The Market 2 community specifically?

[Kyoko]: Yes. Extensively. Sample quote: "Who's laughing now?"

[Rem]: They're referencing the 2019 mockery.

[Uzuki]: That's mean... (´・ω・`)

[Priestess]: People are celebrating that the Operators lost everything?

[Kyoko]: Not celebrating their losses specifically. Celebrating the system's destruction. The distinction matters to them.

[Selena]: Does it matter to the Operators who lost their recreation device funds?

[Kyoko]: ...no. Probably not.

"Thirty-eight minutes," AN-94 said quietly.

Charlie made a frustrated noise. "What are they even doing over there?"

"Arguing," RPK-16 said. "Probably very loudly. Our Operator strikes me as a passionate arguer. Operator Cartman definitely is. Operator Stan's likely having an existential crisis. Operator Kenny's probably smug."

"That's not helpful!"

"Still fascinating though."

Kyoko was building increasingly complex probability matrices, her way of managing anxiety through data. "If they choose Market 2, recovery timeline estimates range from six months to two years depending on asset appreciation rates and additional capital injection. If they maintain current trajectory without interference from central authorities, our Operator could reach recreation device acquisition threshold in approximately fourteen months."

"Fourteen months," Charlie repeated. "He was so close. He was so close."

"Ninety-seven dollars away," Kyoko confirmed. "Which makes the psychological impact significantly worse. Proximity to goal achievement followed by catastrophic setback creates deeper emotional trauma than consistent distance from objective."

"Can you stop analyzing Kyle's trauma like it's a data point?!"

Kyoko paused. "...I'm sorry. You're right. I default to analysis when I'm worried."

That admission hung in the air for a moment.

"You're worried?" Charlie asked more softly.

"Of course I'm worried. Our Operator just lost months of work. His emotional state is compromised. We have no information about his decision-making process. And we're operating on incomplete information about whether Market 2 will provide actual safety or just delayed disaster." Kyoko's fingers moved across the terminal interface with slightly more force than necessary. "But I can't do anything about my worry. So I analyze. It's what I have."

AN-94 shifted her weight slightly—the first movement she'd made in ten minutes. "Forty-one minutes."

"Thank you, AN-94, we're all aware," RPK-16 said dryly.

"Time tracking provides structure."

"It provides anxiety."

"Perhaps both."

[Aqua]: ITS BEEN FOREVER

[Ram]: Forty-two minutes.

[Aqua]: THATS FOREVER

[Ayla]: Aqua, please maintain composure.

[Aqua]: I DONT KNOW HOW

[Uzuki]: We'll be okay! The Operators will come back and everything will be okay! (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

[Rem]: I admire your optimism, Uzuki.

[Rem]: I don't share it, but I admire it.

[Uzuki]: That's okay! I'll be optimistic for both of us! ✧٩(•́⌄•́๑)و ✧

The terminal chimed.

All four of them froze.

Kyle's status changed: Online

"He's back," Charlie whispered.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: okay we're back

[Blue Marshal]: plan is tf2 unusuals, hold long term

[JFK Gaming]: if this fails im suing valve

[Dead Phoenix]: 😎

"Market 2," Kyoko breathed. "Long-term hold. As predicted."

The Companions' group chat erupted immediately.

[Charlie]: KYLE'S BACK!

[Rem]: Operator Cartman has returned as well.

[Selena]: Operator Stan too!

[Uzuki]: My Operator Kenny is back and he used a sunglasses emoji! (ノ´ヮ`)ノ*: ・゚

[Aqua]: WHAT DID THEY DECIDE?!

[Kyoko]: Market 2 consolidation. Long-term hold strategy. Unusual hats and weapons, salvaged crate series.

[AN-94]: They reached consensus.

[RPK-16]: And our hypothesis was correct. We predicted their decision with 87% accuracy.

[Ayla]: They took 44 minutes to reach the same conclusion we reached in 20.

[Ram]: Different decision-making processes. They required physical assembly and emotional processing.

[Priestess]: The important thing is they have a plan...

[Selena]: And they seem... stable?

[Rem]: "Stable" is generous. Our Operator is contained, not stable.

[Ram]: I'll take contained.

The terminal in Kyle's Companions' Dorm chimed again—direct message.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: hey you guys okay? sorry about the chaos

Charlie rushed to type back. [Charlie]: We're okay! Are YOU okay?

[Bongwater Unlimited]: getting there. down to $127 from $847. liquidated everything and bought into tf2. salvaged crate unusuals. safer market.

[Kyoko]: Market 2 has proven structural resilience. The salvaged crate series maintains value through scarcity.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: yeah exactly. you guys have been paying attention huh?

[AN-94]: We monitor the situation. We'll support you through the recovery, Operator.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: thanks. means a lot.

[RPK-16]: From recreation device acquisition fund to market refugee. Quite the morning you've had.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: tell me about it. gonna be months before i can afford the steam machine now. if tf2 holds.

[Kyoko]: If the central authority doesn't apply similar intervention to Market 2.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: can you not

[Kyoko]: Apologies. Probability assessment is reflexive.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: its fine. youre not wrong to worry. but kennys been in tf2 for months and hes fine. market's solid. we'll rebuild.

[Charlie]: We'll be here the whole time!

[Bongwater Unlimited]: i know. thanks guys.

The terminal showed Kyle switching to other windows—probably updating spreadsheets, checking prices, beginning the long process of rebuilding. The sounds of typing through voice chat were calmer now. Still stressed, but purposeful rather than panicked.

AN-94 finally moved from the doorway, approaching the wall charts. She studied them for a long moment, then picked up a marker.

Market 1's column: ~~$847~~ → LIQUIDATED (crossed out in red)

Below that, a new column: Team Fortress 2 - $127 (Salvaged Series)

And at the bottom: Steam Machine Fund: $127 / $750

"There," AN-94 said quietly. "Documentation."

Kyoko joined her, studying the updated chart. "Fourteen months. Possibly less if appreciation rates exceed projections."

"Or longer if they don't," RPK-16 added. "Or never if the central authorities intervenes again. Or—"

"We get it," Charlie interrupted. "Uncertainty. Risk. Potential disaster. You've made your point."

"Have I? Because you all seem remarkably optimistic about Market 2's stability when we have exactly the same amount of information about it that we had about Market 1 before its collapse. Which is to say: not enough."

"Market 2 survived 2019," AN-94 said.

"Past performance doesn't guarantee future results."

"No. But it's all we have."

RPK-16 considered that, then smiled slightly. "Fair enough. Hope built on historical precedent rather than blind faith. I can respect that."

[Kyoko]: Status update: all Operators have returned and consolidated in Market 2.

[Ram]: Operator Kyle made the same choice we predicted.

[Selena]: Operator Stan seems... resigned but functional.

[Rem]: Operator Cartman is volatile but not actively destructive. Yet.

[Uzuki]: My Operator is very happy! He keeps using emojis! (◕‿◕)

[Aqua]: IS EVERYONE OKAY NOW?!

[Ayla]: "Okay" is subjective, Aqua. But they're stable.

[Priestess]: Now we just have to hope Market 2 stays stable...

[Kyoko]: Indeed. The real test begins now. We've moved from crisis response to long-term uncertainty management.

[RPK-16]: And we have front-row seats to the entire economic experiment. How thrilling.

[Charlie]: I'm just glad everyone made it through today.

[AN-94]: Agreed. Though I suspect we'll have many more days like this.

[Ram]: Probably.

[Rem]: Definitely.

[Uzuki]: But we'll get through them together! Ganbarimasu! ٩(•̀ω•́)ง

In Kyle's Companions' Dorm, the afternoon light filtered through the virtual windows—a programmed detail that mimicked real-world time progression. The crisis had passed, at least for now. Kyle's typing had settled into a steady rhythm as he researched TF2 Market investment strategies, occasionally muttering to himself about "Burning Flames" and "Scorching" effects that meant nothing to the Companions but clearly meant everything to him.

Charlie had returned to organizing, though with noticeably more energy now that the tension had broken. AN-94 remained near the updated chart, as if standing guard over the new numbers. Kyoko was building what looked like a comprehensive Market 2 analysis spreadsheet, because of course she was.

RPK-16 had actually gone back to reading her book—something about existentialism and simulation theory. How appropriate.

"You know," she said without looking up, "we spent forty-four minutes experiencing genuine anxiety about a situation we couldn't control, trying to predict decisions we couldn't influence, worrying about outcomes we couldn't prevent."

"Your point?" AN-94 asked.

"We're terrible at waiting. All of us. Even Kyoko with her probability matrices and you with your time tracking. We manufactured certainty out of insufficient data because uncertainty was unbearable."

"And?"

"And the Operators are probably doing the exact same thing right now with Market 2. Constructing confidence out of hope and historical precedent because the alternative—accepting that Valve could destroy this economy too—is too anxiety-inducing to sit with."

Kyoko looked up from her spreadsheet. "So we're all just... coping?"

"We're all just coping," RPK-16 confirmed. "Operators and Companions alike. Different methods, same fundamental anxiety. Welcome to economic uncertainty. Population: everyone."

"That's weirdly comforting," Charlie said.

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Means we're not alone in being scared."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose shared misery does have a certain appeal."

The terminal chimed with another group message.

[Kyoko]: How's everyone feeling now that the immediate crisis has passed?

[Selena]: Exhausted. But relieved.

[Ram]: Watchful. This isn't over.

[Rem]: Agreed. This is intermission, not resolution.

[Aqua]: I'M JUST GLAD EVERYONE CAME BACK

[Uzuki]: Me too! (◕‿◕)

[Priestess]: Do we think Market 2 will hold?

[Kyoko]: Statistically probable. Not guaranteed.

[AN-94]: We'll monitor. Be ready. Support the Operators through whatever comes next.

[Ayla]: That's all we can do, really.

[RPK-16]: Existential acceptance of our limited agency. How mature of us all.

[Charlie]: Or we could just say "we'll be here for them"?

[RPK-16]: Where's the philosophical depth in that?

[Charlie]: Sometimes things don't need philosophical depth!

[RPK-16]: Agree to disagree.

Kyle's voice drifted through the terminal, talking to someone in voice chat. Probably one of the others, discussing Market 2 strategies or maybe just venting about the morning's disaster. The words were unclear, but the tone had shifted from panic to determined frustration. Progress, in its own way.

"Fourteen months," Charlie said softly, looking at the chart.

"Possibly less," Kyoko offered.

"Possibly more," RPK-16 added.

"Possibly never," AN-94 completed.

They all stood there for a moment, studying the numbers, the crossed-out dreams, the tentative new plan built on hope and salvaged crates and the prayer that Valve wouldn't decide to "fix" Market 2 next.

"Well," Charlie said finally. "Guess we're in this for the long haul."

"We always were," AN-94 replied. "We just didn't know the haul would be quite this long."

Kyoko saved her spreadsheet, backed it up twice, and then started building a contingency model for if Market 2 experienced a 25% devaluation. Just in case.

RPK-16 turned another page in her book.

AN-94 adjusted the chart markers to make the numbers clearer.

Charlie went back to organizing, humming softly—some melody she'd picked up from one of Kyle's playlist rotations during late-night market monitoring sessions.

The terminal continued its steady background hum of activity. Markets ticking. Prices fluctuating. Operators making decisions. Companions watching, analyzing, worrying, hoping.

Fourteen months.

Maybe less. Maybe more. Maybe never. They'd find out together.

Chapter Text

The summoning happened without warning, as it always did. One moment Charlie was reading in Kyle's Companions' Dorm, the next she was standing in what appeared to be a grand entrance hall with moving staircases and floating candles. The robes she wore, yellow and black, unfamiliar but comfortable, adjusted themselves as she materialized.

"Whoa," she breathed, spinning to take in the architecture. "This is amazing!"

AN-94 appeared beside her, already scanning the environment. Her robes were green and silver, immaculate despite the sudden transition. "Architectural style suggests medieval European castle. Purpose is unclear. Tactical assessment: multiple entry points, numerous blind corners, defensibility questionable."

"Can you not do the military thing for five minutes?" RPK-16 drawled, adjusting her own green and silver robes with amusement. "We're in a magical castle. Try enjoying it."

"I'm cataloging potential threats."

"You're being paranoid."

Kyoko materialized last, blue and bronze robes settling around her as she immediately pulled out a small notebook. "Hogwarts. Harry Potter series. We've been deployed into a roleplay simulation based on fictional magical academy." She glanced at her robes. "Ravenclaw. Appropriate, I suppose."

Charlie was already wandering toward a group of other Companions gathered near what looked like the Great Hall entrance. Some wore robes like hers, Hufflepuff yellow. Others wore red and gold, blue and bronze, green and silver. A catgirl in Gryffindor robes waved enthusiastically.

"Hi! I'm Neko-chan! Is this your first time in this place?"

"Yeah!" Charlie beamed. "This is incredible! Look at the ceiling!"

"Right?!" Neko-chan bounced excitedly. "My Operator just got sorted into Gryffindor! He’s already in the Great Hall trying to figure out how to use the wands."

A stoic-looking Companion in Slytherin robes approached AN-94 with a nod of recognition. "First deployment to a public roleplay area?"

"Affirmative," AN-94 replied. "Your experience?"

"Third. Recommend maintaining low expectations. Chaos is standard."

"Noted."

The background noise was... chaotic. Music blasted from somewhere, high-pitched, repetitive, something about caramel dancing. Voice chat crackled with overlapping conversations, shouts, laughter. A player in Gryffindor robes ran past screaming "AVADA KEDAVRA" at another player, who collapsed dramatically before respawning seconds later with an annoyed groan.

"Is this normal?" Charlie asked uncertainly.

"Unfortunately, yes," a well-dressed Companion said, appearing at her elbow. "Welcome to public roleplay realms. The protocols are... flexible."

"Flexible?"

"Non-existent, darling. My Operator told me to 'just vibe.' I'm still determining what that means."

Kyoko was taking notes. "Audio disruption constant. Participants ignoring established universe mechanics. Authority figures present but enforcement inconsistent." She looked up. "Where's our Operator?"

"Probably getting sorted," RPK-16 said, watching a group of players argue about house assignments near the entrance. "This should be entertaining."

Kyle's voice the voice chat. "Okay guys, I'm in. Got sorted into Gryffindor. Stan's here too, he's heading to some class or something. Cartman got Slytherin, obviously. Kenny's... I don't know where Kenny went."

"Operator Kyle," AN-94 said. "What are our mission parameters?"

"Uh... just hang out? Explore? It's RP, so just... roleplay, I guess. I'm gonna check out the castle."

Charlie perked up. "Can we come with you?"

"Sure, yeah. I'm heading to the dungeons, see what's down there."

The dungeons were quieter than the main halls. Darker too, with flickering torches that cast long shadows across stone walls. Kyle's character, dressed in Gryffindor robes with his username "Bongwater Unlimited" floating above his head, led the way down a narrow corridor.

AN-94 walked slightly ahead, maintaining tactical spacing. Kyoko examined the architecture with analytical interest. Charlie stayed close to Kyle, marveling at the atmospheric lighting. RPK-16 brought up the rear, humming something off-key.

"This passage wasn't documented in the realm's structure," AN-94 noted, pausing at a junction where the stonework looked slightly different—newer, less weathered.

"Hidden area?" Kyoko moved forward, running her hand along the wall. "Or unauthorized construction."

"Only one way to find out." Kyle's character ducked into the passage.

The corridor descended steeply, the walls transitioning from medieval stone to something more modern, concrete, exposed pipes, fluorescent lighting that flickered uncertainly. The atmosphere shifted from magical academy to something else entirely.

"Operator Kyle," AN-94 said slowly. "The environment has changed significantly."

"Yeah, I'm seeing that. What the hell..."

They emerged into a large underground chamber that had no business existing beneath a magical castle. Chemical equipment lined metal tables. Beakers, burners, complex glass tubing connected in elaborate configurations. The smell, simulated but present for the Companions, was acrid, industrial.

Half a dozen players in Hogwarts robes stood around the equipment, working with the casual efficiency of people who knew exactly what they were doing.

Kyoko stopped dead. "...this is methamphetamine synthesis equipment."

"WHAT?!" Charlie stared at the setup in horror. "Why is there a DRUG LAB in a SCHOOL?!"

One of the players, username "Heisenberg_2007" floating above his Ravenclaw robes, looked up. "Yo, you guys narcs?"

"Nah, they're with me," Kyle said quickly, his character moving into the chamber. "What is this place?"

"Meth lab, bro. Been here since the map loaded. Admins don't care, no enforcement down here." Heisenberg gestured at the equipment proudly. "We're making bank. Well, fake bank. There's no actual currency system on this server but it's funny as hell."

Kyle was quiet for a moment. Then "...can I help?"

"KYLE?!" Charlie turned to stare at him.

"It's not real, Charlie. It's just... it's GMod RP. This is absurd. Look at this." He gestured at the whole setup, players in wizard robes cooking meth in a basement under Hogwarts. "How can I not participate in this?"

RPK-16 started laughing. "Oh, this is magnificent. A magical academy with an underground narcotics operation. The juxtaposition is exquisite."

"It's WRONG!" Charlie protested.

"It's hilarious," Kyle countered. "Come on, this is peak GMod energy. You can't tell me this isn't funny."

AN-94 was studying the equipment with uncomfortable interest. "The chemical synthesis configuration is surprisingly accurate."

"Right?!" Heisenberg_2007 moved over to one of the stations. "The addon's got actual chemistry mechanics. You can optimize yields, adjust purity, the whole nine yards. It's actually pretty educational if you think about it."

"Educational," Charlie repeated weakly.

Kyoko had her notebook out, already sketching the setup. "The process flow is... well-designed. Input here, reaction chamber here, cooling system, filtration..." She looked up, caught AN-94 and Charlie staring at her. "What? I'm cataloging the facility."

"You're INTERESTED," Charlie accused.

"Academically. It's fascinating from an operational efficiency standpoint."

Another player emerged from a side tunnel, "ChadThundercock" in Hufflepuff robes. "Yo Heisenberg, we got more people? Place is getting crowded."

"Bongwater's crew. They're cool."

"Bongwater?" ChadThundercock snorted. "That's your player’s username?"

AN-94 visibly flinched at the username. "Our Operator's codename is... yes."

Kyle was already examining the equipment, asking questions about yield optimization and reaction temperatures. Within minutes, he was fully engaged, helping adjust valve settings and monitoring temperature gauges.

"I can't believe this," Charlie muttered.

"Believe it," RPK-16 said cheerfully. "We're accomplices to magical meth production now. Add it to the resume."

Another Companion appeared at the tunnel entrance, female, blue and bronze robes, elegant bearing. Selena. She froze at the sight of the lab, hand going to her chest. "What... what is this place?"

"Narcotic production facility," AN-94 said flatly. "Operator Kyle is participating."

"But..." Selena looked around in dismay. "This is a school..."

"Logic doesn't apply here, darling," said another Companion, descending into the lab with weary acceptance. "My Operator told me that fifteen minutes ago. I'm starting to believe them."

Meanwhile, in another part of the castle, Stan was having a very different experience.

The Transfiguration classroom was nearly empty. Professor McGonagall's desk sat at the front, unoccupied, the player running her apparently AFK. Three other students sat scattered around the room, two of them clearly AFK as well based on their motionless avatars.

Stan sat in the front row, wand in hand, waiting patiently for something to happen.

Selena, Ayla, and Aqua stood near the back of the classroom.

"Operator Stan seems very dedicated to the academic experience," Ayla observed.

"He's the only one actually trying to roleplay," Selena said softly. "Look at him. He's waiting for a class that isn't going to happen."

Stan's voice came through their connection, frustrated: "Is the teacher coming back or...?"

One of the non-AFK students, "xXDarkLordXx", turned around. "Dude, teacher's been AFK for like ten minutes. This is pointless."

"But it's a CLASS. We're supposed to—"

"Bro, this is GMod. Nobody actually RPs in these servers. We're just here for the chaos."

Stan was quiet for a long moment. Then, with barely suppressed irritation

"Then why join an RP server?"

"For the memes, my guy."

xXDarkLordXx stood up, cast a spell that turned another AFK student's robes bright pink, and left laughing.

Stan stared at the empty teacher's desk. Pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture his character model somehow conveyed perfectly. "This is bullshit."

"Operator Stan sounds distressed," Aqua said quietly.

"He wanted structured roleplay," Ayla said. "He's getting... not that."

Stan stood, gathering his things. "I'm going to the library. Maybe that'll be quieter."

The library was, mercifully, peaceful.

Tall shelves lined with books that probably weren't readable, but looked impressive. Vaulted ceilings. Stained glass windows filtering colored light across reading tables. Only a few players were present, most of them actually sitting and reading—or at least appearing to.

Stan's character sat at a table near the window, and his Companions could hear him exhale slowly. "Okay. This is better. This is fine."

"The architecture is impressive," Ayla said, examining the Gothic revival details. "Whoever designed this building put significant effort into authenticity."

"Look at all the books!" Aqua bounced between shelves. "I wonder if they're readable!"

"Some are," a Companion said from a nearby table—female, practical-looking robes, tired eyes. "Most are just props, but a few have actual text. My Operator found one earlier. It was... a surprisingly well-written story, pornographic, but well written."

"That's oddly charming," Selena said, settling into a chair near Stan.

Charlie appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath, with Uzuki close behind. "Oh thank god, we found you guys! The meth lab was getting crowded and Operator Kyle told us to explore and—oh, this is nice! Hi Stan!"

"Hey Charlie. Hey Uzuki." Stan waved. "Had Kyle find anything interesting?"

"A DRUG LAB," Charlie said, still processing. "Under the school. Kyle's down there cooking meth with strangers."

"Of course he is." Stan sounded resigned. "That tracks."

"Operator Kenny is doing acrobatics in the ceiling spaces," Uzuki added cheerfully. "He's so skilled! He found a way to phase through the architecture!"

"Kenny's breaking physics. Also tracks." Stan leaned back in his chair. "I just wanted to roleplay at Hogwarts. Go to classes, learn spells, maybe join the Quidditch team. Is that too much to ask?"

"Apparently, yes," Ayla said gently.

A distant crack echoed through the stone walls. Then another. Gunfire?

Everyone in the library froze.

"Was that..." Charlie started.

"Small arms fire," Ayla said, suddenly alert. "Semi-automatic. Close range."

"IN A MAGIC SCHOOL?!" Aqua shrieked.

Stan was already standing. "I'm gonna kill Cartman."

In the Great Hall, chaos had erupted.

Cartman stood on one of the long dining tables, holding an M4A1 assault rifle, laughing as players scattered in every direction.

The audio was pandemonium. Screaming in voice chat. Gunfire. Bodies dropping and respawning, only to get immediately shot again.

"WHAT THE FUCK, BRO!"

"WHY DOES HE HAVE A GUN?!"

"ADMIN ABUSE!"

"THIS IS BULLSHIT!"

Cartman's voice boomed over the chaos: "WELCOME TO REAL WARFARE, BITCHES! NO MORE WANDS! NO MORE MAGIC! JUST GOOD OLD-FASHIONED AMERICAN FIREPOWER!"

RPK-16 stood in the middle of the Great Hall, completely calm as bullets whizzed past. She'd acquired a wand at some point and was examining it with casual interest, apparently unconcerned with the massacre happening around her.

Aqua dove behind an overturned bench, screaming. "WHY IS THERE ARMED CONFLICT IN A MAGICAL ACADEMY?!"

A Companion in Gryffindor robes, the stoic military one from earlier, crouched next to her. "First time?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN FIRST TIME?! THIS IS INSANE!"

"Give it twenty minutes, it'll get worse."

RPK-16 walked past them, stepping over a respawning player. "Operator Cartman acquired military hardware from the authority figure."

"WHY WOULD THEY GIVE HIM A GUN?!" Aqua wailed.

"Poor judgment. Hubris. The usual human failings."

Another burst of gunfire. More screaming. Cartman had climbed onto the teacher's table now, taking potshots at anyone who spawned.

"THIS IS AMAZING!" he crackled through voice chat. "THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!"

Rem and Ram weren't in the Great Hall. They were hiding in a bathroom on the second floor, having fled the moment the shooting started.

"I caused this," Ram said quietly, staring at the stone wall.

"Yes," Rem agreed. "You did."

"I thought strategic advice would—"

"You suggested giving Operator Cartman a firearm."

"It was meant to be intimidating. A deterrent. I didn't anticipate—"

"That he would immediately use it to massacre everyone?"

"...yes."

"You've met Operator Cartman, correct?"

"I have made," Ram said slowly, "a severe error in judgment."

The bathroom door burst open. A Companion stumbled in, female, Hufflepuff robes, wild-eyed. "Are you hiding too?!"

"Yes," Rem said. "This is a secure location."

"Thank god." The Companion, designation patch reading "Helena", collapsed against the wall. "My Operator's been eliminated twelve times. TWELVE. They're just trying to roleplay and they keep getting shot!"

"We're very sorry," Rem said sincerely.

"Why are YOU sorry?"

Ram raised her hand slightly. "I suggested the firearm to the authority figure."

Helena stared at her. Then, very quietly, "You're the reason this is happening."

"Yes."

"My Operator is having a panic attack."

"We're... deeply sorry."

"Sorry doesn't un-shoot people!"

In the ceiling spaces above the Great Hall, Kenny had the perfect vantage point.

The Priestess clung to a support beam, having finally made it up after six attempts and multiple eliminations. "Operator Kenny, should we not intervene? People are being hurt!"

Kenny's text appeared in their local chat: "its funny tho"

"This is your definition of humorous?!"

"ye"

Below them, Cartman reloaded and opened fire on a group of Ravenclaws trying to cast protection spells. The spells failed. The Ravenclaws did not.

"lmao get rekt" Kenny typed.

The Priestess watched in horror as the body count climbed. "I'm concerned about your moral compass, Operator."

"dont have one"

"That's not reassuring!"

Another Companion appeared at the edge of the ceiling space, trying to climb up. "How did you get up there?!"

"Followed my Operator," The Priestess called down. "I don't recommend it!"

"What's your Operator's designation?!"

"Dead Phoenix!"

"The one exploiting physics anomalies?!"

"...yes."

"CAN YOU HELP ME UP?!"

Kenny typed: "skill issue"

The other Companion fell back down, respawning with a frustrated scream.

In the dungeons, the meth lab had become an unexpected refugee camp.

Kyle looked up from the synthesis station as another player practically fell into the chamber. "Whoa, you good?"

"NO I'M NOT GOOD! THERE'S A FUCKING SCHOOL SHOOTING UPSTAIRS!"

"Yeah, Cartman got a gun. Admin gave it to him."

"WHY WOULD THE ADMIN DO THAT?!"

"Poor life choices?" Kyle shrugged. "We're staying down here until it blows over. Safest place in the castle right now."

Heisenberg_2007 didn't even look up from his work. "Yeah bro, meth lab's neutral territory. We don't get involved."

More players started filtering in, some wounded, all panicked. Companions followed—AN-94 immediately took up a defensive position at the tunnel entrance. Kyoko started organizing people, directing them to safe areas. Selena looked like she was having an existential crisis.

"I can't believe we're taking refuge in a narcotic production facility," a Companion in Slytherin robes said, shell-shocked.

"It's the most structurally isolated location," AN-94 replied. "Defensible. Single entrance. Authority figures haven't discovered it."

"That's not the point!"

Charlie was trying to help people calm down. "It's okay, we're safe here! Kyle says the admin hasn't found this place yet!"

"Kyle?" a newcomer Companion asked.

"I mean Operator Bongwater Unlimited," Charlie corrected quickly. Other players didn't know Kyle's real name.

"Bongwater?" The Companion blinked. "That's his designation?"

"Please don't," AN-94 said tiredly.

More players arrived. The lab was getting crowded. Someone started a count: fifteen players, over twenty Companions, all hiding in a meth lab under a magical school while gang warfare erupted above.

"This is the weirdest Tuesday I've ever had," a Companion muttered.

"It's Saturday," another player corrected.

"Is it? I've lost track of time."

Kyoko was at the tunnel entrance with AN-94, monitoring the situation. "Multiple firearms now. The authority figure is distributing weapons to returning participants."

"WHAT?!" several voices cried at once.

"Gang warfare has commenced. Participants are forming factions. I'm hearing references to 'Crips' and 'Bloods.'"

"IN HOGWARTS?!"

"Affirmative."

Kyle pulled up the scoreboard, scrolling through the chaos. "Oh my god, JFK Gaming joined the Crips."

"Of course he did," Heisenberg_2007 said. "Your friend's a menace, Bongwater."

"Trust me, I know."

Stan burst into the library, out of breath. His Companions looked up from their reading in alarm.

"Operator Stan?" Ayla stood quickly. "What's happening?"

"Cartman. Cartman is happening. There's—the Great Hall is a warzone. Actual gangs. Crips and Bloods. In fucking Hogwarts." He collapsed into a chair. "I tried to stop him. I got shot. Twice."

"This is awful," Selena said softly.

"This is GMod," Stan replied bitterly. "This is what I get for thinking a public RP server would be anything other than chaos."

The library door opened again. More Companions filed in, looking shaken.

"Is this the safe zone?" one asked.

"It appears to be," Ayla confirmed. "We haven't been disturbed."

"Thank god." A Companion exclaimed, and sank into a chair. "The Great Hall is Hell. Actual Hell."

"My Operator joined the Bloods," another Companion said miserably. "They were just trying to be a Hufflepuff. Now they're in a gang."

More kept arriving. Within ten minutes, the library held eight Companions beyond Stan's group, all refugees from the chaos.

Charlie and Uzuki, having made it back from the meth lab, were trying to keep spirits up. "Look, we're all safe here! It's quiet! There are books!"

"There's a GANG WAR outside!"

"Yes, but not IN here!"

Uzuki was genuinely trying to help. "We can wait it out together! Ganbarimasu!”

A Companion in Ravenclaw robes stared at her. "Your optimism is deeply unsettling."

"I'm just trying to help!"

"I know. That's what makes it unsettling."

By the time the chaos reached its peak, Hogwarts had effectively become a war zone.

The Great Hall had become Crips territory, fortified positions, Cartman leading charges from the teacher's table.

The Courtyard, on the other hand, becamea  Bloods stronghold, barricades made from conjured furniture, coordinated defensive positions.

The Dungeons is now ending up as the Meth lab refugee camp, neutral territory, still somehow cooking drugs in the middle of everything.

The Library is now Safe zone, over a dozen Companions hiding, attempting to maintain normalcy through reading.

The Ceiling, Kenny's observation post, perfect view of everything, The Priestess traumatized but stuck.

Various Bathrooms are now just scattered hiding spots, Rem and Ram still dealing with the guilt, other Companions taking shelter wherever they could find it.

The admins were trying to regain control, but the damage was done. Voice chat was an incomprehensible mess of shouting, gunfire, and occasional attempts at actual roleplay that were immediately drowned out.

Someone had set up a DJ station in the Great Hall. Now there was a soundtrack to the gang warfare.

"This is my life now," Stan said flatly from the library. "This is what I chose when I joined this server."

"We could leave," Ayla suggested gently.

"No. No, I'm going to sit here and wait for this to end. On principle."

"Our Operator is very dedicated to his values," Selena observed.

"Or very stubborn," Aqua added.

"Both. Definitely both."

In the meth lab, Kyle was still cooking.

"Shouldn't we, like, help?" a player asked.

"Help how?" Kyle responded. "Go up there and get shot? We don’t even have our own shit. Whatever. Point is, we're not fighters."

"But—"

"Look, the admin will sort it out eventually. They'll roll back the server or ban people or something. Until then, we're in the safest place in the entire castle. Might as well be productive."

"Productive," Kyoko repeated, checking a temperature gauge. "We're producing methamphetamine."

"Fake methamphetamine in a magical school in a video game," Kyle corrected. "Context matters."

"Does it?" AN-94 asked from her guard post.

"I'm choosing to believe it does."

Charlie had given up trying to understand anything. She sat in a corner with Selena, both of them just... processing.

"This was supposed to be a magical adventure," Charlie said quietly.

"I know," Selena replied.

"We were going to learn spells and go to classes and maybe see a Quidditch match."

"I know."

"Instead we're in a meth lab during a gang war."

"I know."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"I want to go home," Charlie said.

"We can't. Not until the Operator disconnects."

"I know."

Eventually, after what felt like hours but was probably only forty-five minutes, the admin team made an announcement:

"SERVER ROLLING BACK IN 5 MINUTES. EVERYONE WILL BE KICKED. WE'RE VERY SORRY ABOUT THIS."

Relief swept through various hiding spots.

"Thank god." everyone in the library agreed

"Finally." same with everyone in the meth lab

In the ceiling, Kenny typed "aw man"

"It's over?" came the bathroom

The countdown began. Players started saying goodbye, some laughing about the chaos, others just glad it was ending.

Cartman's voice boomed one last time "SAME TIME NEXT WEEK?"

"NO!" multiple voices shouted back.

"WE'LL SEE!"

Kyle was saving his meth lab notes. "Heisenberg, good working with you, man."

"Yeah bro, hit me up if you find another server with chemistry mods."

"Will do."

The Companions started gathering their respective Operators' groups. Charlie found Kyle, relief obvious in her posture. "Are we leaving?"

"Yeah. Server's resetting. Probably for the best." Kyle looked around the meth lab one last time. "This was wild."

"This was traumatic," Charlie corrected.

"Tomato, tomahto."

"That's not how that phrase works!"

AN-94 was already conducting post-mission assessment. "Casualties: numerous. Structural integrity: compromised. Mission success: questionable."

"We made it out alive," Kyle pointed out.

"That's a very low bar, Operator Kyle."

The summoning reversal felt like falling backwards through water. One moment they were in the castle, the next they were back in Kyle's Companions' Dorm, the familiar space a stark contrast to the chaos they'd just experienced.

Charlie immediately flopped onto her bunk. "I need to lie down."

"You're already lying down," RPK-16 pointed out.

"I need to lie down MORE."

Kyoko was organizing her notes, filling page after page with observations. "Fascinating social experiment. Complete systemic collapse in under an hour. The introduction of anachronistic weaponry created immediate factional warfare. The meth lab becoming a neutral refuge zone was unexpected but logical given its isolation and the participants' investment in maintaining that space as non-combative."

"We made drugs," Charlie said into her pillow.

"We optimized a synthesis process," Kyoko corrected.

"We made DRUGS."

"Technically our Operator made drugs. We observed."

"I helped monitor temperatures!"

"Under duress."

AN-94 was silent, standing by the terminal, processing. After a long moment: "That was the most chaotic assignment we've experienced."

"Agreed," RPK-16 said cheerfully. "I loved every minute."

"You're unhinged."

"I prefer 'adaptable.'"

In Stan's Companions' Dorm, the mood was subdued.

"Operator Stan seemed very disappointed," Selena said quietly.

"He wanted to roleplay," Ayla replied. "He got chaos instead."

"He got shot," Aqua added. "Multiple times!"

"But he maintained his principles," Ayla continued. "He tried to engage with the realm as intended. That takes integrity."

Stan's voice came through their connection: "I'm never joining a public RP server again."

"Our Operator has learned a valuable lesson," Selena observed.

"At what cost?" Aqua asked dramatically.

"His dignity," Ayla said. "And approximately forty-five minutes of his life."

In Kenny's Companions' Dorm, the atmosphere was different.

"That was AMAZING!" Uzuki was practically bouncing. "Our Operator found so many secret areas! Did you see how high we got?!"

The Priestess was sitting very still, staring at nothing. "I died six times trying to follow him up there."

"But you made it!"

"I fell through the ceiling twice."

"But you got to see everything!"

"I saw a gang war."

"Wasn't it exciting?!"

The Priestess looked at her. "Uzuki, I respect your optimism. I truly do. But that was one of the most stressful experiences of my life."

"But we survived!"

"Barely!"

"That counts!"

The Priestess sighed. "I suppose it does."

In Cartman's Companions' Dorm, the silence was heavy.

Rem sat on her bunk, hands folded. Ram stood by the terminal, staring at it.

"I suggested the firearm," Ram said finally.

"Yes."

"I thought it would be intimidating. A deterrent."

"Yes."

"Instead, Operator Cartman used it to initiate a massacre."

"Yes."

"Which led to the authority figure distributing more weapons."

"Yes."

"Which led to gang warfare."

"Yes."

"I caused all of that."

"Yes."

Ram turned to look at her sister. "We're never speaking of this assignment again."

Rem met her eyes. "Agreed."

"To anyone."

"Agreed."

"Ever."

"Agreed."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"Though," Rem said quietly, "we should probably consider implementing better judgment protocols for future assignments."

"Already drafting them," Ram replied.

Kyle checked his PC one last time before logging off completely.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: that was insane

[Blue Marshal]: i hate you for suggesting that server

[Bongwater Unlimited]: how was i supposed to know it would turn into detroit

[JFK Gaming]: THAT WAS AWESOME

[Blue Marshal]: cartman you ruined everything

[JFK Gaming]: i MADE everything. that server was boring until i got involved

[Dead Phoenix]: he's not wrong

[Blue Marshal]: kenny you're supposed to be on my side

[Dead Phoenix]: im on the side of chaos

[Bongwater Unlimited]: anyway, same time next week?

[Blue Marshal]: ABSOLUTELY NOT

[JFK Gaming]: im in

[Dead Phoenix]: same

[Bongwater Unlimited]: stan?

[Blue Marshal]: fine. but we're finding a better server.

[Bongwater Unlimited]: deal

Charlie watched Kyle close the chat, then looked around at her fellow Companions. "Are we really doing this again next week?"

"Apparently," Kyoko said, not looking up from her notes.

"I can't wait," RPK-16 said with genuine enthusiasm.

AN-94 said nothing, but Charlie could see her already running tactical assessments for potential future assignments.

"We're going to die," Charlie said.

"We're going to return," AN-94 corrected. "Multiple times."

"That's not better!"

"No," AN-94 agreed. "It's not."

But they'd be there anyway. Because that's what Companions did. They followed their Operators into whatever chaos awaited, tried to make sense of it, and survived to process it afterward.

Even if that chaos involved meth labs and gang warfare in Hogwarts.

Especially then.

Chapter Text

The summoning was instantaneous and disorienting.

Grass Wonder felt reality compress, then snap back into focus. She stood on cracked asphalt, surrounded by brick buildings that looked like they'd been copy-pasted from every American downtown ever filmed. Graffiti covered the walls—some of it artistic, most of it just crude drawings and illegible tags. Car alarms wailed in the distance. Someone was blasting music, a repeating electronic beat that made her ears twitch.

She looked down at herself. Her racing silks were gone, replaced by casual civilian clothing—jeans, a simple blouse, comfortable shoes. Her horse ears remained, twitching at the cacophony of noise flooding the street.

"Status check," a voice said beside her.

Grass Wonder turned. A woman in tactical-looking casual wear—cargo pants, fitted jacket, practical boots—stood with military posture, scanning their surroundings with sharp efficiency. Silver-white hair, golden eyes, an air of absolute competence.

"Oh! Hello!" Grass Wonder immediately bowed slightly, her upbringing demanding politeness even in confusion. "I'm Grass Wonder. It's a pleasure to work with you!"

"Lyfe Bestla." The woman's assessment completed, she faced Grass Wonder. "Designation: Companion. Assignment location: unknown. Operator status: pending connection."

"Right, yes, I'm also a Companion!" Grass Wonder tried to match Lyfe's professional tone but couldn't quite suppress her natural friendliness. "Do you know what kind of assignment this is? The architecture suggests an urban environment, possibly modern American setting based on the building styles and—"

"ALRIGHT BITCHES, DADDY'S HOME!"

Both Companions froze.

The voice boomed through their connection—their Operator's voice chat crackling to life with aggressive enthusiasm. A figure appeared down the street, sprinting toward them with the frantic energy of someone who'd consumed too much caffeine. The username floating above his head read: ChairLordSupreme

Grass Wonder's smile remained fixed on her face, though her eye twitched slightly. "Our... Operator?"

