Chapter Text
“I don’t think we really... like to think about it.”
His response was an assumption, technically, but rolled off his tongue, nonetheless They were never going to see each other again, and life wouldn’t be the same anymore. Bryce didn’t want to think about it.
The air was thick and the silence was heavy like there was some sort of elephant in the room. Bryce couldn’t even tell if the comment had upset Backpack—it was hard to get any sort of read on his expression. It made sense, considering the circumstances. Backpack had quite literally died just a few hours prior.
It was quiet for several seconds.
“Do you ever notice that all the grass here is pointing towards the sun?” Backpack said suddenly, pointing up. Bryce looked up at the sun—shining bright, as if to taunt them—and then looked back down at the grass. Upon closer inspection, Backpack was right. They were pointed up in the direction of the sun. Why were they so pointy?
“Okay...” Airy’s voice interrupted the calm before Bryce could think of a proper answer. Already?
“I’m going to go ahead and eliminate someone...”
Wait. Wait. Not yet. Bryce wasn’t ready yet, he didn’t want it to end like this. His last conversation with Backpack wasn’t going to be about grass.
He hadn’t even realized they had started holding hands until he turned to face Backpack, whose hands were shaking. Backpack stared back at him, seemingly at a loss for words. Scatterbrained. Bryce couldn’t help but wish it was like a movie where a single look could say a thousand words... but it wasn’t. It was real life.
“Riiiiight...” Airy’s monotone voice trailed, unable to take a hint.
“Backpack—” He started, not yet, he had to say something.
“Now...”
“Backpack, when—”
Bryce Hansen didn’t know if it was all just unfortunate coincidences, if he was just very unlucky in general, or if the universe was personally out to get him. Even when he was a little kid, there was always something going wrong. Maybe it was a familial curse, since it definitely also got Stella. He wouldn’t put it past his mom to make some sort of deal with a witch or a demon. But no matter what was causing it, it was a guarantee that something would always end up going south.
His pay getting docked and hours being cut were just another “fuck you” thrown at him. He was disappointed, obviously—not to mention stressed—but, at the end of the day, all he could do was deal with it. If a lifetime of setbacks and tragedies had taught him anything, it was that your only two options are to suck it up and live or cry about it and die.
When he felt like he was thrown back onto his bed—body sore and head throbbing—the morning after his pity-party at the bar, he assumed what he had was just the strangest alcohol-fueled nightmare he had experienced to date. Dazed and still thinking about the fictitious man he dreamt up, he went to check his phone.
Only to see that it was February 15th. Not the 10th. He had been gone for five days.
So, still dazed and even more confused, he went to the police. A bad idea for sure, but it was what his messed up meatball of a brain decided to go with. As any rational person in a sound state of mind would assume, cops tend not take you seriously when you tell them you were kidnapped and teleported to a liminal grass field by a disembodied voice along with several other people to compete for a wish for anything.
After telling them the beginning of his story, Bryce quickly realized they weren’t going to listen. But before he could back out, he ended up shipped to a hospital to get checked out—despite his insistence that he was fine. (And that he really, really couldn’t afford a hospital trip, but that was beside the point.) The workers there were polite, though, and didn’t mock him for his insane story—at least not to his face—and it wasn’t long before they came back with news as to what happened.
Carbon monoxide poisoning.
Specifically, carbon monoxide poisoning from prolonged exposure. The discovery was enough to launch an immediate investigation to find the source of whatever leak he was exposed to. It didn’t take long for them to detect a leak at the apartment complex he lived in, and it took even less time to discover that just about every carbon monoxide detector in the building was faulty.
Needless to say, Bryce moved apartments.
The only silver linings of the situation were that he wasn’t fired, he was able to pair up with some of his neighbors to pursue a lawsuit, and the complex owners funded his move in a feeble attempt at damage control. Other than that? Everything sucked. And, as always, his only option was to suck it up and live.
