Archive of Our Own

You can only go so long without divine punishment. There is only so much evil that you can do until the whole world turns against you. Problems can only be buried for so much time until there is no more dirt to cover them, but here he is, still shovelling.

Spoke is waiting for the last drop to overflow the bucket. He's been there for a while, waiting for every next lie to be his last one.

During their flight on the happy ghast, he doesn't talk much. That's for Mapicc and Zam to do, they're very good at that, and occasionally they'll drag Jumper into it too which she doesn't seem to mind—Leo must not have been great conversation the last times they were together. Spoke however can't give more than a few short replies each time they try to include him. He appreciates it, he does.

But does he? He doesn't know anymore. He's … tired. If you asked him when the last time was that he slept, he wouldn't be able to give a straight answer. Maybe he'd say it was a couple days ago, and it would just be another lie for the pile.

At this point, he might be considered an expert at evading consequences. How he's managed to avoid getting on Mapicc's bad side so far is lost on him. He's lied and lied and he's hurt and hurt but his best friend is still here, a solid presence behind him, holding him up when he falls. He can't even imagine what it would be like to lose him for good, he refuses to imagine it—that single day where it almost became reality isn't one he dwells on often.

Now whenever a doubtful thought pops up, a thought that accuses him in an ugly voice of all the bad things he's done, he shoves it away for later. When is later? Don't worry about it.

He manages to tune out the voices of his friends after a while. It becomes just him on that happy ghast, high above the clouds where the wind gets so strong they all have to be strapped into that harness tight enough to keep them grounded. The wind tugs at his hair, his bandana, his baggy clothes. They're hidden away up here; no one can see him this high up, he's free to soar to their destination somewhere in the Great Sea. Not even Leo can follow him here, he should have no idea where he's gone.

Spoke dares a look down. Past the grey-white skin of the ghast, a couple thousand blocks down, he sees the pale clouds gently drifting in the other direction. Beneath those, a pale, shimmering sheet of blue. The ocean, with a few small islands here and there he only notices because of the difference in color.

What if he timed his fall to hit one of the islands?

The thought shocks him into sitting upright and staring ahead again. A horrid feeling he can only akin to shivers crawls down his spine awfully slowly. His claws dig into the leather of the harness.

But … why is he scared? He forces his hands to relax and breathes out. Isn't that what he wanted? No, not like this. If he died, it would have to be a punishment. He deserves as much. The server deserves as much. It might be by the hands of Leo, maybe he'd see Ash again in his final moments, or it would be Jumper after all. Maybe Mapicc would give him an easy death with a smile in his last moments—that'd be a mercy he didn't deserve but wanted more than anything.

He didn't get mercies. Jumper spared him from a death trap because she needed his help. Confusing as it was not to be teleported into a death trap, her needing his help to kill Leo had showed him he was only good for destruction. After this, there would be no alliance, would there?

A sigh escapes him. He clenches his eyes shut for a moment, the minuscule chance to rest them for a sad couple of seconds, before he opens them again and looks over at Jumper.

There's no more Jumper.

"What—guys?" he exclaims, but not even Zam sits by his side. When he looks over his shoulder, Mapicc is gone too. "Hey, where'd you guys go?" He undoes the bindings keeping him in the ghast's harness and stands up, a panic seizing his chest cutting so deep it feels like a black hole opens up inside of him.

"Spoke, don't you realise where you're heading?"

He spins around, but there's no one there. A sword makes its way into his hand. He narrows his eyes as he turns on his heel again. There's a voice but no body, and he can't find any invis particles either, no open elytra soaring around him without a visible body to tip him off.

"Show yourself." Mentally, he goes through the list of items he has in his inventory. Aside from the random junk, there's a lone ender pearl. Instead of using it, he tugs the shield he stole from a Lawman's corpse closer in front of him. He keeps the pearl close though, just in case. "Who are you?"

"Look ahead. Where are we going?"

Despite everything, he obeys. The voice isn't one he immediately recognises, but they sound frail and tired and angry, not someone Spoke feels like he wants to mess with.

In front of him, the pale blue of the sky warps into the blue he's used to seeing in the sky, a bright blue with little clouds dotted around above him. How did they get down here so fast? His fingers flex and tighten around the leather of the shield's strap. A small hill becomes visible. Some odd terrain for a plains biome. Trees obviously placed by a player.

It takes a moment but .. .oh. Oh no. He knows this place.

