Chapter Text
There was not a single survivor who was happy with the most recent turn of events.
The rounds, as they had become colloquially known, were brutal. They were terrifying. Violent. Oftentimes needlessly cruel, but, most importantly, they were formulaic. In some sick, twisted way, they had brought a sense of routine to an otherwise barren wasteland. They gave the survivors something to strive towards, a common goal to be achieved and a mutual enemy to rally against.
If nothing else, that much had worked out in 007n7's favour. Being put in constant life-or-death situations gave him a smidgeon of leeway. As much as the others loathed or feared him, there would always be those willing to drag him out of harm's way on principle of the matter, regardless of genuine concern.
By now, everyone had gotten used to it. The blood. The death. The pain. It had become normal in the same way that grocery shopping had used to be in a past life: a taxing and inescapable chore, almost boring in its monotony. After so long, it was only natural that everyone had fallen into complacency.
But this new game was not something that anyone knew how to deal with.
007n7 doubted that it could even be considered a game at all. There was no set of rules, no simulated conflict, no quantifiable outcome. It was a game only in the manner of a child playing with its toys - torment for the sake of entertainment, and nothing more.
It had started abruptly, without so much as a hint of a warning. At the time, 007n7 had barely managed to stumble onto his sheetless bed after a particularly harrowing round, had curled up on his side, and didn't even remember falling asleep before waking up on an active battlefield.
The sound of relentless gunfire had left 007n7's head spinning, hands clasped over his ears to little effect. Sand kicked up from the dunes, clumped together by splatters of blood, pooling beneath the lifeless bodies that littered the ground. Amongst it all had been Guest 1337, fresh-faced and harrowed, hunched behind a convenient chunk of debris to shield himself from the torrential hail of bullets that whizzed past his head. There was another soldier huddled next to him: young, tanned skin, brunet.
The other man had peeked out from behind the debris for only a second, and that had been all it had taken.
007n7 had watched as the bullet tore through that soldier's chest, as Guest 1337 braved a barrage of gunfire to desperately drag his fellow soldier back behind the wall. Had watched as his face had crumpled, unable to stop the tears as they fell, and watched as that grief morphed into vengeance. Had watched him frantically scribble a note on a torn piece of paper, watched him stuff that self-same note into his fellow soldier's jacket pocket.
Guest 1337 breathed deeply, in, then out, before leaping past the debris and making a mad dash for enemy lines.
007n7 couldn't look away as the most courageous man he knew sacrificed himself over the explosion of a grenade.
The others had been there too, as mere shadows of themselves; more like ghosts than people. 007n7 had not been amongst those who tried to dissuade Guest 1337 from his final, reckless charge, kneeling by the grieving soldier's side, feverishly waving their hands in front of his face in hopes of gaining his attention, begging him to stop, to just think this through for a moment, to at least check the guy's damn pulse.
Or that was what 007n7 assumed they had been saying. No noise left their gaping mouths, no matter how they screamed.
It wasn't until the abstract of Guest had physically stepped through one of these ghosts that it finally seemed to sink in. They were completely and utterly invisible, and there was nothing they could do to stop the inevitable.
The survivors would eventually figure out that this was the realm's new, depraved gimmick: in their dreams, survivors would witness the worst memory of one of their own, as though it were happening right before their eyes.
After it was all over, when 007n7 eventually awoke, he wasn't in bed anymore. He was in the lounge area of the main cabin, alongside everyone else, just as they would have been after a round ended.
Guest, normally so reliably steadfast, was suddenly unsteady on his feet, his eyes hollow, his skin gaunt and patched with sweat. Noob, bless their heart, had moved to help him, but was quickly held back by those who knew better.
Builderman had been the one to escort Guest 1337 back to his cabin. The remaining survivors were left behind to stew in a thick, eerie silence.
They had all hoped that this was a one-time thing.
It was not.
Chance, being run through by the sword of a man they once considered a friend. Taph, cowering in the confines of their home, slowly succumbing to paranoia. Elliot, watching, horrified, as his workplace went up in flames (007n7 had left quickly after that one. The proceeding cold shoulder that he received from many was not unwarranted. He considered himself lucky to have gotten off with naught but a slap on the wrist.)
Each and every time, they would wake up from the nightmare to find themselves back in the main cabin. 007n7 wasn't certain why that thing couldn't just let them return to their beds from whence they came, although he wouldn't be surprised if the aim was to force a confrontation of some kind. It certainly had a flair for the dramatic.
Worse still was that there was no way of truly predicting when the next dream would happen, leaving everyone seething in constant unease. Before rounds, after rounds, on good days, on bad days, but always when they least expected it. They had tried sleeping in shifts so that everyone went to bed at different times, and yet they still found themselves falling to fits of spontaneous unconsciousness. So it seemed that it would settle for no less than a full house.
No time, and no person, was safe.
Some were better at hiding their nerves than others, but, ultimately, there wasn't a soul alive in the realm who was under any illusions about the way that the very air chilled at the mere mention of those dreams.
Two Time had become infinitely more jittery. Chance seemed distant. Even Shedletsky, who's feathers had, until now, remained miraculously unruffled, wore a smile that 007n7 could only describe as strained. 007n7 himself was no different. There were so many moments in his life that he looked back on with shame, that picking just one to label as his 'worst' seemed like an almost comical impossibility.
It was only a matter of time until it was his turn. He could only hope that, when the final knell tolled, the others would do him the decency of looking the other way.
)()o()(
When 007n7 opened his eyes, it took him a few moments to come to terms with what he was seeing, but once he did, he felt his stomach drop to his toes.
The sight was unmistakable. It was his house, a small thing but conveniently detached, in the suburbs of some server or another. To avoid adding another ankle monitor to his growing collection, he and c00lkidd had been forced to move frequently enough that he had long ceased bothering to learn the names of every server he had put down roots in.
This one, however, he remembered with a certain fondness. The server was quiet. Its occupants were relatively sheltered, marginally less cruel and there were no admins breathing down their necks here. Few locals knew of 007n7's past, and less still were aware of the severity. Although rumours of his true nature had spread, as they were wont to do, they, thankfully, didn't cause enough problems to prompt another move.
It certainly didn't hurt that c00lkidd had settled in remarkably well. That, combined with other factors, meant that this had been the last of 007n7's many homes.
