Chapter Text
The last person “Hackingnoises” saved was an old man from a speeding car, in the middle of a break.
It went something, very vaguely, like this; he’d waved goodbye to the store clerk, already mid bite into his sandwich—his teeth sunk into the bread and lettuce crunching and cold.
A lack of civilians around would hopefully mean minimal distractions from his lunch, but no one knew how things would go in practice, and hope famously didn’t mean much at all.
Hax sat down—“collapsed” was more apt— on the curb, taking bites of his sandwich while opening a bottle of water with his free hand. His legs ached to be swinging in the air, ground far beneath the rooftop he’d taken shelter on, but Hax could really only sit through so many droning lectures before he’d start hearing them in his sleep again, and no one wanted a repeat of that.
Wind tousled his straight blue hair, getting between him and his sandwich. Hax rolled his eyes as he held his hair back while taking bites. Around him were mostly red brick apartments, with the occasional deli, parking lot, or random store beneath or between the residential buildings. Nothing too bothersome would happen in these areas—there was no point to them—, so he liked taking his time when patrolling.
High in the sky, the sun was about midway through its journey, which usually signified the end of his shift, sooner or later. “Sooner, sooner, sooner,” he muttered between bites. Yes, it was petty to invoke the power of threes for an end to his shift, but really, anyone would do the same in his shoes.
Taking a swig of his water, Hackingnoises kept an eye out for any incidents that might happen, though the dull, grating sound of a car’s exhaust’s low ringing continuously pulled his attention away. The air vaguely smelt of… burnt rubber?
As he watched an elderly man cross the street, Hax spotted the abrupt and rigid movement of a round, metallic object almost flying down the street from the corner of his eye.
Instinct overrode all else. In a flash, he was standing, arms outstretched.
Five dollar sandwich plopped onto the dirty sidewalk, drink relegated to a shield between the man and the car—a slowly solidifying wall of sludge. The tingling of his fingertips and sheer size of the wall—taller than the old man by a good few inches— told Hax that he’d dragged more than just the liquid from the drink out to the street.
Looking down at his side confirmed his guess; the pouch he kept filled with water, hanging at his waist, was open and empty. A fire hydrant near the street corner told a similar tale. Fuuuuck, his arms shook as he fought hard to suppress a roll of his eyes, he’d need to make a few calls.
His arms dropped to his side, trembling slightly from the exertion of forcing another burst of mental energy through his scraped-raw channels. Today had already been tough on his stamina as it stood. Hackingnoises hoped tomorrow—if it ever came—would be easier on his worn bones and faltering spirit. Spotting the car’s windows rolling down, his eyes snapped towards the 2016 honda accord(™), sighing in relief when he spotted no hints of injury nor harm on the driver.
“What the hell, man?!” The driver heckled, “Who the fuck do you think you are?! I’m gonna sue your ass to hell and back, asshole!”
Maybe there was more to that day than he’d remembered, though trying to drag those memories back from the ever consuming void was a fruitless matter. All that remained was a heavy weight against his shoulders and the ringing emptiness of knowing there was something more he was missing.
Okay, it wasn’t like Feinberg wanted to be labelled as a vigilante-villain-hero or whatever people came up with next, but what was he supposed to do? Just let someone get mugged in front of his eyes and do nothing? Of course not!
Basically; he was skipping school like any other day (seriously, what was the point in going if he could just self study and ace every test?), when he saw someone (Robin aka Oxidiot, he would later learn) getting cornered into an alleyway by a shady guy dressed like the stereotypical criminal in those stupid PSAs; all black, baggy clothes fit with a mask. Problem: that same shady guy had a gun.
Yeah; things had just gotten a whole lot trickier. There were issues that came with being an upstanding citizen, sadly, but Feinberg wasn’t just gonna let that person die, or like, get robbed, when he could do something.
Feinberg briefly took stock of what he had as trailed behind the pair, ducking behind trashbins and the like. Aside from the big elephant in the alleyway (the Gun ™), it looked like there were no other weapons that he had to account for. He stopped when they—the mugger(?) and victim pair— did; suddenly and in some fuckass spot, deep in the maze of building crevices; only a singular, metal lightpole that didn’t even work.