And so he did. He woke up, ate breakfast, sat in traffic, worked, sat in traffic, ate dinner, and slept. Rinse and repeat every single day.
… But something kept nagging him.
It had been about a week and a half since the whole “missing for five days while tripping on CO” incident. It wasn’t the CO poisoning that was bugging him, though, nor was it the situation at work. Rather, it was that dream he had.
He wanted to forget about it, really he did. He wasn’t trying to get caught up on some dream, some hallucination, some... whatever it was. But he just couldn’t.
It felt so real, so vivid. The aches he still had from sleeping on the ground, the small scruff mark left from when he fell off the pole, how he never actually woke up. One second he was sitting there on the grass next to Backpack, looking him dead in the eyes while wishing he knew what to say. The next, he was plopped right back into his bed. But his hand was still warm, a lingering presence. It got to a point where he’d get stuck in thought while at work, to the point where his coworkers were noticing. He’d lay awake at night, thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. He just could not stop thinking. He had toyed around with the idea of researching it a few times, but always shut himself down. It was time to let go, already. But God did his laptop look tempting.
…
This is a terrible idea was the only thing he could think while watching his laptop boot.
Bryce knew that he was entertaining a dangerous idea, he knew that. Part of him wanted to just close the laptop and stuff it away in a drawer for the rest of eternity—the rational side of him knew that was probably the smart decision. What he was doing was delusional and obsessive, he needed to let go already. The… incident on the 10th was a messed up dream (or, rather, nightmare) induced by prolonged carbon monoxide poisoning because of faulty alarms. That was all.
And yet he still couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.
His knee bounced as he impatiently waited for his laptop to load. The shitbox was ancient, by computer standards, and every day it was a miracle the damn thing was still able to turn on. The fans obnoxiously whirred, almost like they were taunting him. Reminding him he was crazy.
Can carbon monoxide poisoning cause realistic tactile hallucinations and mild injuries? Maybe he should Moogle that.
The second the user screen loaded in, Bryce frantically tapped the touchpad and typed in his password. Password123 wasn’t the most secure, but it wasn’t like there was anything interesting enough to steal. Every second spent waiting for things to load felt like another personal attack, making the task of opening his web browser feel like genuine torture. And, yet, once Moogle loaded up, he stared at the screen.
What the hell was he supposed to even search?
What was Texty doing right now? Were they just back on someone’s computer?
No. No. He absentmindedly shook his head. With shaky hands, he typed the first thing that came to mind.
‘one game show’
The only result was about some show that stopped airing in the ‘90s. Of course. He should just stop here. Carbon monoxide.
With a sigh, he kept typing.
‘the plane one’
‘the plane one show’
Maybe capitalization mattered?
‘the plane ONE show’
‘airy ONE’
‘airey ONE’
‘the plane ONE game show’
‘FOR FUCKS SAKE ONE ONE EON EON SHOW OEN’
‘blue scenty candle yoga’
Bryce was going to bash his head in. There had to be something, anything. No matter how much he scrolled, no matter how many pages he clicked through. It was all either irrelevant or non-existent. No matter what order he chose.
‘game show ONE’
No matter what combination of words…
‘game show ONE the plane airy’
‘how crazy does carbon monoxide poisoning make you’
‘can carbon monoxide poisoning make you have complex hallucinations and keep you awake at night thinking about a green backpack whose name you cant remember but started with an L your pretty sure’
‘airy game show’
‘does carbon monoxide poisoning cause brain damage’
‘red tailor magazine girl’
‘does carbon monoxide make you stupid’
‘is it normal to miss a guy you only knew for a few days’
‘am i spelling carbon monoxide right’
‘airy one show’
‘does carbon monoxide make you miss someone you never met’
‘does carbon monoxide POISONING make you miss someone you never met’
‘am i gay test online free’
What was his name, what was his name. Backpack never told Bryce his name directly, but he swears he heard it once, if he could just remember something for once in his god-damn—
‘L green backpack’
‘L green male backpack’
‘lime green male backpack’
What else did he have, what else did he have—he was a green backpack, what other information did Bryce have. Someone who knew him, somewhere he’d be seen at, something…
‘L green backpack bay area san fransicso’
Did you mean ‘L green backpack Bay Area San Francisco’?