For the briefest of moments, when 007n7 laid eyes on that achingly familiar house, it was finally over. Maybe, just maybe, that thing had finally taken its fill, and had discarded him back on his doorstep as though nothing had happened.
A feeble spark of hope had caught in 007n7's throat, but - as he reached out towards that oasis - it died just as quickly.
His hand was transparent. This was most certainly a memory. A dream. He was still stuck in that place, and if he was here, seeing this, then that meant it was finally his turn on the chopping block.
007n7 licked the roof of his mouth, and his tongue came away dry. A dawning sense of dread washed over him like a wave.
'Fuck,' he thought, 'Fuck.'
His fellow survivors, still only faint outlines, were stood around him, blearily coming to. For them, it was straight to business, trying to figure out whose dream they were inside, glancing between each other, some signing or mouthing for lack of sound. The thought of out-right coming clean and telling them that it was his memory made him nauseous, but really there wasn't a need to correct them; they would find out the truth for themselves in due time.
The others, spurned by visions past, seemed hesitant to approach the house. 007n7 took it upon himself to be the first to move up the pathway, albeit with slow, uncertain steps, as though the ground would give out from beneath his feet. It was such a familiar motion, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling of distinctive wrongness that came along with it. The gravel did not crunch beneath his soles. He did not feel the evening’s cool breeze against his face. The low rustling of nearby trees, and the occasional chirping cicada, were his only company as he made his way up the steps to the porch.
He half expected the third stair to creak under his weight, as it always did.
It did not.
Instead, he was met with a silence thunderous enough to make him wince.
When he reached the door (brown oak, with paned windows and a worn brass handle), muscle memory implored him to reach out and push it open, but he flinched when his palm phased right through. Cradling his hand to his chest, he felt his expression scrunch up against his will, before he managed to square his shoulders and brace himself to step through the threshold into the house proper.
The entryway corridor was exactly as 007n7 remembered it. He was no interior designer, but he had done the best that he could with a limited budget. There wasn’t much to see - dim and dusty as the setting sun parsed beams of golden light through the window - but he could make out some framed pictures, coats draped from hangers, unopened mail left forgotten at the foot of the doorway.
Subconsciously, he went to wipe his feet on the doormat before remembering that he as far more likely to slip through into the basement than get dirt on the floorboards. It was jarring.
By the time that 007n7 had finished with his revelry, a couple of his fellow survivors had followed along after him; the braver of the bunch. Builderman took the lead, as he so often did with Shedletsky not too far behind, looking around with a vague semblance of curiosity. Guest 1337, a firm lour on his face, brought up the rear of their little group.
The ghost of Shedletsky looked at 007n7, with a bird-like tilt of his winged head and a vacant smile, as though to ask: 'This yours?'
007n7 didn't bother to reply. It was answer enough.
The admin hummed with a subtle nod, seeming quite pleased with himself, and swept right on past, further into the house.
Builderman visibly sighed, posture sagging, eyes closed with deep exhaustion, and did the same, sending 007n7 no more than a simple glance as he disappeared through the first open doorway. Guest, at the very least, deigned to give a short smile of acknowledgement in 007n7's direction before leading on into the lounge.
Soon, the others would pass through and join them. 007n7 decided that it would be best to make himself scarce before then. Acting on second nature, he let his feet carry him in the direction of the dining room: the same way that Shedletsky had wandered in not a few moments prior.
His hand curled against the doorframe as he rounded the corner, and when he did, he was met with an almost uncanny sight.
His first instinct was to assume that it was a clone, but no. It was an abstract of 007n7 himself (or a past version), sat slumped at the dining table, head pillowed between his arms, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Asleep. His hat was hanging from the back of the chair, and he had, at some point, moved the house landline to the table, pulling the wire taut between the phone box and the wall.
Shedletsky was already looming over the table, less interested in the abstract of 007n7’s past than the countless papers scattered around its sleeping body. Despite the darkness of a room barely lit, his eyes skimmed methodically over each: a thick phone book opened on an irrelevant page, newspaper articles stacked precariously high, bundles of website printouts and other piles of tangential clutter.
The admin’s wandering hand lingered, almost hesitantly, over a few in particular. 007n7’s breath hitched when he realised what they were.
Missing person posters, several copies, all identical. But that bright, vibrant red was unmistakable.
Shedletsky’s gaze, perfectly blank, strayed up to where 007n7 stood, frozen in place.
For a moment, they merely stared at one another, stuck in an uneasy stalemate, until the admin sighed and straightened himself, rolling his shoulder and shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts, before meandering out of the room. He barely brushed 007n7’s elbow as he left. There was no sensation, but he shuddered at the mere suggestion of it regardless.
At some point or another, each survivor came in to survey the dining room. Predictably, they would perk up upon noticing 007n7’s abstract and, without fail, would drift closer, their eyes flickering to the papers on the table.
It was their expressions that varied. Suspicious confusion, reluctant sympathy, the occasional tight grimace. Mostly conflicted. Always uncertain.
And when their gazes shifted back to 007n7 himself, the look in their eyes said it all. Condolence at his inevitable misery, and relief that it wasn’t theirs.
Unable to bear the weight, he turned away from each.
Hovering in the dining room doorway, he could catch glimpses of his allies as they snooped around, taking an unofficial tour of his house as they bided their time. He watched Chance as they inspected the mantlepiece with unabashed curiosity, as Noob fidgeted in the corner, polite and uncertain in the home of a man they actively feared, as Two Time gazed listlessly out of the living-room window, as Shedletsky, who had taken up his post on 007n7’s couch, lounged with his legs hanging over the armrest, clearly bored out of his mind.
After all, there was nothing to do now but wait.
It was as though 007n7's old home had become haunted by the ghosts of the living.
‘Fitting,’ he thought, bitterly.
For a while, it remained much the same. A whole lot of wondering and searching, and very little in the way of action. Slowly, steadily, the group found themselves falling into a melodic kind of idleness.
That was until the landline rang.
Every ghost perked up at the shattered silence, either jolting with surprise or enlivening at the prospect of something interesting finally happening. Even Shedletsky, so often facetious in his apathy, lifted his arm away from where it had been draped lazily over his face to catch a glimpse of the commotion.
