Work Text:
The stream gushes and birds chirp in harmony in the idle heights of the mountains, a perfect temporary escape from the Mafia where one can bask in the quietude.
Spoke deeply inhaled the fresh air, one where it doesn’t smell of iron and invisibility potions. He settles down under a tree making sure he is behind the side facing spawn, taking out a sketchbook and started flipping through pages of scribbles and tactical blueprints, seems like the voidling took much more interest in trapping after meeting MinuteTech, but he urges it’s his own genius anyway.
Spoke is alone, which feels both safe and scary, he thought he was alone, who knows what’s lurking—better to not jinx himself, he thinks, even though things don’t seem to go in his favour. Maybe most cases are because of himself. Made of void and not fallen stars. He lets the sound of graphite against parchment fill his ears—until he heard soft breathing on his skin to which he shudders a bit.
It was Mapicc, of course, Mapicc. He was too used to his presence, too is a good thing here, because Mapicc is the universe, and he is the player and he is love itself. And because the universe is omnipresent with everything being the witness of the universe itself, Mapicc is also omnipresent, but instead of everything witnessing him, it’s nothing.
Mapicc, with his head on Spoke’s shoulder, asks “What’cha drawing Spoke?”
Spoke instinctively folds his sketchbook, then opens it again after realising it was Mapicc who asked, flipping through the pages, “Aren’t these traps cool Mapicc?” Spoke smiled, proud.
Mapicc hummed, “I didn’t think you were the drawing type…”
“I’m full of surprises you see!”
Mapicc lets out a huff of a laugh, “So is your impulsivity.” he bumped Spoke’s shoulder with his elbow.
Spoke scoffs, “I can plan when I need too!”
Mapicc lightly shook his head and rolled his eyes, now flipping through the pages with Spoke’s silent permission of losening his grip, making hums of interest and acknowledgement…or absolute perplexity from some of these absurd ideas. What a bright mind. Spoke pretended to be offended, saying Mapicc can’t comprehend his genius mind.
It was one particular page Mapicc was turning to which made Spoke instantly grab his hand.
“Hey- what was that-”
“Nothing important.”
“I finally saw some colour bro!”
“It’s- a work in progress you know, I don’t like showing my incomplete work…”
Mapicc stared at spoke, head titlted—seeing through the slightest bit of stammering and uncertainty in Spoke’s voice.
“Didn’t look incomplete—c’mon Spoke, I’m sure I can help somehow.”
Spoke remained stubborn despite the obvious doubt, he didn’t need help, it wasn’t a plan or anything… it’s… it’s…
“It’s stupid…” Spoke murmured.
“Come onnn bro…I’m sure I’ve seen more stupid stuff from you.”
Spoke stayed silent for quite a bit, “I’ll- I’ll show it to you later…” he turned around, as if he was looking for something- “Weren’t we supposed to visit Manepear?” a deviation attempt.
Mapicc perked up, it’s bound to be a death trap but it’s worth a shot anyway “Yeah… let’s go then?”
Spoke nodded and Mapicc handed them some rockets and went to the edge of the mountain, waiting.
Spoke took a peek at the page: Spoke, Mapicc, and the family—hands clasped together in shitty stickman drawings with the oddly 3D houses and the sun in the corner. There were roses and cornflowers complementing the buildings, and a grave in the distance, with the name “iMajesticRose” written so carefully—a stark contrast to Spoke’s usual writings.
“Spoke?” Mapicc asked, a little more softer, a little more worried.
He instantly closed the book and looked up, “Yeah- yeah, I’m coming- just making sure there’s no smudges.”
Spoke quickly rushed to his best friend and they flew off into the horizon as the sound of fireworks blended into the air.
That pathetic attempt of recruitement was a disaster, the whole Mafia thing was a disaster. It almost drove Spoke insane, made him feel so so so isolated. It was the worst, he thought, but he didn’t know the new feats of isolation he was about to reach. The Mafia is…was* surprisingly a distant, good memory. It was filled with more laughter than whatever this was, more friends than whatever this was, more people aware than whatever this was—even though it was too late by then, the server is bankrupt.
Spoke didn’t want it to be too late now as well. But it already was.
It was way too late.
He is gone, he has been gone, but now he's about to be gone physically too.
What was he supposed to do? How does one stop the inevitable? He couldn’t even die by Mapicc, he fucked that up too. Oh to have someone realize he has been dead, to have his most beloved friend realize he has been far gone too, but he tried so so so hard to put together those pieces of his mirror—reflection so warped he can’t even recognize what is there.
Mapicc put together the broken pieces in a beautiful arrangment. But now he’s left it broken, sweet sweet Mapicc.
“Drop it.” a cold voice demanded. The same voice that once gave hope. That same voice that hummed as its hands hesitantly strokes Spoke’s hair, as its hands stiffly held Spoke, like it knew what Spoke was from the start. The hums barely had any rythym, it kept on breaking, failing to maintain a proper tempo. It never was meant to soothe, it was only a reminder.
Everything else was on the floor besides the small crinkled paper tucked away in one of his pockets, the same picture, though its been through so much that it’s losing colour—remnants remained.
This one is a page where he put too many colours. He sees spawn, he sees light, he sees his friends, he sees Mapicc, Jumper—The family. His family.
“If you ever want to see Mapicc again, I’m gonna need you to drop these right here.”
His words rung in his head and repeated continuosly,
to see Mapicc again
to see Mapicc again
to see Mapicc again
to see Mapicc again
to see Mapicc again
The drawing, also, became part with the flame.
Spoke wants one thing now.
To kill Jamato.
And then he can finally see spawn again.
See the family again
Bid his farewells to everyone.
Bask in the chil air of the mountains with Mapicc’s warmth.
And then meet his making.
He’s been wanting to this for so long,
but he needed the perfect ending.
And for now, he has to step in to the flame of the nether as the other figure that once he held close to his heart—watched him be engulfed by flames of guilt and regret.
What Jamato didn’t know was uttering that sentence itself had hope in it. It gave another chance.
Jamato’s biggest mistake will be keeping Spoke alive.