Chapter Text
At the center of Crossroads, just off to the left, stood two silent figures standing atop Zuka’s truck. They’ve become quite the landmark, a popular tourist attraction—some even consider them an urban myth. Some inphernals are lucky enough to snap a photo with them. Others have only seen these local celebrities through pictures and videos. But few get to see statues come to life as they get into position.
It’s a different story for Phoneplayerbytheway and RottenTradgedy though, they’re always spotted together, two peas in a pod. Doesn’t matter if they’re setting up their exhibit or packing up for the day—most inphernals never get to see their beginning nor the end. Only they’re privy to what lies behind the scenes of their AFK sessions, the thoughts that run through their heads as the world seems to move briskly around them, and most importantly, moments when the silence breaks.
It seems a bit silly, but doing absolutely nothing for hours on end is a lot more difficult than it seems. Containing the urge to move is hard enough, let alone silencing one’s voice and subduing the muscle memory to wave when someone greets them. But there are moments of silence and stillness, when the only inphernals left in crossroads are Phoneplayerbytheway and RottenTradgedy.
It’s been a couple of months. You know what that means? That’s right, a new phestival!
…
“Wanna…play a match?”
The air’s always heavier for whoever decides to speak first. Not because of any unresolved tension, just because standing unmoving for hours dulls your muscles quite a bit.
“Sure.”
Short, sweet, and to the point. They could roll out all the things they wanted to say later. But time was of the essence since it wouldn’t be long before the center square would be filled with inphernals. But for the few moments when it’s desolate with no spectators in sight, it was alright for them to break character, to stretch, drink some water, and maybe even play some matches together. What started out as a teal Medkit and orange Vinesplash in crossroads turned into yellowkit versus bluesplash during the match. Comedy versus Tragedy.
The match started out normal enough, Shuriken and Biograft started harassing Hyperlaser right off the bat. Meanwhile, Skateboard was having a fun time chipping away at Katana’s health alongside Banhammer, with Vinesplash doing their best to keep Katana alive. Spoiler alert, he ended up dying right as Biograft was about to help. Then, Vinesplash was next on the chopping block.
Somewhere during the middle of the match, Medkit suddenly started shooting at Vinesplash, catching them off guard. They didn’t return the favor though. Surely it’s just an accident. After all, they had a sort of Hypertruce, but the healer version. That by virtue of them both being healers who already get targeted by tanks, assassins, ranged, and meeles all at once, they would hold off on attacking each other. They both have enough on their plates, no need to add any more gunfire to the mix.
Throughout the match, Medkit would periodically throw shots at Vinesplash. It’s almost as if he had a cooldown for it. It was strange behavior. Yet, there wasn’t any difference in Medkit’s facial expression, just the same stern neutrality. At some point, Vinesplash reached the limit of their own tolerance and fired back anytime Medkit fired at them. However, this action only led to Medkit phighting back with greater vigor as if he wasn’t the one who broke the truce originally. There was a slight air of hostility in his headshots. But Vinesplash wasn’t one to back down so easily either.
Not enough to use their E and Q skills on Medkit though, that was reserved for the tanky units. Except, the two healers on opposite teams were gradually adopting a more aggressive playstyle, charging frontline despite their squishy HP. But most importantly, targeting each other when given the chance. At first, Medkit was caught off guard by a tag-teaming Coil and Katana. But Vinesplash would soon be eliminated after a Skateboard slowly chipped down their health enough for them to fall victim to the dreaded Bumhammer phinisher.
That’s how the rest of the match went, with both of them going at each other's throats. Even their teammates were calling them out for recklessly rushing on point alone. In some ways, it was costly for both of their teams, with overtime extending a few minutes too many. Unfortunately, Medkit’s aim seemed to gradually worsen, becoming quite elusive. His headshots were hardly hitting, let alone just hitting the target in general. He kept using his skills like a damage-dealer, costing his team the heal—which ultimately gave Tragedy the victory.
Aside from the earlier comments on the healer’s aggressive playstyle, no one uttered a word after the match was over. They didn’t have to, it was a general consensus—It was especially clear to RottenTradgedy, who bore witness to the downward trajectory of their friend’s gameplay. Beyond the results themselves, there was a bitter yet confusing taste that lingered in the air.
When the pair loaded back up into the empty streets of Crossroads, they hadn’t even made it to the front of the truck yet, when RottenTradgedy was keen on addressing the lone Banhammer hiding behind a street lamp. Speaking of, who could Banhammer possibly be hiding from?
“So…what was that about?” It wasn’t even spoken in an accusatory tone, just genuine confusion, maybe even a bit of concern.
Phoneplayerbytheway took a few more steps before stopping, holding with them a contemplative silence until finally, showing their face. “Why’d you join Team Tragedy?”
To say RottenTradgedy was baffled would be an understatement. They scoffed, trying to keep a civil attitude despite their bewilderment slipping out. “Phone, I’m literally RottenTradgedy. You didn’t seriously think I would choose Comedy…did you?”