007n7’s abstract jerked awake at the noise, seized with alarm. He jumped from his seat so abruptly that the chair toppled over, empty cans of bloxy cola scattering when he scrambled to pick up the phone. It fumbled in his hands as he pressed it clumsily to his ear.
"Yes, hello? This is 007n7," he said in a voice practically dripping with fragile optimism, leaning his bodyweight against the table, shoulders hiked, eyes frantic.
Stood upright like this, it was the first time that 007n7 had been able to take a good, long look at his past self, and by Telamon, he looked awful. A face stubbled by neglect, skin pale with grief, bags beneath exhausted, puffy eyes, hair a tangled mess.
He hadn't realised how obvious it had been that he was running on empty until now. Nothing but desperation and a dream. It was truly no wonder that his neighbours had given him a wide berth in those last few days. He was all but a dead man walking.
The person on the other end of the line said something unintelligible. In all honesty, 007n7 couldn't remember what that call was about for the life of him. Probably a telemarketer or scam caller or something of a similar kind. All he knew was that it was nothing important.
The abstract must have realised as much too.
It was one thing to remember it, but another thing entirely to watch, from an outsider perspective, as the hope drained from his own body in real time. There was no concrete change, not really, but the fracture was almost palpable. The abstract's face fell. Not despondent, just blank. His head dipped, only slightly, until the low light of the corridor gleamed off the lenses of his glasses, concealing his eyes.
He could still feel the phantom of it, the ache in his back from nights spent slouched at the table, the taste of iron from bitten-down nails, the heaviness of eyes which refused to close, overcaffeinated, legs jittering, waiting endlessly for a call that would never come.
The caller continued to prattle on, but it was clear to anyone watching that 007n7 had stopped listening a long time ago.
'Here we go—' 007n7 thought to himself, as the abstract slowly, carefully, without looking and with far too much precision, placed the phone back in the receiver, cutting the line off cold. Then, he just stood there, wordless, motionless. A perfect statue.
Finally, after what must have been at least a full minute spent in utterly stifling stillness, with every ghost waiting with bated breath, the abstract moved, turning its back to its unseen audience and moving through the doorway to the kitchen.
‘—The beginning of the end.’
Guest 1337, who thus far had spent his time staring into the photo frames around the living room with an expression akin to a kicked puppy, sent 007n7 a glance that could only beg the question: 'What was that all about?'
007n7’s hand clenched hard at his arm, enough to discolour the skin. After a moment, he shook his head. 'Nothing that matters anymore.'
Guest didn’t look convinced, but he neither did he pry. He never pried. One of his many convenient qualities.
Even knowing what came next, 007n7 followed after his abstract, and by the time that he had made it into the kitchen, the other him was already rooting around in the refrigerator, illuminating the dark room in a dull florescent glow.
Most of the other ghosts followed behind him, whether out of curiosity or sheer boredom, 007n7 was uncertain although he was inclined towards the latter. He watched as the abstract plucked a half-empty jug of milk from the fridge, unscrewed the cap, and poured the remaining contents down the drain, before chucking the empty bottle haphazardly into the recycling bin. The abstract repeated these same motions with the rest of his remaining perishables: bread long gone mouldy, colourful cereal boxes, bottles of flat soda, uneaten dirt cakes, leftover pizza, whatever vegetables he could scrape from the bottom-most drawer. It all went in the trash.
From the corner of his eye, 007n7 caught a couple of survivors giving him shifty glances. He knew what they were all thinking.
'Wasteful.'
007n7's lip trembled. He ducked his head in shame. It was wasteful. They weren't exactly wrong.
Once he was done tying off each bin bag with a tight knot, the abstract moved on to the dishes. There was a decent pile already stacked up on the countertop, so 007n7 rolled up his sleeves, snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, grabbed a sponge and began cleaning them by hand. The dishwasher would have taken too long.
This was the kind of methodical and repetitive action that had once kept 007n7 sane. He found the monotony soothing, however, on his abstract, it seemed almost mindless. Robotic. He barely spared the cutlery in his hands a second glance as he rinsed them clean of soapy water and placed them on the rack to dry.
By then, it was obvious that the others were starting to lose interest. Many began to disperse into other areas of the house to find something more stimulating to do with their time. Honestly, it was somewhat understandable. This memory was nothing like the battlefield of Guest's last moments, nor as thrilling as Chance's game of Russian roulette: the kind of tragedy you watched from between your fingers. This was quiet, almost pleasant, even, as the 007n7 of the past busied himself with petty chores, meandering to and fro between the sink and the cupboards. A welcome break from the action.
And yet, there was an unmistakable tension in the air. A certain anticipation. It hung heavy - distant, yet stalking ever nearer by the second.
007n7 knew that everyone was waiting for it. The big moment. The thing that made this memory the worst moment of notorious exploiter 007n7's life. The phone call had been important, undoubtedly, but nothing had come of it so far. All they needed to do was hold out until the other shoe eventually dropped.
Except, it was actively dropping, it’s just that none of them had quite managed to figure it out yet.
Some stuck around for longer than others. Builderman had taken it upon himself to keep vigil over 007n7's abstract, although he did catch the admin zoning out once or twice, distinctly uninterested. Dusekkar remained on the move, between signing lowly with Builderman and sitting beside Taph, who was keeping close to the exits. Claustrophobia, if 007n7 remember correctly. Taph had never been good in houses. Two Time, of all people, remained firmly enraptured by the scene. They seemed almost bewitched by the domesticity of it all, eyes darting as they took in the packages and cleaning brands being used with a kind of glee more often reserved for weddings or holidays than for bleach. It was almost a little sad, all the prosaic things the kid had missed out on.
The rest dispersed without much fanfare once they realised that the show was on its intermission, each moving off to their own proclivities.
Eventually, much of the ground floor was clean, or as clean as 007n7 would ever hope to get it. The kitchen table had been cleared of clutter, the hardwood floor mopped ‘til shining, oven wiped down, carpets vacuumed, toys stored away, all plugs turned off at the wall.
007n7’s abstract leant his hips against the kitchen counter, dragging a palm down his face and cocking his glasses askew. His shoulders dropped, as though a morbid weight had been lifted away, until he remembered that there was still the first floor to contend with. Huffing in resignation, his head tipped back against a wall unit with a soft thud, neck craned to stare up at nothing.