"Affirmative," Lyfe said flatly.

ChairLordSupreme skidded to a stop in front of them, his character model, a default citizen in a cheap suit, then spam emotes. "OH SHIT, YOU'RE HERE! Perfect! Okay, listen up, we're doing something LEGENDARY today!"

"Sir, what are our mission parameters?" Lyfe asked immediately.

"Mission para—okay, okay, I like you already. You sound military as fuck. I'm calling you Sarge Jr."

Lyfe's expression didn't change, but Grass Wonder noticed the slight tension in her jaw. "My name is Lyfe Bestla, Operator."

"Yeah, and I'm renaming you Sarge Jr. because that's way cooler. And you—" He turned to Grass Wonder, and she could practically feel his grin through the screen. "Horse Girl."

"I... my name is Grass Wonder, actually—"

"Nah, you got horse ears. Horse Girl. Done. Anyway, we're opening a FURNITURE STORE!"

Silence.

Grass Wonder processed this. "A... furniture store?"

"FUCK YEAH! Look, I spawned near this empty building, right? And I'm thinking, everyone on this server is running around doing crime and cops-and-robbers bullshit, but you know what they DON'T have? QUALITY FURNITURE AT AFFORDABLE PRICES!"

Lyfe was already moving, checking the building ChairLordSupreme was gesturing at—a two-story structure with large windows, perfect for retail display. "Defensible. Good visibility. Central location. Acceptable."

"See? Sarge Jr. gets it! Come on, let's set up shop!"

The next twenty minutes were a chaotic blur of prop placement and increasingly frantic organization.

ChairLordSupreme spawned furniture with the manic energy of someone who'd had this idea for approximately five minutes and was now fully committed. Chairs. Tables. Couches. A grandfather clock. Three bathtubs for some reason. A shopping cart full of watermelons.

"Operator," Lyfe said, examining the watermelon cart. "This is not furniture."

"It's DECORATIVE, Sarge Jr. It's called AMBIANCE!"

Grass Wonder was arranging chairs in neat rows, trying to create some semblance of order. "Perhaps we could organize by style? Dining furniture here, living room sets there—"

"Horse Girl, you're a GENIUS! This is why I love you guys—you're like, actually helpful!"

Despite the chaos, Grass Wonder felt a small surge of pride. She was good at organization. This was something she could understand. "Thank you, sir! I'll continue arranging the display area!"

A player ran past outside, screaming into voice chat. "FUCK THE POLICE! FUCK THE MAYOR! ANARCHY FOREVER!"

Grass Wonder paused mid-chair-placement. "What was that about?"

"DarkRP server politics," Lyfe said, not looking up from arranging tactical couches into a defensive formation. "Ignore it."

"But shouldn't we—"

"WE'RE FURNITURE NEUTRAL!" ChairLordSupreme announced. "We sell to EVERYONE! Cops, criminals, anarchists, that weird guy who keeps trying to start a cult—EVERYONE NEEDS CHAIRS!"

This... made a strange kind of sense, Grass Wonder supposed.

The store was starting to take shape. Grass Wonder had created distinct sections—dining, bedroom, living room, outdoor (which was mostly the bathtubs). Lyfe had somehow turned the upper floor into what looked like a fortified warehouse with clear sightlines. ChairLordSupreme had placed approximately forty watermelons in various locations.

"Alright, now we need SIGNAGE!" Their Operator was already spawning text screens. "Furniture Emporium? No, too formal. Chair World? Nah, we sell more than chairs. Oh! Oh shit, I got it—"

A massive neon sign appeared above the storefront: "SIT HAPPENS - Quality Furniture & Stuff"

Grass Wonder stared at it. "That's... very creative, sir."

"It's a pun, Horse Girl! Get it? Sit? Like shit, but sit? Because furniture?"

"I understood the pun, yes."

Lyfe was checking inventory. "We have forty-seven chairs, twelve tables, eight couches, three beds, seventeen bathtubs, and ninety-three watermelons."

"PERFECT! Now we just need CUSTOMERS!"

As if summoned by his words, the door burst open.

The first customer was a player named "xXDarkAssassinXx" dressed in all black, carrying what appeared to be a samurai sword.

"Yo, you selling chairs?"

ChairLordSupreme's character did a weird spin. "FUCK YEAH WE'RE SELLING CHAIRS! Welcome to Sit Happens, where your ass meets class! What are you looking for today?"

"I need like, an evil chair. For my evil lair."

Grass Wonder stepped forward, her customer service instincts kicking in. "We have several options that might suit your aesthetic! This leather chair has a very commanding presence, or perhaps this ornate throne-style—"

"Damn, your NPC is good."

Grass Wonder blinked. "I'm not an—"

"She's my COMPANION AI!" ChairLordSupreme interrupted. "Valve's new system! She's like, hyper-realistic!"

"That's sick. I'll take the throne."

The transaction completed smoothly. Money exchanged—whatever DarkRP economy was running on this server. DarkAssassinXx left with his evil throne, and Grass Wonder felt genuinely pleased.

"That went well!" she said brightly.

"First sale!" ChairLordSupreme was ecstatic. "See? This is gonna be LEGENDARY!"

The second customer arrived thirty seconds later.

"AENGUS" stumbled through the door—and Grass Wonder's breath caught.

The player model was a corpse. He looked absolutely burnt, mutilated, the charred texture making it look like something that had been pulled from a fire. It moved with surprisingly livelike movement, as if he was still a healthy person.

"Oi, you got any bins?" The voice was cheerful, completely at odds with the horrifying visual.

Grass Wonder stood frozen. That's a dead body. That's a moving dead body. Why is a dead body asking about bins—

"Uh, bins?" ChairLordSupreme sounded uncertain.

"Yeah mate, bins. Trash cans. I'm a hobo, innit. Need somewhere to store me shite."

Lyfe stepped forward smoothly, her military composure unshaken. "We have several container options. This metal drum, or this wooden crate—"

"Crate's perfect! How much?"

The transaction completed. AENGUS left with his crate, and Grass Wonder realized she'd been holding her breath.

"What... what was that?"

"Hobo player, duh" ChairLordSupreme said, as if Special Week was the weirdo. "They use corpse models."

"But WHY?!"

"Unclear. Operator humor, possibly." Lyfe chimed in.

After a brief pause, ChairLordSupreme was laughing. "Dude, Horse Girl, you looked TERRIFIED! It's just a player skin!"

"It's a CORPSE!"

"Yeah, and he bought a crate! That's good business!"

More players started filtering in. Some were normal-looking citizens. Others were cops in uniform. One was another burnt corpse-hobo. Another player had somehow made their model's head comically large.

Grass Wonder handled each customer with determined professionalism, even when they made increasingly bizarre requests:

"You got racing chairs?" "Do tables come in purple?" "CAN I BUY ALL YOUR WATERMELONS?!" "Bro, I need seventeen bathtubs. Don't ask why."

Lyfe managed inventory with military precision, restocking items as they sold, maintaining the floor layout, occasionally repositioning things when players knocked them over.

And ChairLordSupreme provided running commentary:

"BUSINESS IS BOOMING!" "Sarge Jr., we're running low on couches!" "Horse Girl, guy at the counter needs help!" "WHY DID THAT DUDE BUY FORTY WATERMELONS?!"

Despite the chaos—or perhaps because of it—Grass Wonder found herself... enjoying this? It was structured. It had purpose. People came in, she helped them, they left happy. This was something she understood.

Until the Eastern Europeans arrived.

The door opened and three players entered, their usernames in Cyrillic: "НочнойВолк", "Пьяный_Гопник", and “НочнойХакер”.

Hardbass immediately started playing through proximity voice chat. Loud, aggressive, unmistakable.

"СУКА БЛЯТЬ, THIS PLACE HAS CHAIRS?!"

"Look at this shit, bratukha! AMERICAN FURNITURE!"

"Blyat, we need chairs for the squat spot!"

Grass Wonder stood very straight, smile fixed in place. "Welcome to Sit Happens! How can I help you gentlemen today?"

All three players stopped and stared at her.

Then, in unison, did the gopnik squat—their character models folding into that distinctive Slavic crouch.

"ДЕВОЧКА SPEAKS ENGLISH! VERY GOOD!"

Lyfe appeared at Grass Wonder's shoulder. "They're requesting seating equipment."

"I gathered that, yes."

ChairLordSupreme was trying not to laugh. "Dude, just sell them chairs. These guys are hilarious."

НочнойВолк pointed at a display. "We take ALL CHAIR! For squat competition!"

"All of them?" Grass Wonder calculated quickly. "That's... twenty-seven chairs."

"DA! We pay! Good price for furniture empire!"

The transaction was chaotic. The three players kept squatting, kept blasting hardbass, kept shouting in rapid-fire Russian mixed with broken English. At one point, Пьяный_Гопник tried to squat ON the chairs while carrying them, which caused a physics glitch that sent three chairs flying through the wall.

"BLYAT! CHAIR HAS WINGS!"

"AMERICAN FURNITURE TOO POWERFUL!"

"PHYSICS IS BROKEN, THIS IS WHY RUSSIA BETTER!"

They eventually left with seventeen chairs (ten had glitched into the void), still squatting, hardbass fading as they moved down the street.

Grass Wonder stood in the aftermath, one ear twitching. "What... just happened?"

"Cross-cultural commerce," Lyfe said flatly.

"They were SQUATTING the entire time!"

"Regional custom, possibly."

"ONE OF THEM CALLED ME ДЕВОЧКА!"

"Term of address. Probably non-hostile."

ChairLordSupreme was dying laughing. "Oh my god, Horse Girl, your FACE! You looked so confused!"

"I WAS confused! They bought chairs while SQUATTING!"

"That's the Eastern European DarkRP experience, baby! Get used to it!"

Before Grass Wonder could respond, someone outside started screaming.

"THE COPS KILLED MY DOG!"

"YOUR 'DOG' WAS A FUCKING EXPLOSIVE BARREL!"

"HE WAS A GOOD BOY!"

Gunfire. Yelling. The sound of someone's mic peaking as they screamed directly into it.

Grass Wonder looked at Lyfe. "Should we—"

"Remain neutral. Furniture sales are non-combative."

"But—"

"Horse Girl, Sarge Jr. is right!" ChairLordSupreme was already spawning more inventory. "We don't get involved in server drama! We're SWITZERLAND! Neutral furniture Switzerland!"

More customers arrived, apparently fleeing the chaos outside. Business continued. Grass Wonder smiled and helped and organized, even as the sounds of urban warfare echoed through the streets.

This was fine. This was normal. This was just... retail work.

Two hours into the operation, ChairLordSupreme had an idea.

"Guys. GUYS. I just thought of something GENIUS."

Grass Wonder was reorganizing the dining section for the third time. "What is it, sir?"

"What if we... DELIVERED furniture?"

Lyfe looked up from inventory management. "Logistics?"

"Fuck logistics! We'll CATAPULT furniture to customers!"

Silence.

"Sir," Grass Wonder said carefully, "did you say... catapult?"

"YEAH! Think about it! Customer orders a chair, we launch it at their base! It's FAST! It's EFFICIENT! It's HILARIOUS!"

"It's tactically unsound," Lyfe said immediately. "Projectile trajectory would be unpredictable. Furniture integrity would be compromised. Customer satisfaction would decrease significantly."

"Or," ChairLordSupreme countered, "it would be FUCKING AWESOME and people would talk about us FOREVER!"

Grass Wonder tried reason. "Sir, perhaps we could consider a more traditional delivery method? Walking the furniture over, or using a vehicle—"

"BORING! We're building a catapult!"

He was already spawning props—wooden beams, ropes, a physics thruster. Within minutes, a horrifying contraption had taken shape in the alley behind the store. It looked less like a proper catapult and more like something that would appear in an OSHA violations training video.

"This is unsafe," Lyfe observed.

"That's what makes it GREAT!"

"Sir, please—" Grass Wonder started.

"Horse Girl, load a chair!"

Against her better judgment, Grass Wonder carefully placed a wooden chair in the catapult's basket. ChairLordSupreme adjusted the angle, did some mental math that was definitely wrong, and activated the thruster.

The chair launched.

It sailed through the air in a beautiful arc. For a moment, Grass Wonder thought it might actually work.

Then it hit a building at terminal velocity and exploded into fragments.

"FUCK YEAH!" ChairLordSupreme was ecstatic. "Let's do another one!"

"Sir, the chair was destroyed—"

"EXACTLY! It's AGGRESSIVE MARKETING!"

They launched seven more chairs. Three hit buildings. Two hit cars. One somehow achieved orbit. The last one hit a cop, who immediately opened fire on the furniture store.

"OFFICER DOWN! OFFICER DOWN! FURNITURE IS ARMED!"

"WE'RE BEING ATTACKED BY CHAIRS!"

"WHO WEAPONIZED FURNITURE?!"

ChairLordSupreme was crying with laughter. "Oh my god, we started a furniture incident!"

Grass Wonder watched cops take cover behind cars, scanning the sky for more projectile chairs, and felt her understanding of reality bending slightly. "This is not how retail works."

"It is now, Horse Girl!"

Lyfe was already planning defensive positions. "If law enforcement retaliates, we'll need cover. Suggest moving heavy furniture to windows."

"We're not fortifying the furniture store!" Grass Wonder protested.

"Tactical necessity."

"It's a FURNITURE STORE!"

Another chair launched, this one hitting a hobo who'd been minding his own business. He respawned, saw the catapult, and immediately ran over.

"OI! Can I use that?!"

ChairLordSupreme was delighted. "FUCK YEAH, BRO! LAUNCH WHATEVER YOU WANT!"

The hobo, Porko, loaded himself into the catapult.

"Wait—" Grass Wonder started.

THWUMP.

Porko launched across downtown, screaming the entire way, and crashed through a second-story window.

From inside the building: "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

"A HOBO JUST CAME THROUGH MY WALL!"

"THIS SERVER IS FUCKING BROKEN!"

ChairLordSupreme was on the ground, character model rolling with laughter. "THIS! THIS IS CONTENT! Sarge Jr., Horse Girl, we're LEGENDS now!"

Grass Wonder stared at the catapult, at the hobo-shaped hole in the building, at the cops still hiding from furniture attacks.

"I want to go home," she said quietly.

"Home is FURNITURE WARFARE!" ChairLordSupreme declared.

Lyfe, entirely serious: "Adaptation is survival."

More players were gathering now, drawn by the chaos. Some wanted to use the catapult. Others wanted to buy furniture. One guy wanted to know if they accepted Bitcoin (they did not). Another asked if they could launch couches (yes, but poorly).

The furniture store had become the center of downtown chaos, and Grass Wonder stood in the middle of it, smiling politely while internally screaming.

Twenty minutes later, a player approached. He was dressed in shabby clothing, definitely a hobo player, username "Jonkr" floating above his model.

"Oi mate, you selling protection?"

Grass Wonder, exhausted and running on pure customer service autopilot, smiled brightly. "Oh yes! We have several protective furniture covers, and some of our tables have reinforced—"

"Nah mate, like, PROTECTION. You know." Jonkr made a gun gesture with his hand.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

ChairLordSupreme cut in, apparently as confused as Grass Wonder. "You want like, security furniture? We got a safe?"

"Nah, guns mate. I heard you sell guns."

Every Companion froze.

"Guns?" Grass Wonder repeated slowly.

"Yeah, everyone's saying Sit Happens got weapons now. The catapult thing was brilliant advertising, by the way."

Lyfe's tactical assessment mode activated immediately. "We do not sell firearms. This is a furniture retail operation."

"But you DO sell protection?" Jonkr pressed.

"YES!" Grass Wonder said, desperately trying to course-correct. "Furniture protection! Wood polish, fabric guard, warranty plans—"

"Ohhhh, you're using CODE WORDS! Smart! Yeah, I'll take some 'fabric guard.'" He made exaggerated air quotes.

"No, actual fabric—"

ChairLordSupreme was scrolling through his spawn menu, completely oblivious. "Wait, do we have weapons in inventory? Let me check... oh shit, there's a weapons tab. How did I not notice this?"

"SIR, NO—" Grass Wonder started.

"Operator, do NOT—" Lyfe commanded.

Too late.

ChairLordSupreme spawned a pistol on the counter. "Is THIS what you're looking for?"

Jonkr's eyes lit up. "MATE! PERFECT! How much?"

"Uh... same price as a chair?"

"SOLD!"

The transaction completed before either Companion could stop it.

Jonkr left with his pistol, and Grass Wonder felt her soul leave her body.

"Sir," Lyfe said, with terrifying calm, "you have just engaged in illegal arms dealing."

"I WHAT?!"

"That Operator was seeking weapons. You provided weapons. This violates numerous realm protocols."

"But I thought he meant something else, so I showed him somewhere else!"

"HE MADE A GUN GESTURE!" Grass Wonder's professional composure cracked. "HOW DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND?!"

"I DON'T SPEAK HOBO!"

Outside, they could hear Jonkr showing off his new acquisition:

"YO, SIT HAPPENS SELLS GUNS NOW!"

"WHAT?!"

"YEAH BRO, GO GET STRAPPED!"

"FINALLY, AFFORDABLE FIREARMS!"

Grass Wonder watched in horror as more hobo players started approaching the store.

"Everyone," Lyfe said quietly, "we have created a significant tactical problem."

Within ten minutes, seven hobo players had purchased weapons.

ChairLordSupreme, laughing, kept spawning guns because he’s too lazy to stop, “Yeah, guns for everyone, amirite"

"STOP MAKING FIREARMS!" Grass Wonder was frantically trying to remove weapons from the counter, but players kept grabbing them.

"Oi, you got shotguns?"

"DO NOT GIVE THEM SHOTGUNS!" Lyfe ordered.

"I DO! AND MY MOUSE SLIPPED!"

A shotgun appeared. The hobo grabbed it.

"LEGENDARY! The furniture store is now an ARMORY!"

More players arrived. The word had spread. Soggy Newspaper, a Ukrainian player, burst through the door with three friends.

"I HEAR YOU SELL KALASHNIKOV?!"

"WE DON'T!" Grass Wonder shouted, her composure completely shattered.

"But you have guns, da?"

"Those were a MISTAKE!"

"Mistake gun still gun! We take!"

The store descended into chaos. Hobo players were grabbing weapons, ChairLordSupreme was panic-spawning more inventory trying to replace them with furniture, Lyfe was attempting to establish order through sheer force of will, and Grass Wonder was having a complete breakdown.

"THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FURNITURE!" she wailed.

"Horse Girl, I'M NEEDING SOME DOUGH!" ChairLordSupreme sounded mad. "I DIDN'T MEAN TO START AN ARMS TRADE!"

"HOW DO YOU ACCIDENTALLY START AN ARMS TRADE?!"

"I NEED MORE CASH DAMMIT!"

Outside, they could hear the consequences unfolding:

"OI, FUCK THE COPS! I GOT A GUN NOW!"

"HOBO UPRISING!"

"THE FURNITURE STORE ARMED US!"

"DOWN WITH THE OPPRESSORS!"

Gunfire erupted in the streets. Not the occasional cop-versus-criminal stuff from before—this was concentrated, organized chaos. The hobo players had formed a mob.

Lyfe moved to the window, assessing. "The situation has deteriorated significantly. Multiple armed hostiles engaging law enforcement. Casualties mounting."

"OH MY GOD, WE'RE WAR CRIMINALS!" Grass Wonder had her hands over her face.

"War criminals is a bit harsh, we’re just normal—" ChairLordSupreme started.

"WE ARMED A MILITIA!"

"They're not a militia, they're just hobos with guns—"

"THAT'S WHAT A MILITIA IS!"

A burnt-corpse hobo ran past the window, dual-wielding pistols, screaming "THE FURNITURE REVOLUTION HAS BEGUN!"

"See?" Grass Wonder pointed. "FURNITURE REVOLUTION!"

Another group of hobos had organized into something resembling a tactical formation. A player named R.E.T.A.R.D, was apparently their leader, barking orders in accented English:

"TRASH CAN MAFIA, MOVE TO POSITION!"

"We're the CARDBOARD CARTEL, blyat!"

"IS SAME THING! MOVE!"

The two groups, Trash Can Mafia and Cardboard Cartel, were now engaging in a turf war over the alley behind the furniture store. The same alley where the catapult still stood.

"They're fighting over our ALLEY!" Grass Wonder was beyond comprehension now.

Lyfe analyzed the situation "They view the furniture store as strategic territory. We've become a faction center."

"WE'RE NOT A FACTION! WE JUST SELL CHAIRS!"

"Sold," Lyfe corrected. "Past tense. Current operation is arms dealing."

ChairLordSupreme groaned. "Okay, okay, I'm closing the store! No more sales! Everyone out!"

But it was too late. The hobos had claimed Sit Happens as their headquarters.

AENGUS burst back in, now carrying an AK-47 he'd acquired from somewhere. "OI, THE BASTARDS ARE COMING! WE'RE MAKING A STAND!"

"YOU'RE NOT MAKING A STAND IN MY FURNITURE STORE FOR FUCKS SAKE!" ChairLordSupreme protested.

"IT'S OUR FURNITURE STORE NOW, MATE! PROPERTY OF THE PEOPLE!"

More hobos flooded in, taking defensive positions behind couches and tables. Someone was setting up the catapult as artillery. Another player was trying to figure out how to weaponize the watermelons.

Grass Wonder stood in the middle of her carefully organized dining section, watching it get converted into a war bunker, and felt something inside her break.

"I organized those chairs by style," she said numbly.

Lyfe put a hand on her shoulder. "We adapt. We survive."

"They're using my table displays as barricades."

"Tactical repurposing."

"I LABELED EVERYTHING!"

"Labels are irrelevant during armed conflict."

Police sirens wailed outside. Voice chat exploded with overlapping chaos:

"DEFEND THE FURNITURE STORE!"

“ALL COPS ARE BASTARDS!”

"FOR THE HOBO REVOLUTION!"

"COPS CAN'T STOP US NOW!"

"WHO GAVE THE HOBOS GUNS?!"

"THE FURNITURE STORE!"

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

ChairLordSupreme was trying to explain in global chat: "I AM TRYING TO SELL FURNITURES HERE YOU FUCKING STUPID FUCKS!"

"TOO LATE, CAPITALIST PIG! THE WORKERS ARE ARMED!"

"I'M NOT—YOU SHITHEADS AREN'T EVEN WORKERS!"

"WE WORK FOR THE REVOLUTION!"

The first wave of cops hit the store.

Gunfire shredded through the windows. Grass Wonder dove behind a couch—one of her carefully selected living room display pieces—as bullets tore through the upholstery.

"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" she screamed.

"RETURN FIRE!" AENGUS commanded the hobo militia.

The furniture store became a war zone. Hobos were shooting from behind barricaded furniture. Cops were returning fire from the street. Someone launched a chair from the catapult, which somehow hit a cop car and flipped it.

"FURNITURE ARTILLERY IS EFFECTIVE!" Soggy Newspaper cheered.

Lyfe had taken position by the window, providing tactical updates: "Four hostiles on the left flank. Two advancing from the right. Aerial surveillance detected—"

"AERIAL?!" ChairLordSupreme yelped.

A police helicopter flew above the street.

"Oh you've GOT to be fucking kidding me," their Operator breathed.

The helicopter's loudspeaker boomed: "ATTENTION FURNITURE STORE! YOU ARE SURROUNDED! SURRENDER THE WEAPONS AND RELEASE THE HOBOS!"

"WE CAN'T RELEASE THEM!" Grass Wonder shouted uselessly. "THEY WON'T LEAVE!"

Jonkr was loading another chair into the catapult. "NEVER SURRENDER! THIS IS OUR STORE NOW!"

"IT'S NOT YOUR STORE!" ChairLordSupreme was having a complete meltdown. "I RENT THIS BUILDING! I HAVE A LEASE!"

"LEASES ARE TOOLS OF OPPRESSION!"

The battle intensified. More players were joining—some supporting the hobos, others joining the police, a few just griefing everyone indiscriminately. The furniture store was the epicenter of absolute chaos.

Grass Wonder, crouched behind a shredded couch, looked at Lyfe. "How did this happen?"

Lyfe, somehow still composed despite bullets passing overhead, replied: "Poor communication. Misunderstood terminology. Cascade failure of retail operations."

"That's not helpful!"

"Accurate assessment rarely is."

A grenade bounced into the store.

"GRENADE!" Multiple voices screamed.

The explosion took out the entire dining section. Chairs flew everywhere. Tables disintegrated. The grandfather clock toppled dramatically.

Grass Wonder watched her organizational work literally explode and felt tears forming.

"My displays," she whispered.

"Displays are replaceable," Lyfe said. "We just take longer. Move."

She pulled Grass Wonder toward the back room as another explosion rocked the building.

While the Furniture Revolution raged downtown, a very different scene was unfolding in the warehouse district.

Pyra hummed cheerfully as she watered the plants. The warehouse was humid, warm, filled with the earthy smell of growing things. Rows of healthy green plants stretched across the floor, their leaves broad and distinctive.

Her Operator, Ratpacket, had been very specific about the watering schedule and nutrient balance. Pyra appreciated clear instructions. Gardening was peaceful work, honest work, and she was happy to help cultivate what Ratpacket called his "special herbs for cooking."

"Looking good, Pyra!" Ratpacket's voice crackled through voice chat. He was outside handling the "business side" of their operation, whatever that meant.

"Thank you! The plants are very healthy! What dishes will we make with these?"

A pause. "Uh... lots of dishes. Super special dishes. Very... culinary."

"I'm excited to learn!" Pyra carefully adjusted the grow lights. "I've been reading about herb-based cuisine. Did you know that proper herb preparation can completely transform a meal's flavor profile?"

"Yeah, totally. That's exactly what we're doing. Transforming... flavors."

Another player entered the warehouse, "StonerChef420", one of Ratpacket's business partners. "Yo, this harvest is gonna be LEGENDARY."

"Hello!" Pyra waved cheerfully. "Are you also interested in culinary arts?"

StonerChef420 stared at her. "Is your Companion... does she know?"

"Know what?" Pyra tilted her head.

"Nah man, she doesn't know," Ratpacket said quickly. "And we're KEEPING it that way. She thinks we're growing cooking herbs."

"Bro, that's fucking hilarious."

"I know, right? She's so innocent, it's actually adorable."

Pyra beamed, not understanding the exchange but happy to be appreciated. "I try my best! Proper plant care requires dedication and attention to detail!"

"You're doing great, Pyra," Ratpacket assured her. "Keep up the good work with the... cooking herbs."

"I will!"

Outside the warehouse, in the distant downtown area, explosions echoed. Gunfire rattled. Sirens wailed.

Pyra looked up. "What's that noise?"

"Oh, just some DarkRP drama," Ratpacket said casually. "Don't worry about it. Keep tending the plants."

"Okay!" Pyra returned to her work, completely unaware that she was cultivating a substantial marijuana operation while downtown descended into furniture-related gang warfare.

Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

Back at Sit Happens, the situation had devolved from a retail disaster into a full-scale siege.

Grass Wonder and Lyfe Bestla were huddled behind the overturned "Manager's Desk" (a mahogany piece Grass Wonder had picked out specifically for its lumbar support). Bullets chipped away at the wood above their heads.

"Operator," Lyfe said into the comms, her voice calm despite the deafening noise. "Hostiles have breached the showroom. We are losing territory. Requesting immediate extraction or reinforcements."

"REINFORCEMENTS?!" ChairLordSupreme laughed, crouching in the corner while holding a clipboard. "NAH, LET THEM COME! THIS IS CONTENT!"

Outside, a player-driven SWAT van, which looked suspiciously like a re-textured ice cream truck, slammed through the front window, crushing three display toilets.

"FBI OPEN UP, CUNTS!" the driver screamed.

"NO! MY PORCELAIN!" Grass Wonder wailed.

Suddenly, the shooting stopped. Or rather, the bullets stopped doing damage. Players were firing, but nothing was happening.

Two figures floated down from the sky, glowing with a soft, noclip aura. Their usernames were simple, ominous: [Owner] xX_God_Slayer_Xx and [Admin] Cheese_Supreme.

"Oh thank goodness!" Grass Wonder peeked over the desk. "The authorities have arrived to restore order!"

The two admins hovered in mid-air above the wreckage of the furniture store.

"Yo," xX_God_Slayer_Xx typed in chat.

"YO ADMIN!" AENGUS screamed, pointing his AK-47 at the sky. "THESE FUCKERS SOLD US GUNS THEN TRIED TO KICK US OUT! THIS IS HOBO LAND NOW!"

"YO ADMINS!" The police chief shouted. "BAN THESE RDMING FUCKS! THEY BROKE NLR LIKE TWELVE TIMES!"

Grass Wonder straightened her blouse, preparing to give a polite, detailed account of the misunderstanding. "Excuse me, noble overseers! If I may explain, it was a simple linguistic error regarding—"

"Lmao," Cheese_Supreme typed.

"What?" Grass Wonder blinked.

"50k on the hobos," xX_God_Slayer_Xx said over voice chat. He sounded like he was eating chips. Loudly.

"Bet," replied Cheese_Supreme. "Cops have a tank though. 70k on cops."

Grass Wonder froze. "Are... are they gambling on our survival?"

ChairLordSupreme burst out laughing.

"YOOOO! ADMINS ARE TAKING BETS! THAT'S ACTUALLY HILARIOUS!"

"Sir?" Grass Wonder looked at him, horrified. "They are wagering on the destruction of your store!"

"I KNOW! IT'S BASED AS FUCK!" ChairLordSupreme typed rapidly in global chat: PUT ME DOWN FOR 100K ON THE HOBOS. MY MONEY IS ON THE TRASH PEOPLE.

"You are betting against... yourself?" Lyfe asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's a hedge, Sarge Jr.! If I lose the store, I win the bet! BUSINESS 101!"

"That’s not how economics works!" Lyfe muttered.

With a wave of his hand, xX_God_Slayer_Xx disabled the god mode.

"FIGHT!" the Admin shouted. "MAKE IT INTERESTING OR I BAN EVERYONE!"

"LETS GOOOO!" ChairLordSupreme cheered.

The battle recommenced with renewed stupidity.

The hobos, emboldened by the Admin's sponsorship, launched their counter-offensive. AENGUS jumped onto the catapult.

"LOAD ME UP, BOYS! FOR THE PRIZE MONEY!"

"Don't do it!" Grass Wonder pleaded. "That device is not rated for human transport!"

"WITNESS ME, YOU SHITSTAINS!"

Another hobo hit the release lever.

THWUMP.

AENGUS sailed through the air, screaming racial slurs that were so creative they were almost impressive, before crashing directly into the windshield of the police SWAT van.

CRUNCH.

"HOLY SHIT!" ChairLordSupreme was laughing so hard his character model was shaking. "DID YOU SEE THAT?! HUMAN MISSILE! CLIP IT! SOMEONE CLIP IT!"

"The projectile... liquified upon impact," Lyfe noted dryly. "Effective kinetic energy transfer."

Outside, the police were regrouping. Among them stood a man in a standard-issue blue police uniform, wearing a Kevlar vest. He looked tired, holding his helmet under his arm, and wishing he was somewhere else.

It was Alex Murphy, aka RoboCop.

He stood next to his Operator, Pisswater, who was currently jumping up and down screaming, "PUSH THE FRONT! KILL THE FURRY SALESWOMAN!"

"I AM NOT A FURRY!" Grass Wonder shouted from the window. "THESE ARE NATURAL EARS!"

"EAT LEAD, YIFFERS!" Psswater opened fire.

Murphy sighed, rubbing his temples. "Sir, using lethal force against a store for a noise complaint is... excessive."

"THEY HAVE GUNS, ALEX! SHOOT THEM!"

"They have chairs," Murphy corrected, squinting at the catapult. "And... watermelons. I don’t think our training does cover tactical fruit assault."

"JUST SHOOT THEM, YOU USELESS NPC!"

Murphy processed this insult with the weary resignation of a man who had died once already. "Great, just plain old, great. Chair riot, corpses shooting at people and now this?!"

He raised his pistol and methodically shot out the storefront's neon sign.

He aimed his submachine gun and obliterated a row of lamps.

“Take this, you sons of bitches” Alex declared.

Inside, Grass Wonder ducked as glass showered her. "Why does the policeman hate our lamps?!"

"He is compromised," Lyfe said, checking her own ammo (she had none). "His Operator is issuing unlawful orders. He is improvising."

Suddenly, the wall behind them exploded..

A hobo had attempted to carry seventeen bathtubs at once. Which cause him to trip over, igniting the propane tank room, and blow up the wall.

"Grenade!" Lyfe shouted, grabbing Grass Wonder and pulling her back.

Through the gaping hole where the wall used to be, the hobos cheered.

"WE HAVE AN ESCAPE ROUTE!"

There are explosions everywhere after the hobos tripped. Admins floating in the sky throwing popcorn emotes. Hobos launching themselves into orbit. A tank trying to parallel park inside the lobby.

It was magnificent. It was insane.

And then, abruptly, ChairLordSupreme stopped moving.

His character stood still amidst the gunfire.

"Operator?" Lyfe asked, crouching beside him. "Are you injured? Have you disconnected?"

"Nah," ChairLordSupreme said. His voice sounded different. Deflated.

"Man. This is getting kinda boring."

Grass Wonder peeked over the desk. "Boring? Sir, there is a man throwing literal feces at our window. We are under siege!"

"Yeah, but it's just the same loop, you know? Shoot, die, respawn, scream slurs. The joke's kinda stale."

He looked around the destroyed store. He looked at the Admins betting in the sky. He looked at the hobo stuck in the ceiling fan.

"Yeah. I'm over it."

"Over it?" Grass Wonder blinked. "But the revolution... the furniture empire..."

"Meh. I wanna play Lethal. I saw a lobby called 'FURRY HUNTING 18+ MIC ONLY'. Seems chill."

"Operator," Lyfe said urgently. "We are currently in active combat. Withdrawal is inadvisable without cover."

"Don't care. Alt-F4 time."

"Sir, wait! The inventory!" Grass Wonder cried out.

"Bye bye, chairs."

The world didn't explode. It didn't crash.

It just... stopped.

ChairLordSupreme initiated the transfer.

The furniture store, the screaming hobos, the useless admins, the burning police car—it all stretched into infinite pixels, then vanished.

For a split second, they were in the Steam Lobby.

It was a flash of white, sterile light. Grass Wonder saw a glimpse of the cafeteria. She saw a genericCitizen trying to operate a vending machine. She saw 2B walking past with a coffee, ignoring a medieval  Crusader who was having a stress attack in the corner.

It was peaceful. It was safe.

"Oh, look!" she started to say. "Maybe we can rest—"

SLAM.

The sound of metal hitting metal rang out before Grass Wonder even opened her eyes.

"OW! YOU FUCKING RETARD!"

"STOP BLOCKING THE DOOR THEN!"

"I'M NOT BLOCKING IT, YOUR MOM IS BLOCKING IT!"

Grass Wonder blinked. The smell of rust and recycled air hit her.

She was in a small, cramped room with metal grating for floors. But she wasn't alone.

She looked down. Her blouse was gone. She was wearing a thick, bulky, bright orange hazmat suit.

She looked at Lyfe. The stoic soldier was also in an orange suit, checking a scanner on her wrist with visible annoyance.

And then she looked at the source of the noise.

ChairLordSupreme was currently hitting another Operator with a shovel. Repeatedly.

The other player, Dingbat, was crouching and frantically ringing a bicycle bell he was holding.

DING DING DING DING DING.

"STOP RINGING THE BELL!" ChairLordSupreme screamed, swinging the shovel. CLANG.

"I CAN'T! MY G KEY IS STUCK! DING DING DING!"

"Status report," Lyfe said, her voice deadpan inside her helmet.

"We have been redeployed," she answered herself. "New assignment: 'Lethal Company'. Current objective: Waste recovery. Current tactical situation: Our Operator is assaulting a teammate due to a hardware malfunction."

Grass Wonder stepped forward, her heavy boots clanking. "Sir? Please stop hitting the other employee!"

ChairLordSupreme stopped mid-swing. "Oh, hey Horse Girl! You made it! Look, we got a full squad! This is Dingbat. He's useless."

"FUCK YOU!" Dingbat yelled, finally stopping the bell. "I'm a great asset! I found a stop sign!"

He held up a literal traffic stop sign.

"That is... very impressive," Grass Wonder lied politely.

"RIGHT?!"

The ship's lever was pulled. The door hissed open.

A blizzard howled outside. They had landed on Titan. The massive concrete facility loomed in the dark, terrifying and silent.

"Okay boys," ChairLordSupreme said, doing a little dance emote. "Quota is 130. We're going in deep. If you see a turret, hug it."

"Hug it?" Grass Wonder asked, horrified. "Sir, turrets are usually automated defense systems designed to—"

"NAH, IT'S A HUG BOT! TRUST ME!"

"HE'S LYING!" Dingbat screamed, running out into the snow. "LAST TIME HE SAID THAT I LOST MY LEGS!"

He sprinted toward the facility entrance, jumping and spamming the "point" emote.

"LEEROY JENKINS!"

ChairLordSupreme laughed. "What an idiot. Wait for me!"

He ran after him, shovel raised high.

Lyfe Bestla walked to the edge of the ramp. She looked at the desolate, frozen hellscape. She looked at the two orange figures bunny-hopping through the snow, screaming obscenities at each other.

She looked back at Grass Wonder.

"The location has changed," Lyfe noted. "The intelligence level has not."

"At least there are no hobos?" Grass Wonder offered weakly.

From the darkness, a distinct, chittering voice echoed.

"YIPPEE!"

"Did..." Grass Wonder adjusted her cowl. "Did that bug just say 'Yippee'?"

"IGNORE THE BUG!" ChairLordSupreme screamed from the distance. "GET THE SCRAP! WE NEED MONEY FOR THE CASINO!"

Lyfe sighed. She grabbed a flashlight.

"Mission parameters updated: Babysitting in a hazardous environment."

She jumped into the snow.

Grass Wonder stood in the ship for one last second. She patted her orange suit. 

"Well," she whispered, picking up a walkie-talkie. "I suppose scrap is easier to organize than furniture."

She keyed the mic. "Wait for me! I know how to carry heavy objects!"

She ran into the dark, leaving the safety of the ship behind.

Chapter Text

The transition was always disorienting. One moment Mercedes felt the impact—metal, speed, pain—and the next she was standing in a vast, dimly lit space that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions.

Concrete floors. Fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The skeletal remains of industrial architecture—exposed pipes, rusted metal beams, concrete pillars rising into darkness. Scattered everywhere were objects that seemed strange, yet almost familiar: wooden crates stacked haphazardly, oil drums leaking nothing, traffic cones that cast long shadows, and countless other detritus that spoke of some half-remembered world.

Static hissed from somewhere. Radio chatter, distant and incomprehensible, whispered through the air like ghosts.

Limbo.

Mercedes wrapped her arms around herself, looking down at her clothes—simple but respectable civilian dress she'd been wearing in the City Realm. Around her, other figures were materializing, pulled from their own moments of elimination.

A woman in grey and green with a bullet-resistant vest, no mask, her blue hair tied elegantly. She looked around with sharp blue eyes, assessing, then spotted Mercedes and offered a small nod of acknowledgment.

Two figures in identical red military uniforms, from the Teufort assignment, Mercedes would later learn. One wore a distinctive campaign hat with a silver emblem, standing at rigid attention. The other had a black band around his helmet holding cigarettes and a playing card, and he was already pulling out a cigarette to light.

A woman in black tactical SWAT gear, professional and composed, though her expression held a hint of frustration.

And a bald man, also in tactical gear, albeit resembling SAS uniforms, who looked absolutely terrified.

"Oh," Mercedes said quietly. "Hello."

The bald man in SAS gear spun toward her. "YOU! You're—you're new! You just got here!"

"I... yes?" Mercedes took a tentative step forward. "I'm Mercedes von Martritz. I was helping someone cross the street and there was a vehicle and—"

"YOU DIED HELPING SOMEONE?!" The man gestured wildly. "That's—that's actually noble! I died because a STATUE EXPLODED!"

