Chapter Text
The first thing Minute registered when he woke up was pain.
Then annoyance.
A lot of that.
The world tipped sideways as he sat up in bed, but he simply ignored it until it went away. He had bigger problems to deal with. One of those being that everything hurt. His head, his arms, his everything.
For a moment it was completely lost on him why. Then the memories came flooding back, though a little hazy after just a day. The fight. His victory. And those kids.
A day ago he’d spotted two kids being jumped by mafia members. And because apparently he couldn’t mind his own business, he’d made the idiotic decision to help them, expecting there to be no strings attached. But of course, because the server hated him, the kids decided it was a good idea to follow him back.
As much as Minute had wanted to kick them out—kill them on-sight, even—he had self-restraint. The kids were obviously scared. Lost. They seemed to have a common enemy: the mafia. And where else would they have gone?
So he’d patched them up after the fight. He’d given them a room. He’d helped them gear up, because how they’d managed to survive so long with such terrible tools was beyond him. Now, what came next was… unclear.
But that was a worry for Later Minutetech. The worry for Current Minutetech was getting out of bed.
A sharp spike of pain shot through his side as he stood, earning a soft gasp from the voidling. He braced a hand on the nightstand, breathing slow, until the wave of vertigo passed. That… probably wasn’t good.
He halfheartedly ran his claws through his hair before retracting them, heading for the small bathroom and switching on the sink. He hesitated for half a second before letting the cold water stream over his hands, then gently lifting them to his face. The sensation he got in return was underwhelming, almost subdued, but at least it woke him up a bit.
Now that he was standing, he could properly feel the aches all over his body. There was a dull throb in his wrists, probably from lugging around that heavy mace, the sting of bruises all along his side, and a sense of utter exhaustion that had settled into every bone.
He was starting to deeply regret not paying attention to his injuries directly after the fight. However, in his defense, he had two very loud, very annoying teenagers to deal with, and after he’d gotten them set up, he’d been too exhausted to even think about anything other than sleep. This was, at most, only fifty percent his fault.
Oh well. He sighed, lifting the edge of his black tee just enough to expose the obvious bruising on the right of his waist. It was a bit hard to tell with his void-black skin, but the bruised spot was visibly rougher and more matte than the rest of his body, which was noticeably more sleek. His other hand lifted instinctively to press on the spot, though he regretted it immediately when hot pain laced through his side.
He dropped his hands, circling his wrists a few times to grasp the damage. They hurt, yes, but it was manageable. He technically could’ve taken more precautions—maybe get some bandages, a healing pot—but he was honestly too tired. He supposed he would just have to deal with some discomfort for now.
A quiet, muffled shuffling noise caught his attention and served as an unwanted reminder that he couldn’t just hang out in his room all day. Those annoying kids were probably up by now, and probably finding some new way to mess things up around Minute’s base.
With another sigh, he pushed open the bathroom door. It took only a few minutes to get properly dressed, as much as he would’ve liked staying in pajamas all day. A quick glance in the mirror made him frown. He looked… well. Tired. Obviously. But… a different kind of tired. Like something had quietly scooped the life out of his eyes, leaving only someone who looked like Minute.
He tore his gaze away and forced his door open.
Minute’s base was secure. That was one of the very few things he could pride himself on these days. Tucked just a few dozen blocks from bedrock, the place was somehow both giant and incredibly cozy. Lanterns cast a simple orange glow throughout the place, chasing away the cave deep shadows that would’ve been there otherwise. His stuff lined the edges of the platform, leaving the middle mostly open air.
This time, however, it was not as open, considering there were two teenagers play-fighting with very sharp, very dangerous spears, shouting increasingly poor one-liners like protagonists in a TV show.
“Cut it out,” he grumbled, voice coming out gravely. He rubbed at his eyes before continuing. “It’s literally dawn. What are you doing?”
Spoke and Mapicc both instantly froze, spears half-suspended in the air, suddenly looking like cornered street cats. Spoke made a halfhearted attempt to hide the spear behind his back, but Mapicc didn’t seem to pick up on the cue. It was too late, anyway.
“Morning, Minute!” Spoke chirped, annoyingly chipper. “Just practicing what we’ll say when we take down Ash. It has to be perfect, you know?”
Mapicc nodded intensely. “Exactly. We’ll only have one chance, after all.”
Minute looked at the two, half expecting them to break like this was some sort of joke. When he realized they were completely serious, he sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose and choosing to just walk right past them.
