Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Den slumped in her corner of the couch with eyes seemingly landing on the TV. Though, it was a gaze without any actual kind of focus or attention. She fidgeted with her hands in some irritated sort of fashion. 

Her vision was tinted, spotty, and blurrier than the shittest camera you could possibly find her. The condition started occurring since the initial killing in that tournament, but recently they’ve gotten frequent. At times, they even started to pulse pitch black from time to time, usually accompanied by migraines and demands. The souls ask her to do things. To break, to lash out, to murder, even. And they are so good at appealing to her desires. They are so convincing. 

“Den?” 

It sounded like Ivan, so she'll assume that's the case. There was a barrier, a ringing in her ear that prevented her from focusing on anything other than the hundreds of souls muttering — shrilled screaming, really, but they all blend together — in her head. She glanced up, blinking and squinting, but still unable to distinguish the blurry figure in her vision, so she gave up.

“Find someone else, dude," She murmured, the dull oozing throb in her temple making her irritable. Speaking slowly was the only way she could stay mindful of what comes out. The TV looked nice, though, she didn't know what was on it but the blots of color looked nice together. She had a rough idea of what the man wanted, anyway — get someone else to throw out the trash for him, or pester her to return the knife she borrowed, or maybe something about the way their rent was split. None of which she cared to do anything about now, or ever, if she was being honest, if she didn't have the mind to filter herself. She opened a minor eye under her left eye — one of the many she grew after the souls were absorbed — which made her head pound and the voices were so much louder when she used these powers, she could 'see' more with them. And surely there were others who could help with whatever Ivan needed.

Chilly and Christian piled on the couch across from hers, one hugged a bag of chips to her chest and the other had Shadypaws in his lap, who was sleeping fairly peacefully. The woman’s blatant ignorance of the other when Christian reached for the chips, even tilting the bag towards him, was her wordlessly given permission.  

Den felt a bit more laxed at that. Closing her eyes and let her senses return to the blurry state helped too. Some things said and done during their adventures often left her in heavy doubts of their relationships. It often only took the blink of an eye when she'd go from totally trusting the others to have her back to when she'd be too paranoid to speak an extra word lest someone take advantage of some weakness she accidently let slip. 

“…my God, Den, it’s your turnnn,” Den couldn’t tell if he was being annoying on purpose by dragging his vowels out. She swore, if he keeps bothering her-

“You can’t keep making me do your-“

“Shut up, Ivan!” Den growled at him. Actual growl. She could tell he was a little surprised by the strange, animalistic noise bubbling in her throat. It sounded like stones tumbling and demonic clicking. A neat party trick that came with her transformation. She was almost amused. The souls certainly were. Her voice took an accent as her teeth sharpened in her mouth, elongating slightly to emphasise their jagged sharpness. She'd seen them in a mirror. They were like a shark's. 

“Okayy!” He took half a step up with his hands up, wincing. “You just like, always force me to…” 

He’s being loud, they said. Den snickered. As if she couldn’t tell? He’s so annoying. Someone needs to shut him up. You should make him shut up. They are right about that, she cocked her head slightly, watching the figure of Ivan. He’s still rambling. The souls are right most of the time. He needs to shut up. He needs to shut up. You should hit him. Hit him. Stab him. Kill him. You should kill him. You should kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Den frowned. She rarely tries to reason with the souls, but sometimes they get out of hand. ‘What the fuck?’ She asks them, ‘That’s absurd-’ 

“...and I just feel like- Den? Are you even listening?” Ivan frowned. He leaned forward and snapped in front of her focus-less eyes, “Hey!” 

He’s still talking. She could almost hear them laugh. 

“SHUT UP!” Sometimes, her body move faster than her brain can keep up. The whole 'chaos god' thing just made it worse. She didn't make the decision, but her left hand was fisted into Ivan's collar when she remembered enough to look at where she was. Sharp, pointed claws almost digs into her own palm, but she had just enough instincts to avoid it with only the fabric of Ivan's shirt being the casualty. Just make him shut up. Stop him from talking. Shut him up. Shut him up. Shut him up. Den didn’t notice the two getting up from the couch, turning to the commotion, or Shadypaws’ ears flattening out at her in fear. At that moment, her thoughts and the souls’ overlapped. 

Kill him. 

For better or worse, she always kept a knife by her side. In the moment of vacancy, it was for her better and Ivan's worse. 'Kill him,' they demanded. She thinks she'll be happy to comply.

They got quieter. Or maybe it was louder and she just was able to tune them out, but it was in absolute silence as she drove the knife down, towards the center of Ivan's forehead. 

/ 

Was it weird that he doesn't know the eye color of his friends? He was sure it wasn't usually a piercing yellow, though. He didn't think humans had that kind of eye color, and he was plenty sure that Den at least been human before this. He might have a slight clue of what was happening, but he didn't exactly have much time to dwell on it. 

He's fought for his life many times before, and this was one of those times. 

Den had made stabbing him into something of a tradition, and for God sake why the hell does he still hang around this woman?! He should have caught the first sign of psychopathy and dipped already. The stab on his leg still hadn't gotten enough time to heal just yet. The tight compression of the bandage he wrapped still hurts the wound slightly. But usually it was just like that, something harmless (relatively) and usually not lethal. 

The pointed blade was coming straight towards him. 

He thrashed, gripping the wrist that Den used to grab him tightly with one hand as he tried to rip himself from her while his other arm desperately elbowed at the limb, all to make her loosen. He hit her three times before he remembered vaguely to spin instead, using the physical limitations of the human body to force her to let go. So he did. And he was successful. 

She let go of his collar, and he wasn't dead! That's gotta count for something. 

A burning pain, however, spreads from his shoulder. 

"FUCK!" He screamed. He was probably supposed to turn the other way. Better in his shoulder than his brain, though, he would rationalize later. At the moment, he just clutched his arm where a pale and dimly glowing liquid streamed down, not metallic like human blood but slightly salty and fishy. The scent hits his nose and spurs adrenaline.  

He scrambles forward to depart from the danger, catching himself on the back of a chair, which he swiftly grabs and swings onto Den's head. 

She shrieked. She wasn't ever the best at dodging and the chair leg hits her blunt on her forehead, spilling a speedy downpour of bright red blood to coat her face. Ivan freezes for a split second, though, because her scream didn't even sound like her, didn't sound human at all. It was like a thousand, maybe and probably more souls' lamentful wailing, crying pitifully about tragedies and affronts they've suffered that no one can right. If her voice was in there, it was easily drowned out. 

The chair doesn't bounce off her head or bring her down with it, and instead almost through her as she seemed to dissipate, her figure exploding in a mist of pitch black smoke that formed a chorus of souls as they all wailed together, enlarging enough to tower over him, stopped only by the ceiling. Eyes sprout throughout the clotted mist, barely human but their hatred almost solid and overwhelming as it shifts to form tendrils of limbs toothed spikes runs down alongside the eyes. 

It strikes towards him. They strike towards him. The multitudes of toothed and eyed tendrils reaching for him that could be trying to strangle him, crush him, slice or dice him — bad news regardless — shouldn't be counted as a singular entity. 

He does the most and only reasonable thing: turn and dart out the door.