And there he remained, for one breath, then two, then, with a great and visible difficulty, he pried himself away to approach an old wooden bureau. He rooted around in one of its many drawers for a moment before producing what he had been searching for.
A pocket lighter, and a packet of cigarettes; unopened.
The abstract stared down at it, performed a full-body sigh and started off in the direction of the front door. Even as he moved from room to room, 007n7’s allies barely took notice. There was no pull yet, and thus no need to follow. If something important was going to happen, then it would certainly let them know in due time.
And yet, like clockwork, as his double moved out onto the porch, 007n7 remained on its heels.
By then, the last slivers of sunlight had nearly disappeared over the distant horizon. The sky was dark and growing darker by the second. As the abstract closed the door behind himself, the porch light detected motion and flickered to life, humming an ambient purr.
The two stood alone. One living. One a ghost.
But when 007n7 really thought about it, he couldn’t quite put his finger on which was which. Just because one was incorporeal did not mean that it was the ghost. Just because the other was tangible did not mean that it was truly alive. A paradox, perhaps. An unreality. A world where both could be true at once.
Elbows on the railing, cigarette secure between his teeth, one hand up to shield it and thumbing at the lighter with the other, the abstract stared vacantly out over the front garden. It took a moment for the flame to catch, but when it did, the end of the cigarette burst out into a warm glow. 007n7 took a long, deep drag—
And almost immediately broke out into an inevitable fit of coughs.
“Idiot,” 007n7 mumbled, watching as the figment’s shoulders shook, trying in vain to stifle the noise with a fist to his mouth. Its face tugged into a tight, uncomfortable pout, but once the worst of it had passed, it brought the cigarette right back up to its lips again.
And when it did, he noticed that the hand was bandaged, a little pink at the knuckles, and it was shaking. It wasn’t obvious, just a faint tremor, but it was there. Undeniable.
“Finally hitting you?” he asked uselessly. He moved to stand next to the abstract, leaning against one of the posts supporting the portico and folding his arms over his chest, “You don’t have to do this, you know?”
No response.
007n7 felt his brow furrow, “I get that you’re angry. I get that you’re… scared. You think you’re doing the right thing, but you have absolutely no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You should quit while you’re ahead.”
The abstract took another pull. It came easier this time, drawing deep into his lungs. All the while, his gaze remained ever fixed on the moths that flocked together under the porch light. Whisps of smoke curled from his lips as he exhaled.
Gritting his teeth, 007n7 reached out and tried to grab his other self by the sleeve of his jacket. His hand, of course, slipped straight through. Damn this cursed place.
"You're making a mistake,” he tried again, voice pleading, "You can't atone this way; they won't let you."
Again, no response. Not unexpected.
Something inside 007n7’s gut twisted and kept twisting, dread mounting ever higher.
"Please," he felt his voice tremble, ducking his head to hide his shame from a world that couldn’t care less, "They'll never let you live this down. Don't do this to me. Don't humiliate me."
It was so useless, but the action felt no more futile than anything else that he had done for the past... however long. Clones, teleportation and his trusty c00lgui, mangled to the point of uselessness. Not exactly a skillset best suited for teamwork. At most he could hope to take a few hits or act as a distraction for a little while, but everybody knew that he was far more useful doing generators while the others did the real heavy lifting.
His hands would fumble the sparking wires at every cry, at every scream, at every extra second added to the ever-ticking clock. As the others fought for their lives, 007n7 could do sparsely more than watch from afar as they were inevitably picked off one by one.
And yet, with sweat dripping down his neck, he kept working, because what else was there to do?
It was easier for everyone involved if he remained on the side lines. Unobtrusive. Invisible. That's just the way things were, and he was fine with that. He had to be fine with that. At the very least, he was used to it, which had to mean something, right? There was comfort in silence, because silence meant safety, and safety was the closest thing to comfort that a person like 007n7 would ever hope to achieve.
So used to ghosting the world, it was easy enough to sink into the shadows of these dreams. He was all but translucent already. Just an unwanted bystander.
But now the spotlight was on him, and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.
Perhaps, if he had been a little bit younger, little bit crueller, he wouldn't have minded so much, might have revelled in having all eyes on him even, but now the very thought of it made him squirm. Being seen like this, so weak, so vulnerable, by so many people who, quite frankly, only cared to keep him alive long enough to ensure a net-loss on the game timer, was enough to induce a sickening, listless nausea that just wouldn't fade.
Put him in a round and he would know what to do. It was easy enough to go through the motions and keep his mind elsewhere, but this? Faced with a perfect mirror of himself who was making the exact same mistakes that he once had? What was he meant to do with that?
He was brought abruptly out of his thoughts by a glimmer of movement from behind him.
007n7 barely managed to mask his expression in time for Builderman to pass through the doorway, stepping out under the long expanse of the starry night sky.
The admin glanced first at the abstract, still only halfway through his cigarette, before looking to 007n7 himself. His gaze was weary, but without fear, as he brought his hands up to speak.
“Didn’t know you were a smoker.”
In the past, there had been little reason for 007n7 to learn sign language, but it had become a recent necessity. As such, he had picked up enough from those who could speak it to understand the important parts and could scavenge the rest from context. It was the best he could manage without a teacher.
In terms of what he actually knew how to say, he stuck to the essentials: Please. Thank you. Sorry. Run. Generator. Fake generator. Shield. Dispenser. Sentry.
Nothing that proved particularly useful here.
(He had seen the sign for ‘pizza’ enough times to know it by heart, but he was never quite audacious enough to use it. Not when others needed it so much more. Not when he would be asking so much from someone he’d hurt so badly.)
Once his brain was done catching up with his eyes, 007n7 gave a belated smile– although it certainly came across as more of a grimace – and shook his head as though to say: ‘I try not to make a habit of it.’
Builderman’s stoic expression creased. He looked, for lack of a better word, troubled.
“Something’s not right,” he signed.
How blunt.
It was easy to forget, sometimes, past the hardhat and the hoodie and the casual demeanour, that Builderman was an admin. The admin at that. Goodwill was only afforded to good, law-abiding citizens who stayed in their lane. Facades of pleasantry could be shed just as easily as they were adorned, worn like a coat and changed like a glove.