“Just… keep the shouting to a minimum.” He started to rifle through a few chests until he fished out a golden apple. “At least until after breakfast.”
“Aye-aye! We’ll do it… quietly.”
Minute watched them continue their battle simulation. He had half a mind to take the spears away when Spoke’s grazed just a little too close to Mapicc’s eye before deciding that if something did happen, it would just be that day’s entertainment. He began to quietly munch on the golden apple, feeling the warmth of the regeneration soaking into the painful bruises along his body, quelling the ache into something much more manageable. A soft breath left him at the instant relief, leaning back against the row of sturdy chests behind him.
“Minute!” Minute’s attention snapped back to the present at Spoke’s scolding voice. “Don’t eat golden apples for breakfast, that’s unhealthy!”
Minute scowled. “Like you would know anything about health.”
“Hey! I’ll have you know I was top of my health class in eighth grade.”
“Yeah, when you were, what? Thirteen? How old are you now, sixteen?”
Spoke made a vaguely offended noise. “Seventeen! How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“...My point still stands.”
“Uh-huh.”
Minute ignored any further complaints from the smaller voidling, though deep down, he knew Spoke was technically right. Golden apples didn’t magically heal people—they just sped up the healing process. That meant that all the energy needed for healing was used up three times as fast. That also meant he would probably be crashing by noon. But in full honesty, the pain relief was worth it.
By the time he was done, Spoke and Mapicc had gone from battling to nestled against each other on the floor, the spears discarded a few feet away, whispering and giggling to one another like little kids. The sight was somehow both annoying and a bit cute, the way a hyperactive puppy was cute.
He swallowed hard. Something about it—the joy, the innocence, maybe—stirred something behind his ribs. Something uncomfortable. He shut his eyes, breathing slow until it went away.
Minute flinched at the sound of his own name. His eyes snapped open, and he was greeted by the sight of Spoke staring up at him with an excited glint in his void-empty eyes.
“Minuteee,” Spoke repeated, poking Minute lightly. “Come on, can we start training now? Or planning our takeover of the mafia? Pleeeease?”
Mapicc leaned forward from his spot on the ground, a concerned type of amusement crossing his soft features. “Haha, you look like you saw a ghost.”
Minute’s expression instantly shifted into annoyance. Mapicc didn’t seem deterred, the half-demon just grinning wider.
“What did you say?” Minute mumbled, rubbing his temples.
“I asked,” Spoke began, drawing out the words, “if we can start training yet.”
“I never said I’d train you.”
“Yes you did.” Spoke made a pouty face, then an idea seemed to strike him. He forced his voice two octaves lower, gritting out, “‘You guys are helpless. I guess a bit of practice couldn’t hurt.’ That was you. You said that. You can’t go back on your word now.”
“That… didn’t mean anything. I’m not obligated to take care of you. I’m not your dad.”
Spoke paused. “I-I just—”
“Maybe I’ll think about it.” Minute turned away. “I have more important things to do, though. Not training a bunch of little kids like you.”
Strangely enough, he couldn’t hear Spoke’s gentle footsteps behind him in his head. He hesitated for half a second, hand hovering over another gear chest, before looking back. Spoke stood, rooted to that spot, watching him. The voiding’s tail lashed once, twice, then went still.
Guilt twisted in Minute’s stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t have said all that. He knew Spoke didn’t actually have a dad, or a mom, for that matter. Neither did he. Voidlings weren’t like that. They formed in the void, and got dumped somewhere else. Not raised. Not nurtured.
Minute had accepted that a long time ago, but maybe Spoke hadn’t.
“I… I’m sorry.” Minute took a step forward, then stopped himself. “...We can try it. The training, I mean. If you want.”
Spoke’s energy returned in an instant. “Really? All right!”
Mapicc whooped from the floor. “Yusss! Mafia trio is so canon!”
Minute blinked. “...What are you saying?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Spoke giggled. "Come on, we’ve got no time to waste!”
.
Being outside in broad daylight made Minute’s chest tighten, made breathing feel like something manual.
The sun was out today. Gentle wind blew through the trees, making the leaves rustle, every soft noise sounding suspiciously close to approaching footsteps. Minute’s heart picked up a little more with each one.
“What do we do first?” Spoke asked as Minute led them to a wide clearing of grass. “Are you gonna show us how to mace? Oh, oh, shoot crossbows? Gosh, that would be so awesome!”