He slammed it loud behind him, doesn't bother to find his key to lock it and bolts down the staircase instead. They were only on the second floor, and as he descend he finds his car keys in his pocket. The door that leads outside of the apartment was a push door, which worked well in his favor as he practically crashed into the door and barreled outside. He was surprised it didn't break, and at the same time about as grateful for that as he was for that he was still alive. 

He takes a couple more steps out before he turns and think a bit more on the fact that he hadn't heard footsteps or swarming or shrills of whatever noise Den could make if she had to chase him. He then recalls that he was in public and fixes up his disguise, the humanly red blood on his arm still jarring but much less than a (dimly) glowing alien. Luckily, no one... else was outside. Except for when he looked up to see Chilly and Christian clinging onto their windowsill, clearly having climbed out through the window and are trying to find a way to coax Shadypaws out. 

He rushed over to catch the puppy when they stumble and slipped off, the two jumping and climbing off swiftly when they saw the puppy safe. 

"I guess she can't open doors in that state," Christian offered. 

"Thank, fucking, God," Ivan was very much tearing up in the pain of having to catch a puppy from the second floor with a stabbed arm, but now he does have time to do something about his injury, now that the immediate present danger wasn't pursuing him. "Now what?" 

"Wait for her to calm down, probably," Chilly suggested inbetween cooing over the puppy and checking them for any 'mental scarring', she then looks pointedly at Ivan with arched brows, "This is your fault, by the way." 

"I didn't even say anything!" 

"You better not!" 

Chapter Text

They knew it was bad for him, but they didn’t know how bad it was until Curt started shaking out of nowhere. 

“Curt?” Den was the first to notice. A change from his previous relaxed position, he stared with focus less eyes, hands balled into fists and sitting rigid by his side. He met her eye upon her call, but there was mostly panic with a blend of confusion and emptiness in there. 

“You good, bro?” Ivan frowned, setting his glass to the side. 

“I-” Curt blinked, suddenly jolting up from his seat, “I can’t- I, feel…?” 

When Den took a step closer, she was met with wide, frantic eyes that made her nervous too. “What’s wrong?” She quickly backtracked, leaving him with space to avoid crowding him. 

He winced again at something before he glitched. 

A couple of bewildered glances exchanged told that they all saw the same thing. 

Curt was honestly confused more than anything. Putting aside the headache from managing that absolute shit show of a battle they fought, he felt okay. Well, for a bit, at least. And then everything started to hurt. Wounds from being slammed into the ground, scratched by Ao’s claws, and the places that she hurt . 

He didn’t actually know what the others saw, unaware of glitches that increased with his hasted breathing. 

I need to… what? 

Curt reached a hand to clutch his throat, but paused halfway in the air and instead, he just booked it for the bathroom. 

Den reacted the fastest, following close after him and kneeling by his side. She winced sympathetically, patting his back soothingly as he trembled over the toilet, knuckles turning pale with the strength he used to grip. Ivan and Kristine tailed the two, asking questions frantically.  

Christian trailed further behind, he approached the seemingly innocent plushie and squinted, looking down at her. He held back the urge to punch and instead simply turned it around to face the wall. 

Instead of cramming all 5 of them inside of their little bathroom, he decided that the better idea was to get the guy a glass of water for when he’s got whatever was in his system out. As he poured, he let his mind run over and process what had just occurred. 

He met the rest of them at the bathroom just in time to witness Curt collapse, thankfully caught by Den before his head could hit the floor. Ivan damn near scampered out of the room while Kristine climbed on top of the sink to clear way, as Den carried Curt out. 

Catching Christian’s concerned eyes, Den explained briefly, “He just kept on glitching, there were these cracks that appeared on his skin, and then he passed out without a word.” 

“I did see him fall,” Christian nodded, watching as she dropped him on the couch. He picked up Curt’s right arm and examined the thin cracks Den mentioned. 

“They look familiar,” He spoke pointedly. 

As she made the connection, she glanced back quickly at the plushie. But, before she could answer, Kristine piped in, “They look like that girl’s!” 

“Holy shit,” Ivan exclaimed, “You’re right, Kristine!” 

“His glitches are actually,” Den added, pausing a second to gather her thoughts, “Similar too.” 

“Wait, what does this mean?” Kristine tilted her head. 

“Is Curt becoming one with the anime girl?” Ivan suggested. 

“Ivan, what?” Christian shook his head at their absurdity. He walked back to the plushie, who had somehow turned herself back around. His hunch was right. That bitch was still alive in here in some shape or form. He bared his teeth slightly in annoyance, making no attempts to hide the hostility in his voice, “You’re one creepy little shit.” 

He squatted to be eye-level with the plushie, her fabric eyes showed no signs of intelligence but he still asked, almost rhetorically, “What did you even do to him?”

Christian grinded his back teeth together before he suddenly reached out and threw her to the floor, followed by a heavy stomp on her head. 

Fucking bitch, he thought, as he kicked it hard, sending it flying towards the wall. 

He stared after the blue figure as it collided with the wall and dropped to the floor, bouncing a bit almost as if it was truly a normal plushie. He didn’t put much intention into hitting this plush form of the god, really, only wishing that even in this soft, lifeless form she could still experience pain.

Chapter Text

Mornings were always the nicest. For a brief moment, you could actually joke about what mission you’ll get assigned. Joke about whether today’s the day you’ll die. Joke about, well, just about anything, really. 

God, if therapy was a thing in this goddamned jail. 

He was laughing about something Christian said about a woman who had been assigned to SCP - 012 with him when they saw Curt, scribbling away absentmindedly at his clipboard as he leaned casually against their cell door. It was a typical practice. Daily occurrence, if you will. Ivan supposed he should feel honored, having a B-Class personally arrange most, if not all of their tasks. Instead of receiving notice from some sort of higher-ups like the rest of the prisoners in here, they would get it from a chat with their Good-Buddy-Curt. 

And yeah, everyone thought they were special. They were friends with the foundation, they said, but Curt was hardly a representation of the entire foundation, not that he seemed to have that much power either. Else, he was either modest or just didn’t want to use— or maybe “waste” was a better word —his influence on them. Mysterious, they called them. That he can’t argue. It’s not that he wanted to evade the question. He was telling the truth too. Wow, how did friends of the foundation end up as D-Class? What crimes did you commit? They’d ask. What the hell was he supposed to say? “We— maybe subtract Den? —haven't done anything bad, but they said we killed a shit load of people, even though none of us remember doing anything and some asshole promised to get us out even though he hasn’t done anything to show that”? Yeah, he could see that working perfectly. ‘They’ve got men on the inside, that’s how they’ve survived for so long’ is always a good one. Oh, the day he could get them to believe that they do, in fact, not benefit in the slightest from being friends with Curt. Surviving thus far had purely been reliant on their own abilities. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the guy’s handing them dangerous assignments on purpose because he ‘knew you guys could handle it’ or whatever. 

It was such a normal occurrence, Curt waiting by their door after breakfast to give them their mission of the day, that it shouldn’t have even affected Ivan. But instead, he didn’t have it in him to laugh anymore. He finished it off dryly to try and brush off the awkwardness. He felt guilty for his mood dropping at the sight of Curt. It was understandable if he was upset because seeing Curt meant more dangerous missions, but damn, Ivan could not fucking tell if his mind had simply equated Curt to danger or if it had decided to hate Curt. 

