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💚💚💚💚
Tango awoke to cold stone against his palms.
Groundshock thrummed through his wrists. He’d fallen out of bed; landed hard on all fours, tail lashing behind him too late to do any good. His pulse spiked in his ears, adrenaline burning the back of his throat. He was reacting to—to something—he could swear he’d been—
Failed. He’d failed. He hadn’t killed anyone. The memory of yesterday crashed over him like a ship splintered by waves. You are the Boogeyman, they’d boomed; countless voices coiled into one giant wire that threaded through his marrow. And he’d felt it—the rabid-dog urge to maim, to kill, to set the perfect trap and watch a green life throttle itself—
—and he’d run out of time. He’d failed to kill anyone. And the absence of bloodlust felt like all the birds in the forest had fallen silent.
I’ll turn red. Am I already red?
Sweat flushed across the back of his neck. He wrapped his tail around his knees, trying to ground himself in the warmth. Someone moved in front of him: Impulse, sitting up in his bed, his green eyes sharp with concern in a way that told Tango he’d already woken up. Green eyes. They were so green—they’d been that green when Impulse took his hand and promised to help him land a kill—Tango’s heart sank. By the end of today, I’ll be fully red. I’ll want to kill him.
What if I do?
Impulse slipped out of bed, knelt down, and wrapped his arms around him.
A ragged sound escaped Tango’s chest. Impulse was heavyset, with strong arms and a soft chest. Being held by him made Tango feel safe and too vulnerable at the same time. It took all of his effort not to burst into tears when he tressed his fingers through his hair and pressed a kiss to the exposed skin.
Tango didn’t know how long they sat there—only that, at some point, Ren stood up and padded across the floor to join them. He settled in against Tango’s side, nudging at his shoulder until he relinquished a hand.
They’d never discussed it—not really, not since Ren had clasped a panicking Tango’s hands and promised him they’d help him get a Boogey kill—and at the time, he’d smiled about it. We kinda don’t need to, he’d thought, watching Impulse wrap his arm around Ren’s shoulders. It was hilarious and endearing, the way his tail started wagging. I like them. They like each other. We’ll have time to figure it out.
And now they didn’t have time.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ren asked.
Tango jumped a little, trying to reconcile the topics floating around his head. The Boogey curse. He’s talking about that. He shook his head quickly. “They’re gonna take my lives away. What is there to say?”
It was a little strange, preparing to die. Tango hadn’t really thought about what would happen if he failed. He’d just assumed he’d work it out, somehow. That Ren and Impulse would pull through, or Skizz would guide an unsuspecting teammate into their base. That a death would find its way to him, and whatever it was that imposed the Boogey curse and any part of this game would be sated. Instead, it was his own death Tango was faced with; staring down the barrel of the morning.
It was a beautiful morning. Dew crunched beneath his boots as they stepped outside.
“How d’you reckon they’ll do it?” he asked.
Impulse’s head snapped up. “Dude, you can’t just… ask that.”
“Why not?” Tango fixed him with a pointed look. “It’s my Boogey failure. I’m allowed to be festive about it.”
Something flashed in Impulse’s eyes—frustration?—and his fingers tightened in his shirt. Before he could respond, Ren set a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Tango stared between them, trying and failing to curb his own panicked frustration. They’re not the ones dropping to red. What do they have to be upset about?
He opened his mouth to voice the thought, when Ren sliced a hand through the air. One of his canine ears flicked towards the open field. Two shapes were moving through the long grass: Tango’s vision focused on the crescent-moon outlines of wings. Grian and Pearl. Gem can’t be far behind. To the far side of the pyramid, Martyn and Cleo were meandering down the path.
An audience, then. Tango tried and failed to swallow the dread in his throat.
“Pretty day, at least,” Ren laughed, his tail swishing behind him as he stepped into the grass.
Tango closed his eyes, letting the sun’s rays wash over him. It can’t be long now. They’ll take my lives away somehow.
The sunlight between his eyelids vanished. Tango frowned sharply; had he somehow managed to step back into the pyramid’s shadow? No—as his gaze turned to the sky, he realised something was blocking the sun. Something dark and oblong—too oblong to be a bird—and falling, much too quickly—
“Duck!” Ren yelled, as the ground behind Tango uprooted.
The impact sent him staggering sideways, landing hard on his hands and knees. Morning dew leached through his clothes, a startling chill, as he staggered to his feet. Inches from his tail, something sharp and stony had gouged its way into the earth. Sunlight glinted off its edge.
Tango narrowed his eyes. “Is that a fucking anvil?”
In the corner of his eye, a wing flashed. Grian and Pearl had made it to their base. In the rush of adrenaline, Tango’s vision zoned in on Grian’s eyes, dark and watchful. He bit back a hiss. He’d never liked Grian. It wasn’t for lack of trying—he’d told himself he’d give everyone in this strange server a chance—but whenever they talked, an uneasy feeling came over him. Grian looked at him—looked at everyone—like he knew something they didn’t.