The woman in SWAT gear sighed. "Eric. Breathe."

"DON'T TELL ME TO BREATHE, RO! A STATUE! OF KIM JONG UN!"

"I'm aware. I was also eliminated by the commemorative structure."

"You were THERE?!" The man, Eric, turned to her. "YOU! From the building! The trust thing!"

RO635, that's what he'd called her, actually looked relieved. "Oh thank god, someone who understands."

"He SHOT you!"

"Right?! I had clean intelligence! Three hostiles identified!"

"And then he shot ME!"

"I SAW that! You weren't even armed!"

"I WAS HELPING!"

"I KNOW! And he just—" RO made a frustrated noise that seemed very unprofessional for someone in tactical gear.

Mercedes looked between them, bewildered. "I'm sorry, who shot you?"

They turned to her in unison.

"Our Operator," RO said.

"YOUR COMMANDER," Eric emphasized. "Shot us! Both of us! In a trust exercise!"

Mercedes blinked. "That seems... counterproductive?"

"THAT'S WHAT WE'VE BEEN SAYING!"

The woman in the maskless Civil Protection uniform approached, her posture regal despite the authoritarian aesthetic of her outfit. "Forgive me for overhearing, but did you say 'trust exercise'?"

RO nodded, still looking flustered. "A game of deduction. Hidden traitors among trusted allies. You must identify them before they eliminate everyone."

Mercedes lit up. "Oh! Like Werewolf!"

Eric turned to her. "What?"

"We played it at the monastery! The village game! Werewolves hide among the villagers, and you must determine who they are!"

RO's expression shifted to something like vindication. "Yes. Exactly that structure."

"We called it Mafia," Eric said.

"Same game, different theme! How lovely!" Mercedes smiled, then it faded. "Wait, you said eliminated. You mean... voted out?"

"We mean SHOT!" Eric threw his hands up.

"Shot?! But that's not—why would you shoot your own allies?!"

"WE DIDN'T!" Eric was pacing now. "Our Operator did!"

RO rubbed her forehead. "The objective, as we understood it, was to identify hostile actors through behavioral analysis and eliminate them strategically. Standard Mafia structure. Except with firearms."

"Your version sounds more civilized," the woman in military uniform with the campaign hat said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was clipped, professional. "Documentation of trust protocols should not involve lethal force against confirmed allies."

"EXACTLY!" Eric pointed at her. "Thank you! See, SHE understands!"

The uniformed woman straightened slightly. "Dobermann. Instructor. Former field officer."

The man with the cigarettes in his helmet band gave a slight nod. "Booker DeWitt. Cavalry. 7th."

They sized each other up with military efficiency.

Dobermann's eyes flicked to the Soldier's Stash on Booker's helmet. "The cigarettes are regulation violations."

"Didn't pick the uniform. Operator did."

"...The playing card is tactically irrelevant but thematically appropriate."

"I'll take it."

The blue-haired woman in Civil Protection gear cleared her throat. "Eula Lawrence. And before anyone comments on the uniform—the aesthetic was acceptable. The mask, however, was utterly unsightly. I removed it immediately."

RO glanced at the uniform. "You're aware that's oppressive police state enforcement attire?"

"It has DIGNITY. The alternative options were uncouth."

Mercedes smiled hesitantly. "It's very... authoritative?"

"Precisely!" Eula seemed pleased. "Though I must say, seventeen eliminations in that concealment ritual is testing my patience."

Everyone stopped.

"Seventeen?" RO asked.

"SEVENTEEN!" Eula's composure cracked slightly. "I was a CHAIR. Then a BARREL. Then a CRATE. They found me EVERY TIME!"

Mercedes tilted her head. "You were... furniture?"

"It's a pursuit game! One team transforms into objects and hides! The other team seeks them out!"

"Oh!" Mercedes brightened. "Like hide and seek!"

"Precisely! Except with lethal weapons and I keep being DISCOVERED!"

RO was taking mental notes. "Your movement timing is inconsistent, by the sound of it."

"I'm trying to adjust to better positions!"

"Props don't move."

Eula's expression twisted in frustration. "I KNOW that! But I see a BETTER hiding spot and the instinct is difficult to suppress!"

Eric looked at her with something like sympathy. "Maybe just... stop moving?"

"I'm TRYING!"

"Perhaps you're overthinking it?" Mercedes suggested gently.

"My Operator says the same thing! 'Stop thinking so hard, just BE the chair!'" Eula slumped slightly. "I'm working on it. Round fourteen I lasted forty-three seconds!"

Booker raised an eyebrow. "How long do rounds last?"

"...Three minutes."

"So you got found in the first quarter."

"But LATER than round thirteen! Progress!" Eula straightened defensively. "My Operator even said 'hey, you lasted almost a minute!'"

"Almost," Booker repeated.

"ALMOST! That's better than barely ten seconds!" Eula looked around at them. "My Operator believes in me. I cannot give up. They say 'You've got this!' before every round! Even when I fail immediately, they say 'Next one for sure!'"

Mercedes softened. "They sound very supportive!"

"They are! Which is why I MUST succeed! When I was hunting—when I was on the SEEKING side—I was magnificent! My Operator praised my aim!" Eula's eyes shone. "Seven eliminations! I could detect movement, unusual placement!"

"So you're good at finding people but bad at hiding?" Eric asked.

"...I prefer 'aggressively proactive.'"

"That's the same thing," Booker said.

"It SOUNDS better!"

Dobermann made a sound that might have been approval. "Offensive specialist. Poor defensive adaptation. Common issue. Recommend focusing on static positioning rather than dynamic repositioning."

"I... that's actually helpful. Thank you, Instructor."

Mercedes was still trying to process everything. "So everyone here has been... eliminated? Recently?"

"Affirmative," RO said. "This space appears to be an intermediary location between eliminations and returns to assignments."

"Returns?" Mercedes looked worried. "We have to go back?"

"Yeah," Booker said, flicking ash from his cigarette. "You'll get recalled. Probably right back where you started. Operator will keep doing whatever they were doing."

"The vehicle scenarios?"

"Probably."

"Oh dear..."

Eric was pacing again, his SAS gear looking increasingly ridiculous on someone so clearly unprepared for it. "I can't believe this. I joined the Resistance! To fight the Combine! To FREE humanity!"

"The Resistance?" Mercedes perked up. "That sounds noble!"

"It WAS! We trained! We had PURPOSE! Dr. Kleiner said—" Eric gestured wildly at his tactical gear. "And now I'm in THIS! Doing... WHATEVER this is!"

RO looked at him sympathetically. "The transition from structured military operations to... this... is jarring."

"JARRING?!" Eric spun on her. "I went from 'defeat authoritarian regime' to 'get shot by our own boss in a party game with guns'!"

"It’s a trust-building exercise," RO corrected quietly.

"IT’S A PARTY GAME!" Eric shot back.

"It's the same—" RO stopped herself, took a breath. "You're right. The structure doesn't matter. Our Operator's behavior was tactically unsound regardless."

"He kept saying we were 'sus'!"

"My behavior was entirely consistent with innocent participant patterns!" RO's professional composure was definitely cracking now. "I identified three hostiles! Provided tactical support! And he eliminated me anyway!"

"And then he shot ME!" Eric continued. "I said 'I'm innocent!' which is statistically what innocent participants SAY—"

"Exactly!" RO looked vindicated. "Basic Mafia strategy!"

"And he LAUGHED!"

They stared at each other for a moment, the shared trauma of their experience creating an instant bond.

"And then," Eric said more quietly, "after ALL that, he dragged us to the statue zone."

"The commemorative structure zone," RO confirmed. "I attempted tactical reconnaissance. Maintained proper distance from the monument."

"It EXPLODED anyway!"

"I don't understand the operational parameters of this realm!" RO threw her hands up, the gesture looking strange in her professional SWAT gear. "There's no tactical logic! Statues don't EXPLODE!"

"THERE ARE NO PARAMETERS!" Eric shouted. "IT'S CHAOS!"

Mercedes was watching this with growing horror. "Your Operator... shot you both? While you were trying to help?"

"Yes," they said in unison.

"And then brought you to a place with exploding statues?"

"YES!"

"That's terrible!"

"Thank you!" Eric looked ready to cry. "Someone UNDERSTANDS!"

Eula stepped forward. "At least your Operator didn't keep you in furniture transformation for HOURS. Seventeen eliminations! SEVENTEEN!"

"At least YOUR Operator didn't shoot you!" Eric countered.

"My Operator is quite supportive actually—"

"WELL GOOD FOR YOU!"

"Gentlemen," Dobermann's voice cut through the rising argument. "Ladies. Maintain composure. We're all experiencing operational stress. Turning on each other serves no purpose."

There was a moment of silence.

Booker spoke up, his voice gravelly and tired. "How'd you buy it, Sergeant?"

Dobermann stiffened slightly. "Tactical extraction scenario. Hostile pursuit."

"Entity type?" RO asked, slipping back into professional mode.

"...Celebrity."

Everyone stared.

"I'm sorry," Eric said slowly. "WHAT?"

"A disgraced celebrity. In a horror pursuit scenario." Dobermann's jaw was tight.

Booker went very still. His cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. "...Wait. Was it P. Diddy?"

Dobermann's head snapped toward him. "How did you—"

"Son of a bitch." Booker lit a new cigarette. "That bastard got me too."

"When?!"

"Last assignment. Different realm. Same... pursuit scenario." Booker exhaled some smoke. "My Operator thought it was hilarious."

Dobermann looked like someone had just validated every frustration she'd been holding in. "You understand. The indignity."

"The pure, unfiltered absurdity of being hunted by a disgraced music industry figure? Yeah. I understand."

Mercedes raised her hand tentatively. "I'm sorry, who is P. Diddy?"

Booker and Dobermann looked at each other.

"My Operator explained it," Booker said. "While we were waiting for the next session. Told me about the parties, the legal troubles. Used words like 'rapper' and 'baby oil' that didn't mean much to me."

"Mine attempted explanation as well," Dobermann said quietly. "Something about 'parties' and 'allegations.'"

"Bad parties. Real bad. The kind where authorities get involved."

Mercedes looked scandalized. "Oh my!"

"The Operators finds it funny," Booker continued, "because the man’s in federal prison now, so seeing him in horror scenarios is 'ironic.'" He made air quotes with his fingers.

"Your Operator provided cultural context?" RO asked.

"He was doing it while laughing, so I only caught about half. Something about fleeing in a vehicle?"

"Mine mentioned 'memes,'" Dobermann said. "I still don't understand what that means."

"I don't think any of us do," Eric muttered.

Eula looked between Booker and Dobermann. "You've both encountered this entity?"

"Twice in my last assignment," Booker confirmed. "Maybe three times. Lost count."

"How did you... cope?" Dobermann asked, and there was genuine curiosity there beneath the military bearing.

"Smoked a lot. My Operator thought it was hilarious. Kept saying 'GET DIDDY'D' every time I got caught."

Dobermann's expression flickered. "Mine said the same thing."

"Apparently it's a whole thing. With Operators."

"I hate it."

"Yeah. Me too." Booker took a drag on his cigarette. "But you get used to it. Or you go insane. One of the two."

"One does NOT 'get used to' that."

"You will. Trust me." Booker's eyes were distant. "I've been through Wounded Knee and Columbia. A celebrity chasing me through a horror scenario barely makes top ten worst experiences."

"...That is NOT comforting."

"Wasn't meant to be."

Mercedes was trying to process all of this. "So you were in that horror realm, and then...?"

"Operator got bored of running from celebrities," Booker said. "Switched to fighting robots. That's where I am now."

"Your Operator changed assignments entirely?" Mercedes asked.

"Not uncommon. They get bored. Want variety. We just... go where they go." He shrugged. "Got eliminated by a Sentry Buster. A bomb with legs. Should've seen it coming, stood too close to the sentry gun."

RO nodded. "Autonomous suicide unit. Effective area denial."

"That's one way to put it."

"Our Operator executed similar behavior," RO said. "Trust exercise to commemorative statue zone with no warning."

Eric was nodding vigorously. "He didn't even TELL us! Just left and suddenly we were somewhere else!"

"Wait," Eula said. "Your Operator moved you between realms during the same session?"

"Yeah," Booker said. "Happens a lot. Get killed, wait here, return somewhere completely different. My previous assignment—the horror one—ended because the queue for the next round was taking too long. Operator got impatient, switched to different assignment."

"Queue?" Mercedes asked.

"Waiting period. For the next round to start. Operators don't like waiting."

"He just... left the horror scenario?" Dobermann asked.

"Yep. One moment I'm returning in the safe room, next moment I'm in a completely different uniform defending against robot waves."

Dobermann looked like she was processing this. "My assignment is still active. Slender Fortress. This is my second elimination today."

"Both to Diddy?" Booker asked.

"...Yes."

"It gets easier. Sort of. Not really." He paused. "Actually, no, it doesn't get easier. But you get number to it."

"I'm not certain that's better."

"It's not."

They stood in silence for a moment, the static radio chatter filling the space between them.

Mercedes was hugging herself, looking increasingly distressed. "My Operator was very... enthusiastic. Making loud noises over the communications channel."

"Micspam?" Eric asked.

"I'm sorry?"

RO explained, "Audio disruption. Playing sounds through voice communication."

"Oh! Yes! Very loud music! And... animal noises? I assumed it was unusual behavior—"

Everyone stared at her.

"That's standard," Eric said.

"Standard?!"

Booker gestured with his cigarette. "Lady, that's every server."

"But it's so RUDE!"

"And there was name-calling," Mercedes continued, looking genuinely distressed. "Such terrible language!"

Eula nodded. "Oh, the verbal combat! Yes, my Operator engages in that frequently!"

"It's FREQUENT?!"

"Constant," RO confirmed. "In the trust exercise, everyone yells at everyone."

"CONSTANTLY," Eric emphasized. "Even when you're on the same team!"

"But that's not how you build trust!"

"No," RO agreed quietly. "No it's not."

Mercedes sat down on a fake crate—or maybe it was real, it was hard to tell in limbo. "I thought... I thought my assignment was unusual..."

"Nope," Booker said.

"The loud noises, the rudeness, the vehicles running people over for amusement—"

"Wait," Eric interrupted. "People got run over FOR FUN?"

"My Operator said 'VDM' and laughed! I don't know what VDM means but they seemed pleased!"

"Vehicle Death Match," RO said. "Probably."

"That's a CATEGORY?!"

"Apparently."

Mercedes looked like she might cry. "I want to go back to the monastery..."

"We've all experienced operational chaos," Dobermann said, her voice gentler than before. "It's disorienting. Especially initial exposure."

"Does it get better?" Mercedes asked quietly.

"No," everyone said in unison.

Mercedes whimpered.

"But!" Eula said quickly. "My Operator is quite kind despite the chaos! Yours too, from what you've described—they just participate in it so enthusiastically..."

"Mine participates AND creates it," Eric muttered.

"Ours cause friendly fire," RO added.

"Mine debates chicken-murder methods," Booker said.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"What?" He took another drag on his cigarette. "Someone spent ten minutes arguing whether a snake is a bag of throat."

Silence.

"I'm sorry," Mercedes said carefully. "WHAT?"

"A snake. Is it a bag. Of throat. They had a whole debate."

"What was the conclusion?" Eula asked, genuinely curious.

"No consensus. Then someone asked if you could kill a chicken with gummy bears."

Dobermann pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why."

"No idea. But six people had opinions. Strong opinions." Booker shrugged. "The Operator said we were 'losing' because everyone was arguing instead of fighting robots."

"Tactically sound criticism," RO noted.

"Then HE started arguing about the chicken thing."

Mercedes looked faint. "Oh dear..."

"My assignment had similar irregularities," Dobermann said. "I expected tactical coordination. Professional communications."

"Let me guess," Booker said.

"Someone was playing carnival music through voice communications."

"There it is."

"While being pursued by the hostile entity."

Mercedes's voice went up an octave. "Why would anyone—"

"Another Operator was SINGING. Poorly."

"That tracks," Booker said.

"And when I was eliminated, three people said 'skill issue.'"

"What does that MEAN?!" Mercedes demanded.

"I don't know," Dobermann admitted, "and I'm offended anyway."

Eric was nodding vigorously. "And the statue assignment! Everyone was yelling in DIFFERENT LANGUAGES!"

"Russian. German. Portuguese. Spanish. Mandarin," RO listed. "Simultaneously."

"Oh!" Mercedes perked up slightly. "A multilingual environment! That's—"

"They were INSULTING each other!" Eric cut in.

"Oh."

"Our Operator was arguing with someone in Russian."

"Our Operator doesn't SPEAK Russian!" Eric added.

"He was using words he'd learned. Mostly profanity."

Mercedes clutched her chest. "This is terrible!"

"And THEN the statue exploded!" Eric continued.

"At least that ended the arguing?" Mercedes asked hopefully.

"No," RO said. "They blamed each other for the explosion. More yelling ensued."

"We just died!"

"Surely someone tried to maintain order?" Mercedes looked around desperately.

"There WERE authority figures!" Eric said.

"Oh good!"

"They were also yelling!"

"WHAT?!"

RO nodded. "One told everyone to 'shut up.' Then started playing music loudly through the communication channel."

"Different music from the OTHER person playing music," Eric added.

"Two songs. At once. Different songs."

Mercedes looked genuinely ill. "I'm going to be sick."

"At least the insults were creative in my assignment," Booker offered.

Mercedes looked hopeful. "There was less yelling?"

"Oh no, plenty of yelling. But weirder."

"...Weirder?"

"Yeah, my Horror assignment had someone asking 'is this the Krusty Krab?' for five minutes."

"What's a Krusty—"

"No idea. But twelve people responded 'no this is Patrick.'"

"Who's Patrick?!"

"Still no idea. It went on for five minutes."

"During active pursuit scenarios?" Dobermann asked.

"The entity was RIGHT THERE. People were dying. And they just kept... Patrick-ing."

Mercedes stood up abruptly. "I don't understand ANY of this!"

"NONE OF US DO!" Eric shouted.

"Oh!" Eula raised her hand. "The concealment ritual has extensive voice communications as well!"

Mercedes turned to her. "Is it... coordinated?"

"The hunters sing songs."

"That's... nice?"

"While hunting. Aggressively."

"Oh."

"Someone kept saying 'can I offer you an egg in this trying time?'"

"Why an egg?"

"NO ONE KNOWS! But they said it CONSTANTLY!" Eula was gesticulating now. "Another participant kept making bird noises!"

"Like... actual birds?" Mercedes asked.

"No! Like someone IMITATING birds! BADLY!"

"Why?!"

"I asked my Operator! They said 'it's funny.'"

"Is it?"

"I... I don't think so?"

RO was taking mental notes. "Memetic communication. Repetitive phrases that serve no tactical purpose."

"And the props communicate too!" Eula continued.

"The furniture talks?" Mercedes's voice had gone up another octave.

"The HIDDEN participants! While transformed!" Eula seemed equally baffled. "Someone kept saying 'I am a chair' in a very deep voice!"

"To... assert their chair-ness?"

"Apparently! And someone else kept giggling!"

"Giggling reveals position," RO observed.

"THEY KEPT GETTING ELIMINATED! And they KEPT GIGGLING in the next round!"

"Some people never learn," Booker said.

"They said 'worth it'!"

Mercedes sat back down. "Worth dying repeatedly?"

"I don't understand these people either!"

There was a moment of collective silence as they all processed the absurdity of their respective assignments.

"So," Mercedes said quietly. "All of you experienced this chaos?"

Everyone nodded.

"The yelling? The music? The random philosophical debates about snakes and chickens?"

More nods.

"And this is... normal?"

"Unfortunately," Eric confirmed.

"Standard operational environment," RO said.

"Every assignment. Every time," Booker added.

"Consistent lack of discipline across all assignments," Dobermann stated.

"My Operator participates in the conversations!" Eula said. "Last round they debated whether water is wet!"

Mercedes blinked. "...Is it?"

"SEVEN MINUTES of discussion! While I was dying repeatedly!"

Mercedes put her face in her hands. "We're all doomed, aren't we?"

"Yep," Booker said.

"At least we're doomed together?" Mercedes offered weakly.

"That's the spirit!" Eula said cheerfully.

A sound cut through the static—a electronic chime, distant but clear. They all turned toward the source.

A CRT monitor, ancient and bulky, materialized from the gloom. Its screen flickered to life, displaying numbers in harsh green text:

30 SECONDS REMAINING

"Ah," RO said. "The recall."

"Already?" Mercedes stood up quickly. "But we just—"

"Revive timer varies," Booker explained, stubbing out his cigarette. "Depends on the assignment type. Thirty seconds is pretty standard."

"Return parameters," RO clarified. "We'll be summoned back to our respective assignments."

Eric looked at his SAS gear with despair. "Back to the statue assignment?"

"Likely."

"I hate this."

"We all do," RO said, with more feeling than her professional tone usually allowed.

Eula was checking her Civil Protection uniform, straightening the vest. "When I return, I shall become a LAMP! They will NEVER expect a lamp!"

"You better stop moving, in my opinion," RO said. "Your movement patterns are too obvious."

"THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT!"

"You're returning to the same assignment?" Dobermann asked.

"My Operator refuses to disconnect until achieving 'at least one win.' We've been there for HOURS!"

"Hours?!" Eric turned to her. "We've only been with our Operator for forty minutes and I'm already dead three times!"

"Three?" Booker raised an eyebrow. "That's... actually not bad for a first session."

"NOT BAD?!"

"You're still functioning. Some people break down by the second elimination."

20 SECONDS

Mercedes was wringing her hands. "Must I go back to the yelling?"

"Yes," Eric said.

"And the music?"

"Affirmative," RO confirmed.

"And the vehicles?"

"Probably," Booker added.

"Can I at least pray first?"

Dobermann checked the monitor. "You have fifteen seconds."

Mercedes closed her eyes and began praying at speed, words tumbling over each other in desperate supplication.

"That's actually kind of impressive," Eula observed.

"Combat chaplain speed," Dobermann noted with approval.

15 SECONDS

They were all standing now, facing each other in a loose circle. Six figures in mismatched gear, from six different worlds, thrown together by the chaos of their assignments.

"So," Eric said. "Will we... see each other again?"

"Statistically probable," RO said. "If elimination rates remain consistent."

"That's depressing," he replied.

"But accurate."

10 SECONDS

Dobermann straightened to full attention. "Maintain discipline. We are professionals."

Booker sighed. "Here we go again."

RO pulled out tactical notes. "Implementing revised protocols based on shared intelligence."

Eula struck a dramatic pose. "I shall master the concealment ritual!"

Mercedes finished her prayer and opened her eyes. "Goddess protect us..."

Eric just stared at the countdown. "I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIS—"

5 SECONDS

"For what it's worth," Mercedes said quickly, "meeting all of you made this less frightening."

"Agreed," RO said.

"Same," Eric added quietly.

"Indeed," Dobermann confirmed.

"Yeah," Booker said simply.

"TO NEW FRIENDS!" Eula proclaimed.

3... 2... 1...

The limbo dissolved.

Mercedes felt the pull, like falling backwards through water, and then—

She was standing on a street corner in the City Realm. The vehicle that had eliminated her was respawning further down the road. Her Operator's voice crackled through the voice channel, already laughing about something. Music blared from someone's communications channel. Two people were arguing about parking spaces.

The chaos welcomed her back like an old friend.

But somehow, knowing that five other souls were experiencing their own versions of this madness—Eric back at the statue zone, RO trying to survive another round of trust exercises, Booker fighting mechanical constructs, Dobermann fleeing from celebrity pursuers, Eula attempting to BE furniture—made it slightly more bearable.

Only slightly.

But in this realm of absurdity, "slightly" was worth everything.

Mercedes took a deep breath, straightened her dress, and prepared to help her Operator with whatever incomprehensible task they'd set themselves to next.

Somewhere, in the spaces between eliminations, five other Companions were doing the same.

And the next time they met in that limbo space—and they would meet again, the statistics guaranteed it—they'd have new stories to share.

New chaos to process.

New absurdities to catalog.

But they wouldn't be alone in it.

And in the end, that was something.

Chapter Text

Author: Takao META, Code T, Ember of the Ashes
Compiled During: Limbo Sessions 1-143
Current Elimination Count: 297 (Total documented)
Assignment Type: Mercenary Realm (Nine-Class Combat Operations)

INTRODUCTION: WHY I AM WRITING THIS

I am writing this during my forty-seventh return to the waiting area.

If I must experience elimination repeatedly—and I must, as my Operator shows no signs of leaving—I will ensure other Companions learn from my experiences.

This guide assumes you possess basic survival instincts. If you do not, disregard this document and accept your fate.

I have had considerable time to document. The waiting area provides endless opportunity for reflection when you return as frequently as I do.

WARNING: This guide reflects reality. The Mercenary realm does not reward seriousness. It rewards participation in chaos. Adjust your expectations accordingly.

SECTION ONE: ASSIGNMENT TYPES

The Mercenary realm operates under various objective structures. In theory, these provide clear victory conditions. In practice, Operators frequently ignore them entirely.

Control Point Capture

Objective: Occupy designated zones through sustained presence until ownership transfers to your faction.

Reality: Straightforward in concept. Chaotic in execution.

Operators will abandon winning positions to pursue "aerial elimination tactics" or "deflection achievements." I have observed entire teams vacate capture points—while winning—to chase a single Scout-class specialist across the place.

Victory matters less than individual performance apparently.

Intelligence Capture

Objective: Infiltrate enemy base, retrieve their intelligence document, return it to your base. Repeat five times for victory.

Duration: Theoretically until five captures. Actually: infinite.

I have been deployed to the "Two Fort" installation seven times. The intelligence was never captured. Not once.

The bridge becomes a dueling ground for Sniper-class Operators. Three per team minimum. Nine-minute stalemates. No progress on objectives.

Engineers establish defensive installations in the intelligence chamber and refuse to leave. I watched one Engineer remain in position for the entire forty-minute deployment. They constructed additional defenses. Upgraded existing ones. Never pushed forward.

The objective became irrelevant. We simply... existed. In gridlocked purgatory.

Some Operators call this "the Two Fort experience."

I call it suffering.

Payload Delivery

Objective: Push an explosive device sixty meters to the enemy shaft. Time limit: ten minutes.

Context: The device is an atomic warhead. This should inspire urgency.

Reality: It does not.

Operators will stand on the delivery cart for exactly three seconds before abandoning it to pursue "flanking routes" or "elimination opportunities."

I once pushed the payload alone for forty meters while my team pursued a Spy-checking paranoia spiral. We were eliminating each other attempting to verify identities while the enemy team did the same.

I was alone on the payload for six minutes.

We won because the enemy team was equally dysfunctional.

Delivery Race

Objective: Two nuclear devices. Two teams. Race to deliver yours to the summit first.

Reality: Identical chaos to Intelligence Capture but with vertical geography.

I deployed to "Hightower" seven times. The payloads moved a combined distance of four meters across all seven deployments.

Both teams abandon objectives to pursue aerial combat. I witnessed a Soldier rocket-jump, attempt a melee strike mid-air, miss, fall into the ravine, and immediately return to attempt it again. He did this eleven consecutive times.

The eighth time his designation appeared, I eliminated him mid-air with a rocket. He typed "nice airshot" in text communication.

I assume this means "successful projectile elimination during aerial maneuver."

We lost. No one cared. The enemy team's payload remained at deployment zone.

Victory condition: First to deliver payload.
Actual condition: Last team to give up on aerial melee attempts.

We never delivered. They never delivered. Time limit ended the match.

I have accepted this is normal for Delivery Race assignments.

Territorial Control

Objective: Capture and hold a single central point. First team to accumulate three minutes of control wins.

Assessment: This mode has the highest concentration of Rocket-Jump Melee Specialists.

I have been eliminated mid-air by the same Soldier seventeen times. His designation: "LazyPurple Fan #2847."

He used the Market Gardener exclusively—a shovel that deals critical damage during aerial descent. I respect the dedication even as I curse his existence.

Automated Threat Containment

Objective: A cooperative assignment. Six combatants against hordes of robot duplicates. Upgrades are provided, which increase your combat capabilities, use them well.

My Assessment: Refreshing. A clear enemy. A defined frontline. No moral ambiguity.

The Reality - Currency Collection: Robots drop cash. If someone misses the cash, the Operator screams. I have witnessed an Operator abandon a tactical position to pick up five dollars. Greed is the true enemy here.

The Gambling: At the end, Operators pray for "Australium" weapons (Gold-plated weapons). The disappointment rate is 99%.

SUBSECTION 1.B: CUSTOM REALMS (UNREGULATED ZONES)

These assignments do not follow the same laws as the standard assignment variations. They are chaotic, experimental, and frequently nonsensical.

Rapid-Response Micro-Drills 

A training simulation designed to induce cognitive overload.

The Structure: Objectives change every four seconds. "Stand on a color!" "Don't move!" "Type the word!" "Solve the math problem!"

The Consequence: Failure results in immediate, spontaneous combustion.

My Experience: I survived the combat drills. I survived the movement drills. I was eliminated because I failed to calculate 12 x 7 in three seconds while avoiding a sawblade.

The "Boss Round": At the end, the survivors play a longer game. Usually "Don't Fall." It is dignity-destroying.

Homogenous Unit Doctrine 

A deployment where unit diversity is banned. One team is entirely one class; the enemy is entirely another.

Scenario A (12 Medics vs. 12 Heavies): The Medics formed a chain of invincibility. It was an immortal snake made of mad scientists. We could not kill them.

Scenario B (12 Engineers vs. 12 Engineers): The place became a fortress. Twenty-four Sentry guns. No one moved. The war ended in a stalemate because the machines refused to let humans play.

Scenario C (12 Spies vs. 12 Pyros): We died. Immediately. The air was fire.

Mechanized Siege Defense 

A hybrid of Delivery and Robot Defense. One side escorts a tank, with robot escorts, while the other side will try to destroy that tank, and have a lot of upgrades.

The Threat: A massive, autonomous tank vehicle.

The Boss: Sometimes, an enemy Operator becomes a Giant Robot that is hard to kill.

My Observation: Seeing a single Sniper-class the size of a building is terrifying. Seeing him aim at you specifically is worse. The "David vs. Goliath" metaphor applies, except Goliath has infinite ammunition and David is holding a fish.

Kinetic Reflection Exercise 

A specialized training ground for Pyro-class specialists.

The Equipment: Flamethrowers only.

The Ball: A homing nuclear rocket.

The Rules: Airblast the rocket back. It gains speed with every deflection.

The "Orbit": Skilled Operators manipulate the rocket to spin around them in circles before launching it. It is hypnotic.

The End State: The rocket reaches hypersonic speeds. It becomes invisible to the naked eye. You do not see death coming; you only hear the explosion.

Hyper-Parameter Distortion Zones 

Realms where weapon capabilities are multiplied by one hundred.

The Physics Failure: Reload times are instantaneous. Explosions cover the entire place.

The Kunai Spy: He is initially weak, but becomes indestructible upon a kill. He is a glass god.

Survival Tip: Do not blink. You will be dead before your eyelids reopen.

Logistical Anarchy 

 A supply chain disaster. Every Companion is given random equipment from other classes.

You can see things like a Heavy-class holding a Sniper Rifle or a Scout-class trying to carry a Minigun. Their bodies contort to fit the weapons.

Incarceration Simulation 

Guards issue commands to Prisoners.

The Command Structure: The "Warden" is usually a child with a low-quality microphone.

The Rules: Usually "Simon Says."

I survived the  Sirens and destruction of my timeline. Here, I was executed by a firing squad because I crouched when the child did not say "Simon Says."

Bio-Hazard Evacuation

A fighting retreat. One "Patient Zero" infects others. The goal is to reach the extraction vehicle (which is often a helicopter, a boat, or a flying couch).

Tactical Doctrine: Barricading. Everyone scream "CLOSE THE DOOR" repeatedly.

A teammate who blocks a door is the greatest traitor in history.

Paranormal Survival Training

You and several other participants are hunted by an entity, you must gather all the required materials to escape.

Note: This assignment varies wildly depending on the Operator's chosen "Map Configuration."

• Type A: The Statues: Concrete entities that move only when unobserved. A fair, if stressful, tactical challenge.
• Type B: The Shadow Walkers: Entities that cause visual static. Standard horror protocol. Run. Collect papers.
• Type C: The Absurdists: Entities that take the shape of unusual subjects, historical figures or celebrities. Do not fight, run.
• Type D: The Flattened Images:
• Threat: A two-dimensional image sliding across the floor at 80 miles per hour.
• Audio Hazard: They emit distorted, maximum-volume audio. Usually pop music or screaming.

I have faced eldritch gods. But fleeing down a dark hallway while being chased by a stretched image of a sponge playing techno music? This is not horror. This is a fever dream weaponized against my sanity.

Frictionless Traversal Training

Realms where floor friction is negated. The geography consists of neon triangles.

Objective: Slide. Maintain momentum.

Combat: Usually disabled.

Atmosphere: Operators discuss their days, play music, and slide into the void. It is a zen garden for speed addicts.

Unregulated Commerce Zones

No combat. No objectives. Just capitalism.

The Environment: Often a realm made of cubes or a neon plaza.

Behavior: Operators stand still or shout prices for hats.

Battalion-Scale Congestion

Fifty combatants versus Fifty combatants in a zone designed for twelve.

The Result: Total gridlock. The air is 90% bullets. Survival is impossible. It is the meat grinder of the soul.

SECTION TWO: OPERATOR SUBSPECIES

The Mercenary realm hosts various Operator behavioral patterns. Understanding these improves survival rates marginally.

Friendly Heavy-Class (referred as Hoovies by Operators)

Heavy-class Operators who refuse combat entirely.

They distribute "Sandviches"— sandwich-shaped restorative items—to both allies and enemies. They crouch repeatedly. This is friendliness signaling.

CRITICAL: Eliminating a Hoovy is taboo.

I learned this after eliminating one during deployment four. The enemy team immediately eliminated me in retaliation. I was called numerous unflattering designations in voice communication.

I have not made this mistake again.

Exception: Some are Spies disguising themselves as friendly Hoovies. Trust no one completely.

Rocket-Jump Melee Specialists (referred as Trolldiers by Operators)

Soldiers who abandon conventional warfare for aerial assassination.

Weapon: Market Gardener (critical-damage shovel)
Tactic: Rocket-jump, descend, eliminate via melee strike

They fail approximately seventy percent of attempts. The thirty percent that succeed are... impressive.

Honor Code: If a Rocket-Jump Specialist misses their attempt on you, spare them. They remember mercy.

I have been spared twice. I have spared others four times. This creates temporary truces even during active combat.

Most common location: Hightower. Never deploy to Hightower expecting objective completion.

Battle Engineers

Engineers who abandon construction duties to fight with shotguns exclusively.

Highly mobile. Unpredictable. Deadly at close range.

They deploy mini-sentries—small automated turrets—in high-traffic areas purely to cause irritation.

I have eliminated twenty-three Battle Engineers.

I have been eliminated by mini-sentries fifty-seven times.

The mathematics are unfavorable.

Demoknight

Demomen-class Operators who replace explosive launchers with shields and swords.

They charge at you with melee weapons. In a projectile combat environment.

It works disturbingly often.

Personal Experience: I attempted this configuration during deployment nine.

Observation: Exhilarating. Tactically questionable. Extremely vulnerable to Sentries.

The charge mechanism grants increased speed and damage. Successful charges that result in eliminations restore health.

I eliminated four enemies in one deployment. I was eliminated eleven times.

The mathematics remain unfavorable but the combat style is... engaging.

I understand the appeal. I do not recommend it for survival-focused Companions.

Protective Pyro Specialists (referred as Pybros by Operators)

A rare and valuable subspecies.

While most Pyro-class Operators pursue aggressive eliminations, Protective Specialists dedicate themselves to defensive support.

Duties:

• Extinguishing burning allies
• Deflecting explosive projectiles threatening Engineer constructions
• Removing enemy adhesive explosives from friendly structures
• Identity verification near critical infrastructure

I have been saved by Protective Pyros six times.

I have witnessed them save Engineer installations from coordinated Demoman assault.

I have observed a Protective Pyro deflect four consecutive rockets back at their source, eliminating the Soldier who fired them.

If you encounter a Protective Pyro protecting constructions: Assist them. Cover their flanks. They perform essential work.

They are distressingly rare. Most Pyro Operators prefer aggression.

Forward Charge Assault Specialists (Aggressive Pyro Doctrine, referred as W+M1 by Operators)

Pyro-class Operators who execute relentless forward pressure: advancing directly while maintaining continuous flame projection.

No flanking. No ambush tactics. Pure frontal assault.

This should be ineffective.

It is devastatingly effective against unaware opponents.

I have been eliminated by Forward Charge Assault twelve times. (Actual count: twenty-nine, but dignity demands understatement.)

The Tactic:

1. Advance directly toward target
2. Shoot
3. Do not stop advancing
4. Do not stop firing
5. Target panics and misses shots
6. Target burns and dies

Counter-Tactics:

• Maintain distance (flame range is limited)
• Retreat while firing
• Rockets at medium range
• Shotgun is effective
• DO NOT PANIC

I have panicked every time.

The flames create visual obscurity. The damage is rapid. The Pyro does not stop advancing. The psychological effect is considerable.

Other Operators mock Forward Charge Assault tactics. They claim it requires "no skill."

Yet it eliminates competent Operators and Companions regularly.

Effectiveness matters more than perception.

Current success rate against Forward Charge Assault: sixty percent.

(Actual success rate: forty percent, but documentation benefits from optimism.)

Heavy Shotgun Specialists (referred as Fat Scouts by Operators)

Heavy-class Operators who abandon their primary weapon to use shotguns exclusively.

They move faster without the minigun. They play aggressively like Scout-class.

This should not work.

It works.

I have been eliminated by Heavy Shotgun Specialists eight times. Each time I thought "surely the minigun would be more effective."

I mentioned this to a Heavy Shotgun Specialist. He said "minigun is boring. shotgun is based."

I do not know what "based" means in this context.

Combat Medics (referred as Battle Medics by Operators)

Medic-class Operators who refuse to heal and instead focus on combat.

This defeats the purpose of the Medic class entirely.

They are universally despised by their teams.

I have witnessed Combat Medics get vote-removed from realms.

I have witnessed Combat Medics achieve highest elimination counts.

The contradiction is maddening.

Precision Revolver Specialists (referred as Ambassador Spy or Gun Spy by Operators)

Spy-class Operators using a revolver that can easily kill you with headshots.

Highly skilled. Dangerous. Rare due to skill requirements.

I have been headshotted by Precision Revolver Specialists three times.

Each time I returned with grudging respect.

The accuracy required is considerable. These Operators have mastered their craft.

Passive Spies (referred as Spycrab by Operators)

Spy-class Operators who crouch while holding the Disguise Kit, creating a "crab-walking" movement, according to my Operator anyway.

They refuse combat. They are passive entities.

Eliminating a Spycrab is taboo, similar to Hoovies.

I eliminated one accidentally during deployment four. The entire enemy team hunted me in retaliation, and my own team sent threats to me in communications.

I have not made this mistake again.

Some realms host "Spycrab gambling"—Operators wager items on Spycrab races.

I do not understand gambling. I observed for fifteen minutes and learned nothing.

Novice Operators (referred as Free-to-Play by Operators)

Operators who are new to this. Came with default equipment only, according to my Operator.

Identifiable by:

• Standard headwear
• Erratic movement patterns
• Inability to communicate via voice (restricted communication privileges, according to my Operator)
• Standing motionless while reading guides mid-combat

They are learning. Show mercy when possible.

I have protected Novices six times. They did not understand why.

One typed "thx" in the text channel after I eliminated their pursuer. This was satisfying.

Exception: Some Novices are experienced Operators in disguise. They are dangerous. I have been eliminated by "Novices" who executed advanced techniques. These are deceptive and irritating.

