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Repairing armor the hard way was boring, tedious work. The air sang with each fall of the hammer on the anvil. Fit made no attempt to be quiet. The rest of the Green Gay Ninjas were hidden, sleeping in their little secret hidey holes. None of them felt safe sleeping at the new base, not after the original one had been discovered the first night with no one to protect it but a shaky ElQuackity. Fit wasn’t nice enough to not feel smug about knowing from the start they would be found and raided.
He wasn’t cruel enough not to stay up all night with a belly satisfied with the slaughter of the day to mend the group’s armor. Someone had to do it. He didn’t plan to be awake tomorrow anyway.
The battle was long since over, but he could still feel it aching in his limbs. Just like the good old days. FitMC of 2B2T, waiting patiently for his chance to wipe out whatever incursion was going on. FitMC of 2B2T, with his small squad of people he trusted more by circumstance than genuine friendship.
Etoiles, their steadfast leader; a warrior first, a soldier second, a leader third. Forever, unofficial second in command, the brains behind the operation. Bagi, more bloodthirsty than expected, dependable and rapidly running out of patience. ElQuackity, widely-recognized enemy of the server, who still put his ass on the line for the team. Roier, whose good humor had finally slipped enough to reveal the hard-won skill beneath. Mouse, as sleepy as Ramón but no less dangerous for it. Antoine ended up stored in the same hole Fit had hidden Kameto, but even his initial strangeness disappeared over a day of hunting together.
He’d long since grown used to the anxious lead up to battle; the slow, luxurious cool down after a battle hard fought. Polite company (and by polite company, Fit meant the islanders) weren’t too accustomed to the immediate need to ruin someone’s day. They were too nice, too kind, too trusting. Day to day life on Quesadilla Island was a battle of a different sort, the type that Fit wasn’t too skilled out. Nice words and gentle touches. Easy camaraderie and hours of laughter.
Bagi sometimes grumbled that the green team wasn’t for her; she never did it in English and never within earshot of someone who spoke Portuguese, but Fit could read the global translator just as well as anyone else could. She thought they were too focused on killing, too dangerous.
Fit understood. He did. Someone who was used to Quesadilla Island, used to the world Fit had left behind a decade ago, would think that. Bagi seemed like she had morals.
Etoiles had this whole thing about fair treatment as well. He was a warrior; Fit understood that too. A warrior would never stand for what Fit did in hell over the past decade.
It was why Fit relished Philza’s company so much. Why he allowed Tubbo’s cheerful rasping voice to fill his days. Why Pac e Mike were such a relief to be around. They understood what hell was. They understood war.
The elevator sounded behind him. Fit turned, tightening his grip on the hammer.
He wore only his backup irons, but they would last him long enough. One against an entire team would be bad. Etoiles could go from zero to a hundred in seconds, though, and if Roier woke up then the invaders would be screwed.
Fit was strong. He could hold until they woke up. He’d done it before, in bases far grander than this.
Bagi stepped into the base. She ran a hand through her hair, flakes of blood and gore falling out of it. There was a dopey smile on her face that Fit had begun to associate with Tina. She stood by the elevator, unaware of her surroundings. She’d gotten better at being on guard since they’d arrived here, but whatever had just happened with Tina must have fucked up her priorities.
“Oi, good work out there,” he said, his hand relaxing.
Bagi’s head snapped up, the smile gone the instant she heard his voice. Her blade appeared in her hand. Then – and this was what always got Fit, this is what made the hair on his arms stand up and his skin to rise in goosebumps – she relaxed.
“Oi, Fit,” Bagi said. She dropped her sword back into her inventory and started unbuckling her armor. Fit eyed the softest parts of her, the tears in her shirt that revealed newly scarred skin and the exposed lines of her neck. He turned his head away, back to the anvil. “Sorry I’m late.”
“The battle ended ages ago,” Fit said, “and you were there for that. I’m not in charge of what you do in your free time.” It was a sentiment that was familiar on his tongue – something he said a lot even before he went to explore 2B.