Phoneplayerbytheway huffed to themselves, mumbling what could only be inferred as displeasure. Underneath that distant attitude, RottenTradgedy could sense the faintest smidgen of nervousness, seeing that Phoneplayerbytheway was now clutching onto their elbow in an attempt to self-soothe. “I thought you agreed to join the same team. You said you didn’t like angst, but here you are joining the dark side.”
Being technical with their words, “Well, I never said I hated it, just that—
—That you’re neutral about it. I know.”
“Ph—” RottenTradgedy wanted to speak but ended up holding their tongue, looking for the right set of words. Amidst the few seconds of deliberation, the best they were able to come up with was. “
“You were being serious…? I didn’t think it was a big deal.” Trying to dig up old conversations from memory, it suddenly hits them, their agreement that is. For all the previous phestivals, RottenTradgedy chose independently. Except, somehow, they always ended up on opposite teams despite being known by the public as the duo with the idling performance art. It got to a point where this news went from a nothingburger to full on theories and discussions on public forums. Was it possible that despite them performing together, they were secretly at odds with each other? What else would they constantly be on opposite teams?
This led to an influx of sleuths showing up to "investigate" the alleged underlying tension. There were two notable kinds of investigators, the competitives, and the casuals. The competitive detective would be decked out in all the necessary gear, fedora, long trench coat, rustic briefcase, and a ridiculously antique magnifying glass that’s still covered in dust. They would analyze every little detail to a tee, every blink, every flutter of the eyelash, every minuscule muscle movement.
On one notable occasion, an inphernal with dual-colored horns introduced himself as Inspector Oil. With an unbelievably exaggerated stride forward, Inspector Oil bows with their hat. “So these are the famous locals I’ve heard all about. There’s been lots of rumors going around in regards to your goals,” leaning in closer with that questioning finger on his chin, “ulterior motives even.”
Setting his briefcase down on the floor, he pops the clasps open, letting the top of the briefcase open up to reveal a wide variety of antique equipment—except, said “antique” equipment included a stethoscope, ophthalmoscope, and even a random sniper scope? Let’s hope Inspector Oil wasn’t planning anything devious in broad daylight. He unlatches two items: a foldable meterstick and…another foldable meterstick—wow, did he really need two?
Inspector Oil approached the trunk elegantly enough…until he decided to jump on top with all his might—causing the truck to rock a bit. With that same hand on his hip and an annoyingly smug smile, he unfolds one of the meter sticks before lining it up vertically with the furthest extent of RottenTradgedy’s arm. Next, he laid down the second horizontally, parallel to their feet and touching the corner of the vertical ruler. With his finger, Inspector Oil marked out the point at which Phoneplayerbytheway’s foot began.
“6.7 inches of distance. That’s a bit farther than usual, no?” He spoke as if he’d already measured their “friendship” before—like this wasn’t the first time they’d seen each other, let alone the very convenient joke. Done with his examination, he hops off the truck and tosses the two sticks into their folded forms, tossing them languidly back into the briefcase from whence they came.
As he fumbled around the pockets for a certain something, his face suddenly tilted into this sly grin that sent shivers down both of their spines. Turning around, on his neck was a stethoscope. He eyed the two of them, as if playing eeny-miney-moe in his head, trying to decide who gets to go first—and then his gaze stopped on Phoneplayerbytheway. Gulp.
He placed the bell of the stethoscope to the right of where Phoneplayerbytheway’s heart was actually located. If Phoneplayerbytheway’s scowl wasn’t bad enough, it twitched ever so slightly. Despite the inaccuracy, Inspector Oil hummed pleasantly, seeming professional enough until he opened his mouth.
“Let's see…160 beats per minute, feeling a bit nervous, are we? Or maybe it’s the heat, or maybe you haven’t been getting your daily intake of water.” Then, with a suspiciously slow headturn and smiling eyes, “Your turn.”
RottenTradgedy wanted to shake their head violently, as did Phoneplayerbytheway. Someone free them from experimentation. Once again, Inspector Oil placed the bell on the wrong side, confusing his left with theirs. He’s definitely licenseless. “96.7, normal enough.”
How do you even count half a heartbeat? Inspector Oil wasn’t doing a very good job at hiding that smug grin of his—actually, he wasn’t really hiding at all. In the faintest way, RottenTradgedy could express their annoyance, they very subtly twitched their eye. But a twitch is a twitch, an action Inspector Oil used as an excuse to give RottenTradgedy “special treatment.”
At first, he whipped out a dusting magnifying glass and held it rather close to RottenTradgedy’s eye, centimeters away from touching. All the while, Inspector Oil had his own eyes nearly pressed up against the glass, talk about nightmare fuel. RottenTradgedy tried their best to look to their periphery, anything but staring deep into the soul of Inspector Oil’s pupils—they might actually get sucked into a metaphorical black hole. Finally, after what felt like thirty seconds too many, Inspector Oil pulls back, rubbing their chin in a pondering manner. Then, in a tone that screamed trouble and filled the pair with dread, specifically RottenTradgedy,
“Aha! I know just what I need!” And there he goes rummaging through his overflowing briefcase of randomness.