Of course he—
‘L green backpack Bay Area San Francisco’
He scrolled through the first few results, which turned to the entire first page. It was all useless junk, back to school ads (in February?), stupid backpack brands, even stupider usernames from stupid websites. This was pointless. Carbon monoxide made him crazy.
Switching to the third page, the automatic translator had popped up in the top right corner. Polish to English, apparently. He sighed, disabling the translator that made his already laggy laptop even laggier. It’s not like those damn things worked well anyway.
And then something caught his eye. A website, switching from a sloppy translation to what it originally said.
Missing Persons | SFPD
https://www.sfpd.ca.gov
Missing person | Liam Plecak – Missing Since: 02/10 – Species: Green School Backpack – Sex: Male – …
“SFPD…?” He muttered to himself, pressing the link.
Liam Plecak
MISSING SINCE: 02/10 | SEX: Male
HEIGHT: 5’7 | SPECIES: Green School BackpackPlecak was last seen evening of February 10th on the Golden Gate Bridge while riding his bike. His phone and wallet were left at his workplace, and no traces of him have been found since then.
Contact:
PHONE NUMBER: (628) 555-6967
SFPD LOCATION: 1312 Annadress, San Francisco, CA
E-MAIL: [email protected]
Green backpack. San Francisco. Missing. Missing since the day of the incident.
Leaning in, Bryce looked closely at the photo attached to the report. That was Backpack. His Backpack. They looked identical. Same color, same shape, same zippers, same smile… that had to be him.
Holy shit that meant it was all real.
Bryce choked on his own spit, sputtering. It was real. It was real. It wasn’t carbon monoxide poisoning, it was actually real. He forced himself to breathe.
He lived halfway across the country, they worked in completely different fields, they had no relatives, there was no possible way Bryce could’ve seen or known about Backpack before this. No possible way. Unless some random guy magically made it from San Francisco to Bridgeport without a single trace within a single night, got into Bryce’s apartment, tripped balls on carbon monoxide with him for five days, and suddenly left, it was real.
Or Bryce was unlucky enough to end up in two separate apartments that both started leaking carbon monoxide. He couldn’t tell which option he’d prefer, honestly.
On one hand, if this was all real, that meant Bryce:
1) Was not crazy.
2) Did not have carbon monoxide poisoning.
On the other, that meant the batshit nightmare of a game show was all real. And if it was…
Oh shit. If Backpack—Liam. His name was Liam—was still missing, that meant the game was still going. That meant they were still trapped there with some deranged… guy? What even was Airy? And the other universe stuff, the literal text box. It was real? What the fuck. If Backpack was still there, was Scenty still there? Were they even okay? Would he ever see them again?
“Backpack, when—”
Bryce had to see them again. He had to. He needed to know that they were safe, he needed to know that they knew they weren’t crazy. That they weren’t alone. If Bryce could, somehow, make contact, they could meet up. Somehow. Depending on how the lawsuit turned out, maybe Bryce would have enough money to fly out to see them. Or… they could fly out to see him. How much money did Backpack—Liam, Liam, his name was Liam, he wasn’t used to it, but that was his actual name, not the name their screwed up captor labelled him—even make doing… fuck, what did he even do for work again?
He wasn’t sure how he’d even get in contact with Scenty. She was a yoga instructor—how many yoga instructors were out there, anyway? If he managed to find Back—Liam—if he managed to find Liam, he could definitely find Scenty, right? All he had to do was search. And once he found them, they could figure out what the hell happened. And once they figured out what the hell happened, they could relax and be normal and, God, Bryce just wanted to be normal. He wanted to be safe. He wanted to invite Backpack and Scenty into his apartment, and he’d hand them a couple cold ones, and they’d sit on the couch talking about anything but The Plane and Airy and ONE and how they watched a baby die and how Liam drowned and how they were trapped and how—
He gasped for air. Bryce never noticed he hadn’t been breathing. How long had he been sitting there? Staring at the same webpage.