Mapicc nodded his agreement. “Totally. We’d be so revered. The mafia would think of us and cower in fear.”
Minute kept walking without answering any of their questions. He plopped into the grass, sitting criss-cross and leaning back on his hands.
“Minute?” Spoke asked, looking down at him. “What are you—”
“I want you two to fight,” Minute decided.
Mapicc blinked. “Huh?”
“Fight,” Minute repeated. “I want to watch to grasp your skill. We’ll go from there.”
“Uh,” Spoke stammered. “Like, with swords?”
“No, I want you to fistfight. Obviously with swords.”
Spoke swallowed, looking at Mapicc anxiously.
Minute sighed loudly. “It’s not like you’re killing each other. I just want to see how good you are.”
“It’s okay, Spoke. You know I solo you, anyway,” Mapicc gloated, resting his sword over his shoulder.
“Don’t do that,” Minute chided, and Mapicc dropped the weapon. “Now we don’t have all day. Start.”
Mapicc and Spoke drew their weapons. There was a short standoff before Mapicc swung.
Their swords collided. Minute flinched at the grating sound of metal on metal. Spoke had to pull back first when his blade started to slip. He put distance between them, a strangely intense expression crinkling his void-empty eyes.
He seemed different now, really focusing and not skittering about, pulling some prank or playing along with a bit.
Mapicc and Spoke were close to evenly matched. Minute decided this quickly. The same speed. The same relative strength. Mapicc had good arms, but Spoke was slippery, and he dodged and weaved out of the way of attacks.
This meant that nobody could gain the upper hand. The battle continued. Mapicc attacked, Spoke retreated. It was like a dance, a rhythmic, back-and-forth tug-of-war.
Eventually Minute’s eyes started to get heavy. He blinked away the sleepiness. He couldn’t rest. Not here, so out in the open, not in the middle of a field where he was supposed to be observing.
He laid back in the grass anyway. It tickled his arms as it swayed with the wind. He could still hear the sounds of the fight—swords colliding, heavy breaths, stumbling. But that was all distant now. His thoughts slowed like they’d been dipped in molasses.
His eyes slipped shut.
.
“MINUTE!” Minute jolted awake at the sound of his own name. For a second he wasn’t really there. His vision blurred with panic. His heart screamed against his throat until he forced it under control.
He was met face-to-face with Spoke, hands on his hips with Mapicc sitting in the grass a few feet behind him. Mapicc looked exhausted. Spoke just looked annoyed.
“…Spoke,” Minute mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
“You said you were gonna watch us,” Spoke complained, tail lashing. “And you fell asleep.”
“…I wasn’t sleeping.” Minute rubbed his eyes until the world sharpened. “I watched most of it.”
“Who won?”
“From the looks of it…” Minute swallowed hard. “It’s a trick question. You tied.”
“Damn,” Mapicc said as Spoke quietly cursed. “He’s good.”
“Okay, fine. We tied,” Spoke relented. “But you’re supposed to be training us, and you’re having a nap.”
“I’m getting to that.” Minute reluctantly stood and stretched his arms above his head. He winced subtly at the stiffness in his muscles.
“Alright.” He reached into his inventory and took out his mace. “Hit me.”
Spoke paled at the sight of the weapon, clutching the hilt of his sword so tight Minute thought his skin would tear.
Mapicc hummed, impressed. “Nice.”
He did a few test swings with his own sword before charging at Minute. He swung—Minute raised the mace, letting the blade slam into the long end of the handle. He easily sidestepped the next attack.
“Well? This isn’t a Mapicc-exclusive thing,” Minute called to Spoke, who was frozen, while he dodged Mapicc’s sloppy advances.
Spoke shook his head like he was clearing his thoughts and lunged at Minute. His swing was quicker, Minute was barely able to yank his arm backward before he got clipped by the blade.
Mapicc suddenly appeared behind him and he full-body flinched, ice shooting through his veins, stumbling on his next step and shoving his mace up for protection. Mapicc’s sword collided with the heavy core just inches from his face. He shoved forward hard, pushing Mapicc backwards with just a little too much force. Mapicc slipped and collapsed into the grass, his sword falling and skidding just out of reach.
Spoke stopped all movements to stare. Mapicc blinked, surprise written all over his face.
“That’s…” Mapicc began, “not a battle tactic.”
Minute pulled his hands into fists, breathing harder than he should’ve been considering they’d only just begun. Get a grip.
“...Don’t do that,” he eventually forced out.
