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Ren came to in a place he'd never seen before, dressed in clothes that fit perfectly but that he'd never put on, wearing a crown he doesn't remember earning.
Where was he? How was he here? All he could remember was pitch darkness, and every time he tried to remember, all he could make out in the fog of his brain was an odd rectangular symbol, like a brand in his mind, blocking him from his own experiences.
Of course, he wasn't just starting with a blank slate. He knew about GIGACorp, about the town of Pity, about his many other adventures in the universe... he just couldn't figure out how he got here, in this world.
And, from the look of things, he was completely alone.
There was no harm in exploring, he reasoned, so that's what he did, hoping to get some answers. Everything felt so familiar here, every block, every step, every stretch of wall, every carrot growing despite having no one to tend to them. Everything here was so well kept, and yet where were the people to keep it?
He stumbled up a couple steps into a mostly-wooden structure—a house, if you could call it that: sure, there were walls and a floor and there was a bedroom off to one side, but it was mostly just made of fences. It was barely furnished, apart from an enchanting table in the middle of the room. It glowed with power, but also intrigue. It felt so significant, but why? Why did this one block seem to hold the weight of the whole building?
Somewhere below and behind him, he heard footsteps. His ears picked up on the sound, turning towards it, and he tried his best to keep quiet and listen in to determine whether this was friend or foe. They were moving slowly, like they were just as aimless as Ren was, ascending what were probably the basement steps until eventually the sound of shoe hitting stone turned into shoe hitting dirt path.
Ren turned, about to walk back out the door and greet them, floorboards creaking slightly under him, but apparently that was enought to alert the other person, and they weren't as easily accepting of the company.
They froze—Ren could hear the footsteps stop abruptly—and called out, "Who's there?"
It was an accusatory way to say it, but the boldness of the words was dampened by the shakiness, like this person had just been crying and hadn't thought they'd have to hide it so soon. Had they been here for longer than Ren had, tucked away underground, and he just hadn't noticed them before?
More importantly, the voice was familiar. He knew that voice.
"Martyn? Is that you?"
He didn't have to ask, because he knew it was Martyn. Who else would it be? But given the circumstances, and the confusion of it all, asking felt necessary.
"Stop it, stop that," he heard Martyn mutter, frustration seeping through his words. "I've played your games, is that not enough for you? Must you find more ways to torture me?"
It didn’t sound like Martyn was addressing him, but rather someone who wasn't present, at least not physically. Something omnipresent, something in the sky, or in Martyn's head, and it only made Ren more confused.
"I know he's not here, I know that. You don't need to keep reminding me. Making me hear him."
Who was Martyn pleading with? And why was he so firm in believing he was alone?
It was impossible to stay here when Martyn was out there, and the only way to make him believe was to let him see. Ren walked over to the door, his pace quickening with each step, and called out again as he opened the door, "Martyn!"
There he was, standing in front of him: the man he knew well. Yet there was something about him, something different. He seemed broken, like he'd lived through war and terrors that maybe Ren had lived through too, but he just couldn't remember. Something in his chest tugged him closer, and Ren just wished he knew where they were, and what this was, and why he was without the context that Martyn clearly had.
"You're here," Martyn muttered, eyes wide, unbelieving, reaching out to Ren. "How are you here? You didn't win."
Ren closed the distance between them, hoping to fully prove his own existence, or at least disprove most of the other hypothetical possibilities. He cradled Martyn's head in his hand, letting the red cloak he was wearing drape over the two of them as they hugged each other, the other man's hands latching tightly onto Ren's shirt like he was scared he would dissolve, slip through his fingers and leave him alone again.
Where was the Martyn Ren knew? Cocky, mischievous, strong. The caricature was a stranger to the man in his arms now: unsure, suspicious, battered. What had happened?
"Are you okay?" he asked, carefully.
Martyn shook his head, pulling it back from where he'd burrowed it in Ren's chest, and responded, "Are any of us?" He laughed, although there was nothing funny about it.
"Why? What is this?"
Suddenly and entirely, Martyn pulled back. He stared into Ren's eyes, as if trying to read his mind, but all he could read was his soul. He could tell Ren was genuine, probably, but he didn't seem to understand what he was thinking. If he did, he wouldn't need to ask, "Do you not remember?"
He asked. And Ren's face told him the answer.
"You don't. That's what they've done," Martyn said, scoffing. "This is their idea of a prize, isn't it?"
He was fighting to display the confidence he needed, the confidence he used like a shield.
"Martyn, what's going on?"
"You need to win to remember, but I won twice."
"What? Win what?"
Martyn shook his head. "You won't understand. You can't; you don't remember. I'd sound crazy."
Ren didn't like that answer. Sure, maybe he wouldn't understand, but he could still try! And even if he really couldn't, he could listen. Martyn was suffering from something Ren couldn't fix, but he could find another way to help if only he just knew something about the something.
"Tell me about it anyways," he insisted, hands grabbing Martyn's shoulders, forcing him to face him, not letting him get away.
So Martyn told him. They went inside first—Martyn's idea—to get out of the cold, but then he launched into the story, starting with the fourth game, as he called it. The games as a concept were still a bit confusing to Ren, but he got the idea that they were violent and messy, a fast-paced hell created by some beings that Martyn kept referring to (but never naming). He talked about how Ren hadn't been there that time, but he'd teamed up with Scott.
He seemed very conflicted towards the end of the story, hesitant to share how brutally he'd claimed victory, hesitant to show off his betrayal, and his feelings made sense. Normally, if someone told you how they'd killed their closest teammate just to claim victory for themself, you'd judge them (at least a little). But Ren? Inexplicably, all Ren felt was proud. He was proud of Martyn for winning. Even prouder when he went on to talk about the ninth game, where he'd won in a more honorable way.
"Was that the most recent one?"
"The ninth? Yeah. You were there. Built a massive pyramid and covered it in lava." Martyn laughed quietly. "You'll remember one day."
The way he said that last bit was almost worrying. It was like he didn't believe it and was trying to convince himself, or, if he did believe, he didn't want the day to come. Ren couldn't tell, but maybe that was okay.
"So where are we now?"
Martyn stayed quiet for a moment before saying, "I really wish you did remember. If not everything, just this."
"What's so special about 'this?'"
"This is the first game," Martyn said, staring off at something that wasn't there, perhaps at a memory. "This is where we first met."
That caught Ren off guard, but now that he actually thought about it, he didn't actually remember ever meeting Martyn. He just knew him. There must have been a time when he didn't know him, he supposed, but nowadays he couldn't imagine him not being there. His life wasn't his life without Martyn.
"Will you tell me about it?"
"There's almost too much to tell."
"That's okay," Ren decided, "all that matters is that we did meet, and now we know each other, and we're together now."
They sat there, comfortable against each other, on the floor of the wooden shelter. Ren was happy to stay for as long as Martyn needed, giving him time to catch his breath after the apparent restlessness he'd been fighting in. Living through, over and over again. Ren couldn't understand, he couldn't remember, but he could be there, be supportive. For Martyn.
"Can I tell you a different story, though? Not one about us?" Martyn asked quietly. "I was just... reminded of it, I guess."
"Of course." Ren smiled at him. "Gives us something to do, while we're here." He wasn't sure when (or how) they'd leave, he realized now, but he wasn't in a rush.
Martyn nodded, readjusted, and cleared his throat before starting, "Well, it goes like this: Once upon a time, a there was a noble king who ruled over his people, his loyal hand always at his side..."