Chapter Text
mis·er·a·ble
/ˈmizər(ə)b(ə)l,ˈmizrəb(ə)l/
adjective
As in :
Parrotx2 is miserable.
After 20 years of living⎯ Parrot has yet to find something worth living for, something truly worth his time.
Even after shedding past sorrows (“You.. Really want to leave, Parrot?” Eyes scan the avian, searching for a hint of hesitation. “Yes, yes I do.”), the price to pay with freedom, is the unwavering and unyielding question of—
“What the fuck do I do with my life?”
Yet to no avail, the question is forever unanswered and Parrot (had for 2 whole years and still—) will spend his next years cooped up in a small cafe every night, right in the middle of disaster street, set right between what might as well be a battlefield, Unstable City.
No matter how dumb (or despite the 4th dimensional wall breaking name) the name sounds, the name really speaks up to its name by giving him a flood of probably notorious heroes or villains stepping into his doorway and either asking for a gallon of caffeine and a pastry, like a normal person, or bleeding out in his doorway then promptly getting smashed by a mace on the front porch. Consider it concerning that his manager was granted a cleanup crew for gore and other destructive events by the government.
Many reasonable people don't care to put themselves on a golden platter for death's boney, cold and hollow hands, but imagine his surprise when a seemingly normal and reasonable person walks in (brown[?] eyes framed with thin, rectangle glasses and eye bags, a purple bandana resting on his forehead, lazily strolling in with a violet yin yang hoodie) while working a rare dayshift, bell jingling behind, morning warm sunlight shining through the door.
Parrot can't help but have an underlying suspicion that he is either a mass murderer or has just finished doing paperwork for a school project the whole night (who is probably both).
Parrot doesn't want to know (or doesn't care to know, it's past his pay grade and the fucks he gives), so practiced and robotic words slip out of him, “Hello, welcome to Atrium Coffee, how may I help you?”
“Just a,” His gaze trails to the hanging menu above Parrot,”⎯a small earl grey to-go, I suppose,” he pauses, “Thanks.”
Parrot hums, a distant but familiar tune slipping out while dulled talons click against a screen. “4.23,” the other’s card clicks against a [card] reader, “Name?
The other stops in his tracks to turn around, then smiles and says—
“—Wifies.”
…
“—Wifies?”
The name is pulled out of his menory more easier than Parrot had thought (he doesn’t know why the name had stuck), yet his eyes stick ti warning signs that bleed the color of crimson red against violet purple, screaming at him like sirens blaring in his face as the door swings shut. The rain drumming down outside is suddenly muted with a jingle of a doorbell and a limping man with panicked eyes and shaking hands.
Wifies' face is streaked with blood, a stark contrast to the bold purple headband, sitting above pale skin and hazel eyes. He grunts every step, pushing the glass door open with a trail of crimson, limping toward the same counter, and Parrot can't help but wince at the scene.
“Hah— fuck,” Wifies winces, a bloody hand grasping the left side of his waist, red blooming like a stain of pain. “G-god it hurts—”
Parrot is suddenly pulled out of his dazed trance of staring, flinching as he hears the scream of screeching sirens, blue and red suddenly flashing against the windows, before fading into the city.
His eyes tear away from the absence of sirens, trying to figure out what in the world is going on.
Parrot promptly shushes Wifies as he tries to say something, (“—Shut up bro.”), running to the back and grabbing first aid, splaying it open on the ground. Alcohol swabs and gauze twist and turn through his hands like a melody on Parrot’s throat, familiar and almost routine.
Spending years rotting in a coffee shop in the most dangerous city does some shit to you.
Wifies seems to get the gist of what Parrot is doing, wincing as he brings up some hero attire he’d seen on the news a while ago(presumably Enigma, a newer hero, with a bold purple design that personally attacks his eyes) up, Parrot’s eyes trailing to a bruised-like splotch of purple on his ribs, deep cuts and scars dug in on the side of his torso.
“Broken ribs, maybe a concussion, and a few deep cuts, no?” Parrot assumes that Wifies, or Enigma is able to understand— even while delirious.
The other slowly nods, scratches and dirt painting his face in a mess of sweat and blood.
Alcohol swabs press against the other’s bruised skin in specks, dabbing areas with practiced routine, gauze wrapping around with loops of ripped overlaying tape, followed by winces or a string of small curses croaked out.
