Chapter Text
It’s all on this.
A swing from Griefer’s crowbar successfully connects with your nose, despite your attempts to soften the blow by raising your hands in a pitiful attempt at blocking. The cracking sound is satisfying, in some odd way.
Visibly, you stagger back and gather your bearings. A shaky hand comes up to put pressure on the area – are those tears leaking from your eyes? Agh, lame. You’re usually more collected than this, unnervingly so.
It almost feels wrong to see your expression warp, but it feels more rewarding than ever to see you crack. You, the ever-composed you who took a complete beating like a champ the first time you two had fought, softly laughing when he took off. That laugh still rings in his mind, even now.
Irritating. That’s what it all is, what you are. Completely and utterly irritating.
“H4H! CRYBABY.” Everything in this moment spins and swirls, a buzzing feeling that gets worse when he ditches the crowbar to grasp the Venomshank for his own use. It thrums beneath his fingers, energy pulsing madder and madder with every step towards your hunched over body.
For the fun of the game, he twirls it a bit, something about the motion reminiscent of a butterfly knife animation in an old game he used to play. The name slips his mind. Not important enough. Slicing you to bits and pieces is the only thing that matters.
It swings through the air, right towards its target, but doesnt make it. You’d had enough crying and wimping about, it seems, with the way your sword clashes against his own. The way your eyes widen and frantically look everywhere towards him – it’s intoxicating, having this sort of power.
This sort of power, over someone so calm; no trace of the punk you are shows like this. With a bit more straining and pushing, your sword clatters to the ground, kicked much too far away by him for you to scramble over without getting hacked at.
And yet, your brain doesn’t even seem to compute that possibility, shown by the way you make a mad dart for it. Flipping the blade in his grip, he makes yet another swing. The blunt end connects somewhere at your back, and you fall oh-so-not-gracefully face first onto the wooden ground.
You don’t even attempt to get up. Odd. Where was that resolve you’d had the other time you’d fought him? What a pathetic display.
A hiss escapes Griefer as a cut slips itself through his gloves. Nothing that’ll do anything substantial, but worry still clouds his mind for just a split second before he pulls himself together. It starts itching almost instantly.
“YOU. YES, Y0U. DID I HIT TOO H4RD? UNLUCKY, ISN’T 1T?” A mocking sort of ‘aww’ sound leaves him, and he sees the way your expression twists. Oh, so now the taunting gets to you? While you’re laid out on the floor? How fun! “I HEAR TH3RE’S DOCTORS IN B1ZVILLE TO P4TCH YOU RIIIIGHT UP. IF Y0U MAKE IT.”
You scramble onto your back, legs and arms working overtime to crawl backwards away from him. Ragged breathing wracks your entire body, but even that fatigue isn’t enough to stop you from opening your big mouth.
“Would you fuck aaall the way off! I’m trying to start a sword collection here, dingus, I don’t need your... uh, talk.” What a weird bluff to pull. Griefer knows you’ve probably said worse, but the fact that you speak so calmly despite everything about you showing otherwise – irritating.
He’s no stranger to trash talk, though, and yours is at least a little entertaining, if not strange. Better than most others he gets a chance to bully online.
The pointed end shifts and grazes directly below your chin, tilted upwards by his own force. A single movement, and it’ll slice you right at the most vital point. The thrill is not lost on him, a weird kind of adrenaline that pulses in time with the energy from the Venomshank.
You have no sword, no weapon to defend yourself with but your own fists. Your life is in his hands, defeated by your own slowness.
“B3G.”
A shaky breath escapes you, mouth pushed into a flat line as you look up at him. There’s still a shiny line from where tears slid down your cheeks, sweat clinging to your neck that’s currently just a pinprick away from being cut into.
It’s a brief moment that he takes it all in. Your hand reaches at your side, trembling as you fiddle with something on your belt. Just a split second.
His grip loosens. A terrible mistake. Noob.
A split second is all it takes for you to reach up with your other hand, fist knocking the sword just enough for a dagger to then clash against the metal of the Venomshank. Icy blue contrasts against green.