"What is this?" he demands, his voice cracking—and when was the last time that happened?

Below the ghast, he sees a player. They're invisible, full netherite, the chestplate trimmed with gold, the shape of an eye haunting him when they turn to look at a house built into the side of the hill of sandstone, stone, anything they seem to have on hand.

Spoke shakes his head. "No, I'm not doing this." He takes another look around but that voice still has no body. He glares anyway. It'd be childish to yell at them to leave him alone, but the words damn near escape him. What gods deemed it right to bring him here of all places?

Before he can get any kind of answer, he throws himself off the ghast. Wind rushes past him, cutting like claws that try to grab at him. When he lands, he can hear the cracking of bones travel up his legs but takes no damage. He doesn't feel so much as a sting in his feet from landing wrongly. The realisation makes him grit his teeth, and he whips around to look up that hill. If this is a dream … why this place?

"You know what you have to do, Fish Bucket."

His face falls. All instinct to bare his teeth and yell and threaten are quenched by the need to stay silent. That's Ash. Somehow, that voice warped into the person he never wants to see or hear again. He's not sure what's worse: not seeing him or being able to see him. Not that he needs to, it takes no effort to conjure up the image of him in his mind.

He finds his voice again after a few tense seconds. "You don't own me anymore."

There's nothing forcing him to listen. Ash isn't here. Spoke is mostly sure this is all in his own head. And yet, he steps forward. In front of him sits a rose in the grass, staring up at him all innocently, accusingly. Just like Ash's voice, it's fake.

"I don't, no." The voice travels from his left ear to his right, followed by a giggle that has him sucking in a deep breath to keep his cool. "Something far worse owns you, Spoke." Ash spits his voice with so much disgust, Spoke almost feels pride for it. He can imagine the calm facade on Ash's face breaking with a look of anger towards him. And it's always been him, he always got under Ash's skin even if he'd never admit it.

"You think you're all that, hm? Step up. Face it. Do something for once in your miserable life that isn't running away."

That fear coils in the pits of his stomach, the fear he didn't miss in the slightest, knowing he's right. He follows the roses up to the hill, where an ugly build now hastily covered in coal ore and dirt awaits him.

He's just in time to see that invisible version of him approach the build with … her. Spoke's heart sinks. Rose. He forces his head the other way, not wanting to see her enter the build before the invisible player.

"Watch. You can't keep ignoring what you've done."

With a heavy heart, he drops the shield onto the floor and watches. Their voices are muddled, distant, and Spoke has to swallow the lump in his throat.

Rose, oh Rose. A grimace paints itself onto his face as he steps closer. She's picking flowers, some dandelions, a cornflower, a couple poppies, much to the panic of the still invisible Spoke from the past. He follows her, but she only smiles sheepishly before planting the flowers by the base of the build. There's care in the way she digs up the dirt and gently lays the plants inside the freshly created holes, unaware of the horrible death she's about to suffer.

And himself … Spoke glares at the gold trimmed chestplate. He feels no pride now. With the gift of hindsight, he sees now that this death wasn't right. Rose is just an innocent girl. Was. Rose was an innocent girl just trying to survive on this server with her family.

The worst part might be that he can't think of a way this death could've been avoided. It couldn't have, not with the way Ash is. The universe simply decided the blood should be on Spoke's hands, and he accepted.

He still shakes his head. Looking down at Rose as she unearths the cornflower again with the faint excuse of wanting to give it to her brother, he feels nothing but a bitter taste on his tongue.

"Don't go inside," he warns. Maybe if she knew, she'd be able to get away, take Becky with her, hide with their father. Maybe that way, he would be able to keep this blood off his hands, and the timeline wouldn't forcefully tilt to make each and every fault fall into Spoke's lap.

She gets up. A shy and nervous smile splits her lips, a frown making a harsh mark on her young and otherwise undisturbed face. She doesn't even look at the real him when she's invited in.

"Stop." He grits his teeth and pushes past them both to stand in the entrance. "Don't get inside, you're going to die!"

He doesn't even know which of them he's talking to. Which of the two dies a greater death? He glares at his past self, but it twists and mutates into something gross, ugly, unbearable: desperation. This is the start, the first stepping stone to his decline.

"Do you really think this was your first mistake?"

He clenches his jaw shut. Jamato. Really, did he have to be taunted by both his biggest enemy and the friend who once betrayed him? He'd ask what he did to deserve it if he could actually bear to hear the answer. With no effort, he conjures up the image of him in front of him, someone almost tangible to throw his foulest looks at.