RottenTradgedy was certainly in for a tragedy. When Inspector Oil finally returned, he had this mischievously innocent look on his face as he turned the flash of the ophthalmoscope on before shining it right in RottenTradgedy’s eyes without any warning. Is this what heaven looks like? A flashbang of white light?
“Hmmm, you blunk a grand total of…six or seven times!” Finally, he put that tool away, leaving RottenTradgedy partially blind for a few seconds as their eye adjusted to the sunlight again. Both Phoneplayerbytheway and RottenTradgedy were internally praying for his exit. Across all of these "investigations," if you can even call it that, he had been writing down the statistics he’d collected. And his writing utensil of choice? A large eighteenth-century quill and ink. Was he born simultaneously in the 1700s and 2000s? Regardless, their thoughts were cut short when he suddenly jumped like a Looney Tunes character, hastily packed up all his belongings, slammed his suitcase shut, and proceeded to hide behind a street lamp with his back turned.
In the distance, a wild biograft can be spotted, adorned with a duck float around its waist. With every step it took came sounds of clinks and clangs. When Floatiegraft got close enough, they planted themselves firmly in front of the duo.
“HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?”
Floatiegraft’s face then swaps to an image of Coil, a regular thief of Korblox Administration's most prized possessions, with a big, red, bold word that spells out “WANTED.” What a familiar face, haven’t they encountered a certain nphernal with dual-toned horns who bears that same mischievous look on his face? RottenTradgedy and Phoneplayerbytheway stare at Floatiegraft with the same default expression they use with the rest of their audience.
“HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?”
Floatiegraft repeats the inquiry again…and again…and again. But after the fourth try, Floatgraft changes their line of questioning—directly speaking to RottenTradgedy.
“YOU. FISH. ON LAND. SUFFOCATION.”
Then it turned to Phoneplayerbytheway.
“YOU. DEER. WATER. DROWN.”
Suddenly, a compartment opens on Floatiegraft’s arm, where it proceeds to yank out a deflated float with the same Duck pattern it had on its waist. With its other arm, it retracted to turn into an airpump, inflating the Duck float until there were no more crinkles. Then, with the most robotic set of motions, Floatiegraft puts the floatie over Phoneplayerbytheway’s head, letting it land unevenly on his shoulder.
“I HAVE NO WATER.”
With that, Floatiegraft walks off, clanking away. Glancing over at Inspector Oil’s last known location, he was nowhere to be seen. Looks like he took off while Floatiegraft was occupied with the local statues.That certainly wasn’t a normal Biograft by any means. It seemed a bit… overly concerned with the ocean. No wonder Phoneplayerbytheway was given a floatie, while RottenTradgedy was given a lot of nothing. The Biografts probably can’t hold water within their system lest it fry their circuits.
At this point, it was also getting a little late. In a faint voice, Phoneplayerbytheway makes a comment, “But it doesn’t mean I’ll float.” Grabbing the floatie and pulling it over his head, Phoneplayerbytheway hopped off the truck before stretching out his arms to work their muscles. They were getting a bit sore, which naturally comes with standing still for hours at a time. Speaking of the time, it was about time they headed back home for the day after another productive day of idling. RottenTradgedy was about to join along until,
—Wait, stop moving.”
“Mm?”
Jumping off the truck with a thud, Phoneplayerbytheway suddenly felt something unstick from his back. Turning around, he saw RottenTradgedy holding a piece of paper with the tape still sticky at the top. “What’s it say?”
Flipping the paper around, it read, “Every morning you wake up, I’ll be there. Every night, at dinner, I’ll be there. Every birthday party, I’ll be there.” The initial handwriting was actually a bit atrocious, likely because Inspector Oil wrote it in haste. It took them a few minutes of debating over letters and words until they finally cracked it.
They certainly saw him again, just not in the same persona he adorned the first time they met. But that’s a story for another day.
Now, fast forward to the announcement of a new phestival. Comedy versus Tragedy, the first time the two saw billboards advertising it all over crossroads, a twinkle lit up in Phoneplayerbytheway’s eyes. In simpler terms, you could see this particular phestival as Fluff versus Angst. The sweet, sappy, sentimental highlight of comedy up against the dim, desolate, disparaging nature of tragedy. It’s not apparent at first glance, given Phoneplayerbytheway’s formal style and less-than-amicable demeanor. A tailored teal suit, checkered pants, and the most neutrally annoyed expression you can think of—the kind that college professors who dread teaching wear—like they were forced into it, born to research, but forced to teach said research.
But behind closed doors, fluffy content is what brings the much-needed ray of sunshine into his life. He wouldn’t be as joyous and whimsical without it. On a normal day, fluff can put a smile on someone’s face, make their heart skip a beat, and prompt an involuntary laugh. But it’s on the absolute bottom-of-the-barrel days that fluff shines as bright as a supernova—a force of equal magnitude able to combat the black void of angst. A first gloss-over of Phoneplayerbytheway’s face seems intimidating. However, stick around long enough, and that stern front melts into something much more mellow, laidback—smiles of content, enjoying the moment, you name it.