“Scatterbrained.” That’s how Backpack had described it. Not able to think clearly with all the things running around in his head.
His mind went to Stone and how he saved Bryce’s life. As strange as they were, as cryptic as they were, he knew something everyone else didn’t. Stone knew that there was something deeply wrong there—something beyond the kidnapping, beyond the different worlds, the messed up “respawning”. Something was deeply wrong. And if Bryce wanted to figure out what it was, he had to find someone. He had to find some sort of clue, and stick to it.
…
He knew Backpack’s full name.
He knew where Backpack worked.
He knew the rough area of where he lived.
And before Bryce could stop himself, he was typing in another search.
‘liam plecak san francisco bay area’
Most of the top results were rehashes of the missing person’s report, various sources relaying his disappearance. He looked through each one, of course, (sometimes several times,) but none of them provided any additional information.
Amongst the databases documenting his disappearance was an out of place Camstagram account.
Bryce never liked Camstagram. At best, it was cute dog pictures or memes stolen from some other social media. At worst, it was self-obsessed idiots who need to look hot and feel validated in order to be happy. The only good thing about that stupid site, and the only reason he had an account he never touched, was because Stella used to post her paintings on there.
With a sigh, he opened the link to look at the account. It was normal account. Nothing offensive, nothing special, just basic posts made by an onyx paperweight. A fountain, a park, some flowers, reposted images, nothing special. Why was such a basic and unrelated account under the search?
He kept mindlessly scrolling, growing bored. Until eventually he saw it.
It was a post with several attached images of a city, or maybe a neighborhood. Whatever it was, it was some sort of town. There were pictures of rainbow flags, painted sidewalks, window displays of small stores, and some sort of theater. What caught his eye, though, was the caption.
having an awesome night with Lee! heading 2 the golden gate park after a really cool day visiting the Castro!<3
happy birthday @L33am !!!
Without thinking, Bryce clicked on the tagged account. It took him to a relatively bare page with no posts. The only information was the profile picture, which seemed like the Golden Gate Bridge at sunset, the bio, and a linked account to another social media. The bio, much like the page, was pretty bland.
SF, CA
Telemarketer
He/Him
Holy shit. That was backpack.
The link led to a Screenbook account. The bio was the same as the Camstagram one, but the profile picture was different. Looking back at Bryce was a familiar face, it was almost comforting. Green fabric, goofy smile, silver zippers, face littered with subtle splotches. Backpack.
He didn’t have any posts directly, but he was tagged in posts made by others. It was mostly pictures of Backpack and various other people—it seemed like a handful of friends and a few relatives. Most of the posts seemed like they were made by the same onyx Bryce found on Camsta. Some of the photos were of various gardens and landscapes, but most of the others were pictures including Backpack. He was usually smiling awkwardly, probably pulled into the frame.
That was Backpack. His Backpack.
He switched back to Camstagram before he could stop himself, pressing on the “message user” button, before hesitating.
What was he supposed to say? Should he say anything? Should he just silently observe? Does he introduce himself? What if his family or friends saw the message and got confused? Bryce inhaled, weighing his options. He had zero information about himself on his account, so, in theory, no one would be able to identify him from just a single message. If he wrote something that Backpack and only Backpack would understand, it could work out. He found himself spending five minutes writing, deleting, and then re-writing the same basic message.
“hey its soda bottle. Idk when youll get back but if your reading this please respond whenever you can”
Ah, shit, he used the wrong your/you’re. Or maybe he did use the right one, Bryce never went to college for a reason. Maybe Backpack wouldn’t notice. Are telemarketers good with grammar?
Letting out a sigh, Bryce forced himself to close his laptop (shitbox). He had work tomorrow and needed to sleep. Backpack would respond eventually... hopefully.