Just like the way he was looking at him now.
“There it is,” he muttered.
Tango had just enough time to register the words when the sunlight vanished again—
It caught him in the temple; not pain, but a sudden, overwhelming pressure that spun through his skull and rooted into the back of his neck. Earth slammed into Tango’s face, and he felt the sickening moment his limbs lost connection with his spine. Someone was screaming—that was Impulse, with Ren cutting through in a stream of sharp, panicked words—
It landed on the back of his head, and everything was severed.
💚💚💚
Tango awoke to cold stone against his palms.
Inertia ripped through his body with a gut-twisting intensity. His hand flew to his head, expecting… blood, maybe. Soft tissue. Fragments of bone. The impact was still there, reverberating through his skull, the base of his neck crackling painfully, and—
He was whole again.
“Tango?” Impulse’s voice rose through the stony walls. His chest tightened at how panicked his teammate sounded.
“It’s okay,” he called out. “I’m here.” The words ended in a harrowing cough, his throat clamping down over itself. Tango doubled over, fighting to regain his voice, and found he couldn’t. His entire chest felt heavy, like his lungs had been filled with clay or water. Tar burned the back of his throat, the taste nauseating and sulfuric. It was like—like rot, he realised, panic surging through him—
He hadn’t even noticed himself trying to stand until he fell back over. Again the stone floor. Again the rot. His stomach was caving in on itself, muscles splintering in pain, as something vile poured out his throat—
It was the colour of ink, and it spattered like blood.
A memory chimed in the back of Tango’s mind; not a conscious experience, but something rooted deep in his being. The same part of his mind that supplied what water tasted like. What blood smelled like.
He was Withering.
This is how they take lives. Tango’s alarm became dread. They don’t just take them. They’re going to kill me, over and over, until I’m red.
“Tango!” Impulse cried again.
Pain ripped through Tango’s chest as he tried and failed to answer. It burned through his senses, eroding any coherent thought his mind could supply. Impulse, his hazy mind sang. Get to Impulse. He staggered forward, and made it a few steps before his limbs seized up. His temple caught the wall, sending a burst of light through his vision, and it didn’t fade—
“Tango!”
“Leave him, Impulse, you can’t help—”
Tears burned through Tango’s vision. His entire body was rotting—he could feel it, a vile pit in his belly as the soft tissue ate at itself—and he couldn’t stop it. The sound of Impulse screaming made him lurch forward again. A hazy memory stretched out at him through the gloom: Impulse’s arms wrapped around him. Ren resting his head on his shoulder.
They’ll fix it. They fix everything. They’ll—
Tango landed on the grass when it reached his eyes; a stabbing, searing bite that ate at his vision and burrowed into his skull. He felt, more than heard, himself howl.
💛💛
Tango awoke to cold stone against his palms.
His hands were shaking under him. His stomach muscles ached from coughing. His tail was spitting flames, and he was—
Awake, in the silence of the pyramid.
When he stood up, the world swooped around him. His knees shook under the weight of his own body. Steadying himself with a hand on his bed, Tango closed his eyes until the vertigo subsided. Despite the apprehension curdling through him, the world was still.
Too still, he realised. Impulse’s screams had fallen silent.
He staggered out to the doorway in slow, small steps. In the field outside, more players had assembled. Martyn and Cleo stood side by side, their faces haggard with horror. Gem had appeared behind her teammates, staring at him with a hollow expression. Grian was watching, with that same indiscernible look that rooted Tango with dread.
And at the centre of the field was an anvil, the grass around it spattered with blood.
Impulse was on the ground beside it; he’d dropped to his knees, and his shoulders were shaking. Beside him, Ren was pacing in a circle, clutching his hair so hard white lines were forming on his face. When his gaze drifted up to the doorway, it passed Tango completely—then doubled back. His grief became horror. Became urgency. He grabbed Impulse by the arm.
“Hey.” Tango’s smile came so readily, it didn’t feel real. None of this felt real. “What’s next?”
A drop of rain nipped against his nose.
Static electricity hummed through the field. Gooseflesh prickled along his arms. The sky darkened again, and Tango flinched, bracing for another anvil. None came; instead, thunder rumbled overhead.
“Tango,” said Impulse weakly as the wind began to pick up. He’d stood now, turning to face Tango; his eyes were red, his face streaked with tears. Behind him, looking small and unimposing—nothing like his usual over-the-top self—Ren had grown still.
Dread tightened Tango’s chest. “Stay away from me,” he hissed, raising a hand before Impulse could get closer. He stopped in his tracks, hands spread as if to hold him, and… Tango felt like his chest had folded in on itself. He wanted, so desperately, to let Impulse close the distance between them. To feel his heartbeat again.
The wind rose to a howl, whipping at Tango with such a force he suddenly found himself staggering. He knew what was coming—the thought formed with the surging rain, like ice slicing through his clothes—but it didn’t stop the panic bursting through his chest when the first lightning split the sky.