Giving Builderman a pointed stare and a raised brow, 007n7 gestured broadly to, well, everything.
‘Well obviously.’
Builderman did not look impressed, “It’s too quiet. Like the calm before the storm. You know which memory this is, yes? On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”
007n7 bit his lip, feeling himself frown. It couldn't get much worse than some of the visions they had already seen. When compared to the rest, his worst memory wasn't quite so bad, so certainly not a ten. Then again, it felt wrong to go lower than a five.
After a moment of brief deliberation, he finally settled on a number and mimed it accordingly: one hand with all the fingers held up, the other with only two.
Seven, in total.
He saw the way Builderman's expression shuttered and swiftly dropped the number to a six.
The admin pinched the bridge of his nose and visibly sighed. “No. Don’t change your answer. Grow a spine, will you?” he signed, “It is a seven, isn't it?”
007n7 liked to consider himself aged. Certainly not old by any means, but experienced. There was a slight creak in his hips when he stood from sitting, and he had started finding spare threads of grey in his hair, but being on the receiving end of Builderman's admonishment still made him feel small. Like he was a child all over again.
There was something about knowing that his more-than-thirty years of life experience was nothing but pocket change to a being like that. It made him want to shy away.
Thoroughly chastised, 007n7 nodded, all previous sharpness gone with the wind. Builderman sent a look over 007n7's shoulder to where his abstract was finishing off the last of his cigarette, snuffing it out on the railing and leaving a scorched mark behind in its wake.
“Not sure how you plan on getting to a seven from here,” the admin squinted, “But it’s your memory, not mine. I will inform the others.”
And with his job done, Builderman turned and left, disappearing into the house without another word. 007n7 watched him go. As much as it was a good idea to stay with the group, a larger part of him hesitated. The memory of this very spot on the porch was just too good to pass up, as temporary as it was.
Sitting out on the deck, a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, listening as the wind rustled through the leaves and idly supervising as c00lkidd played around with the sprinkler in the front yard.
Yeah. The good times.
It was summer now, the night air was stagnant, and when 007n7 looked out over the yard, the grass was yellow.
Despite the fact that its cigarette had long bled out, the 007n7 abstract remained rooted in place, eyes closed, savouring the cool night air as it brushed softly against its cheek.
Its hands weren’t shaking anymore.
Time dragged on. For one minute, then two. It was easy to fall into a trance of tranquillity. However, as much as 007n7 longed to stay, the abstract had other plans. Inevitably, the time came for it to slip the cigarette package back into its pocket and return inside, kicking off its sandals into the shoe box alongside the worn leather loafers and a pair of tiny red Velcro sneakers.
Surprisingly enough, Guest 1337 was waiting by the door. For a moment, he seemed lost in idle thought, but he straightened up when he saw 007n7’s approach.
“You okay?” the soldier signed, his expression tainted by a soft sort of concern.
007n7 blinked at the question. The words hadn’t properly registered at the time, but Builderman really must have gone around to give the others a fair warning. It was of no surprise, then, that Guest would attempt to ensure the wellbeing of his fellow dreamer and ally of convenience.
And yet, 007n7 couldn’t imagine a world in which he would ever get used to it. Even the smallest of kindnesses felt almost overwhelming. Such warm consideration was so rarely even insinuated in his direction that, really, he should have been relieved that someone, anyone, was willing taken the time to ask how he was doing, even if it was a platitude as simple as ‘you okay?’.
Instead, however, he felt his very skin begin to crawl.
The answer to Guest’s innocent question was so plain to see that it was almost pitiful. He was certain that he looked no better than he felt. The others weren’t fools, and while 007n7 would be the first to admit that he was not the most emotive of people, where deciphering expressions was involved, many of them were quite well-read.
And yet, even knowing that Guest had long come to his own conclusions, 007n7 still decided to make use of one of the few signs he actively used. With a paltry smile, he brought one hand up the centre of his chest, fingers spread, thumb facing himself, and tapped twice.
“I’m okay.”
Unfortunately, this did not have the desired effect, if the way that Guest’s face twisted with discontent was anything to go by.
But by then, 007n7’s abstract had returned from its detour, carrying in its arms a couple of bottles, a roll of bin-liners and another pair of rubber gloves. It switched off the light in the dining room before making its way up the stairs.
And, like a coward, 007n7 moved to follow it.
His hand instinctually outstretched against the banister as he too ascended to the first floor. Halfway up, he paused, foot hesitating above the next step, and glanced back. When he did, Guest was still staring up at him, wearing an almost entirely unreadable expression. Not angry, but certainly agitated. Disappointed, almost.
007n7 was quick to look away. He felt eyes burning into his back as he retreated, tail between his legs.
It was only a matter of time until the generous well of Guest’s patience inevitably ran dry. Evasion after evasion. Lie after blatant lie. It was never a matter of if. It was only when.
Right at the top of the staircase was the bathroom. The abstract wasted no time stepping inside. 007n7 dutifully followed.
The room was small, and dim, with sparce more inside than what it could barely fit. Frankly, the wasn’t much to see. Until recently, the bathroom had always been one of the rooms that 007n7 more consistently maintained. Now, his eyes flickered over the mess. Capsized pill bottles discarded on the counter. Two forgotten toothbrushes in a plastic cup, one larger than the other. Towels left crumpled in a heap by the wastebin. It wasn’t filthy, per se, but it had certainly been left unchecked.
The abstract geared himself up, took a bottle of bathroom cleaner, and began the arduous task of sponging down the shower.
But 007n7 wasn’t interested in that. No. His gaze was drawn to the mirror, hung just above the sink.
Or what used to be the mirror.
Glass fragmented, pieces missing, cracks spreading from one central point like a spider’s web. Utterly shattered and unmistakably deliberate. Intentional.
At the very least, his abstract had the wherewithal to have cleaned away the broken shards, but even then, there were still some stubborn smatterings of dried blood wedged in the gaps left behind.
When 007n7 stepped up to it, there was no reflection.
It was jarring enough that he flinched back on instinct, yet the mirror remained indifferently unchanged. Of course, it made sense. He was a ghost. If he couldn’t interact with anything else in the dream, then what would make a mirror any different?
