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Manepear had already been halfway to turning back before he even realized that he was hesitating
The motion so subtle, so instinctive, that it didn’t register as doubt at first, only as a slight disruption in the rhythm of his steps
A near imperceptible falter in the otherwise steady pace he had trained into himself over years of choosing silence over presence, distance over connection, absence over anything that required him to stay
It wasn’t the path that changed
His body was still moving forward, still carrying him across the terrain with that same quiet efficiency that came from repetition, from habit, from long stretches of time spent alone where nothing existed except survival and movement and the refusal to stop
But something else had shifted
Something slower
Heavier.
Something in his chest that tightened without warning, catching on a thought he hadn’t wanted to follow through to the end
The communicator in his hand felt heavier than it should have
Not physically
Not in any way that could be measured
But in the way unfamiliar things always did after being left untouched for too long, like an object that no longer belonged to him even though it had never actually left his possession, like something that had become foreign simply because he had chosen not to use it
It felt wrong in someway he couldn’t explain
He hadn’t used it in years
Not properly
Not to talk
There had been moments, small ones, where he had turned it on just to make sure it still worked, just to listen to the faint crackle of static that proved the connection still existed, that the world he had stepped away from hadn’t completely erased him from it but those didn’t count
The last time he had truly spoken to someone, not as a passing word forced out of necessity, not a clipped response given out of obligation, but an actual conversation that required tone, timing, awareness, presence was years ago
It had been so long ago that the memory itself felt dulled at the edges, like something worn down by time and neglect, something he had deliberately packed away because it demanded too much
Too much thought
Too much feeling
Too much of him
Silence had been easier
Silence didn’t ask questions
Silence didn’t expect answers
Silence didn’t remind him of everything he had chosen to leave behind
So when he stared down at the communicator now, thumb hovering just slightly above the activation switch, he found himself hesitating
Not because he didn’t want to reach Flamefrags, not because he doubted him, not because he thought the call would fail
But because the act itself felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite explain, like stepping into a role he had abandoned, like breaking a pattern that had defined him for so long that it had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like something permanent
“…He’s going to freak out” Manepear muttered under his breath, the words rough and uneven, scraping slightly against his throat as if even speaking to himself had become unfamiliar after so much time spent in silence, after so many days where the only sound he allowed himself to hear was his own breathing and the quiet rhythm of his footsteps
“Out of nowhere… after what? Years?”
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
Long enough to almost stop him
Almost
Beneath the hesitation, beneath the discomfort, beneath the quiet resistance that told him to put the communicator away and pretend this moment didn’t exist, there was something else pressing harder
Something sharper
Something that refused to be ignored
Wemmbu was missing
And that mattered more than anything else
So he pressed it
“Flame”
The name came out quieter than he expected, not quite steady, not quite confident, carrying the weight of disuse in every syllable as the signal crackled faintly to life, the sound cutting through the silence in a way that felt almost intrusive, almost too loud against the stillness he had grown used to
“I-“ He stopped
The word lingered unfinished, hanging in the air with no continuation, no direction, no certainty of what was supposed to come next
Because what was he supposed to say?
How did you start a conversation after years of nothing?
But static answered him
Manepear frowned slightly, adjusting his grip on the communicator as if the problem might be physical, as if something as simple as repositioning it could fix the absence, could turn nothing into something, could make the silence respond
“Flame?”