“What’s in that bag?!” The guy just pulled out the gun and started gesturing with it, grip loose and hand still on the trigger.
“Nothing!” The girl sporting streetwear and medium length, brown hair glanced back briefly, flinching when the gun was waved in her face. “You can check if you don’t believe me man.”
“Hands stay up,” the mugger gestured threateningly, gun trained on the back of her head, other one opening up the backpack. “Aha!” He pulled out a wallet and waved it around with the same disregard he’d treated the gun with, “What’s this?! Be smart or you won’t have brains to use, missy.”
She glanced back towards him. With her gaze trained on the gun pointed straight at her, she didn’t so much as flinch.
Feinberg didn’t waste any time; he focused his energy on the metallic gun and lightpole, charging them so they were attracted to each other. The mugger’s arm twisted weirdly; gun in his hand trying to get to the light pole.
Before Fein could jump in, he saw a body slump down to the floor. Trailing his eyes up, he saw red converse, black jeans, a striped hoodie, and eyes staring right at him, framed by brown bangs.
“Heeeeyyy man,” Feinberg slowly got up from where he was crouched down, keeping his hands up, “I just got lost. Um, do you know where theeeee. Mall. Is?”
She stared at him, unblinking, and nocked her head to the side, “I know you helped. Are you a vigilante? Dressing like that,” she raised an eyebrow, “isn’t very smart; you’re wearing too many identifiable items and you’re not covering your face.”
He blinked and shot back, “Are you a vigilante?”
“Yes. Would you like my help?”
Hax drummed his fingertips against the subway pole, eyes darting to take in the distant scenery in the windows opposite to him. Behind him, light streamed through the glass and made his hair appear more brown than it usually did. Despite the warmer weather, he still wore more than one layer— his compressive under clothes, a plain black tee, and the looser, thinner short sleeved hoodie he bought for himself a week back.
Across from him was a sleeping construction worker, clothes stained with splotches of white. Mishmashes of sounds played from a teen’s phone, an adult also on their phone sitting next to them. The cart smelt like vomit and sweat, though he could ignore the smell once he spent a few more minutes in it.
Turning around to look at the window behind him, hax’s eyes drifted up into the sky, watching the clouds lazily move across the vast sky while the world below kept moving.
Slowing to a stop, the car doors opened and fresh air flooded inside, “This Hudson avenue,” the prerecorded message rang out as a group of five-ish people walked in, disturbing the peace with chatter. The announcement was almost drowned out by their noise, “a Ranked City bound F train. The next and last stop is Ranked City.”
His pulse spiked. Everything just felt so much more real now, with Ranked so close by. Street stalls, merch stores, delis—he could imagine them all . The memory was so familiar, almost painfully so; the rich, sour scent of meat grilling, floating through the air, felt like home.
It was just that damned name.
Whatever, Hax let out a measured breath of air, and let himself hope, for just a second. For a brighter future ahead, maybe. Or perhaps for any sign of remorse, any at all, so he could justify renouncing the path of violence he’d sworn to take.
The train slowed to a stop. “This is Ranked City, Main Street,” the subway doors opened. “Transfers are available to the Q, H and L trains.”
Okay, okay. He could do this. Deep breaths. Hax got off the train, dragging his feet along the station. His heart only beat faster as he made his way towards the staircases up and out of the station.
Behind him, the announcement rang out lazily, “This is the last stop on this train. Everyone please leave the train, thank you for riding with-….” With a breath, he stepped up slowly, each stair seeing insurmountable and taking what seemed to be hours.
Outside, sunlight poured in and blinded him as he made his way up and was hit by the scent of the fresh air outside. His vision cleared and-
Billboards were plastered everywhere. He recognized a face every so often, next to products and marketing ads. Couriway. Doogile. Oliver. Fulham.
He knew all those people—was familiar with each of the personalities behind those faces. Something had changed; they changed. And he didn’t, still stuck in time, clinging on to anger; nursing it. Parts addiction, to the adrenaline flowing when he hated and parts a bad habit he couldn’t really let go.
-(The end. Was it real? Was anything real at all? Did reality have any effect on the value of memories and experience gained?)-
Coming here was a mistake- he- he should’ve just stayed at his apartment, blissfully ignorant and hopeful. It would’ve been a kinder fate than the one he knew he would be pulled along now.