White light filled his vision, accompanied by a shrill ringing that engulfed the sound of the world around him. Tango staggered away, blinking through a shower of spots. Judging by the charred scent, it had struck close.
No, everywhere. As Tango’s gaze tore across the horizon, more bands of lightning filled the sky; gleaming white capillaries in an inky expanse. It was beautiful. Had he never noticed how beautiful storms were?
The sky above his head burst open, and… he felt no fear. For the first time that day, Tango wasn’t afraid. He was deeply tired, down to the bone, skull reverberating with pain and chest charred from the Wither infection. As the inky stormclouds splintered like shattered glass, he felt himself lifted away. It wasn’t lightning; the world itself was opening up, revealing what lay beyond it. It was too bright to focus on. We’re all just part of a kaleidoscope.
When the world ripped open to its seam, Tango closed his eyes to meet it. And he felt it—the delightful moment it pared his ribs apart—
The world, and everything in it, and his yellow life.
❤️
Tango awoke to cold stone against his palms. Rain snaked down the back of his neck. It spattered onto the cobbled floor with a hiss. He flicked his tail away, surprised at the reaction. His flames had never burnt this hot. Not since…
Not since. He glanced down at his hand, and found the blunt nails had curled into claws.
It’s over. He tried to find his breath, but couldn’t. His chest felt thin and brittle, like the lightning strike had turned his bones to glass. He could taste ash at the back of his throat, like his own blaze flames had burned him from the inside out—
He felt hollow. He felt exhausted. He felt empty.
I can’t do it again.
He buried his head in his hands and waited.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Tango didn’t look. He didn’t want to know what they’d sent this time. A swarm of pillagers, maybe—a Warden—some other walking nightmare that would rip his body apart. The idea of dying again sent a wave of panic through him, so sharp he felt blood welling underneath his fingernails—they were digging into his forearms, and he couldn’t get them to let go—
“Tango,” someone was saying. “Tango, look at me.”
Tango burrowed deeper into the fold of his own arms. I can’t. Not again.
But the voice persisted—and someone’s hands were around his wrists now, lifting them away, forcing him to unravel himself. Tango braced for the next attack, and—
Impulse’s hands travelled down his sides like he was searching for injuries. They hovered above his shoulders for a moment. Two more hands crept in from his other side—Tango recognised Ren’s blunt claws and dark hair—and suddenly, he was being enveloped between them. Impulse pressed his head to his chest, while Ren squeezed him tightly. Their hands all joined together in a tangle of fingers; something that might have made him laugh a day ago.
Now, it brought a sob rising out of Tango’s throat.
“You’re okay.” Impulse didn’t sound okay; he sounded distraught, his voice thin and fragile.
Ren cleared his throat as if to add something, but nothing made it out. Tango felt him bury his face against his neck. A tear splashed against his skin, then another. Tango curled his tail around, trying to offer him some warmth, and that only made him cry more.
“You guys should go,” he managed to sputter out. “I…” His throat felt dry. Forcing the words out hurt. “I don’t know what they’re gonna do next. Might hurt you.”
Impulse pulled away, his gaze soft and sad. “I think they’re done, Tango.”
Are they? Tango pressed a hand gingerly to his skull. Pain rolled through his temple, making him wince. The longer he breathed, the less certain he was that any of it was real. It felt impossible to conceive. He was waiting for the next agonizing death. He could feel it, coiling like a snake about to strike. And…
He could feel something else. His heart sank into his chest. Beneath the panic, the burning adrenaline, there was something harrowingly familiar: a hunger. Just as badly as he wanted to escape, a part of him wanted to attack. He needed to feel Impulse’s heartbeat, and he needed to feel it stop. He needed Ren’s hands holding his, and he needed to put his teeth through them. He needed—
He needed death. You’re red now.
The confirmation flooded him with dread:
Your lives are taken. Now take theirs.
“You guys should go,” he managed to say.
“No,” said Ren and Impulse, at the same time. Tango pulled back, his body registering surprise the same way it would an attack. It was Ren who replied, lifting his knuckle and kissing it gently. “We’re with you, Tango. We’ll make sure this never happens again.”
“Never,” Impulse affirmed, shuffling closer to rest his head over Tango’s.
Tango closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the warmth of his two teammates—partners?—around him. He could hear Impulse’s heartbeat, finally, pressed against his ear; and he could feel Ren’s beard prickling against the back of his neck.
We’ll have time to talk about it, he’d thought foolishly.
Now he knew better: There’s no time.
But also, we don’t need to talk about it.
“We’ll help you,” Ren said against him. “I promise, Tango. That will never happen again.”
Tango nodded shakily. He wanted to believe him—he wanted to believe that everything would be okay, and that he’d live as a red. But he could still taste the Wither rot in the back of his throat. His skull still thrummed with pain. A dragonfly darted through the air, and he flinched, remembering the falling anvil blocking the sun. They were being watched by whatever it was that spun this whole kaleidoscope—the something behind the lightning—and now, he was red.
How long until the final death?
Tango closed his eyes and tried, with all his might, to forget.