“Ah, D-Class.” He greeted with a light smile. When was the last time Ivan saw the guy show any normal, human emotion? “Good day, huh?” 

“We can’t see the outside,” Christian reminded him dully, “Unless we’re going off-site today.” 

“No, I’m afraid not.” He flipped a page back on his clipboard and tucked away his pen. “Unfortunately, as we all know, the other day, um, your teammate-”

“Den died?” Christian followed up. Ivan snapped his head back to Curt in disbelief— where the hell was this coming from? Some kind of inside joke? —only to find the man nodding. 

“She died?!” 

Curt moved his gaze onto him. He felt awkward for the outburst already. He turned to Kristine, trying to see if she was also aware. There was no way that he’s the only one that didn’t know, right? He saw confusion on her face— but then again, when didn’t he see confusion on her face?

“Damn, time moves fast.” He joked, trying to move on from the stiff air. Curt frowned at him, unsatisfied. 

“You don’t remember? That’ll be inconvenient.” He plucked his pen out of his pocket and flipped through the paper he had on his clipboard. “Here. It happened during that security breach. Good job getting the power cells, by the way. Uh, anyway, on the way from the Archives to the Euclid Lab, ring any bells?” 

“And someone blinked, I guess. And then she died.” Ivan murmured in a daze. He remembered. He saw her die. Why didn't he remember?

“Correct.” The lightness was back in his voice and Ivan hated it. “Well, now that’s settled-”

“I saw her die, Curt.” 

“Hm?” 

“I fucking saw her die, Curt.” He couldn’t stop himself from taking a step closer to the man. “I fucking saw her die. But I can’t remember it. Why can’t I fucking remember it? How could I- How would I forget that?! How is that possible? Why didn’t I think of it? Her bed was empty. What did I fucking think happened to her? Why couldn’t I remember her death?” 

He gripped him by the collar and stared into his eyes, trying to find something to answer his questions. “Did you do something? Was it the foundation? What the fuck did you do to my memory?” 

He didn’t even flinch as Ivan grabbed him. He didn't look the slightest bit concerned and had the fucking audacity to look annoyed as he glanced at someone— maybe Christian, maybe Kristine —behind him, as if asking them to talk some sense into him. Who needs sense talked into right now? Ivan was not the fucking one messing with people’s memories?!

“You fucking asshole,” he stared at him as he pleaded, a tremble creeping into his voice, “What the fuck did you do to my memory?!” 

A twitch in the corner of his mouth. Definitely annoyed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He shook him. “‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’?! ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ ?! Kill yourself, Curtis! That’s the fakest shit- Are you even trying? Are you even trying to fool me?! If you’re going fuck me over, put some fucking effort into it, please !” 

“You keep doing this,” he let go to gesture at the emptiness around them. Curt fixes his shirt in his peripherals, smoothing out his collar and tie with his thumb and he loses it again. “You fucking bitch, Curt, you fucking bitch. You keep coming here without a guard. You really think I won’t hurt you? I will. I fucking will. You’ve trapped us in here for so fucking long—”

Curt frowned and looked offended. He opened his mouth and fucking, he fucking he swears if that guy- 

“SHUT UP.” Ivan glared, cutting off whatever bullshit he was about to tell him, he didn’t need to hear it again. “I don’t care. You’re with them. You,” he waves his hand, meaning the plural form of ‘you’, the entire foundation, “Trapped us here. You said you were going to get us out. What happened to that? How long has it been, you motherfucker? I don’t think anyone has been here as long as we did, thanks to you, but no thanks to you either! God, how did we fucking survive this long?! Every single fucking mission you gave us put our fucking lives on the line. Are you trying to kill us? While you try to convince us, or yourself, even, maybe, that you were trying to help us? Did you ever think getting us out of here was even a possibility? Do you even want us to leave this hell?! Do you even fucking want us to live?!”

Curt looked mildly irritated. Ivan was so close to hitting him. Anything could tip the glass, he told himself. But when he fucking calls him “D-Class”, D-Class, he doesn’t. He keeps his hands to himself and just screams again. 

“DON’T FUCKING CALL ME THAT, bro, please. I swear to god,” He wasn’t sure if the tears that welled were sadness tears or anger tears. Those two were somewhat similar, he came to recognize. “Curt, please, I swear to God. I want to believe you’re trying to help us. Please. My name’s Ivan. I’m so tired of you calling us ‘D-Class’. Curt- If anyone here was actually going to call us by our goddamn names, it’s you, please, you’re supposed to be our friend.”

He didn’t dare lingering on the topic, for fear that he would receive a response that he didn’t like. “There were four fucking beds. How did I not notice the empty bed? I mean, I see it now, holy shit. Why didn’t I know she was dead? I saw her get her neck fucking snapped in front of my eyes, dude-” As the imagery floated to the forefront of his brain, he had to swallow to represss the sensation of nausea, he sobbed, “Why don’t I remember?”

“Who was there before, Curt? Who was there first?! It’s always been four person in that fucking cell. There was four beds, four person. Who the fuck was that?! Why can’t I fucking remember?! Why am I forgetting?! Who am I forgetting? What did you do to my fucking memory?!” His nails were clenched so far into his palms that the strange sensation of wetness snapped him out of it. He hissed as the burning sensation of pain made itself present now that he had the emotional capacity to acknowledge it. “Goddammit, Curt. Who was there first?! Who was the original one? Why can’t I remember them? Who the fuck was it?! Check your fucking records, they had to be there. Please, I have to remember. Who the fuck was it?!”

Curt watched him choke to a stop, wiping unwanted tears off his face. He made a dry noise, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “So, you noticed too. I thought I was going crazy.” 

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” He hated the shakiness of his voice. Can’t be helped. There was always an edge of deliriousness whenever his emotions got overboard. 

“No. But I swear to hell there was someone there.” He looked down thoughtfully at his paper, clicking his pen once but not moving his hand to write anything. “I can’t find anything on them. Even the documents on your incrimination. It looked legit. Nothing out of place. But it only documented three. I could have sworn there were four. I thought I was, hah, I thought I was going crazy.” 

“But if you don’t know,” the corner of his mouth drew up in a grin. He didn’t really mean to. He hoped he didn’t look too much like a madman. “What..? Why don’t you know?”

“I don’t know everything?” He asked back, as if that was obvious. “This is a place that contains anomalies. It could have been some sort of info hazard that ended up interfering with your records. I’m trying to figure it out, okay? And now that I know I’m not just crazy, phew.”

“Right…” He felt weak after the whole outburst. Hollow. It felt nice to not have the whole stack of thoughts burdening him every moment, but it also felt terrible to let everything out. He tense slightly when he felt a presence next to him. But Christian wasn’t looking at him. As if he had walked up just because he was interested in the topic. As if he couldn’t hear perfectly well from a few feet away. 

Thanks, Christian. He thought in his mind, unusually sincere as opposed to the sarcasm that was usually the case when he spoke these two words. It was some sort of reflex they’ve developed, an ability to acutely sense everything around them. Just as how he could feel Curt’s glance move off him without looking up, the proximity of Christian he could sense triggers his fight or flight system just enough for him to regain the grip on reality. Just in time to hear Curt. 

