Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     Etho walked through the server center, peering into the stores. He was definitely not shopping again. Nope. Ok, maybe a little bit, but not much. Not as much as he was this morning.

      He was holding a plant, a long green philodendron, that he was planning on placing in his bedroom. He stopped, having spotted something that caught his eye. It was a sparkling new set of enchanted diamond armor. Fine, I'll just check it. It's fine. I'm not going to buy it. It's definitely ok.

     He entered the shop, looking over at the armor and inspecting it. The enchantments were well done and high level. And it was so well polished...

     He caved in, walking over to the counter and asking a store clerk, “Hey, would I be able to purchase the diamond armor boots?”

     “Yes, you may. Follow me, we’ll grab some from the back,” the clerk he’d asked stated. She was a tall, lean woman who carried herself like a dancer. 

     She opened a door and led Etho through. 

     “Right this way,” said she, gesturing to some shelves full of chests. “The chest you need should be labeled. Just grab a pair, I need to get something quickly.” With that, she turned and walked to a different row. 

      Etho started looking for the shelf she mentioned. The chests were labeled, but none of them with the boots he was looking for. 

     He turned and started walking back towards the end of the aisle to find the woman, but he was met with her right behind him.

     “Hi, I couldn't find the boots, could you show me where-” he started to say, but as fast as light the woman stabbed something into his arm. “-Oh,” was the last thing he muttered before falling swiftly unconscious. 

     He woke up to the sounds of two people talking. One of the voices was that of the clerk he'd talked to. The other was a deep baritone he didn't recognize with a thick Scandinavian accent. He was blindfolded, bound, and gagged, so there wasn't much hope of getting out of the situation.

     The wooziness had worn off enough that Etho could make out words, though it was still heartily present.

     The clerk was asking, “Are you sure he’ll work?”

     “Yes, definitely. He'll need some fine tuning, of course. He's got the right build already though.”

     “Are you sure? We need a new one trained quickly.”

     “Give me four weeks and you'll think he's been training for four years,” the baritone promised. 

     “Ok, I'm trusting you,” she said, then walked away, opening and closing a heavy door. 

     “Right then,” said the Scandinavian walking over to Etho, “let's get you strung up.” He untied Etho's bonds and started guiding him, not removing his blindfold or gag.

     They kept walking for a bit, going up and down stairs and through twists and turns. Etho couldn't remember the path awake, let alone barely conscious. He followed along, reasoning that any escape attempts would result in some sort of negative consequence on top of the current situation. 

      Eventually they stopped and before Etho could even begin to try and collect his bearings, he was once again knocked unconscious. 

     The first thing Etho knew when he awoke was pain. Flooding, bruning, freezing every part of his body. Pushing through the agony, he turned to look down at his body and identify the source of his torment.

     Littering his body was a collection of hooks attached and embedded into his flesh. They seemed deeply unnatural, especially as there was no damage to the surrounding skin, as if they had been there for his whole life. He tried to open his mouth to scream, but something was holding it firmly shut. Running his tongue over it, he could feel metal wires stitching his lips unopenable.

       What hell sort of hallucinogens did they put me on? But he didn't feel high. He felt sober, albeit dazed and a bit spaced. What have I gotten myself into?

     Etho turned his gaze up to his surroundings. He was in a small room, about the size of a walk-in closet. Three of the walls were dull gray brick, with the fourth consisting mostly of a glass door. He was sat in a chair which resembled a dentist’s without the equipment. Outside the door was a man holding a clipboard.

     He said, “Oh, hello,” with the same deep Scandinavian baritone from ‘yesterday,’ before calling out behind him, “He’s awake!” A team of people walked in and opened the glass door. 

     “Is he going to be able to walk?” one of the people asked.

     “No, of course not, not until we can give him another dose of healing. After then, he should be able to, but he'll be hooked up anyways so it doesn't really matter,” a second one answered.

