Chapter Text
Life. What a small word for such a substantial idea.
Medkit’s life. What an easy way to summarize such an unenjoyable thing.
He looks down upon the true ground floor of Crossroads, much too far below to get a taste of the sun, yet perhaps too lucky to experience false promises in the first place, and he looks up at the higher levels of Crossroads, much too far above the dredges of the city-state. There’s no potential points to snipe him at, thankfully, and Medkit takes a breath of fresh smog in.
Sweat sticks to him, created from his last PHIGHTING! match. After considerable pressure from certain demons, he had found his way in The Tower, signing whatever was left of his life for a couple more bux in his pockets. Obnoxious, honestly, this is such a Playgrounder tradition—and yet he still lingers upon its balconies.
Honestly, he still has his worries about the rather public display of his whereabouts, but it’s too late to break the contract. Contracts, offering his time for money; contracts, trading his freedom for safety; contracts, quantifying his life into a bounty. What is the point of fame, of a community that holds a name in high regard? Subspace seemed so determined to build one inside Blackrock, while his boss seemed so delighted hearing the name of her church drip off the tongues of her enemies.
A train line stops below him. He places a reminder to himself to get another change of clothes after this.
The phight was whatever. He’s still new to this entire show, and that was his first win. Medkit is still worried the people he’d face would attack him once they were outside the arena, but his opponents—so far, at least—were surprisingly relaxed outside of battle. As most of the Playgrounders he’s fought would say, “What happens in the ring, stays in the ring.”
Medkit is…unnerved by how friendly they are. Some have decided to proclaim neutrality, but most are still aligned with their spawn—something he couldn’t relate to if he tried. When asked, most simply reply with some variation of “What are we if we don’t stick to our roots?” or “It’s easier to have an identity.” He supposes he’s the same in that regard.
Still, it’s different. Medkit doesn’t like different, if he can help it.
A breeze sweeps through. Passengers exit from the tracks and enter from the station, and Medkit squints with his one eye to observe. There’s a person below being hoisted around. At least someone has a place in the world, judging by the way he's being carried off by what he assumes is his friends. If he had to guess, they were exiting from Playground.
The demon looks up, though, away from what he should be happy to have, and Medkit scorns and turns away.
He’s jealous, he realizes. Jealous at how easy it is for everyone to get it, to just get along. Maybe his notions are biased, as he went from the freezing, hyper-independent labs to the scorching, hyper-dependent cult, but he’s still jealous of their unwavering devotion. He doesn’t even remember when he was half as dedicated as they are, and maybe that’s why he will never have a place in the world. Always on the run, always sacrificing a piece of himself for temporary safety, always flinching at every odd sound—
He flinches at bells signifying the train leaving, he eventually realizes. The wind, both natural and artificial, sweeps through the tunnels below, bringing a gale he’s beginning to grow accustomed to. The scenery is all the same: towers, statues, mountains. He wonders if either Playground or Thieves Den would be much different.
Medkit looks around the skyline again, checking for changes, and slowly pulls his head down to the balcony. He’s exhausted. Exhausted with this game of cat and mouse, with changing residences and alignments and people on the flip of a coin, but he is too stupid to know when or how to stop.
He doesn’t like admitting it, but Medkit is terrified. Terrified of losing what semblance of control he has over his life, terrified of becoming just another number towards Blackrock’s counts, terrified of the beyond.
What does he want with his life? He’s decent with engineering, but he still struggles with even that sometimes. Even if he got on his knees and begged to return to Blackrock—impossible, with the stories he’s starting to hear—what use would they have with someone decent? With someone so boring? Defective?
A phone rings before he realizes it’s his. Medkit checks the notification. It is Rocket’s number. Odd.
He remembers a story Rocket had told him. His father had apparently bought it for him, but Rocket pretended to lose it so that he could give it to Medkit. Initially he declined, but Rocket made the rather obnoxious case that Sword wouldn’t let him take it instead, and somehow it led to the device falling into his possession. At least his boss hasn’t confronted him about it yet…
Against hesitant judgment, he moves behind a wall and picks up.
“Hey Med! Congrats on your first win! About time you secured it!”
It’s Sword. Medkit scoffs, but the corners of his mouth find themselves creasing up. “Thanks…? Why are you calling from—“
“Oh… yeah, my phone ran out of battery. Unrelated, but you wouldn’t happen to know how to repair phones, would you—“
“Sword thought throwing his phone at me would be a good substitute for a rock,” someone else interjects. There’s Rocket. It’s rare to see them apart nowadays. Medkit had a small suspicion that something dramatic had occurred between them, but he supposes he should have trusted their abilities.
“Thanks for the hundred bux as well by the way,” Rocket adds, “Sword bet you’d lose this time but he doesn't know how to read matchups—“
“ You took the claim before I could???”
The sounds of a scuffle begin transmitting through and Rocket suddenly cries out, “Hey—Medkit! I’m being harassed by this idiot named Sword right now! Help!”
“Let me explain myself at least—“
He holds the phone out, waiting for a break in their bickering to comment. It’s quite entertaining to listen to the chaos, though, and he lets a few more thuds go through. “…Were you guys actually throwing rocks at each other?”
“That’s not relevant!”
“No…” Rocket reclaims control of his phone, assuming that was the reason for the spike in quality, “maybe? Doesn’t matter, anyway—did you wanna meet up so we could celebrate your win? Gods know you need a break—“
“Rocket! You can’t just say that, that’s so out of pocket!”
“What are you, my dad—stop trying to take my phone! Ey!”
Honestly, Medkit is stunned at how well the microphone picked up their clamoring. He hears footsteps before a thud from the phone, before Sword’s voice prevails.
“I’ll pay for half, if you do wanna go out for—“
Rocket lightly points out, “Wow Sword, not even for all of it?”
“Look! Nobody’s paying high anymore back in the desert, not with that whole civil war going on—”
“—Okay,” Medkit interrupts. Sure, guess he’s doing this now.
His response incites dead silence, and he briefly wonders if that was the right move until Sword questions: “Okay?”
“Yes, I'll go. Whatever. Don’t make me change my mind—”
“Sweet!” Sword cuts off his snark, “ We’re on our way back from the scrapyard. Meet us home?”
Home. What a basic word for such a meaningful thing.
He’s never had a proper home. Sure, Blackrock is his home spawn, but it’s also the grave of his career. The Church of the True Eye offers a roof and safety, but it also offers constant pursuits and pressure to just join already.
“…Yeah. I’ll see you guys home.” A breath escapes him, imprisoned inside the recedes of his mind. He lets it take off into the evening, like a bird discovering a world outside of a cage.
The end call sound rings. Medkit immediately looks around and switches to his reality, but maybe, he’ll let himself hope. Despite his injustices and unjust actions, maybe he’ll end up content enough to enjoy what he has. Maybe his energy will match the life that the Inpherno seems so determined to inflict on him.
Maybe, his life will be okay.