Again, he stopped
Not because he couldn’t finish
But because something in the silence felt… wrong
There was no delay
No interruption
Just empty static stretching too long, too flat, too lifeless, like the signal existed but the person on the other end didn’t
He waited
Longer than he meant to
Counting the seconds without realizing it, each one dragging slightly more than the last, each one pressing a little harder against the edges of his patience
One
Two
Three
Nothing
A quiet tension settled into his shoulders as he lowered the communicator just slightly, his gaze unfocused as his thoughts shifted, rearranged, searched for something, anything, that made sense of this in a way that didn’t immediately turn into something worse
Flamefrags didn’t ignore calls
Not like this
Not without a sign, not without some clipped acknowledgment, not without something that indicated he had heard
This wasn’t something
This was nothing
Manepear tried again
And again
And again
Each attempt was met with the same hollow static that seemed to stretch longer every time, pressing against him in a way that felt almost deliberate, almost intentional, even though he knew it wasn’t, even though logic told him this was just a lack of response, just a failed connection
“…Not funny” he muttered, though there was no humor in his voice, no real belief that this was a joke, no actual expectation that Flame would suddenly answer with some offhand comment to break the tension
He lowered the communicator fully this time, his grip tightening just enough for the metal to creak faintly under pressure, his other hand rising unconsciously to the necklace resting against his chest, fingers curling around the small horn as if it could ground him, as if it could anchor the unease that was beginning to settle too deep
“Fine”
The word came out sharper now
More certain
Less willing to wait
“If you won’t answer… I’ll find out myself”
He hadn’t planned to go through Capital City
Not originally
Spawn had been the idea, the logical choice, the place where information gathered, where people talked, where answers could be found if you were willing to ask for them but somewhere between thought and action, the plan had shifted without him consciously deciding it would, his steps angling instead toward the city that stood between him and that destination
(Later he would thanks his sense because the spawn already destroyed, he was out of social interaction for years so don’t blame him for not knowing alright)
Capital City rose into view slowly, its structures cutting against the horizon in shapes that should have felt familiar but didn’t, not anymore, not after so much time spent away from everything it represented
Manepear didn’t slow as he entered
He hadn’t spoken to a person in years
And it showed
People noticed
Of course they did
They always did
A figure moving too fast, too focused, too detached, eyes forward, expression unreadable, presence sharp enough to make others instinctively step aside without fully understanding why, conversations dipping slightly as he passed, attention lingering just long enough to register that something about him wasn’t normal
Some started to whispering, probably old player who knew about him
Manepear ignored all of it
The stares
The murmurs
The way the space around him shifted as if the crowd itself was making room for something it didn’t want to get too close to
He just needed supplies
Then he would leave
Then he would figure out where to go next
Then something caught his eye
A wall layered with paper in a way that felt excessive, intentional, impossible to ignore once noticed
He slowed down
Not fully
Just enough
Bold lettering repeated across multiple sheets, too uniform to be random, too deliberate to be anything ordinary
⸻
EXECUTION NOTICE
⸻
The world didn’t stop
But something inside him did
Manepear took a step closer without realizing it, the noise of the city fading into something distant and indistinct as his eyes moved, slowly, unwillingly down the page, past the formal wording, past the official markings, until they reached the part that mattered
The name
Wemmbu
For a moment, there was nothing
No breath
No thought
No reaction
“No-” It slipped out under his breath, barely audible, as if saying it louder would make it more real, as if denial worked better in quiet
“N-no” His hand lifted, fingers brushing against the edge of the poster, not tearing it down, not yet, just touching it as if that alone might prove it was wrong, that it would smear, distort, reveal itself as something else
It didn’t
Execution
Location listed
Time-
Time
His head snapped up
How long had he been standing there?
Seconds?
Minutes?
Too long
Far too long
“I’m not-“ He stopped
The sentence refused to finish
No…
The word left his mouth before he could stop it, dragged out of him with a roughness that made it feel unfamiliar even as he spoke it, catching slightly on the first syllable as if it had forgotten how to exist outside of silence “Where is it?”