     They picked him up and carried him into a white, sterile room. Some of the scientists held him up while others pulled ropes down from the ceiling and attached them to his hooks.

     Etho looked up at the source of the ropes. It was a mess of rods and pistons that looked like a conglomeration of spider legs. That Etho was not the one in the apparatus he would have loved to inspect the redstone.

     Once the scientists had attached all the ropes to Etho, they gently placed him limp on the ground and left, standing behind a glass wall looking in.

     “All clear!” the baritone declared, “Initiate basic lift procedure.” Suddenly, Etho was pulled up by the strings, lifted into the air and dangling. His vision was consumed in the blinding pain. He barely processed the words, “Initiate walking procedure,” before his limbs started to move again, walking like a marionette. It took all his strength not to pass out. 

     He knew not the length of the proceeding stretch of time. His body was moved for him over and over again without ceasing for ages. When it finally stopped he was left hanging. Scientists entered the room, pouring potions over his head which eased the pain. His nerves were still screaming, but when he tensed his muscles, they responded. 

     The scientists left and began running the machine once more. As it progressed, Etho learned to predict the movements. If he timed it right, the ropes did not pull much on his hooks and it relieved the pain, if only momentarily. There were eleven main motions which they put him through, with a few variations on each: walk, run, jump and land, dodge left and right, basic punches, basic kicks, use of a bow, use of sherekins, basic sword fighting, basic defensive maneuvers, and the most out of place and his least favorite, part of a ballet. It was complex and pointless, yet they seemed intent on having him do it. I suppose a doll dancing Swan Lake must be magnificent.

     They seldom let him sleep. The lone chances he got was when they were repairing his hooks or feeding him through a tube inserted in his nose, but that wasn't for long enough. He was dreary, hungry, and nearly numb. His pain receptors barely fired anymore, though if that were because Etho was moving perfectly or if he had damaged them beyond repair he could tell not. It was all a haze, a dreadful haze.

     However, the monotony ceased. The baritone came in once more and began giving orders, telling the operators to ‘prepare him.’

     Then, they took him down from the ropes. They had done it before to carry out repairs, but this time they began to change his clothes. Originally, they had left him in the clothes he had been taken in with holes for the hooks cut in them, but now they changed him into something resembling dress-blacks. 

     They picked him up once more and left the room, going to another location he had not been to. He barely recognized anything. He didn't care. He was so tired, exhausted to the core of his bones. Nothing mattered anymore.

      They attached him once more to an apparatus, in a different place this time. It was more open and there was no glass wall. As he hung there, he was vaguely aware of people starting to fill the room. The next time he looked up, there was an entire audience staring at him. 

      The baritone walked on stage and began to announce, “Hello everyone! Welcome! Now, I'm sure you all have heard about this project, but if you haven't, it's an experimental training technique to grow our numbers. It utilizes pain to enforce muscle memory quickly, meaning our first subject here knows every move perfectly and can replicate flawlessly. 

      “But that's enough talking. I'm sure you would like to see this work.” There were cheers from the audience. The baritone said, “Initiate procedure walk, run,” to the back. The strings supported him through the motions as he tried his best to avoid the pull of the hooks. There were a few oohs and awes from the crowd.

     “Right then, let's kick it up a notch.” They sent him through all the fighting maneuvers, garnering more applause. 

     “And for our final run that we have for you all tonight before we show you the results, here's a little performance!”

     Then he began to dance. The strings pulled him through the ballet. He spun and leapt as the audience roared and clapped. He took an elegant bow at the end, though it felt almost mocking. 

      “Ready for the results?” There were shouts of confirmation. 

      The scientists did something which Etho had not predicted. They unhooked him. On the stage. For no reason, apparently.

      Until the baritone ordered, “Initiate defense maneuvers.” 

     His body listened. It started to go through every movement perfectly, without prompting. There were no strings, nothing binding or forcing him to follow, yet he did. The hooks went deeper than the flesh. He went through every motion, every sequence perfectly as the baritone commanded.