RottenTradgedy, on the other hand, contrary to their name, actually looks more “friendly” of the two at an initial glance. This can be mostly attributed to their eccentric smile as well as their style as a koi fish—except on land. Adorned with that staff made from roots, RottenTradgedy has the same atmosphere as those wise NPCs resting on the side of the road, ready to hand out side quests at a moment’s notice. Certainly not the type of person who seems to be an active connoisseur of rotten tragedies. And you know what, they aren’t. The only reason why RottenTradgedy picked that team in the first place was for the name—the coincidence was too good to pass up.
Before themes were announced, RottenTradgedy did technically give a verbal agreement to join the same team for the next phestival. Honestly, the only reason they ended up shaking hands with Phoneplaybytheway was because they lost the previous six phestivals—joking about how the Sword deities were on his side. If it meant RottenTradgedy would finally stop their streak of losses, they were willing to join whichever team Phoneplayerbytheway chose.
Yet as fortune would have it, the phestival gods bestowed a joke RottenTradgedy just couldn’t pass up on. So despite their one-off comment that they’d choose whatever team Phoneplayerbytheway would choose next, they didn’t—opting for the pun instead. It was still early in the day for some, and too late for others, enough that no other inphernals were at Crossroads aside from their supposed minor hiccup—at least to RottenTradgedy. “We can be on the same team next phestival.”
“It’ll be too late then.”
His voice sounded so meek, sickly even—like RottenTradgedy’s actions would draw the blinds close, preventing any sunlight from peeking through. While Phoneplayerbytheway’s words brought with them a certain heaviness, RottenTradgedy was still far from feeling the full extent of that weight. What weighs more, a kilogram of feathers or a kilogram of bricks, coal, and everything dull? They’d tipped the scale without feeling the change in elevation, asking such a question, “What’ll be late?”
Phoneplayerbytheway held his silence. One inphernal has spawned, and they only had a limited amount of time to get to the truck and freeze. With RottenTradgedy following behind, the two stood on top of the pink rubber, heads and gazes tilted just slightly to the side—a distance not obvious enough for the audience to put the pieces together, but apparent enough to them to feel a dent in their truck—and we’re not talking about the outer shell.
When there weren't as many eyes on them, RottenTradgedy did try to take a few glances over at Phoneplayerbytheway’s face. Maybe if they looked with enough precision, they could decipher something, anything! The lateness, the sour taste, the additional gap of two inches (which someone measured by the way), any answer that would explain the deeper scowl on Phoneplayerbytheway’s face.
Ultimately, RottenTradgedy could only huff out a small sigh of apathy. Whether or not Phoneplayerbytheway heard it wouldn’t change much. Statues are known for their lack of reaction, even if their internal marbling is cracking piece by piece.
This particular session was cut short due to dehydration caused by “the sun’s too bright.” It’s like Phoneplayerbytheway hates it when their steak is too juicy or when his lobster is too buttery. The brighter the sun, the better, given their vitamin D Deficiency. But whatever, they’ll be there again tomorrow.
They weren’t—or at least Phoneplayerbytheway wasn’t.
The truck was there. Checking their invisible watch, it was about time for them to resume their AFK sessions. Shrugging their shoulders, RottenTradgedy hopped aboard anyway, Phoneplayebytheway would probably join soon enough…right?
He did not join soon enough. He didn’t join at all.
For the seven hours RottenTradgedy stood there all alone, the air felt colder than usual. More people came to point and gasp at them like those overly exaggerated YouTube thumbnails. Some spectators even went as far as doing live commentary on a missing Medkit-shaped Phoneplayerbytheway who always stands right beside RottenTradgedy. All the while, RottenTradgedy kept up their default expression and movement rooted to the ground. No matter the urge to address the lack of the Banhammer behind the street lamp, RottenTradgedy stared beyond the horizon with a less amicable smile than usual.
Eventually, news made its rounds around, and RottenTradgedy learned about a certain… it might be easier to just show what they’d seen.
Turns out, Phoneplayerbytheway had been conducting their own idling session alone in a different region—purposefully avoiding their usual spot. Out of a mixture of awkward tension, uncertainty, and pettiness, RottenTradgedy returned the favor. All throughout the seven days of the phestival, they would deliberately AFK in different servers even if they happened upon the same region. It wasn’t long before inphernals picked up on the pattern—their solo performances weren’t one-offs. Rumors circulated—were they branching out their AFK operations? Perhaps the truck was starting to feel a bit too cramped for the two of them. And at worst, something was amiss between their friendship.
No matter the empty space, neither of them could stand front and center—it just wouldn’t be right. While Phoneplayerbytheway’s initial neutral demeanor slipped into something more bitter, RottenTradgedy’s once amicable smile took a hard hit as well. Their eyes carried with them a weighted stress that only seemed to worsen as time went on.
It was a cycle: idle, match, sleep—idle, match, repeat. No matter if their eyebags were growing darker and heavier day-by-day. No matter if the audience continually asks about their day, “are you okay?”
There were some people with a little too much time on their hands, likely due to unemployment. Led by an unknown individual, they would meticulously comb through every lobby in search of both Phoneplayerbytheway and RottenTradgedy alone on top of their respective trucks. Then, with mathematical precision, they found a way to measure the distance between their friendship, even without their bodies being physically present right next to each other.