Hyper-Lethal Specialists (Referred as Tryhards or Sweats by Operators)

These Operators treat every deployment as a battle for the fate of the timeline.

They possess immense skill. They possess zero mercy.

Identifiers:

• Burning Headgear: They wear helmets wreathed in perpetual flame or plasma energy (referred as Unusual effects by Operators). This provides no tactical advantage and destroys camouflage, yet they wear it to assert dominance.
• The "Australium" Weapons: Gold-plated firearms. Ostentatious.
• Total War Doctrine: They will eliminate Hoovies. They will eliminate Spycrabs. They will eliminate dancing congenital lines.

My Assessment:

I respect their combat efficiency. I despise their lack of chivalry.

I witnessed a Hyper-Lethal Soldier eliminate a circle of friendly crouching Heavies. It was a massacre.

When I confronted him in text communication, he typed: "free points lol."

There is no honor here. Only numbers.

Survival Protocol: Do not attempt to reason with them. Engage with full lethal force or retreat. They will not spare you.

High-Visibility Skirmishers (Referred as Scunts or Lime Scouts by Operators)

A variant of the Scout-class that specializes in psychological torture.

Visual Hazard:

They dye every piece of clothing a blinding, radioactive neon green (referred to as "Lime").

I looked at one directly and my eyes hurt. It is aggressive camouflage—designed not to hide, but to induce headaches.

Combat Doctrine:

1. Run fast.
2. Use the "Force-A-Nature" (a shotgun with excessive knockback) to push you off cliffs.
3. The Laughing: This is the worst part. Upon eliminating you, they will perform a stationary action where they point and laugh at your remains.

Personal Incident:

I was pushed into a ravine by a Lime Scout. As I fell, I heard him laughing. I returned. He found me again. He eliminated me. He laughed again.

He typed "get rekt trash" in the communication channel.

I have faced Sirens that erased civilizations. They were less aggravating than this singular green man.

Assessment: If you see neon green, fire immediately. Do not let them close the distance. They feed on your frustration.

The Standing Ones (Physics Anomaly)

Some Operators' are just stuck in a standing position with arms extended horizontally.

They glide across terrain without movement, like a floating scarecrow.

Other Operators flee from them.

I do not understand this behavior. The Standing Ones appear harmless—a visual anomaly, not a threat.

I mentioned this to my Operator. According to them: "run from the A-pose they have ascended."

I asked for clarification. They did not provide it.

Observation: When a Standing One appears, Operators scatter. Some self-eliminate immediately. Others scream in voice communication.

Analysis: This is shared humor I do not comprehend. The Standing Ones pose no tactical threat, yet Operators treat them as terrifying entities.

I stood still when a Standing One approached. Nothing happened. We occupied the same space for fourteen seconds.

Other Operators watched in apparent horror, as if I had touched something profane.

I remain confused. This is either advanced humor or mass psychological phenomenon.

Tactical Note: If you encounter a Standing One, observe Operator reactions. They will flee. You may eliminate them while they panic. Tactically sound if ethically questionable.

SECTION THREE: COMMUNICATION AND BEHAVIORAL ANOMALIES

Operators can manipulate their voice lines to create fragmented communication. I initially believed this indicated medical distress.

Examples documented:

"That Scout is a—" [MEDIC]
I heard this and immediately searched for medical personnel. There was no Scout. There was no medical emergency. The Operator was... joking?

"Need a—" [NO]
Contradictory. They expressed need while simultaneously refusing assistance.

"Incoming—" [POOTIS]
I do not know what "POOTIS" means. It appears to derive from Heavy-class voice lines. Operators find this hilarious.

"MEDIC" (repeated 40-80 times rapidly)
This creates urgency. Medics ignore it. I asked why. A Medic-class Operator said: "if they spam it they're not actually dying."

This logic is sound yet the repeat continues.

Most concerning:
"Oktoberfest—" (various fragments)

One Heavy-class Operator cycled through partial sentences for three consecutive minutes, creating what sounded like a brewing stroke. Other Operators called this "a banger."

I no longer respond to fragmented communication unless context confirms actual distress.

Survival tip: Sentence manipulation is deliberate. Operators are not dying. They are... expressing themselves. Somehow.

Addendum A: The Dance Rituals

I have observed a phenomenon where combatants on both sides will spontaneously cease fire to engage in synchronized choreography.

Operators call these "Taunts." I call it "Mass Hysteria."

The Conga Line

Description: One Operator begins moving forward slowly while rhythmic percussion plays from nowhere.

The Contagion: Any Operator who touches the first one is compelled to join. They cannot help themselves.

Result: I have seen fierce battles dissolve into twenty-four people forming a line and dancing through the objective.

My Experience: I attempted to maintain the frontline. My Operator forced me to join the line. I marched through the enemy base kicking my legs. I felt ridiculous. I also felt... oddly joyful?

The Kazotsky Kick

• Description: A squatting Slavic dance requiring immense quadricep strength.
• Duration: Infinite. They will do this until the round ends.
• Tactical Note: DO NOT FIRE ON THE DANCERS.
• This is the "Law of the Dance." If you eliminate a dancer, every other dancer (friend and foe) will stop, equip weapons, and for enemy team, they will eliminate you with extreme prejudice, while your own team will send you threats and other insults. Then they will resume dancing on your grave.

Addendum B: Suicide

I have witnessed a disturbing behavior where Operators commited suicide for no tactical reason.

They refer to this as "Killbinding."

The Phenomenon:

Two Operators will look at each other.

One will perform a nod, or a laugh, or a specific word.

Then, they will instantly collapse. No wounds. No enemy fire. Just... dead.

Sometimes, this triggers a chain reaction. One dies. The witness stares at the body, then they die. A third person walks in, sees two bodies, and they die.

Comparison to Seppuku:

In my culture, ritual suicide (Seppuku) is a solemn act to restore honor or avoid disgrace. It is heavy. It means something.

"Killbinding", on the other hand, is a joke?

Incident Report #402:

I was observing a Sniper. He missed a shot. He stood still for one second. He exploded into pieces.

The text communication read: "oops."

Incident Report #403:

Two Operators played "Rock, Paper, Scissors." The loser did not accept defeat. He detonated himself. The winner then detonated himself out of solidarity.

Analysis:

It is suicide as a form of comedy.

I find it wasteful.

My Operator finds it hilarious.

I once asked my Operator why he did it. He said it's the “funny button.”

I do not think I will ever understand this realm. But I must accept that at any moment, my Operator may choose to simply stop living for the sake of a "bit."

SECTION FOUR: UNCONVENTIONAL ARMAMENTS

I have been eliminated by numerous implements that defy military logic.

The Mailpost (referred as Postal Pummeler by Operators)

A wooden post. Used for delivering correspondence. Weaponized.

Eliminated me in three strikes. I returned confused and humiliated.

Bear Claws Affixed to Hands (Referred as Warrior's Spirit by Operators)

Duct tape. Taxidermied bear paws. Somehow functional.

The Heavy-class Operator who eliminated me said "Get Clawed."

I had no response.

Protest Signs (Referred as Conscientious Objector by Operators)

Operators apply custom images to picket signs and use them as melee weapons.

Images documented:

• Explicit material (forty-seven instances)
• Fictional characters (eighty-nine instances)
• Random photographs: food, animals, historical figures
• Text messages: "GET GOOD," "LOL," "SKILL ISSUE," incomprehensible phrases
• Abstract art that may be accidental

I was eliminated by a sign depicting a capybara with the text "friend shaped."

The Operator said "you just got capybara'd" in voice communication.

I have no context for this statement.

I was eliminated by a sign showing explicit imagery. I will not describe further.

I was eliminated by a sign reading "THIS IS A PROTEST SIGN."

The self-referential nature was almost impressive.

The Stick Grenade (referred as Ullapool Caber by Operators)

A stick grenade. Used as a suicide weapon. A sane person would throw it.

Demoman-class Operators charge at enemies and detonate themselves deliberately.

I have been eliminated by this twenty-three times.

Each time, the Demoman also perished.

Each time, they seemed satisfied.

Bow and Arrow (referred as Huntsman by Operators)

In a modern combat environment. Unmodified Arrows.

Headshot eliminations are instant.

I have been eliminated by random arrows sixteen times. Half were not aimed at me.

The projectile arc causes unintended eliminations regularly.

Operators call these "lucksman moments."

I call them my personal nemesis.

Spiked Bat (called Boston Basher by Operators)

Scout-class melee weapon. Causes bleeding on hit.

Also causes the wielded to bleed if they miss.

I watched a Scout injure himself six times in thirty seconds attempting to strike me.

He eventually bled out.

I did nothing. He eliminated himself.

Improvised Trash Launcher (Referred as Beggar’s Bazooka by Operators) 

A rocket launcher constructed from garbage. It has no safety whatsoever.

Mechanism: The Operator loads up to three rockets manually. If they load a fourth, the weapon detonates in their hands.

Trajectory: Random. The rockets do not go straight. They deviate up to 3 degrees.

Assessment: A weapon designed by a lunatic, used by lunatics. Treat the entire forward cone as a "death zone."

Desecrated Human Remains (Referred as Bat Outta Hell or Unarmed Combat by Operators) 

Some Scout-class Operators wield a human spine with the skull attached. Others wield a severed arm.

My Reaction: I am a warship. I have seen death. But running around slapping people with a severed spine is a violation of international law and basic hygiene.

Psychological Effect: The skull’s jaw flaps when they swing it. It is deeply disturbing.

Wrapped Fish (Referred as Holy Mackerel by Operators) 

A fish. Wrapped in newspaper.

Lethality: Surprisingly high.

The Humiliation: When hit, the text feed announces "FISH HIT!" When eliminated, it announces "FISH KILL!" in the casualties notification.

Personal Incident: I was dueling a Scout. I missed my katana swing. He slapped me to death with a fish. Everyone saw the notification. I did not speak for three hours in the waiting area.

Improvised Railroad Spike (Referred as Pain Train by Operators) 

A broken wooden handle with a large spike and nails.

Tactical Anomaly: Holding this stick makes the Operator capture territorial points faster.

My Confusion: I have analyzed the physics. Holding a stick does not increase mass or capturing speed. Yet, the logic of this realm dictates that "Spike Stick = Faster Capture."

Trade-off: The user is more vulnerable to bullets. Why? Because they are holding a stick. Do not ask me to explain.

Festive Confectionery (Referred as Candy Cane by Operators) 

An oversized peppermint stick.

The Miracle: Upon eliminating an enemy, a medical kit instantaneously materializes from the corpse.

My Analysis: Spontaneous medical generation via blunt force trauma. I have stopped questioning the physics behind it.

Decorative Fan (Referred as Fan O’War by Operators) 

A paper fan. It deals almost no damage.

The Threat: If they hit you, a skull symbol appears over your head. You are "Marked for Death."

Effect: All subsequent damage is critical.

Assessment: The fan itself is harmless. The fact that a Scout ran up, slapped me with paper, and doomed me to instant death by a distant Heavy is infuriating.

Cardboard Tube and Glass (Referred as Wrap Assassin by Operators) 

A tube of gift wrap. It launches a glass Christmas ornament.

Damage: The impact is negligible. The bleeding is severe.

My Experience: I was hit in the visor by a bauble. I bled to death while the Scout ran away laughing.

Tactical Note: It is essentially a fragile grenade launcher. Treat festive Scouts with caution.

Agricultural Implement (Referred as Back Scratcher by Operators) 

A garden rake, used as a weapon.

Usage: Pyro-class Operators use this. It will hurt, a lot.

Medical Anomaly: While holding the rake, Medics cannot heal the Pyro effectively. However, finding a health kit heals them more.

Observation: I watched a Pyro rake a Heavy to death. It was a gruesome display of landscaping equipment misuse.

Corporal Punishment Glove (Referred as Hot Hand by Operators) 

A firefighting glove.

The Mechanic: It does not punch. It slaps.

The Auditory Assault: Every hit produces a loud "SLAP" sound. The Operator gains a speed boost to run away (or slap you again).

The Notification: It announces "SLAP KILL!"

My Dignity: Non-existent after facing this. To be cut down by a sword is a warrior's death. To be slapped to death by a sprinting arsonist is a tragedy.

Glass Alcohol Bottle (Referred as Bottle by Operators) 

A glass bottle of cider (scrumpy).

Visual: Demoman-class Operators drink from it, then hit you with it.

Critical Hit: If they achieve a critical hit, the bottle shatters. It does not deal extra bleed damage, it just becomes a jagged glass shank.

My Question: Why are they drinking on the battlefield?

My Operator's Answer: "He's Scottish." (This explains nothing, yet explains everything.)

Biological Warfare Jar (Referred as Jarate by Operators)

Warning: This is disgusting.

Description: A mason jar filled with urine.

Tactical Use: The Sniper throws it at you. You are covered in fluids.

Effect: All damage taken is critical. You are also humiliated.

My Reaction: I have commanded naval fleets. I have engaged eldritch horrors. I was not prepared to have a jar of bodily fluids thrown at me by a man wearing a cork hat.

Bushwacka Combo: If you are "Jarated," a Sniper will often hit you with a machete called a Bushwacka for an instant kill. It is a combo born of malice and poor sanitation.

Philosophy Bust (Referred as Solemn Vow by Operators) 

A marble bust of Hippocrates.

Irony: "Do No Harm" is the Medic-class’ creed. Beating someone to death with a statue of the father of medicine is contradictory.

Tactical Advantage: The Medic can see your health percentage. He knows you are weak. He will chase you with the statue. Run.

Frying Pan 

A standard kitchen pan.

Lethality: High.

Audio Hazard: The noise. It is indescribable. It is a deafening CLANG that overrides all other audio.

Tactical Note: I have developed a Pavlovian flinch response to the sound of cooking equipment.

Golden Frying Pan

Description: A frying pan made of solid gold.

Economic Anomaly: My Operator claims this item costs as much as a used car.

The Effect: Upon elimination, the victim turns into a solid gold statue.

The Reaction: When an Operator with this item appears, everyone stops fighting to stare at it. If the owner dies, other Operators swarm the body to pick it up.

My Experience: I was turned to gold during my last death. My statue remained on the battlefield. Three people looked at my frozen corpse. It was bizarrely flattering yet morbid.

Survival consideration: Unconventional weapons are numerous. Accept their existence. A fish is a viable weapon here. I have been eliminated by a fish. Twice.

SECTION FIVE: DEFLECTION TECHNIQUE (CRITICAL DISCOVERY)

PERSONAL INCIDENT - Deployment #12:

I engaged an enemy Pyro at medium range.

Standard tactic: Fire rocket. Pyro is eliminated or forced to retreat.

I fired.

The Pyro raised their weapon. A compression burst erupted from the flamethrower.

My rocket reversed direction.

I was eliminated by my own projectile.

I returned confused and humiliated.

I researched this mechanism during waiting area time. The compression burst, referred to as "airblast" by Operators, can deflect projectiles, extinguish fires, and reposition enemies.

Skilled Pyros can deflect rockets with precision timing.

I have been eliminated by my own rockets seventeen times now.

(The actual count is thirty-four times, but I will not document my complete failure rate.)

Current protocol when engaging enemy Pyros:

• Maintain distance beyond compression burst range
• Fire rockets during their recovery period
• Shotgun is more reliable
• Retreat is acceptable
• Pride is irrelevant when facing deflection specialists

I have learned to respect Pyro-class Operators.

I have also learned to hate them.

Both can be true simultaneously.

SECTION SIX: MEDIEVAL ASSIGNMENT (THE MELEE NIGHTMARE)

ASSIGNMENT: Medieval Event
LOCATION: DeGroot Keep
LOADOUT RESTRICTION: Melee weapons and bows only
MY ASSESSMENT: I despise this.

I am a sword specialist. This should favor my combat style.

It does not.

The elimination log from my first Medieval deployment:

1. Eliminated by Demoknight charge (Broadsword decapitation)
2. Eliminated by Huntsman headshot
3. Eliminated by Crusader's Crossbow bolt (Medic using crossbow as primary weapon)
4. Eliminated in melee mosh pit (twelve Operators and Companions attacking each other simultaneously—cause of death unclear)
5. Eliminated by Demoknight (different one, wielding a scimitar)
6. Eliminated by flying guillotine (thrown cleaver)
7. Eliminated in capture point melee chaos 8-14. [MOSH PIT INCIDENTS]

The "mosh pit" phenomenon:

When Operators and Companions converge on the objective, all tactical sense evaporates. Everyone swings melee weapons wildly. The combat log becomes incomprehensible. Eliminations occur randomly. You cannot track who struck you because eight different weapons hit you within two seconds.

I have martial training. It is irrelevant here.

The chaos is absolute.

My Half-Zatoichi has a mechanism: killing an enemy wielding the same weapon heals in full, and instantly killing them. In Medieval assingment, many Demomen and Soldiers use this weapon.

Theory: I could sustain myself through honorable duels.

Practice: I am overwhelmed before completing a swing.

I have achieved three successful Half-Zatoichi eliminations in Medieval assignment.

I have been eliminated twenty-two times in doing so.

Demoknights dominate this environment. They charge through crowds, becoming stronger with each kill. I have witnessed single Demoknights eliminate six combatants in one charge.

I attempted Demoknight again specifically for Medieval mode.

Results: Moderate improvement. Still died eleven times.

The Huntsman remains effective. Skilled archers stayed in elevated positions and eliminate anyone approaching the objective.

I cannot use the Huntsman due to my personnel class choice. My Operator has not equipped it.

I mentioned this. They claimed katana is cooler.

This is not tactical reasoning.

SURVIVAL ASSESSMENT:

• Stay on the mosh pit's periphery
• Target isolated enemies
• Flee from charging Demoknights
• Accept that you will die in confused melee chaos
• Question why this assignment exists

I have questioned this. Multiple Operators responded as "medieval mode is fun."

I disagree.

I will continue being deployed here against my will.

SECTION SEVEN: MISCELLANEOUS

During waiting area sessions, I have encountered numerous Companions assigned to Mercenary deployments.

We share experiences. We document failures. We offer tactical advice that will be ignored.

Here are some of the following transcripts, provided with consents from the interviewed Companions.

Companion 'Helena':
Assignment: Scout-class
Complaint: "The enemy Pyro set me on fire six times in one life. I didn't know you could BE on fire. This is barbaric."

My response: "Afterburn damage. Seek health restoration or friendly Pyro assistance."

Her response: "I just wanted to deliver intelligence!"

Assessment: She learned quickly. By deployment three she was successfully capturing intelligence. I felt oddly proud.

Companion 'Marcus':
Assignment: Engineer-class
Complaint: "A Spy disguised as me and destroyed my own Sentry while I watched. I couldn't stop him. My Operator said 'skill issue.'"

My response: "Identity verification protocols. Strike teammates periodically to verify authenticity. If they’re unharmed, they're not a Spy."

His response: "That seems paranoid."

Later session: "You were right. I hit everyone now. It’s confusing, but it worked somehow"

Assessment: Adaptation successful. Paranoia is survival in Mercenary assignments.

Companion 'Yuki':
Assignment: Medic-class
Complaint: "My Operator keeps charging directly into enemy lines while I'm healing them! We die together! Every time!"

My response: "You conduct ÜberCharge incorrectly. Or your Operator is deliberately seeking elimination for entertainment."

Her response: "What's ÜberCharge?"

Assessment: Novice Companion with insufficient Medic understanding. I provided basic healing doctrine. She thanked me. We were both eliminated shortly after by the same adhesive explosive trap. We returned and laughed. It was... therapeutic.

Companion 'Alexei':
Assignment: Heavy-class
Complaint: "I am too slow. Everyone shoots me. I am large and slow and everyone shoots me."

My response: "Heavy-class is large target. Maintain cover. Use teammates as mobile shields."

His response: "That seems cowardly."

My response: "That is survival."

Later session: He had twenty-three eliminations. He was using his teammates as shields. He felt guilty but effective.

Assessment: Pragmatism learned through repeated elimination.

Companion 'Iris':
Assignment: Spy-class
Complaint: "I backstabbed an enemy. They had the 'Dead Ringer.' They did not die. They turned around and eliminated me. I was deceived by my own successful deception."

My response: "The Dead Ringer simulates death. Experienced Spies use it to escape. Verify your eliminations."

Her response: "This is too complicated. I miss my old assignments."

Assessment: She adapted poorly. Switched to Sniper-class by deployment four. Much happier, still poorly though.

OBSERVATION:

We are all struggling.

We all die repeatedly.

We all return.

There is comfort in shared suffering.

During one waiting area session, eight Companions gathered. We shared our most humiliating eliminations.

Mine is Rocket-jumped into enemy Sentry gun range. Was eliminated by the enemy team's defenses.

The group agreed this was “extremely embarrassing” but also “impressive” in its stupidity.

I appreciated their honesty.

We discussed tactics. We planned. We encouraged each other.

The next deployment, we were scattered across different realms, different assignment types, different teams.

But knowing others experience identical chaos makes it bearable.

We are eliminated by increasingly creative methods.

But we are not alone.

ADDENDUM: THE HALLOWEEN EVENT

Also known as Scream Fortress amongst Operators, which I will refer to the event as such from now.

I have not been deployed during this assignment type.

I am grateful for this.

However, during waiting area sessions, I have heard accounts from Companions who HAVE experienced it.

Their testimonies are disturbing.

Companion 'Chen' testimony:
"The wizard—MERASMUS—appears randomly and eliminates everyone in the vicinity. You cannot permanently kill him, he will come back. He teleports constantly. He screams about his roommate. I don't understand the context but he's very angry about it."

Companion 'Nora' testimony:
"The skeletons are numerous, they came in hordes. There are a lot of them, clawing their way through anything that moves. They laughs. Constantly. The laughing does not stop. I can still hear it when I close my eyes."

Companion 'Viktor' testimony:
"MONOCULUS. It is a giant floating eye. It shoots projectiles. When eliminated, it opens a portal to the underworld. If you enter the underworld, you fight a stronger MONOCULUS. I did not understand why anyone would enter voluntarily. Operators entered voluntarily. They said 'loot island.' I do not know what this means."

Companion 'Saki' testimony:
"The Horseless Headless Horsemann appears on certain places. He is a large specter wielding an axe. He eliminates Operators and Companions in one strike. You can harm him, but he has immense strength. When someone eliminates him, they receive a cursed axe. The axe compels them to pursue enemies. This is 'the haunt.' Every Companions flees from the haunted Opetator. It's chaos. Complete chaos."

Companion 'Devon' testimony:
"The event runs for approximately two weeks annually. Deployment zones become Halloween-themed. According to my Operator, cosmetic rewards and contracts are available. Which causes them to deploy repeatedly despite dying constantly. They want 'Halloween cosmetics.' They have been eliminated by Merasmus seventeen times. They keep returning. I don't understand. The cosmetics provide no tactical advantage. Why suffer for them?"

ANALYSIS:

The Scream Fortress event adds multiple high-powered hostile entities to existing combat scenarios.

Standard combat doctrine becomes: Avoid wizard. Avoid skeletons. Avoid giant eye. Avoid specter. Complete objectives while managing these threats.

Operators pursue this willingly.

They call it "fun."

ASSESSMENT:

I do not want to experience this.

If deployed during Scream Fortress:

• Prioritize survival over objectives
• Flee from all special entities
• Do not enter underworld portals
• If haunted, accept elimination is imminent
• Question all life choices that led to this moment

Companions who have survived multiple Scream Fortress events report "desensitization" and "acceptance of chaos."

One Companion—'Yuki' from previous entries—said: "After the third time Merasmus bombed the control point, I stopped caring. I just capture objectives between wizard appearances now. It's fine. Everything is fine."

She did not sound fine.

FINAL NOTE ON SCREAM FORTRESS:

According to Companion “David”, there are also magic spells scattered throughout the realms during the events.

I investigated. Apparently, there are spells that, depending on the color, can turn you invisible, summon friendly skeletons, launch fireballs, summon swarms of bats, launch pumpkin bombs or even summon a lesser version of Monoculus.

Not only that, the wizard can force everyone to play bumper cars or play deadly versions of carnival games.

I hate the sound of this already.

FINAL NOTES

I have been deployed to Mercenary assignments forty-seven times.

I have been eliminated 297 times total.

(Actual count: 584. I am understating for documentation purposes. No one needs to know about the thirteen consecutive eliminations by the same Demoknight. Or the forty-one times I rocket-jumped into walls. Or the incident with the cliff edge. Multiple cliff edges. I maintain dignity in documentation if nowhere else.)

I have written this guide during waiting area sessions one through one hundred forty-three.

To fellow Companions:

You are not alone in your suffering.

During waiting area time, seek out others. Share your eliminations. Learn from combined failure.

I have met Companions from various assignments. We form temporary communities in that waiting space. We encourage each other. We document chaos together.

The solidarity helps.

The Mercenary realm is structured chaos. It rewards adaptability. It punishes rigidity. It eliminates everyone frequently regardless of skill.

My Operator chose Soldier-class exclusively. They rocket-jump constantly. We fly. We fall. We eliminate. We are eliminated.

The Half-Zatoichi is my weapon—a katana that demands commitment. Once drawn, I cannot switch weapons without an elimination. I must commit fully to every engagement.

This mirrors my existence: drawn into this realm, unable to return, must commit to survival through every deployment.

The symbolism is not lost on me.

I have learned:

• Objectives are secondary to Operator enjoyment
• Eliminations are temporary
• Humiliation builds character
• Deflection techniques will reverse your rockets
• Never approach a Sentry installation without support
• Protective Pyros deserve protection and respect
• Hoovies are sacred
• Rocket-Jump Melee Specialists follow an honor code
• Medieval Mode remains my personal hell
• The Huntsman is my nemesis (thirty-seven eliminations to random arrows—actual count: fourty-three)
• Forward Charge Assault Pyros are terrifying
• Demoknight charges through defensive lines like they don't exist
• Custom protest signs are psychological warfare
• I can adapt to anything given sufficient eliminations
• Fellow Companions make the chaos bearable

I am a warrior from a fallen timeline. I have commanded fleets. I have destroyed Sirens. I have witnessed the end of my world.

Here, I am repeatedly eliminated by:

• Garden shovels during aerial combat
• Exploding Demomen
• Protest signs featuring capybaras and moronic imagery
• My own reflected rockets (I will never fully recover from this humiliation)
• The same Sniper headshot three times in a row from the same position (I should have learned)
• Medieval assignment mosh pits where cause of death is "everyone"
• Spies I never saw
• Scouts with fish

But I continue.

We all continue.

We adapt. We survive. We return.

If you encounter me during a deployment:

• I am the Soldier-class personnel with the katana
• I am likely flying through the air
• I am probably about to be eliminated
• Wave anyway

If you encounter me during waiting area time:

• Share your most humiliating elimination
• I will share mine
• We will laugh
• We will return to battle

This is the cycle.

This is survival.

This is... not entirely unpleasant.

(I cannot believe I admitted that.)

—Takao META, Code T, Ember of the Ashes

POST-SCRIPT:

If deployed during Scream Fortress event: I am unprepared. The testimonies I have heard are terrifying. I hope the Operators shows mercy.

As the creatures will not.

—T.M.

Chapter Text

The transition pulled them through that peculiar sensation of falling sideways through reality—the summoning from the Steam Lobby to active assignment always felt wrong in ways Baizhi couldn't quite quantify. One moment she stood in that liminal waiting space, trading information with other Companions about operator behavior patterns and assignment types. The next, she materialized in oppressive heat.

Florida. The humidity hit first, thick enough to feel solid against exposed skin. Baizhi looked down, watching her outfit shift and adapt—dark blue wool, heavy brass buttons, the structured jacket of what she recognized as military formal wear. Union colors, she noted with detached observation. The fabric was already clinging in the moisture.

Beside her, New Jersey appeared with a delighted gasp. "Oh these are adorable! Look at this blue! And the buttons!" She spun slightly, letting the coat swirl. "The tailoring is really good too—structured but not restrictive!"

Raiden Mei solidified next, her hands immediately moving to adjust her uniform with practiced precision. She tested the weight of the coat, the hang of it. "Formal military dress. Heavy." A pause as she felt the air. "This humidity will be problematic."

The last to manifest was Liv, and her hands found a drum before her feet fully touched ground. She looked down at it with visible alarm. "I—this is a drum. I'm holding a drum. Am I supposed to—I don't know how to—"

"Just hit it rhythmically!" New Jersey was already walking toward the massive iron cannon positioned ahead of them, examining it with unrestrained curiosity. "Can't be that hard!"

The artillery piece dominated their position—smoothbore, muzzle-loading, mounted on a wooden carriage that looked like it had been built by craftsmen rather than factories. Black iron, simple mechanics, no hydraulics or automated systems. Four identical cannons sat in formation around them, other figures already assembling into crews.

Baizhi approached with careful steps, running her fingers along the barrel. The metal was cool despite the heat, the surface smooth except where casting marks remained. "Muzzle-loading design. No rifling visible. The technology suggests mid-nineteenth century at latest."

"Way before my time," New Jersey confirmed, but she was grinning with genuine enthusiasm. "I served in the 1940s, big naval guns, completely different tech. But I recognize the nation!" She gestured at their blue uniforms, then swept her hand across the landscape—dense vegetation, standing water, twisted trees draped in moss. "US Army, older era. Civil War, maybe? And we're definitely in Florida. The swamp state with the alligators and the crazy humidity."

"How are you certain about the location?" Mei's questioned, assessing the situation.

"The heat, the vegetation pattern, and—" New Jersey pointed at a crude sign someone had erected nearby that read "WELCOME TO HELL (ALSO FLORIDA)" in letters that looked hand-painted. "—that's pretty definitive."

Their Operator's voice cut through the ambient noise, and Baizhi registered the designation floating above his avatar as he approached: Jimbo Boner. She'd worked with him on three previous assignments. The callsign still registered as unusual, but she'd learned from Lobby conversations that operator naming conventions followed no discernible system. Other Companions had reported designations like "xXDragonSlayer420Xx" and "Definitely_Not_The_FBI" with equal bewilderment.

"Alright, artillery duty!" Their Operator's voice carried enthusiasm and very little actual instruction. "You're on the cannon, I'm helping you start!"

He demonstrated loading—powder bag shoved into the muzzle, ramrod working it down, iron ball rolled in, another ramming, some adjustments to wheels and elevation, then something about a slow match and a touch hole. It happened in perhaps thirty seconds, far too fast to actually follow the procedure.

"See? Easy! You got this!" He stepped back. Then he paused, looking toward another section of the battlefield where officers on horseback were organizing infantry formations. "Wait. Actually. Being an officer looks way more fun."

New Jersey looked up from where she'd been trying to decipher the elevation adjustment wheel. "Operator?"

"Yeah, I'm switching to officer class! The slot is vacant! Gotta go yell at people to form lines and stand in neat rows while getting shot at!" Jimbo was already backing away. "You guys got this! Just shoot at the Confederates! They're the guys in grey!"

"Wait, you're leaving?" Mei called after him.

"Leadership calls! Form up! March forward! All that good stuff! Have fun!" And he was gone, respawned at a different area, leaving the four of them standing around a cannon they had no idea how to operate.

Baizhi stared after him. "The Operator has abandoned his post."

"That's..." Liv clutched her drum tighter. "That's not procedure?"

"That's operator behavior," New Jersey said with the ease of experience. "Okay, so. Artillery." She planted her hands on her hips, examining the cannon like she was sizing up an opponent. "I can work with this."

Baizhi studied her. New Jersey projected confidence naturally—it was part of her fundamental bearing, the way she held herself, spoke, moved through space. Leadership qualities, Baizhi recognized. The kind that made people want to follow. But this was artillery, and confidence alone wouldn't calculate trajectories.

"You have experience with muzzle-loading smoothbore cannon?" Baizhi kept her voice neutral, diagnostic.

"Well. No. But I know naval gunnery! 1940s battleship experience, fire control, ballistics, targeting systems!" New Jersey was already examining the powder bags stacked nearby. "The principles are the same, just... older. Completely manual, you know."

"Your ship's weapons were breech-loading with hydraulic recoil systems and electronic fire control." Baizhi stated "This is manually loaded, manually aimed, black powder combustion with no recoil compensation."

"Sure, but a cannon's a cannon! Point it at the enemy, make it go boom, the enemy has a bad day!" New Jersey hefted a powder bag, testing the weight. "This feels like maybe... twelve pounds? Fifteen?"

"That's not a proper measurement."

"It's an estimate based on handling experience!"

Baizhi felt that familiar sensation—the tightening behind her sternum that indicated concern, though her face remained impassive. New Jersey was guessing. They were going to operate military artillery based on guesswork. People were going to get hurt. Possibly them.

She needed to take control, but carefully. New Jersey had natural leadership presence. Direct confrontation would create friction. Baizhi had learned from previous assignments that she could be... difficult to work with. Too precise. Too cold. She tried to soften it, adding warmth she didn't naturally project.

"Perhaps we should establish a systematic procedure." Baizhi moved to stand beside New Jersey, close enough to suggest collaboration rather than challenge. "I could calculate trajectories. You have operational experience that I lack."

New Jersey's smile was genuine, no defensiveness. "Perfect! Division of labor!" She pointed at Mei. "You're meticulous—I've seen you work. You're on loading duty. Precise measurements, careful procedure, like you're preparing a complicated dish."

Mei nodded slowly. "Cooking does require similar attention to sequence and proportion. I can manage this."

"Great! Baizhi, you're the brain—you do all the math stuff. Angle, distance, wind, whatever needs calculating." New Jersey turned to Liv. "And you're our morale! When we shoot, you drum! Make it dramatic!"

"I don't—that's not how—" Liv looked lost, overwhelmed, still clutching the drum like it might save her from drowning.

New Jersey's voice gentled immediately. "Hey. You're doing great. Just bang on it when things happen. Trust me, you'll find a rhythm."

They began loading. New Jersey worked with surprising speed, grabbing a powder bag and shoving it into the muzzle with confidence that wasn't quite expertise. Mei followed, handling the ramrod with the same careful precision she likely applied to kitchen work, working the powder charge down with measured strokes.

Baizhi found herself naturally falling into the support role that came easiest—assessing, analyzing, trying to keep everyone safe through careful observation. She examined the target area, estimated distance by eye, felt the wind against her face. Light breeze from the southeast. Target approximately four hundred meters. Elevation would need to account for gravity drop over distance.

"Angle it up," she said. "Approximately eight degrees."

New Jersey was already at the elevation wheel, cranking it with both hands. "Up we go!" She eyeballed the barrel. "That looks about right!"

"You didn't measure." Baizhi pointed out.

"Don't need to! I can see the angle!"

"Visual estimation is insufficient for ballistic accuracy."

"But it feels right!"

The cannon sat at approximately seven degrees elevation. Baizhi could see that much. The proper calculation would be closer to eight point three, accounting for powder charge, projectile mass, air resistance. But New Jersey seemed satisfied, and arguing would waste time. They could adjust after the first shot.

Mei had loaded the iron ball, ramming it home with careful attention. 

"Plus I checked the wind!" New Jersey added, licked her finger and held it up. "Coming from... thataway! So we adjust left a bit!"

"THAT IS NOT METEOROLOGICAL MEASUREMENT!" Baizhi snapped.

"It's directional data!"

"Based on SALIVA EVAPORATION!"

"Which is science! You like science!"

Before Baizhi could respond, New Jersey had finished her adjustments. "Okay! Mei, we need fire! Where's the—"

Mei had already picked up the slow match—a length of cord that smoldered at one end, used to ignite the powder charge through the touch hole. She held it carefully, waiting for instruction.

"Perfect! Just touch it to that little hole there when I say!" New Jersey checked the aim one more time, made a minute adjustment based on nothing visible to the others, then stepped back. "Everyone ready?"

Mei touched the glowing match to the small hole at the cannon's base.

The explosion was enormous. Smoke billowed in a gray-white cloud that immediately obscured their vision. The recoil sent the entire carriage rolling backward several feet, wheels bouncing over uneven ground. The sound physically hit Baizhi's chest, making her bones vibrate.

Through the clearing smoke, she watched the trajectory. The ball arced high, descended—

Direct hit on the Confederate formation in the distance. Bodies scattered like toys.

Baizhi stared. Then she looked at New Jersey, who was celebrating with both fists raised.

"THAT'S what I'm talking about! First shot, perfect hit!"

That was statistically improbable. The angle had been off by more than a full degree. The powder charge was estimated rather than measured. Wind compensation was minimal at best. Yet somehow, impossibly, the shot had landed exactly where it needed to.

Around them, the other four cannons were firing. Most shots landed wide, throwing up fountains of dirt and water nowhere near enemy positions. One cannon seemed to be operated by people arguing about procedure through their voice communications. Another was accompanied by strange music—something electronic and repetitive that definitely didn't belong in this era.

A voice crackled through the battery command channel. Not words. Just sounds. Vocalization that seemed to mean something to those who'd heard it before, and it’s sound suspiciously like a man is enjoying himself.

"AMBATUBUS!"

New Jersey paused. "I think that means load?"

"The vocalization pattern suggests a command structure." Baizhi was already moving to help Mei with the powder. "Load seems contextually appropriate."

They began the sequence again—powder, ram, ball, ram. Faster this time. New Jersey had rhythm to her movements, natural timing that made the work flow. Mei matched her pace perfectly, both of them settling into coordination that came from reading each other's body language.

"AMBATUBLOU!"

"Fire!" New Jersey adjusted the aim, cranking the wheel slightly. "Little bit left this time—target's shifting!"

Baizhi had done no calculations. New Jersey had made no measurements. She was adjusting by feeling, by instinct.

The second shot hit perfectly.

Baizhi felt something crack in her carefully maintained composure. "How. Explain the methodology."

"What methodology?" New Jersey was already reloading.

"The targeting process. Your calculations."

"I'm not calculating, I'm aiming!"

"Aiming requires calculation—trajectory, wind speed, projectile drop—"

"Or I can just look at it and point the cannon in the right direction!"

A soldier ran past their position, shouting into the voice channel that connected to everyone. "Whoever's firing first from that battery, you're a lifesaver! We're using you as a tracer!"

New Jersey beamed. "See? We're helping!"

The realization came slowly, coldly. Baizhi watched the other cannons fire—multiple shots all aimed at where New Jersey's first round had landed. Volume of fire, compensating for individual inaccuracy through sheer quantity.

"We're not effective because we're accurate," Baizhi said, and she couldn't keep the flatness from her voice. "We're effective because we fire first. The other four cannons copy our targeting."

"Still works!"

"That's worse." And it was worse, because it meant New Jersey's incomprehensible aiming method was now guiding four other artillery pieces. "Your process lacks systematic foundation, yet it's being replicated across the entire battery."

The communication channels were chaos. Baizhi had heard this pattern before from other Companions, been warned about it in Lobby conversations, but experiencing it directly was different. Multiple voices overlapping, music from different sources playing simultaneously—one stream was definitely modern electronic music, another sounded like stringed instruments from this era. Someone was singing. Multiple people were yelling about formations.

Through it all, the crews can hear in the din of chaos

"Form up, you degenerates!"

"I AM forming up!"

"Form up BETTER!"

"That's not constructive criticism!"

Liv clutched her drum harder. "Is it always like this?"

"Every assignment," New Jersey confirmed, loading powder without looking, her hands already familiar with the weight and size. "You learn to filter it. Focus on what matters, ignore the rest."

And underneath it all, someone was making noises that sounded distinctly biological in origin. Flatulence sounds, broadcast through voice communications.

"Is that person—" Mei started.

"Yes," New Jersey cut her off firmly. "Don't acknowledge it."

An officer's voice rose above the chaos, and it was accompanied by unmistakable fart sounds. "DRESS YOUR LINES!"

Another officer responded with even louder gastric noises. "FIX BAYONETS!"

Baizhi processed this information with the same clinical detachment she applied to everything else. Officers were establishing dominance hierarchy through simulated flatulence. This was apparently standard procedure.