Parrot looks up to find brown-greyish eyes staring at him with some form of curiosity— wonder, widening, before snapping their gaze to the door, and he can’t help the words that pry itself out of Parrot’s own mouth, “I can practically hear you thinking—”
“Why?”
“Wh– What do you mean why? I—,” he stutters, words stuck between his throat like a mess of disbelief and something akin to surprise. Parrot furrows his eyebrows, “Uh, maybe because you limped into this coffee shop where I work?”
Wifies’ eyes twitch toward the door, toward the trail of muddy footsteps and water, “N-no, like, don’ ‘ou have a— ulterior ‘otiv- or sumthin?”
“God,” Parrot laughs, pushes himself up, then helps the other up (Wifies’ right ankle almost gives out), “—you sound like shit.”
Parrot leads the other to a chair, propping the other’s legs up on the table. Wifies chuckles, rough and painful— yet it still lights up the moonlit cafe. “Hagh, c-can’t believe a coffee shop worker is more—”(cough)”—competent at firs’ aid than my co-workers,” he forces out.
Parrot snorts. “Sure.”
“No like— r-really, I’m not kidding.”
“That’s,” Parrot pauses(with a sarcastic smile), “—concerning.”
“Mhm— sum peopl’ jump into the job w‘ithout basic s’ills or knowledge ‘bout the -ob, ‘n they rely too much on newer technolo–gies, like golden app’les.” He frowns, “o’ry— god, I’m rambling.”
“No—no, you're fine! It’s actually interesting to hear your opinions,” he sputters. “I just…” Parrot pauses, “...don’t know how to get you back, y’know, home, or wherever you need to be, and— uh, try not to talk too much, it would help with your ribs hurting less.”
“I, Uhgr, okay,” Wifies pinces the bridge of his nose, “Also, I think ‘ato or Ken should be comin’,” he muttered.
“Dalrighty.”
Whether Parrot trusts this random guy’s judgment, he blindly begs whatever god that looks over this universe that “Water” or “Ken” slams the door open and drags Wifies out of his cafe as soon as possible.
Yet, the door does not open for a good 10 minutes, rendering Parrot stuck with the awkward company of a completely delirious stranger who lays his head down on a table and silently stares at the rain and thunder shattering against the ground.
Parrot can’t help but feel a tinge of sympathy for this random dude.
“So, is this ‘Ato’ or ‘Ken’ guy coming soon orr—”
SLAM.
The door is flung open with a ironic crackle of lightning, a drenched guy(in a tuxedo, what the fuck) stumbling his way through the entrance.
“Oh. My. God,” the guy says.
The guy, who Parrot dubs Tuxedo Man, turns his head to Parrot, then to Wifies, then groans, before miserably belting out, “Wifies— WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?”
The dying storm outside is more deafening than a beat of silence could ever be.
“Hhgh, wha’?”
Parrot stands there in shock and in a combination of ‘I’m too tired for this shit’ and ‘fuck this I hate life’, watching as the Tuxedo Man drags Wifies’ ass out of the cafe with a sympathetic nod of thanks, and into the rain-ridden night. (“Thanks— uh, random suit guy, uhm, don’t bring him back? I guess?”)
The rain outside is slower, calmer, dulled by time, as the door flutters closed with a small click.
The cafe is empty now.
Silent.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Parrotx2 would like a peaceful night next time.
. . .
2 days later :
cfrazy risk takers who make coffee for a living
5:01am
Val> x2's on tdy for day again with me and Ila
[4 reacted 👍]
Flx> Okay.
Azr> Kay!
Soso> K
Again? Its not thursday yet <Px2
Val> Yeah but
azure and shaun are taking timw off
ew love lifes
+ Leria cuz shes sick
headache and fever parently
istg if i see her strolling round ill have her publicly
executed
This is why you scare off new employees, Val<Px2
Val> Ik
[1 reacted 👀]
its technically my apology for making you work night
shift alone AGAIN
[2 reacted ❤️🩹]
Flx> Please never mention solo n*ght sh*fts again
I almost got speared in the arm at a SNS
[4 reacted 😭]
Ila> HURRY UP AND STOP TOMFOOLERYING
Start on set up Flux
[1 reacted 👍]
Bro said tomfoolerying<<Px2
Plus SNS aren't that bad okay its just the occasional
harassment and villains trying to kill you
[5 reacted 💔]
Soso> Please get back to work guys!