And yet, something compelled him to move just a little closer, leaning over the sink to reach out a tentative hand and brush his fingers along each jagged line and sharp edge.
007n7 was not a violent man. At least, he wasn’t anymore. Many years and the harsh burden of responsibility had long since mellowed him out into something just a little softer, a little less prone to destruction. But people don’t truly change, not where it matters. Try as it might, the tiger cannot change its stripes, and a bad man will remain bad for as long as he lives.
That kind of cruelty, it stains you.
And right here, right before his eyes, was the proof. This type of damage wasn’t coincidental. It was instinct. A fire that never truly went out. Smothered as it was, the embers were always burning, crackling away under the guise of change.
What made damage done in the past any more forgivable than damage done in the present? Just because the pain stopped, that didn’t mean that it was never there, didn’t mean that it was never inflicted with the sole intent to hurt.
He half expected the glass to slice his fingers open. It did not. There was an aching hollowness where relief should have been.
Even this kind of aimless ferocity was still done with the intent to hurt somebody.
While there was nothing the abstract could do about the mirror, it had the rest of the bathroom tidy in short order. It worked with great efficiency, bleaching the shower, the bathtub, the sink, wiping down the tiles, folding the towels, emptying the sanitary bin, dusting away the cobwebs. Even then, its hands were cautious, gentle, with any spiders it happened across along the way as it deposited them outside the window. A small, useless kindness to a creature that couldn’t even comprehend it. 007n7 was left to wonder if he could have found this same generosity in his youth, and what would have changed if he’d treated others then the same way that he treated these spiders now, but he quickly shook off the thought. Ever-more questions to echo in his mind on sleepless nights, drowning in pointless speculation.
Once its job was done, the abstract made a swift and pointed exit, sweeping back into the hall. It was so surefooted, so agile, that by the time 007n7 peeked his head out to follow it, the abstract was already gone, having disappeared into one of several open doors.
Multiple other survivors had meandered upstairs at some point or another. Without the anchor of easy conversation, they seemed to have naturally fallen into their own thoughts, barely noticing as 007n7’s shadow passed them by.
He decided first to check the primary bedroom and, as it turned out, his hunch was correct. When he entered the room, he was met by the sight of his abstract already hard at work, elbow deep in a pillowcase.
007n7’s bedroom was perhaps one of the less furbished rooms in the house. Not to say that it was barren, but more so that he had taken to prioritising the whirlwind of messes that accumulated elsewhere and, therefore, didn't see a need to overindulge in decoration. There were trinkets on his bedside table, an open laptop on his desk surrounded by a myriad of wires and various other technical gadgets, a shelf filled with coding manuals and parenting handbooks, and a couple of framed photographs of himself and...
Inside the room, there was only one other person, but 007n7 felt his heart drop when he saw that unmistakable red visor.
Elliot.
Elliot, stood like a warden, looming over the end of 007n7’s bed. Elliot, with his arms folded firmly over his chest, hands bunched in his sleeves. Elliot, who 007n7 had been avoiding thinking about. Elliot, who 007n7 had been avoiding even looking at. Elliot, who was staring at him now.
It was impossible to avoid that shrewd gaze, but still, 007n7 ducked his chin, made himself smaller, feet faltering as though ready to flee. There was the usual animosity behind that look, a stoic glare reserved only for him, but underneath it there was something else too. Something quieter. Something that looked an awful lot like apprehension.
007n7 ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. There was a moment of pause. Noise faded into distant silence; a silence so thick that 007n7 could have cut it with a knife.
Then, unprompted, Elliot’s hands moved to sign.
“You are not making it.”
Of all the things he could have chosen to say, 007n7 had not been expecting that. He felt his face twitch into the faintest and barest of frowns, confused.
“Your bed. You’re not making it,” Elliot clarified, looking back to where the abstract had just finished folding the duvet into an orderly pile, “You’re stripping it.”
Ah.
It was true. 007n7 knew he had spare bedding, tucked neatly away under the bedframe, but thus far it had remained, and would remain henceforth, untouched to collect dust.
When Elliot’s gaze returned to his own, there was a question behind those eyes: ‘Why?’
If he was asking, then it was clear that he already knew the answer. There was nothing that 007n7 could say, in that moment, that Elliot hadn’t already figured out for himself. And so, he let the quiet do the talking for him.
At the lack of response, Elliot’s face shifted. Not by much, but just enough for his eyes to wide, for his complexion to turn pale.
For just a second, he looked like he’d figured it out.
But, as quickly as it appeared, in a blink, his expression had smoothed over. He scoffed, shoulders jerking with the force of it as he turned away, running a hand through his bangs. The smile that pulled at his lips was equal parts wry as it was precarious.
“Forget it. I’m overthinking.”
And with that, Elliot turned on his heel and stalked right back out into the hallway.
The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, and yet, 007n7 was somehow surprised that he hadn’t left sooner. He watched Elliot disappear through the darkness of the open doorway, uncertain if the sinking feeling in his gut was relief or something else entirely. It churned with nauseating permanence, rooting deeper and deeper with every passing moment.
Of all the people to get so close to the truth, it was just his luck that it happened to be Elliot: the one person known for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. However, Elliot was also the one person in this hellscape who had more reason to hate him than any other, which seemed to, thankfully, cancel out any lingering curiosities.
Although something in the back of his mind whispered that it wasn’t quite so simple, it was for the best that Elliot had ultimately decided to back off.
So then why did 007n7 feel the need to bite his tongue? Why did his fingers twitch at his sides as though to reach out after him? The knowledge that someone had been willing to look persistently enough to slip past the calm façade of this dream and face the ugly reality beneath - if only for a moment - was enough to make 007n7’s head spin.
But it wasn’t enough for him to follow.
Instead, he parked himself on the end of his bed, listless, and waited for his abstract to gather the rest of the clothes, still heaped in a corner. There was a persistent throbbing pain behind his eyes, and he massaged the bridge of his nose to quell the ache, sighing under his breath. What a hassle. This whole situation had been more than its fair share of trouble. He had done more than enough thinking for one lifetime, and at this point, all he wanted was sit out by the docks and let the stillness of the realm take him away.