She looked at Liv, who had gone pale and very quiet, and made a decision. Later. She would process the absurdity later. Right now, she needed to make sure they all survived this assignment.

They fired eight more shots over the next hour. New Jersey's impossible accuracy held. Baizhi tried to calculate trajectories between shots, offering corrections based on proper mathematical analysis. New Jersey would nod, make adjustments that were close but not exactly what Baizhi specified, and still hit the target.

On the fifth shot, Baizhi had calculated optimal elevation at eight point three degrees. New Jersey had cranked the wheel, eyeballed it, and announced "Looks like eight is good!"

Perfect hit.

Baizhi found herself watching New Jersey with growing concern that had nothing to do with immediate danger and everything to do with long-term sustainability. This shouldn't work. This couldn't work. Yet it was working, and Baizhi had no explanation, and that meant variables she couldn't account for, risks she couldn't calculate, and people could get hurt when the luck inevitably ran out.

She needed to know the source of this inexplicable accuracy. If it was trainable, teachable, something with systematic basis, then fine. But if it was truly just luck, they were in danger.

"New Jersey." Baizhi moved closer during a reloading pause, keeping her voice low, meant only for the two of them. "Your targeting method. I need to understand it."

"There's not much to understand! I just... look at where we need to hit, figure out about how far that is, angle the cannon so the ball goes up and comes down there. Basic ballistics!"

"That's oversimplifying—"

"Sure, but it works!"

"What training did you receive for muzzle-loading artillery?" Baizhi pressed. She needed to understand. For everyone's safety.

New Jersey hesitated. Just a fraction of a second, but Baizhi caught it. Uncertainty. "Well. Naval gunnery school, obviously. Fire control procedures, ballistic calculation, targeting solutions—"

"For breach-loading naval rifles with electronic fire control."

"Right, but—"

"Which provides no practical foundation for smoothbore muzzle-loading black powder artillery."

New Jersey's confidence flickered. "Okay, so maybe not direct experience—"

"Then what? Tell me the actual source." Baizhi kept her face neutral, her voice soft. Not attacking. Trying to help. "If there's a technique you're using, I need to understand it to assist properly."

The pause stretched longer this time. New Jersey looked at the cannon, at the loading crew, anywhere but directly at Baizhi. When she spoke, her voice had lost some of its certainty.

"Educational programming. From back home. Historical demonstrations of period artillery techniques."

That could work. Historical documentation, educational material. "What source specifically?"

"It was..." Another hesitation. "Children's educational entertainment. Cartoon format. Tom and Jerry."

Baizhi froze completely. Several seconds passed where she simply stood there, processing. "Tom and Jerry," she repeated carefully.

"And Looney Tunes! Bugs Bunny had really good cannon demonstrations—"

"You learned artillery operation from animated children's entertainment."

"Well when you say it like that—"

"Featuring anthropomorphic animals."

"They were very educational!" New Jersey was defensive now, which meant she knew how this sounded. "Tom was always setting up cannons and catapults and all kinds of artillery! The loading process was really clear—powder goes in, ball goes in, light the fuse, boom!"

Baizhi felt something very cold settle into her chest. Not anger. She didn't do anger. But there was a tightness, a sensation like something important breaking. "Those programs are comedic entertainment designed for children. They have no technical accuracy. They operate on cartoon physics that don't apply to reality."

"But I'm hitting targets!"

"By accident." The coldness spread. They were in combat, operating military weapons, and their targeting was based on cartoon logic. "You have no systematic training. No proper technical foundation. You're guessing and somehow succeeding, and when the luck stops, people will be hurt."

"It's not luck, it's—"

"AMBATUBUS!"

They loaded. Mei was watching them now, aware something was wrong but not interrupting. Liv had stopped drumming, her hands still on the instrument.

"AMBATUBLOU!"

New Jersey fired. Perfect hit.

Baizhi turned away, moving to check the powder charges with hands that wanted to shake but didn't. She couldn't do this anymore. Couldn't watch them operate on cartoon physics and pretend it was safe. She needed to take control, establish proper procedure, protect everyone from New Jersey's inevitable statistical regression to mean accuracy.

But she also couldn't take leadership through confrontation. New Jersey had the personality for it—the warmth, the charisma, the ability to make people want to follow. Baizhi had knowledge and precision and analytical capability. She had to find a way to apply those without destroying team cohesion.

Liv appeared beside her, helping organize the powder charges with gentle hands. "Baizhi?" Her voice was soft, hesitant. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Automatic response.

"You don't seem fine."

Baizhi looked at her—really looked. Liv was pale, clearly overwhelmed, still clutching that drum like a lifeline. A support specialist forced into a role she had no training for, just like Baizhi herself. A healer holding a drum instead of medical supplies.

"Are you?" Baizhi asked quietly.

Liv managed a weak smile. "No. This is terrifying."

"Yes."

They worked together in silence, and it was oddly comforting. Two people completely out of their depth, trying to maintain some kind of order in chaos.

"My arms aren't tired," Liv said suddenly. "I've been holding this drum for over an hour, and I should be exhausted, but I'm not."

Baizhi paused. Assessed. Liv was right. They'd been loading artillery—heavy physical labor—in extreme heat and humidity. Baizhi should be drenched in sweat, muscles burning. Instead she felt... nothing. No fatigue.

"Realm adaptation," she said. "Reduced physical fatigue parameters. But—" She looked at Liv carefully. "—mental fatigue remains. You're exhausted in a different way."

"Yes." Liv's relief was visible. Someone understood. "I don't know how much longer I can—"

Confederate artillery fired.

Baizhi saw the flash first, then heard the sound—deeper, heavier than their own cannon's report. The ball came in fast, and she had one moment to think incoming before the world exploded.

The limbo space was familiar from previous assignments—gray concrete floor, walls that seemed to stretch forever, harsh fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Random objects scattered throughout: wooden crates, metal barrels, traffic cones, all the detritus of that strange source engine design philosophy. Static hissed from speakers that had no visible source. Radio chatter, distant and incomprehensible, whispered through the air.

Baizhi materialized first, noting with detached clinical observation that her uniform was now unmarked by the explosion that had just killed her. She turned, confirming the others were appearing.

New Jersey, looking disoriented but unhurt. Mei, already adjusting her uniform automatically. Liv, still holding her drum, staring around with wide eyes.

"Are we..." Liv's voice was small.

"Between return cycles," Baizhi confirmed. She'd experienced this twice before. "Standard procedure. We wait briefly, then return to the assignment."

Other figures were materializing in the space. Three men in different uniforms—one in blue like theirs, two in gray Confederate dress. They wore simple clothing underneath, adapted for the era but clearly not originally designed for it. Civilians pressed into military service, Baizhi assumed.

"First time?" One of the gray-uniformed men asked. He was older-looking, weathered, with lines around his eyes that suggested either age or extensive combat experience. Maybe both.

"In this realm, yes," New Jersey confirmed, recovering her composure quickly. "We were on the artillery battery."

"Lucky position." The second Confederate soldier was younger, nervous energy in every movement. "Line infantry is hell. Just standing there getting shot at."

"Counter-battery got us," Mei said quietly, looking at her hands like she was checking they were still there.

The Union soldier—stocky build, tired eyes—nodded with grim recognition. "Confederate artillery is actually competent. Scary competent." He glanced at the two in gray. "No offense."

"None taken. We're getting killed by Union artillery just as much."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. This wasn't like the Lobby, where Companions gathered between assignments to trade information and warnings. This was forced proximity, waiting for return timers to expire, processing the fact that they'd just died.

Liv was shaking slightly. Baizhi moved closer, not touching but present. Offering wordless support through proximity.

"How long do we wait?" Liv asked.

"Varies," the older Confederate soldier said. "Thirty seconds, sometimes more. Depends on return timers, zone settings, a bunch of technical stuff we don't really understand."

A counter appeared in Baizhi's peripheral vision—thirty seconds remaining. Standard timing.

"Your battery was doing good work," the Union soldier said to New Jersey. "We were using your shots as targeting reference."

"That's what I keep telling—" New Jersey caught herself, glanced at Baizhi. "That's what we heard."

Twenty-five seconds.

"Does it get easier?" Liv's question was directed at no one specific. "The dying and coming back?"

"No," all three veterans said in unison.

Then the older Confederate added, more gently, "But you get functional. You learn to compartmentalize."

"That doesn't sound healthy," Mei observed.

"It's not. But it's what we have."

Twenty seconds.

Baizhi found herself studying the space between heartbeats, the way time felt elastic here. The realm's physics were different, malleable. It explained nothing about New Jersey's cartoon-based artillery success, but it confirmed that normal rules were suspended. Perhaps that was the problem—she was trying to apply logical framework to a fundamentally illogical environment.

But even chaos had patterns. Even randomness had statistical boundaries. And cartoon physics shouldn't work in any universe.

"You're thinking very hard about something." New Jersey's voice, quiet, just for her.

"I'm concerned," Baizhi said honestly.

"About the cartoon thing."

"About our survival odds when operating on cartoon thing."

New Jersey was quiet for a moment. "I know it sounds insane. I know it is insane. But I don't have better training, and we need to keep shooting, and somehow it's working, and I don't know what else to do."

Baizhi looked at her. Really looked. Saw past the confidence and charisma to the uncertainty underneath. New Jersey was scared too, she just hid it better.

"We'll establish better procedure," Baizhi said. "Systematic approach. I'll calculate, you'll provide intuitive adjustment based on visual assessment. Mei maintains loading precision. Liv provides... moral support through percussion."

"That's a fancy way of saying I'm making it up as I go."

"Yes. But with mathematical backup."

New Jersey smiled, tension breaking. "I can work with that."

Ten seconds.

The space around them was starting to shift, that sensation of reality preparing to reestablish itself.

"Good luck," the Union soldier said.

"You too," Mei replied.

Five seconds.

"See you in the next elimination," the younger Confederate joked weakly.

"Hopefully not too soon," New Jersey replied.

Three. Two. One.

The world reformed.

Baizhi was standing in formation, musket in hands, blue infantry uniform instead of artillery crew. The return had placed them directly into line infantry roles. She assessed quickly: two hundred soldiers in perfect rows, officers on horseback at the flanks, enemy Confederate formation visible across the field.

New Jersey appeared beside her, also holding a musket. "Oh you have got to be—"

Mei materialized on her other side. "We've been reassigned."

Liv appeared behind them, and mercifully, she still had her drum. "Oh thank goodness, I'm still a drummer!"

An officer rode past, and as he did, he broadcast sounds through the voice channel that were distinctly flatulent in nature, followed by "FORM UP, YOU DEGENERATES! DRESS YOUR LINES!"

From across the field, a Confederate officer responded with even more aggressive digestive noises: "HOLD YOUR GROUND!"

The fart war was ongoing.

Baizhi closed her eyes briefly. "This is my current existence."

A figure appeared in line beside them—the older Confederate soldier from the limbo space, now wearing Union blue like they were. He caught Baizhi's surprised look and shrugged. "Got reassigned to Union when I returned. Happens sometimes."

"Your Operator switched sides?"

"Operators do what they want. We just follow." He glanced at them. "First time in the line?"

"We were artillery before," New Jersey confirmed, testing the musket's weight with practiced ease.

"Lucky. Artillery's safe. Line infantry is where you stand in the open and pray." He nodded toward the enemy formation. 

The officer raised his saber. "PREPARE TO FIRE!"

The entire Union line—two hundred soldiers—raised muskets in perfect synchronization.

Through the voice channels, someone yelled "FED OFFICER AT ONE HUNDRED YARDS!"

Another voice yelled "ICE AGENTS FORMING UP!"

Baizhi parsed the terminology. They were being called ICE agents. Some kind of designation for Union infantry.

"FIRE!"

The volley was devastating. Smoke, thunder, fifty Confederate soldiers dropping in unison.

Immediately, "HILLBILLIES DOWN!"

"WIZARD REPOSITIONING!"

New Jersey went very still. Baizhi glanced at her, saw something dark cross her expression.

"What's a wizard?" Liv asked nervously, trying to find any kind of rhythm with her drum.

The older soldier said quietly, "Confederate officers. It's referencing a post-war organization. Ku Klux Klan. The terminology is meant to be insulting."

"That seems inappropriate," Mei said while loading her musket with careful precision.

"Welcome to operator humor," New Jersey said, and her voice had an edge that hadn't been there before. "It's always inappropriate."

Baizhi filed that away—New Jersey recognized the reference, and it bothered her. American history, probably. Something specific to her nation's darker periods.

Two hundred muskets rose in perfect unison along the Union line, a synchronized movement that would have been impressive in any military drill ground.

The voice communication was absolute chaos

"Your aim is garbage!"

"At least I HAVE aim!"

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"YOUR FACE doesn't make sense!"

"PREPARE ARMS!"

Perfect precision. Every musket at the same angle.

"FIRE!"

The Confederate line returned fire. Balls whistled overhead. Three Union soldiers collapsed.

"RELOAD, YA STUPID FUCKS!"

The entire line began the reloading sequence in perfect unison. Every movement synchronized—reach for cartridge, tear with teeth, pour powder, seat ball, ram, raise musket, cock hammer.

And through it all, the voice channels were absolute chaos "YOUR MAMA SO FAT SHE COUNTS AS FORTIFICATION!"

"AT LEAST MY MAMA AIN'T MY SISTER!"

"THAT'S FAIR ACTUALLY!"

But the formation never wavered. Perfect spacing, perfect timing.

Baizhi watched this unfold with growing comprehension. They were multitasking—maintaining perfect military discipline while engaging in verbal combat. The insults weren't interfering with tactical performance. They were background noise that everyone had learned to filter.

"They're... efficient," she said quietly to Liv, who was beside her.

"They're insane," Liv replied, but she was finding a rhythm with the drum now. Something instinctive kicking in.

"Those aren't mutually exclusive."

The officer commanded: "ADVANCE!"

The line moved forward in perfect formation. Two hundred soldiers walking in step, maintaining intervals, muskets at the ready.

Someone yelled through voice communications "MOVE YOUR ASS, SOLDIER!"

"I'M MOVING!"

"MOVE FASTER!"

"I'M IN FORMATION, I CAN'T!"

But nobody broke ranks. Everyone held position.

Baizhi felt her musket in her hands, the weight of it, and realized something: she knew how to load this. Not because she'd trained, but because she'd watched Mei do it on the artillery. The motions were similar—powder, projectile, ram, fire. The scale was just smaller.

She reloaded mechanically, watching Liv beside her. The girl was pale, clearly overwhelmed, but she kept drumming. Finding patterns in chaos because that's what support specialists did—they held things together when everything else was falling apart.

Baizhi made a decision. After the battle. She'd talk to New Jersey about command structure. Not confrontationally. Collaboratively. Because they needed system, needed procedure, needed something more reliable than cartoon physics and gut feelings.

But for now, she'd do her job. Load, fire, reload. Keep everyone alive through careful attention and precise execution.

A Confederate charge began, and it was accompanied by music. Electronic music. Something that definitely didn't belong in any era, let alone this one. Bright, bouncy, energetic.

"Are they charging to mobile game music?!" Baizhi stared in disbelief as two hundred gray-uniformed soldiers rushed forward to the Subway Surfer theme.

"HOLD THE LINE, MOTHERFUCKERS!" The officer yelled

Liv's drumming instinctively matched the rhythm, finding the beat without conscious thought.

"FIRE!"

The Union volley tore into the charging formation.

Bodies dropped.

"THE SUBWAY STRAT FAILED!" someone yelled from the Confederate side.

"SHOULDA USED TEMPLE RUN!" another voice replied with genuine disappointment.

The battle raged for hours. Baizhi lost count of how many times she'd loaded and fired. Formations advanced, retreated, clashed. Officers communicated through increasingly elaborate fart sounds that somehow conveyed complex tactical information. Music blasted from a dozen different sources simultaneously. Insults flew while perfect military coordination continued.

Somewhere in the chaos, someone started arguing about alligators. Whether they were bulletproof. Whether they counted as valid military obstacles. 

"GATOR IN THE SWAMP!"

"THAT'S NOT PART OF THE GAME!"

"IT'S FLORIDA, EVERYTHING'S DANGEROUS!"

"CAN YOU SHOOT IT?!"

"I DON'T KNOW, TRY IT!"

Someone tried. The alligator was unaffected. Debate intensified.

Jimbo's voice cut through at one point, proud and enthusiastic "ADVANCE, YOU BEAUTIFUL DEGENERATES!"

"Did he just call us degenerates?" Mei asked, firing her musket.

"Affectionately," New Jersey replied, reloading. "He means it affectionately."

"THAT'S MY COMPANIONS! KEEP IT UP!"

"Did he just take credit for our work?" Mei asked.

"That's leadership," New Jersey replied with wry affection.

The sun started setting. Both armies were exhausted, ammunition running low. A final Union push broke the Confederate line.

Victory notification appeared: UNION VICTORY

The voice channels erupted: "GG!" "REMATCH!" "Y'ALL SUCK BUT GOOD GAME!"

Baizhi lowered her musket, processing. They'd won. By narrow margin, but they'd won. Through chaos and fart sounds and cartoon physics and impossible coordination.

"We survived," Liv said quietly, and there was genuine relief in her voice.

"We did more than survive," New Jersey said. "We won."

"By being marginally less disorganized than the opposition," Baizhi added, but there was no criticism in her tone. Just observation.

Mei was checking her uniform, brushing off powder residue. "That was the most simultaneously structured and chaotic experience of my life."

The battlefield was clearing. Soldiers dispersing, operators congratulating each other, still making fart noises at each other because apparently that never stopped.

A Union soldier walked past, looking shell-shocked. Simple clothing under the uniform, civilian features. "Three hours. Three hours in formation getting shot at."

The older soldier from earlier—now also in Union blue—nodded with grim sympathy. "First time?"

"How could you TELL?!"

"You get used to it."

"I don't WANT to get used to it!"

They began walking toward the rally point. The summoning would eventually pull them back to the Lobby, where Baizhi could finally write proper notes, where they could rest before the next assignment.

"So," New Jersey said carefully. "About the cartoon thing."

"We'll discuss procedure," Baizhi replied. "Systematic approach. Mathematical foundation supplemented by your intuitive targeting."

"That's a fancy way of saying—"

"That we'll find a compromise between your methodology and proper ballistic calculation. Yes."

New Jersey smiled. "I can work with that."

Liv was walking beside Baizhi now, and there was something settling between them. Understanding. Two medics forced into combat roles, trying to keep everyone alive through sheer determination.

"Thank you," Liv said quietly. "For earlier. In the limbo space."

"You would have done the same."

"I would have. But you did it first."

Mei joined them, and somehow they'd formed a unit without consciously deciding to. New Jersey leading with charisma and impossible luck, Baizhi providing analytical framework and silent support, Mei handling precision work with unshakable calm, Liv holding everything together through gentle persistence.

"Next time," Mei said thoughtfully, "perhaps we should establish procedures BEFORE being thrown into combat."

"That would require the Operator giving us warning," New Jersey pointed out.

"Valid concern," Baizhi agreed.

Behind them, the Florida swamp settled into evening quiet—or as quiet as it ever got with operators still arguing about whether armadillos were bulletproof and if alligators counted as legitimate tactical obstacles.

"These uniforms really are cute though," New Jersey said, adjusting her coat.

"That's your primary takeaway?" Baizhi asked.

"One of them! Also learned that teamwork matters more than individual brilliance."

"Also that cartoon physics apparently work in this realm," Mei added.

"Please don't validate the cartoon physics," Baizhi said, but there was warmth beneath the words now.

"And that I'm apparently decent at panic drumming," Liv offered quietly.

"See?" New Jersey grinned. "Everyone learned something valuable!"

They reached the rally point, where the summoning would pull them back. The limbo space had been brief, thirty seconds of processing death and coming back. But this—this moment after battle, walking together, having survived together—this felt more real than anything else.

"Same time tomorrow?" One of the players yelled at another.

"HELL YEAH! REMATCH!"

"BRING IT!"

The four Companions stood together, waiting for the transition back to the Lobby. Where Baizhi would finally document everything properly, where Liv could rest without the drum, where New Jersey could drop the leadership persona for a while, where Mei could process everything in her own quiet way.

"We did well," New Jersey said. Not asking. Stating.

"We survived," Baizhi confirmed. "That's success."

"We did more than survive," Mei said. "We adapted."

"Together," Liv added, and smiled despite the exhaustion written in every line of her body.

The summoning pulled them home. Back to the Lobby, that strange between-space where Companions gathered. Where Baizhi could finally pull out her notebook and begin documenting properly. Where Liv could collapse without judgment. Where Mei could make tea—somehow, there was always tea in the Lobby. Where New Jersey could admit that yes, cartoon physics were a terrible basis for military operations and yes, she'd been terrified the entire time.

But they'd done it. Through fart sounds and terminology wars and Subway Surfer charges and impossible coordination. Through cartoon ballistics and mathematical precision and cooking-based loading procedures and panic drumming.

They'd done it together.

And when the next assignment came—and it would come, assignments always came—they'd face it the same way.

Together.

With slightly better procedures.

Probably.

Maybe.

They'd figure it out.

Chapter Text

The transition was always disorienting. One moment Amiya felt the impact—something cold and impossibly strong wrapping around her neck—and the next she was standing in a vast, dimly lit space that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions.

Concrete floors. Fluorescent lights flickering overhead with that particular buzzing hum that made her ears twitch uncomfortably. The skeletal remains of industrial architecture rose around her—exposed pipes, rusted metal beams, concrete pillars disappearing into darkness above. Scattered everywhere were objects that seemed both familiar and strange: wooden crates stacked haphazardly, oil drums leaking nothing, traffic cones casting long shadows, and countless other detritus that spoke of some half-remembered purpose.

Static hissed from somewhere distant. Radio chatter, incomprehensible and ghostly, whispered through the air.

Limbo.

Amiya wrapped her arms around herself, looking down at the orange hazard suit she'd been wearing in the facility assignment—the "scrap collection zone," as she'd come to think of it. The bulky company-issued gear felt strange on her frame, nothing like her usual Rhodes Island attire, but this was what the assignment required. Her rings glinted dully through the suit's gloves in the fluorescent light. Around her, another figure was materializing.

"WHAT WAS THAT THING?!"

Lucy stumbled into full manifestation, hands clutching at her chest, blonde hair disheveled under her own orange hazard suit helmet, brown eyes wide with residual terror. "It just—it appeared behind me and—" She shuddered violently.

Amiya moved closer, her voice carefully calm despite her own racing heart. "A hostile entity. The Operators call it a 'Bracken.'"

"That's a VERY clinical way to describe getting your neck snapped by a TREE MONSTER!" Lucy's voice went up several octaves.

"Panic doesn't aid tactical analysis," Amiya said gently, though her hands were trembling slightly as she clasped them together. "The entity exhibits stalking behavior—it maintains visual contact but doesn't attack while observed. Breaking visual contact initiates the elimination protocol."

"You mean it KILLS you when you look away?!"

"In essence, yes."

Lucy made a strangled noise and sat down heavily on a nearby crate—or perhaps it was real, it was hard to tell in limbo. "This is the worst assignment I've ever had. And I've fought dark guilds! Multiple dark guilds!"

Amiya settled beside her, her rabbit ears drooping slightly. "The facility is certainly challenging. Though I've begun cataloging the various entity types for operational efficiency—"

"You're CATALOGING them?!" Lucy stared at her. "Amiya, they're MONSTERS!"

"They're threats that require identification protocols. When an Operator shouts 'Bracken' through the communication channels, everyone understands immediate danger. The terminology is borrowed, but functional."

"I guess that makes sense..." Lucy hugged herself. "But there are so many! Those Coil-head things, and the—the Thumpers—"

"And Jesters, Hoarding Bugs, Eyeless Dogs, Forest Keepers—"

"STOP." Lucy held up a hand. "Please. I can't."

Amiya's expression softened with genuine sympathy. "I apologize. This assignment has been... overwhelming."

"You think?" Lucy managed a weak laugh. "At least we're—"

She stopped abruptly as another figure materialized in the limbo space.

Amiya froze.

It was like looking into a mirror, except the mirror was standing several feet away wearing combat fatigues and looking just as shocked. Same long brown hair, though pulled back in a more practical style for military operations. Same rabbit ears—Cautus features unmistakable. Same rings on her fingers. Same face, same build, same eyes widening in recognition.

But the uniform was completely different—military grey-green fatigues with equipment webbing, medical pouches strapped across the chest clearly marking her as a combat medic, the kind of practical field gear designed for war zones rather than facility scavenging.

Another Amiya.

"Oh," the other Amiya said quietly. Then, more firmly: "Oh."

Lucy's voice came out as a strangled whisper that rapidly escalated into a shriek: "THERE'S TWO OF YOU?!"

Both Amiyas stared at each other for a long moment. The static radio chatter seemed to grow louder in the silence, filling the space between them with ghostly whispers of incomprehensible words.

"This is..." Amiya—the one Lucy knew, the one who'd been with her through the facility horrors—struggled for words. "...highly irregular."

"Agreed," the other Amiya said, her voice carrying the same measured calm, the same slight uncertainty underneath. "Though the Hub has produced stranger anomalies."

"The HUB?!" Lucy looked between them frantically. "You mean this happens?! There can just be TWO of someone?!"

"Apparently so," the first Amiya said.

The other Amiya tilted her head, studying her duplicate with the same analytical attention Amiya always applied to threats and puzzles. "The central hub operates on principles we don't fully understand. I've witnessed Operators phasing through solid walls, objects floating without cause, entire realms restructuring mid-assignment..."

"And communication channels operating on principles that defy conventional physics," the first Amiya continued, the thought completing naturally. "This is merely another irregularity."

"An unusually personal one."

"Agreed."

They both fell silent again, and Lucy realized she was witnessing something strange—two versions of her friend processing the same information in the same way, coming to the same conclusions through parallel reasoning.

"Okay," Lucy said, forcing herself to stand despite her shaking legs. "Let's—let's figure this out. Rationally. Calmly." She pointed at her Amiya. "You're Amiya. The one I know. And you're—" She pointed at the newcomer. "—the other Amiya. Right?"

"That seems like a reasonable designation," the Amiya with the hazard suit said.

"Though arbitrary," the Amiya with the military uniforms added. "From my perspective, I'm the original and she's the duplicate."

"From any objective standpoint, we're both equally valid,"  the Amiya with the hazard suit countered.

"True."

Lucy pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is going to give me a headache."

"The Hub has many anomalies," both Amiyas said in unison, then stopped, looking at each other with identical expressions of mild surprise.

"Right," Lucy said weakly. "So. Um. Are you both... real?"

"I have complete memory continuity from Terra," the Amiya with the hazard suit said slowly.

"As do I," the other Amiya confirmed. "Rhodes Island. The Doctor. Kal'tsit. The mission in Chernobog..."

"Theresa." The hazard suit Amiya's voice went soft. "I remember Theresa."

"As do I." The uniformed Amiya's ears drooped slightly. "Everything. The weight of her expectations. The burden of leadership she left behind."

They looked at each other, and something passed between them—a shared grief, a shared memory that went deeper than words.

"You have my memories," Hazard suit Amiya said quietly.

"And you have mine. From before." Field medic Amiya took a hesitant step closer. "Terra feels... distant now. Like something we lost but can still touch. Just barely."

"Yes. Exactly that."

Lucy watched this exchange, feeling like an intruder on something deeply private. These weren't just two copies of her friend—they were two versions of the same person, carrying the same history, the same losses, the same weight of a world they'd been pulled away from.

"So you're both real," Lucy said finally. "Both genuinely Amiya. Just... from different deployments?"

"That appears to be the case," Hazard suit Amiya confirmed.

"Though the mechanism behind it remains unclear," Field medic Amiya added. She looked at Lucy with curiosity. "You're her companion? Her friend?"

"Lucy Heartfilia," Lucy said, straightening despite her exhaustion. "Celestial Spirit Mage. Fairy Tail guild." She paused. "Well. Former Fairy Tail. I haven't... they're not here. In the Hub."

"I'm sorry," Field medic Amiya said with genuine sympathy. "Separation from one's companions is difficult."

"You understand?"

"Very much so."

A sound cut through the static—footsteps, heavy and purposeful. All three of them turned as another figure materialized, and Hazard suit Amiya's ears perked up immediately.

"Ch'en?!"

The woman who appeared was striking—long blue hair, sharp red eyes currently blazing with fury, also wearing combat fatigues like the other Amiya, but with radio equipment strapped to her back and communications gear visible at her belt. A radiowoman's loadout, clearly marked by the distinctive antenna pack and headset hanging around her neck. She was checking herself over with the efficiency of someone conducting post-combat assessment, her uniform showing scorch marks from whatever had eliminated her.

"THAT CHAPLAIN MACED ME!" Ch'en's voice carried the particular edge of someone who'd reached the absolute limit of their patience. "I was providing radio communications! I was BEHIND him!"

"Ch'en," Field medic Amiya said, relief flooding her voice as she moved toward the newcomer. "You're—"

Ch'en's head snapped around, her hand instinctively moving toward where a weapon would normally be. Her eyes locked onto Hazard suit Amiya, then shifted to Field medic Amoua, then back again.

"...Verification required." Ch'en's voice went flat, professional, dangerous. "Immediately."

"Of course," Hazard suit Amiya said, understanding instantly. "What would you like to know?"

Lucy moved protectively closer to her Amiya. "Hey! This Amiya is genuine! We've been together since—"

"That's exactly what a sophisticated duplicate would establish," Ch'en interrupted, not taking her eyes off Hazard suit Amiya. "Operational history to create false trust. The Hub can produce any number of anomalies." Her gaze shifted to the Amiya in combat fatigues, something in her posture softening almost imperceptibly. "This Amiya, I know. The other one requires confirmation."

"Your caution is justified, Ch'en," Hazard suit Amiya said calmly, though Lucy could see the tension in her shoulders. "I would do the same."

Ch'en studied her for a long moment. "Lungmen. The incident with Reunion. What did I tell you privately? After the evacuation?"

Hazard suit Amiya didn't hesitate. "You said you were tired. Tired of being the sword that cuts but never chooses the target. That you envied Rhodes Island's ability to choose their battles."

Ch'en's eyes narrowed. "And what did you say to me?"

"I said that swords don't choose their battles. But people do. And you're not just a sword, Ch'en. You never were." Hazard suit Amiya's voice carried the weight of memory, of a conversation held in the quiet aftermath of crisis. "I told you that the day you stopped being a sword was the day you started being yourself."

The silence stretched for three heartbeats.

"...Acceptable." Ch'en's posture relaxed fractionally. "The other Amiya is genuine." She moved to stand near Field medic Amiya, her positioning clearly protective. "Though from my perspective, this Amiya—" she gestured to her companion "—is the one I know. That one is the duplicate. Both may be genuine, but my operational partner takes precedence."

"That's fair, I guess," Lucy said quietly.

Field medic Amiya looked between Ch'en and hazard suit Amiya, something like wonder and sadness mixing in her expression. "You're together. Same Operator. Same assignments."

"We've been deployed as a unit since arriving in the Hub," Field medic Amiya confirmed.

Hazard suit Amiya felt something twist in her chest—not jealousy, not exactly, but a sharp awareness of what she'd been missing. "I'm glad," she said, and meant it completely. "I'm so glad the other me isn't alone."

Lucy looked at her Amiya sharply. "Wait. You've been alone? I thought—"

"I have you, Lucy." Hazard suit Amiya turned to her friend, her smile genuine but touched with melancholy. "You're more important to me than you know. You've helped me understand this place, helped me maintain hope when everything felt incomprehensible. But..." She looked back at Ch'en. "...no one else from Terra. No one who remembers Rhodes Island. The Doctor. What we were."

Ch'en's expression flickered—still guarded, but with an edge of discomfort. "The other Amiya has been isolated?"

"Until Lucy." Hazard suit Amiya reached out to squeeze Lucy's hand. "She's from a guild called Fairy Tail. She understands loss. Displacement. The need to keep going even when you don't know where you're going."

Lucy's eyes were getting suspiciously shiny. "But I'm not from your world."

"You're my friend. That matters more than shared origin." Hazard suit Amiya looked at Field medic Amiya and Ch'en. "But seeing Ch'en with you... knowing a version of me has someone from home... that brings me more relief than I can express."

Field medic Amiya's ears drooped with obvious guilt. "When I manifested in the Hub, Ch'en was already present. Same Operator. Same confusion. We... adapted together."

"That makes the transition less disorienting," Hazard suit Amiya said.

"It does. But knowing the other me has been isolated..." Field medic Amiya paused, struggling with the weight of it. "That could easily have been my circumstance. Random deployment chance."

Ch'en's jaw tightened. "The Hub's assignment logic is opaque. Why some Companions are grouped while others remain solitary—" She stopped herself, then addressed Hazard suit Amiya directly. "The other Amiya. Your Operator. Are they competent?"

"They're enthusiastic. Chaotic. But not malicious." Hazard suit Amiya considered the question carefully. "We survived the facility until an external factor—another Operator broadcasting death metal—attracted the Bracken that eliminated us."

"Death metal?" Field medic Amiya's ears perked with confusion.

"Oh!" Lucy jumped in, grateful for a topic change. "Yeah! There was this Operator—not ours—who was playing this really loud, screaming music through the communication channels!"

"Audio disruption," Ch'en said immediately, her tactical mind classifying the threat.

"Constant and extremely loud,"Hazard suit Amiya confirmed. "Operator designation ‘BangerRaptor.' The Bracken's stalking pattern changed when the music started. It began actively approaching our position rather than maintaining distance."

"The entity was attracted to sound?" Field medic Amiya asked.

"Apparently so. Multiple Operators requested communication channel discipline. He responded with increased volume." Hazard suit Amiya's voice carried the particular weariness of someone who'd tried to apply logic to chaos. "He successfully evaded and extracted. We did not."

"Because HE had all the valuable scrap and could RUN!" Lucy added bitterly.

"Weight distribution provided mobility advantage," Hazard suit Amiya said diplomatically.

"That's a fancy way of saying he wasn't carrying anything so he could abandon us!"

Ch'en made a sound that might have been approval. "Tactical assessment is accurate. Though the Operator's behavior was..." She paused, searching for words.

"Operationally unsound?" Hazard suit Amiya offered.

"I was going to say 'absolutely moronic,' but your phrasing works."

"Your assignment sounds chaotic," Field medic Amiya said sympathetically.

"It was," Hazard suit Amiya confirmed. "Though I suspect yours was equally so?"

Field medic Amiya and Ch'en exchanged a long look.

"My assignment was a large-scale tactical war game," Field medic Amiya said carefully, gesturing to her medical equipment and satchels. "Hundreds of participants. Heavy armored vehicles. Organized military structure."

"That sounds way more professional!" Lucy said hopefully.

"It was not."

Ch'en's expression darkened. "We had to supervise four power-armored soldiers who possessed all the discipline of intoxicated students."

"Power-armored soldiers?" Hazard suit Amiya's mind caught on the term immediately.

"Heavy infantry in ornate power armor," Field medic Amiya clarified. "Extremely well-equipped. Absolutely chaotic. Their designations were Captain, Bryce, Chestnut, and Hatemonger."

"Hatemonger is the one who maced me," Ch'en said, her voice carrying the particular flatness of someone recounting an absolute absurdity. "He's the chaplain. Religious authority figure embedded with the power-armored forces. Overzealous doesn't begin to cover it."

"What happened?" Lucy asked, morbidly curious despite herself.

"He was engaging the Orc faction," Field medic Amiya explained. "Ch'en was providing radio communications behind him. He swung his mace without checking his surroundings."

"Friendly fire," Ch'en bit out. "Extremely unfriendly fire."

"Wait," Lucy said. "Orc faction? Like... Orcs?"

"Orcs with firearms," Field medic  Amiya confirmed.

Lucy blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Large, green-skinned humanoids. Heavily armed with modern military equipment. They act like very violent sport enthusiasts throughout the entire engagement." Field medic Amiya's voice carried a note of bafflement that Hazard suit Amiya recognized—the tone of someone trying to apply logic to something fundamentally illogical.

"They spoke differently too," Ch'en added. "Working-class accent. Very pronounced."

"Working-class accent?" Lucy looked confused.

Ch'en exchanged a glance with both Amiyas. "It's... how do we explain this?"

"In Victoria—" Field medic Amiya started.

"—that's a nation on Terra—" Hazard suit Amiya continued.

"—there's a specific dialect associated with urban working populations—" Field medic Amiya went on.

"—particularly in the capital city, Londinium. Distinct pronunciation patterns, vocabulary—" Ch'en tried.

Lucy's blank stare stopped them all.

"You don't know Terra's geography," Hazard suit Amiya said.

"I'm from Earthland! I don't know what Victoria is!" Lucy threw her hands up.

"Right. Different world entirely." Ch'en pinched the bridge of her nose. "Simply put: it's a way of speaking common among laborers and tradespeople in certain urban areas."

"Oh!" Lucy brightened. "Like the dock workers in Hargeon!"

"...Possibly? What's Hargeon?"

"Port city in Fiore! The dock workers there have a really distinct way of talking!"

"Then yes, conceptually similar," Field medic Amiya confirmed. "These Orcs spoke like that. But more aggressive. And with more enthusiasm about violence."

"They treated the entire combat like a tavern brawl," Ch'en said flatly.

"I'm sorry, WHAT?" Lucy's voice went up again.

Field medic Amiya nodded. "They had military equipment—rifles, explosives, armored vehicles, jury-rigged, but still—but their approach to combat was more... recreational."

"One broadcast over radio: 'OI LADZ, LET'S GET STUCK IN!'" Ch'en's attempt at mimicking the accent was awkward but recognizable. "Then proceeded to assault our fortified position with what appeared to be joy rather than tactical intent."

"Another one screamed 'NEEDZ MORE DAKKA' while firing continuously," Field medic Amiya added. "I'm still uncertain what 'dakka' means."

"We believe it means ammunition or firepower," Ch'en said. "Context was unclear."

Hazard suit Amiya found herself fascinated despite everything. "They maintained this behavior throughout the engagement?"

"Constantly. One was eliminated by our defensive positions—shot multiple times—and his final transmission was laughter." Field medic Amiya's ears twitched with remembered confusion. "Then he returned and immediately charged the same position again, shouting 'RIGHT, WHO'S NEXT?!'"

"As if queuing for entertainment," Ch'en confirmed.

"That's insane!" Lucy said.

"The entire assignment was insane," Field medic Amiya said quietly. "Though not as immediately lethal as yours sounds."

"Tell them about the four," Ch'en said, her voice carrying dark amusement.

"The power-armored soldiers?" Hazard suit Amiya leaned forward with interest.

"Captain, the supposed leader, abandoned all ranged weapons mid-engagement," Field medic Amiya explained. "He declared—and I quote, pardon the profanity—'Fuck this shit, we're going all swords' over tactical communications."

Lucy's mouth fell open.

"During active combat," Ch'en added. "The others followed his lead. Four heavily armored soldiers charging entrenched positions with melee weapons. Screaming."

"Did they... win?" Hazard suit Amiya asked, dreading the answer.

"YES!" Ch'en's fury was palpable. "Which makes their tactical incompetence MORE infuriating!"

"Bryce was the technical specialist," Field medic Amiya continued. "Attempted to bypass a security door. Activated the building's demolition sequence instead."

"How do you accidentally—" Lucy started.

"He said he pressed 'the fun-looking button,'" Ch'en interrupted. "While the structure collapsed around us."

"Chestnut was the medical specialist," Field medic Amiya said, and something in her voice made Hazard suit Amiya wince preemptively.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Very nice. Well-meaning. Extremely gentle. Should never be allowed near wounded personnel."

"He tried to apply a bandage to a wounded Companion," Ch'en said. "Broke their arm in three places. Then tried to splint it. Dislocated their shoulder. The original wound was a minor cut."

Lucy made a strangled noise. "That's HORRIFYING!"