     “Now, finally, do you think he can perform the ballet, precisely as he did before, with absolute perfection? Because I guarantee it! Initiate dance.”

     And so he danced. He danced flawlessly yet emotionless. It was perfectly robotic, as if he was in a trance. Why, why am I doing this?

      For the first time in days, Etho began to become more aware. Aware that it was him moving his body, aware of his surroundings, aware that he need not follow as they command. 

     He searched around as he danced, keeping up to rouse while he attempted to locate an exit. He found one, a door to stage left. The crowd hadn't noticed a thing, they were still intently watching him dance. 

     Finally, the dance came to its end. Sick to the depths of his stomach, he took a bow for the audience, the perfect marionette. As the crowd erupted into an applause not meant for him but the baritone who trained him, who made him, he sucked in a deep breath. He glanced over at the door.

     He dashed for the door. The room behind him fell into chaos as the lead scientist, the baritone, chased after him. He swung open the door and chose to turn left on a prayer. Please, please not a dead end. Please devs. He raced through the hall, following its twists and turns. The baritone was catching up. He reached the end. The end.

     It was a closet, a simple one, but it spelled an end for him. The baritone was right behind him. No no no. This can’t be a dead end. This can’t be the end. No. He stumbled backwards...right into the baritone. He immediately started attacking Etho. Etho struggled against him, the defensive moves the baritone himself had forced him to learn. He moved out of the baritone’s hold, but while he was free for a moment, the baritone unsheathed a knife and dove at him again. 

     They fought, fierce as tigers, until finally Etho pulled the knife out of the baritone’s hand. It was not before, however, he managed to slice a nasty cut across one of Etho's eyes, utterly tanking his depth perception. Blood ran down that half of his face, but it was fine. It barely hurt compared to the previous time he had spent. 

     He stabbed the baritone, a quick in and out at the base of his neck, and ran. 

     He ran with a haste rivaling lightning, retracing his steps until he reached the intersection. He kept on sprinting until he reached a door, pushing it open and continuing out into the open air. He continued to run, only halting once he was far enough away that he was incredibly lost. 

     Only then did he look up at the sky, realizing that it was the persistently cloudy sky of the hub. It was only then he thought about his friends and his family. He was stranded in the hub with no comm. He could not even tell his family what happened, let alone contact them. He was alone. 

     That night, as the adrenaline wore off and his exhaustion finally caught him, he slept in a gutter, the only blanket his own pain and despair.

Chapter Text

     The next morning he awoke, though it was almost mid day. He felt better rested, though still not at full energy. His self imposed task of the day was to get the wire off his face. While he had not needed to eat or drink, at least in a conventional way, while he was captive, he no longer had access to the technology they had. Besides, the wires stitching his mouth shut were uncomfortable, to say the least. 

     Using the skills they had forced upon him, he managed to steal a pocket knife from someone. He was not proud of it, but given his situation, he figured the person could sacrifice their pocket knife. 

     Etho brought it up to his face and gently slid it beneath the wire. He started to try and cut it, but the wire held strong. He set the knife down, grumbling in frustration. The blade, despite being mad right of quite a fine metal, was no match for the wire. 

     Another option sprang to mind. If he could not cut the wire, he would cut the flesh instead. He would have to do it carefully though, make sure the cuts were neat.

     A few minutes later, he had gathered all that he needed. 

     First, he lit a flame on the lighter and held it up to his face, heating the wire for a few minutes. Yes, it hurt, but pain had become such a regular thing that he barely cared. 

     Then, grabbed onto the wire, braced himself, and pulled. Just as he hoped, the heat cut through his face, pulling the wire through and cauterizing the cuts. Despite the pain coursing through his body and his entire being rebelling against what he had done, his fingers shook not. He pushed a needle and stitching thread through the wounds, sewing rudimentary stitches. They were not particularly brilliant, but they would keep his mouth in place long enough to drink the healing potions, which he chugged after finishing the stitching. 