However, just as the abstract finished tidying away any lingering mess, 007n7 felt it.
A tug.
It was subtle at first, nothing to take notice of. 007n7 had felt enough nervous ticks and strains for one day to brush it off like any other.
But then it happened again. Stronger this time. 007n7 straightened where he sat, feeling more than a little faint. Surely not. Surely not so soon?
Such denial was swiftly squandered by yet another demanding pull, this time akin to spiny hands pressing eagerly to his shoulders, urging him to stand.
Realisation crept up his spine. The room narrowed.
Shit.
In the void left behind by stagnation, terror was quick to settle. Attempts to stifle it soon followed, nostrils flaring, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers, shoulders rising and falling in quick, even intervals.
‘Just treat it like a round.’ He told himself, squeezing his eyes shut, ‘Don’t overreact. Don’t freak out. Panic will get you killed. Focus. Breathe. Focus. Breathe—'
Another sharp tug, more insistent now. It dragged at his arms, his legs, his torso, all pulling him out in the direction of the doorway. He knew where they were leading him, knew where he would end up if he relented to follow them, because there was only one room left in this spook house that 007n7 had been avoiding like an active plague.
The abstract, oblivious to his counterpart’s turmoil, gave the bedroom one, last, parting sweep of the eyes, melancholic but not remorseful, before leaving the way it came. Distantly, 007n7 heard footsteps padding against carpet, followed by the creaking of a door as it opened then, a few moments later, shut with a soft thud.
The tugging was demanding by then, and he knew that he had no choice. That thing had no qualms about killing them from day-to-day; he didn't want to think about what it was capable of in a dream.
He heaved himself up onto shaking legs, wiping the sweat from his palms on the backs of his thighs, and gave in, surrendering to its shepherding hands.
And, just as he predicted, he ended up outside the room he had been dreading more than any other.
c00lkidd's room.
On the door hung a small, red sign, that read, ‘CAUTION: BEWARE THE DRAKOBLOXXR. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.’
007n7 didn't want to go in. He wasn't ready, but he felt a harsh pull in his chest, like a weight pressing down. That feeling was guiding him in one direction and one direction only: towards the bedroom.
In all honesty, putting his hand in a woodchipper would have been preferable to passing through that doorway. Or chewing broken glass. Or stepping in John Doe's digital footprint. Or getting caught in entanglement. Anything. Anything but this. And yet that feeling only intensified, pulling, yanking, practically dragging.
It was getting impatient.
With hands balled tight into fists, and teeth gritted to the point of creaking pain, 007n7 let his feet move on their own, invisible hands leading him across the threshold.
The room was exactly as he remembered it. Small, quaint and overwhelmingly red. There was a single bed (fitted with red sheets and two red pillows, still unmade), a set of drawers, a beanbag chair surrounded by an eclectic range of comic books of various genres and creeds, posters of characters from said comic books, participation awards perched on a shelf fitted by 007n7 himself and a skateboard, barely used.
At some point, everyone else had already gathered inside. Elliot was batting Taph's nosy hands away from one of c00lkidd's plushies, a little reindeer with a red nose, that sat flopped over on the end of his son's bed, next to a giant drakobloxxer plush that 007n7 had won for his son at a carnival. Guest was gazing down at several crayon drawings left behind on c00lkidd’s desk, pensive. Chance had taken to flipping his coin, up and down, up and down, not investigating anything in particular, yet soothing himself with the repetition.
At the centre of it all was the abstract, sat on the floor with its back against the bedframe and legs stretched out, lazily typing away at his c00lgui. Tucked into its side, Two Time’s gaze flickered over the panel with an open curiosity. 007n7 didn’t know what could possibly be so engrossing about it. Past all the tech jargon and code, it was only tying up some loose ends. Cancelling a few financial plans, sending a couple of last-minute messages to the few who would willingly receive them and even to some who would not.
Stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a pensive looking Dusekkar, Builderman caught his attention, with a brief wave of his hand and a furrowed brow.
“Soon?” the admin asked.
007n7 bit his tongue. Not hard, but enough to sting, shifting his gaze uncomfortably, because Builderman certainly already knew the answer. No one was under any illusions. If that thing had brought them up here, then it was for a reason. The question was more akin to a courtesy, giving 007n7 a set of phantom reigns by which he could guide them all to the dress circle of his own doom. One final, false control.
After a moment of hesitation, he nodded, soothing a thumb over his arm.
“Soon,” 007n7 mimicked. Then, “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t quite sure what exactly he was apologising for, but he did it anyway. The motion of it was familiar, well worn. An apology for his past. An apology for his prior negligence. An apology for his current inadequacies. An apology for the sights to come.
Sometimes it felt as though he did nothing but apologise.
Builderman’s expression did not soften. Neither did Dusekkar’s. But, somehow, they both managed to look at 007n7 with the same kind of morosity. Like he was a bite dog set to be put down. A deserved and expected tragedy.
All three of them blinked back to attention at the sound of a soft click. Their gazes fell to the source of the noise (the abstract) then lower, until they fell upon the ankle monitor strapped to his leg, or, more accurately, where it used to be. With no more than a flick of its wrist, the monitor had come loose, dropping to the floor with a muted thud. The abstract stretched its leg, rolled its foot, soothed a hand over the marks left behind.
Builderman looked a little mortified that it had come off so easily, however, in truth, 007n7 probably could have gotten rid of it whenever he wanted to. But he didn’t, because it was a reminder. A constant, heavy reminder of what he had left to lose if he ever turned back to what he used to be. One wrong move, and this imperfect little life would come to an end.
Now, all it did was make the blood rush from 007n7’s face. He knew what came after this.
The ankle monitor was gone. There was nothing holding him back anymore.
Between one breath and the next, appearing out of lines of scrambled code, a gun dropped like a weight into the abstract’s open palm.
Any pretences of calm were shattered in a second. 007n7 didn't need to turn around to feel the air shift as Shedletsky straightened up against the doorframe, or as Elliot tensed, breath stuttering, or as Two Time scrambled back, eyes blown wide, or as Chance fumbled mid coin-flip and botched the catch, sending the chip flying across the carpet.
The abstract's expression barely changed as the weapon fell into its grasp, blank, listless.
007n7 watched.