It carried farther than he intended, cutting through the low hum of conversation that filled the street, sharp enough to turn heads but not enough to make anyone answer, because to them it was just another voice, just another question that didn’t concern them, just another moment that could be ignored without consequence
Manepear stood there for a second longer than he should have, waiting for something that didn’t come, his fingers twitching faintly at his side as the seconds stretched thin and useless, each one slipping past without bringing him any closer to what he needed
He couldn’t wait
He stepped forward into the crowd, closing the distance without hesitation this time, his hand shooting out and catching the nearest civilian by the front of their clothing
Pulling them forward with a force that broke their balance and dragged them into his space before they had the chance to react properly, their breath catching sharply as confusion turned into fear almost instantly
“Coordinates” he said, the word coming out lower now, more controlled, though the control itself felt unnatural, too deliberate, as if he was forcing each syllable into place instead of letting it come naturally “Law headquarters. Where is it”
The civilian froze in his grip, eyes wide, hands lifting slightly as if unsure whether to push him away or stay still, their voice stumbling over itself as they tried to respond
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” they said quickly, the words rushing out in uneven fragments, panic already threading through their tone as they tried to make sense of the situation they had just been pulled into “I don’t keep track of that stuff, I swear, I don’t know-“
“Don’t lie” Manepear didn’t raise his voice, but the interruption cut through theirs cleanly, his grip tightening just enough to make the tension real, to make it clear that this wasn’t a misunderstanding he was willing to entertain, his eyes fixed on them with a focus that didn’t waver
“I’m not lying!” the civilian insisted, more urgently now, their voice cracking slightly as more attention began to gather around them, people slowing, watching, the shift in the crowd becoming noticeable even if no one stepped in yet “Please, I don’t know, I don’t-“
“Think” Manepear said, the word coming out slower this time, heavier, as if he was trying to force clarity out of them through sheer insistence “Where”
“I don’t know-w” they repeated, panic rising higher now, their words overlapping, spilling out too fast to follow cleanly “Please, I don’t know anything about that, I just live here, I don’t-“
“Hey!” The voice cut in from the side, firm and controlled, carrying the kind of authority that expected to be acknowledged, and even before Manepear turned his head, he could feel the shift in the air, the subtle tightening of the space around him as the situation crossed into something official “This is a command. Let them go!”
The guard approached with measured steps, posture steady, gaze fixed on Manepear with practiced focus, clearly used to stepping into situations like this, clearly expecting compliance
Manepear didn’t respond immediately, his grip still firm, his attention split for just a moment between the civilian in front of him and the new presence at his side, the interruption registering not as relief but as delay
“You’re causing a disturbance” the guard continued, stopping just within reach, their tone calm but edged with warning “Release the civilian and step back, we can resolve this without escalating it further”
Resolve
The word didn’t land properly
It felt slow
Unnecessary
Useless
Manepear finally loosened his grip, and the civilian pulled away immediately, stumbling back a step before retreating fully into the crowd, not waiting, not looking back, disappearing as quickly as they could now that the pressure was gone
For a brief moment, it might have looked like the situation was ending
It wasn’t
“Good” the guard said, adjusting their stance slightly, their attention now fully on Manepear as they assessed him more carefully “Now, I need you to explain what that was about-“
“Coordinates” The interruption came without hesitation, the word slipping in flatly, cutting through the guard sentence as if it had no relevance to what Manepear needed
The guard paused, just briefly, a flicker of confusion crossing their expression before it hardened again “…What?”
“Law headquarters” Manepear said, his voice still rough from disuse but steadier now in its intent, the repetition coming easier than conversation ever could “Where is it”
The guard posture shifted, subtle but noticeable, the situation no longer reading as simple confusion or agitation but something more focused, more deliberate
“That it? Just because of a coordinate you used violent?” they replied, their tone cooling as their stance adjusted, weight shifting in preparation rather than relaxation “Given what I just saw, I’m not inclined to help unless you start cooperating”
Time slipped again
Too fast
Too far
Manepear hand tightened slightly at his side, empty now but tense, his thoughts narrowing down to a single line that didn’t allow for negotiation, didn’t allow for delay, didn’t allow for anything except movement
“I don’t have time” he said, the words quieter now but carrying more weight than anything he had said so far
“Then you should have thought about that before-“
Manepear moved before the sentence finished
There was no warning, no visible decision, no shift that signaled what was about to happen, just a sudden, immediate closing of distance that turned stillness into motion in an instant
The guard reacted quickly, their training evident in the way they moved to intercept, their hand going for their weapon even as they stepped into a defensive stance, prepared to restrain, to control, to end the situation without letting it escalate further
It wasn’t enough
Manepear first strike landed cleanly, not wild or uncontrolled but precise in a way that made it clear he wasn’t acting out of anger, his movement efficient, direct, aimed at ending resistance rather than prolonging it