"No, I'll wait my turn. Go watch them, you deserve it."

No, he already went through this, he doesn't deserve to go through it again. He doesn't get to snap back. Instead, he's interrupted by Rose walking right through him, like he's a ghost, like he doesn't actually exist. Spoke grabs at his chest at the sudden empty feeling. He shakes his head again, frustration making him clench his hands into tight fists, his claws digging painfully into his palms.

"Rose!" he shouts before he turns on his heel. The angry edge to his own voice makes him shiver. "Rose, get out of here!"

The invisible Spoke walks through him as well. He stumbles forward, gasping for air. He's not in time to shout again before all the light is blocked from the room, obsidian covering the only way out.

"Spoke, stop." It's weird to talk to himself, to have to step around him and block his view to Rose, to stare into an invisible abyss underneath a helmet and knowing it's his own, terrified face that would be staring back. He recognises the shaky breath out he'd been so sure wasn't audible.

"Stop! This isn't going to fix things! You can't kill Ash like this, it won't work!" He would've grabbed onto his armour, would've shaken him by the shoulders if he could—but he's afraid to even try.

The conversation between the two imitations of the past is one he's painfully familiar with. All the details are there. Horror settles deep in his gut. Everything he sees is perfectly how he remembers it to be, exactly what he used to think over every single night instead of being able to sleep. He can mimic the exact way his past self's hands tighten around the obsidian he's holding, the shaky step back when Rose cowers against the wall, the way his shoulders shrink and make him look smaller. The words almost leave his own lips as he mouths along.

"No, this is wrong." He steps between Rose and the invisible Spoke another time. "Don't kill her. This isn't going to help, this will make everything so much worse! Stop!"

But his other self keeps reasoning against him, he needs to do this, he will avenge her, he will make it up to the server, and Spoke throws a punch that goes straight through his head and the armour.

"You don't! You don't make up for it! Stop, you can still stop!"

When Rose begs for her life, he grits his teeth so hard they might chip. He raises his hands—they're covered in blood, why are they covered in blood?—and buries his claws into his hair to tug at the strands. His past self isn't listening. He never did. He didn't even listen to Mapicc back then.

"Don't do this, come on bro," he begs, and the desperate gasp for air is disguised as a scoff or a laugh. There is no face to react to his words. "This won't do what you think it will!"

The invis runs out. Like a switch is flipped, his past self's face flashes back into existence. Suddenly, his fear and conflict is laid bare to the world, to Rose, to Spoke himself. Frustration and terror hold him hostage, like an animal backed up into a corner. At the time he hadn't thought things could get much worse, but the present him is living proof that there's always a basement underneath rock bottom.

Rose whispers his name, and Spoke can't help the way his gaze hardens into a hateful glare again. She sounds so unsure, clinging onto the reveal of his person in the small chance his humanity might save her, but the horror appearing in a panic on the face of his past self means the opposite.

"No!" he yells at the top of his lungs as a netherite pickaxe that appears in his hands. He shoves the other back and for the first time since this started he can actually grab onto his shoulders to push him.

But the pickaxe is swung. The block breaks underneath Rose. Spoke can only whip his head around and jump after her, but he's not fast enough to throw himself to the floor and reach through the hole to catch her. His claws just barely graze her hand, an extra scratch to add to the damage she takes on the dripstone. He flinches by the time she reaches the bottom, burying his face into the sandstone floor so he doesn't have to see how her body is broken and impaled a second time.

A shaky gasp escapes him. He keeps his eyes closed as he pushes himself onto his feet. The shock doesn't keep him from standing up—he always has to keep pushing, he doesn't get breaks. He only manages to crack his eyes open once he faces his past self, whose lips are sealed tightly, heavy swallows the only movement in him as they stare each other down.

"You didn't have to do that."

"It was the only way. You know that, bro." His whole body is tense when he shakes his head. He looks so much … younger. A lot of scars are missing that discolour his own face. Even his eyes shine a little brighter compared to his own dull ones. "It was the only way. I had to do what Ash wanted, it's the only way to get close to him."

In his claws sit the cornflower Rose had desperately thrown him. The flower is already mangled and beaten by his strong grip, it's unmistakable how his hands tremble.

"Will you give her brother the flower? I can't—I can't do it."

