Chapter Text
Just moments ago, you were standing on the train tracks, thinking about everything—and anything you can. Life is exhausting. You're honestly surprised you made it this far.
Every year, you told yourself it would get better. You tried to end your life more than once, but the fear of surviving always stopped you.
This time, you wouldn't fail. This time, you wouldn't be a coward.
At least now, you thought, you could finally be free. Free from the college you barely got into. Free from the never‑ending trauma. Free from them.
You can't help but wonder what you did to deserve such a doomed life. You knew it from the moment you became painfully self-aware—you were doomed. Doomed to suffer, overthinking every breath, for what felt like eternity. It's so unfair.
Honestly, it never felt like your friends or family liked you all that much anyway. You could sense it in a way, even see it from how they look at you, even hear it from the way they would talk to you.
Somewhere along the way, you became avoidant. Withdrawn. You told yourself you just needed space, but being alone never fixed anything. You can't stop thinking about how everyone would react.
You can easily imagine the ugly crying from your mother and siblings, but not your father's face—you've never seen him sad, so it's impossible to imagine. And your friends?
Would they even miss you, or would they be quietly relieved you weren't there to be a burden anymore? Does anyone actually care about you? You don't know. You never do.
But you do know that you hate them—all of them. It's so unfair that you, specifically you, had to suffer this much. Stuck in an abusive, toxic, controlling household.
Crushed under the expectations of your family, only to disappoint them anyway. It's crazy how they expect so much from you after everything they did.
You barely got any help. Talking to friends or family about your problems never helped.
Rollerblading was the only thing that helped. It got you outside. Got you moving. Even alone, skating through the streets at night with music in your ears felt calming. It made you feel something—something you couldn't quite put into words.
They used to belong to your older sister back when she was your age, but she barely ever touched them. So they ended up forgotten in the basement, left to collect dust.
You found them one day while organizing, tucked away like they'd been abandoned. You'd always wanted rollerblades—but they were too expensive, something you never let yourself seriously ask for.
They fit perfectly, like they had always belonged to you. The black and white colours are pristine, not a single scratch in sight.
Seeing them was like seeing your first love—someone you never actually met.
You know, deep down, that no matter where you end up, you'll cherish them forever. It's weird how you're attached to something as simple as some random rollerblades.
Bright lights suddenly blinded you, causing you to snap out of your train of thought. Instinctively, you raised a hand to shield your eyes.
The train arrived.
You remember the impact—just a split second of pain before everything went black.
.
.
.
You remember it happening clearly.
So why are you in a world filled with trash? You've been sitting there, doing nothing, your mind struggling to process what just happened. You have so many unexplained emotions.
You don't know what you feel—empty? Happy? Sad? You were supposed to be dead. It doesn't make sense. How do you even survive after getting hit by a train? Your body feels fine. Completely untouched.
The unbearable stench clogs your lungs, the toxicity making you cough up blood.
You stare down at your clothes, stained with trash and the blood you keep coughing up. Are you going to die again? A slow, painful death? Just keep dying—over and over? It's strange how you somehow survived and ended up somewhere that looks nothing like your home city.
You've been biting at the skin around your nails for as long as you've been awake, anxiety burning hot in your chest. Your eyes feel like they are about to pop out from the pressure.
All you can hear is your heartbeat, pounding as if it's trying to escape your body, and the throbbing headache that feels like you're about to explode.
Your other hand has been tugging at your hair for a while now—you're almost surprised you aren't balding from how hard you're pulling.
Is this some kind of afterlife or punishment—mountains of trash?
A blue screen suddenly glitches into existence in front of your face, blinding you again like that fuckass train. You blink rapidly, trying to force your vision to focus.
The screen is saying something—but the loud ringing in your ears drowns it out, the words spilling uselessly from its nonexistent mouth.
Who the hell is this? It has been going on for a few minutes now and all you can do is just let your mind drift somewhere else. You're trying to distract yourself from the pain.
[—EY—HEY—YOU GOTTA MOVE OR ELSE YOU'LL DIE AGAIN! HELLO!???? GET YOUR ASS UP THIS INSTANT! THIS IS MY FIRST DAY AND IM ALREADY LATE! YOU GOTTA MOVE! I SAID MOVEEEEE!!!]