“You guys’ job is to retrieve your teammate. Usually, we’d have the guards…”

Chapter Text

“Ah, um, Mr.Richardson,” She greeted awkwardly, fingers rubbing anxiously against each other. 

“Please, Ms.Beal, the documents on SCP-049-3,” He stared at her, blinking oddly slow, a soft smile at his lips that just didn’t seem natural no matter how she tried to comfort herself. Her nerves stood on end like how they did whenever she was face to face with a particularly dangerous SCP. 

“Right, one minute,” Her eyes were wide as she turned to search through the files, partially glad that she didn’t have to look at that creepy smile but partially terrified from having to leave her back exposed. She pulled her mouth into a polite smile as she handed him the folder, too unnerved to look him in the eyes and resorted to his nails instead. They seemed a little too long, chipped in ways that nails tended to snap if you left them untrimmed. Still, it was a bit hard to tell with the black nail polish, deteriorating at the edges but overall in good shape. They couldn’t have been painted more than a week ago. 

She exhaled too loud as he turned out the door, covering her mouth in surprise. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to hear, or at least didn’t care. She took her eyes off her office’s door and slumped backward. Her waist hit the table edge, but other than her eye reflectively wincing, her body made no attempts at recognizing the pain. 

Curt was something of a tale. A gossip. They all knew the B-Class who were, quite unfortunately, friends with a bunch of D-Class. When the story reached them, they had laughed about when he’d start pulling strings, trying to get his friends out, fail, and then get fired. But then, after a bit, they learn that he hadn’t tried anything like that. That earned a little bit of surprise. Some people think he had a sense of justice, knowing that D-Class doesn’t deserve to be released. Some thought he was simply loyal to the foundation. But, that was pretty much it. Nothing exciting happened, so the rumor was brushed under the carpet. The most recent thing Clarisse could remember was Dave, who had recently been transferred to this location, talking about how Curt had herded his D-Classes around like they were his children, ducklings of a mother duck, how he was “lowkey devastated” that one of “his kids” died. That was it. 

After meeting him in person, Clarisse decided to throw that impression out of the window. He reminded her of an experience she had when she was seventeen.

Summer, maybe. That, or they were somewhere with a warm beach. She remembers the air being blasted hot, she ducking her head under the cool water to avoid the heat. Her eyes were open. She had been laughing, or something, because she remembers bubbles blurring her vision for a moment. When they cleared, she saw horrified expressions motioning at something behind her. She knew to fear whatever was behind her, limbs dripping with a different type of cold, different from the calm cold the ocean offered. The shark could not have been more than a couple feet away, and it was approaching her slowly. It had that sinister shark smile on its face, eyes trained on her as it swished closer. It never actually bit her. Got real fucking close, slowed, and swam away. Still, she felt like she had died that day. She remembers most of the thoughts running through her head. Something about staying still, sharks are attracted to motion. Something about her lungs giving out. Something about whether trying to swim up would set it off. Something about her that her blood would certainly attract more danger, if she was injured. A lot of things about things she hadn’t done and things she wished she didn’t waste time on. 

Some years before the foundation, there was a volunteer opportunity that could let her work with sharks. She learned to read a shark for its mood. She learned to defend herself if one decided to attack her. She was sure that if she met the shark today, she wouldn’t be as scared. 

But, the shark in her nightmares was always unreadable with that light shark smile. She didn’t know if it would tear her into shreds or leave her be. That was what Curt reminded her of. 

In a way, maybe she shouldn’t have expected him to be some sort of… soft person? The foundation didn’t hire nuisances. Why was he here , though? In something of a daze, she shrugged off the cold that gathered by her fingertips and got to work replacing the file he took, stopping as her eyes caught a line. 

20:45, Nov. 30, 2023.

Reclassification Request: Discoveries of SCP-049-3, formerly D-Class 4514. Heavy association with D-Class 92214, 6512, and 3189, potential anomalous properties amongst them? 

Ah. Well, that’d explain it. 

Not that she had a problem with this whole… thing. 

Okay, well…! …maybe. Just… is he – and she scribbles Dave’s name on a stick note, a reminder to ask her co-worker later – always this creepy?

“I’ve done some drastic things to be here…” 

She shuddered as she heard his voice on the microphone. She’d seen the guy three times since he got here. Once for files. Once, they passed each other in the hallway. The last time, he had grabbed something from the vending machine when she caught a glimpse of him. He didn’t seem to recognize her, to which she was beyond grateful. 

“...but now, everything is almost in place.” 

What does he mean?! She stared at her computer screen, trying to focus on the task she’d been assigned. Why is this guy so fucking creepy?! Who gave him access to the speaker system, and what does he want?! Was that message for the entire foundation? What does that mea- 

She jolted out of her seat as alarms started to blare and her door slammed open, along with an echo of — just how many?! — doors opening. Her hand was already reaching through her drawer and gripping her pistol as she watched a wisp of smoke drift into her room from the outside. There wasn’t anyone outside, then the doors must have been… The auto-locking system reversed? It was some stray thought to occupy her mind as she cautiously stepped outside. 

Every door is opened. 

Fuck . Every door is opened. 

A plan. She needs a plan. Evacuate the facility? That seemed like the brightest idea. It won’t be a guaranteed safety, but it was better than roaming around in here. Someone’ll call the fucking Mobile Task Force or something. It’s not gonna be her, because she needs to get the fuck out of this place. And fuck, if that isn’t the goddamn mothman. 

Without a slow in her steps or any stutter, she swiftly switched routes, taking a turn to the left instead. The quickest way out would be the staircase annnd she saw herself headless. Cursing under her breath, she ran past the stairwell and changing paths whenever she saw something threatening. She was a researcher, for fucks sake. She wasn’t here to fight the fucking puppet, shadow , and okay, no clue what those balloons are and she doesn’t care to find out. 

As she pressed her back against a wall, panic pooling in her gut that nothing is going her way and she swears if she dies today, at 34, in this goddamned place because of a goddamned maniac- 

She catches sight of a figure walking- strolling past and knew it to be the maniac himself. Do the SCPs listen to him? What purpose does this serve? What does he gain from setting everything in this site loose?

She let questions bubble in her mind while she reworked her plan. 

'She was sure that if she met the shark today, she wouldn’t be as scared.' 

Unless she was feeling adventurous by attempting a jump out the nearest window or she wanted to try hiding somewhere and pray for her life, she was going to find another safe place. As long as the maniac himself looked to survive this whole schtick, then wherever he is should be relatively safe. As long as she followed him.  

He stared down at something in his hand as he strolled , making sharp turns seemingly at random until Clarisse realized he likely had some form of a monitor. That’s good, at least he had a plan to get out safely. She just had to hitch that plan if that was okay…

They come to a stop at a hallway. The doors are open, but its contents have long since left. The first hint that she might have stepped into something beyond her grasp is the glowing portal amidst the dark corridor – the powers have gone out minutes into the breach – swirling with an ominous noise. 

Clarisse remained far away enough that he couldn’t pick up on her presence and if she needed to, she could sprint to somewhere safe. Meanwhile, she watched him. 

He stood with his hands folded behind his back, rolling on the balls of his feet almost like a teen girl. It was a giddiness that was uncanny to see on the man’s tired face. 

