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The Orbital Cannon is - was - beautiful; in every way shape and form. It sprouted from the cocoons of half-minded ideas, dreams of cloud and smoke and sparks, imprinted onto yellowed paper, stained with coffee rings and water. It was beautiful: in the caverns of his own mind, and when it came crashing down, unleashing its relentless fury onto those witless players. It scorched them, it eroded the rock, broke the mineral into only dust.
But it scorched them. It only scorched them. When pride swelled up in his chest, something else tagged along - a prerequisite, maybe, perhaps dissatisfaction. Disappointment, that flared up in him like a bulging tumor; but how?
This was his cannon. This was his magnum opus. This was meant to end the server - but it didn't, and those two, Squiddo and 4CVIT, had thrown him to the wolves.
And now... And now...
And now he runs.
Squiddo was a decent - teammate; she followed, she had the similar affinity for evil, the same capabilities, a squishy mind that, with a certain ease, shaped itself when prodded.
When he proposed the idea of setting off a railgun - the conquest of a dozen hearts, to keep them alive and to satiate his hunger - she agreed instantaneously. Wemmbu wondered, for a second, if she was as naive as he thought, if Squiddo was putting on an act - but as he stared into the unwavering, almost pathetic, dedication in their eyes, the uneasy edge in his smile disappeared.
She was decent; she was kind, they were trusting and trustworthy, and they were bait.
The days spent, under the vibrant ropes of redstone and the buzzing circuits, were atleast fun- and he can admit that, it was fun poking at Squiddo's buttons until their edges cracked. Though, Wemmbu never went too far, but when he did, he made sure to sneak a glance at her trembling hands, their naivety doubting itself.
(He kept down that burst of unadulterated glee, threatening to spill out of his mouth.)
In the end, Squiddo was the slaughter, and the lambs were idiots who stood in a line, waiting for cake; who's bodies were pulled back by a million miles, their glowing hearts landing with a clink on the carpet, dampened with blood.
He straightened his hat. He washed the redstone off of his hands, and he waited.
When Squiddo returned, they returned unclean, dried blood stuck into her hair, her face, her birthday suit; with a hand that never quite stopped shaking since the day they teamed up with Wemmbu, she shook his.
Wemmbu's face twitched - and yes, he'll admit that, too - before he schooled it into a perfect, smug grin.
Their hand trembled harder as they parted. He saw it. He noted it; and he stored it in his mind for next time.
The phone echoed five long, agonising beeps before the receiver picked up.
Squiddo's voice came hesitant. Maybe a little afraid, who knows. "Hey…"
"Hi, Squiddo." Wemmbu answered confidently. "Do you remember the railgun we built together?" (Well, the railgun that I built - goes unsaid. He's still trying to butter them up.)
".. Yeah." On a more quizzical tone, like she knew that there was a catch - which there was, obviously, there always was going to be a catch with him, whether his partners liked it or not - but chose not to speak on it.
"What if I said I had something better in the works? Something grander?" Sparks flew behind his eyes, a world of inferno just out of his reach, "That I want your help with?"
"What is it that you're talking about?" Squiddo asked, her reluctance washed over by a wave of annoyance; almost, Wemmbu can hear her silent groan beyond the telephone line.
Slowly, and a little dramatically for flair: "An Orbital Strike Cannon."
It shouldn't be possible, really. Not in survival - and definitely not in a server like Lifesteal.
The machinery was too complex, and there was no possibility that the cannon would fire, should be it be properly built and coded without issue. The dilemma - if or if it were not possible - loomed over their heads.
They pulled through, though. They always did, somehow - and slowly, Wemmbu realised that this partnership was a once in a lifetime chance: no one was as mouldable as Squiddo, and no one had the same desire - the same burning drive - as he did.
Almost, almost, he thought of truly paying her for their dedication to the project, before he remembered himself.
4CVIT tagged along for the ride - which is to say, Wemmbu doesn't really know much about him, other than two things: he's a redstone engineer, and that he's another go-lucky goody-two-shoes like Squiddo.
4C is a key component to the cause - blowing up the server and revelling in its losses - and by key, he meant key. Wemmbu was an adequate engineer, yes, he literally drafted the blueprints, but this meant that they could finish the cannon long before the Void devoured Spawn.
If that happened, then there wouldn't be a Spawn for him to destroy - and what type of dumbass shot a nuke into the Void?