Once the words finally register, you scramble to your feet and start running after it. You don't know why you're listening. You're just moving. What else are you supposed to do—sit there and wait for death to catch up again?
Your lungs burn as you run, desperate for clean air. You've always been a good runner. You focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but the system won't stop screaming.
You don't have any energy to yell back at it or ask a billion different questions. You honestly wish you didn't follow it from how loud it is being, it's making the throbbing pain even worse.
You trip over a loose wire, crashing into a pile of trash bags. You're back on your feet instantly, gagging as you cover your nose. You quickly spit out the saliva that was building up and mixing with blood in your mouth.
You're about to keep running when you notice it—the trash is moving. Shifting. Pulling together like it's caught in some kind of gravitational pull.
The system suddenly pops up beside your face, blinding you again.
"Eugh! STOP FLASHBANGING ME!" You shout without even thinking, frustration tearing out of your chest. You've never yelled like this before. You've always been quiet. Patient. You swat at the screen, but it only glitches, louder than ever.
[SHUT YOUR BITCH ASS UP AND MOVE BEFORE A TRASH BEAST GETS FORMED!]
"A WHAT NOW!?"
You don't wait for an answer and start running again despite the soreness in your legs. You don't know what a Trashbeast is, but by the name alone, you know you have to keep going.
When you risk a glance back, you see the biggest monster you've ever laid eyes on.
Just then, the king feels fear for the first time—
a massive shadow swallowing you whole as it starts to give chase.
Smart enough to keep your mouth shut this time, you run like your life depends on it.
Because it obviously does.
What are you even supposed to do in a situation like this? Who the hell expects a beast made out of trash to crawl out of the ground and start chasing them? It doesn't slow down.
If anything, it gets worse—two more Trash Beasts forming behind it. How do you get this unlucky? The blue screen is panicking just as hard as you are, screaming nonstop.
Somehow, its volume doesn't attract more Trash Beasts, even though it's at least ten times louder than you were earlier.
"H—hey, uh... blue screen," you gasp. "How long are we gonna run? I think I'm at my li—" A violent cough cuts you off, blood dripping from your mouth and nose this time.
You're going to die one way or another—either choking on the toxic air or getting ripped apart by these fuckass monsters. Then, suddenly, the system goes quiet. It still glitches, but it stops screaming. It's thinking.
[Yeah,] it finally says, way too casually. [I think you gotta kill it yourself, bro.] Kill it? How are you supposed to kill something the size of a whole-ass house—no, an apartment building?
"Hold on, be right back," the system adds. "I got some work to do. Just keep going straight."
"Can't you take me somewhere else?!" you yell, but it disappears before you can get an answer. You force yourself forward, legs burning, lungs screaming for air. You're past your limit.
Desperate, you pull your shirt over your nose, trying to block out even a fraction of the unbearable stench as you keep running. All you do is just stain your shirt more.
Then the ground gives way.
You tumble down a hill of trash, crashing hard. Every impact scrapes your skin raw, over and over, like a thousand paper cuts tearing into you at once.
When you finally hit the bottom, the air is ripped from your lungs.
You land flat on your back, sharp pieces of trash digging painfully into your skin. You can feel blood dripping from your head a little, there is no way you're going to survive any of this.
You struggle to breathe.
You should move. You have to.
Why?
To live.
...But do you even want to?
You don't.
So you stay there.
Giving up.
Again.
No one is out there waiting for you.
You sure do hate your life.
You stare up at the smoke-choked sky as a familiar blue glitch tears through the air. The screen forms again. Something drops into your lap—heavy enough to make you flinch.
You look down.
Rollerblades.
Your rollerblades.
Your body moves before you can think. You sit up fast, clutching them tightly to your chest. For the first time since you arrived here, something feels real. Familiar. You have never loved your life so much.
"Thank you! But how—and what?! As grateful as I am, I'm going to die!" you scream at the screen, holding your precious rollerblades close.