The guard staggered but didn’t fall, recovering fast, attempting to counter, to regain control of the situation as they shifted their weight forward again
Manepear didn’t give them the chance
He moved again, faster this time, closing the gap before the guard could fully reset, his spear moved sharp, breaking through what defense they managed to raise and forcing them back hard enough that balance became a problem
The fight didn’t last long
It couldn’t
Because Manepear wasn’t fighting to win
He was fighting to finish
The guard hit the ground with a heavy impact, the air forced from their lungs as their weapon slipped from their grasp, their attempt to push themselves back up cut short as Manepear stepped forward again, stopping just close enough to make it clear that continuing would be pointless
Silence settled for a fraction of a second
“Coordinates” The word came out again, quieter than before, but far more dangerous in its certainty
The guard looked up at him, breathing uneven, pain evident in the tension of their expression, but behind it there was something else now, recognition, understanding, the realization that this wasn’t a situation they could control anymore
“…North sector” they said finally, their voice strained but steady enough to be understood “Outer district, past the ridge, there a marked route leading directly to Law headquarters”
Manepear didn’t wait for anything else
Didn’t acknowledge the answer
Didn’t look back
He runs the moment his body turns, the decision not something he consciously makes but something that takes over entirely
Replacing thought with motion so completely that for a brief, fragile stretch of time there is nothing except the rhythm of his steps striking against the ground and the sharp pull of air into his lungs as he forces himself forward
At first, it almost feels controlled
Not calm, not steady, but contained in the way instinct sometimes is when it hasn’t yet caught up to the full weight of what’s happening
His mind still clinging to structure as he maps the path ahead using the fragments the guard had given him, turning directions into distance, distance into time and time into something he refuses to fully calculate
Because calculating it would mean facing it
And he is not ready for that
The city falls away behind him faster than it should, its noise fading into something distant and irrelevant as the terrain opens up into long stretches of ground that feel wider than they have any right to be, emptier than they should be, every step forward making the horizon feel like it shifts just slightly out of reach
He keeps his pace
He has to
Because slowing down, even for a second, even for breath, even for thought, feels like surrendering something he cannot afford to lose
“I’m not too late”
The words come out under his breath, quieter than the sound of his own footsteps, almost swallowed by the wind that begins to build around him as his speed increases, but he repeats them anyway, again and again, not because he fully believes them but because not saying them feels worse
“I’m not too late”
The ground beneath him changes without him noticing at first, the terrain shifting from packed paths to uneven stretches that force his footing to adjust, to correct, to push harder where it should have been smooth, small disruptions that shouldn’t matter but do, because each one costs time, and time is the one thing he doesn’t have enough of
His breathing sharpens
Not uncontrolled yet
Not broken
But heavier
Pulling deeper
Faster
The control he started with begins to slip in small ways, in the way his steps land a little harder than before, in the way his shoulders tense without him realizing, in the way his focus narrows further and further until the world ahead becomes less of a landscape and more of a distance he has to erase
He should have owned an elytra
The thought hits suddenly, sharp and immediate, cutting through everything else with a clarity that feels almost cruel, because it is so obvious now, so painfully simple, something that could have changed this, something that could have shortened the distance, something that could have made this possible in a way that running alone might not
But he didn’t
And thinking about it now changes nothing
So he runs harder
Faster
Pushing past the point where efficiency matters and into the point where only speed does, even if it costs him later, even if it burns through his strength faster than it should, because there is no later that matters more than now
“I’m… not too late”
The words start to lose their shape as he repeats them, blending together, breaking slightly at the edges as his breath shortens, as his voice grows rougher from the strain of both running and speaking, but he doesn’t stop, because the repetition is the only thing holding the thought together
The distance stretches
Too far
Always too far
Every time he thinks he has made progress, the path ahead reminds him that it isn’t enough, that there is still more ground, more time, more space between him and where he needs to be and the realization presses against him harder with every step
His legs begin to burn
In a way that seeps into every movement, every push off the ground, every impact when he lands, the strain creeping upward slowly but inevitably
He ignores it
He has ignored worse
He will ignore this
The wind cuts harder now, rushing past him in a constant stream that dries his throat, that pulls at his clothes, that makes the world feel like it’s moving against him instead of with him, like every step forward is being resisted by something he cannot see
“I’m not late- I’m not-“
His voice catches
Break
He forces it out anyway
“-I’m not”
The words sound thinner now
Less certain
And he knows it
He knows it
Somewhere beneath the repetition, beneath the refusal to think it through completely, there is a quiet, growing awareness that he might already be too late, that the time listed on the poster might already be passing, might already be over, might already-
“No!”
