Chapter Text
“Let me tell you a bedtime story.”
The QSMP Census Bureau boasts a thousand happy employees.
Departments coordinate to keep operations running throughout the servers. By far the largest department is Observations, which maintain surveillance over ongoing trials and active Islands under the jurisdiction of the Census Bureau. Habitat consists largely of external consultants, jointly shared with the rest of The Federation, under which the QSMP is an extension. Finance submits its reports to The Federation directly. Active experiments remain in incubation until maturity, and are assimilated into the Bureau’s core talent. There is a place for everything, and everything in its place.
The bulb flickers overhead, casting its white eye over the rectangular office floor, segregated into rows and rows of empty cubicles. On each desk is a computer screen, turned dark. Each computer screen follows a Player, but there is only one active on the floor. The camera is situated outside the home, although the microphone picks it up easily enough. A half-shrouded view nestled within the beds of a rose bush.
“He was so dedicated to everything he ever did,”
There was a kind of voice that Players would use when they told each other stories. They speak slowly and with great preamble. They do it with their children; there was a great pause after each sentence as if to be sure that they were being listened to, and when they received their desired reaction, when the children slid underneath their warm covers and closed their eyes, they would start again.
This voice comes through the crackling speaker, tuned to its softest level, that one would need to put their ears to the monitor to listen.
“He would literally want to be the best at all of the things, and it got so ridiculous, if he wasn’t immediately good at something, he would drop it.”
A QSMP Census Bureau Officer is not a QSMP Observer, and should not be at the desk.
A QSMP Census Bureau Officer had their offices further separated from the bulk of observers, who complete menial tasks outside. Past the white quartz floors upward to study Player mannerisms. A QSMP Census Bureau Officer should not be anywhere near Observations.
And yet, there is one here now.
It sits at the open monitor, its long legs packed underneath the cramped cubicle so that its knees were bent. Gloved palms set unmoving on its lap like a wind-up machine, it watches. The white iron-pressed suit of a Bureau Officer, its fur mask folded like a second skin over the entirety of its face, straps disappearing into a pale head of long locks, drawn back into tight braids. Hours could pass without a single move, only the slow rise and fall of its chest signals its attention to the screen. The glow of the monitor reflected the reds of the rose bush back to its windsor tie, the buttoned collar of its dress-shirt, against a pale, working throat.
“He hated to admit that he wasn’t perfect, so even though he could listen to a fluent, Portuguese speaker, he never fuckin’ spoke it!”
Its finger traces the ivory surface of the desk.
What a coincidence, it thinks dimly. It is also fluent in Portuguese, although the practice has long been lost on its tongue.
As an officer under the Research and Development Bureau, it has never met a Player outside the Federation. It assists in the management of active experiments operating outside the Census Bureau. It had only seen Player: Philza Minecraft by chance; Obscurucho had made it clear that immature experiments were to be brought back and separated from the Island group. Their broad palm on the small of its back, the weight sending an unguarded chill through its rim-rod spine, meeting the black, beady eyes through its own placid mask. Its eyes had wandered downward to the file on Obscurucho’s desk, and the face of Player: Philza Minecraft snagged at the back of its mind. Half of his eyes obscured by his green fisherman’s hat, mouth peeled open in a smile full of teeth.
Its eyes remained on the report, even as it had been ushered out. The face remained – the wide pull of the Player’s mouth, like in the middle of laughter. It is not the kind of face one would usually make in the Federation, the kind of open delight. A Player who is used to adventure, with a ruggedness to the scruff of his face, well-traveled, unburdened by the politics of the trial. The Bureau Officer had taken to considering the face during resting cycles, tracing the lines around his mouth, his age written in the refined softness of his cheekbones.
It turned that face over and over.
Walking through the quiet, endless rows underneath the server, that odd feeling constricted its throat and stayed there. A tight grip between the smooth planes of its chest, like a tripwire had been sprung. It returned to the Research and Development Bureau.
It had passed the luminous glow of the active experiments; live coding trapped with command blocks and admin access, their ones and zeroes gaping in animal agony. The shrieking is muffled by layers of glass, only the sound of its fine, leather shoes clicking onto the reflective tiles. It returned to the open laboratory, it returned to its handling of the active experiments it had been assigned to, it returned to work.
And it thought of the weather-worn face, picked and pulled at its memory when the face itself began to melt away.
It had not seen it long enough to commit it to memory.
It did its work, and its legs brought it up the winding staircases to Observations.
Philza Minecraft enjoys the company of his home server, of which he had been restricted from the moment he had been recruited for the QSMP. He is a builder, he is decent with an axe. When his assigned partner is away, which is often, he entertains the eggs, he builds, he hoards armour.
And he talks about his friend.
Techno, he says, the name warm and cherished in his mouth.
Techno is a fighter. Techno and Philza had fought together across servers, they had come together under the reign of empires and presidents and over decades and over centuries. And no matter the distance, Techno had always come back.
Until silence.
Until a long, bleak period of nothing, of waiting, and watching that transmitter say; User is no longer in service. And Phil had known what it meant, to see that message come through, and yet he couldn’t stop speaking of it.