He could still feel the press of cold metal against his palm, burning like an open flame, fingers white-knuckle around the rubber grip, trembling faintly. Nails dug fiercely into his arms to shudder the sensation, enough to carve angry crescents into his flesh, but there was no time to worry for breaking the skin. No, not when his former self was turning the weapon over in its hands, checking the ammo, cocking the barrel, finger twitching over the trigger.
He had known this was coming for a while now. Had known, in his heart, from the moment he had awoken on the gravel, but knowing couldn't be more different to seeing.
Of course, from the eclectic range of memories that thing had to choose from, it had selected this. Not his worst moment, but his most shameful.
It had been so much easier to turn away from the memories of others. Such grimy voyeurism was disgusting enough that 007n7 had forced himself to look away more often than not, leaving his other senses to take in the scene. The sound of a phantom crowd, jeering ever louder, the scent of wine, tobacco and gunpowder, the faint taste of fresh blood on his tongue. This, however, was different. The room was mellow. Cosy. The air was icy. Silent. The culmination of a lifetime of countless heedless mistakes all laid bare.
After burying his head in the sand for so long, what right did he have to look away now?
This was punishment. This was torture. This was its own kind of fair-play vengeance, retribution of the highest order. And so, his eyes remained rooted to the scene even as everything else blurred into white noise. There wasn't enough air.
Someone moved in front of him.
007n7 could barely make out their face – pale, stubbled, a military uniform. Familiar. So familiar. Their name was right on the tip of his tongue, but all that escaped him were useless wheezing breaths. The figure hovered a futile, translucent hand over 007n7’s shoulder, perhaps to guide him away from the scene, perhaps as a small, uneasy comfort. It didn't work. Nothing worked. It was all breaking, all falling apart. He couldn’t fucking breathe.
It took 007n7 a moment to realise that the person’s mouth was moving, that their hands were signing but he couldn’t make out a word of it. The ringing was too loud.
Then there was a second – sunglasses, headphones, grey skin shaded by a fedora – working in tandem with the first to block 007n7’s view. They looked almost frantic, wafting their hands to get 007n7’s attention.
There were more nearby. More people. More eyes. All on him. A dozen pairs of watching eyes.
Oh god. Delirium bubbled in 007n7's lungs. He had almost let himself forget that he had an audience.
Fingertips trembling, lungs burning, 007n7 felt sick.
They all knew now. They were all seeing 007n7 at his lowest and were soon to see lower. Somehow, it was worse that he couldn’t make out their expressions in their entirety, obscured behind a layer of creeping fog. He could only imagine the shock, the disgust, the anger. Worst of all: the pity.
A couple of the others moved to join them – a blur of yellow and blue, another in yellow and red. And yet, despite their best efforts, the ghosts were still translucent. They could not cover his eyes nor usher him away, and they knew it too. Their growing distress was unmistakable as they mouthed soundlessly to 007n7, to each other, to the admins.
It was not the first time that any of them had begged in vain for the visions to stop, and it would certainly not be the last.
A laugh tore through the silence, bitter and thick with strain.
The others collectively snapped their attention to the noise just in time to watch 007n7 press the barrel of the gun to his temple.
Everyone froze.
The abstract turned his head up to where the sky should have been. In that moment, the ceiling light became the sun. A singularity. The end point.
"It wasn't enough,” he muttered, quietly, almost softly, if not for the gruff undertone of disuse. There was a kind of breathless, acidic humour to each word, as though it was some hilarious joke where only he could understand the punchline, “I should have known it was never gonna be enough.”
The abstract wasn't crying. His eyes were already dead.
There was a waver to his bandaged hand, a bead of sweat running down his cheek, a tension pulling at his lips: too taut, too wide, too shaky to even resemble a smile—
“I’m sorry, Kidd. I’m so sorry.”
—But there was no delay.
A single pull of the trigger was all it took. The room cracked with an ear-splitting bang.
007n7 flinched back so violently that his vision flashed black.
In his memories, his final moments had felt longer, somehow. A part of him had hoped, feebly, foolishly, that those last few ticking seconds had meant something; that there had been hesitation, or uncertainty, or something, anything, to betray him, to scream to the world that he hadn't really wanted to die.
But there wasn't.
Blood splattered, then poured, seeping into the carpet. It camouflaged so well that 007n7 could barely tell where one colour ended and the other began. Dead or alive. It made no difference at all.
No one was made to see what the insides of a person looks like. Even after all this time, watching others die over and over again on the daily, it never got better. He just got numb. He had naively hoped that perhaps some of that numbness would have carried over, that with all that time to prepare, he could manage to steel himself for the finale.
And yet, somehow, it was worse, so much worse, than anything he could have possibly imagined.
‘It’s not real,’ he thought, ‘It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.’
But it was. It had been.
The scent of iron permeated the room like a miasma, growing stronger as the blood pooled out beneath the body. Stinging bile clawed at the back of his throat. He gagged, swallowed, kept it down by only a hairsbreadth. The tinnitus did not fade. In fact, it only grew louder, harsher, ringing until it reached a crescendo. Hands, trembling violently, reached up in hopes to muffle the noise, pressing against the sides of his head and squeezing, but to no avail.
Eyes wide, body shaking, breathing raggedly into lungs that took no air, 007n7 could do nothing but stare as the walls closed in. The spots of dark that bloomed and waned in the corners of his vision spread like blotches of runaway ink on damp paper, shrouding, suffocating.
Stumbling back only a single step was all it took for his strength to give out from beneath him. Between one moment and the next, 007n7 was suddenly on the floor, surrounded by a sea of startled legs. There was no pain upon impact. There was no feeling whatsoever. Just emptiness. A brutal, honest emptiness that spread from his quivering fingers to the tips of his toes.
‘Stop, please,’ he begged as he curled up into himself, hands fisted in his hair, ‘Please. I’ve seen enough. Just make it stop.’
All of a sudden, as though his desperate prayers had been answered, there was a sensation in his chest, a familiar spindly hand reaching between his ribs to fist around his heart and pull.
All at once, the stage curtains wrenched abruptly shut, and the world bled into viscera as he sunk into the waiting arms of oblivion.
Somewhere deep in the back of his dulling mind, he hoped that this time he wouldn’t wake up.