A clatter had her alerts spiking up, which made her suddenly aware of how tired her eyes felt, how sore her arms felt. Figures clambered in, one leaning with nearly full weight on the other while the other dragged them along. There was a slight halt in the shadows of their gait moments before they walked into Clarisse’s view. 

“What the fuck, Curt.” 

That she agreed with. 

“What the fuck is this?” D-Class 92214 waved the hand that wasn’t occupied hoisting SCP-049-3. 

“You’ve all done well listening to everything I said,” There was a strange undertone to his voice as he promptly ignored the D-Class. “And now, I have everything I need.” 

That was the second clue Clarisse was not supposed to witness this situation, or at least not be apart of it. 

“To end the scenario.” His voice was completely different. A soft, feminine voice spoke instead of his. The portal flickers and it brushes over Curt before disappearing. The room fell into darkness again, vaguely illuminated by light from a few hallways down. 

“Oh fuck.” The previous strained anger in D-Class 92214’s voice was gone. He stood straighter and SCP-049-3 didn’t look to be pushing her entire weight onto him anymore. “Well, that wasn’t Curt.” 

“That’s not going in the video,” SCP-049-3 said. 

“Should we like,” He gestured, “Be worried about whatever that was…? Her?” 

SCP-049-3 turned her head to stare at him and there was a moment of silence. 

“Right, okay,” He sighed. “Well, we should go.” 

With a simultaneous clap, the room fell back into a split moment of silence as Clarisse sat, bewildered at everything she just witnessed. As a researcher of SCPs, she was used to weird things. If she was given a minute, she might be able to figure out what the hell that whole segment meant. She wasn’t before they all started yelling at each other again. 

“Oh my God, I’m back in my body-” 

“-Curt, what the actual FUCK?! Christian and Kristine are dead!” 

“That wasn’t me!” 

“What are you playing at?! Of course that was-” 

“You don’t fucking understand! We gotta go save-” 

“Or we could, you know, get out of here?” SCP-049-3 hissed, voice significantly coarser and weaker than previously. 

D-Class 92214 stammered something that Clarisse didn’t hear, stomped slightly in frustration and tugged SCP-049-3 down a corridor. “Moral of the story is ‘Fuck you, Curt’.” 

Chapter Text

“Ivan! Help, help me!” The edge of her voice was uplifted, light with a smidge of laughter. He doubts she even considered the possibility that he won’t. Maybe she didn't think he dared. Dirtied, bloody fingers gripped deep into the wood, paleing at the edge with the force applied as she kept herself and a couple ghouls attached to her from falling into the murky abyss. It’s frightening to look at, to be honest. He probably would have slipped even if there hadn’t been extra weight clinging on to him, trying to bring his doom, much less only clinging on with one arm. Her pink hair bobbed just high enough into view as her arm flexed to support her movement. “Get the, FUCK off!” 

Sounds of a boot against flesh and an ungodly rumble was the creature's response.

“Wait! I need,” His reply was tossed between haste, panicked movements in favor of getting away from the gross undeads with strange black liquids spilling from their orifices that looked like they could dissolve flesh. He skeeted to the side, just fast enough to pierce his dagger into a skull and his grip just tight enough to rip it back. His hand shook as his grip on the weapon fumbled, his vision swimming in front of him and countless times his heart seized at the imaginary sound of his only weapon clicking to the floor and leaving him defenseless. In truth, both his arms shook uncontrollably since he fought free from the hoard earlier, weak and sore from exerting too much strength. “Holy fuck.” 

Supply closet, supply closet, he chanted in his mind as he escaped down the shifting corridors, hoping that it would morph into existence. In a plane where space isn’t linear, prayers might as well be the best shot he’s got. Some sort of shed, maybe. He needs ropes, or a shovel, or just anything, anything that can help. 

Wrestling open each door that appears takes time. A lot of fucking time, especially if you’re trying to spot something useful in an almost pitch-black space. His heart thudded painfully as the ground morphed underneath his feet, forcing a stumble as he narrowly avoided falling into the abyss. 

“Fuck!” He yelled as he kicked at the ghouls that chased him, sending the ones behind him down the abyss before darting off. His lungs burned, his throat constricting dryly around nothing as he winced. At least that was a little more space. If he could get something to pull her up, or just to take care of the goddamned ghouls… 

A flash of green was hard to miss amidst the black-and-white nightmare-esque landscape. He turned his head. 

In white letters, it read: EXIT. 

He would have laughed if even just trying to breathe hurted everything inside his chest, much less moving his mouth. For somewhere around three hours, they had been spinning around this hell trying to escape, and only now he finds the exit? 

The ghouls in his peripherals urged him to move, but he stood still, frozen, panting through his mouth when his nose failed to do the job. Blood pounded in his ears as he considered his options. 

On one hand, he really didn’t like dying. On the other hand, he didn’t like being left to die. 

Don’t be misled, this has nothing to do with empathy or sympathy or whatever the fuck was the word for when you pictured yourself in another person’s situation. 

You’d think that after dying, being killed in so many ways, you’d be numb to it. And maybe he is. Sometimes, he liked to believe he was. It has just become so much of a normal occurrence that it was strange to live without dying every other day. Okay, exaggerating, but he rarely makes it past a week or two. Any longer than that, he’d have to walk on eggshells trying to locate where fate was setting up a trap for him. It was just something he’d like to avoid in general. Being blown up and being shot were honestly relatively painless, either it really did happen fast enough that he didn’t suffer much, or the pain just overwhelmed his nervous system that he didn’t have to experience the majority of it. Being mauled to death by however these things kill, however, was not something he wanted to experience in, probably ever, if he could help it. 

The other side of the coin, you can probably guess. Hands tied and drowning in a tub of sci-fi, bubbling, neon acid was nothing fun. It ate at your flesh at an annoyingly slow pace that he didn’t know, remember, or was even conscious enough to know whether that death was caused by the acid or from drowning in the fucking acid. Maybe he passed out from the pain of getting the weird-ass liquid in his sinuses or eyes first. It tasted horrible too, like if carbonated drinks weren’t bubbles popping but needles jabbing at your senses. So, thanks a lot, Chilly. You could have pulled me out. 

If he just left, out of that door, he’d live, scenario over. Hopefully, at least. Unless there’s something more diabolical they’ve got planned behind the door. His chances are still on that a death less painful than this awaits outside though. 

He could also… be a good friend and try to save Den. Just keep looking, there’s gotta be something that can help. He just has to find it before he gets mauled by the fucking ghouls. And get back to her before she fucking dies too. How  funny would that be, if he got the shit to help her and he couldn’t make it on time? Oh wow, haha, at least I tried, you can’t blame me and murder me because of that! 

…what would also be really fucking funny, imagine if they get away safely and come back to find the exit and it’s not even here anymore and they spend three more fucking hours down in this hell until they die of exhaustion or something. …he’d probably just give up at that point. 

What if they could only find the exit when they’re separated? Maybe they should have done that from the start. Oh God, what if he could only find the exit because Den’s already dead? What if this was the only chance that he’ll get on escaping, and all he’ll get if he returns is bloodied scapes of nails on the floor and a ghost he can’t see mocking him? 

When was the last time someone saved him ? When’s the last time someone tried ?