Stay safe you 3
Azr> Lol
Parrot shoves his phone into his pockets, earbuds playing some familiar bossa-nova melody, a warm sound in contrast to a dull and melancholy(there are reasons people aren’t fond of mornings) train— so the moment he steps out is refreshing as his wings stretch out.
The cafe, Atrium Coffee, sits right in front of a bus stop (much to Parrot's convenience), two figures setting up chairs and one opening the door(“—arrot, hurry up! Some guy is waiting for you!”) to flip a closed sign open, talking to some purple dude in a hoodi—
A purple yin yang hoodie.
Hah.
Their eyes meet in a sudden coincidence, warm eyes suddenly lighting up like they did before, and Parrot can't help but mirror his look. He can almost see himself in Wifies' eyes, even with the distance between them, even with the people passing by.
It's entrancing in a way, a freeze of composure, like the world is nothing but background nois—
“–arrot!”
“Uh— huh?!” Parrot stutters out, feathers tensing up with his gaze landing back to the blue-haired girl who has the door splayed open, gesturing for him to hurry up.
Parrot steps up wooden stairs, passing Ila and miserably failing to avoid eye contact with a certain person (Wifies shamelessly waves at him with a grin, and Parrot can’t help but redden up in his ears and turn away.)
“Oooo, our little birdie finally got a friend~,” Ila teases.
“Oh my god, I have friends outside of the cafe— okay?” Parrot sighs, greeting Fluixon with a wave as chairs are set up. He sighs, “—I don’t rot in my apartment like a decaying zombie.”
“Sure, sure,” She says with a smile, leading Wifies in and making her way toward the coffee machines. “I’m just happy for ya, It’s good to see you having a social life after, like, school and that.”
Parrot groans, wings drooping, “You know I just met him like—” he pauses, trying to avoid the memory of patching up a delirious mess and sneaking a glance toward Wifies, “—today..?”
“Whatever you say,” she hums out, thanking Flux for setting up the area. “Flux has cleanup today, by the way,” Ila adds, “—so, you’ll be cashier!”
Parrot’s jaw drops. “What.”
“—es! ‘Ave fun, o’ay?”
Parrot agonizingly eyes Wifies, to the cashier, and back to Wifies, before sighing and making his way toward the damned cashier, and stepping in front of Wifies.
“Hi Parrot,” Wifies smiles, “Nice to see you aga—”
“It’s 5:57, we actually open at 6,” Parrot deadpans.
“I’m sorry—” Wifies chuckles, “—didn’t know you couldn’t greet your dear friend at 5:57 in the morning.”
“Oh my god bro,” Parrot pinches the bridge of his nose, gritting on an extremely forced smile. “Since you’re soooooooooo special, how about you order— now.”
Wifies smiles, “The same as last time.”
“What did you get last time.”
“Awh, you don’t remember—”
“Just tell me,” Parrot groans.
Wifies laughs, like a wind chime of melody, “Okay. I’ll take a small earl-grey, hot, please.”
“And.. who is this for again?”
“You know this.”
“Hm, do I?”
Wifies just stares. “Wifies.”
Parrot smiles with all the innocence he can plaster on his face, tone blatantly teasing, “Was that spelled ‘We-fys’ or ‘Wey-fis’?”
The other just tilts his head, unbothered(Parrot can feel a twitch of anger that ripples in his own wings with the lack of a reaction), “W-I-F-I-E-S.”
“Mhm,” Parrot hums, messily writing down ‘WEEFYS’ and hoping that it looks like something akin to hieroglyphics. “Just tap your card on the reader.”
Wifies leaves with a click, followed by an amused expression of upturned lips that makes Parrot want to self-combust.
A hand taps on the counter, “—You sure do have some interesting friends, Parrot,” a certain violet haired man mentions.
“Fluixon.”
He snorts.
Parrot groans (I’m losing count of how many times he’d done that), “Why is it such a big deal that some random guy comes to the cafe!”
Ila shouts behind closed doors, “—irdie, mayb’ ‘—cause y-o never brin’ friends here—
“HE’S NOT EVEN MY FRIEND?!”
The 100 dollar bill in the (formerly empty) tip jar is laughingly ironic.
. .
[ ] years ago :
The night had been anticipated— planned to every step Parrot would take, to each breath and word spoken.
Nothing could go wrong.
“I just.. don’t think this is safe.” They mutter.