Let’s use Rocket as the unit of measurement, given that his feet are the most parallel for comparison. He is 168 centimeters long. By tilting him at a 90-degree angle, you can stack him horizontally to get an approximate estimate of both the truck and trunk’s length. The truck is 6 Rockets long, and the trunk is 2.6 Rockets long when rounded up.
Therefore, the length of the truck is simply 168 * 6 = 1008 centimeters. As for the trunk, 60% of 168 is 101 centimeters when rounded up. Therefore, the total length of the trunk is (168 * 2) + 101 = 437 centimeters.
Next, in order to calculate the width of both Phoneplaybytheway and RottenTradgedy, you need to measure their horizontalness in conjunction with the truck. Phoneplayerbytheway makes up about a third of the trunk’s total length. By using the equation, 437 * 0.31, you get 135.47 centimeters. RottenTradgedy, on the other hand, has an extra caveat given their webber. With the extra length, they take up 45% of the trunk’s total length, putting them at a maximum width of 196.65 centimeters. Now, take away the flipper, and you get a minimum width of 161.69 centimeters. Even with just the minimum, RottenTradgedy has a greater width compared to Phoneplayerbytheway.
With a coordinated effort, the anonymous group of inphernals split into two sub-groups—one tasked with finding RottenTradgedy while the other finds Phoneplayerbytheway. Once they each found their respective targets, they shared the news, trying to figure out which side each subject is closest to, therefore, they only needed to take measurements for one side rather than both.
The group also took front-facing images to be overlapped for additional observations. The findings? Throughout the entire week of that phestival, there was not even a centimeter of overlap between the two subjects. Turn the opacity up, and it’s like they’d always been standing side-by-side. It’s no wonder they looked so oddly shifted to one side in their individual images—it’s as if they subconsciously wanted to make adequate space for a certain somebody. Despite all that room, neither of them took up space, letting the air hang around the concept of another figure.
At most, the AFK duo takes up 76% of the trunk’s total length, leaving 104.88 centimeters left of maximum distance, which roughly translates to 62% of a Rocket—41 inches give or take. But that’s still a lot of usable space. But when the measurements were finally calculated, they never had more than 10 inches of distance between them, still close—just not as close as they normally are.
While fans debated in-server, online, and sometimes right in front of their independent idling sessions, the truth wouldn’t be revealed until the phestival was over. Each day, the sleuths would add a new statistic to their ever-growing board.
Monday: 6.5 inches
Tuesday: 5.9 inches
Wednesday: 9.1 inches
Thursday: 4 inches
Friday: 3.8 inches
Saturday: 7.2 inches
Sunday: 2.5 inches
Someone even knitted a whole blanket after assigning colors to certain ranges of inches. What lovely contributions to the ever-growing Phoneplayerbytheway and RottenTradgedy fanbase.
All the while, from the comfort of the AFK duo’s private quarters, they kept up with statistics being posted—sometimes adjusting their position just to see how that would affect the final results. How much closer or further could they get without overlapping was the question. Like telepathy, but the physical kind, they managed to make enough space for the other without being physically present.
It softened the distance a little. Not to say it wasn’t there—since they still avoided each other like the plague whenever they coincidentally happened to get in the same match together. Even if they’d leave immediately, those few moments of recognition always did dampen what could’ve been an okay day.
One day turned into two, then turned into three, then six, and finally seven. It was the last day of the phestival, and unfortunately, Team Comedy wasn’t going to see the light at the top of the podium. For any other Tragedy member, it was joyous, the happily tragic kind. But for a certain RottenTradgedy, the win was tragically tragic. Prior to their last match, RottenTradgedy typed up a post to their audience before hitting send under an author’s alias.
“Update: To everyone who thought I joined Team Comedy, I didn’t. I joined Team Tragedy, and even though we’re about to win, I won’t be able to finish this story anytime soon due to some personal issues. Sorry for the extended hiatus.”
Such formal wording and punctuation, so unlike FreshComedy’s previous works, where they’d use light-hearted words and even emoticons if they were in a particularly delightful mood. The message was clear enough to let readers lower their expectations, but vague enough to leave them pondering and yearning for the next chapter. Suddenly, RottenTradgedy’s seemingly minor choice didn’t feel so minor after all. Maybe they should’ve just chosen Comedy. It’d be a funny contradiction given their name and all, it might’ve made for some funny posts.
On the other end of the line, from the perspective of the reader, Phoneplayerbytheway saw the notification pop up on their phone. Their favorite fluffy author, FreshComedy, had just extended their hiatus on a piece of fiction they’d been looking forward to reading. Tragic, just like the inevitable winners of the phestival. Phoneplayerbytheway left a comment like he always did.