[You really love those, huh?] the screen says. [C'mon! Use them as your Vital Instrument!]
...
"My what now?"
[You know...]
"I don't."
.
.
.
[PUT THEM ON NOW!]
With a tired sigh, you kick off your ruined shoes and strap the rollerblades on. Not like it matters—you're probably going to die anyway. Vital Instruments sounds like something from an anime, not real life.
...Right?
[GOOD,] the system bellows. [NOW FEEL THE POWER IN YOUR BONES!]
"YES SIR—ma'am—uh—" You pause. The voice doesn't sound like either.
[PRONOUNS AREN'T IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW. MOVE!!!.]
You focus. Something stirs. Power hums beneath your feet—wrong, unfamiliar, but alive. Memories surge forward, skating alone at night, headphones blasting, the world finally quiet. The rollerblades feel... responsive. Emotional.
Light flares as they shift, reshaping into something sharper, deadlier. Energy coils tightly as you lock onto the Trash Beast ahead. This was way too easy.
[THAT'S RIGHT, NOW KICK THAT BITCH—]
The boost triggers.
Colorful smoke erupts beneath your feet, and suddenly—
You're flying.
.
.
.
You skedaddle as fast as humanly possible.
"AW HELL NAW, YOUR ASS TWEAKING!" you scream at the screen.
Silence.
The flying screen didn't even follow, they were too stunned by what they just witnessed. They have never EVER met a player as cowardly as them.
Wind roars in your ears, ripping through your hair as your stomach drops like you're on a rollercoaster. You can barely see anything—you're going way too fast.
It feels like you're Sonic the damn Hedgehog. Is this how Sonic sees the world daily? And somehow... you go even faster.
Light floods your vision and in a blink, the world shifts. You somehow teleported. You definitely don't wanna do it again—you feel like you're about to throw up your guts.
You instinctively spin, the same move you always use to slow down while skating.
When you stop, you realize you're still surrounded by trash—but not nearly as much. In the distance there is a gas station with a few trucks and groups of men with gas masks.
You breathe out in relief.
The system appears beside you again, clearly disappointed in you like your parents were.
[...]
"..."
[You had the opportunity.]
"Yeah to run, you didn't seriously expect me to come flying and kicking and beating the life out of it.."
[I did.]
...
"Then... don't?"
[Okay first of all you're a coward, second of all we gotta get you into the city and get you a hotel room, so I can explain everything since you appeared at such an unfortunate place.] It explained, finally it was being more serious.
"Okay... but how...?" You asked confused, surely not by those dudes with trucks—you're not great with strangers, and you'd stutter so hard you'd kill yourself right on the spot.
[See that group of people in the distan—]
"No, don't do this to me." You cut the screen off, no way in hell you are actually asking for help from strangers.
[All you gotta do is just ask for a ride, I'm sure they will take you in since you're not that awful looking, but you gotta take your shirt off to fit in a little... So no incidents happen.]
"Bruh, but I can't—"
[I WILL PUT ON A TEXT ON MY SCREEN SO YOU CAN JUST READ OFF ME YA' LIL' SHIT! WHY DID I HAVE TO GET STUCK WITH SUCH A LOSER!?]
"bu—"
[GET YOUR BITCH ASS OVER THERE!]
You give up on arguing. Honestly, you have no idea what you're doing here anyway. You yank off your sweater, leaving just a plain black T-shirt. Baggy, dirty jeans stay on.
Shoes? Somewhere back in the trash. Great. This is such an amazing day, what the hell is even going on?
You awkwardly skate toward them. The big, imposing men turn instantly, curious. The screen hovers beside your face, text ready for you to read. Your hands are sweaty, your chest tight from anxiety and the toxic air.
You fiddle with your fingers, wishing you could disappear right when you reached them.
"U-uhm... could I get a ride to the nearest town, please? I got abandon—"
"Of course! Hop on in, miss!"
...Well. That was easier than expected.
You climb into the back of the truck, awkwardly lifting yourself up with the help of one of the men. The metal floor is cold and smells like oil and rust, but it's better than rotting trash.
The doors slam shut behind you with a loud clang, making you flinch. The truck rumbles as they start driving.