Spoke grimaces. "You need to face your mistakes. You have to give it to him. There … there are consequences to your actions."

"Ah, how poetic."

The voice of Ash makes him turn, and the whole world flips upside down and right side up again. He's in a forest, gentle snowflakes falling around him. Pine trees surround him, a few simple houses that look abandoned filling up the empty space of a small clearing. It's dark out.

The sudden change in scenery makes a headache flare up like a torch in the night, painful and harsh as it pounds on the inside of his skull before it recedes again.

Behind him, the other Spoke has gone. This time, the shape of Ash is clearly visible where he stands. He doesn't look at him, instead at something in front of him, hands folded behind his back. He doesn't wear his armour, and that stupid, awful purple suit is clearly visible. The expression he wears is thinly veiled amusement. He's enjoying this, fake as he is in this dreamlike world. Spoke hasn't known him any other way. When he approaches, carefully and slowly, Ash doesn't move beyond breathing in and out.

A gravestone keeps him company. Spoke doesn't need to look at what it says, but Ash has other plans.

"It's interesting, isn't it? 'RIP iMajesticRose, sister, daughter. You will be missed.' You tell yourself you need to face your mistakes, but you haven't learned a thing. It's a lot easier to tell someone else they're doing something wrong." Finally, he looks up to face Spoke. "I should know, I love telling you how wrong you are."

"I told Quackenstein. I told him and I made it right." Ash doesn't have to tell him shit. He knows he's lying. He never truly made it right, and he might never be able to.

"Right: the gifts, the time you spend with them, protecting them from Leo and BAT. How honourable of you. Tell me, are you trying to convince them or yourself that you actually love them? How easy is it for them to accept you as a replacement for the daughter that you murdered? Hm?

"I assume you keeping your lies and your secrets to yourself gives you a head start, and spending all that time pandering up to them makes it impossible for them to kick you out for using them as a cover for said lies and secrets. How honourable indeed."

"Shut up!" He covers his ears with his hands. As much as he wants to send him a withering glare, it turns more into a frustrated child's imitation of anger. "You don't know anything!"

"Doesn't he?"

It's unfair how despite the hands over his ears, he still hears Jamato's voice clear as a day. "He doesn't!" he hisses. He abandons the effort immediately, pointing an angry finger at the other, who's entirely unfazed by him.

Jamato shrugs. His bug wings hang down to point at the dirt, relaxed as ever. When he walks, the scenery changes again. The pines fade away into a background of tall mountains against a setting sun. The snow on the ground twists into flowers. The Farlands? No, please no. Spoke doesn't want to look at the little hill that forms, he doesn't want to look at the house on top of it or the two players next to it.

"Lies are your best friend. Better than Mapicc apparently, because you didn't even hesitate to lie to him too." While he talks, the invisible shape of his past self runs up the hill to start attacking Mapicc and Zam. Spoke resolutely stares at Jamato instead, jaw set. He wants to grab his sword, but he knows he can't, and the hilt feels burning hot in his palm.

"I told you, all that time ago, that you're going too far. I didn't think you could get worse, but every day you manage to prove me wrong."

"I have reason to. I have to." The argument is weak even to his own ears by now. "I can't tell them the truth."

"Because they'll abandon you?"

His eyes flick over to the fight. Zam screams in panic. Spoke flinches.

Ash laughs from behind him, way too close for comfort. "Because they'll see the monster he really is, Jamato. You saw it, I saw it: he has potential to destroy the whole world. Everyone he gets close to sees it eventually."

"You're wrong." What else is he supposed to say? His worst fears are spoken into reality where he'd tried so hard to avoid them, they know everything about him.

"Let's go see how wrong we are," Jamato says before his body disappears into smoke that's blown away by the wind. He takes the scene with him, and Mapicc's panicked yells go with it. He would be relieved if he didn't see the setting change into BAT's old headquarters.

"Let's see how good you are at destroying things, hm?"

Ash's hands massage his shoulders almost aggressively, once, twice—where did his armour go?—before he shoves him forward. Spoke stumbles a bit before catching himself on a pillar of gold. Confused, he uses it to get back onto his feet, but two signs catch him off-guard.

"Another grave …" He swallows the lump in his throat and whips his head back to Ash. "Nufuli's grave. I didn't—I didn't kill him. That wasn't me!"

Ash steps up beside him. With great disinterest, he trails a finger over the top of the sign. When he pulls it back to inspect it, he finds no speck of dust, and a hum that only sounds impressed because he's bored with the action leaves him.