He told Squiddo and 4C that they're running out of time and - the good little followers they are - diligently return back to the cannon.
Triumphant glee bubbled in his throat. This time, he made no effort to contain it.
Wemmbu runs, and the thrill in it is exhilarating- the whole server is hunting him down, waiting - waited - for him to slip. Now they've got it. Now, weakly, a single heart is found in his wrist, pulsating tiredly. And now, he can only wait for someone to find him.
He dives into a nearby stream, water staining his eyes, a exuberant ache in his lungs that beg for air. He doesn't find it until he's dug himself into a one by one hole, his fingernails peeling from their beds, bloodied and sore.
Wemmbu brushes his blood slicked hair, some strands stuck to his cheeks, away from his eyes; he's well aware that he looks like shit, and he's probably looked like shit for the past thirty minutes getting his ass beat by Ashswag of all people- but whatever. Atleast, this way, he can preserve his meagre dignity after his previous fourteen deaths - all which ended with a silent gurgle from his mouth, blinding, white-hot pain searing through his gut that only said nothing other than welp, this is the end.
He can't deny that - it is the end. However, utterly lame and mudane this ending is.
Overhead, a chrous of determined, angered voices, muffled by the river, rushes through.
When the sun dipped low below the horizon, when the sensor activated torches lit up with a magnetic glow, he often caught Squiddo and 4C chatting away below deck, above wires and circuits and laid down tools.
Their conversations were so distinctly strange for co-workers and so intensely familiar for friends. He knew what they were: close friends.
Wemmbu supposed it would've inevitably happened between eachother, after weeks of isolation from Spawn, hunkered in some cramped base working on a nuke, there's bound to be some connection.
He's just a .. little surprised that they're so close, now. (And, maybe, he'll admit to himself that - they'll never be like that with him. No biggie. He's everyone's enemy- which is far more fun, interesting and entertaining than a close friendship akin to theirs.) It'll hinder their performance- at best, and at worst, they'll stop hanging onto every good-natured lie that spews out of his mouth.
His stomach doesn't drop, but he swallowed. Thickly.
(When Squiddo tried, Wemmbu only placated her with patronising encouragement and too sharp smiles, only making suspicion curl in their gut. An ugly, twisted thing. 4C doesn't try, because he knew how Wemmbu really was - he knew that Wemmbu did not care. He knew that underneath the facade his boss wore, the screaming demands echoing throughout the night, that it was never for the best for the both of them, and it never was in their interests at all. He knew that Wemmbu, despite capable of doing so, will never change, and will continue to hurt others without ever facing the repercussions.)
(Squiddo only realises this later, and she doesn't know why they tried at all.)
He knows it's Squiddo before she breaks through the walls of his self-made sanctuary. Water rushes through, pooling at their feet and curling around his boot.
There's a heavy, thick silence that permeates the space.
"Why?" Squiddo asks, a short, stranged rasp. Broken, maybe. Angered, possibly. Eyes are the window to the soul, and whilst he's grown to reading her gestures, Wemmbu's never quite found out why she guards her eyes.
Wemmbu shrugs. "Why not?"
Their lip curls, twisting with anger, into a snarl that looks out of place. Pasted on. "I never wanted to do this, Wemmbu! It was you, you who wanted this- and I-"
She cuts herself off with a sharp exhale, sword materialising by their side before pointing towards the open flesh in his neck. The carotid artery.
Metal on his tongue. The smell of rot on him. He thinks of the fourteen, embarrassing deaths and he remembers that - yeah, they did see it.
Would she give him a more merciful death?
Inappropriately, he laughs. It's a raw and bitter thing, only culminated from months of careful planning and moulding just for it to all blow up in his face. Literally. For his two diligent tools to just up and leave like they always had doubts in the first place...
It's all so fucking pathetic.
Squiddo speaks again, slower, taken aback by his hysteria, "You knew that they couldn't get the fifty hearts."
"Of course."
"Then, why?"
"Why what?"
Squiddo stubbornly doesn't reply. Wemmbu's laughter halts, smile dropping subsequently after.
"Stop stalling," he says, "If you're going to kill me, then do it. Don't stand there." Idiot.
Squiddo takes one suffering look back at Wemmbu, something in their gaze softening for a fraction of a second before it's replaced by cold anger, her hands moving with purpose.
"You should've paid me, Wemmbu." They say.
With one slash - a quick flick of the wrist - he's gone.