“We’ll wait patiently for the next drop o7”
Sent. Leaning back on his chair, Phoneplayerbytheway wasn’t angry in the slightest, even though his favorite fluff writer, literally named FreshComedy chose Team Tragedy. It was never about the themes—rather, what was at stake. During his creative droughts, he always had something, or rather a collection of a certain somebody’s works, to brighten up his day. Sometimes they shone brighter than the sun itself. Amidst the large pool of authors, FreshComedy always seemed to hit the nail on the head when writing their favorite tropes—found family, slice of life, hurt with comfort, you name it. Some of the dynamics and tropes written fit Phoneplayerbytheway’s headcanons to a tee, putting his ideas into organized words.
Somehow, FreshComedy was able to post consistently without sacrificing quality. Consuming their works became a regular pastime, before bed, on the train, and even in the shower once—yes, they are just that good. Under every comment section, he’d be there gushing over specific scenes and dialogue. FreshComedy has never replied to a single comment, but that never dissuaded him from giving his kudos and support. On the off chance that his favorite author does see his comment scattered among many, maybe he can be an extra voice encouraging FreshComedy to continue cooking.
But Comedy lost, and that wasn’t even the team that FreshComedy chose. Yet, the hiatus only extended itself despite their victory—rendering that distant treatment given to RottenTradgedy void. He had some apologies to hand out.
It was Tuesday, a few days after Tragedy secured their win. RottenTradgedy was at the truck, hosting their usual AFK sessions all alone, just like they’d done for the past week. It kind of made Phoneplayerbytheway wonder when was the last time they looked so glum and sullen. To say he was nervous was an understatement. Is this what the spectators feel every time they get the courage to try and talk to them?
Putting one foot out the bush, then the other, Phoneplayerbytheway finally stood up straight and brushed the leaves off his suit. It was quiet at daybreak. Was it worth sitting on the sidelines for hours waiting until the coast was clear? Somehow, it wasn’t as comfortable as standing in the open air for hours at a time—probably because the branches were constantly itching him.
With a cool and collected manner, he made their way towards the truck, closer and closer. If there’s anything he knows from being on the looker’s side, RottenTradgedy definitely sees him, maybe a bit too well. Despite Phoneplayerbytheway’s presence, RottenTradgedy’s face remained unchanged. It didn’t need to change, he’d see it move soon enough. Stepping onto the platform, Phoneplayerbytheway took his rightful place by RottenTradgedy’s side, hoping the distance between them was 6.7 inches, just like the first time it was measured.
As inphernals started spawning in, many locals caught wind of the pair. It was a strange enough sight seeing two separate for the week only for them to reconvene without any warning—but stranger were their expressions, RottenTradgedy with the scowl and Phoneplayerbytheway with the quaint smile. It’s been a while since so many people grouped up around them, mumbling theories with each other, some pointing, others rejoicing, and many left in a state of utter disbelief.
Phoneplayerbytheway wasn’t sure how long they’d be standing for. However long RottenTradgedy planned to AFK for is, however long he will too, Phoneplayerbytheway isn’t running on his own schedule anymore. Like clockwork, they let the hours run by, not having a single word or sparing a single glance. Until finally, RottenTradgedy took the first step. A mix of confusion, betrayal, and pang was apparent enough as they turned their head back. RottenTradgedy opened their mouth but ultimately chose to withhold their words. What to ask, what to ask? Decisions, decisions.
But that’s alright, because Phoneplayerbytheway always meant to take the initiative. “I wanted to apologize to you, for being such a phony friend.”
Phoneplayerbytheway stepped off the Truck, putting themselves at the same elevation as RottenTradgedy. “Sorry. I got mad at you for no reason.”
Feeling the moment, he took a step forward. “You know that one author you introduced me to? FreshComedy. I gush about their work all the time. A few weeks back, they made a post saying that if they lost another phestival they would quit writing. I figured they would join Team Comedy,
“So—
—Wait.”
“Hold the phone, is that why you wanted me to join Team Comedy?”
Though a little thrown off by the sudden interruption, Phoneplayerbytheway gave a curt nod.
RottenTradgedy slowly turns their entire body around, all with this look of utter disbelief on their face. “That was an exaggeration, I wasn’t being serious.”
“What?”
“I was just being sarcastic since I was frustrated that I lost the previous six phestivals.”
Phoneplayerbytheway tilted their head, confused. “Wait, I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about FreshComedy.”
“What do you mean? I am FreshComedy."
…
The silence that followed was thick. Phoneplayerbytheway had this dumbfounded look on their face, trying to rack their brain over the bomb that was just dropped on them. Their all-time favorite fanfic author was their best friend all along? Phoneplayerbytheway was now the one trapped in a state of utter disbelief, enough that they couldn’t even muster any coherent sentences—just fragments of
“You—Wait, so— Hold on… I—, But—”
Phoneplayerbytheway felt like he was born fifteen minutes ago. As if he wasn’t the only one caught off guard by the revelation that their idol, who got them out of a creative block, had been by their side this whole time—they can’t decide if they should be screaming out of joy or suffocate themselves with the overwhelming guilt they feel after social distancing over a misunderstanding.
Meanwhile, Phoneplayerbytheway’s astonished reaction stunned RottenTradgedy equally as hard. In a stupefied voice, they ask, “Y-You didn’t know!? I literally told you before!”