"Tell me then," he says and sighs, the grin returning to his lips. He's loving this a bit too much. "Who did this?"

"The Director." This wasn't him. He didn't destroy this base. He didn't kill Nufuli. He had no part in this.

"Who was the Director, Spoke?"

He clenches his fists by his side. What is he getting at? "It was Wifies, not me."

Ash dusts off Spoke's shoulder. Like a mother fixing up her child, he pulls at his shirt to fix it, then looks down on him with that stare that's always scared him the most. Ash has no right to still be scaring him. He has no power over him, no matter what he says or implies, he doesn't.

"Exactly. Very good, Spoke. But now now, you're forgetting something. Which player on this server showed him cheating and lying could give him the upper hand?" Spoke forces his eyes down. "Which player was it that showed Wifies that the world is cruel and unfair? Who was it, Spoke? Who locked him up in an inescapable trap simply because they wanted to see how well they could manipulate a person? Tell me!"

He grits his teeth and hisses as he forces a breath out. "I didn't make him do any of the things he did."

"Does the butterfly flapping its wings mean to cause a tornado? Fish Bucket, every cog in the machine does its part, and your cog is very, very influential. You're the heart of this server, the cause of all the misery people go through."

"Fuck off!" he yells. When he looks at him to shove him away, the player standing in front of him is no longer Ash. In shock, he stumbles back, arm raised like he needs to defend himself.

"Leo?" His throat tightens and suddenly he can't quite breathe in normally. Gold eyes stare lifelessly at his own beyond his singed white locks. "No, Leo. Go away. I don't want to hear what you have to say to me. I get it. I get it! Go away!"

A cart loaded with TNT is placed on a rail between them. Spoke can't help the curse that slips out. He jumps back, stumbling over the grass and landing on his back, but that doesn't stop him from scrambling back nonetheless. Without his armour, it will take just the one to kill him.

But it's also right next to the grave, so no flaming arrow comes to light the cart. The bow may sit in his hand, yet there's no effort to pull at the string. Leo just stares at him, the gold in his eyes dull and faded, and there's this tired look to him, so much worse than he's seen of him in the last few weeks. Did time fast-forward? Leo looks like he's been chasing him for more than just months, like he's been stretched thin because of his anger and need to kill him. His suit looks dishevelled underneath his beaten and bloody armour.

"What—what happened?"

Leo switches the bow to his other hand so he can caress the golden grave with his free one. He leans into it, head coming to rest just between the two signs.

"I failed." Leo's eyes leave him. He falls to his knees. The cart sits ominously by his side. "I couldn't catch Spoke. I couldn't do it, Nufuli. I lost … I lost everything. BAT is gone. Jumper finally realised I had nothing to offer her anymore, so she took her spies and left. Derapchu never came back. Parrot doesn't care about me anymore, he—he hardly remembers I exist.

"And Spoke … I thought he'd bring back BAT. I thought I could bring back the old days of BAT with him, Noof." His thumb gently caresses the weathered gold. No tears fall from Leo's eyes, but Spoke knows it's because he's stubborn rather than unable. The shaky breath in does enough.

"Leo, I'm sorry—" he chokes out, but there's not even so much as a twitch to show his apology is acknowledged.

"I was naive. I—I miss you. Fuck, I have nothing anymore, Noof. I can't do it anymore. Are you—are you waiting for me?"

Spoke can't find it in him to stand up. He crawls over instead, to Leo's side, until there's only the cart between them. Nerves make him hardly able to breathe when he can't gently push it to the side. His hands simply push through the cart like it's made of air and not iron.

"Don't say that," he begs, and it's quiet, it's raw. He's fully aware of the fight they've had. They've been trying to kill each other for so long now. He's made it clear to literally everyone how much he wants Leo dead. But this? No, not this. Not this. "Leo, don't—just stop, okay? Stop, please. Listen to me—"

If Leo even hears him, he doesn't show it. All the fight seeps from his shoulders. Spoke doesn't recognise him anymore; Leo is supposed to be a stronghold of confidence and resilience. For him to be turned into such a husk of himself, how much does that take? How long had he been balancing on that edge, and how long had Spoke been blatantly blind to it? Taunting him, attacking him, breaking his trust, laughing in the face of a broken man, how cruel does someone have to be?