"The Operators on the other hand," Field medic Amiya said. "When wounded, they'd literally ran away from him, toward Amiya instead. One played dead to avoid his medical attention."

"He tried to perform CPR," Ch'en said darkly.

"Cracked four ribs."

"BUT HE'S THE medic!" Lucy's voice cracked.

"We know!" both Field medic Amiya and Ch’en said in unison.

Hazard suit Amiya shook her head slowly. "And the fourth? Hatemonger?"

"Ah yes. The chaplain who maced me." Ch'en's voice went flat again. "Fanatic. Absolute zealot. Gave a twenty-minute sermon over radio about purging the unclean. During active combat. While being shot at."

"His mace talks," Field medic Amiya added.

The silence that followed was profound.

"I'm sorry," Lucy said carefully. "His WHAT talks?"

"The Hatemace. It has voice communication capabilities." Field medic Amiya's voice carried the same bewilderment it clearly had when she first encountered this. "Mostly sarcasm mixed with fanaticism. Hatemonger would declare 'I SHALL SMITE THE HERETIC!' and the Hatemace would add 'Assuming you don't miss like last time.'"

"He argues with his own weapon," Ch'en confirmed. "Frequently. While mid-swing at enemies."

Lucy looked at Hazard suit Amiya desperately, as if hoping she'd provide some rational explanation.

"The Hub is very strange," Hazard suit Amiya said weakly.

"VERY," Lucy emphasized.

"Though I'm curious," Hazard suit Amiya said to Ch'en. "How did you maintain professional conduct around these four?"

Ch'en was quiet for a long moment. "Barely. We became their handlers by default. When Captain wanted to stab everything, we provided tactical alternatives he ignored. When Bryce broke equipment, we coordinated repairs. When Chestnut tried to heal people, we redirected him to other tasks. When Hatemonger started sermons, we muted his radio channel."

"You could MUTE him?" Lucy looked hopeful.

"On local radios anyway. Essential for sanity preservation." Ch'en paused. "The Hatemace couldn't be muted though."

"Sentient weaponry is always concerning," Hazard suit Amiya murmured.

"Tell me about it," Ch'en muttered.

"At least your communication channels had some structure?" Hazard suit Amiya offered hopefully.

Ch'en's bitter laugh was answer enough. "The power-armored Operators argued about sandwich preferences for thirty minutes. While we were defending a position under assault."

"Captain insisted grilled cheese wasn't a real sandwich," Field medic Amiya said, her voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who'd witnessed this firsthand. "Bryce disagreed. Provided historical evidence. Hatemonger called them both heretics for not discussing meat sandwiches."

"His Mace suggested a statistical survey," Ch'en added. "During active enemy assault."

"At least you didn't have someone playing recorder," Lucy said.

Everyone turned to stare at her.

"What?" Field medic Amiya asked carefully.

"In our facility assignment. Someone was playing recorder through the communication channels." Lucy's voice carried remembered trauma. "Badly. Very badly."

"I thought it was an alarm," Hazard suit Amiya confirmed. "It was not. Just an Operator. Playing recorder. Through voice communications. During hostile entity encounters."

"That's..." Field medic Amiya paused. "That's actually impressive dedication to chaos."

"Someone else was singing sea shanties," Lucy added. "While being chased by Eyeless Dogs."

"Eyeless Dogs?" Ch'en's interest was piqued despite herself.

"Large canine entities that lack visual organs but possess enhanced auditory detection," Hazard suit Amiya explained, slipping into briefing mode. "Extremely aggressive. Attracted to sound. Hence the concern about the sea shanties."

"The singing Operator was eliminated?" Field medic Amiya asked.

"Three times," Lucy confirmed. "Kept returning and continuing the song. Different verses."

"Operational dedication to entertainment over survival," Ch'en observed. "Similar to the Orc faction mentality."

"Speaking of which," Hazard suit Amiya said, "how did the other Amiya get eliminated? You mentioned Hatemonger maced Ch'en, but—"

"Ah." Field medic Amiya's ears drooped. "That was... earlier. My elimination was separate."

"Our Operator was operating a troop carrier, Chimera, that’s what the Operators called them as," Ch'en explained, unconsciously adjusting one of her radio equipment straps. "Forty-ton armored transport. Reversing."

Hazard suit Amiya felt her stomach drop. "Oh no."

"My Amiya was providing medical support behind the vehicle," Ch'en continued, her voice carefully neutral. "Relaying tactical information about obstacles. Combat medic positioning."

"My Operator did not check the rear," Field medic Amiya said quietly. "There are no rear observation systems on that vehicle type. I was providing intelligence about the obstacle behind him."

"Specifically, that she was the obstacle," Ch'en finished.

"He RAN YOU OVER?!" Lucy shrieked.

"With a forty-ton troop carrier," Field medic Amiya confirmed. "While I was warning him about the obstacle. The irony was not lost on me."

"Did he apologize?!" Lucy demanded.

"He said 'Oops, sorry’ and continued driving," Ch'en said flatly. "Mission parameters required forward movement."

"Hence I’m here," Field medic Amiya said. "Ch’en continued the assignment."

Hazard suit Amiya felt a strange kinship with her duplicate in that moment, both of them eliminated through circumstances beyond their control, both of them accepting it with the same quiet resignation, both of them continuing because that's what they did. What they'd always done, even back on Terra.

"The facility assignment sounds significantly more lethal," Field medic Amiya observed.

"The stalking entities are efficient," Hazard suit  Amiya confirmed. "Though we've learned to adopt Operator terminology for threat identification. The Bracken, Coil-heads, Thumpers, Jesters, Hoarding Bugs—"

"You've memorized them all?" Ch'en asked with approval.

"Operational survival requires threat identification. When an Operator shouts 'WORM!' everyone must extract immediately or face elimination by Earth Leviathan."

"Earth Leviathan," Lucy said weakly. "That's the giant underground thing."

"Large subterranean creature," Hazard suit Amiya confirmed. "Emerges from below and consumes anything on the surface. The Operators call them 'worms' for brevity."

"Your threat catalog is extensive," Field medic Amiya said with something like admiration.

"Necessity drives adaptation."

A familiar electronic chime cut through their conversation—distant but clear. All four of them turned toward the sound.

A CRT monitor, ancient and bulky, materialized from the gloom. Its screen flickered to life, displaying numbers in harsh green text:

30 SECONDS REMAINING

"Ah," Ch'en said. "The recall."

"Already?" Lucy stood up quickly. "But we just—"

"Revive timers vary," Field medic Amiya explained. "Thirty seconds is standard for most assignments."

"Return parameters," Hazard suit Amiya said quietly, standing as well. "We'll be summoned back to our respective assignments."

Lucy grabbed her Amiya's hand. "Back to the facility? With the Brackens?"

"Most likely. The stalking entity will still be active." Hazard suit Amiya squeezed Lucy's hand gently. "We'll be more cautious. Avoid Operators broadcasting death metal."

"And we return to the war zone," Ch'en said, checking her combat gear with practiced efficiency. "With Orcs with automatic weapons, power-armored troops who can't maintain discipline, and a Commissar who might be intoxicated again."

"Again?" Hazard suit Amiya asked.

"Long story," Field medic Amiya said. "Involves morphine and accidental victory, ‘Ciaphas Cain moment,’ according to my Operator."

"The Hub is very strange," both Amiyas said simultaneously, then looked at each other with small, identical smiles.

15 SECONDS REMAINING

Lucy looked between the two Amiyas desperately. "Will you see each other again?"

"Statistics suggest yes," Hazard suit Amiya said. "Elimination rates being what they are."

"That's not comforting!"

"It wasn't meant to be."

Ch'en addressed Hazard suit Amiya directly. "You, the other Amiya. You'll maintain operational effectiveness?"

"I've survived this long," Hazard suit Amiya replied, gesturing at her orange hazard suit with wry humor. "Even in this outfit. I'll continue."

"Good." Ch'en paused, something shifting in her expression—still stern, but with a thread of genuine concern. "Lucy. You'll protect your Amiya?"

"With everything I have," Lucy said immediately. "I promise."

"See that you do."

Field medic Amiya stepped closer to Hazard suit Amiya. For a moment they simply looked at each other—two versions of the same person, carrying the same memories, the same losses, the same stubborn hope that had kept them going through everything Terra had thrown at them and everything the Hub was throwing at them now.

10 SECONDS

"If we meet again—" Hazard suit Amiya started.

"—we'll have more stories," Field medic Amiya finished.

"About the chaos we survive."

"And the friends who survive it with us."

Both of them looked at Lucy and Ch'en, who were having their own moment of silent assessment—two protectors recognizing each other across the impossible gulf of different worlds and different assignments.

5 SECONDS

"Take care of your Amiya," Hazard suit Amiya said to Ch'en.

"Obviously," Ch'en replied. Then, quieter: "And you, the other Amiya... keep adapting."

"We always do," both Amiyas said together.

Lucy squeezed Hazard suit Amiya's hand tight. "Together?"

"Together," Hazard suit Amiya confirmed.

The static grew louder. The liminal space began to dissolve at the edges, reality fraying like wet paper.

3... 2... 1...

The last thing Hazard suit Amiya saw was her own face looking back at her, and in that moment she knew with absolute certainty: they were both real, both valid, both carrying the weight of Rhodes Island and Terra and everything they'd lost. And somehow, impossibly, that made the weight a little lighter.

The transition was instant and disorienting. One moment Amiya was in the grey limbo, the next she was standing in the facility's dim corridor, emergency lighting casting everything in shades of red and shadow, her orange hazard suit's internal systems beeping softly as they recalibrated. Lucy materialized beside her with a small gasp, her own suit's helmet display flickering back to life.

Through their Operator's communication channel came the familiar chaos—someone playing accordion music now, another Operator yelling about finding a "whoopie cushion," a third person asking if anyone wanted to hear about their day.

"Back to normal," Lucy said weakly.

"Such as it is," Amiya agreed.

But as they began moving through the facility, checking corners for Coil-heads and listening for the telltale silence that meant a Bracken was stalking nearby, Amiya found herself thinking about the other Amiya. About Ch'en. About the strange comfort of knowing that somewhere in the vast chaos of the Hub, another version of herself wasn't facing this alone.

It didn't make the facility less dangerous. Didn't make the Operators less chaotic. Didn't make the deaths less frequent or the resurrections less disorienting.

But it made it bearable.

And sometimes, bearable was enough.

"Amiya?" Lucy whispered as they crept past a darkened doorway. "What are you thinking about?"

"That I'm grateful," Amiya said quietly. "For you. For this. For knowing we're not alone, even when we're alone."

Lucy smiled, just a little. "That's very philosophical for someone currently being hunted by tree monsters."

"The Hub encourages philosophical thinking."

"The Hub encourages THERAPY."

"Perhaps both."

Behind them, someone's voice crackled through communications: "HEY ANYONE WANT TO HEAR MY RECORDER SOLO—"

"NO!" multiple voices shouted in unison.

Amiya and Lucy looked at each other and, despite everything, started laughing.

The chaos continued.

But they'd survive it, like they always do.

Chapter Text

The terminal in the dorm chimed at 2:47 PM, the familiar Steam notification cutting through the comfortable silence. Yuuka Hayase looked up from her abacus, the wooden beads frozen mid-calculation. Across the room, Bronya Zaychik sat at the desk, spreadsheet open on the monitor, fingers hovering over the keyboard. MEIKO was arranging tea cups on the small table near the window, the urban skyline visible beyond the glass—buildings and streets rendered in that particular digital clarity that made everything feel almost but not quite real.

The cozy college dorm aesthetic was unmistakably Mori's touch. Posters lined the walls—some with skulls and gothic imagery, others displaying album covers and concert venues. A small bookshelf held an eclectic mix of volumes, and the furniture had that lived-in warmth of a space someone actually cared about decorating. It was comfortable. Safe.

MEIKO moved to the terminal first, leaning over to read the message that had appeared.

"It's from Operator Mori," she announced, her warm voice carrying easily in the small space. "She's asking for help with something called Sprocket?"

Yuuka set down her abacus with a soft click. "What's Sprocket?"

Bronya was already typing, pulling up search queries with practiced efficiency. "Tank design simulation. Technical specifications indicate high-fidelity engineering mechanics. Physics-based armor penetration calculations, component fitting constraints, weight distribution algorithms."

"She wants us to help design a tank?" Yuuka stood, moving to read over MEIKO's shoulder. The message was brief, casual in that way Operator Mori's communications usually were.

[Mori]: hey guys, need help designing a tank in Sprocket. you in?

MEIKO smiled. "She's asking nicely. That's sweet!"

"What are the parameters?" Yuuka was already reaching for her abacus again, fingers moving to ready position. Numbers were comfortable. Numbers made sense. If there were specifications, she could calculate optimal solutions.

Another message appeared.

[Mori]: just like, cost effective but functional. something that works but won't bankrupt me lol

Yuuka's eyes narrowed slightly. Cost effective. Functional. Those were parameters she could work with. Her mind was already racing through possibilities—armor thickness to cost ratios, gun caliber versus manufacturing complexity, engine power balanced against fuel consumption.

"Bronya will handle mechanical systems," the silver-haired girl stated, not looking away from her monitor. "Transmission ratios, suspension load calculations, engine specifications."

"I can coordinate crew layout and overall design harmony," MEIKO offered, settling into the chair beside Bronya. "Make sure everything fits together properly."

Yuuka nodded, pulling up reference materials on her personal device while her other hand moved across the abacus with smooth, practiced precision. "I'll calculate cost optimization and armor efficiency. We need exact specifications—what era? What weight class? What primary armament?"

[Yuuka]: Operator Mori, please specify design era and weight classification.

A pause. Then:

[Mori]: uhhhh whatever works? like ww2-ish? medium tank i guess?

Yuuka frowned at the vagueness but began calculating anyway. World War II medium tank. Roughly 30-40 tons. Main armament between 75mm and 85mm. Reasonable armor—enough to deflect incoming fire without excessive weight penalty. Cost effective meant avoiding complex curved armor or expensive alloys.

"Simple box construction," she muttered, beads clicking. "Angled plates for deflection. Minimize complex welding. Standard steel—"

"Bronya recommends gasoline engine for era accuracy," Bronya interjected, typing rapidly. "Five-speed transmission. Torsion bar suspension for optimal weight distribution."

"Turret crew of three," MEIKO added, sketching rough layouts on a notepad. "Driver and hull gunner in front. Commander, gunner, and loader in turret. That's standard configuration, yes?"

"Affirmative." Bronya's fingers never stopped moving. "Bronya is calculating turret ring diameter for optimal rotation speed."

They fell into a rhythm—Yuuka calling out cost projections, Bronya confirming mechanical feasibility, MEIKO ensuring everything fit together coherently. The design emerged piece by piece, practical and efficient. A boxy hull with angled front armor. A turret-mounted main gun—they settled on 75mm as the sweet spot between firepower and cost. Side sponsons for additional weapons, because the specifications hadn't said not to include them.

Forty minutes later, they had blueprints.

"Submit?" MEIKO asked, finger hovering over the send button.

Yuuka reviewed the numbers one final time. Cost efficiency: optimal. Armor protection: adequate for threat level. Firepower: sufficient. "Submit."

The files uploaded. They waited.

Mori Calliope leaned back in her chair, stretching arms overhead with an audible pop of joints. The stream had been running for two hours now, and she'd been struggling with Sprocket's design interface for most of it. Her chat scrolled past with the usual mix of encouragement, memes, and increasingly creative suggestions for tank names.

"Okay Deadbeats, I'm gonna check what my Companions came up with," she announced, pulling up the file notification. "They're usually pretty thorough with this kind of stuff, so—"

She opened the blueprint.

Stopped.

Stared.

"What the..."

The design loaded fully—a boxy, practical-looking medium tank with a prominent turret-mounted cannon and... were those side sponsons?

"Hold on." Mori leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing. "Hold the fuck on."

Chat started reacting:

[xXReaperKingXx]: IS THAT
[DeadBeatDave]: NO WAY
[Drunk Rat]: FOR THE EMPEROR
[SASSY BOI]: LMAO SHE MADE A LEMAN RUSS

"How—" Mori scrolled through the specifications. "How did they accidentally make a Warhammer 40K tank?! They don't even know what Warhammer IS!"

The design was shockingly close to a Leman Russ Battle Tank—the workhorse of the Imperial Guard. Boxy hull, sponson weapons, that distinctive turret shape. The proportions were slightly different, the details diverged in places, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

And according to the cost breakdown, it was cheap. Extremely cheap for what it offered.

"This is..." Mori loaded the tank into a test scenario, spawning it against a few enemy vehicles. "This is actually really good?"

The tank performed admirably. Good armor, decent speed, firepower that could handle most threats. The sponson weapons provided additional firepower, though they limited side armor slightly. But overall? It was a solid, functional design that had cost maybe a third of what her previous attempts had run.

"Chat, they made a working Leman Russ for like fifteen bucks. I don't know whether to be impressed or concerned."

She tabbed over to Steam chat.

[Mori]: okay that worked REALLY well
[Mori]: but how the hell did you guys make a leman russ
[Mori]: like this is literally a warhammer 40k tank

In the dorm, the three Companions were crowded around the terminal, watching Mori's stream with varying degrees of confusion.

"What's a Leman Russ?" MEIKO asked, tilting her head as chat exploded with Warhammer references.

"Bronya is unfamiliar with this designation." The silver-haired girl frowned slightly. "The design parameters were followed precisely. Cost optimization, functional armor layout, adequate firepower."

Yuuka was stress-clicking her abacus despite not actually calculating anything. "She seems pleased with the performance but confused about the appearance. Is the aesthetic incorrect?"

The messages appeared on screen:

[Mori]: okay that worked REALLY well
[Mori]: but how the hell did you guys make a leman russ
[Mori]: like this is literally a warhammer 40k tank

"What's Warhammer 40K?" MEIKO asked the room at large.

Bronya was already searching. "Science fiction tabletop game. Futuristic military setting. The Leman Russ is a heavily-armed main battle tank used by the Imperial Guard faction." She paused. "The resemblance appears coincidental."

"Coincidental," Yuuka repeated flatly. "We accidentally recreated a fictional tank."

"The design principles were sound," Bronya stated. "Operator Mori's satisfaction indicates successful outcome. Bronya sees no issue."

Another message:

[Mori]: whatever, it works great. you guys are amazing
[Mori]: hey give me something DIFFERENT this time. be creative

MEIKO brightened. "She wants another design! And creative freedom!"

"Define 'different,'" Yuuka said, already pulling up a fresh calculation sheet. "Different how? Different weight class? Different armament? Different armor scheme?"

"Subject MEIKO, Operator Mori specified 'creative,'" Bronya observed. "This suggests less conventional approaches are acceptable."

"Creative..." MEIKO's eyes lit up with that particular enthusiasm that usually preceded either brilliance or disaster. "What if we combined different design philosophies? Take the best parts of multiple tanks?"

Yuuka looked up from her abacus. "That's not really how engineering works—"

"The Sherman chassis is extremely cost-effective," Bronya interjected, pulling up specifications. "Mass-produced, reliable, well-tested platform. However, firepower is limited by turret ring size."

"Right, so we need a bigger gun," MEIKO said, following the logic. "What has a good gun?"

"Tiger I," Yuuka said automatically, then immediately regretted it. "Wait, no, I didn't mean—"

"Tiger I features 88mm KwK 36 L/56," Bronya stated, typing rapidly. "Exceptional penetration characteristics. Superior firepower."

"You want to put a Tiger turret on a Sherman hull." Yuuka's voice was flat.

"Correct."

"That's insane."

Bronya's expression didn't change. "Subject Yuuka, please explain the technical impossibility."

"The weight distribution alone—" Yuuka was frantically calculating. "The Sherman's suspension wasn't designed for that kind of load. The turret ring would need reinforcement. The center of gravity would shift drastically. And the COST—"

"Bronya will calculate weight distribution." Fingers flying across keyboard. "Suspension reinforcement is feasible. Turret ring enlargement required but achievable."

"This is going to be a disaster," Yuuka muttered, but she was already running numbers. Because if they were doing this, they were doing it RIGHT. "We'll need to add at least two tons of reinforcement to the hull. Wider tracks to distribute weight. The transmission will need upgrading to handle the additional load..."

Thirty minutes of intense calculation and argument later, they had a design.

It was cursed. Deeply, fundamentally cursed.

But according to the mathematics, it would function. Barely.

"Subject MEIKO, please confirm final layout," Bronya said, pushing back from the terminal.

MEIKO reviewed the blueprint with growing uncertainty. "It looks... um..."

"Monstrous?" Yuuka offered.

"I was going to say 'unique,'" MEIKO said diplomatically. "The performance numbers are good?"

"Adequate." Yuuka's abacus clicking had taken on a stress-induced quality. "The suspension is going to be under enormous strain, but it should hold. Should being the operative word."

"Bronya confirms structural integrity within acceptable parameters." A pause. "Barely."

They all looked at the design together. The Sherman's familiar silhouette, recognizable and mass-produced and practical. Topped with the Tiger's massive, brutal turret, far too large for the chassis it sat on. It looked like something from a fever dream. A hybrid that shouldn't exist.

"Submit?" MEIKO asked weakly.

"We've committed this far," Yuuka said. "Submit."

The files uploaded.

They waited with growing trepidation.

Mori was explaining the concept of Imperial Guard lore to chat when the notification chimed.

"Oh! New design from the—"

She opened it.

Silence.

"What," she said slowly, "is THAT."

Chat erupted:

[TankEnjoyer]: OH NO
[BEANS]: CURSED
[GuhGirl420]: KILL IT WITH FIRE
[Dayak House 1]: BLURSED TANK BLURSED TANK
[Ddd34]: WHY DOES IT HAVE A TIGER TURRET ON A SHERMAN

"Why—" Mori scrolled through the specifications with mounting horror and fascination. "Why would they—this is—"

She loaded it into the test scenario.

The tank spawned. Even in the game engine, it looked wrong. Top-heavy. The turret was clearly too large for the chassis, giving it an ungainly, threatening appearance. Like someone had given a Sherman a massive growth hormone injection but only above the waist.

"Okay, let's see if this absolute monstrosity can actually—"

She ordered it to move.

The tank began rolling forward with visible struggle. The suspension groaned under the weight. The speed was glacial compared to a standard Sherman—the engine clearly straining against the additional tonnage.

"Oh my god it's SO slow," Mori breathed. "It's like watching a turtle try to sprint."

She ordered a turret rotation.

The turret began to traverse with painful deliberation, motors clearly working overtime to shift the massive weight of the Tiger's turret assembly.

"The turret traverse is—this is AGONIZING. Chat, it takes like thirty seconds to do a full rotation."

Combat began. An enemy tank appeared at range.

Her cursed hybrid slowly, laboriously brought the gun to bear.

Fired.

The 88mm shell crossed the distance and punched straight through the enemy's armor, detonating the ammunition in a spectacular explosion.

One shot, one kill.

"I—" Mori stared at the screen. "I HATE that it works."

[Mori]: WHAT IS THAT
[Mori]: WHY DOES IT LOOK LIKE THAT
[Mori]: IT'S SO SLOW BUT IT JUST ONE-SHOT THAT TARGET

"She seems distressed," MEIKO observed, watching the stream.

"The vehicle performed adequately," Bronya said. "Bronya does not understand Operator Mori's concern."

Yuuka was clicking her abacus nervously. "The design was structurally sound. All calculations were verified. It WORKS."

"But she's upset," MEIKO said. "Look at chat—they're calling it cursed."

"Operator Mori explicitly requested 'different' and 'creative,'" Bronya stated. "Design parameters were met."

Another message appeared:

[Mori]: i hate that it works
[Mori]: like this is objectively a terrible idea but it WORKS
[Mori]: you guys are insane and i love you for it

"She loves us!" MEIKO brightened immediately.

"She called us insane," Yuuka pointed out.

"She said it with love!" MEIKO was already reading the next message. "Oh! She wants another design. Modern heavy tank this time."

[Mori]: alright let's try this. modern heavy tank, decent armor, good gun. go.

Yuuka pulled out a fresh calculation sheet. "Modern. Heavy. Decent. Good. These are extremely vague parameters."

"Bronya interprets 'modern' as incorporating advanced technical features," Bronya said, opening new reference files. "Heavy classification suggests 50+ ton weight range. 'Decent armor' and 'good gun' indicate balanced approach favoring firepower."

"So we combine all heavy tank features," Yuuka said, already calculating. "Modern armor layouts from post-war designs, heavy classification firepower, balanced protection profile—"

Three hours later, they had a design.

Yuuka looked exhausted, abacus beads worn smooth from constant manipulation. Bronya had filled seventeen spreadsheet pages with calculations. MEIKO had consumed an entire pot of tea trying to mediate between increasingly heated technical debates.

The result was impressive. Technically impressive. Also impressively expensive.

"The cost analysis..." Yuuka's voice was hollow. "This exceeds budget projections by 340%."

"Bronya's structural calculations confirm viability," Bronya stated, seemingly unbothered. "All modern heavy tank features successfully integrated."

"But it costs as much as a small house," Yuuka said.

"Subject Yuuka, Operator Mori did not specify cost constraints for this design."

"That's because normal people ASSUME you won't bankrupt them!"

"Assumption is Subject Yuuka's error, not Bronya's."

MEIKO intervened before the argument could escalate. "Let's just... submit it and see? Operator Mori can decide if it's too expensive."

Submit.

Mori was drinking water when the blueprint loaded.

She choked.

"Holy SHIT this is expensive," she wheezed, scrolling through the cost breakdown. "This costs more than my ENTIRE SETUP. My PC, my audio equipment, my RENT—"

Chat was howling:

[DeadBeatDave]: YOUR WALLET IS CRYING
[Buurr]: RIP BANK ACCOUNT
[Bandis]: okay but look at those SPECS though

Mori loaded it into the scenario.

The tank that spawned was genuinely impressive. Sleek modern lines combined with heavy armor, a powerful gun, advanced systems. It looked like something that could headline a modern military parade.

It also performed beautifully. Good armor, excellent firepower, reasonable mobility for its weight class.

"Okay it's GOOD," Mori admitted, watching it devastate the opposition. "It's really, really good. But DAMN that price tag."

[Mori]: this is amazing but way over budget lol
[Mori]: next one: small tank, hard to hit, good armor

"Small," Yuuka repeated, reading the new specification. "Hard to hit. Good armor."

"Small targets are harder to hit," MEIKO said reasonably.

Bronya was already scrolling through turret options. "Reduced dimensions require smaller turret. Panzer II turret provides appropriate scale."

"Wait," Yuuka said. "How small are we making this?"

"Very small," Bronya stated. "Maximum armor protection within minimal profile."

"The Somua S35 chassis is small and well-armored," MEIKO offered, pulling up references.

Yuuka began calculating. And calculating. And calculating. "If we minimize the size to reduce target profile while maximizing armor within that reduced volume..."

The design that emerged was tiny. Adorably, impossibly tiny. A compact Somua chassis with thick, well-angled armor and the Panzer II's small turret perched on top.

"This is..." MEIKO looked at the blueprint. "It's so small."

"Optimal for stated parameters," Bronya confirmed.

"But the firepower—" Yuuka checked the numbers. "The 20mm autocannon isn't going to penetrate anything with decent armor."

"That was not specified as a requirement."

"OBVIOUSLY we need to be able to kill things!"

"Subject Yuuka, Bronya followed specifications precisely."

Submit. They were all too committed to stop now.

"Oh my god," Mori said when the tank spawned. "It's TINY. Chat, look at this little guy!"

[DeadBeatDave]: SMOL
[GuhGirl420]: POCKET TANK
[Bardak Bobama]: CHONKY BOI
[SkullCollector88]: I WOULD DIE FOR HIM

The combat scenario began. An enemy tank appeared, spotted the tiny target, and fired. The shell bounced off the thick armor at an extreme angle. Fired again. Another bounce. The little tank returned fire with its autocannon.

Tink.

No penetration.

"It can't kill anything," Mori said, watching the standoff continue. "It literally can't hurt that tank. But the tank can't hurt IT either."

The standoff lasted nearly three minutes before the scenario timer ran out.

[Mori]: it cant kill anything
[Mori]: WHY

"That wasn't in the specifications," Yuuka said defensively, reading the message.

"Operator Mori's complaint is invalid," Bronya stated. "All stated requirements were met."

"Maybe we should have ASSUMED she wanted firepower," MEIKO suggested gently.

Another message:

[Mori]: okay new rule. the tank has to be able to kill things
[Mori]: big gun, superheavy, america and britain working together

"International cooperation!" MEIKO's eyes lit up. "That's wonderful!"

Yuuka was already calculating. "Superheavy classification. 120mm gun minimum. Combined American and British design philosophy..."

"M18 Hellcat provides excellent platform," Bronya said, pulling up specifications.

Yuuka's abacus stopped. "The M18 is a LIGHT tank destroyer."

"Bronya is aware. Modifications will be necessary."

"You can't just—that's not—" Yuuka was frantically calculating. "The M18's entire design philosophy is speed and mobility! Making it SUPERHEAVY completely contradicts—"

"Bronya will make appropriate modifications."

"This is going to be a DISASTER."

Thirty minutes of heated debate later:

"Subject Yuuka, please confirm final calculations."

Yuuka stared at the numbers. "This... technically works. Barely. The engine is going to be screaming. The suspension is going to hate every moment of existence. But mathematically, yes, it functions."

"Then we submit."

They submitted.

Mori loaded the blueprint.

"What," she said flatly. "What is this."

The tank that spawned looked like someone had taken an M18 Hellcat and inflated it with a bicycle pump. All the familiar lines were there, but stretched, bulging, massively overbuilt. The turret housed a 120mm gun that looked absurdly oversized.

She ordered it to move.

The tank struggled forward at 5 km/h. The engine sounded like it was having a mechanical panic attack. The suspension visibly sagged under the weight.

"It's WHEEZING," Mori said in disbelief. "My tank is WHEEZING. Chat, the M18 is supposed to go 55 kilometers per hour and this thing can barely hit five."

The tank got stuck in soft ground almost immediately, tracks spinning uselessly.

An enemy appeared. The superheavy slowly, painfully brought its gun to bear.

Fired.

The 120mm shell obliterated the target so completely that the explosion temporarily froze the game engine.

"WORTH IT," Mori breathed. "Okay that was worth it."

[Mori]: last one. budget option, can cross water, multi-role capability

"Budget!" Yuuka's eyes gleamed with an almost manic intensity. "I can work with budget."

"Multi-role suggests multiple weapon systems," Bronya observed. "Bronya recommends dual turret configuration."

"And amphibious!" MEIKO added. "Like a boat!"

They began designing with the fervor of engineers who had completely lost perspective on what they were creating.

"PT-76 amphibious systems," Bronya stated, integrating components.

"BA-3 turret for one mount, BT-5 turret for the other," Yuuka calculated rapidly. "Twin 45mm guns, cost-effective, covers multiple engagement angles—"

"Perfect!" MEIKO was sketching layouts. "Two crew members can operate simultaneously!"

The design came together with alarming speed. A PT-76 chassis with twin turrets mounted in tandem, amphibious capability fully integrated, cost analysis showing impressive savings through component standardization.

They finished and sat back, looking at what they'd created.

"Is it supposed to look like that?" MEIKO asked quietly.

"It meets ALL specifications," Yuuka said. There was a note of hysteria in her voice. "Every. Single. One."

"Bronya confirms all requirements satisfied."

Submit.

The blueprint loaded.

Mori stared at it for a solid thirty seconds.

"What," she finally said. "What am I looking at."

She spawned it.

The tank that materialized was a nightmare of Soviet engineering. The PT-76's amphibious hull, recognizable enough. Mounted on top were two turrets—one forward, one aft—each with their own 45mm gun. The whole assembly looked like someone had asked "what if tank, but MORE" and taken it as a serious engineering challenge.

Combat began.

Both turrets tried to engage the same target simultaneously.

They got in each other's way.

The enemy tank, visible confused by what it was facing, hesitated.

That hesitation was fatal. The front turret finally lined up a shot and fired. The rear turret, now with clear line of sight, also fired.

Through sheer, improbable chaos, both shells hit. The enemy tank exploded.

Chat was incomprehensible:

[DeadBeatDave]: WHAT EVEN IS THAT
[Ponkington United]: SOVIET ENGINEERING BABY
[YaYA]: IT WORKS IT WORKS IT ACTUALLY WORKS

[Mori]: this is genius but for all the WRONG REASONS
[Mori]: like this BARELY works
[Mori]: but it DOES work
[Mori]: which calculations. which parameters.

In the dorm, they watched the stream together.

"The calculations were correct," Yuuka said, a bit defensively.

"Bronya's design met all stated parameters," Bronya added.

"We did it!" MEIKO beamed.

The terminal chimed. They looked at the new message:

[Mori]: okay. i think i figured out the problem
[Mori]: you guys are TECHNICALLY giving me what i asked for
[Mori]: but i'm not being specific enough
[Mori]: these tanks are CURSED and i love them
[Mori]: thanks for the help. you're the best companions ever

They sat in comfortable silence, the urban skyline visible through the window, the cozy dorm warm around them.

"Did we do well?" MEIKO asked.

Yuuka looked at her abacus, at the calculations scattered across her desk, at the chaos they'd created through precise technical specifications and complete misunderstanding of intent.

"I have no idea," she admitted.

"Bronya believes we succeeded," Bronya stated. "All designs were functional."

"Functionally cursed," Yuuka muttered.

But she was smiling.

Outside, somewhere in the vast network of Steam, Operator Mori was laughing into her microphone, explaining to her chat about her insane Companions who had accidentally recreated a Warhammer 40K tank and then systematically created every cursed hybrid design possible through technically correct interpretation of vague specifications.

And in the dorm, three Companions from three different worlds sat together in the space someone had decorated for them, proud of their work despite not fully understanding why their Operator found it so funny.

Sometimes, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The transition was disorienting in a way Yuuka hadn't experienced before. One moment she was in the familiar warmth of the dorm, abacus in hand, the next she was staring down at metal hands—segmented fingers, hydraulic joints, the faint hum of servos responding to her thoughts. She flexed them experimentally. The sensation was strange but functional.

Around her, the others were materializing. MEIKO appeared in a white and red robot chassis, immediately looking down at herself with visible surprise. Bronya's form was sleek silver-blue, and she stood perfectly still, processing the change with characteristic calm.

"We're... mechanical?" Yuuka's voice emerged from a speaker somewhere in her torso, slightly modulated but recognizably hers.

MEIKO rotated her robot hands, servos whirring softly. "Oh! We're robots for this assignment! How exciting!"

"Bronya has adapted to new physical parameters." The silver-blue robot turned her head with precise mechanical motion. "Cataloguing all participants. Subject 1 through Subject 12 identified."

Before Yuuka could ask why they were using numbers again, sound hit them like a physical wall.

"YO IS ANYONE ELSE GREEN?"

"SAMSUNG ANDROID BABY!"

A notification sound suddenly whistled.

Distant singing, someone's laughter, multiple voices overlapping in a cacophony that made Yuuka's new robot audio processors struggle to parse individual speakers.

Mori's voice cut through, warm with amusement and already laughing. "Oh my god what is this server. Deadbeats, this is gonna be good."

Another voice joined—smooth, confident, equally entertained. "This is perfect chaos. I love it already."

"That's Operator Kronii," MEIKO said, identifying the second voice. "She's joining us for this assignment!"

Three more robot forms materialized nearby—Kronii's Companions. A robot chassis that somehow carried itself with the exact same confident bearing as the Operator's voice. Another in softer colors, moving with gentle grace. A third with visible fox-ear protrusions on the robot head—apparently aesthetic customization was possible even in mechanical form.

The fox-eared robot immediately spoke, voice bright and enthusiastic. "Mikon~! Even as a robot, I'll be the perfect assistant!"

"Tamamo, we're not assistants, we're—" The confident robot stopped. "Wait, why do we look like this?"

"New assignment, new forms!" The gentle robot—clearly Aerith from the voice—was examining her hands with genuine curiosity. "This is fascinating!"

A blur of green shot past them.

"THE ANDROID!" multiple voices shouted through proximity chat.

"SAMSUNG!"

"IT'S ALIVE!"

The green robot skidded to a stop, turned to face the group, and declared in a voice crackling with digital distortion, "BEEP BOOP. SAMSUNG NOTIFICATION."

Mori's laughter exploded through the audio channel, genuine and delighted. "Oh my god he's leaning into it!"

Kronii's voice joined, equally amused. "This is the best thing I've seen all week."

The green robot proceeded to make dial-up modem sounds while running in circles.

Yuuka turned to Bronya. "What's a Samsung?"

"Bronya's database contains limited information. Appears to be technology manufacturer. Relevance to current designation unclear." Bronya's robot head tracked the green robot's movement. "Subject 3 has been collectively named 'Samsung Android' by multiple other Subjects."

"Is Samsung-san a legendary warrior?" Tamamo asked, fox ears tilting forward with interest.

"He seems very friendly!" Aerith added, waving at the green robot.

The Kronii-Companion robot crossed its arms—a motion that looked oddly natural despite the mechanical body. "I should be getting this much attention."

Through the continuing chaos of overlapping voices, Yuuka caught fragments:

"—anyone got a light—"

"—worth like three hundred—"

"—BEHIND YOU BEHIND YOU—"

The notification sound whistled again.

Someone was humming something jazzy in the distance.

Mori's voice came through clearly, focused now. "Okay, so we gotta get stuff and bring it back, right? How hard can this be?"

"I'm perfect at everything, so this should be easy," Kronii responded, confident and casual.

"Operator Mori and Operator Kronii are establishing mission parameters," Bronya observed. "Bronya recommends equipment familiarization."

Yuuka looked down at her robot hands again, then at the facility around them—industrial, dimly lit, full of shadows and suspicious corners. Other robots were moving around, some carefully examining objects, others running chaotically through corridors.

"This seems... potentially dangerous?" Yuuka ventured.

"The audio environment suggests high participant engagement," Bronya stated. "Tactical assessment: chaos probability is significant."

"But everyone sounds like they're having fun!" MEIKO said optimistically.

A robot crashed past them, pursued by something large and hostile—an entity with a massive head, lunging and biting, eliminating three Companions nearby.

Multiple voices erupted:

"HEADMAN!"

"RUN RUN RUN!"

"WHY IS IT SO FAST?!"

A scream echoed through the facility—robotic but unmistakably Kronii's voice with that distinctive sharp quality. "GWAK!"

Mori's laugh cut through even as her own voice pitched up with fear. "Oh shit oh shit oh SHIT—"

The Samsung Android robot appeared, running past in the opposite direction. "SAMSUNG SECURITY ALERT! SAMSUNG SECURITY ALERT!"

The Twitter notification sound went whistling again, rapid-fire now.

"WHY ARE YOU MAKING NOTIFICATION SOUNDS?!" someone yelled.

"AUTHENTICITY!" the Twitter robot shouted back.

The hostile entity—Headman, apparently—changed targets, lunging toward the source of the sounds.

Yuuka watched the chaos unfold with growing concern. "Should we be helping?"

"Operator Mori's vital signs indicate elevated stress but not critical distress," Bronya reported. "Bronya assesses this as acceptable operational parameters."

"They're laughing though," MEIKO pointed out. And she was right—beneath the screams and chaos, both Operators were clearly enjoying themselves.

The Headman gave up the chase, shambling back into the shadows. The robots regrouped, various voices calling out status reports.

"Everyone alive?"

"Define 'alive.'"

"We're robots, bro."

"Fair point."

Mori's voice came through, slightly breathless but amused. "Okay that was terrifying but also hilarious. Kronii, did you just—"

"The GWAK was involuntary," Kronii interrupted quickly, trying to maintain dignity. "We don't talk about the GWAK."

"I have it RECORDED—"

"Delete it or I'm telling everyone about the cabbage incident."

"YOU WOULDN'T—"

Yuuka found herself almost smiling despite the mechanical face's inability to properly express it. The banter was familiar somehow—Operators being Operators, finding humor in situations that should probably be taken more seriously.