One of them hands you a gas mask without a word. You hesitate for a second before putting it on, the relief almost instant as clean air fills your lungs. Another guy tosses you a rag and a small pack of bandages.
You stare at them, confused, before awkwardly wiping the grime off your hands and face. Your skin stings where it scraped earlier.
"...Thanks," you mumble, voice muffled by the mask.
[Lucky you, you're getting free service over here! Tee—hee!] the screen said with relief.
They don't say much after that. Just quiet chatter between themselves, the hum of the engine, the occasional bump in the road. One of them offers you a bottle of water. You drink it slowly, hands still trembling.
Finally, your sore legs could rest, at least for a little.
The ride doesn't last long since your brain was too busy daydreaming. Eventually the truck slows, then stops. The back doors swing open, letting in dim city lights and less-trashy air. Buildings. Signs. Real streets.
You sat up and with support left the back of the truck, in a small distance was a gate into a unfaimiliar city.
"Thank you, I really appreciate the help.." you muttered, if you had money, you would definitely have given them a big tip. You have never met nice people, they must have found other people like you!
"Alright," one of them says casually. "That'll be, uh... this much." He holds up his fingers, naming a price you definitely don't have.
Your chest tightens.
The screen beside you is quiet too.
Your heart starts pounding. The men are watching you now, confused, not aggressive—yet. "My bad y'all," you mutter, stepping back.
The rollerblades hum beneath your feet as power floods through them. Colorful smoke bursts out and—
—you're gone.
You launch forward, speed snapping into place, the street blurring beneath you. You don't look back. You don't hear shouting, or footsteps, or anything chasing you.
The men didn't even bother comming after you after seeing that speed.
By the time you skid to a stop several blocks away, your legs feel like jelly. You enter an alleyway and instantly, you stumble forward, hands bracing against your knees as you rip the gas mask off and gag.
Your vision swims. The world tilts. Your stomach twists painfully. "...Oh. Oh that's not good." You mumbled as you grabbed onto your top and used it to try to clean the dirt off your face.
You sink down against a wall, breathing hard. Your hands are shaking worse than before, cold sweat breaking out along your neck.
The screen flickers into view, unusually quiet.
[...Okay,] it says slowly. [New observation.] Your head feels light. Too light. This is all going too fast. Your brain can't process what happened.
[Your blood sugar just dropped like hell,] the screen continues. [Every time you do a big speed boost.] You stare at the ground, before looking up at the screen.
"So... I can't even run properly without crashing." You muttered as you looked at the screen with obvious annoyance.
[...Correct.] Silence settles between you.
You sit there, arms wrapped around your knees. Exhausted. Empty-handed. No money, no food, no memories. Just a pair of rollerblades and a world that seems very committed to killing you.
[...We're gonna need snacks,] the screen finally adds.
"No shit, Sherlock."
[Why are you suddenly PISSY!?]
"I DONT KNOW, MAYBE BECAUSE I AM HUNGRY!"
.
The screen glitches irritably, then does... some magic nonsense somehow. A small bag of coins drops into your lap. You snatch it and stand up immediately, even though your head spins.
"Thanks, blue screen." you say with a big smile, mood flipping instantly.
[Just call me System!]
"Okay... do you know where the nearest store is? I want you to tell me EVERYTHING after I get something to eat." You demanded as you held a finger up in its... face???
[Actually, I don't know anything about this place, it's not in the canon.] It said casually before staying silent after accidentally blurting out some totally not classified information.
"what canon?" [what canon?]
.
.
.
"...Alright. That's not suspicious at all," you mutter, pushing off and skating forward. You desperately need new shoes—these rollerblades are killing your ankles.
You hold a hand against the wall and slowly move your feet forward, you get blinded a little by the sun as you enter the streets again. You can feel eyes on you as you pass. Probably because you're the only one skating.
The city feels wrong, probably because it's unfamiliar. Rusted signs flicker overhead. Buildings lean too close together, like they're trying to listen. People walk past you—everyone seems to be wearing these collars. Is that some kind of trend they've got going on?