“Do what? Come up from behind?” Mapicc stood up, brushing grass off his pants. “That’s a valid strategy.”
Minute was sure his tail was lashing now. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Mapicc made a good point. Getting behind someone was the easiest way to gain the advantage. Why had he gotten so scared?
A memory hit him. It resurfaced so violently it might as well have been torn from his skull.
His breath hitched.
Hands yanking his shoulders from behind, being shoved forward. Collapsing onto his knees. Coughing and choking on a sour taste, somebody gripping his hair and forcing his head back up, and a voice.
“See that? See what we’re capable of?”
Sobbing, tears slipping quietly into the ash and dirt below, the smell of smoke and blood and devastation thick in the air. Nodding feverishly against the tight hold: “I see it. I see it.” Words falling out of his mouth like water. “I see it. I’m sorry. sorry, I—I’m sorry—”
Laughter as he was released. Collapsing into the ground with another sob, gagging on the sharp, metallic flavor of invis potions.
“There.” The voice turning sickly sweet. “Was that so hard?”
A loud ringing in Minute’s ears muffled the world around him. He felt completely frozen as the hazy memory thrashed around his head. He felt sick.
“MINUTE.” Spoke snapped in front of Minute’s eyes a few times, bringing him back to the present.
Minute pushed his hand away and instinctively backed up. “Don’t…” his chest ached. When had he started breathing so hard? “Don’t touch me.”
Spoke put his hands up in surrender. “Not touching. You just… you weren’t talking.” he sounded strangely concerned. “...Is something wrong?”
Minute stared. He swallowed, throat burning with the taste of invis, but there was nothing there. “No. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
He turned towards the forest before they could see the tremor in his hands.
“...Come on. You need to learn to use your surroundings.”
Minute didn't stop until the trees were thick enough to break up the wind.
He rested a hand against the nearest trunk, pretending to examine the bark while he counted his breaths.
Four in.
Hold.
Four out.
The ringing slowly faded.
Behind him, the other two stayed quiet.
Good.
Eventually he straightened and looked over his shoulder.
“...You're both holding your swords wrong.”
Spoke blinked. “...Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“You had, like, a whole... thing.”
“I did.”
“And now we're back to swords?”
Minute frowned. “What else would we do?”
Mapicc looked between them. "I don't think that's what he means."
Minute didn't answer.
Instead he walked over, nudged Spoke's elbow upward with the end of his mace, and stepped back.
"Again."
Spoke obeyed automatically.
"No." Minute adjusted his stance again. "Your feet."
Spoke moved them.
"No."
"...Can you maybe tell me what's wrong instead of saying 'no' every two seconds?"
"No."
Mapicc snorted.
Spoke looked personally offended.
Minute sighed. "If I tell you every answer, you'll memorize instructions instead of understanding them."
"...That sounds fake."
"It isn't."
"Feels fake."
Minute gestured toward him. "Attack."
Spoke did.
Minute barely moved.
His mace caught the sword with a dull clunk, redirecting it off to the side. Before Spoke recovered, Minute lightly tapped the flat of the mace against his shoulder.
"You died."
"I absolutely did not—"
"You did."
"You barely hit me."
"I don't need to hit hard."
Another tap.
"Dead."
Spoke scowled. "I don't like your teaching style."
"I know."
"...Can I complain about it?"
"You already are."
Mapicc laughed loudly enough that a bird startled out of one of the trees.
.
The next hour settled into a rhythm.
Attack.
Correct.
Repeat.
Minute discovered something interesting.
Mapicc thought too much—Spoke didn't think enough.
Mapicc hesitated whenever there were multiple options—Spoke committed to the first terrible idea that entered his head with admirable confidence.
Neither of them knew how to disengage.
Neither of them watched their surroundings.
Neither of them paid attention to breathing.
Minute fixed one problem at a time.
"Stop swinging so hard."
"But then I won't—"
"You won't tire yourself out."
.
"Look at me."
Spoke did.
"No."
"...What?"
"Not my face." Minute pointed toward the ground between them. "My feet."
Spoke frowned. "...Why?"
"People lie." Minute shifted his weight almost imperceptibly. "Their balance doesn't."
Spoke's eyes widened a little. "...That's actually kind of cool."
"It keeps you alive."
.
"Again."
Mapicc lunged.
Minute stepped aside.
The half-demon stumbled.
"You crossed your feet."
"So?"