If he leaves right now, at least one of them survived the fucking scenario. It wasn’t like they has some kind of girls' code or friendship pact that they’d have to save each other. Even if they did, he couldn’t remember the last time one of them followed through on their side. 

It’s difficult. It really is. 

Maybe he just isn’t put into this type of dilemma often. What Den would call a prisoner’s dilemma, or whatever. How did they decide to turn on him so easily? Or, when they didn’t, how were they willing to give up what chances they had at surviving? 

He wasn’t a good person. 

None of them are. If he were to say, Chilly was probably the one that was the most likely to do the stupid friendship magic saving each other bullshit. And yet . 

Fingers wrapped around the doorknob and slammed it open. He falls through. 

Tripping onto the ground with hands stretched almost blindly in front of him as he caught himself on the pile he could vaguely make out. 

It was a simple equation he had learned a couple scenarios in. Bullet, gun, point, and pull the trigger. 

He might as well have shut his eyes with how hard he winced as he ran through corpses of ghouls, shooting at the ones still shrieking at him as he ran the direction he remembered Den in, praying that the exit would stay in place despite the rest of this dimension warping under him. 

Oh, wouldn’t it be fucking hilarious if Den was warped away by all the shifting. 

Murmurs of please, please, please in his mind spiraling until he didn’t even know what he was praying for anymore until he saw flesh. Actual, human, blood-stained yes, but human flesh gripping the ground. Her nails were more carved into the wood now, using both her hands to cling for her life rather than just one arm he left her in. 

He huffed in relief, shooting the ghouls that clung to her off into the darkness before helping her out. 

“Can’t believe you actually came back for me,” She teased, cheeks scarily pale from the blood loss. Her hands now a matching tremble with his. 

“I found the exit, actually ,” He handed her a pistol and a couple magazines. He forced his gaze off the steady trickle of red blood on her leg that mixed with the charred ghoul flesh. At least, infection wasn’t a problem they’d have to worry about as long as they could get the fuck out of here. “Do you want to patch that before, whatever?”

“Won’t make it hurt less,” She shook her head, fingers rubbing along the muzzle of the gun as she gestured, eyebrows tilting, “Well? Lead the way.”

And here’s the thing. Friends, family, whatever. Ivan couldn’t think of many people that he would risk his own life saving, and Den certainly wasn’t one of them. None of this fucking ensemble of a crew, really. 

No, it’s nothing like those self-titled heroes that claims to have saved lives of others because they “simply couldn’t watch someone die and do nothing to prevent it” or whatever the fuck they tell the media to paint their images. The real reason is a little funny, and really fucking stupid now that he’s forced to think about it. 

He just hopes that, maybe the next time he needs it, Den’ll come back to save him too. Or you know, at least hold back a little when stabbing him. This could probably count as like, a favor or something. 

Chapter Text

Claws skidded by her face, the cold air they brought with brushing past her skin softly. A flutter in her eyelash was all her reaction as she kneed it in the chest and knocked it off its- arguably, non-existent rhythm. Following up with a punch to the head, she ignored the way her knuckles stung from the impact -- vampire skulls are surprisingly dense! -- and kicked it to the floor. 

Her grin only cracked wider as she forcibly stomped on its back, reeling in satisfying crunches from the bones under her boot. The vampire instantly forgoed struggling in favor of letting loose a howl of pain. Wrong move, Den criticized, but that is to be expected of an under-experienced vampire. Scream while you're trying to escape, that's often the better idea. 

She pulled her stake, which had been fashioned into something that looked more like a dagger than a stake by this point, and drove it into its chest with one swift swing. She didn’t lift her foot one bit, pressing with relentless pressure as the vampire writhed its dying breath, wound sizzling and boiling grossly around the holy weapon as it wailed, unable to escape the drag of death. 

Den winced as the noise grew unbearable, tilting her head so that her left hand and shoulder could muffle it better. Maybe it’d be a better idea to cut their vocal cords next time. None of her previous targets had been much of screamers though, you’ve really gotta appreciate the diversity of balls even if it's within the vampire species. Still, she supposed she couldn’t judge too much. The first mistake was not recognizing a hunter from prey and attacking her, maybe she looked more harmless when she's not in her vampire hunting gear? Or, maybe it made a conscious choice to jump a hunter, then it’s first mistake would be thinking it could win. Now’s just to wishing someone had a bounty on its head and it’ll be easy cash… though, she doubts that, judging by its experience, or lack thereof. 

She plucked the stake when it had turned from a walking corpse to a real corpse. Ones that don’t move and don’t bite people for their blood, ones that can be buried and trusted to stay that way, namely never wake up or rise from their graves, as dead people should. Den hummed to herself as she watched the slow ebb of sludge-like vampire blood ooze out from the hole, soaked up by the cloth it wore. Does necromancy even work on vampires? She hadn’t actually encountered anything like zombies or ghouls yet, but as someone who killed vampires for a living, it’s only fair that she gave some recognition to the other cocktails of undeads. 

She wiped her stake on its cloth. She’d wash it later, of course, but it’s beyond stained with the amount of vampires it's gone through that you could possibly pass without. 

What she had met, however, were werewolf hunters. She wonders if it was harder than fighting vampires, easier, or not really different by much? But, she would probably rather do her job in a city than some fuck-knows-where forest. Don't werewolves live in packs? The closest vampires'll get to is families, and those are probably in Europe anyway. God, do werewolf hunters even get paid? Who's putting bounties on entire packs? Regardless, she would never put herself in a job where blood would spray everywhere. The amount of clothes she would have to go through, or the trouble of washing off the blood, or just simply walking back home soaked in blood and trying to convince your neighbors you weren’t a murderer and please don’t inform the police was not something Den wanted to deal with again ever. Just not having to deal with it is good. Vampires had blood that were practically clotted within their veins. She’d be surprised if they even flowed at all, outside of stabbing, that is. 

“Cypher... Den,” She murmured as she signed her name on the paper. It’s not too much of a nuisance to actually sign in, but it was easier when the guy knew her and could spare her the trouble. She hoped the new face wasn’t permanent, but that was likely the case. “Check for a bounty or something.” 

The new guy nodded, glancing over her writing while his hands worked examining the corpse, peeling back eyelids and checking at fangs. “Would you like the body back, if possible?” 

Den was speechless for a couple of beats. He stopped prodding at the stake wound to look at her, clearly waiting for an answer. 

Yes, she knew some people liked to do that. No, she was not one of those fucking freaks. Taxidermizing corpses was not something she felt like getting into ever. Don’t bring that up either. The only reason she would keep anything close to a corpse in her house is if she like, didn’t have any way to dispose of it without getting arrested. She doesn’t even have any in her house either. It has gotten harder to get away with murder in recent years, come to think of it. Not that she was speaking from experience. The government probably just had more energy to discipline their police from roaming around abusing their power to actually doing their jobs. 

“...no.” 

He made a noise of acknowledgement as he went back to work. She knew this organization allowed for you to keep your prey , as some hunters liked to call them, which was likely formulated out of irony, now that she thought about it… anyway, it was often like a cherry on top. Like, you could get fries with extra ketchup, but you’d get served with the standard amount of ketchup if you didn’t ask for it. 