Clutching their pearls, Phoneplayerbytheway’s voice cracks, “I thought you were joking!”
Clutching their head in agony, “Joking!? I thought you knew but were just pretending not to know for whatever reason.”
Amidst the disbelief, the distress in their eyes said it all. Seems like Tragedy won more than just the phestival—tinkering with the hearts of two friends by sprinkling in a whole lot of miscommunication, misunderstanding, and missing time.
The weight of the world was upon them. For Phoneplayerbytheway, he only clutched his face even harder. He really wanted to toss himself into the nearest bin for the silent treatment he gave his best friend over such an unjustified reason. That’s without even mentioning the fact that RottenTradgedy has been feeding them with so much fluffy content for so long. Peeking through the cracks of his fingers, he probes, “I thought you didn’t like writing.”
“Now, I never said I didn’t like it. It’s just a lot of work…but—...”
That last part was drawn out nervously. There was definitely something more RottenTradgedy wanted to share. Wanting to get the full answer, Phoneplayerbytheway asks the question every person spectating has been meaning to ask. “You still wrote them, though—consistently even.”
“…Why?”
With a sigh, RottenTradgedy composes themselves. “Let’s just say, I was tired of you rotting away at home. If you were going to spend your days consuming the internet…might as well give you something half-productive to consume.” You don’t often express such heartfelt sentiments.
But there was still more, so Phoneplayerbytheway waited patiently for the rest.
“That’s why I kept dragging you out the house. You kept insisting on doing ‘nothing’ all day, so I figured if you’re gonna do ‘nothing,’ you’re gonna do a whole lot of nothin’ outside where the sun’s shining, and you’d get your steps in.”
Ah, Phoneplayerbytheway remembers. He remembers how stubborn he was, refusing to step outside, needing RottenTradgedy to physically yank him outside the house while he clung onto the front door with all his might—fearing for a second that the door might actually rip off its hinges. Looking back on it now, Phoneplayerbytheway really needed that push, or pull…depending on how you look at it. “Thanks, man.”
Trying not to dwell on the sappy atmosphere, RottenTradgedy quickly brushes the comment aside, “No problem…”
…
A beat of silence is to be expected given that they don’t frequently have such…conversations. In fact, they don’t talk much aside from the occasional banter. Although RottenTradgedy would spend an ungodly amount of effort trying to pull Phoneplayerbytheway out the house, only for him to stand firmly in place when they got outside—refusing to move. Truly committing to the bit of doing “nothing.”
Initially, Phonebytheway would stay grounded right outside their apartment, sparking weird looks from his landlord, who has a habit of doing laps around the complex. He gave them the side eye but never questioned further. Slowly but surely, RottenTradgedy managed to drag him further and further away from spawn—all the way to the center square of Crossroads.
So instead of idling in front of his apartment, Phoneplayerbytheway could idle dead center on the sidewalk, being a public nuisance. It was whatever, most people just walked around him anyway. RottenTradgedy would sit on a bench across, waiting for Phoneplayerbytheway to give up and move away. They’d bring all sorts of gadgets and tools to keep themselves entertained, the daily news, fidget toys, and even a whole puzzle. But throughout every single instance, Phoneplayerbytheway’s stubbornness prevailed.
So RottenTradgedy gave up and gave in.
They got bored of waiting around. Somehow, the prospect of doing absolutely “nothing” was more entertaining than waiting while doing “something.” What started out as standing in the center of the sidewalk turned into “Hey, maybe we shouldn’t be a menace to the public.”
While searching for a new spot, RottenTradgedy recommended a lot of acceptable spots. The park, next to a tree, behind a street lamp—all areas that wouldn’t disturb others. They weren’t satisfactory enough for Phoneplayerbytheway, though, they were also so…conventional, not unique at all.
Feeling a burst of recklessness and creative freedom, Phoneplayerbytheway ran over to a truck before hopping aboard the trunk. It was a horrible idea, trampling on somebody’s property like that. RottenTradgedy could already see the court fines. Trying to be a voice of reason, they went back and forth.
“Oi, get off, I’m not tryna watch you get fined for property damage.”
“You know…I keep seeing this truck here, no one’s coming to claim it. I’m starting to think it might be abandoned.”
“With those clean windows? Likely story.”
The two kept bickering and bickering nonstop, enough that out of the corner of their eye, one curious stranger stared at their argument from a distance. “Don’t quit it until you try it!” Phoneplaybytheway extended their hand out, gesturing for RottenTradgedy to come up.
“I’m not going up there.”
The gesture didn’t stop. With expectant eyes, Phoneplayerbytheway kept that same suave they had earlier. Unfortunately, his stubbornness wins once again. RottenTradgedy gave it a try. They hopped onto the trunk, felt the rubber grip their feet, and realized that they were planted. The world looked so much smaller, even if they were just looking down at it from a truck’s view.
As much as RottenTradgedy didn’t want to admit, given they could very well be committing a crime worthy of being fined money they may or may not have, it was a much more unique view compared to just standing by a tree like every other inphernal. This height really created quite the distance, in some ways, RottenTradgedy felt more like the spectator rather than those who came to spectate.