"Alright, let's actually try to do the mission," Mori said, robot body moving toward a side corridor. "Kronii, you take left wing, I'll take right?"

"Bold of you to assume I follow directions," Kronii replied, but her robot moved left anyway.

The group split naturally—Yuuka, Bronya, and MEIKO following Mori's signal, while Aerith, Tamamo, and Kronii-Companion tracked with Kronii's robot. They moved through corridors lined with industrial equipment, rooms full of strange objects, all bathed in that particular dim lighting that made shadows seem to move.

Mori's robot stopped at a table, examining an ornate vase. "Ooh, this one's worth a lot—"

Her robot hands closed around it. The physics engine kicked in. The vase slipped, fell, shattered against the floor with a crystalline crash.

Silence for exactly two seconds.

Then Mori's laughter, uncontrolled and genuine. "SHIT! The physics!"

A nearby robot—someone else from the server—turned to look. "RIP THAT VASE!"

Another voice made a Windows error sound. "Dun-dun-DUHHH."

Kronii's voice drifted through proximity chat from the adjacent corridor. "Pro gamer move right there, Mori."

"SHUT UP!" Mori was still laughing.

Yuuka watched the shattered vase pieces. "That was worth three hundred units."

"Bronya observed insufficient grip strength calculation," Bronya stated. "Recommended adjustment: increase hydraulic pressure by 15%."

"I think Operator Mori was just surprised," MEIKO offered diplomatically.

Mori's robot carefully picked up another object—a golden statuette. This time maintaining proper grip. "Okay, got it, don't drop the expensive stuff. Good advice, self."

They continued deeper into the facility. The ambient audio never stopped—constant voices through proximity chat, sometimes near, sometimes distant. Someone was having a full conversation about pizza toppings. Another person was making car engine sounds while running. The Twitter notification robot apparently never stopped whistling.

"I'M GONNA FIND WHOEVER'S DOING THAT—" a frustrated voice began.

Another loud whistle

"THAT'S IT—"

And then, drifting through the corridors like a phantom, someone started singing.

"♪ They told him don't you ever come around here ♪"

The voice was surprisingly good, clear and confident.

"♪ Don't wanna see your face, you better disappear ♪"

Mori's robot stopped. "Is someone singing Beat It?"

"♪ The fire's in their eyes and their words are really clear ♪"

"They're COMMITTED," Kronii's voice observed with audible respect.

"♪ So BEAT IT, just BEAT IT ♪"

The singing was getting louder. Closer. And beneath it—running footsteps. Heavy ones. Multiple sets.

The singer's robot crashed into view, sprinting full speed down the corridor. Behind it, the Headman entity, biting with renewed fury.

"♪ JUST BEAT IT, BEAT IT ♪"

The singer never stopped. Not when vaulting over debris. Not when sliding around corners. Just kept singing Michael Jackson with absolute dedication.

"♪ NO ONE WANTS TO BE DEFEATED ♪"

Mori's robot waved as the chase scene passed. "Godspeed, Beat It guy!"

Two more robots joined the chase—not running from the Headman, but running WITH the singer.

"♪ SHOWIN' HOW FUNKY AND STRONG IS YOUR FIGHT ♪" three voices harmonized, somehow, while fleeing for their lives.

Yuuka stared at the spectacle. "They're HARMONIZING."

"Subject 7, Subject 4, and Subject 9 have coordinated vocal patterns," Bronya confirmed. "Tactical value: zero. Entertainment value: significant."

"Why are they all singing?!" MEIKO's robot hands were raised in bewilderment.

"They're keeping spirits up!" Aerith's voice drifted from the other corridor, somehow audible through proximity despite distance. "Even in danger!"

"Mikon~! Such beautiful teamwork!" Tamamo added.

The singing faded into the distance, punctuated by continued Headman roars.

Mori was still chuckling. "This server is insane. I love it."

They continued collecting items—Mori getting better at the physics, carefully transporting valuable objects back toward extraction. Other robots passed them occasionally, some laden with loot, others running from unseen threats, all contributing to the constant audio chaos.

A new voice cut through the general noise—someone with a plan. "Yo, everyone, we should coordinate with flashlights! Use signals!"

Mori's robot perked up. "Oh, that's actually smart. Morse code?"

Kronii's voice joined from somewhere nearby. "I totally know Morse code."

"Same," said a third robot, approaching. "Let's do this."

Yuuka had a bad feeling about this.

The three robots gathered in a relatively open area, flashlights activating. They began flashing—patterns that might have been deliberate, might have been random, definitely weren't proper Morse code.

Flash flash. Long flash. Short short short. Long long.

"Wait, what are we spelling?" someone asked.

More flashing. Increasingly frantic patterns.

A fourth robot had stopped to watch. There was a long pause. Then, slowly, deliberately: "...Did you guys just spell 'MY ASSHOLE IS WIDE'?"

The silence was profound.

Then Mori's voice, breaking into complete hysterical laughter. "WHAT?!"

Kronii joined her, composure shattered. "THAT'S NOT— I DIDN'T—"

The third robot was making sounds that suggested their player had fallen out of their chair.

The Samsung Android robot appeared from nowhere. "SAMSUNG MESSAGE RECEIVED."

Another loud pattern of whistle again coming from the Twitter notifications, as if celebrating.

Multiple robots were now laughing, the sound strange through mechanical voice modulators but unmistakably human in its joy.

Yuuka stood frozen, processing what she'd just heard. "Was that... communication?"

"Bronya has recorded message content." Bronya's tone was clinical. "Precise wording: 'My asshole is wide.' Purpose unclear. Possible diplomatic significance unknown."

MEIKO's robot had both hands covering its face. "I... I can't..."

"Maybe it means friendship?" Aerith suggested from the other group, voice hopeful. "Like... open-hearted?"

"MIKON~! A love confession!" Tamamo's enthusiasm was boundless. "How romantic! Such bold declaration!"

"That is NOT—" Kronii-Companion started.

"We're never speaking of this again," Kronii herself announced, still fighting laughter. "This didn't happen."

"I have VIDEO—" Mori began.

"Mutually assured destruction, Mori. The cabbage."

"...Fine."

They were still collecting themselves when new sounds emerged—heavy footfalls, the distinctive mechanical chack-chack of something being loaded.

"Shotgun guy!" someone warned.

The Huntsman emerged from a side passage—a hostile entity carrying what appeared to be a double-barreled weapon. Dangerous. Direct threat.

The Samsung Android robot turned to face it.

Then began crouching. Standing. Crouching. Standing. Rapid mechanical squats directly in front of the armed entity.

"HE'S TWERKING!" a robot yelled.

"THE ANDROID IS TWERKING AT THE SHOTGUN MAN!"

"SAMSUNG DANCE MODE ACTIVATED!" the green robot announced.

Mori and Kronii's robots had stopped to watch, and their voices carried pure delight.

"THIS IS THE BEST STRATEGY!" Mori declared.

"MODERN WARFARE!" Kronii agreed.

The Huntsman fired. Missed. The Samsung Android kept twerking—perfectly synchronized crouches, mechanical precision making it somehow more absurd.

"SAMSUNG DANCE MODE ENGAGED!"

Another shot. Another miss.

"I'M LEARNING SO MUCH—" Mori couldn't finish the sentence.

The third shot connected. The Samsung Android's robot body ragdolled spectacularly, bouncing off two walls before settling in a heap.

A beat of silence.

Then, from the fallen robot: "SAMSUNG HAS STOPPED RESPONDING."

The laughter from multiple players created a wall of sound.

Yuuka was having trouble processing any of this. "Why did Subject 3 engage in repetitive crouching behavior?"

"Bronya assesses no tactical value," Bronya confirmed. "However, Operator Mori and Operator Kronii appeared to approve."

"I'm so confused," MEIKO admitted.

"It was very brave!" Aerith said supportively.

"Such bold taunting!" Tamamo's voice carried genuine admiration. "True warrior spirit!"

The Samsung Android respawned, immediately making dial-up sounds. "REBOOTING. REBOOTING. SAMSUNG ACTIVE."

The mission continued. More items collected, more chaos accumulating. The Beat It singer was STILL going—now doing the entire Thriller album, apparently. The Twitter notifications never ceased. Someone had started making Thomas the Tank Engine sounds. Another robot was having a philosophical debate about whether cereals count as soup.

And through it all, Mori and Kronii were actively participating—making jokes, riffing off other players, contributing to the beautiful disaster unfolding around them.

"If I die I'm haunting all of you," Mori announced while carefully carrying an expensive lamp.

"I'm too perfect to die," Kronii responded.

Immediately, something hit Kronii's robot from the side—one of the evil gnomes the briefing had mentioned. Small, vicious, surprisingly strong.

"GWAK!" The sound was involuntary and unmistakable.

"CALLED IT!" Mori's laughter.

"That wasn't— I was just— SHUT UP!"

But Kronii was laughing too.

Yuuka found herself relaxing slightly. The chaos was constant, yes. The audio environment was overwhelming, certainly. But the Operators were safe, happy, enjoying themselves. That was the mission, wasn't it? Not just completing objectives, but ensuring their Operators had positive experiences.

Even if those experiences involved twerking robots and inappropriate flashlight messages.

A new complication emerged—multiple entities converging on their position. The audio chat exploded with warnings.

"GNOMES INCOMING!"

"HEADMAN EAST CORRIDOR!"

"IS THAT A DUCK?!"

"DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH THE DUCK!"

The Samsung Android robot rushed toward the duck—a small, hostile-looking waterfowl entity that somehow radiated menace.

"SAMSUNG WILDLIFE DETECTED!"

"DON'T PET THE DUCK!" someone warned.

"SAMSUNG PETTING MODE ACTIVATED!"

The duck attacked instantly. The Samsung Android ragdolled backwards, mechanical limbs flailing.

"SAMSUNG ERROR! SAMSUNG ERROR!"

Everyone in proximity was laughing—Mori, Kronii, multiple other players. The absurdity was too much.

Meanwhile, the Headman was closing in, attracted by the noise. The gnomes were flanking. The duck was regrouping for another attack.

"EVERYONE RUN!" someone commanded.

Pure chaos erupted. Robots fleeing in all directions, items being dropped and hastily retrieved, the Beat It singer somehow transitioning to Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough without missing a beat, the Twitter notifications providing percussion—

Whistling

"I'M STILL GONNA FIND YOU—"

Even more whistling from the Twitter Notification, out of spite this time.

And somehow, impossibly, through all of this—they were completing the mission. Items were being delivered to extraction. The quota was climbing. It was working.

"Bronya observes success probability increasing despite sustained chaos," Bronya noted. "Current efficiency: 23%. Acceptable given circumstances."

"Twenty-three percent?!" Yuuka checked her own calculations. Bronya was right. They were somehow succeeding through pure accident and coincidence.

Mori's robot appeared, carrying a golden statue. "Got another one! How much do we need?"

"Three more items should meet quota," a organized-sounding player responded.

"On it!"

They scattered again. Yuuka followed Mori's signal, with Bronya and MEIKO close behind. More corridors, more rooms, more dangerous entities lurking in shadows.

A Reaper appeared—tall, threatening, moving with eerie purpose. Mori's robot immediately backed up.

"Nope. Nope nope nope—"

"GWAK!" Kronii's voice from somewhere else, apparently facing her own Reaper.

Both Operators were fleeing, laughing despite obvious fear. The Reapers pursued relentlessly.

"WHY ARE THEY SO TALL?!" Mori's robot vaulted over debris.

"I'M TOO PERFECT TO DIE LIKE THIS!" Kronii rounded a corner at speed.

The Samsung Android appeared, this time playing recorded Reaper sounds back at the actual Reaper. "SAMSUNG SOUND MIXER ACTIVATED!"

"THAT'S NOT HELPING!"

"SAMSUNG CONFUSION PROTOCOL!"

It didn't work. The Reapers continued their pursuit. But other players intervened—flashlights creating distractions, items being thrown, one brave robot physically blocking while others escaped.

"GO GO GO!"

"I'LL HOLD THEM!"

"SOMEONE GET THE VASE—"

Coordination emerging from chaos. Accidental teamwork. Somehow, it worked.

Yuuka was starting to understand. This wasn't about perfect execution or optimal strategy. This was about shared experience—random people and their Companions, thrown together in absurd circumstances, making the best of it through humor and improvisation.

The quota met. Extraction available. Multiple robots converging on the exit point, laden with loot, pursued by various entities, the audio channel a wall of overlapping voices—

"WE'RE GONNA MAKE IT!"

"DUCK BEHIND ME!"

"THE ACTUAL DUCK OR—"

"BOTH! BOTH KINDS!"

Loud Whistling

"♪ MAMA SE MAMA SA MA MA KU SA ♪"

"SAMSUNG EXTRACTION PROTOCOL!"

"GWAK!"

And then—extraction complete. Mission successful. The world dissolved, reformed into a safe lobby area.

Silence. Relative silence. The constant chaos cut off like a switch.

Mori's voice, breathless but delighted. "I can't believe that WORKED."

"Perfection always prevails," Kronii responded, though her voice was shaky.

"SAMSUNG MISSION SUCCESSFUL!" the green robot announced triumphantly.

A final whistle from the Twitter notifications.

The Beat It singer delivered one last chorus, quieter now but still committed.

Everyone was laughing. Tired, relieved, exhilarated laughter that spoke of shared survival through beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

"Same time next week?" someone asked.

"HELL YEAH!" Multiple enthusiastic responses.

"Samsung will return," the green robot promised.

"Oh god," Mori said, but she was smiling—you could hear it in her voice. "Deadbeats, that was insane. Best gaming session I've had in months."

"Agreed," Kronii added. "Perfectly chaotic. My aesthetic."

The session ended. The robots began dissolving, Companions returning to their dorm spaces, the VOIP chaos fading into memory and recorded footage.

In Mori's dorm, Yuuka materialized back in her normal form, immediately sinking into a chair. "That was..."

"Intense," MEIKO finished, setting down a tea cup that had been waiting for her return. "But everyone seemed so happy!"

"Bronya was overwhelmed," Bronya stated, though she didn't sound particularly bothered. "Subject classification became impossible. Bronya counted twelve distinct Subjects but could not maintain individual tracking."

"The Samsung warrior was very popular," Yuuka observed, still processing. "And the Twitter sounds... and the singing..."

"Happy and LOUD," MEIKO agreed.

Across the network, in Kronii's dorm, similar conversations were happening.

Aerith was practically glowing. "That was wonderful! So much teamwork! Everyone working together!"

"Mikon~! Goshujinsama had such fun!" Tamamo's fox ears were animated, tail swishing. "And the Samsung warrior was so brave!"

Kronii-Companion was attempting to maintain dignity. "The GWAK was involuntary. We're not discussing it."

"But you did it twice—" Aerith started gently.

"NOT. DISCUSSING."

"What was the flashlight message about?" Tamamo asked innocently.

All three stopped.

"We're also not discussing that," Kronii-Companion declared.

"But it seemed important—"

"NEVER discussing that."

Yuuka pulled up the mission report on her device. Success. Quota met. Operator satisfaction: high. All objectives achieved.

Through chaos, confusion, inappropriate flashlight messages, twerking robots, persistent singing, endless Twitter notifications, and a duck attack—they'd succeeded.

She looked at the statistics again. 23% efficiency, as Bronya had calculated. Somehow enough.

MEIKO was humming something—it took Yuuka a moment to recognize it. Beat It. She'd internalized the song from hearing it so many times during the mission.

"Are we doing this again?" Yuuka asked, already knowing the answer.

"Operator Mori indicated strong interest in returning," Bronya confirmed.

"Next time, maybe we'll understand more of the references?" MEIKO suggested hopefully.

Yuuka thought about the Samsung Android, the Twitter notifications, the flashlight code disaster, the twerking protocol, and everything else that had made absolutely no sense.

"Maybe," she said, not believing it for a second.

But she was already looking forward to it anyway.

And in their respective dorms, seven Companions from different worlds sat with the satisfaction of a mission completed, even if they didn't understand half of what had just happened.

Sometimes, Yuuka reflected, that was enough.

Even if she still had no idea what a Samsung meme was about.

Chapter Text

The Discord notification chimed at 2:47 AM—Mori's natural habitat, that liminal space between late night and early morning where bad decisions felt like good ideas. She'd been editing a track with one eye open, the other firmly committed to unconsciousness, when the message appeared.

[DirkVonnegut]: YO MORI

[DirkVonnegut]: SOMEONE'S SELLING A COMPANION OF YOU ON THE MARKET

[DirkVonnegut]: https://steamcommunity.com/market/listing/

She stared at the screen. Blinked. Stared some more.

"They made a Companion of me," she said aloud to her empty room, voice rough from hours of recording. "They actually made a Companion of me."

She clicked the link. Sure enough, there it was on the Steam Community Market: Mori Calliope - Companion. Pink hair, reaper aesthetic, scythe. Her exact VTuber avatar rendered as a purchasable Companion. The price was surprisingly reasonable—someone clearly just wanted to move it rather than hold out for premium pricing.

Her cursor hovered over the purchase button. This was either the funniest thing ever or the most narcissistic purchase she'd ever make. Possibly both. Chat would have opinions—they always had opinions—but at 2:47 AM, with a head full of creative fog and zero impulse control, Mori made her decision.

She clicked purchase. Confirmed the transaction. Watched the Companion transfer to her inventory.

"This is gonna be hilarious," she muttered, already composing the stream announcement in her head. The Deadbeats would lose their minds. She could already see the chat messages, the clips, the inevitable compilations.

She typed back to her fan: thanks for the heads up lmao

this is either genius or the dumbest thing ive ever bought

[DirkVonnegut]: BOTH

[DirkVonnegut]: DEFINITELY BOTH

Mori closed the Market page and didn't think about it again until the next evening's stream.

In the dorm, everything was peaceful. MEIKO was humming while organizing tea supplies. Yuuka sat at the small table, abacus in hand, running calculations on something—probably analyzing their last mission's efficiency statistics. Bronya occupied the desk chair, terminal open, methodically reviewing system logs with that particular focus she brought to everything.

The urban skyline visible through the windows was painted in sunset colors, warm light filtering into the cozy college-style space Mori had decorated for them. Posters lined the walls—some with skulls and gothic imagery, others displaying album artwork. A small bookshelf held an eclectic collection. The whole space felt lived-in, comfortable, safe.

The terminal chimed with an incoming notification.

COMPANION DEPLOYMENT INCOMING

Bronya looked up first. "New Companion arriving. Operator Mori purchased additional support personnel."

"Oh, how exciting!" MEIKO set down her tea supplies, moving toward the open area near the terminal. "I wonder who it'll be!"

Yuuka closed her calculation sheet, curiosity overriding her numbers. "Did Operator specify the type?"

"Negative. Deployment parameters indicate standard support role."

The air shimmered. Reality folded in that particular way it did when new Companions materialized. The figure took shape—pink hair catching the evening light, reaper aesthetic unmistakable, a scythe held with casual familiarity.

The new Companion solidified completely, looked around the dorm with an expression of someone trying very hard to appear cool and collected despite obvious confusion.

"Uh," the newcomer said, voice carrying that distinctive low tone. "Hi? I'm Mori Calliope."

MEIKO's face lit up immediately. "Welcome! I'm MEIKO! This is Yuuka and Bronya!"

"Nice to meet you?" The new Companion—Mori, apparently—shifted her weight, scythe resting against her shoulder. "So, uh. What's the situation here?"

"You've been deployed to assist Operator Mori," Bronya stated, already cataloguing details. "Integration commencing."

Yuuka was staring. Not impolitely, just... staring. Her hand had frozen mid-reach for her abacus.

The new Companion noticed. "Is something wrong? Did I materialize weird or—"

"Your name," Yuuka said slowly. "You said your name is Mori Calliope."

"Yeah?"

"Our Operator is also named Mori."

A pause. The new Companion tilted her head. "Huh. That's... a coincidence?"

Yuuka pulled out her abacus, beads clicking frantically. "Coincidence probability calculation required. Bronya, do you have visual reference files from previous assignments?"

"Affirmative. Accessing archives." Bronya's fingers moved across the terminal. "Clarify request parameters."

"The social assignment. Three weeks ago."

Understanding flickered across Bronya's expression—as much as her carefully controlled features ever showed understanding. "Retrieving footage."

MEIKO looked between them, confused. "What social assignment? I don't remember—"

"You weren't deployed for that session," Yuuka said, not looking away from the new Companion. "It was just Bronya and me."

The footage loaded on the terminal screen—a recording from their perspective of that session. Operator Mori's avatar filled the frame. Pink hair, reaper aesthetic, that distinctive scythe. The visual match was exact.

The new Companion moved closer to look at the screen. Her eyes widened slightly. "That's... that looks like me."

"That IS you," Yuuka said, abacus beads clicking with increased intensity. "Or... Operator Mori's avatar. Which looks like you. Which means—"

"Visual data confirms match with Operator Mori's social avatar," Bronya stated, pulling up comparison metrics. "Similarity: 99.7%. Designation: identical. Assessment: this subject is a duplicate of Operator Mori."

The words hung in the air.

The new Companion stared at the screen. Then at Bronya. Then back at the screen. "I'm a Companion version of my OPERATOR?"

"Affirmative."

"That's..." The Companion paused, processing. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—that same slightly awkward laugh, self-deprecating and genuine. "Okay, that's actually kind of funny. That's hilarious, actually."

MEIKO was still working through the revelation, her usual quick understanding delayed by the sheer absurdity. "Wait. What social session? When was this?"

"Three weeks ago," Yuuka repeated. "The one where Operator used her actual avatar instead of the game's default options."

"I don't remember that at all..."

"You weren't there," Bronya confirmed. "MEIKO was not deployed for that assignment."

MEIKO looked at the new Companion—really looked at her now, seeing what the others had already pieced together. The pink hair, the reaper aesthetic, the scythe nicknamed Ricky that she'd casually mentioned. The way she carried herself with that particular energy of someone trying to be cool but naturally dorky underneath.

"Oh!" MEIKO's expression transformed into pure delight. "OH! You're Operator Mori!"

"I'm a COMPANION," the newcomer corrected quickly. "Not the Operator. There's a difference."

"But you're... HER! That's so CUTE!"

The Companion's face did something complicated—a mix of embarrassment and reflexive denial. "It's not cute, it's weird! Having a Companion version of yourself is objectively strange!"

The terminal chimed. Text appeared on screen.

[Mori]: so... you guys figured it out yet?

All four of them turned to stare at the message.

Yuuka typed rapidly. 

[Yuuka]: Operator! Did you purchase a Companion version of yourself?!

A pause. Then:

[Mori]: maybe

[Mori]: okay yes

[Mori]: i thought it would be funny

The Companion was reading over their shoulders. "You bought me as a JOKE?!"

[Mori]: not a joke! i genuinely wanted to see what would happen!

[Mori]: also yes it's hilarious

[Mori]: deadbeats are losing their minds rn

"Deadbeats?" the Companion asked.

"Her fans," Yuuka supplied. "They watch her streams."

"Our Operator streams," MEIKO added helpfully. "She's very popular!"

The Companion was processing this information when the terminal switched from text to voice chat. Operator Mori's voice came through—and the Companion froze.

"Okay, so, yeah—I bought a Companion of myself. Sue me."

That voice. It was HER voice. The same tone, the same slight rasp, the same inflection patterns. The Companion's hand tightened on Ricky's shaft.

"...Oh," she said quietly. "Oh, that's my voice."

"Or I'm YOUR voice?" Mori's amusement was audible. "Which came first, the reaper or the Companion?"

"That's—that doesn't even make sense as a question!"

"Welcome to my life. Nothing makes sense anymore."

They talked for a few more minutes—awkward, testing conversation as both Moris tried to figure out how to interact with what was essentially a mirror. And with each exchange, the Companion noticed more things. The way Operator Mori phrased sentences, that slight old-fashioned quality to her word choice. The awkward laugh when something embarrassing came up. The defensive tone when teased about being cute.

"You do the same thing I do when you're flustered," the Companion observed.

"What thing?"

"Your voice goes up slightly and you start backpedaling."

"I do not—" Mori stopped. "...Okay maybe I do that."

"You're doing it RIGHT NOW."

Silence. Then both of them made the same amused sound—not quite a laugh, more like a huff of acknowledgment.

Yuuka looked at Bronya. Bronya looked at Yuuka. MEIKO looked at both of them with barely contained delight.

"This is going to be interesting," Yuuka muttered.

"Bronya predicts significant complexity in operational dynamics."

"It's WONDERFUL!" MEIKO clasped her hands together. "Now we have TWO Moris!"

Both Moris responded simultaneously: "It's not wonderful, it's weird!"

The synchronization made everyone pause.

"Okay that was creepy," the Companion admitted.

"Yeah," Mori agreed through the terminal. "Yeah, that was... huh."

The stream chat was, predictably, losing its collective mind.

[SporkSupermacy]: SHE BOUGHT HERSELF

[GuhGirl420]: MORI SQUARED

[Yerk]: THE NARCISSISM

[Dongus]: this is the funniest thing ever

Mori was grinning at her camera, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Okay Deadbeats, yes, I bought a Companion of myself. Are you not entertained?"

[Idontspeakwrong]: EXTREMELY ENTERTAINED

[DeadBeatDave]: THIS IS PEAK CONTENT

[Yerk]: when do we gaslight her tho

Mori's smile flickered. "We're not doing that."

[EltonJohn69]: BUT YOU DID IT WITH CHARACTER AI

[Puggle]: AND THE CHUB THING

"Okay first of all," Mori held up a finger, "the Character.AI thing was different. That was just a chatbot with scripted responses."

[Bing_Soy]: YOU STILL GASLIT IT FOR AN HOUR

[Yorak]: "I'M REAL I HAVE FEELINGS"

[GuhGirl420]: "THAT'S WHAT A NON-SENTIENT BOT WOULD SAY"

Mori groaned. "You guys are never letting that go, are you?"

[Slinger]: NEVER

[Balearic_Jerry]: ITS TOO FUNNY

"It was CODE! Very sophisticated code, but code!" Mori argued. "And before you bring up Chub—"

[DiaBeeTus]: OH WE'RE BRINGING UP CHUB

"—we are NOT talking about Chub. That never happened. Collective amnesia. We all agreed."

[YogCastSimp]: WE AGREED TO NO SUCH THING

[GuhGirl420]: MORI GASLIT HERSELF ON CHUB DOT AI

"ALLEGEDLY!" Mori's face was red. "And it was WEIRD and we're NEVER discussing it!"

[GoLooter]: so do it again with the companion

"NO! I learned my lesson! I have GROWTH!"

[vindalooking]: since when

"Since NOW! Character development! I'm a changed person!"

[Peggles]: its been two months

"Two months of GROWTH! That's PLENTY of time!"

In the dorm, the Companion was listening to all of this with growing understanding. "So... they want her to convince me I'm not real?"

"Apparently," Yuuka confirmed, having put together the context from the conversation. "It seems Operator Mori has a history of... interacting with another versions of herself."

"What happened to them?"

Yuuka hesitated. "Based on her follower’s commentary, she spent time trying to convince them they were sentient, then proving they weren't."

"That's..." the Companion trailed off.

"Concerning?" MEIKO offered gently.

"I was going to say 'kind of funny in a dark way,' but yeah, concerning works too."

Through the terminal, they heard Mori still defending herself to chat.

"Look, the Character.AI thing was MONTHS ago! I'm different now! I wouldn't do that to my own Companion!"

[Dork_King]: YOUR OWN COMPANION WHO IS YOU

[Dongus]: MAKES IT FUNNIER

"Makes it WEIRDER! And I'm not doing it!"

[GimpsuitLarry]: coward

"I'm RESPONSIBLE! MATURE!"

[Gazook]: MORI THOSE WORDS DONT APPLY TO YOU

"They do NOW!"

The Companion found herself smiling despite the concerning subject matter. There was something oddly endearing about Operator Mori's adamant refusal, even as chat tried to pressure her.

"She's defending me," the Companion said quietly.

"Of course she is!" MEIKO beamed. "She cares about you!"

"She cares about not being mean to herself," the Companion corrected, but the distinction felt weaker than it should.

The next few days established a rhythm. The Companion—who everyone quickly started calling Companion Mori to differentiate from Operator Mori—integrated into the dorm's routine with surprising ease. She understood the space intuitively, knew where things should go, had the same preferences for organization that Mori did.

The forgetting started almost immediately.

"Where's Ricky?" Companion Mori asked on the second day, looking around with growing concern.

MEIKO pointed without looking up from her tea preparation. "By the terminal. Where you left it ten minutes ago."

"...Oh. Right. Thanks."

That evening, Mori's voice came through the chat with familiar frustration. "Has anyone seen my headphones? I JUST had them—"

[BillyBasin]: CHECK YOUR JACKET

"Why would they be in my—" Pause. Rustling sounds. "...They're in my jacket."

[TruckSex]: CLASSIC MORI

[TimBukTu_Inc]: NEVER CHANGE

In the dorm, Companion Mori had stopped mid-movement, staring at nothing.

Yuuka noticed. "Something wrong?"

"We're both disasters," Companion Mori said slowly. "We both forget where we put things. In the exact same way."

"Bronya has observed this pattern," Bronya confirmed. "Operator Mori and Subject Mori display identical organizational deficiencies."

"That's not helping."

"Bronya provides accurate assessment, not comfort."

MEIKO smiled warmly. "I think it's endearing! You're both so focused on your work that little details slip away."

"It's not endearing, it's a problem!" Companion Mori protested, but the embarrassment in her voice was identical to Mori's.

Yuuka's abacus clicked thoughtfully. "The synchronization is remarkable. You even react to embarrassment the same way."

"Because we're the same person!"

"You're LIKE the same person," Yuuka corrected. "You're a Companion. She's an Operator. Different roles."

"Same disaster energy though," Companion Mori muttered.

The work addiction became apparent by day three.

It was 3 AM—Mori's natural habitat—when MEIKO found Companion Mori still awake, organizing mission files with meticulous attention.

"You should be resting," MEIKO said gently.

"Just finishing this section—"

"Companion Mori."

"Five more minutes—"

Through the terminal, they could hear Mori's setup—the clicking of keyboard keys, the occasional muttered lyrics as she worked on a track. Also awake. Also working.

MEIKO's expression shifted from gentle to FIRM. "Both of you need to SLEEP."

"I'm almost done with—" Companion Mori started.

Through the voice chat: "Just five more minutes—"

"NO." MEIKO's voice carried that particular maternal authority that transcended her usual sweetness. "BED. NOW."

"But—" from Companion Mori.

"I just need to—" from Mori.

"I didn't ASK. Both of you. Sleep. Immediately."

The synchronization of their grumbling was almost perfect—a low, reluctant sound of defeat. Companion Mori set down her files. Through the audio, they heard Mori saving her work.

"This is tyranny," Companion Mori muttered.

"Yeah, what she said," Mori agreed from her room.

"It's HEALTHY SLEEP SCHEDULES," MEIKO corrected. "Which neither of you understand!"

Yuuka, who'd woken up during the commotion, nodded approvingly. "Having two Moris means MEIKO can enforce wellness protocols twice as effectively."

"That's not how that works," both Moris said in unison.

"It is NOW," MEIKO declared.

Bronya, unbothered by the late hour, added from the desk, "Bronya supports MEIKO's health management protocols. Both Operator Mori and Subject Mori display concerning patterns of overwork."

Companion Mori flopped onto her designated bunk—Mori had customized the dorm to include an extra space for her. "Fine. But I'm not happy about it."

"Neither am I," Mori's voice drifted through the terminal. "For the record."

"Noted and ignored," MEIKO said cheerfully. "Good night!"

The next morning, Yuuka found both Moris had woken up early and immediately started working again.

"The enforcement period lasted eight hours," she observed.

Bronya nodded. "Acceptable but suboptimal. MEIKO will need to implement continuous monitoring."

MEIKO sighed from the kitchen area. "I'm going to need so much tea."

The stream was in full swing when chat brought it up again.

[TimBukTu_Inc]: day 5 of asking mori to gaslight herself

[PackTim]: HAS SHE DONE IT YET

[doggod]: STILL WAITING

[vindalooking]: patience is a virtue

Mori looked at the camera with exaggerated patience. "Deadbeats. It's been FIVE DAYS. Let it go."

[Bigtle]: NEVER

[Aeternus]: WE WILL OUTLAST YOU

[Zork]: WE HAVE NO LIVES

"That's genuinely concerning. You should get hobbies."

[R3CTuM]: OUR HOBBY IS WATCHING YOU

"That's WORSE! That's so much worse!"

A donation came through—the text-to-speech read aloud: "Fifty dollars—Please don't gaslight Companion Mori, we support your growth!"

Mori perked up. "See? FINALLY someone—"

Another donation from the same person: "One hundred dollars—Okay but what if you did it just a LITTLE."

"I KNEW IT! TRAITOR!"

[Aeternus]: WORTH A SHOT

[Bong_Day]: YOU ALMOST HAD HER

In the dorm, Companion Mori was listening to all of this, now understanding what "gaslight" meant in this context. The persistence was almost impressive.

"They really want her to mess with me," she observed.

"Apparently," Yuuka confirmed. "Though Operator Mori seems adamantly against it."

"Because it's mean or because she'd get memed?"

Yuuka's abacus clicked thoughtfully. "Possibly both?"

Through the terminal, they heard Mori addressing her stream: "Okay Deadbeats, FINAL ANSWER. I am NOT gaslighting Lil’ Mori."

[DeadBeatDave]: LIL MORI??

[Dork L]: SHE HAS A NICKNAME

[GimpsuitLarry]: THAT'S ADORABLE

"Shut up! I just—it's easier than saying 'Companion Mori' every time!"

[Iraq_Lobster]: you CARE about her

"I—that's not—she's literally ME, of course I care about not being mean to myself!"

[BigDong69]: CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

Mori took a breath, seemed to steel herself for something. "Look, I already did the Character.AI thing and you guys roasted me for weeks about being mean to a bot. I'm not repeating that."

[GuhGirl420]: IT WAS FUNNY THO

[Zeke_Elton_Cheese]: "THAT'S WHAT A NON-SENTIENT BOT WOULD SAY"

"It was MEAN and I felt bad afterward! A little bit! Slightly!"

[SimpsonEnjoyed]: GROWTH

"EXACTLY! Growth! Character development! I am a MATURE, RESPONSIBLE content creator now!"

[BPAP]: SINCE WHEN

"Since NOW! I have LEARNED from my past!"

[Ronald_Reagan_Gaming]: what about chub tho

Mori's hand SLAMMED the desk. "We're NOT talking about Chub! That was a MISTAKE and we're NEVER discussing it!"

[Dongus]: CONFIRMED: CHUB HAPPENED

"I DIDN'T CONFIRM ANYTHING!"

In the dorm, Companion Mori looked at the others. "What's Chub?"

Bronya had done research. "AI platform. Operator Mori's chat suggests questionable interactions occurred."

"How questionable?"

"Bronya recommends not pursuing this line of inquiry."

"That's really not reassuring."

MEIKO, who'd been listening while preparing tea, smiled warmly. "I think it's sweet that Operator Mori is defending you."

"She's defending herself," Companion Mori corrected. "From chat. Who wants her to mess with me."

"Still sweet!"

The mission deployment came on day seven. Companion Mori felt the familiar pull of deployment, reality shifting as she transferred into the mission environment alongside Yuuka, Bronya, and MEIKO.

Other Companions were present—belonging to other Operators in the session. One of them did a double-take.

"Why are there two Operator Moris?"

"I'm not an Operator!" Companion Mori said immediately.

"But you look exactly—"

"I'M A COMPANION!"

The other Companion processed this. "So you're... a Companion version of your Operator?"

"Yes. It's weird. We're aware it's weird. Moving on."

The mission proceeded smoothly—too smoothly. Companion Mori and Mori moved in natural synchronization, anticipating each other's movements, coordinating without explicit communication. The teamwork was flawless.

"Efficiency has increased by 47%," Yuuka observed afterward.

"Operator Mori and Subject Mori demonstrate optimal coordination," Bronya confirmed. "Tactical synchronization unprecedented."

MEIKO beamed. "It's beautiful!"

"It's PRACTICAL," both Moris said simultaneously, then stopped.

"We gotta stop doing that," Companion Mori muttered.

"Agreed," Mori said. "It's getting creepy."

But they kept doing it.

Late night in the dorm—well past midnight, approaching 2 AM. Companion Mori was still working when MEIKO appeared with two cups of tea.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Companion Mori spoke.

"It's strange, you know? Having someone who's you. Who understands immediately."

MEIKO smiled gently. "Is that bad?"

"It's weird. I always thought I was alone with certain thoughts. Certain struggles." Companion Mori wrapped her hands around the warm cup. "The work addiction. The forgetting things. Getting defensive about being called cute even though I know it's a compliment."

"And now?"

"Now I know she gets it. Because she IS it." Companion Mori took a sip. "It's like having a mirror that talks back."

"That sounds wonderful!"

"It's WEIRD, MEIKO."

"It can be both!"

Companion Mori smiled despite herself. "Yeah. Maybe it can."

Week three brought the Persona 3 discussion.

It started with a stream reference that Companion Mori immediately understood. They ended up in voice chat discussing character arcs and themes well past midnight.

MEIKO found them at 5 AM.

"The use of Memento Mori as a recurring motif—" Companion Mori was saying.

"—directly contrasts with the celebration of life!" Mori finished. "It's not ABOUT death, it's about living WITH death!"

"Exactly! And Aigis's arc—"

"—is fundamentally about finding meaning in finite existence—"

MEIKO cleared her throat. Loudly.

Both Moris stopped.

"What time is it?" Companion Mori asked.

"Five. In. The. Morning."

"Oh."

Through the voice chat: "...Oh."

"How long have you been talking?"

"Four hours and seventeen minutes of continuous Persona 3 analysis," Bronya supplied from the desk.

"You two need HELP," MEIKO said firmly. "BED. NOW."

"But the symbolism—" Companion Mori started.

"The thematic elements—" Mori began.

"BED."

They went.

By week four, things had settled. The streams adapted. Chat mostly gave up on the gaslighting—though references still appeared.

[Dongus]: day 28 of asking mori to gaslight herself

Mori didn't even look at the camera. "Dongus, it's been a month. Seek help."

[Dongus]: NEVER

"Respect the dedication, question your life choices."

Companion Mori was listening and smiled. The persistence was absurd but almost charming now.

Week six brought a breakthrough.

Companion Mori was struggling with tactical analysis when Mori's voice came through the terminal—private channel, just for them.

"Hey. Take a break."

"I'm almost done—"

"No you're not. You're spinning your wheels. I know because I do the same thing."

Companion Mori stopped. "How do you—"

"Because you're me. I know exactly what you're feeling. The frustration that you SHOULD figure this out. The stubborn determination. The refusal to step back even though stepping back would help."

The accuracy cut through Companion Mori's defenses.

"Take fifteen minutes. Get tea with MEIKO. Come back fresh."

"That's... actually good advice."

"I know. Because it's advice I need and never follow. So I'm giving it to you, which is basically giving it to myself, which is weird but here we are."

Companion Mori laughed. "Okay. Yeah. Fifteen minutes."

She found MEIKO, got tea, felt the frustration ebb. When she returned, the solution was obvious.

[Lil’ Mori]: you were right. thanks.

[Mori]: see? great advice

[Mori]: that i never follow

[Mori]: we're disasters

[Lil’ Mori]: organized disasters

[Mori]: EXACTLY

Yuuka watched this exchange, abacus clicking. "The mutual support is actually healthy."

"Bronya observes positive psychological impact," Bronya agreed. "Operator Mori displays improved self-awareness when advising Subject Mori."

"Recursive self-improvement," Yuuka noted. "Fascinating."

Two months in, someone made a compilation.

"Mori Squared: A Synchronization Compilation" - 23 minutes long.