     He pulled out a reflective piece of metal he had nabbed to be his mirror and stared into it, processing the face that stared back at him. 

     The lower half of Etho’s face was ruined. Positively devastated. The healing potions had not done nearly as much as he hoped, the burns and lines still obviously visible. They looked like little ravines, the edges a dull red from the cauterizing wire. He opened his mouth, inspecting his teeth. There were scorch marks across them where the hot wire had touched them, forming black criss-cross patterns across all of his teeth.  A long red scar ran through the eye which the baritone had scathed, leaving his left eye blind. His face was utterly destroyed.

     The next thing he stole was a mask.

     Then a long, thick jacket to cover up the hooks still in his torso and arms, accompanied by gloves and baggy pants, and a headband to match the look.

     Aside from his eye, a passerby could not tell how screwed up his body was. 

     He looked normal enough that the clerks would not stop him from getting redstone supplies. He was trying to build a new comm for himself, having lost his. While in theory he could purchase one, replacements were hard to come by, often not high quality, and he needed something to keep himself busy. He got decently far before realizing eventually he was going to need a reference. He had the vast majority of the processing done, he just could not figure out how to connect it to a world. 

     So, from the top of a roof, he chose his target: a half robotic creeper hybrid wearing a torn lab coat from which the hybrid’s comm was easily accessible. Etho climbed down quietly, passing through the crowd naturally, and as he slipped passed the man, pocketing his comm. He continued walking, maintaining an unassuming, relaxed gate. There was no reason for the hybrid to know it was Etho. 

     Etho was sure he had gotten away with it until he glanced over his shoulder and saw the man following him. Etho sped up only for the man to hasten as well. He made a quick turn to the side, breaking through the edge of the crowd and making for some nearby buildings. The man followed him, gaining ground.

     Etho broke out into a full on run.

     “Stop!” the man yelled out in a thick German accent. The man was getting closer. They chased each other through crowds, around blocks, and through alleys, until Etho was in a completely unfamiliar section of the hub.

     This was how he got himself cornered in the back of an alley, if one could even call it that. It was a miniscule gap between two buildings. Etho had no problem fitting. He had been rather lanky to start with and the streets were not treating him kindly. The hybrid however had less moving room, only about nine inches on each shoulder side. 

     The man was only about a few feet in front of him. Etho slipped the comm into the pocket of his coat and raised his arms, ready to fight. Etho was agile, but what the tall, rather buff creeper hybrid lacked in agility he seemed to make up for in strength. They were evenly matched. 

     The man seemed to realize this too, sighing and relaxing. Then, to Etho’s amazement, extended his hand. Not to demand the comm, but to shake Etho’s. Etho cautiously extended his own, shaking the man’s. He did not seem to even react to the small hooks still present in Etho’s hand.

     “I'm Doc,” the man said, still with the German accent, “If I cannot retrieve my comm with force, would you be willing to negotiate?”

     Etho paused, then nodded. “My name's Etho.” He realized this was the first time he had said his own name since he had been taken captive. It felt odd on his tongue, though not unwelcome. He had lost so much from his old life, it seemed strange to still have a relic as simple as a name from his past.

     “What do you need the comm for? Are you just trying to sell it?” the man, Doc, asked.

     Etho thought for a second, deciding whether or not to tell Doc his intentions. He figured it would be the easiest way to have a chance at using it, so he explained, “I'm making my own. I lost mine. I need a comm for reference on connecting to worlds.”

     “What do you have so far?” Doc asked.

     Etho pulled his half-finished comm out of his pocket, showing it to Doc. Doc took it and inspected it, marveling at the redstone. 

     “Impressive,” Doc murmured, looking back up at Etho, “Can I help?” 

     From then on, the two worked together closely. Doc did not have a home world either, so the pair worked together gigging for servers once Etho’s comm was working. They would travel briefly to servers, help out with redstone, get paid, and return to the apartment they rented in the hub.