"I hope he's happy he won." Leo lays an arrow in his bow and shoots it into the ground, making Spoke flinch on the spot. There's no time to stop him. Hell, there's no way to stop him, because his hands go right through Leo's when he reaches out for him.

"I'm not. Leo, I'm not!" He didn't want this. Not this, not this, not this. His eyes hurt, pressure building up in his skull. Tears. He's really going to fucking cry because of this. "I'm not happy with this. Stop it, okay? We can fix this. I can fix it. I want to fix things, come on bro!"

He's begging like a stupid child, out of breath in his desperation. Ash would scoff at the sight of him. Bargaining with nothing, because he's got nothing. Nothing he says makes a difference in how Leo pries the arrow from the grass and stares at the blazing tip. He makes no dent in the resigned expression he wears which almost becomes relief with the weight that has to be falling from his shoulders. Spoke can't even reach out to grab his hand or forcefully turn his head to him so Leo would have to acknowledge him.

There's nothing he can do but watch as Leo hesitates, a fear pulling his eyebrows together while he takes a deep breath. Spoke is powerless to do anything, forced to watch this play out with no hand in it. He hates it.

He caused this. Bitterness is all he tastes at the thought. He caused this. He's the cause for everything on this server, everything that's wrong with it. The tears that pricked in his eyes finally show themselves and he grits his teeth like he has the power to stop them from flowing—or like he has any right to be crying about it. They sting when they fall down his cheeks. He glares at Leo for it; he can't just make him cry, damn it all. It makes his throat tight and his lungs refuse to breathe right, he hates it.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I fucked up, Leo. Please don't do this, we can—"

Spoke doesn't get to finish his sentence before Leo tosses the arrow into the cart. He just manages to see Leo close his eyes—the most relaxed he's ever seen him—and he can't even scream before the world lights up in pure heat.

He gasps. He gasps? All the heat is gone in the blink of an eye. He didn't realise he'd ever closed his eyes too, but when he opens them, he's no longer in front of BAT. Leo is gone and so are the grave and the cart.

The second he does realise where he is, he stands up with a surprised shout. He's in water, soaking through his armour and his clothes. Even standing, it reaches almost to his knees. There's an island about five blocks in front of him, a small one made of sand and a single tree sits in the middle, all lonely and bending over from the harsh sun.

"Spoke."

His lips break out into a grin. Turning on his heel, he watches as Mapicc jumps from the happy ghast, leaving Jumper and Zam to sit on top of it still, and lands in the water in front of him. A laugh rips from his lips and he lets his head fall back. It was all just a dream, wasn't it?

"Mapicc, oh my god! You have no idea how happy I am to see you, bro!"

The excitement isn't mutual. He struggles to keep up the smile when he gets an absolutely furious glare in return. When the other splashes over through the water, his hands are clenched into tight fists. Spoke doubts he's ever seen his best friend this mad since they've met. Mapicc doesn't get angry like this, not where he can see the glittering of tears in the corners of his eyes out of sheer anger. Usually, a laugh can still be wrung from him, but now? He's almost scared to say another word.

"Hey—Mapicc? What's happening?" he stutters, walking backwards in the water until he walks onto the sand of the island.

"If you know what's good for yourself, you will stay on this island and rot until the dang end of this server. I don't ever wanna see you again, Spoke."

His heart stops for a moment. His smile turns into a silent gasp of shock. "Mapicc?"

Mapicc catches up too fast. He stomps forward, until he walks right through Spoke, leaving him frozen in place, eyes wide. Once again, his hands find his chest that he has to grab onto to make sure he's still whole, that ghostly feeling returning for some awful seconds.

No more. Please. He's had enough of this!

Theres's another Spoke on the island who stands still too. He looks angry, but not at Mapicc. Maybe he's mad because he lost, because he failed. Either way, he doesn't say a word at what Mapicc has to tell him, staring at him instead. In his hand sits a sword with the tip dragging in the sand. Would he fight? Would he really?

"Guys, don't …" His voice is starting to sound strained, rough to even himself. He's tired of begging. No one listens to him. He's been forced to watch without being able to do a damn thing, he's done being on the sidelines while everyone he touches dies.

That's the whole damn point. He laughs, bitter and pained, more a sob than a genuine laugh. This is all his fault and he doesn't want to face the consequences of everything he does wrong, which is every single action, every breath he takes, every word that comes out of his mouth. The universe made him a bad person and he proves her right all the time. He's incapable of doing any good, and now things might actually catch up to him.