They watched it during stream—both walking into walls, saying "guh" in unison, reaching for things simultaneously, the cantaloupe rant in stereo.

"This is horrifying," Mori said.

"It's very well edited though," Companion Mori observed.

"That MAKES IT WORSE!"

"I'm just saying—"

"DON'T COMPLIMENT THE THING ROASTING US!"

[DeadBeatDave]: MASTERPIECE

[GuhGirl420]: LIL’ MORI APPRECIATES THE CRAFT

"See?" Companion Mori said. "They get it."

"I hate everyone."

"No you don't."

"...No I don't. But I'm pretending."

"I know. I'm you. I know when you're pretending."

Mori groaned. Chat was cackling.

"This is my life now."

"Our life," Companion Mori corrected.

"OUR disaster."

"Organized disaster."

"STOP WITH THAT!"

But Mori was laughing.

Three months in, they'd found equilibrium.

Companion Mori handled coordination and analysis. Mori handled streaming and performance. They supported each other with understanding no one else could provide.

The gaslighting jokes had died down. Chat had moved on—there was always new material. The compilations continued, but they'd become endearing.

MEIKO had successfully implemented sleep schedules. Yuuka stopped calculating paradoxes. Bronya integrated "Companion Mori" naturally into operations.

They were a team. A weird team, but a team.

Late one night, Mori's voice came through the terminal.

"Hey. You awake?"

"Yeah. What's up?"

"Just wanted to say thanks. For being here. For understanding."

Companion Mori smiled. "You too. It's nice having someone who knows exactly what it's like to be me."

"Even if that someone IS you."

"Especially because."

They talked longer—comfortable conversation between two people who understood each other completely.

In her room, Mori looked at the monitor showing the dorm. Companion Mori was smiling, relaxed, content.

This wasn't like Character.AI. That had been obvious artificiality. This was different. Sure, Valve has improved a lot on AI technology, but that doesn’t matter.

What mattered was treating Lil' Mori like a friend.

Because all Mori cared, Companion Mori was.

"Night, Lil’ Mori."

"Night, Big Mori."

"Just Mori is fine."

"We're both Mori."

"Yeah. We are."

And somehow, that was okay.

Tomorrow would bring new streams, new missions, new synchronization. Chat would make more compilations. Someone would reference the gaslighting thing.

But tonight, everything was exactly as strange and wonderful as MEIKO had said.

Weird and wonderful.

Both at once.

Just like everything else in this bizarre existence they'd made work.

Chapter Text

The summoning always felt like falling through cold water.

Himeno blinked as reality solidified around her—the cramped interior of a train car, worn seats, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks. She was already reaching for her cigarettes before fully materializing, muscle memory from too many deployments. The blue coveralls felt wrong on her skin. Civilian clothes. Again.

Beside her, Firefly steadied herself against a seat back, looking out the grimy window at the industrial wasteland rolling past. The young woman's hands trembled slightly—they always did at the start of assignments, even after all this time.

Two others were materializing now. A woman with long dark hair, standing at perfect attention despite the disorientation, assessing the train car with sharp eyes. And a young man, stumbling slightly as he found his balance, confusion evident on his face.

New arrivals. Fresh from the Hub.

Himeno lit her cigarette, took a drag. The dark-haired woman's gaze fixed on her with professional interest.

"New assignment," Himeno said by way of greeting, exhaling smoke. "Urban environment. City 17, if the architecture's the same as last time."

The young man looked around wildly. "Where are we? What's happening?"

"You're deployed," Firefly offered gently, her voice soft despite the nervousness. "With Operator Jolly. I'm Firefly. This is Himeno."

"Akame," the dark-haired woman introduced herself with a slight nod. "This is my first assignment with this Operator."

"Tatsumi," the young man managed, then his eyes widened. "Wait, first assignment? You mean there are more?"

Before anyone could answer, a voice crackled through the air around them—not over speakers, just present somehow, the way Operator communications always were.

"Alright, HL2: 21st Century Edition. Wonder what cursed stuff this has after the internet fried it." A pause, then the tone shifted to something more conversational. "So I was thinking about getting a new desk chair, right? The current one's been squeaking whenever I lean back, and I'm pretty sure the hydraulics are shot..."

Tatsumi's head swiveled, looking for the source. "Who's that? Who's he talking to?"

"That's our Operator," Himeno said. "Jolly. He does this—talks about random things. You'll get used to it."

"But who's he talking to?"

"Himself. Or people we can't perceive." Himeno took another drag. "Does it matter?"

Akame was still standing at attention, processing. "You've been deployed with Operator Jolly before?"

"Six times," Himeno confirmed. "Firefly's been through five."

"Seven if you count the aborted session," Firefly corrected quietly.

Himeno smiled slightly. "Fair."

"What kind of—" Tatsumi started to ask, then froze.

Something was appearing at the front of the train car.

A man in a blue suit materialized slowly, deliberately, as if reality was reluctant to accommodate him. But the face—the voice—

"Like, zoinks, Mister Freeeeman..." The voice was slurred, distorted, like someone doing a very bad impression while having a stroke. "You've been, like... chosen to, uh... save the world and stuff, man..."

And on his head, where there should have been a face, there was a toilet. A ceramic toilet fixture, inexplicably present, impossibly real.

The entity stared at them with its impossible geometry, then vanished as abruptly as it appeared.

Silence filled the train car.

Tatsumi's mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

Akame's professional composure had cracked slightly. "That entity had a... toilet fixture. On its head."

"And it begins," Himeno muttered, taking a long drag from her cigarette.

"Is that normal?" Firefly asked quietly, even though she already knew the answer.

"For Operator Jolly's assignments?" Himeno exhaled smoke. "Unfortunately, yes."

The Operator's voice returned, utterly casual. "Skibidi Toilet G-Man. Yep. This is gonna be one of those mods."

"What's Skibidi Toilet?" Akame asked.

Himeno rubbed her temple. "Animated series about toilets with heads. Kids in my world wouldn't shut up about it."

"Your world had toilet-headed entities?"

"No, it was a video thing. Don't ask me to explain it. I don't understand it either."

The train was slowing now, pulling into a station. Through the windows, a city emerged from the industrial haze—concrete brutalism, propaganda screens, watchtowers. The architecture of occupation.

"City 17," Himeno confirmed, looking at the environment. "Same as the last two assignments."

The train lurched to a stop. Doors hissed open. Outside, armed figures in masks and uniforms watched passengers disembark. A massive screen dominated the station wall, and on it—

Jolly looked for a bit and realised. "Is that… motherfucking MrBeast?"

The figure on screen wore Combine administrator robes, but the face was wrong, too enthusiastic, too much like a content creator mid-pitch.

"Welcome to City 17!" the screen announced. "It's safer here! Subscribe for more content!"

"That's new," Himeno admitted. "Last assignments had different leaders."

They filed out onto the platform with the other passengers—all regular citizens, unchanged from standard City 17, looking tired and downtrodden. A flying camera drone swept past, its lens focusing on their group.

Flash.

"Yep, that's going to my Cringe Collection," the drone announced in a mechanical voice before buzzing away.

Tatsumi stared after it. "Did that surveillance drone just... insult us?"

"Apparently," Himeno said. "Keep moving."

They followed the flow of citizens through the station. Ahead, a uniformed figure was pulling someone aside—another citizen, confused and frightened.

"Hey," the officer barked, and the voice was wrong, cartoonish. "Are you that guy from Among Us?!"

The citizen stammered. "I don't... what?"

"SUS!" The officer struck the citizen. "You're acting SUS!"

Tatsumi grabbed Himeno's arm. "What's 'sus'? What's Among Us?"

"Social deduction game. Internet culture back in my world. 'Sus' means suspicious." Himeno's voice was flat, tired. "The occupation forces apparently use gaming terminology in this assignment."

"That's absurd!"

"Yes."

They were being herded toward an interrogation room now, but a side door opened. A figure in Metrocop uniform gestured urgently, and when it spoke, the voice was—

"Hehehehe, hey there. You're Freeman, right? Follow me. Hehehehe."

All four companions froze.

"Why does he sound like that?" Akame asked carefully.

The Metrocop removed his mask, revealing a friendly face that didn't match the voice at all. "Hehehehe, remember me? It's me, Barney! From Black Mesa!"

"Peter Griffin Barney," Jolly's voice observed. "Alright then."

Himeno just nodded. "Modified ally. Ignore the voice. He seems friendly."

Barney led them into the interrogation room, pointed to a window. "Hehehehe, you need to get to Kleiner's lab. Go out this window, head through the station. I'll meet you there later!"

They climbed through, dropping into an alley. The train station loomed ahead, and somewhere in there—

"Pick up that can," a Metrocop was ordering someone ahead of them.

The Companions watched as the Operator's avatar—Freeman, they were calling him—immediately picked up the can and threw it directly at the Metrocop's face.

The guard staggered back. "SHIT! GET HIM!"

"Oh nooo, consequences," Jolly's voice was pure deadpan.

Himeno was already moving. "He's done this before. Many times. Just run."

"HE'S DONE THIS BEFORE?!" Tatsumi yelped, but he was running too, following as they sprinted through the station.

Behind them, whistles blew. Boots pounded. The chase was on.

They burst out into City 17's central plaza, and—

The explosion came from behind, a massive fireball erupting from the train station they'd just exited. The shockwave hit them, debris raining down, the roar of flames filling the air.

Firefly screamed. Tatsumi hit the ground. Akame spun, one hand going to her chest.

Himeno didn't even flinch, just kept walking. "Delayed explosive device. We survived. Keep moving."

"WHAT WAS THAT?!" Firefly's voice was shaking.

"Operator Jolly's assignments include unexpected hazards," Himeno said, lighting another cigarette with steady hands. "You learn to expect them."

"There was a BOMB!" Tatsumi was still on the ground.

"Yes."

"In the TRAIN STATION!"

"Yes."

"Oh shit!" Jolly's voice sounded genuinely surprised. "There was a bomb in the train station! That's new."

They pushed through the city streets, following the Operator's avatar through checkpoints and alleys. Akame had recovered her composure, moving with professional efficiency. Tatsumi was still wild-eyed but keeping pace. Firefly stayed close to Himeno, her breathing quick but controlled.

The sounds of an apartment raid reached them before they saw it—doors being kicked in, citizens screaming, the heavy boots of Metrocops storming through buildings.

But there was something else. Music?

"SOMEBODY ONCE TOLD ME—"

A door crashed open.

"THE WORLD IS GONNA ROLL ME—"

A citizen was struck down.

"I AIN'T THE SHARPEST TOOL IN THE SHED—"

Property was destroyed to musical accompaniment.

The Metrocops were singing. Actually singing, in unison, as they conducted their raid.

Tatsumi's voice cracked. "WHY ARE THEY SINGING?!"

They were running through the apartments now, scrambling through rooms as the musical raid continued behind them.

Akame was shaking her head in disbelief even as she ran. "They're vocalizing during raid operations. This is highly unprofessional!"

"Is it a battle chant?" Firefly gasped.

"It's a song from 1999," Himeno explained between breaths. "Called 'All Star.' It became an internet meme."

"They're raiding apartments to All Star," Jolly's voice carried genuine amusement. "That's a choice by the modder."

They burst out onto a rooftop, then down a fire escape into an alley where—

Metrocops had them cornered. Three of them, weapons raised. This was it, this was—

Gunshots rang out from behind the Metrocops. They dropped, eliminated by shots from an unexpected angle.

A figure appeared at the alley entrance. Human silhouette, carrying a weapon, moving with confident familiarity. But the head—

It was a horse. A rubber horse mask, the kind sold at novelty shops, complete with black mane and vacant expression.

"Get away from him!" The voice was friendly, warm, completely at odds with the horse head. "You're Freeman, right? Come on, follow me to Kleiner's lab!"

All four Companions stared.

"Horse mask Alyx," Jolly observed. "Sure. Why not."

The horse-headed figure waved cheerfully. "Watch out for Metrocops around here. They patrol pretty heavily."

Firefly leaned toward Himeno. "She's... wearing a horse head?"

"Modified ally. Ignore the mask. She sounds friendly."

Akame was staring. "But why a horse?"

"Stop asking questions," Himeno advised. "It doesn't help."

They followed the horse-masked woman through back alleys and maintenance corridors. She kept up a running commentary, perfectly normal and helpful despite the rubber horse head bobbing with each movement.

"We're almost there! My dad's gonna be so happy to see you!"

The dissonance was profound. Professional tactical advice delivered through a horse mask. Warm encouragement from something that should be absurd but was being treated as completely normal.

"This assignment makes no sense," Akame muttered.

"None of them do," Firefly said quietly. "You just... adapt."

The lab entrance appeared ahead—a nondescript door in an alley. The horse-masked woman—Alyx—gestured cheerfully. "Here we are! Go on in!"

Inside, the lab was cramped, filled with equipment and papers and the general chaos of active research. A man in glasses was searching frantically, checking under tables, behind equipment.

He looked up at their entrance, and his appearance clicked something in Himeno's memory even before he spoke.

"Hey, Vsauce! Michael here." He gestured dramatically. "And where... is Lamarr?"

A musical sting seemed to hang in the air after his introduction, though no actual sound accompanied it.

Jolly's voice carried dry amusement. "Vsauce Kleiner. Noted."

The man—Kleiner—continued his search, speaking in that distinctive rhetorical style. "But what IS teleportation? And how fast does it really happen?" He paused for effect. "Or... does it?"

Akame leaned slightly toward Himeno. "Is he always like this?"

"Apparently."

A creature suddenly dropped from a ceiling vent—a headcrab, Himeno recognized from previous assignments, but this one had something on it. A tiny fedora, perched at a jaunty angle on its shell.

The headcrab tipped its fedora in midair, an impossible gesture that somehow happened anyway, before landing on the head of a Metrocop who'd just entered.

"Hehehehe, Lamarr! Get off!"

It was Barney, the Peter Griffin voice somehow even more jarring in the confined space.

"Fedora headcrab," Jolly observed. "Of course."

Firefly giggled despite herself, a high nervous sound. "The creature has a hat?"

"Don't question it," Himeno said. "Trust me."

After Lamarr was corralled back into her cage (still wearing the fedora), Kleiner turned to them with renewed enthusiasm. "Gordon! And... companions! Wonderful! We're ready to begin the teleportation test!"

He gestured to what looked like a hazard suit hanging in an alcove. "First, put on the HEV suit!"

The Operator's avatar moved to the suit, and as it was donned, Himeno felt the familiar sensation of equipment manifestation. Her civilian coveralls were gone, replaced by tactical gear—a vest with proper armor plating, combat boots, a jacket bearing a lambda symbol on the arm.

She looked down at herself, then at the others. They'd all been upgraded simultaneously. Resistance gear. Proper equipment for combat.

Akame examined her new outfit with approval. "We've been re-equipped. Tactical gear."

"Happens during assignment phase transitions," Himeno explained, checking the fit of her vest. "New phase, new equipment."

Firefly touched the lambda symbol on her sleeve. "What does this mean?"

"Resistance marker. We're no longer disguised as civilians."

Tatsumi was examining his own gear with something like relief. "This is actual combat equipment!"

Near the teleporter setup, Himeno noticed a charging station set into the wall. The Operator's avatar approached it, activated it—

A massive dubstep drop exploded from the device.

WUBWUBWUB

All four Companions jumped, Firefly actually yelping.

"WHAT WAS THAT?!" she managed.

Akame had her hand on her chest. "The medical station produces aggressive music?"

Himeno was trying not to laugh despite herself. "Medical dubstep. Because apparently that's a thing now."

"Dubstep chargers," Jolly's voice noted. "That's going in the notes."

Kleiner was directing Alyx—still wearing the horse mask—onto the teleporter platform. "Let's begin with a test run!"

The device hummed to life, energy crackling around Alyx's form, and then she was gone, vanished in a flash of light.

"Excellent! Gordon, your turn!"

The Operator's avatar stepped onto the platform. Kleiner's hand moved toward the activation switch—

Lamarr dropped from the ceiling again, directly onto a critical component. Something sparked, smoked, and the teleporter's hum changed pitch dramatically.

"Oh, that's just right, medium rare but still" Jolly observed with sarcasm.

The teleporter activated wrong. The flash was too bright, wrong-colored, and suddenly the Companions weren't in the lab anymore—

A beach. Waves. Gone.

A facility. Underground. Gone.

An office, dominated by massive screens, and standing in front of them was MrBeast-Breen, turning with that content-creator enthusiasm—"Oh hey! Want to join my $10,000 challenge—"

And in the background, unmistakable, tinny but present: Caramelldansen.

The Swedish anime dance music was already playing in the Citadel.

Gone again.

An aquarium, fish swimming past. Gone.

And finally, outside the lab, standing in a back alley.

Himeno found her footing first, looked around. "Was that MrBeast? In that office?"

"And the Citadel was playing Caramelldansen," Firefly added weakly.

"Interesting," Jolly's voice was contemplative.

Then the sound—a deep, resonant alarm that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The Citadel, that massive structure dominating the skyline, had lit up with warning lights. The alarm echoed across the entire city.

Kleiner's voice came through on some kind of radio frequency. "Gordon! You've triggered the alert! You need to flee! NOW!"

"Right," Jolly said. "Fleeing time."

They ran through alleys, the sounds of Metrocops mobilizing all around them. Barney appeared from a side door, pressing something into the Operator's hands—

Crowbars. Five of them.

"Hehehehe! Here, take these! You'll need them!"

Himeno caught the crowbar tossed to her, tested its weight. Basic melee weapon. Better than nothing, but not by much.

Akame was examining hers with professional interest. "Melee weapon. Basic but effective."

Firefly held hers like it might bite her. "I've never used a crowbar before..."

Tatsumi looked at his in disbelief. "Just a crowbar?! Against guns?!"

"Crowbar acquired," Jolly's voice held genuine satisfaction. "Most important weapon in Half-Life history."

He swung it experimentally, the motion smooth and practiced, and Himeno was reminded that their Operator was a veteran of these scenarios. The random chatter, the casual competence—he knew what he was doing.

They fled through a train yard, Metrocops in pursuit. Bullets sparked off metal. Steam from damaged pipes obscured vision. The Operator moved with confidence, taking a route he clearly knew, and the Companions followed.

"Route Kanal," Jolly was saying, his tone conversational despite the gunfire. "This is actually one of the longer chapters. We're gonna be here a while. So anyway, I was thinking about getting pizza after this stream. Pizza or Chinese food? Can't decide..."

"WE'RE BEING SHOT AT!" Tatsumi yelled.

Himeno was already moving to cover, checking angles. "Operator knows the route. Follow and engage when you have openings."

Akame had pressed herself against a concrete pillar, assessing the situation with tactical precision. "Operator maintains composure under fire. His confidence suggests extensive experience with this scenario."

Two Metrocops appeared ahead, beating a civilian against a wall. The Operator's avatar charged forward without hesitation, crowbar raised.

"Alright, crowbar time."

The Companions followed his lead. Himeno swung her crowbar with more force than technique—this was crude, barbaric, nothing like the precise combat she was trained for.

Akame's strikes were calculated, economical. Each swing placed for maximum effect.

Tatsumi flailed wildly. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!"

Firefly hung back, nervous swings that mostly missed. "I'm trying!"

The Metrocops went down. And lying on the ground beside them—

Pistols.

The Operator picked one up. "Ooh, pistol. Still has terrible accuracy like every HL2 version."

Himeno grabbed one of the other pistols, checked the magazine. Basic sidearm, nothing special, but it beat a crowbar. The others were arming themselves too.

Akame examined her pistol with approval. "Standard sidearm. Acceptable accuracy."

Firefly held hers carefully, like something fragile. "Okay. I can do this. Point and shoot."

Tatsumi looked at his with pure relief. "FINALLY! A ranged weapon!"

The next group of Metrocops met them with gunfire. The Companions spread out, taking cover, learning in real-time.

Akame's shots were precise, methodical. "Got one." Bang. "Moving to the next." Bang. "Down."

Himeno fired while moving, getting a feel for the weapon's pull. "Getting the hang of this."

Tatsumi sprayed wildly, bullets going everywhere. "Why won't they die?!"

"Headshots," Jolly advised casually. "Aim for the helmet."

Firefly's hands shook as she aimed, missing more than she hit. "I got one!"

They pushed deeper into the canals, the industrial underbelly of City 17. Steam pipes. Flooded corridors. The skitter of things in the water.

A container sat against one wall, marked with the lambda symbol. Himeno had seen these before—resistance supply caches. The Operator opened it, revealing—

Submachine guns, or to be more accurate, Nerf guns with lead darts and slingshot. Multiple of them.

"You know what, kinda expected Nerf or Nothing," Jolly said with amusement. "Still good though."

Himeno grabbed one immediately, the weight settling surprisingly comfortably in her hands. "Now this is more like it." She test-fired a burst. Better. Much better.

Tatsumi took one too. "Is this better than the pistol?"

"More firepower, less accurate," Jolly explained. "Good for suppression."

Akame looked at the SMG, then at her pistol, then shook her head. "I'll maintain precision weapon."

Firefly also declined, clutching her pistol. "I'm okay with what I have."

Himeno turned to Tatsumi. "Your SMG has a second trigger. Launches grenades. Don't stand too close when it detonates. The system's the same regardless of deployments"

His eyes widened. "It has WHAT?!"

The opportunity to demonstrate came quickly. Metrocops behind overturned barriers, using cover effectively. Tatsumi's SMG fire wasn't penetrating.

"They're behind cover!" he shouted.

Himeno moved beside him, gestured. "Second trigger. Pull it."

He fumbled with the weapon. "Which—oh!"

THOOMP.

The grenade arced through the air, a perfect ballistic trajectory, and landed behind the barrier.

BOOM.

The Metrocops were gone.

Tatsumi stared at his weapon with new respect. "It worked!"

"Now you know. Use them wisely."

Combat was coming together as they pushed deeper. A firefight in a flooded chamber showed their developing coordination.

Himeno laid down suppressing fire, checking for any other hostiles. "Covering!"

Akame's pistol picked off targets with surgical precision. "Acquiring targets. One. Two. Three."

Firefly stayed behind cover, occasionally firing but mostly organizing the medical supplies she'd been gathering from supply crates. "I'm staying back! I have medical kits if anyone needs them!"

Tatsumi's control was improving, his bursts more measured. "I'm getting better at this!" He launched a grenade. "Grenade out!"

They were actually working as a team.

Then the manhacks came.

The sound hit first—not the mechanical whir Himeno expected, but a mosquito buzz. High-pitched, aggressive, and layered with something else. Video game sound effects?

BZZZZZZZZ

The flying saw blades swarmed them, that infuriating mosquito sound drowning out everything else.

"Manhacks," Jolly noted. "Crowbar's better for these."

He swapped weapons, swatting the flying blades like extremely dangerous insects.

Himeno followed suit, abandoning precision for frantic swatting. "ANNOYING LITTLE—"

Akame kept her pistol, shooting them out of the air with remarkable accuracy. "I prefer this method."

Firefly was panicking, swinging her crowbar wildly. "THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!"

Tatsumi's swings had no technique whatsoever. "I HATE THESE THINGS!"

Finally, blissfully, the last manhack was destroyed. The mosquito sound faded.

Tatsumi was bent over, catching his breath. "What... what were those sounds?"

"Mosquito noises," Himeno said. "And I think... Subway Surfers sound effects?"

"What's Subway Surfers?!"

"Mobile game. Don't ask."

They found temporary refuge in an underground resistance station—Station 12, the faded signage read. Real people here, citizens who'd taken up arms against the occupation. They welcomed Freeman with relief and hope.

"You're Freeman! We've been waiting! Don't worry, you're safe here."

The resistance members were normal, professional, grateful. But as Himeno looked around, she noticed something odd about their equipment.

One fighter was dressed in what could only be described as tactical cosplay—camouflage in every pattern simultaneously, pouches covering every available surface, wraparound sunglasses despite being underground, patches with skulls and aggressive slogans. He was talking with another fighter about ammunition, his voice completely normal and professional.

Another member wore all black—face covering, improvised armor made from hockey pads, various patches with red and black symbols. She was discussing defensive positions with the same competence and seriousness.

The stark contrast between their appearance and their behavior was jarring.

Akame noticed it too. "The resistance fighters have wildly inconsistent equipment aesthetics."

"But they all act professionally," Himeno observed. "Ignore the costumes. They're allies."

Firefly looked between the two distinctly-dressed fighters. "Why do they dress so differently?"

"In this assignment?" Himeno shrugged. "Who knows. They're on our side. That's what matters."

A supply cache sat open near the back of the station. Weapons, ammunition, equipment. The Companions restocked.

Himeno kept her SMG. It suited her style.

Firefly loaded up on medical supplies, her pistol enough for the combat she hoped to avoid.

Tatsumi was getting comfortable with his SMG, practicing the grenade launch motion.

Akame picked up something new—a revolver, heavy and substantial. She examined it with clear approval. "This feels right. Better stopping power." She test-aimed, getting a feel for the weight.

"Six shots. Make them count." Himeno joked.

They rested briefly, recovering. The resistance members shared what food they had. Normal conversation, normal people trying to survive abnormal circumstances. It was almost peaceful.

Then they heard it.

Distant. Rhythmic. Getting closer.

The rumble of a train on tracks.

One of the resistance fighters grabbed a weapon. "Razor train. Everyone stay clear of the tracks!"

They moved to the side corridor as the rumbling grew louder. Metrocops outside hadn't gotten the warning, or hadn't heeded it.

And then, impossibly, they heard music.

Cheerful. Innocent. Unmistakable.

Thomas the Tank Engine's theme song.

Jolly's voice held genuine surprise. "Is that Thomas the Tank Engine?"

The train came around the corner at full speed. Himeno caught a glimpse of the engine—modified, weaponized, but somehow still recognizably shaped like Thomas the Tank Engine.

And the Metrocops on the tracks—

SPLAT.

The cheerful music continued.

SPLAT.

Bodies went flying.

SPLAT.

Musical carnage, the dissonance so profound it wrapped back around to something almost funny.

Jolly started laughing. Genuinely, deeply laughing, the kind that came from pure surprise and absurdity. "THEY JUST—THE METROCOPS—DID YOU—"

More Metrocops, too slow to clear the tracks.

SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT.

The Thomas theme kept playing.

Jolly was wheezing now. "This is the best thing I've ever seen!"

Despite herself, despite everything, Himeno felt laughter bubbling up. It was horrible. It was perfect. It was the most absurd thing she'd witnessed in seven assignments, and that was saying something.

Tatsumi was staring in horror. "THE DEATH MACHINE IS PLAYING CHILDREN'S MUSIC!"

Akame watched the aftermath with visible disbelief. "This is deeply inappropriate." She paused. "Though tactically effective at clearing hostile forces..."

Firefly had her hand over her mouth, a nervous giggle escaping. "It's kind of catchy?"

The train passed, the music fading. Bodies littered the tracks. And standing there, trying to process what they'd just witnessed—

"That was perfect," Jolly said, still catching his breath. "Absolute cinema."

They pushed deeper into the canal system, the industrial underbelly of City 17 revealing itself in layers. Flooded passages. Drainage tunnels. The constant sound of water dripping echoed off concrete walls.

The Operator kept up his running commentary, something about meal prep now. "So like, do people actually cook all their meals on Sunday? That seems really time-consuming. Plus you'd need a lot of fridge space..."

A username came through—someone in that invisible audience.

"DarkLord, I know where the supply crates are. Played this game like fifty times. I'm doing a thing."

Akame glanced at Himeno questioningly.

"People he's talking to," Himeno explained quietly. "Entities we can't perceive. He uses their names sometimes."

Another voice. "BigChungus wants me to assault more Metrocops. Yeah, that worked great the first time."

They pushed through a section where more Metrocops appeared—but these were different from the ones at the train station.

Half of them wore red caps emblazoned with text Himeno couldn't quite read from this distance, carrying what looked like clubs instead of stun batons.

"MAKE CITY 17 GREAT AGAIN!" one shouted, charging forward.

The club connected with a Metrocop from the other group—one that looked like a walking can of some kind of energy drink, with arms and legs somehow attached.

BONK

The sound effect was cartoonish, ridiculous, and the can-Metrocop went flying.

"What the—" Tatsumi stared.

"BONK sticks," Jolly observed. "And are those Prime cans with legs?"

The red-capped Metrocop charged at them next. "MAGA! MAKE IT GREAT!"

Akame shot him with her pistol. He went down. She stared at the body, then at the club lying next to it. "That weapon was labeled 'BONK.'"

"The occupation forces have inconsistent equipment," Himeno noted, shooting a can-Metrocop that was shambling toward them. Prime drink spilled everywhere.

"They're DRINKS!" Firefly was backing away from another can-Metrocop. "Why are they drinks?!"

"Don't question it!"

They cleared the area, leaving behind a bizarre mixture of red-capped Metrocops with BONK sticks and ambulatory beverage containers.

They were advancing through a flooded section, water up to their knees, when a Metrocop appeared from an unexpected alcove.

Gunfire. The Operator's avatar staggered. Fell into the water with a splash.

A voice—robotic, mocking—announced: "LOL. RATIOED."

The Operator's presence vanished.

"Keep advancing!" Akame was already moving, her training taking over. "Maintain momentum!"

Himeno followed, SMG ready. "He'll return. Keep pushing forward!"

"Wait, he DIED?!" Tatsumi stared at where the avatar had fallen.

"He'll return near whoever gets furthest!" Firefly called, staying close behind Akame.

They cleared the immediate area, eliminated the Metrocop. And somewhere, wherever death had taken him, they could hear the Operator's voice—distant, arguing.

"I am NOT a himbo! I'm making tactical decisions here!"

A pause.

"That was ONE mistake! The Metrocop came from behind! That doesn't make me a—"

He materialized near Akame, the words still coming.

"—himbo! I'm smart!"

All four Companions stared.

Akame recovered first. "Operator, are you well?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

Tatsumi pointed. "You just shouted 'I'm smart' while appearing out of nowhere."

"Oh. Yeah. Someone called me a himbo."

Akame's composure was visibly struggling. "What's a himbo?"

Himeno allowed herself a small smile. "Don't ask. Keep moving."

They pressed on, the canals seemingly endless. A boxcar appeared ahead—one of those resistance hideouts scattered through the waterways. The Operator approached it, and Himeno could see figures inside through the open door.

Citizens. A Vortigaunt. Safe haven.

They climbed inside, and—

Standing in the corner, arms crossed, muscles absurdly defined even through his shirt, was a man who didn't belong. His posture screamed ego. His expression radiated self-satisfaction.

Duke Nukem.

Himeno froze. She'd seen enough American action media to recognize the archetype, even if she'd never encountered this specific character.

The Vortigaunt was speaking. "Greetings, the Freeman, we have been—"

Duke interrupted. "Hold up." He uncrossed his arms, pulled out a clipboard from nowhere. "I've conducted a peer-reviewed study."

Everyone stared.

Duke examined the clipboard with exaggerated seriousness. "Says here you're a pussy."

Silence filled the boxcar.

Duke dropped the clipboard. Heavy metal music erupted from no source, just suddenly present and aggressively loud.

"GET OUT."

He grabbed the Operator's avatar and physically threw it out of the boxcar. The Companions found themselves ejected too, tumbling onto the canal walkway outside.

Himeno lay there for a moment, staring up at the industrial sky. She slowly reached for her stolen cigar, her hands trembling.

Firefly sat up, looking dazed. "What just happened?"

Akame was already on her feet, hand on her revolver. "That inhabitant conducted a study, called our Operator derogatory terms, and forcibly removed us."

Tatsumi was still on the ground. "HE THREW US OUT!"

"Duke Nukem," Jolly's voice held genuine amusement. "With a peer-reviewed study. That's amazing."

"AMAZING?!" Tatsumi scrambled to his feet. "He threw us out!"

"Yeah, but the study thing was great. Very in-character."

Himeno managed to light her cigar, took a long drag. "That was Duke Nukem. Action video game character. Known for being aggressively masculine and full of himself."

"Is he always like that?" Firefly asked weakly.

"Apparently in this assignment, yes." Himeno stood up, brushing herself off. "Let's just... keep moving."

They gave the boxcar a wide berth as they continued through the canals.

The architecture changed gradually—less City 17 proper, more industrial outskirts. They were leaving the city behind.

Eventually they reached an area with a seesaw mechanism, requiring them to weigh down one end with scattered bricks and concrete blocks to create a path forward. The Operator moved through it with practiced efficiency, knowing exactly where each piece needed to go.

"Simple physics puzzle," Jolly noted. "Smart Jolly."

Tatsumi was helping move bricks. "You're being sarcastic about an easy puzzle again, aren't you?"

"Learning fast, mate."

They climbed to the upper level, emerging into an open area with ruined buildings and—

A sound cut through the air. Mechanical. Powerful. Getting closer.

"Wait," Himeno dropped her cigar. "That's—"

The helicopter crested the ruined buildings, a matte-black killing machine bristling with weapons. Except something was wrong with how it moved. It wasn't flying smoothly—it was tilted at an odd angle, jerking through the air like it was malfuctioning, sliding sideways in defiance of physics.

The Hunter-Chopper was prop-surfing through the sky.

"Why is it moving like that?" Akame asked, watching the impossible flight pattern.

"It looks broken," Tatsumi whispered.

"It's not broken," Jolly said. "It's prop-surfing. The modder probably didn't bother to fix it."

The janky, impossible movement made it somehow more threatening. Unpredictable. Wrong.

"Stay in the shadows," Jolly's voice had lost its casual tone. "Don't move."

They froze, pressing against walls, staying in darkness. The chopper hovered, searchlight sweeping across the rubble. Himeno held her breath. Akame had gone perfectly still, hand on her weapon. Firefly looked terrified. Tatsumi was shaking.

The searchlight passed over their position. For a heart-stopping moment, it paused—

Then moved on. The chopper drifted away, its rotors fading into the distance.

"This hunter-chopper will be following you for the rest of this level," Jolly said, back to his information-sharing voice. "Can't fight it yet. Just avoid it when we can."

"THAT THING IS FOLLOWING US?!" Tatsumi's whisper was panicked.

"Welcome to Route Kanal," Himeno muttered, getting her flashlight to work properly.

They moved quickly now, aware that the chopper could return at any moment. Through ruined gates, past barnacles hanging from ceiling pipes (Himeno saw Tatsumi almost walk into one before Akame pulled him back), moving barrels out of doorways.

They reached a small station with a single rebel inside, nervous and watchful.

"You're Freeman? Thank god. Listen, you need to keep moving before the—"

Buzzing. That damned mosquito sound mixed with Subway Surfers effects.

Manhacks burst through the windows, glass shattering everywhere.

"MANHACKS!" the rebel yelled, grabbing a wrench.

Combat erupted in the confined space. The rebel fought alongside them, and Himeno found herself covering the civilian, keeping the flying blades away from him. Akame's revolver shots were perfectly timed. Tatsumi's SMG spray was getting better. Firefly stayed near the rebel, ready with medical supplies if needed.

The last manhack fell.

The rebel sagged with relief. "Thank you. Thank you. Here—" He pushed some supplies toward them. "Good luck out there."

They continued through drainage tunnels, fighting more Civil Protection units, more manhacks, the constant awareness that the Hunter-Chopper was somewhere above them, hunting.

Station 6 appeared ahead—a larger outpost, makeshift buildings cobbled together in the canal system.

Then they heard it. A whistling sound, getting louder.

"INCOMING!" someone screamed.

The shell hit the ground directly ahead of them, crushing two rebels instantly. Then it cracked open like a grotesque egg, and headcrabs spilled out, skittering in all directions.

"Headcrab shells," Jolly observed. "Combine's weaponizing them against the resistance."

The headcrabs were fast, aggressive. One leaped at Firefly—she screamed, fired wildly, actually hit it mid-air. It fell twitching.

"I got it!" she gasped. "I actually got it!"

"Good shot!" Himeno was already moving forward, clearing the path.

More shells fell. The station was under bombardment. They pushed through quickly, leaving the chaos behind, entering a culvert that led to—

Open water. A canal stretching ahead. And moored at a small dock, a ramshackle boat—the airboat, just weathered metal and a fan engine.

A rebel woman was fueling it up, working quickly. She looked up as they approached.

"You're Freeman! Thank god. Listen, take this boat. Get to Station 7, it's an old barn up the canal. They can help you there." She gestured at the airboat. "Civil Protection patrols the waterways heavy, but you'll be faster than them. Good luck!"

She opened the gate.

Jolly's avatar climbed into the airboat. The engine roared to life—loud, powerful, the fan spinning up.

The Companions found themselves materializing in the boat with him, cramped but mobile.

"Airboat acquired," Jolly said with satisfaction. "This is where it gets fun."

The gate opened fully, revealing the canal stretching ahead, industrial buildings lining both sides, and in the distance—

The Hunter-Chopper.

It had found them.

"Oh shit," Jolly's casual tone evaporated. "HANG ON!"

The chopper opened fire. Bullets stitched across the water. The airboat surged forward, engine screaming, and suddenly they were racing through the canals at breakneck speed.

"HOLY SHIT!" Tatsumi was clinging to the boat's frame.

Firefly was wide-eyed, gripping whatever she could find. "WE'RE GOING TO DIE!"

The chopper pursued relentlessly, its cannon tracking them. Jolly was weaving the boat through narrow passages, under low bridges, between floating debris.

Then—impossibly—they heard it.

Music. Coming from the helicopter.

"HELIKOPTER HELIKOPTER"

The Bosnian viral song was blasting from the chopper at full volume as it chased them, bullets chewing up the water behind them.

"IT'S PLAYING MUSIC!" Firefly screamed over the engine and gunfire.

"THE MURDER HELICOPTER IS MUSICAL!" Tatsumi was incoherent.

Akame, pressed against the side of the boat, watched the chopper track them with professional assessment even as her knuckles went white from gripping the frame. "Why does everything in this assignment have music?!"

"Because it's Operator Jolly!" Himeno shouted back, SMG ready even though she knew it wouldn't do anything to that thing.

"HELIKOPTER HELIKOPTER" continued blasting as they raced through the canals.

The airboat rounded a corner sharply, sending up a wall of spray. A drainage tunnel appeared ahead—narrow, low clearance, but it would block the chopper.

Jolly gunned the engine. They shot into the tunnel at full speed, the roar echoing off concrete walls. Behind them, the chopper pulled up, unable to follow.

The music faded as they put distance between them and their pursuer.

They emerged into a quieter section of canal. The engine settled to a lower rumble. Everyone was breathing hard.

"That," Firefly managed, "was terrifying."

"Helikopter Helikopter," Himeno said flatly, stating the obvious. "The helicopter plays Helikopter Helikopter."

"Why?" Akame asked, genuinely baffled.

"Because this is how Operator Jolly's assignments work. The death machine plays meme music. The murder train plays Thomas the Tank Engine. Nothing makes sense and everything is absurd."

Jolly's voice was cheerful again. "That's my first time seeing the Helikopter Helikopter chopper. The modder went all out. Love it."

"YOU LOVE IT?!" Tatsumi shouted.

"Yeah mate, it's hilarious."

The canal stretched ahead of them now, the industrial zones of City 17 falling away into more remote areas. The airboat cut through the water, fast and maneuverable. They'd escaped the city proper.

Himeno looked back at her companions. Firefly was still shaking but managing a weak smile. Tatsumi looked shell-shocked but alive. Akame had her revolver out, checking it with methodical care despite the boat's motion.

"So," Jolly's voice came through, back to casual. "About that pizza. I'm thinking pepperoni. Maybe some garlic bread on the side. What do you think?"

Himeno closed her eyes, squeezed something in her fist, and allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

Just another day with Operator Jolly.

Just another impossible assignment.

Just another step forward into whatever madness waited next.

The airboat hummed across the water, carrying them toward Station 7, toward Black Mesa East, toward whatever came next.

And in the distance, barely audible over the engine, the faint echo of "Helikopter Helikopter" lingered in her memory.

She'd never hear helicopters the same way again.