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<IX> we have to go somewhere else to get a key for the gate.
A pit of dread grows in Barron’s stomach as his hands grip the cold, unmoving steel bars of the gate. He gives it a few more futile, hopeless shakes, which rattle him more than they do the bars, as if one good tug will magically pry the thing open. Of course, it could never be so simple as just entering, because everything has to be a fetch quest to complete, or a labyrinth to traverse, or a puzzle to be solved. Why wouldn’t it be? Why would anything be so simple? If he is not running around, bending to Nine’s will to do whatever it asks, what would he ever do with himself? It’s not like he has his own—his own life, his own autonomy, or anything, so who cares. All he ever does is for Nine. Nine, always Nine, and never for him, because who cares about him, really? Who cares what he wants?
No… no, that isn’t right. Nine does care, doesn’t it? It has to. Nine has guided him safely through every encounter he’s had, graced him with it’s divine light in dark corridors, told him to look away when looking meant certain death and to dig down when he was in danger and to keep moving when he was being pursued. Why would it do that, if it didn’t care?
He runs a hand down his face and groans softly. He’s only bitter because he’s tired. A month—two months, three maybe; his perception of time has started to warp, but some amount of months—of running, and hiding, and fearing for his life, has worn on his nerves. No amount of grumbling will save him or this broken, crumbling world, though, so with a pained sigh through his nose, he pushes himself off of the hard metal door and turns to leave.
There is something there.
He can’t tell what it is, but it is hanging from the corner of the doorway. It is a pale, sickening white, the same white as a dead body, of a floating, bloated corpse. It stares at him, and then it is gone, ducking behind the top corner.
Barron stands there for a moment, stunned. Fuck, he thinks, fuck my life. Fuck me, fuck this. Fuck.
He wants to yell. At someone, something, nothing, it doesn’t matter, but someone sounds most satisfying. He almost does; there is something cruel bubbling up from within him, tightening his throat, making his eyes water. Did you not see it? he wants to scream at Nine, Why would you tell me to go back out there? Why don’t you see anything I do? Why do you keep leading me into danger? Why cant you do any of this? Why me, why now?
But of course, he doesn’t. Because even though he is furious and he is hurt and he is tired and he wants nothing more than to tell Nine that he will not be leaving, actually, and that he is going to lay here for a few days, on the cold, hard ground, unmoving, he is a coward. He has not gotten mad or argued a single time, not once; he has been soft clay to mold under Nine’s hands, complicit in everything it has asked him to say or do, and he is worried that the moment he does not perfectly comply, Nine will leave. And that thought, perhaps, is the most terrifying of all.
“There’s a critter out there,” he says, laughing feebly at his own distasteful joke. There is a shake to his voice that is due, in part, to trying to suppress the rage making his head spin, but also because he’s had a persistent tremor to every part of him since the large worm tried to knock him into the void on his makeshift bridge across the floating islands. ‘Critter’ is an understatement, that much he knows—it conveys exactly none of the terror he is feeling, nothing he really wants to say, which is exactly the point. ‘Monster’, ‘entity’, and ‘mob’ all carry an air of seriousness with them, implying something large and fast and deadly, and the last thing he needs now is to be serious. It takes less mental energy to consider everything a harmless critter. Maybe if he tells it to himself enough times, it will become true.
<IX> I know.
<IX> you should stay here until it turns day.
It doesn’t make Barron feel any better. Really? he thinks, I should stay here until day? Profound. Next you’ll tell me I should eat food when I want to recover health. Do you want to tell me I should make a furnace to cook the food, too?
Barron takes a deep breath. Stares at the open door. Takes off his helmet to card his sharp claws through his hair, slips it back on, and tries to believe it when he tells himself it will be fine, everything will be fine, as he approaches it and slams the wooden thing shut as hard as he can. It reverberates through the stone cave so loud that he jumps, and then thinks about how stupid it is to jump at a noise he made himself. Nine said to hunker down here until the daytime, he thinks, so that means it’s safe. That means I’m safe. Nine hasn’t lied, Nine wouldn’t lie.