Perhaps it was inevitable. He would’ve given into the impulse to visit at least once.
Maybe it was kinder to get his dreams crushed now, when the hope hadn’t blossomed just yet. That treasured dream of peace felt so faraway. Joy crumpled off his exterior and left him feeling raw, far too exposed in a lion’s den. No, no. No.
Fuck-, Hax faltered, leaning against the street lamp, feeling the gritty texture of rust beneath his hands, pressed up against his palms. Vision swimming, he had to fight back bile, the sour flavor of vomit at the back of his throat clouding his senses. Everything smelt of smoke and ash and-
Sky dark, his powers drummed against his skin. It would be so easy. So incredibly easy to make a statement.
Your heroes aren't infallible.
Look how they’ve failed to protect you. Look at how they’ve failed themselves and the very people they work with.
He couldn’t stay here, that much was obvious.
Yet he couldn’t help but want. It’d been so long since Hackingnoises had felt power sing his name and swirl around him.
He couldn’t slip back into those old habits—not yet. Not here.
Run. Leave, his instincts screamed. Hax ducked into an alleyway, chest heaving for air. Everything was suffocating. Vision faltered, blackened, returned. Taking deep, steading breaths, Hax braced himself over a dumpster, head hanging low. A yell pounded inside his head, use it. Use it, it wasn’t like it’d matter. The void would reclaim him sooner or later.
Fuck.
Being Local Tortilla was easy. Easier than being Feinberg, anyways, which was all that mattered. If the pressing weight choking him, squeezing his heart disappeared, even for just a moment, he could ignore the fact that his mind was slipping away, slowly but surely. Lighter. Untethered. Free. The man under the mask slowly consumed him, until he couldn’t call the person in the mirror himself anymore—not after seeing what could’ve been.
An escape made it so much easier to bear. Just the knowledge that there was a way out, if he was ever brave enough to reach for it, eased weight off his shoulders until it was all manageable again.
Until it wasn’t, and it came time for him to put on that mask again, with all his worries fading away, because he wasn’t himself, just the weird fellow running around in a shitty dollar store costume, calling himself “Local Tortilla” and insisting others do the same. Who were they to fight that, even with how weird that name was? After all, none of them knew him, so they had no say in what he did with his life, nevermind his body.
()
He would survive though. Feinberg was nothing if not someone who got through, teeth ground down and bones weary.
Because- what else was there, if not the spirit of endurance? In all honesty, Fein could barely muster up the willpower to take a shower, much less find a reason to hope or just survive outside the sake of surviving.
Maybe it was twisted—surviving in the hopes of living. Many in his same position had done the opposite; living so they could find a reason to survive. It was working for him though. This was working for him. Day by day, things were getting easier. After years, Feinberg had finally found a flicker of light at the end of a long tunnel.
Unlike popular belief, even Feinberg hadn’t gotten out of Nerdi’s grasp unscathed.
Caecius stepped onto the Rift with a smile and wave to the small group of reporters nearby. Surely Ranked knew how he liked to handle the first wave of mobs by now, and would send backup to actually kill the mobs he had frozen.
Even with the blue warped fungus trees cooling everything down, the Nether was stifling. It’s energy was incompatible with his, thick in the air. Sweat collected on top of his skin—it was painfully humid, yet another trick.
No way in hell was he going to be the first Powered in eight years to die of hypothermia.
He checked his arm for the ping; “Trigger the [Beaconator] Advancement,” it read. Fuck. Really? And there was a civilian he needed to find, too? Caecius’d walked in expecting a normal RSG World, not this. If he knew beforehand, he would’ve thrown Local Tortilla under the bus.
Sucking in a harsh breath of air, he planted a hand on his head and one on his hip and stared up into the sky. At best this would take him three days without rest, if he was built like Oxidiot. Safe to say he was not— Hax had never even pulled an all-nighter before! When cramming, he’d always fallen asleep for an hour or two before waking back up and resuming his studying.
Okay, whatever. How did these sorts of runs start, again?
Uh, he looked around, seeing the barren terrain with no structures in sight. Only trees blocking his view and the occasional enderman wandering around. They usually started in the overworld, for one, but he’d seen recordings of Oxidiot making a Nether spawn work just fine.