The QSMP Census Bureau Officer knows this, because it listens to every story Philza Minecraft tells. It spends hours and days and nights and weeks listening, that roiling, uneasy grip between his ribcage constricting like an open pump every time the name falls out of Philza Minecraft’s wretched mouth.
The elevator doors open.
Sheer light spills through the gap, drapes over the cubicle’s edge, and where it couldn’t touch, it illuminated. Its white glare cast the rest of the silent floor in a watery light, shadows darkening the further the tables were from the elevator. It makes the singular rectangular glow of the monitor even more evident in the din, and the Bureau Officer that has taken to sitting at its place. Hunched like a shrimp, only wrenched straight by the panic of being caught. Observations is an open, endless department, and it is constantly in motion. The spare monitors are very rarely used, an easy hideaway if one only knows to look.
The Bureau Officer fumbles to stop the recording, the very last syllables of Philza Minecraft’s soft voice abruptly cut off. The chair skidding back when it stands, fingers tugging at the edge of its glove as it holds itself rigid before the elevators.
But it is only 003, in his brother’s skin.
The sight leeches tension slow from its shoulders, mouth falling into a downturn curl beneath the privacy of its uniform. An arm reaching out to power the monitor down and step away from the cubicle.
“Uh oh!” El Quackity booms, voice ringing across the office in a saccharine cheer; with him, he brings a gust of heat, “What’s a fuckin’ rat doing in Observations?”
It pushes the chair neatly back into the desk, pressing its lapels down.
Ha. ha, it says, smooth and mechanical through the modulator.
A brief wave of its hand drags the control interface to its wrist. The time blinks up at it in gleaming white numbers, 3:49PM; three hours of a rest-cycle as a statue in the Bureau office. It had spent three hours watching the monitors.
More and more time wasted in the redundant rooms.
It is no wonder that 003 came searching, he should be grateful it was one of his, rather than a wandering eye.
003 lives with a hunger to be liked, it is in every coy laugh, every batted eyelid – he is a defect of his own creation. He whistles a high, caustic tune full of cheer, his dress shoes clicking against the white, reflective floors. All of his teeth bared, the skin stretching taut at each end of his thin, dry lips. “Need a little maintenance,” he says, chin lifting as if he wants to push his face up against its mask. He rocks back on his heels, entire body swaying as if wanting to lunge; Bearing is always overly excited, and aggressive to his adversaries. “Need a talk with Cucurucho?”
I wouldn’t bring up Cucurucho if I were you, it says.
003 makes a winded sound, and between the first blink and the next, has nearly barrelled down the aisle to push his chest up to it. He becomes unstable the moment someone else responds to his razor edge tongue, eyes bulging with blood-shot fury. Entire body taut, a vein pulsating at the edge of his jaw, as he rocks forward, clicking his teeth hard as if wanting to bite. A distinct lack of self-control.
It tilts its head to face him. Goin’ outside, playin’ dress-up, it says. Couldn’t be me. Couldn’t be me… I haven’t thought of reportin’ you, but sure, let’s have a meetin’ with the big C.
The skin of 003’s face twists and twists, bunches in the unnatural valleys of his face.
It reaches past him to call the elevator, the heat of 003’s fury radiating through him.
“‘Least I’ve got the balls to be out there,” he seethes, “Least I’m actually fucking seeing it.” he crowds closer, with him the sharp, sour odour of sweat. The dampness of rain – Habitat must have drawn the rain down for an event, it is rarely raining on the Islands. “You sit here,” spittle, “In this fucking room. Watching the screens, fucking pathetic.”
The elevators chime softly.
Well, it says. Ever since I was a young boy I’ve dreamed of increasin’ stockholder value.
It leans down, as the elevator doors cast an open light upon them. And we can't all be failures, it says.
Here is a secret of 003. He would much rather arrange a death than partake in it himself, and so no matter how he gnashes his teeth, how he pushes their bodies together like he weighs much more than he does, he will do nothing. He crowds into the elevator, pushes up against its shoulder. “Oh you’re gonna fuckin’ get it, you’re gonna get it,” he says through his teeth, “You have no fuckin’ idea…”
Do you need medical attention? It asks, thin-lipped smile audible through its modulator.
“Why don’t you go outside,” he says aloud, venomous.
There is a camera in the elevator. It does not have audio access. My work is in asset management, it says.
“Coward,” 003 replies.
It looks back at the door, and thinks of the Player. It thinks of the way his voice lowered to accommodate his charge, its pleasant, even-tempered tenor. All Players are the same on the Island. There is not one difference among them. It thinks of the vast, vast fields of farms that Egg-B09 had made, and he thinks of the shrine underneath the oak trees. That there is no directive that restricts it from leaving Research & Development.
003’s hair is damp, it peeks from his beanie and plasters across his forehead. Head turned to stare at the elevator walls, the heat of his shoulder remains a line pressed up against its arm.
It stays, because there is no reason for it to leave.
