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At some point, his increasing reliance on the Blindfold Bandits to come to his rescue will come back to bite him — Zam realises this fact with a dawning sense of horror. It’s accompanied by a suffocating helplessness, because what else is he meant to do, really? He’s adamant on being a pacifist on this server fueled by bloodshed, so he naturally has to pay the price to keep up his veneer of peace. Lifesteal has always been run by selfish ambitions; it’s been written in the very nature of its code, and its players fall into step just as easily as they’ve taken the pecking order in stride.
That is to say, with Flame and Mane at the very top, untouchable in every sense. Power attracts power, and it isn’t long before Clown joins their ranks. The curious oddity in their uneasy alliance is none other than Zam himself, trailing after their footsteps and wiping the slate clean with each battleground he erases from sight. It’s a futile act; Leo still skirts around blocks marked in that mental map of traps he’s made, Rek still glances over his shoulder as he speaks, and Jumper still rests her hand on the hilt of her sword when building.
Each player has been irreversibly changed, altered, reshaped to fit the mould that Lifesteal demands from them. (Zam was like them, once.) Natural instinct guides them to leave a knife in reach before falling asleep. Zam’s stringent morals make him swipe it far, far away.
None of that seems to matter when Flame gingerly picks out a heart from the heap that used to belong to the Gladiators, wiping off the blood before he extends it towards Zam. A silent offer. “Do you-
-need help?” Mane laughs, a low and humourless sound. One finger presses, hard, into Zam’s chest, tapping in time with his racing heartbeat. Mane cocks his head to the side, an eyebrow arched in cruel amusement. “Start with ripping out that soft little thing you’re still so desperately holding onto.”
“I’ve had enough of bloodshed.” It comes out hesitant, uncertain even to Zam’s own ears. Mane shrugs carelessly in response. “Suit yourself.”
In one smooth motion, his hand wraps around Zam’s wrist, nails digging mercilessly into delicate flesh. Mane tightens his grip till Zam is wincing and cursing under his breath, struggling to break away. Only after what feels like eternity does he let him go. The pad of his finger traces over the steady pulse vibrating through Zam’s veins, almost as if to soothe the hurt.
Zam isn’t quite foolish enough to take the action at face level. He recognises it clearly for what it is; a thinly veiled threat on his life — the life he owed to them. They sure weren’t about to let him forget.
He’s grown so accustomed to their aid that Flame is capable of being summoned at his every whim, showing up in an instant when called. He emerges from the shadows, footsteps near silent against blades of grass. Zam, admittedly, visibly jumps even though he was the one who messaged him this exact location.
One splash of a strength potion, and Jepex is already collapsing to the ground with one unfeeling strike of Flame’s axe. His blood seeps into the floorboards, forever staining the lovely shades of pink with crimson. Flame bends down, methodically sifting through his inventory in search of any potentially valuable items. The roaring in Zam’s head jolts to a deafening level.
Flame stops a healthy distance away, holding his palms up in an attempt to placate him. It’s strangely thoughtful — yet another sign that Flame’s taken a liking to him. The only glaring problem is that Zam doesn’t know what it entails for his fate. All he knows is that with each life taken in the name of protecting him, he’s becoming more and more indebted to the most bloodthirsty players this server has ever seen.
Flame holds up a stack of cobwebs, murmuring, “Store it-
-for me.” It’s a command with no room for negotiation. (Zam has no right to refuse.)
With shaking hands, he barely manages to latch on to the sword that Clown presses into his fingers. “It’s Jumper’s, by the way,” Clown says, chuckling to himself. He shakes his head, jester mask sharing in his poorly-contained glee. “Stick,” he snorts, voice icy cold, “God, can you imagine?”
Zam’s throat runs painfully dry. He can’t bring himself to respond, when he knows — better than anyone else — Jumper had only been caught up in the crossfire because of him. Clown doesn’t seem to notice his obvious discomfort.
Clown raises the sword up to the sunlight, delighting in the way it glimmers with childlike wonder. “Oh, Jumper, Jumper…” he muses, angling the blade this way and that. “I’ll do this sword more justice than you ever will.”
Mane clicks his tongue from the corner, nodding in the direction of where Flame is waiting. Clown scowls at the interruption, but tosses the sword aside nonetheless. Through the window, Zam swears that Flame’s blindfolded gaze meets his in a silent promise.
He turns away, shivering.
Zam can never quite get a read on Flame. He’s quiet where Mane is snapping jaws and flashing claws, stoic where Clown is lazy taunts and self-assured arrogance. He doesn’t know what Flame wants. (He doesn’t know what Flame wants from him.)
Right now, Flame is laughing, bumping against Zam’s shoulder playfully. He takes on a teasing lilt, as if the notion is completely out of the question, “Why would I ever-
-kill you?” he repeats, stalking closer, lithe muscles rippling. “You’re adorable, Zam.” Flame’s shadow envelops his in some mockery of an embrace. Zam drags his gaze from the floor to meet a stare so searing it burns through his blindfold.
Zam forces himself to swallow. It’s an audible sound; Flame’s smirk only grows wider. Clown leans against the soft pink walls of his cherrywood base — ever the picture of perfect grace — even as the words that escape his mouth speak of brutality second to no other. “We’re hungry, Zam. Always, constantly, starving. Surely you’d understand. You feed us, after all.”
Zam feels the world spin, the floor suddenly sliding beneath him. His vision grows blurry, fading in and out as he valiantly attempts to fight the rising nausea back. “I'll lure more people to spawn,” he promises, pleads, begs.
Mane’s grin is the last thing he sees when he-
-logs out. It’s gentle and assuring, Mane holding himself upright with this newfound responsibility — Zam’s life — resting on his shoulders, grasped between his fingers. “Don’t worry, they won’t dare to hurt you when we’re here.”
“You’re safe,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. They both know that on Lifesteal, that’s a naive dream at best; a foolish hope at worst. Zam plasters on a soft, hesitant smile to mirror his anyway.
Through his window, he can see Flame pacing outside his door, scanning the horizon for enemies he seems capable of scenting on the wind. Clown ruffles Zam’s hair fondly before he makes to join Flame on his patrol. Mane offers him a backhanded wave as he strolls after them.
Watching them fade from view, Zam distantly wonders how long it’ll take before they inevitably turn on him. He prays that the growing dread coiling within his stomach is a figment of his imagination. (He knows, deep down — it is anything but.)