But he doesn’t know that for certain, does he? Not really. Nine may not have lied, not yet, but it can—saying it can’t just because it hasn’t is like claiming a cat peaceable just because it hasn’t scratched you yet. That doesn’t mean its harmless, it just means you haven’t gotten on it’s nerves.
<IX> you are quiet.
Barron shrugs. “Yup,” he responds simply. He finally steps away from the door and resolves to settle on the floor, next to the pillar for the void essence (whatever that is). It’s uncomfortable, sitting in his armor, but he’s too scared to take it off, just in case something breaks in and he has to start running, or the gate suddenly opens, or the door breaks down, or the floor collapses beneath him. Nine said it was safe, and he wants to trust it—for the most part, he does trust it—but he can’t help the feeling that there is always something around the corner waiting to chase him to the hills and back at any given moment. Everything is hostile and dangerous and the only friend he thought he had here, aside from Nine, Buddy—Livor, his mind supplies, not your buddy—had tried to kill him.
All this thinking never gets him anywhere. It’s pointless, when he knows he’ll just end up doing whatever Nine asks him anyways. He can’t afford not to trust Nine. Without Nine, who is there? What is there? What can he do, except wander aimlessly, susceptible to any other critters that he stumbles across without the knowledge to save himself? No matter how angry he is, no matter how terrified, no matter how hurt, he just has to keep listening, or he’s boned. He’s smart enough to know that Nine wouldn’t willingly lead him to his death, when it had brought him this far, when it was so eager to be “helped”, whatever that meant. Maybe that’s why he’s so happy to let Nine do all the decision making. It’s easier, when he knows his own thoughts often lead to nothing but dead-ends and pointless hypotheticals, whereas Nine’s usually lead to concrete results. If he just keeps following it’s directions, it’ll lead to something, which is better than nothing, and better than death.
<IX> do you want to talk.
That’s new.
Has Nine ever asked to talk before? Barron tries to recall other instances, and comes up blank. He thought it was expected that they would talk, when they felt like, when they needed, and really he felt like they had already done an awful lot of talking back at the End Portal. But then, he supposes in all the time he’s spent running for his life to get here from there, more has happened, and they haven’t much time to discuss any of it.
“Sure,” he says, because he’s never denied Nine, really, and he has no reason to say no. He talks about Malla and her command block, and he talks about Blood.bag, and he briefly mentions Jon. Nine answers to what he assumes is the best of its ability, And then.
That’s it, really. He runs out of things to talk about very quickly, and they are left in the quiet together. The nights are eerily silent, without wind or mobs roaming about. He never thought he’d yearn to hear the ambient sound of zombies or skeletons roaming about outside, but somehow, it’s more terrifying without them.
<IX> was there anything else
“Nope,” Barron sighs, “That’s it. I mean, unless you’re up for more questions.”
<IX> I don’t mean what happened
<IX> is there anything you wanted to say about yourself
“Myself?” he huffs, feeling a little dreadful again. Did Nine know something he didn’t? “I—I didn’t do anything wrong.”
<IX> no
<IX> how are you . . .
<IX> feeling.
Oh.
“A little scared,” he admits quietly, laughing, “But that’s not new.”
Silence. Barron thinks that must’ve been all Nine was looking for, but then it speaks again.
<IX> why?
He blinks. Why? Why was he scared? Why was he scared, when for months now, he has been chased across half the Earth by things that either want to kill him, or want to trap him here forever? Why was he scared, when everything was against him, and when Nine could leave him again, at any moment, and Barron would be utterly and terribly alone?
“There’s something outside,” he says.
<IX> it won’t come in. you’re safe here.
“No,” Barron shakes his head, “No, it’s not just that. It’s—there’s something outside, but there’s also the worm outside, and there’s Livor, and there’s—I mean, you want me to leave at morning, right?”
A pause.