The denial comes sharper this time, louder, cutting through the spiral before it can fully form, his pace surging forward again as if outrunning the thought itself might make it less real
He runs
And runs
And runs
The ridge appears slowly in the distance, rising just enough to break the flatness of the terrain, just enough to mark a boundary between where he is and where he needs to be
The moment he sees it, something in his chest tightens further, because it is both closer than before and still too far at the same time
His breathing is no longer controlled
It comes in sharp pulls now, uneven and heavy, each inhale burning slightly, each exhale shorter than it should be, his body beginning to push back against the pace he is forcing it to maintain
He doesn’t slow
He can’t afford to
Even as his steps grow heavier, even as his muscles begin to protest more clearly, even as the rhythm he started with breaks into something harsher and less sustainable, he keeps going, because stopping is not an option, because slowing down is not an option, because nothing is an option except forward
“I’m not too late”
The words are barely audible now
More breath than sound
More insistence than belief
He reaches the base of the ridge and doesn’t hesitate, pushing upward without pause, the incline immediately demanding more from him, forcing his legs to work harder, to lift higher, to fight against gravity in a way that makes the strain spike sharply
For a moment, just a moment, his step falters
Not enough to stop
But enough to feel it
Enough to know how close he is to losing the pace
His hand tightens around the horn necklace at his chest, fingers pressing into it as if grounding himself, as if anchoring the last bit of control he has left
“I’m not too late- please”
The words come out again, cracked now, uneven, barely holding together
———————~*~———————
Manepear didn’t know how long had he been running
When the Law headquarters comes into view
Something in his chest drops
Even from this distance, he can already see that he didn’t make it in time
For a moment, Manepear does not move, not because he chooses to stop and not because his body has finally given out after everything he forced it through, but because something inside him fails to process what he is seeing
The image in front of him arriving all at once and yet refusing to settle into something coherent, as if his mind is rejecting it before it can fully form into reality, leaving him suspended in a stretched, fragile second where everything feels both distant and unbearably clear at the same time
The Law headquarters stands ahead exactly where it was supposed to be, exactly where the directions had led him, its structure rising higher than he expected, higher than it should have been, elevated in a way that makes the center of attention feel deliberately out of reach
Gathered before it is a crowd that is too still to be casual and too focused to be anything but deliberate, their attention fixed upward, their posture carrying that quiet, collective stillness of people watching something they already know cannot be stopped
And when Manepear follows their line of sight, when his gaze lifts despite the resistance in his chest that already knows what it will find, he sees him
He sees Wemmbu
The distance between them is not just horizontal but vertical, stretched by height as much as by ground, placing Wemmbu far above the crowd, far above Manepear, positioned in a way that makes the gap between them feel impossible to cross in time
Yet the moment recognition hits, Manepear body moves again without hesitation, his pace surging forward despite the strain, despite the uneven pull of breath in his lungs, because distance, no matter how impossible, is still something he refuses to accept
He want to shout
But the sound never forms properly, his voice catching somewhere between his chest and his throat as if it does not know how to exist at that volume anymore
Only a strained exhale where words should have been, quiet and broken and lost long before they could ever reach that height.