So, that was the first time she had been asked if she wanted a corpse in her house. She hoped it never happens again. She does have decorational bones, mostly rodent skulls and a few ribs. But no she does not want a fucking corpse on her wall, that’s grandma leveled creepy. 

“He looks young, no?” The guy made more small talk, or at least that’s what it sounded like to Den, “A week? Sorry, I’m a little new to this.” 

She could tell. You don’t typically want to bother hunters with this many questions when they were exhausted from vampire hunting. Ticks people off and never ends well. She settled on something simple, “Sure.” 

There was a longer pause, maybe he realized her lack of interest? But he pushed on. “Aren’t you guys just snatchin’ ‘em outta the vampire equivalent of a cradle? Haha.” 

Den blinked. No caffeine in her system yet and she was tired from the whole fighting a vampire 5 minutes out of bed thing but she was awake enough to sense between the lines. “What’s your deal?” 

“Oh, no! I don’t mean any offense!” He straightened up. Den couldn’t tell if he was sincere or not, and she just now realized she couldn’t really see his eyes that clearly underneath the glasses he wore. Combined with the dim lighting in the bar, it was kind of unsettling. “I was just curious! Philosophy and morality and all!” 

Den drummed a finger on the desk as she watched him. The tilt in his lip looked amused, genuinely amused too, and not apart of this… character he was playing. She didn’t read people too well, mainly interpreting based off of her instincts. So, she trusted her instincts and answered bluntly. 

“Vampires aren’t people.” And if you’re working this position, you’d better have known that already or come to realize it soon , she stared at his eyes through the glass. 

There was a grin that made Den feel as if she had walked into a trap. She frowned and retracted her arm, shifting her weight slightly backward and more importantly: away from the guy. 

“And why is that?” He tilted his head, almost leaning in. “What makes them… beneath, or above human?” 

“They’re dead.” 

“Isn’t that interesting? They walk, they think, they talk,” There was a slight pause before he asked the question they both knew was coming. “How could you say that’s dead?”

She had an answer ready. Too many people have asked and been asked, it felt almost like a script by now. “From the moment they turn, Death’s got a bounty on their head. We’re just putting them back in their graves, where they belong.” 

“Even if they didn't do anything wrong?” 

“Is killing people not wrong enough for you?” 

“It is, of course, but should you be killing killers to stop them from killing?” 

Den didn’t even try to hide her eye roll, “I consider it more like self-defense, just as a collective. Vampires kill humans, so I feel like humans have the rights to return the favor.” 

“Not all vampires kill humans,” Seriously, when was someone going to come up with an ‘ethical dilemma’ that hasn't been overdone? 

“Why should I care?” She paused, that did not sound right, “I mean like, how would I know? ‘Sides, they need blood to live, I need money to live. All’s fair.” 

“Fair’s fair,” He chuckled before bringing his hands together for a clap, signaling the end of the conversation. “Fair points, for that matter. As per policy, we’ll have the money ready within 24 hours,” He looked down at the paper she signed her name on. “Cypher..?” 

“Den.” It sounded smoother to have her last name in front, but it does confuse people. 

“Den,” He spoke her name while he seemed to trace over her face intently. She hoped he wasn’t a vampire in disguise and putting her on a hitlist right now. Or maybe she should hope that. It’s easier when the vampires try to attack her than having to track them down, afterall.  “Well, see you around.” 

She stilled herself from a shudder as she nodded, leaving through the fake ‘employees only’ door back into the real bar. 

“What held you up?” Christian asked when she slumped over the countertop with a purposefully loud groan. She felt Ivan turn his gaze towards her underneath his tinted glasses and pushed herself back up. 

“Ran into some punk vampire,” She swished a hand around, hoping that conveyed her annoyance as she thrusted her arm across the table to Ivan, batting her eyelashes with a barely contained grin in an attempt to, she’s not sure, be cute? “Doctor Ivan, can you patch me up?” 

The silence stretched and she could feel the irritation radiating off of him. She barely got a high-pitched “Pretty please” out before breaking into a fit of snickers with Christian, feeling her injured arm get roughly turned over and examined with an exaggerated sigh from Ivan. 

“Bartender, for fucks sake,” He muttered, his grip sliding down and loosely locked around Den’s wrist as he leaned to the side, pulling open the cabinet he kept medical supplies probably after the first month the two vampire hunters started coming to him for treatment. “I’m a fucking bartender, why me?” 

“It’s convenient,” Christian supplied, “Dr. Ivan: cheaper than hospitals.” 

“Probably because you don’t pay me at all.” 

“Come on, think of it as karma!” Den teased. 

“I’m Chrisitan.” Ivan held her arm in place as he poured a small vial of holy water over the wound. Den winced. 

“Right, then,” She watched him dampen a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol, “I don’t know, think of it as, not sinning, or like, compensating for your sins?” 

“That’s called going to confession, Den.” He leveled an exasperated glance at her before dabbing the cotton down, staining the white into a dull, orangish red. “How long ago was this? Damn.” 

“More like carrying out acts of good in the will of God,” Christian supplied, taking another sip of his drink while he watched. 

“Like, thirty minutes, or four?” Den answered, “It would have taken less time if I didn’t get pulled into this.. argument conversation thing with this fucking.. hippie, or something.”

Making a show of slamming his tools -- the cotton, so not all that intimidating at all -- down, Ivan reprimanded, “That’s a long fucking time either way, dude! You need to clean it yourself if you’re going to wait that long, or whatever fucking vampire bacteria would turn you already!” 

“Yes, Mom ,” Den stuck her tongue out, “Scratches have less chances of containing the whole, turning stuff anyway.” 

“‘Hippie’?” Christian reminded her. 

“Wait, yeah,” Den propped up a little, keeping her left still as it got bandaged. “Do you know the new guy? Kept talking about the whole, vampires are people and you shouldn’t kill them and whatever. The next thing you know he’ll be starting a fucking movement abt love and peace and what, ‘make love not war’?” 

Christian made this wide grin where he stuck his tongue out while he laughed, “We have enough problems with that already, kinky motherfuckers who are so thrilled to fuck a vampire and don’t consider what comes after it.” 

“No, I think that’s part of the appeal,” Chilly entered the conversation by setting down a plate of a blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee in front of Den. “The whole, night vision, not having to breathe, turning into a bat, thing?” 

“What about the whole, killing people, drinking blood, and not going in the sun business?” Ivan rolled the rest of the bandage up neatly and set it back into the drawer. 

“I don’t go out in the sun anyway!” 

“You’re okay– with the rest?” “–with killing people and drinking blood?” 

A glance is exchanged as Chrisitan and Ivan spilled the same concern. 

“Den does that without being a vampire,” Chilly jabbed a thumb, “Subtract the drinking blood part. But, I feel like blood would taste better after you become a vampire though.” 

“It doesn’t,” Ivan shut her down, adding after receiving a few looks, “Or there’d be a lot more recipes with blood, I feel like. I mean hey, an easy way to locate vampires, but nah,” He drummed the marble tabletop for a moment, ignoring the lingering teasing looks. “Besides, if you become a vampire, you’d have people like Den trying to kill you.” 

“Euhh,” Chilly shuddered, “That’s truee…” She turned and gripped Den by the hands, “Den, if I ever become a vampire, could you not kill me?” 