<IX> that would be ideal.
“Exactly. You want me to leave, but I know the second I go out there, they’ll all be after me again. There’s—there’s always something after me, I’m always running or being attacked or threatened or—I mean, I haven’t gotten a break. Weird shit just keeps happening and I have to keep going. I don’t know what’s safe anymore, the—the balloon blew up, and the safehouse kept getting broken into, and the only friend I thought I had here turned out to be this huge monster, and I was stuck in a maze alone with him while he tried to hunt me down, and you weren’t there—”
He stops himself before the tears he can feel welling in his eyes have a chance to fall. The next swallow he takes is thick and dry, and it hurts on the way down his throat.
“Sorry,” he whimpers, pressing the balls of his hands into his eyes. “It’s fine. I’ll go in the morning.”
God, he’s pathetic. Why is he on the verge of tears over this? It’s not as bad as it could be. He’s been through worse—he’s wandered through endless, liminal spaces, and he’s almost died countless times to hulking, spindly entities breaking the world right beneath him, and when he did those, he did it all alone. He’s not alone, now. He’s safe, and Nine is here with him, and running is hardly the most terrible thing to be doing. He’s survived so far, hasn’t he? Every challenge that’s been thrown his way he’s overcome, and Nine hasn’t left. Not for long, not permanently.
<IX> you’re safe here
He knows that. He knows he’s safe here, but he’s scared anyways. He feels like a child, who needs their mom to kiss them on the forehead and leave the nightlight on when they go to bed.
<IX> it will be okay
<IX> it will be okay.
Barron sniffles. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah.”
<IX> say it.
“It will be okay.”
<IX> . . . good.
He beams slightly under the praise. His sharp claws, which he hadn’t even realized were digging painfully into his palms, finally fall limp, but his arms are still shaking. He thinks all of him is still shaking.
“Are we…” Barron coughs, cutting himself off. There’s no point in asking if they’re friends. He’s tried, a few times now, and the only answer he’s ever gotten is silence. He thinks about it for a moment, and says instead, “Do you care?”
A few moments pass. There’s no answer.
“You don’t have to tell me the truth,” he’s a little desperate now, “It doesn’t have to be the truth. Just—tell me you care. Please.”
<IX> I care.
“So you won’t leave, right? You won’t—you won’t go. I won’t be alone in this.”
<IX> I cannot guarantee that something won’t separate us.
<IX> it is not typically my choice to leave.
“But you wont? Willingly?”
<IX> . . .
<IX> yes.
Nine isn’t a very good liar. But despite knowing that, Barron still feels marginally more comforted. The last ounce of terror leaves his body, and he’s able to finally relax, without tensing to jump and run at the next moment. His head slumps against the pillar and his helmet hits the cobblestone with a dull thud.
<IX> you can take your armor off.
<IX> if it’s more comfortable.
“Nah.” His hand waves dismissively at the air, like he’s batting at a fly. Despite feeling safer, he’d still rather keep it on, just in case. If Nine has any thoughts on this, it doesn’t voice them.
He feels drowsy, now that every part of him isn’t tense with anxiety. His eyes begin to drift closed against his will as he stares aimlessly up at the ceiling. Distantly, he wishes he had a bed with him—even though it feels like he can only ever get an hour or so of sleep on them before shooting back awake, any kind of soft surface is better than sitting on the cold floor like this. Oh well; beggars can’t be choosers. Better to sleep safe and uncomfortable than the other way around.
“You’ll stay,” he utters again, breathlessly, a mantra to himself. It’s a statement, not a question. “You’ll stay. You aren’t leaving.”
There’s no response this time. But Barron is okay with that; Nine had said enough.
“You’ll stay.”
It’s a dull light in the dark. It’s a soft hope in the hopeless. Nine will stay.
As long as Nine stays, he thinks he can endure. Just for a little longer.
In a few minutes, he is drifting away into unconsciousness.
<IX> . . . for now, Barron.
<IX> just for now.