No one smiles. A few glance at your face, then your legs, then the rollerblades. You hate that feeling of people looking at you, it gives you goosebumps. You keep your head down and skate anyway despite the judging from strangers.
Your ankles ache with every push. The wheels scrape harshly against the pavement, not meant for this kind of terrain. You slow to a stop near a row of dimly lit shops, blinking up at the signs. One of them looks... normal enough. A convenience store.
System pops up beside you.
[Go in! I don't have all day!]
With a scoff at the screen, you step inside.
Bright lights buzz overhead. You squint, blinking a few times as your eyes adjust. The cashier barely looks up from the counter. You stand there awkwardly, suddenly very aware of how dirty you are.
You quickly grab a basket to avoid any kind of attention. You pause in front of options, all the packages look different and unfaimiliar. Your hands move on autopilot. Candy. Bread. Chips. Soda. Anything with sugar.
Anything that looks like it could keep you from collapsing again. You don't even check prices. You just toss things in, one after another, the basket getting heavier.
[...You're overdoing it,] the system comments, its voice laced with disgust, like you're committing sin of gluttony. You lowkey are, but that doesn't matter.
"I have human rights to buy what I want," you mumble, careful not to look like you're talking to the air, since no one else seems able to see the annoying system but you.
[...Fair.] It stayed quiet as you looked through the different aisles
You grab a bottled juice, then another, then another, and another, and another, and another!
You pause in front of the fridge, staring at yourself in the glass. Your reflection looks... bad. Smudged with grime. Hair a mess. Eyes tired.
Disgusting.
You look away.
Near the back, there's a small rack of clothes. Cheap stuff. Plain. You grab a loose black shirt and a pair of pants that look comfortable enough. You don't care how they look. You just want something clean.
At the counter, you fumble with the coins, counting them too slowly. Your hands shake just a little. The cashier finally glances at you, eyes lingering for half a second longer than comfortable.
He seems to have a permanent frown on his face.
He doesn't say anything.
You grab your bag and leave.
Outside, you sit down on the curb immediately, ripping open one of the snacks with zero shame. You eat fast, like your body's afraid the food will disappear if you don't.
The sugar hits almost instantly, warmth spreading through your chest.
"...Oh," you breathe. "Yeah. That's better."
[See?"] the system says. [Blood sugar.]
"No shit."
You need a hotel. You need a damn shower before you even think about putting on these clean clothes. More shopping can wait for tomorrow.
You stand up slowly, carefully, gripping the bag in your right hand as you balance yourself on the harsh ground.
You skate slower now, following the system's vague directions until you reach a small hotel—not cheap, not fancy. The sign flickers.
Perfect.
The clerk barely looks at you as you slide the coins across the counter. A key slides back. Room number scribbled on a tag. You drag yourself upstairs, every step heavier than the last.
You are never climbing stairs again with rollerblades. You're honestly surprised the clerk didn't say anything about them.
Inside the room, you drop everything immediately.
Silence.
You sit on the edge of the bed, then slowly lie back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Your rollerblades sit on the floor beside you, a little dirty on the wheels—but nothing a bit of water can't fix.
Your mind finally processes, in silence, everything you just went through.
You're not dead.
You don't know how you feel about that.
You feel a little empty about that fact.
With a sigh, you sit up after a short rest. The system is gone.
"...Uh, System?" you say out loud, half-expecting it not to respond.
It does anyway, popping back into existence.
[What's up?]
"Are you... you know... gonna explain everything?" you ask, genuine confusion in your voice as you look up at the floating screen.
[YES!! FINALLY! Okay, so I am your system! Yes, you died—how unfortunate—but now you're in this world! So you've got some charact—AHEM, SPECIFIC PEOPLE that you have to rizz up! Because you have these love meters you gotta fill up! In exchange, you get lost memories back!]
You blink with your mouth gaped. You have to be high right now or something.
[I know, you're probably wondering, "What memories? I remember just fine!" Well, you don't, because you have a complex, stupid mind, so there's tons of stuff you don't remember! And also, by filling these love meters, you get to choose where you go after everything's done! Heaven, home, or any kind of paradise! Your choice!]
"Holy fucking yap."