Parrot sighs, “Of course it’s not— we’re in a hero school! After all, we're SUPPOSED to be taking risks. We’ve been planning this for so long too! We’re not called the ‘smartest duo’ for no reason.”
“Yeah, but like—” The other’s hands tap on the table counter in a nervous beat, each click echoing in the silent room, “—something feels off, don’t you think?”
Parrot pauses, words slipping up in his throat, before mustering up an assuring smile, “We’ll be okay, 1108.”
“Whatever you say, dude.”
. .
1 week later:
cfrazy risk takers who make coffee for a living
Val> We might need to close temporarily
with the rise of that mafia thing
Lra> we literally cant
how long will temporarily be?
we’re already on the verge of bankruptcy AND shortstaffed
Val> What do you want me to do ab this then??
Azure and Shaun are suddenly no contact rn, Ila is struggling with family issues and
Flux is
I just
Fine
Lra> ill take in for ila’s shifts
parrot you can take flux’s
Sure. <<Px2
Val> I can take shifts for shaun
[2 reacted 👍]
Lra> stay safe you guys
Thanks Leria<<Px2
You too
[draft]
The streets are emptier than usual.
They are quiet.
Empty.
Late nights by himself at the coffee shop were normal— he’d stay up from 7pm to 4am on Thursdays and Sundays, scrolling on his phone and binging Netflix movies on his phone until his brain would be fried to a crisp, with the occasional person walking in and causing a ruckus.
A ‘normal’ night is a rare occurrence for Parrot.
The Law and many other Hero Commissions have been suddenly making alarmingly more appearances on the local news, crime rates allegedly rising up by 50%
No one wants to go outside— staying alive is something the common population desires. You can’t blame them.
Yet, here are less and less customers that come to the cafe now, even when there were barely any before.
Parrot checks his watch.
1:52pm.
It’s a rainy and calm, night, until the door slams open an—
Shit.
A knife buzzes past Parrot’s head, hitting the wall behind, adrenaline suddenly spilling through his blood. His eyes race to find where and what that was, yet there’s nothing around him but the emptiness of a cafe and— an unfamiliar figure in the doorway. His heart pounds through his chest like a drum, hammering through his ears faster and faster.
“Fuck!” A flash of red(and another dagger) flickers in his vision, pain blooming across his left wing, the blurry figure of netherite standing across him closer than he was before.
“H’e —was suppo’ed to be de’d!” They say, voice distorted and mangled, “He w’s supposed to b—”
Parrot doesn’t wait as he slams the backdoor open, already running out the right side as rain falls against his face, gasping for a single breath. At the corner of his vision, he can see the edge of his green wing blooming into crimson, dark, red. The hand clenching it doesn’t help as pain spreads, a small knife catching the moonlight.
He sinks down on the side of a trashbin, curling up against the darkened green (plus praying to not be found), and every instinct screams to run anywhere but here. His own body has given up in the fight against pain, and Parrot can’t help but hiss as the wall scrapes the side of his already bleeding wing.
He’s already struggling to breathe, then armored footsteps clank across the darkened alleyway, blade screeching against concrete, and his throat is suddenly unable to make a single sound against the haunting drum of rain streaming down.
Sweat (and water) roll down his face, and he knows that he must run, he knows that there’s someone behind him, and he especially knows that death is chasing after him in a losing game of cat and mouse.
“-ou a’lmst ruine—d our plans, yo’u kn—w th’at?”
Parrot has never been so desperate to find any escape, to fly away (his wings scream of agony, pain panging against his secondaries, water mixing with red), or to find any source of light through the night, yet the only things that surround him are rained out, barren, walls, and a dead end right behind him. The last nail in his coffin has already been hammered in, as much as Parrot wants to deny it.
The netherite armored player holds a simple dark tinted amethyst sword, daggers resting on the side of their hip. Fear courses through his lungs like a prayer, demanding a single breath, yet his throat fails on him and he cannot breath—cannot scream. Dread crawls up his bones like a shivering breeze, curling up in his stomach with uneasiness, churning and twisting until it shakes Parrot to his core, a chokehold on his panicked heart.
They step ever closer and closer, each screech against concrete making Parrot’s wings curl in— and at the corner of his vision the armored dark-amethyst glints, just stepping past the green trash bin, past Parrot.
Netherite-lined boots clank down the alleyway, Parrot finally exhalin—
“Yo— thou’ht –ou coul’ ge— away?”