However, the moment was cut short when the owner of said “abandoned truck” came back to well…drive his truck…? Dressed in head-to-toe black and bearing the face of a retired veteran, he shouts out in a gruff voice, “The hell are you kids doing up there?”
It was Zuka.
So this is it. They’re fucked. There goes their lunch money—actually, it might be way more than just lunch money, maybe breakfast and dinner too. Oh, RottenTradgedy’s clean record is now plagued with petty property damage—or trespassing, depending on how nice the owner’s feeling.
While RottenTradgedy mentally prepares for their execution, Phoneplayerbytheway comes up with the most normal excuse.
“We’re statues.”
Zuka still looks just as unimpressed. “I don’t remember statues being able to talk.”
Cooked. Grilled. Barbeque chicken alert. RottenTradgedy just closed their eyes, not even trying to come up with an excuse to defend their actions, let alone Phoneplayerbytheway’s nonsense of an excuse. Maybe if they close their eyes for long enough, the problems will vanish into thin air like Shuriken when you catch him trying to backstab you.
…
The silence wasn’t comforting at all. It just added to the building suspense, rising tension, before it all eventually goes kaboom. Then the footsteps started walking away…and now they’re going behind them?
All they heard was the truck door opening, sounds of rummaging, boards hitting against one another, until they both felt it—something slipping over their heads, two pieces of something pressed on their chest and back. Daring to open their eyes, RottenTradgedy peeked out. It was a sandwich board with a business advertisement for Da Shop.
Zuka turned them into billboards. “Since you wanna be statues so badly, won’t you do this old man a favor?”
To avoid the possibility of landing themselves in court with a ticket, they worked as the living, breathing advertisements for Zuka’s shop. That day, they stood on top of the truck for eight hours with water breaks in between. Amidst the curious glances and suspicious side-eyes, they hardly moved a centimeter. Phoneplayerbytheway adapted to the role of being a statue way too quickly. He must’ve been really keen on doing “nothing.”
That’s how it started. Now, they’re seasoned professionals at standing still for hours at a time. When there isn’t anyone looking, they’ll sneak the quick water break. And if they have to use the bathroom? Well…thoughts and prayers. They usually manage to hold it in. What started out as a way to avoid the dreaded legal system turned into their little “art performance.” So the days between the two often occur like this,
“I feel like doing nothing.”
“Alright, let’s go do nothing.”
The pair then dress up in whatever outfits they feel like standing for hours in before heading out to their usual spot. Despite the rough first impression with Zuka, they were actually welcomed back to act as a kind of “attraction.”
They would garner attention from locals and passersby until some would be curious enough to approach, asking questions. Then, upon close inspection, they would see that conveniently placed sandwich boards over their bodies and put two and two together—assuming the pair were willingly advertising Zuka’s shop. Key word: willingly.
Despite many asking questions about the products, quality, and price, like the good statues they were, Phoneplayerbytheway and RottenTradgedy kept their mouths shut. Some spectators found it rude, but others appreciated how far they were willing to commit to the bit—taking it as a challenge. At some point, Zuka had enough of messing around with them and took the sandwich boards away.
Yet, to his surprise, Phoneplaybytheway insisted they at least keep one to place beside them, saying, “It adds to the vibe.”
Zuka didn’t argue, it was free advertisement anyway. Now, they have gotten verbal permission to continue standing on top of a truck for hours on end while they watch the crowd do whatever the crowd does! And if there’s no crowd, well, I guess they can start counting how many brick tiles there are on the floor.
Taking the spotlight back to present time, Phoneplayerbytheway finds a new topic to touch on. “Say, have you ever considered playing Medkit?”
Raising an eyebrow at the inquiry, “Why?”
“Your aim’s pretty good, better than mine. I’d probably do better with Vine.”
RottenTradgedy considers it for a moment before dismissing the idea. “Too late, you’re already known for being Medkit…and I’m known for being Vine.”
“Well…What if we just keep our fans on the edge of their seats? It adds to the mystery. What’d you say?” Phoneplayerbytheway holds out their hand, intending for a handshake.
“A handshake? How formal of you.”
Immediately changing his mind, “Yea, you know what, way too formal for me. Fist bump?”
Regaining their witty energy, RottenTradgedy reciprocates the fist bump. “Indeed, let’s keep up the surprises.”
“Oh! Do you think Zuka has any more of those cheesecake cubes? They were so good!”
“Maybe, we can go ask.”
“Well? What are we waiting for?”
For once, they do something rather than nothing. It’s a pretty nice day to do “something” after all—be it as simple as enjoying a nice snack.
However, zoom in behind the truck to the left, and there stood Rocket and Zuka. They unintentionally stumbled upon their conversation midway and may have taken the liberty of eavesdropping.
“So that’s where my cheesecake went?”
“You’ve been eating too many sugary foods lately.”
“I didn’t even eat that many!”
“You ate six or seven of them, that’s plenty enough. It might be time to share some with the class.”
“Dad…Where’d you learn that from…?”
“You were with Sword…Six or seven days ago.”