Your eyes look like they're about to pop out of your skull.
"WHO EVEN ARE YOU!?"
[I JUST TOLD YOU WHO I AM! I'M YOUR SYSTEM! I'M GUIDING YOU THROUGH THIS SPLENDID ADVENTU—]
"THERE IS NOTHING SPLENDID ABOUT THIS!" you snap.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT BACK THERE!? WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY CANON AND VITAL INSTRUMENTS!? HOW DID YOU GET MY BEAUTIFUL, GLORIOUS ROLLERBLADES!? HOW ABOUT YOU TELL ME THAT!?"
[EUGHH! SHUT UP, PLAYER! I TOLD YOU IT WAS A TRASH BEAST, IT'S IN THE NAME! VITAL INSTRUMENTS ARE OBJECTS YOU PUT LOVE INTO—ATTACHED TO—SOMETHING THAT CAN'T BE REPLACED! IT GIVES YOU REALLY COOL POWERS! LIKE YOUR ROLLERCOASTERS THAT I GOT FROM MY MAGIC THAT'S MORE SUPERIOR THAN YOURS OBVIOUSLY!] It blurted out, clearly avoiding one of your questions.
"YOU'RE AVOIDING THE CANON PART!"
[OKAY, YOU'RE IN A FICTIONAL WORLD. THE REST YOU GOTTA LEARN FROM LOVE METERS!]
.
.
.
You stare at the screen.
Just stare.
"...fuck off," you say flatly. The system glitches, like it's offended, then flickers.
[WELL IT'S PAST MY BEDTIME SO SEE YOU TOMORROW, STUPID IDIOT!!]
And just like that, it disappears.
Instantly, your ears ring from how quiet it got. The absence of its screeching is almost worse than its presence. You sit there, frozen on the edge of the bed. You wait for it to pop back up but it doesn't.
The silence settles in, heavy and uncomfortable. Your chest feels hollow. You exhale slowly. "Finally," you mutter to yourself, though the relief doesn't really reach your chest, doesn't touch the part of you that's still screaming from exhaustion and fear.
You let your body slump forward, hands sliding over your face, rubbing at the grime and streaks of blood that won't come off with a mere wipe.
Eventually, you drag yourself into the bathroom. The tiles are cold under your feet, the harsh light buzzing overhead. You turn the faucet on and let the water run over your scraped skin.
It stings sharply, and yet somehow, that sting is welcome. Pain feels real. It feels like proof that you're alive.
You lather quickly, scrubbing at every trace of dirt and grime, the smell of rot and smoke still clinging faintly to your clothes and hair. You avoid looking down at your arms.
the cuts and abrasions are small, but enough to remind you of how close you were to never seeing any of this again.
When you finish, you step out and wrap yourself in a towel, dripping water onto the cracked tiles. The clothes felt luxurious. You take a deep breath and step up to the slightly fogged mirror.
It's you!
The reflection staring back is... better, cleaner. A few small scars, scratches that should heal in a few days itself.
Dark circles under your eyes are heavier than usual, probably from exhaustion more than anything else, and the redness in your eyes slowly fades as you blink a few times, forcing them to adjust. Your eyes linger there, tracing the marks on your skin.
You turn to the door and leave the bathroom, back to the small bedroom. You turn off the light, then climb onto the bed. The bed creaks as you lie down, staring up at the ceiling again.
No glowing screen. No yelling. Just you and your thoughts.
The tracks.
The lights.
The impact you were supposed to feel more than you did.
You could feel a lump form in your throat.
You tried to end your life.
You remember standing there, convincing yourself it would finally be quiet. That you wouldn't have to wake up tired anymore. That no one would be disappointed in you for existing.
And now you're here.
Alive.
Again.
Your chest tightens, and you curl slightly onto your side, gripping the blanket. Your vision started to get blurry as tears filled your eyes.
Love meters.
Tasks.
A future you didn't ask for.
Where would you even wanna go after this?
Eventually, exhaustion pulls you under. Not peaceful, not calm—just heavy enough that your eyes close anyway.
Tomorrow can deal with itself.
For now, you sleep.