The Codes are only able to stabilize when injected into living creatures. On their own, they lack the form to hold themselves together, like inbred pugs, unequipped to stay corporeal for long. From what the Bureau Officer understands – Codes are not under its purview, and therefore it only hears of complaints in passing – their project coordinator had submitted a request for one of the Bureau Officer’s subjects, which is irritating. The one it had provided last time did not take well to its new regimen, and had slit his throat cleanly in his cell with the razor edge of his own ones and zeroes. Too corrupted to have his save file retrieved by the server, too much of a Mob, and no longer a Player.
Stunning levels of incompetence on display.
Even as a cadet-level officer, it knows the importance of managing its team. Its own list of vessel experiment subjects are a mile long, all of whom suffer from varying bouts of aggression and anxiety – transfer of experiment from one department to another requires sedation. Subjects need constant appeasement. Even in its limited knowledge, it knows all of this. They go stir-crazy in there, all those white walls; they need comfort, they need company, they need stimulation–
“You don’t get caught, you know,”
Which reminds it of its most irritatin’ charge.
The Bureau Officer stares at its monitor, rubbing its thumb against the side of its index finger. The draft burrows from underneath the iron doors, slipping into the thin dress shirt of its uniform. Under layers and layers of dirt and stone, the underground is cold as a grave. The air conditioner ghosts over the nape of its neck, that even when it is wearing its sterile, white coat over its suit jacket, the cold still reaches bone. Stiff-backed at its desk, the body hovering behind it gives it only a marginal amount of heat.
Clearly, 003 has been purging his violent urges with the Island group, and the Bureau Officer has no desire to regulate him as long as he doesn’t interfere with its work. There are six subjects under its management. Four of them are barely alive, unlucky number 5 will be transferred to Codes.
Out of the corner of its eyes, 003 throws himself onto the seat beside the desk, usually reserved for good experiment subjects who are allowed into the office for their medical checks; he says, “The backdoor’s got no fucking cameras, it’s a straight shot outta this shithole.”
And the Bureau Officer is irritated at itself, for recalling the emergency exit sign it passes every day, for knowing exactly which backdoor 003 is talking about. Because the admin offices are underground, the walk out involves a thousand flights of stairs. The Bureau Officer, in studiously doing its rote duties, has never seen the thousand flights of stairs. Surely, it reasons, someone would notice. Surely, if someone entered its laboratory looking for it, someone would see that it was no longer at its post, and they would ring the alarm. Obscurucho would know, somehow, that it had harboured an Unsanctioned Thought, and it would be stripped of its work.
Its fingers twitch briefly, an involuntary muscle spasm to the practiced stillness of its posture.
It would return to the Red Room.
Do you know what survivorship bias is, El Quackity, it says, slow and drawling through the modulator, as it turns.
Stops.
Half of 003’s face is peeling. The mouth he borrowed from his brother kept slipping off his face, like a watercolour painting. Leaves behind a smooth expanse of skin; he had exerted himself again. It meant that he really did have a reason for slinking up into the laboratory when The Officer had not called on him – and yet, this slip-up had been his own fault, and The Officer has no desire to waste a shot of stabiliser on an idiot.
A Bureau Officer, leaving the office without clearance. The very thought makes its chest feel caved in.
You’re goin’ t’ get caught, it says, deliberately returning to its keyboard. And I'll be tasked with cleanin’ it up. It’s gonna make your last beatin’ look like a spa-day, three.
If it does not pay for 003’s audacity along with him – 003 is its responsibility, after all.
“Cobarde,” 003 hisses, “Vas a morir aquí,”
His gnashing teeth snap with a crash by its ear, catches a flyaway strand and tugs it from its braid. The brief prick of pain is barely noticed. Instead, the Bureau Officer pretends to be working. It could submit a request for a review of 003’s whereabouts at any moment, it could do it at the desk right now. 003 will be returned to his cell, he will be put in the Dark Room, his privileges as an active asset of the Federation will be reshelved until his priorities are realigned. He will not gnash his teeth at his supervisor, will not gnash his teeth at anything Cucurucho does not point at.
The Bureau Officer doesn’t open the request.
“You’re not gonna gi– me fuckin’ a–mything?” 003 snarls, the knobs of his knuckles bone white, gripping at the edge of his hood. His teeth are slipping out of his gums.
Is my silence not enough for you, El Quackity, it says sweetly.
003 smashes his foot into the side of its desk, the force of his kick scatters the pens and papers it had stacked neatly on its side. The crash of impact bounces off the crystal quartz walls, ringing high-pitched over and over again into the ceiling, into the security camera at the upper left corner, pointed to their backs. Its singular eye turns towards the sound with a soft, mechanical whirr.
It looks at 003.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you one day,” 003 seethes, “I’m gonna– oh, you have no idea, I’m gonna fucking eat your face off, you son-of-a-bitch dog,”
It watches 003 slam the door on his way out. That will teach him not to come running every time he overextends himself with the Island group, that will teach him to be careful. 003 slips in and out without raising the alarms, and thinks this means nobody has noticed, or that he has found a way out. The Bureau Officer knows better than that.
It is not in the habit of dispensing false hope.