Maybe all hope wasn’t lost just yet—as long as he found an RP or a bastion. An RP before bastion was preferred, but he cooould make either work, probably. Okay, okay- enough thinking, more action!
Going in F3 to scan around, he broke a few logs and crafted a picaxe, boat, and axe—all wooden, of course. If he wanted anything more, Hax would have to get lucky while digging through a wall, or deal with a basalt delta.
Even when wide macro’ing, he found a sum total of nothing. Great.
(I want to be your dinner plate
And maybe the whole meal too)
It was fine- he could adapt. Hax paused for a moment before deciding to grab a few extra logs for crafting purposes, and bridging if he really needed it. Pie charting gleaned nothing , even when he raised his render.
From here, it was nothing but run in a random direction and hope to get lucky. He really didn’t wanna run into piglins—or hoglins, for that matter.
And so, with all the materials he could scavenge—bridging blocks could be dealt with in the moment—, he ran north! Yeah, yeah, say what you’d like about his cowardance, but it was the smartest choice! Terrain in the other directions didn’t seem very… nice; south and east were just a sea of lava, and west had a bunch of mountains. Northward was still a bit hilly, but flat enough to have a nice vantage point.
Plus, this route had the additional benefit of increasing his chances of finding the civilain—not that he really needed it; his comm would ping him if there was another human in a certain radius—; humans, like everything else, took the path of least resistance.
After zoning out for a while, rescanning every so often, he saw it—a chest Relief rushed into his body as he finally went back into first person mode. If he was lucky, there would be iron and food—there had to be food, his hunger bar was alarmingly low—in the chest, he could do fine without everything else!
Opening the chest—thankfully an RP—, he found… no iron, no food.
Seriously?! Damn this cruel world. There was a flint&steel and gold boots, which wasn’t that bad. If he tried hard enough, he could route a bastion and survive the task, though he’d have to tank a few hits while getting past all the pigs in search of some iron. Routing a bastion without an iron pickaxe heading in had been done before, so it wasn’t like Hax was exactly innovating. He just needed to remember how the hell the others had done it.
If he locked in, he was fine. If he didn’t, he was gonna die, but that was how all runs went, anyways. Nothing new, really.
Gearing up, he continued heading north! With how the spawning mechanics worked, he would run into a bastion… at some point. At this point, he couldn’t tell if the still-missing civilian was a blessing—cause he didn’t have to keep them calm and whatnot— or curse—the longer spent away from him, the more likely it was that the civilian had died.
(I want to sing you an aubade)
One thing at a time- and oh, there it was; a bastion in the distance. Checking his coords, he found he was around a thousand blocks out—not that bad for an RSG World. It looked to be a stables—, albeit suspiciously devoid of piglins. Had they all wandered off? Stepping inside, he found… blocks. Player-placed blocks.
A fucking civilian routed a stables.
Was this a joke?
He’d refer to the civvie as a vigilante from now on— it felt rude to label someone’s moral standing based on nothing but guesswork.
This entire situation made things… much more complicated, to say the least. He’d check the backups, but there was a high likelihood that if whoever this was knew how to route a stables and not die in the process, they’d’ve gotten all the gold they could’ve. Checking the trades gave him nothing but some building blocks, fire res and some spectral arrows.
Not like he could afford to be picky; Hax took all of them. Food wise, he would be fine. Walright, onto the next bastion!
Piecharting showed nothing (as expected), so he’d just keep running straight. It was what the vigilante would’ve done, too. Probably. If they wanted to be found.
Out the backside of the bastion was a soul sand valley—that explained the lack of discarded soul speed boots. With about five stacks of blocks (he’d mined a bit of netherrack while walking), it’d be fine to just traverse, just a bit annoying. Onward!
It was about what you’d expect, just a straight line, sprinting and placing blocks beneath his feet. After a while, he could zone out completely while running and scanning his surroundings. His legs and feet hurt. Food was no longer as plentiful, but it wassss… still Walright. Mountains? Light work.
Actually, shouldn’t he be going around?- ah, a bastion.
Ding!
Aaaand the mystery person. BANG! His pace quickened—or, well, slowed, ‘cause he was eating to restore a few hunger bars. Only one porkchop left— nice timing.