“I’m here!” he tries anyway, but it comes out low, uneven, barely more than breath shaped into sound, something that dissolves into the air almost immediately, something that was never meant to carry far enough to matter
It does not reach
It cannot
Wemmbu is too high, too far, too removed from where Manepear stands
And yet, he turns
The movement is small, constrained by whatever holds him in place, but it happens at the exact moment Manepear gaze locks onto him
As if something else carried the awareness across the distance, something that had nothing to do with sound and everything to do with presence, with recognition, with the simple fact that despite everything, they still find each other
Their eyes meet
And in that instant, something shifts in Wemmbu expression in a way that does not belong in a moment like this, there is no fear there, no panic, no visible struggle against what is about to happen, but instead something softer, something quieter, something that settles over him with a certainty that feels completely out of place
Relief
It appears gradually but unmistakably, his eyes widening just slightly before softening, before settling into something that carries far too much weight for a moment that is already slipping away, and then, despite everything, despite the height, the restraints, the inevitability that surrounds him, he smiles
It is not a strong smile, nor a steady one, but it is real in a way that cannot be mistaken, carrying exhaustion and pain and acceptance all at once, and as it forms, tears follow without resistance, tracing down his face in a way that makes the distance between them feel sharper rather than smaller, because Manepear can see it clearly and still cannot reach him
Wemmbu lips move, forming a name that does not need sound to be understood, because even without hearing it, Manepear knows exactly what was said, knows it in the way their gazes hold for that brief, fragile moment as if it alone is enough to close the distance that everything else refuses to bridge
Manepear pushes forward harder, his steps uneven now, the crowd made his control slipping as he tries to close a gap that is no longer just distance but time, his breathing breaking into sharper, shorter pulls as the realization begins to press harder against him
He can see it now, the setup, the positioning, the unmistakable structure of something that is already in motion and cannot be undone
“No” he breathes, the word barely audible even to himself, carried more in the movement of his lips than in sound, his hand tightening around the horn necklace at his chest as if grounding himself might somehow change what he is seeing “I’m not too late- I’m not-“
But even as he says it, even as he forces the thought to hold together, something at the center shifts
The movement is small
Controlled
Final
And then the message appears, cutting through everything with a clarity that leaves no room for misunderstanding
| Wemmbu was slain by LettuceK
Manepear stops
Whatever had been driving him forward until now has been severed in an instant, leaving him standing in a way that feels unnatural, incomplete, like momentum itself has abandoned him at the exact moment he needed it most
For a second, he does not understand, the words failing to settle, failing to connect, failing to mean anything at all as they hang there in his vision, detached from reality in a way that almost feels merciful
Then they do
And everything else follows
The world does not go quiet, the crowd shifting and moving in subtle waves as the moment concludes for them, as attention begins to break and scatter now that there is nothing left to watch, but none of it reaches him properly, none of it registers in a way that matters, because his focus has already locked onto something else
The color of vibrant violet
Too much of it
It spreads across the ground below in a way that feels wrong against everything surrounding it, too vivid, too present
A color that does not belong in something that should have ended so quickly, the sight of it pulls something tight in his chest, something that refuses to loosen no matter how hard he tries to breathe
His lungs do not cooperate, each inhale shallow, uneven, incomplete, as if his body has forgotten how to do something that should have been automatic, his breath catching in a way that makes the space around him feel smaller, heavier, harder to exist in
“No” he says again, quieter this time, the word barely forming as his hand tightens around the horn necklace, the edge of it pressing into his palm hard enough to hurt, grounding and sharp and real in a way that everything else suddenly is not “This isn’t real”
The denial comes faster now, not louder but more insistent, his gaze fixed forward without blinking as if looking away would make it worse, as if holding the image in place might somehow prevent it from becoming permanent “This isn’t real, this isn’t-“
But it is
And somewhere in the shifting of the crowd, in the slow dispersal that follows the end of something they had all gathered to witness
Manepear notices a figure that does not move with the rest, someone who remains still even as others begin to leave, someone who feels out of place in a different way
Flamefrags
The recognition comes slower this time, dulled by everything else pressing against him, but it settles just the same, and for a moment Manepear does not react, does not move, does not even fully process it
Then Flame turns, slowly, as if responding to something unseen, as if the weight of a stare has reached him despite the distance, despite the noise, despite everything else that should have gotten in the way
Their eyes meet
In that single, quiet moment, everything that was left unsaid settles between them without needing to be spoken, the silence, the absence, the unanswered call, the fact that neither of them made it in time, all of it sitting there in a way that feels heavier than anything either of them could have said out loud
And beneath all of it, deeper than the shock, deeper than the disbelief, something entirety else begins to take shape
Rage
This time, when something shifts inside Manepear, it does not feel like breaking
It feels like something else entirely