And it was exploration at first. That’s all it was. Go to the scary new fully-immersive quote-unquote amusement park, make a couple bucks online to supplement his teacher’s salary. Then the doors clanged shut behind Fit, he’d set off into the unknown, and never found his way out. He hadn’t thought there was a way out, not after ten years of searching; even the entrance he’d come in from had disappeared. No one contacted him from the outside. No one came for him. No one saved him from roving packs of mercenaries or the smartest motherfuckers hell had the chance to torture. Purgatory was soft in comparison.
“Right,” Bagi said. Her armor clanged as she dropped it into a chest. “It was a good battle. I didn’t feel useless this time.”
“You did good,” Fit said, “we wouldn’t have made it for as long as we did without the base you built.”
Bagi gave him a look of equal fondness and irritation. She hated the sky base. No one had helped her build it. It didn’t stop her from picking her way through their tea farm and jumping up onto the bookshelves next to the anvil. She held out an arm to him. Killing her would be as easy as pushing her off the stacked shelves. Fit stepped closer and let her wrap an arm around his shoulders.
It seemed like a Brazilian thing to be touchy – Forever liked to hold onto the closest part of Fit when they talked and Cellbit liked patting shoulders and arms, even with people he wasn’t close with. Felps did whatever Felps wanted, including but not limited to leaning his entire body weight on Fit and shadow boxing against Fit’s torso . Richarlyson had never once in his life failed to throw himself into the arms of the nearest person, only to squirm out of them moments later.
Most days Fit lived on Pac e Mike’s casual brushes against him; their calloused hands tracing the rips in his clothing, yanking hard to get him out of harm’s way, the occasional agonizing swipe of a thump over his cheek.
T he forced closeness of Purgatory meant that the teams had grown closer, though. Mouse now liked to stand in Fit’s shadow and wind up like she was going to slap his ass. Roier occasionally got a feel for Fit’s strength by grabbing his arms and squeezing, cheering when Fit’s shirt came off for the heat. Etoiles was just touchy in general now, always reaching for someone, holding people back by the scruff of their neck, shadow boxing and poking the soft parts people left open to attack.
So it wasn’t that bad when Bagi stroked the back of Fit’s neck. Muscle by muscle, he let himself relax. His forehead found the curve of her shoulder.
The world narrowed down to their little bubble. It was dangerous. This island was not safe. Bagi’s jugular was inches away from Fit’s sharp teeth. Fit closed his eyes and absorbed whatever comfort Bagi could lend him. She smelled like sweat and salt water and tea. He was sure he smelled just as bad, if not worse. Her skin was too hot where it touched him. Damp too; she’d been doing something strenuous with Tina. If he could pull together more than two thoughts at a time, he’d tease her about sneaking out of base to meet her girlfriend.
“I wish we were back on Quesadilla Island,” Bagi said as Fit struggled to keep his breathing even, “which I know is the point. That’s the whole reason we’ve been trapped here. They want us to miss the main island so badly that we’ll never leave. It doesn’t really matter if the Eye works for them or not. What matters is that we’re going to get back to island and we’ll be so happy to be back that we’re not going to think about leaving. They could always send us back here. That threat is enough to keep some of us in line.”
“That just means we can’t give up when we get back,” Fit said. Years of keeping an unending stream of chatter on his radio broadcasts held his voice steady, even though his mouth felt like cotton and his tongue about as flexible as a hunk of lead.
“That’s what I think,” Bagi agreed, “if we want the eggs to still be alive when we get back, we have to keep fighting. And if we want to escape when we get back, we still have to keep working. We can’t let Purgatory take us.”
Maybe Purgatory had already eroded the control the war-torn wastelands had carved into his young body. Maybe Purgatory had already leeched out the very few things in life that he still loved; took Mike’s trust in him; Pac’s unfaltering loyalty; Tubbo’s friendly ribbing; Philza’s careful, cocky flirting. Maybe it had already won out against Fit’s desperate scrambling for a better life. Maybe it had already seen the connections that held him together and snipped them.
Maybe, and he hated to think it even in the heart of his own base, maybe he had grown soft.