Either the coincidences just stopped, his bad luck ran out, the familial curse was broken, or the universe decided he had been fucked enough, because things started to get better. The first positive was scoring a new job at a different burger place as an assistant manager—meaning he got better pay and better hours. The second was not only winning the lawsuit, but winning a lot. For the first time in years, Bryce had money in his savings account. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He was even entertaining the idea of college, something he once thought would’ve never been possible. Bryce liked to think Stella would be proud. For the first time in ever, things were getting better.
Well... almost everything was getting better.
He tried to push the memories of ONE aside. Keyword being tried. He restricted himself to checking Camsta once a day, just to see if Backpack—Liam—had replied. He’d on occasion check a few search results related to ONE, just to see if anything had popped up. But as time stretched on, Bryce got a little more... desperate.
He found himself not only checking Camsta, but also Screenbook. Sometimes he’d scroll through the posts Liam had been tagged in, just to see his face again. At some point, he started occasionally checking the accounts of his family and friends, just to see what they were posting. Maybe Backpack would come home, and they’d post something about him. Surely. Any day now, Liam would be back.
It was April when something new appeared on the timeline of Backpack’s profile, something new he was tagged in. It was a post made by a cousin—some handbag.
“If anyone has seen a green backpack named Liam Plecak PLEASE call (628) 555-6967 or 9-1-1 ASAP! He was last seen in SF on the Golden Gate bridge! Lee, if you’re reading this, please come home or at least call somebody. We all miss you and just wanna know you’re OK.”
Bryce had to ignore how sick it made him feel. He found himself checking Liam’s profiles a little more often after that.
Bryce saw a therapist for the first time. He wasn’t able to tell her everything, obviously, if he told her about ONE he’d definitely be shipped off to some asylum. But he was able to talk about Mom. About what happened to Stella. He eventually got referred to a psychiatrist as well. He started antidepressants, and eventually started to feel their effects. By June, he was officially enrolled in college classes and set to start late August. It wasn’t anything fancy, just two online community college classes—he couldn’t afford anything more than that, even if he wanted to—but it was college nonetheless. By most metrics, he was doing well. Doing better. He couldn’t help but feel like Stella would’ve been proud of him. His therapist agreed.
And he still couldn’t stop thinking about ONE.
Bryce hadn’t heard a single word from Liam or from anybody else. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. He had been checking on it daily—sometimes twice—(sometimes thrice)—a day for months now and still had heard nothing. As far as he knew Liam was still considered missing. Still stuck in The Plane.
Recently, the most disturbing development, at least to him, was the fact he was starting to forget everyone’s faces and voices—save for Liam, whose face he had pictures of. But for the rest of them, the details were starting to fade. And he hated it. Bryce had two pieces of evidence that what happened on the 10th wasn’t a result of carbon monoxide poisoning. The first was Liam’s profiles and missing persons report, and the second was the memories of everyone else there. And now he was starting to lose the second.
The longer he had to wait, the more impatient he felt. It wasn’t carbon monoxide poisoning. It happened, and he needed to figure it out. He couldn’t let his last conversation with Liam be about grass. He had to—
“Dude, you’re burning the patties.”
Bryce jumped, turning to see his coworker—Issa, a bell—looking at him. He quickly turned back, flipping the patties over.
“Sorry. I just got—”
“Lost in thought?” She finished.
“... Something like that.”
He let out a groan, trying to scope out if they were salvageable.
“You’ve been acting weird. You doing okay?”
“What? I’m fine. I just have a lot on my mind. Classes starting soon, and all that.” A half-lie.
Issa sighed, “You thinking about your boyfriend, or something?”
What the fuck.
He whipped around, “My wh—I do not have a boyfriend! I’m not gay. Why would you even think that?”
“You were looking at his Screenbook profile again while you were on break. I’ve caught you going through it, like, four times in the past week.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sorry. Like, crush or something?”
“He’s not my crush, either!”