“Uh, yeah?” Den blinked, “Probably?” 

“Yay!”

Chapter Text

The blaring heat from the sun bakes the ground beneath them dry, into flaky crusts that grind to dust beneath their feet. There were barely any hints of wind, so even the finer dust that gets kicked up doesn't go anywhere and simply settles back down when they’ve left. 

Humidity was scarce in this land. Their skin felt dehydrated and stretched out, eyes felt like they could shrivel up and fall out of the socket already. They weren’t completely out of water just yet but they all knew it would be the case if they can’t make it to their destination in time, which means that they can’t, really can’t afford to take any more divergences like fighting with giant mutated vultures. 

Ivan narrows his eyes at the snappy brunette, her fluffy hair was snipped short, barely long enough for her to put them in a small pony that doesn’t brush against her neck and give her extra warmth. She wore a dark cowboy hat that she at the moment used to fan her face, either flushed with heat or she’d been sunburnt as she stared into the distance with squinted eyes and muttering nonsense – to him – at them. Her face was caked with dirt from when she’d passed out earlier. Too bad humans don’t benefit from a good ol’ dust bath, or it might lessen the woman’s anger. They had found an inch of scarce shade in the crooked, long-since-dead tree that the vultures had made into a nest. Now that the previous owners were neutralized, the shade was for them to use as a temporary resting place and listen to, honestly, pointless ramblings. Next to him, nodding distantly along was Den, lips pressed firmly together and face pale – on account of the blood loss, probably – as the woman nursed her wounded leg. 

Ivan watched her intensely. She liked changing her own bandaging as much as possible, so unless it’s when she was physically unable to, he’d wait for his help to be required rather than offering and risk annoying her. Still, he was concerned. They didn’t have proper bandaging, having to make do with relatively cleaner rags. If luck fails them, which, honestly, it probably will, she’d get infected either from that or if dirt gets in her injury. 

“I swear, if anything stops us from getting there tonight,” she huffs a breath, fanning her face fast. She speaks quietly and with a wince. Her voice sounded off. 

“Didn’t you kick the egg?” Ivan reminded her. He also doesn’t point out that she remains majorly unscathed, skipped out most of the battle in blissful unconsciousness, and really, kind of, deserved this since she initiated it. However, don’t ever mistake that he’s trying to save Chilly some grace by keeping his thoughts to himself, they just took too much energy to verbalize. 

“I was pushed into the egg..!” Ivan concentrated on her voice. There was something scratchy about it, cracking when she raised her voice but it was so much of an usual occurrence now-adays (since they've been here?) that no one brings attention to it anymore. Christian gives her a look, a look mixed with irritation and slight… concern? Maybe guilt. Ivan wasn’t very good at reading people. Chilly catches the look sent her way and her gaze quickly flitters to not meet it. She lets out another short huff of breath through her nose and grumbled, “I literally said, ‘we shouldn’t do a heat related scenario’, ‘it’s not gonna go well’, and it ‘makes my throat hurt’. But noooo-” She coughs, and as she does her face crunches up in a wince, “Someone just wanted to experience it soooo bad…” She breaks off into a coughing fit. 

“How was I supposed to know it would make you suffocate?” Christian defended himself sheepishly, a pensive smile on his face that would make him seem insincere to those that don’t know him well, but the very fact that you don’t feel his presented ‘genuinity’ that’s the telltale sign he’s not putting on layers of deceit. 

“I told you guys that!” 

Curt nods in the background. He’d been the only other one to vote against the idea but three against two they still had to be here. He had an I-told-you-so grin on his face, being the only one spared from Chilly’s pestering. 

“You just said, ‘oh, don’t make me go in the heat, I’ll die’,” Christian imitated, shrinking a bit more against the tree when Chilly glared at him, “I had no idea you were being literal.” 

“That’s your own fault, I think,” Ivan chimed, “You’re always so dramatic, Chilly.”  

“I get to be dramatic if I’m going to die!” 

“You always act like you’re going to die, that’s exactly why we never,” Ivan falters slightly when Den looks at him, bright irises and slightly furrowed eyebrows stern. But, he finishes his thought anyway, just quieter, on account of his own painfully scratchy throat, “take you seriously, Chilly. You brought this on-” he coughs, “-yourself.” 

“Calm down, you two,” Den moved her gaze from Ivan back to Chilly. “Peace of mind is key to staying cool.” 

Chilly pouted. 

Christian began again, quieter this time but still firm. “And I did say you should get that checked out, instead of,” he paused and sounded a bit ashamed when he continued, “asking us not to go somewhere we all want to go.” 

"Who's 'we'?" Curt teased. 

Ivan was surprised that Christian would speak on it again, he thought he would have taken the opportunity to let the confrontation pass (he certainly would have) and just hoped Chilly would forget it (forgive it quietly) like she does with other things. But maybe he really did feel guilty, which was quite a rare occurrence. 

“Sure!” She hisses, sitting down cross legged on the ground with the rest of them. When she waved her hands about, she stirred up some dust stirred by her and made her cough. “Tell them ‘hey, in another universe, I got strangled to death by a fri- a bitch, and now my throat hurts all the time and I can’t breathe well when it's hot’?” 

Ivan decided to promptly ignore the first half of the sentence, then where she’s certainly exaggerating (it can’t hurt all the time. It can’t or he’d have to think about that every time he sees her and feel guilty), and ask only about the last part, “Why only hot?” 

“Would you like me to be permanently suffocating?” Chilly snarled, bringing a hand up to rub at her throat, clearly mistaking the question as just another instance of Ivan wishing ill upon her. He wouldn’t correct her on his intent. She doesn’t need to know shit about whether he feels bad or not. “Cold is a soothing element, naturally I do better in the cold.” 

“It is the ‘Chilly’ in ‘Chilly Panda’?” Den joked? Maybe? She sounded sincere, though the question itself sounded like a joke. 

“Yup,” She softened a bit. Den had only gotten injured because she had to protect her, having escaped pretty much unbothered from every other encounter they’ve had here. “And Christian does better in the heat — fucking psycho — ever since he came back from the volcano.” 

“As the volcano,” Christian corrected. He really did look the most at ease out of all of them. Blood and bruises litter his skin but he didn’t look hot out of his skin, not even a little sun-burnt. “But I do really bad in cold environments.” 

His movements become sluggish and his reaction slows. Ivan remembered. His body temperature, at its lowest, is still much higher than the normal humans and it takes much more energy to maintain, what with the hotter something is, the faster it loses heat and all that. 

Chilly looked towards him. For a second her face was entirely blank, but then a smile starts to creep on her face, a bit sinister. 

“Jesus,” Curt guessed, “You’ve got something diabolical planned.” 

“I definitely know what theme the adventure is gonna be when it’s my turn, I’ll say that much,” Chilly cackled intentionally evilly, finally putting her hat back on her head and looking back out at the horizon. 

Christian sighed audibly, but didn't make any attempts to steer himself away from this fate. They could see their destination in the distance, though the heat makes them delirious and warps the air around them so that it’s hard to be certain. Still, if they don’t make it there by tomorrow, they’d probably have to kill one of them and drink their blood. Probably Chilly, then, to put her out of her misery. (and to solidify his certain doom the next time Chilly gets to host. He was clearly going to suffer anyway)