The figure turns around, sword pointing right at Parrot.
He can practically feel the grin on the other player’s face as Parrot tries to shove himself up, stumbling back onto the wet ground as an armored boot kicks the side of his torso, pain shooting to his hip like a knife.
“G-god— don’t kill me, I—”
The tip of the sword is pressed against Parrot’s throat, talons shaking and wings trembling. Tears threaten to fall (or maybe they already have) because the realization that Parrot is going to die is something that makes his heart drop.
Not because he won’t live— everyone will die sooner or later, but the fear of never being worth anything, having a legacy that will be carried to the grave, buried 6ft under, is terrifying.
Because he won’t live past 20, to feel like a real responsible adult.
Because maybe he could’ve done something great.
Because maybe, just maybe, Parrot could’ve been something worth remembering, yet he isn’t, because the world is cruel, and he’ll never be strong enough to survive.
So Parrot braces for the worst, for the impact of sharp metal against his throat, or even a stab through the heart, and accepts his fateful invitation to his death—
“Parrot!” (He doesn’t remember ever telling Wifies his name)
Parrot opens his eyes, (not that he knew he closed them), and suddenly the world seems more clearer than it has ever been.
Like being pulled out of a drowning and endless sea of tedious pain, something akin to relief flows through his body with a single name, a single familiar voice. Parrot’s breaths are shallow, short, rushed, the pain on his wing stings across his mind and it hurts— yet Parrot couldn’t care because despite everything (and the unconscious(?) body in front of him), he is alive, painfully and thankfully so.
Parrot almost doesn’t believe it, mouth agape, eyes wide open, thinking about the possibility of this being his afterlife, before someone taps on his shoulder.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Wifies asks.
Parrot stutters in disbelief, shaking his head, “I— what do you mean, ‘why didn’t you call me’— I was running for my life!”
“I mean, why not just do both—”
Parrot scoffs. “You’re actually a brick,” he mutters, slightly pushing him away.
Wifies pouts, grabbing Parrot by the arms to help him get up, carefully avoiding his probably fucked up wings. The other helps him walk back to the cafe, and Parrot can’t help but glance at the body that lays behind them, scratches ingrained on tinted armor that adorn an invisible body, breathing slow and steady, rain clanking against netherite. At least he’s alive..? He doesn't try to dwell on the thought of taking a life to save another.
Both their steps echo against the quiet of an alleyway, sullen and dull— melancholy at best. The hand on Parrot’s feels blazing, burning, and he can’t help but feel embarrassment creeping up his face, looking away as Wifies drags him back into the cafe. (“Are you okay?” He says, concern lacing his voice like an ironic ribbon.
“Sureee— I’m totally, like, actually amazing,” Parrot deadpans, “Definitely not—” (cough), ”—feeling like shit.”
Wifies snorts, “No need for sarcasm.”)
Parrot tries to sound as casual as he can, yet he can hear the panic clawing at his voice, “Anyways, what was that about— like y’know, the guy who almost killed me?” They reach the backdoor of the cafe, the door already splayed open. “I’m.. assuming it has something to do with me.. ‘saving you’, right?”
Wifies grimes, “Yeah. I figured.” Wifies steps into the cafe. “I’m sorry,” he pauses, “—‘cause I did have a suspicion that they would try and, y’know, kill you. I just didn’t know when.”
Parrot shrugs awkwardly, “—It probably won’t happen again.”
Wifies suddenly stops in his tracks, silence deafening.
Something twists in Parrot’s stomach.
“It..” Wifies’s gaze leads behind them, “I can’t promise that it won’t.”
Parrot's heart drops, tensing at the other's words, “I— What.” Dread looms above him, sinking into Parrot like a parasite that has come back to feast, and it feels like a cold bucket of water has been splashed on himself. He can almost see the horror on his own face.
Wifies’ mouth opens to say something, then doesn’t, eyes searching for something in Parrot’s own panicked gaze— before glancing away.
Parrot scrunches his eyebrows, eyes flickering between Wifies and the invisible player, wings twitching in annoyance. “Wifies.” Parrot’s talons grip the other’s arm, turning Wifies to face him, “Explain.”
“You saved me— 2 weeks ago.”
“Yes, yes I did.”
“People have been going missing— right?”
“I heard.”
“They’re called the Invisible Mafi—”
Parrot groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Just get to the point.”
“Parrot— I’m supposed to be dead.”