Rough sand catches him when he falls to his knees. His head is bowed towards the scene, he doesn't want to see what he'll do. Because if he gets mad and attacks Mapicc, or if he doesn't do anything and lets him leave … Spoke doesn't see an outcome that won't hurt more than ripping out his own heart.

Mapicc doesn't say another thing. With a disappointed shake of his head, he leaves. The other Spoke watches in silence.

"Please, Spoke. Just stop him. Don't let him leave, Spoke." Tears run down his face. They're hot and uncomfortable. He lets himself sob, shoulders shaking uncontrollably, unable to breathe in or out without gasping. He can't even lift a hand to hide the embarrassment of it all. "Don't—don't let him leave!"

The ghast takes off again. Waves gently lap at the sand. Spoke chokes on nothing but hatred for himself. Why is he like this? Why is he like this, why is he like this, why can't he just—

Water splashes in his face. A yelp escapes him. Some of it gets into his mouth, the taste of salt disgusting on his tongue, and he spits it out, ready to scrape it off his tongue if necessary. He sits up immediately, gagging at the overwhelming saltiness that remains. His whole face is drenched, water drips from his hair into his lap and … when did he lay down? He's sitting now but he doesn't remember laying down. Where …?

"Thank goodness you're awake, bro! Zam thought you died!"

Mapicc.

Spoke looks to his side with wide eyes to where his best friend sits. The sun is blinding, he has to blink to actually see, but there he is, grinning and all. No anger is left, not a trace of it.

"Mapicc?" he asks. A cough sends his vision spinning. What even happened? Is he still in a dream? "Where—what happened? Where are we?"

They're on an island, but instead of sand there's grass underneath him. When he looks over his shoulder, the island just has a couple of large boulders and trees, it's not the desolate sight he saw earlier. Immediately, he finds Mapicc again. His hands tremble when they shoot out to grab him by the shirt.

"You almost—whoa! Spoke, what are you doing? Oh, we're hugging now, great," Mapicc yaps, probably rolling his eyes from where Spoke can't see because he's too busy burying himself in Mapicc's chest.

He doesn't push him away, doesn't scold him. He holds him, arms wrapping around him, and Spoke sobs quietly. "Dude, what is going on? You fainted on the ghast so we stopped and you've been passed out for like an hour, bro! I thought you died or something!"

Spoke forces himself to breathe in out. He's okay. He's awake, more importantly. All of that was a bad dream, not real, just memories and … futures that weren't real. The idea that those futures could very much become his waking nightmare leaves a bad taste on his tongue. They're entirely possible. How far away from the truth were they really?

"I'm okay," he chokes out. But he's not, and they all know it. People who are okay don't pass out and have dreams about their worst mistakes. The lie just has him sobbing harder.

Mapicc messes with this hair. Despite everything, he keeps holding onto him. Despite everything, he hasn't abandoned him yet.

"Talk to me, what happened?" He's too gentle, fingers working to untangle his hair when he's done messing it up himself. "Did you forget to eat, bro?"

He hums, throat tight. "I …" he can't even continue. How is he supposed to say anything at all at this point? In Mapicc's arms, he at least has a safe spot, for the moment, for however long it's going to last. "I don't want to be evil, bro. I wanna be good," he whispers when he realises he might not get this again anytime soon. "I don't want to be the bad guy."

"Spoke—" Jumper starts but she cuts herself off. He can't blame her. He can't look at her either.

Arms wrap around him protectively. Guarding him like a precious pearl, Mapicc keeps him warm, keeps him safe. Spoke wants to curl up entirely, let himself fall asleep again with the knowledge Mapicc won't let him get hurt. The mere idea that he could abandon him might tear a hole in his heart he won't know how to mend.

"You're not the bad guy, bro. You're my best friend!"

Spoke can't breathe. He stops hiding away and shoots up to hug him. If he might lose this, he's going to memorise every detail of how he's held and how he fits perfectly in his arms.

"Don't leave me bro." The words are whispered into the crook of Mape's neck. It takes effort not to dig his claws into his armour to cling onto him a little better.

"Of course not." Mapicc sounds like he's grinning. "You can't get rid of me that easily!"

He stares off into the distance. The sky is getting darker. He might collapse again any second now. Limbs heavy, head pounding, throat dry, standing up is a losing battle. But he doesn't need to worry about falling; Mapicc would catch him.

"I won't leave you either. Ever."