“Okay, what is he then? Because you don’t just Screenbook stalk random guys who you have zero interest in.”
“I told you, Issa, I’m not gay. And, regardless, I think it’s really weird that you’re digging into my personal life and speculating about that sort of thing.”
“Jesus, no need to get so offended... sorry.”
“I wouldn’t be offended if you weren’t being unprofessional.”
“Right... Sorry.” She replied, not in the slightest bit sorry, “You’re burning the patties. Again.”
“Shit!”
—
The second he got home, he got on his laptop, silently grumbling to himself.
Crush. Why would she think he has a crush, that’s stupid. He wasn’t gay, he didn’t have a crush. He just needed to figure out what the hell is going on with ONE, The Plane, Airy, and if everyone was okay... and have his last conversation with Liam not be about grass.
He wasn’t surprised to see an empty Camstagram inbox, he was expecting it, at that point. Screenbook probably wouldn’t be any different, but he could give it a shot. Worst case scenario he could just look through the pictures... again...
Shit, maybe he was a stalker.
With a sigh, Bryce navigated to Liam’s Screenbook profile from his bookmarks. He had made a folder with all of Liam’s pages a while ago, just to make it easier.
It was all the same, at first, and then Bryce noticed a new post on the timeline.
Bryce recognized the account, by now, it was another one of Liam’s friends—a cardboard box named Jen. They didn’t post often, and when they did it was usually just reposted quotes. So a selfie of them and Liam was a little out of the usual. And then Bryce saw the caption.
“happy birthday, Liam, rest in peace. you’ll never be forgotten, bro!”
It was disgusting to read. Genuinely, honest to god disgusting to read. Because Liam wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead, Bryce knew he had to be alive. He was never the most optimistic person, quite the opposite, but Backpack—Liam wouldn’t want Bryce to give up on him like that. Liam wouldn’t give up like that. He already knew no one could die on The Plane, so Liam was still alive.
… Right?
Before he could think, he was typing in Liam’s name into Moogle. Please don’t bring up any news headlines. Please.
Liam Plecak: Missing Persons Update | Realistic SF Bay Newspaper
https://www.thisisarealisticsfbaynewspaper.com
Missing person Liam Plecak has officially been …
Please be that they found him. Please be that they found him.
Found him alive! Specifically that they found him alive. Dear God do not let him be found dead, Bryce wouldn’t know what to do if he was found dead.
NEWS RELEASE:
Liam Plecak, a male green backpack and resident here in the Bay Area, has been missing since February 10th. He was last seen on his bike, reportedly on his way home from work. His bike was later found on the Golden Gate Bridge, with his phone and wallet said to be left on his desk at work. There have been no traces of him found since then.Plecak is officially presumed dead by authorities, with no leads on what may have happened or where his remains are. Officials believe that foul play is unlikely, and suggest that suicide may have been the cause of his disappearance.
His friends and family have described Plecak as hard-working, caring, quiet, and “a little bit scatterbrained”. His disappearance has weighed on the community, and us at RSFBN offer our deepest condolences.
If you have any leads or tips regarding Plecak, please contact the SFPD.
Initial report issued: 03/16
Ten minutes must’ve passed before Bryce found the will to do anything other than stare at the report. Why wasn’t Liam back yet. He couldn’t be dead, Bryce knew he couldn’t be dead.
He’d just have to wait. Good things come to those who wait. He’d wait, and he would be right. Liam would be fine, he’d definitely be back any day now. Any day now.
Life moves on, obviously. You suck it up and live, or you cry about it and die. Bryce chose to live. He would always choose to live.
Classes started in August and were going surprisingly well. Bryce wasn’t as dumb as he thought he was.
Work was going well, no write-ups, no incidents.
Therapy was good. The medication was helping. (Stella would’ve been proud.)
He hung out with people, sometimes. (He wasn’t close with any of them, but it was better than being alone.)
He went on a few dates. (Nothing ever came of them.)