Now, he needed to deal with the other person… Surely they’d be civil, right? Not that being uncivil would be too major of an issue—if push came to shove, he could just knock the guy out and drag them along. What the media didn’t know couldn’t be used against him!
(I want to see you typing and quickly exit the chat)
Hax braced his hands against cool (surprising, ‘cause of the bigass pools of lava), smooth blackstone and stepped up, feet warming. There was a telltale pillar going up to the gold; this was definitely looted.
Mining the blocks and towering up would give him away anyways, so it wasn’t like he could be sneaky. Plus, it ran the risk of him getting shot at by the (presumed) vigilante.
“Yo!” Hax cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Ranker Caecius reporting, I’m gonna climb up.” Alright, that should’ve do the trick. Now that he thought about it… he rearranged his inventory, putting extra blocks and a weapon in his hotbar just in case the vigilante turned out to be a villain.
As he towered up, footsteps prickled his ears. Looking up, he found a guy that seemed just around his age, too. White hoodie, blonde hair, black pants. Eyes obscured. The lower half of his face was covered by a mask.
“Oh my god I’m so sorry,” the guy fumbled, looking around. He dropped down and built a connecting path for Hax to get up, stuttering, “I didn’t even think about who Ranked would deploy. Like- oh my god. Caecius? I thought you were farther west, so you wouldn’t get called. I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to be a bother-“
Laughing, Hax climbed up after the guy, “No- it's legit fine. What are the rates like?” Okay, so not violent. A fan, presumably. Competent, too. He could work with that.
Right, before he forgot, "What's your name?” Hm, maybe that was suspicious. “I can’t just keep calling you ‘guy’, haha.” Real freaking smooth there, Hax. Nice to see you absorbed all that training properly and did your homework.
“Oh um, I was just in the middle of checking trades,” the guy adjusted his mask, pulling it up slightly, “And my name is…” he scratched his cheek and answered despite his doubt, “[].”
(I want to sit with you in a claw foot tub all week)
Hax filed that information away for later; “Thats a nice name! [], did you break the spawner yet?”
(When we emerge, I want a ticker tape parade)
has made the advancement [Beaconator]
has made the advancement [Beaconator]
Gold against the pale yellow of endstone was an eye strain, the dragon egg was lost somewhere on the island. Maybe it was stuck in some long forgotten crevice. The call of the void was strong—it was all around.
(I want the antidote to lovesickness
Stored in a back molar like a cyanide tooth)
The Universe’s call was stronger, still.
(I want to ask you everything
And then forget it all)
From the lit beacon ray, an account activator floated down. Seeing that [] had shrinked back, Hax stepped up to the top layer and grabbed the thing for him instead. He looked between the smooth, unmarred gem and []. If he kept it, the Activator would provide a nice fat bonus in his paycheck, but’d also let Ranked get an even tighter monopoly on the Hero business.
(I want to know how I'm going to get myself out of this one)
Stepping towards [], Hax gestured at him with the Activator, “Take it.”
[]’s eyes widened a comical amount. They were a brilliant blue. “Oh, no,” he held up his hands, stepping back, “I could never.”
Ah, so he was one of those. “No, really,” Hax grabbed []’s hand and pressed the gem into his palm, “you’ve worked for it.” Extra persuasion was prolly needed, huh? “You’d make a great coworker if you end up making a name for yourself, so really,” he smiled.
“I-,” [] pulled away and gazed at the gem in wonder. “Thank you, man. You have no idea how much this means to me. Thank you. Seriously,” his voice took on a wobbly edge.
Uh, lockin. “No biggie, really,” Hax laughed awkwardly. “So are we leaving or nah?”
3:22:48. Hax had certainly gained more respect to Oxidiot, QueenKac and the other All Advancement runners. The End Poem called out to him, its comfort painfully familiar. Just one step.
[] stepped up to the fountain’s lip, brow furrowed. Hax stepped up beside him. It didn't look like [] was gonna make a move any time soon, so Hax took the liberty of giving him a little nudge.
“Wh- Hey!”
He flailed about and entered the fountain.
Hax smiled and jumped after, closing his eyes and surrendering his consciousness to the Universe.
(But I don't want to know when)