"If I shove you—" Minute barely touched his shoulder, and Mapicc immediately lost balance.
"...Oh."
"Again."
.
By midday, the golden apple had long since worn off.
Minute could feel it.
His side throbbed every time he twisted.
His wrists ached whenever he blocked.
His eyelids were getting heavier by the minute.
He ignored all of it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Spoke charged.
Minute parried.
Spoke recovered faster this time.
Better.
A second swing.
Minute blocked, and the impact landed awkwardly.
Pain exploded through the bruises along his ribs.
His breath caught.
Not enough to stop him.
Enough to make him late.
Spoke's sword clipped his side.
Just barely.
Silence.
Spoke immediately lowered his weapon. "...I hit you."
Minute looked down.
No visible damage, but he could feel the cut under his shirt.
Nothing serious.
"...Yeah."
"I actually hit you."
"...Yeah."
"I've never hit you before."
"...That would make sense."
Spoke looked like he couldn't decide whether to celebrate or apologize. "I—"
"You got lucky."
"Oh."
"...But." Minute rolled one shoulder. "You capitalized on an opening."
Spoke froze.
Minute never complimented anyone.
"You recognized hesitation." Minute continued like he hadn't said anything important. "You committed.” He nodded once. "Good."
Spoke's grin spread so fast it looked painful. "...Really?"
"It was sloppy."
"Oh."
"But effective."
"Oh!"
Mapicc slapped Spoke's shoulder. "Dude!"
"I hit him!"
"You hit him!"
"I HIT HIM!"
Minute pinched the bridge of his nose.
"...Please stop yelling."
.
They headed back toward the base with the afternoon sun hanging low between the trees.
Spoke talked the entire walk.
"—And then you said I died, like, thirty times."
"Thirty-seven."
"...You counted?"
"I count everything."
"That's concerning."
"It helps."
Mapicc laughed. "I think that's just how his brain works."
Minute didn't answer.
Maybe.
.
The familiar stone entrance to the underground base finally came into view.
Minute relaxed almost imperceptibly.
Safe.
Walls.
One entrance.
Predictable.
He pushed open the hidden door and stepped inside.
The lanterns were still burning.
Nothing had moved.
Good.
He set his mace against the wall.
“I need to replace the arrows we used yesterday.”
“I'll help!” Spoke said immediately.
"No."
"Why not?"
"You'll organize them wrong."
"I know how arrows work."
"You'll still organize them wrong."
"I can learn!"
Minute was already opening chests. "You can watch."
Spoke made the loudest, most exaggerated sigh imaginable. "You know, you're really mean for someone who saved our lives."
"I'm aware."
"You could at least pretend to be nice."
"I could."
"Are you going to?"
"...No."
Spoke groaned dramatically enough to throw himself backward and, still laughing, bounded the last couple steps toward Minute.
"There he is," he said brightly. "Old grumpy Minute."
Before Minute even processed what was happening, Spoke threw his arms around him.
Just for a second.
Just because he was excited.
Just because he'd finally earned one compliment.
Minute's body reacted long before his mind did.
Hands.
Too close.
Pinned.
Move.
Move.
NOW.
He shoved.
Hard.
Spoke gave a startled yelp as he stumbled backward.
His heel caught on the edge of a chest.
He crashed onto the stone floor with a painful thud.
The room went completely silent.
Minute stared.
Spoke stared back.
Mapicc's smile vanished.
Nobody moved.
Minute's heart was hammering so loudly he couldn't hear anything else.
Spoke slowly pushed himself upright, rubbing the back of his arm.
"...I..." His voice came out very small. Very shaky. "...I was just hugging you."
The realization hit Minute all at once.
Not Ash.
Not the mafia.
Spoke.
Just…
Spoke.
His hands started shaking.
"...I..." Nothing came out.
He hadn't meant—
He hadn't—
"I'm..." His throat felt impossibly tight. "Don't."
The word sounded more like a plea than an order.
"...Don't do that."
Spoke's expression shifted from hurt to confusion. "...No hugs?"
Minute nodded once.
He couldn't make himself look at either of them.
"...Announce yourself."
Silence.
“Don't stand behind me.”
His breathing was uneven now.
“Don't grab my shoulder.”
Another swallow.
“If you need my attention…”
His voice nearly disappeared.
“...Use my name.”
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Spoke nodded. “...Okay.”
No jokes.
No complaints.
Just…
“Okay.”
Minute hated it.
Minute hated it almost as much as he hated being touched.