No carbon monoxide leaks. (At least to his knowledge.)
No surprises, nothing new. A new, more comfortable routine.
… He still couldn’t stop thinking about ONE. (About Liam.)
There were still no updates. No messages. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No mentions of ONE on the internet, no mentions of Airy... and no updates on Liam. The world thought he was dead. Gone. The only thing left were the same collection of photos posted by other people. It made Bryce sick whenever he thought of it.
A recent development were the never ending dreams. It was either being back on The Plane again, being with Scenty and Liam somewhere (sometimes a bar, sometimes the movies, sometimes a coffee shop, it didn’t matter), or seeing Liam at his doorstep suddenly. The last two made him feel briefly good, before leaving him empty every time. Bryce wanted nothing more for them to be real, for something other than disappointment again and again. Bryce’s life may have improved, life may have decided to stop fucking him over relentlessly, but it still had to hold something against him. Because of course it did. Bryce was sick of losing people.
God, what he’d give to just forget.
“Looks like we have a little bit of a break... maybe we should try to get some sleep.” Scenty sounded exhausted, but she forced a smile.
“Sleep would be good.” Backpack laughed a little, “This place is messing with my head. It’s freaking me out how it’s never actually night, even though it definitely should be...”
“Yeah. This place is seriously messed up. I’m sick of Airy’s bull.” Bryce grumbled, Backpack gave him a sympathetic smile.
Knock...
“Maybe the bushes can give a little bit of shade? It might make it easier to sleep.” She recommended, pointing to one of the abstract looking excuses of bushes in the distance.
“That’s a good idea.”
“Better than trying to ignore the sun.” Bryce shrugged.
Scenty walked over to the nearest bush, settling against it. Once she looked semi-comfortable, she pat the ground next to her. Backpack didn’t question anything, walking over and sitting down next to her. After waiting a few seconds, she looked up to Bryce expectantly.
“What?”
“Are you gonna come join us?”
“Why should I...?”
“So we can sleep?”
“Right next to each other?”
“Yeah?” She said with a ‘duh’ tone.
Knock, knock...
“Why...?”
“Because this place is messed up and it might be nice to lay down together? Studies have shown that being in close contact with other people helps to reduce stress.”
“That sounds pretty stupid.” Bryce replied.
And he walked over anyway, sitting down next to Backpack.
Knock, knock, knock...
“Do you... hear that?”
“Hear what?” Scenty looked confused.
“That... sound. It’s weird.”
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
“I don’t hear anything, Soda Bottle.” Backpack looked at him, concerned.
“You seriously don’t hear anything?”
“Soda, this isn’t how the memory isn’t supposed to go.” Scenty’s voice was calm, but it almost felt like she was scolding him. What the hell?
“What?”
“This isn’t how it went. You’re changing it right now.”
“I’m not trying to do anything—that sound is just... bugging me. I can’t tell what it is.”
“Soda Bottle.” Backpack said, looking serious, “Somebody’s knocking.”
“Huh?”
“Somebody’s knocking on your door. Go answer it, Bryce.”
“When did I tell you my...”
“Bryce, go wake up and answer the door.” Backpack’s voice was gentle.
Bryce shot up in bed, equal parts confused, annoyed, and concerned.
Knock, knock...
Great. Someone was knocking on the door. It was still dark outside, what the hell would someone need from him this late?
Knock, knock...
They weren’t knocking loudly, it was strangely timid, but it was persistent. Whoever it was wanted that door answered, but didn’t want to be too much of a disturbance. What the hell?
“Coming!” He cringed at how tired he sounded, suppressing a yawn. He couldn’t help but groan as he pushed himself off the bed, slowly making his way to the door. Whoever it was better have a damn good reason.
“Who is—” He started, frustrated, opening the door to see whoever decided two in the morning was the perfect time to start bothering him.
The question died on his mouth, a familiar face killing any frustration Bryce just had. He was standing there, clutching a few blue sticky notes like they were a lifeline.
“… Liam?”