Chapter Text
It had been a week since Demo 4.
Griefer was alive. No, more than that, he was healed. Player had carefully recompiled the parts of his code that were once corrupted, line by painstaking line. He had put his heart into fixing him.
They had always been close, partners in missions and trusted allies. Maybe more, but neither of them had said it out loud.
Griefer never needed to hear the words to understand what Player meant to him. In a world filled with sharp edges and kill-or-be-killed scenarios, Player made him feel safe. When danger loomed too close, Player's presence brought clarity. When Griefer threatened to collapse under pressure, it was Player’s steady hand on his back that brought him back.
In those rare moments between missions, when tension was low and energy was high, they joked and messed around as if nothing could touch them. Like the time when Griefer jokingly accused Player of cheating in a training sim:
"Y0u just cl1pp3d thr0ugh th3 w4ll. Th4t’s ch34t1ng, y0u l1ttl3 gl1tchl0rd."
Player laughed, like really laughed, with his head tilted back and his cheeks flushed.
"It’s not cheating if the code lets me! Adapt or perish, old man."
Griefer lunged to tackle him in mock offense, and they both ended up on the floor, breathless and tangled in each other’s limbs. When Player rolled off, still laughing, Griefer noticed how he looked at him as if, for once, he wasn’t carrying anything. No expectations, no fear.
It was fleeting but real.
Player never pushed or demanded. He was the first person that actually stayed, his father aside. Griefer wasn’t used to that. Most people saw him for what he could do; Player saw him for who he was.
When silence came, the kind that usually made Griefer itch for conflict, it felt different with Player. It wasn’t empty or hostile.
It felt like belonging.
But something was different now.
At first, it was subtle. A lag in Player's laugh, a hesitation before answering, and the way he pulled back a second too soon from a touch they used to share without thinking.
They still spent every night in the same room. Player claimed it was for convenience, but Griefer knew better. He noticed the way Player jolted awake at nothing, breathing hard, eyes wide, until Griefer whispered his name.
Player still touched him, but now it was cautious, like he feared his hands might cause damage just by resting on someone. It felt as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile.
Griefer began to notice how often Player zoned out mid-conversation, mid-step, mid-smile. And when he snapped back, the joy never followed.
Griefer tried to ignore it, brushing it off as stress, but the weight kept building.
One morning, as they sat side by side, watching the code sunrise ripple over the far server wall, Griefer brushed his fingers against Player’s wrist, testing the boundary of something unspoken, just like he used to without fear.
"Y0u s4v3d m3...." he said quietly.
Player smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "Guess I did."
For the first time, Griefer felt cold sitting beside him.
---
Happened during a raid. Yeah, just another busted-up sector. Rogue fragments everywhere, nothing Player and Griefer hadn’t mopped up a million times before. They were even laughing, tossing jabs back and forth between swings. That easy groove, you know, the kind where your muscles remember the fight before your brain does. A rare moment where things almost felt normal? Maybe, just maybe, Player could breathe for a second and not feel like the universe was chewing him up.
But then, of course, Finn McCool had to show his ugly face.
God, that smug bastard. His smile stretched way too wide, as if he’d borrowed it from a cartoon villain and forgot to check the mirror. Standing up there, king of the digital trash heap, his little squad of fragments circling him like he was the main event.
“Well, look who crawled out of the recycle bin,” Finn spits, sword already out and attitude dialed to eleven. “Come to glitch out and cry again, little Hero?”
Yeah, banter’s fun until it isn’t.
The fight? It’s chaos, but Player’s got it down to an art. Every move is sharp, clean... almost surgical. He’s ducking low, flipping a fragment over his shoulder, smashing another against the wall, but never hard enough to end them. He’s not killing.
Then Finn switches it up. This time, he doesn’t swing for Player. He goes for Griefer.
It happens stupid fast, just a flash of metal and the wet, ugly sound nobody ever wants to hear.
Griefer reels, this awful noise stuck in his throat, sword clattering to the ground. Sparks spitting from his armor where Finn’s blade tore through, too deep, way too damn quick to block. The wound is a mess, armor folding in like it’s trying to hide the damage. And blood... actual blood, not data, gushing out, bright and terrifying.
“Gri—” Player tries to move, but his body just freezes up.
Inside, everything is screaming.
Firebrand’s roaring, a wildfire in his gut. Ice Dagger hisses, sharp and clear, like it’s carving his bones. Venomshank’s pissed—writhing, hungry. Ghostwalker—man, Ghostwalker’s practically weeping, blade shuddering like it wants to bail out of his chest.
Then something cracks open.
Hatred.
It explodes through him. A hurricane. Red, raw, ancient, primal.
His knees go out like someone cut the strings. It’s not possession. It’s infestation. Feels like every nerve in his body is burning up—like watching yourself drown but you’re still breathing.
His mouth opens, and the scream that comes out isn’t even his. It’s older, deeper, a sound that could break glass.
His eyes... they’re on fire.
The swords? They wake up inside him. Fire ripping through his chest, ice cracking the ground, poison sizzling on his skin. Ghostwalker’s voice is everywhere, a wind full of knives and mourning.
He moves.
Predator mode, full send.
He launches at Finn.
Finn’s still got that smirk, sword up, mouth about to spit out something snarky.
Player just shatters his blade. Steel explodes.
Second hit, gone. Finn’s arm just deletes, leaving nothing behind.
Third hit, the Firebrand right in the gut, and it eats Finn alive.
Finn’s howling, his code fracturing, fire pouring out his eyes and mouth. He just... melts out of existence.
Even when Finn’s gone, even when there’s only air and ruin left, he’s swinging. Over and over.
The ground. The nothing. The shame chewing through his bones.
He goes until his arms are shaking, until fire’s licking his skin, poison choking his lungs, cold in his spine. Until the red dims out and the world comes crawling back.
He stops.
Chest heaving. Vision shot to hell.
And then he sees it.
Blood.
Actual, honest-to-god blood. Red and sticky, splattered up his gloves, painting his arms and chest like some kind of war mask.
Blood.
His knees give out. He tries to speak, nothing comes.
Looks down and sees his own face, twisted and wrong, staring back from a broken shard of code. Doesn’t look like Player.
And then behind him... movement.
A gasp. Choked and sharp.
Griefer.
Still down, still glitching, eyes wide as the world. Watching.
He didn't look scared, or pissed. The expression on this face was more… stunned than anything.
Like he’s seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. All of it. The monster, the boy, the blade, the thing that can’t stop.
“I didn’t…” Player’s voice comes out raw, shredded. “He hurt you. I—I couldn’t—”
Words fall apart. His hands twitch like they don’t belong to him.
Griefer tries to move, just a little, maybe to reach out, maybe to say something, who knows?
Player flinches.
He feels guilty as hell. Was... was this what the Guru wanted him to deal with?
He backs off. Once. Twice.
Then he’s gone.
A brutal blast of red light as he glitches out, the air shrieking in his wake.
When it’s over, there’s nothing left but busted code.
And silence.
And blood.