No shit-eating grin is on your face, but it makes itself present through your tone. “Nah. That shit’s for losers.”
For just a small instant, he fumbles, and you’re already up off the ground and raring to fight again. But you don’t. A few desperate attempts are made to slash around, to move the sword in any other direction.
Metal on metal sparks as that tiny weapon of yours collides again and again with the Venomshank. It’s strenuous, but he hopes he can knock it out of your hands again if he just keeps pushing–
It freezes over.
The Venomshank. Freezes. Over. Directly at the spot where they collide.
Your hands travel from the hilt of your blade, unsteady in their jolting movements, until they settle at the handle of the Venomshank. Your fingers wrap around his, and for some reason, the touch throws him off completely.
It’s not even warm. Fucking freezing cold is what it is.
“Griefer.” Something deranged lies beneath your tone, just as icy as your hand. And yet, it’s spoken so calmly, a warm contrast. “You are actually. So. Annoying. Give it up already.”
He tries to release himself from your grip after those few stunned seconds. It fails. Your grip is unwaveringly strong. What.
“Do you know just how lucky you have it?” And yet somehow, it grows tighter, squeezes him like a constrictor snake. The tip of the sword is stuck in the ground.
“Do you know how nice it is that you have some kind of family to love on? To appreciate, to remember? I don’t think you do.” You laugh, and fix him with a stare. Sweat forms on the back of his neck, underneath his cap. “You’re throwing it away with all this. What’s your plan here? Tell me. What’re the voices telling you about the future here?”
“TH3Y.” Everything in his throat dries up when he tries to speak. “THEY SP0KE OF 3RASURE. OF TH1S ENTIRE PL4CE. A PR0PHECY.” Some bullshit like that.
No matter how he spoke of his father, it was all necessary for this and this alone. He’d rather take pointed hate from his old man than the complete lack of him altogether. Of home. Of everything.
Hate always wins over solitude, over the blooming knowledge of death.
There’s a subtle hiss to your words. “And what did they say would happen if you succeeded?”
...
...They didn’t. Griefer’s breath hitches.
Oh.
0H, IT’S 4LL A TRAP.
Everything in the room spins at the realization. Your grip on his hands loosens a little, before squeezing again. It’s grounding, not that you even realize. You’d probably seen the look on his face with the way your grin slowly etches upwards.
Griefer’s face contorts into anger. “WH4T ARE YOU GETTING AT H3RE?”
He tries to back away, just to back away from the gaze you’ve been fixing him with. If the bushes in the crib caught fire behind him, he’s sure it’s from your unwavering stare alone. The sword is practically embedded into the ground at this point. Ice creeps up onto the hilt.
“Look at me. In the face, now, do not make me ask again. You should know I don’t beg by now.”
Urgh. What an infuriating way to use his own words against him.
There is no power to be had in this situation. Just making contact with your eyes is enough to make him shiver, with the frantically widened look to them not being out of fear this time around. Even the energy the Venomshank emits isn’t enough to keep his palms warm when your own are overlaid on top of his.
“I won’t make you beg either. That’s silly. Childish. But, I don’t like forcing my hand like this either.”
You lean in, so close he can practically feel your breath fanning his face. If you’d stopped even a few inches closer, he’s sure the two of you would be eye-to-eye, literally.
“Yield.”
Perhaps you are not the one defeated here. Perhaps he is.
...
Griefer snickers a little. It grows into a laugh, a small one.
“H4H. H4H4H, H4H.”
That laugh blooms into something bigger, something that booms and echoes across the vast space. Before he shuts his eyes, he can see just a small bit of confusion cracking through your expression.
Futile. It’s all for nothing at this point, isn’t it?
Your grip slackens, and he immediately takes the chance to rip his hands away from you. You, the wretched beast of a “hero” that you were. When he opens your eyes, you’ve backed away from where you previously stood.
With your hands not pushing on top of his anymore, he can safely draw it from where it was planted into the wood of the floor. Griefer briefly touches the handle of your dagger, before a million other voices join the background chatter of his own and he decides that hmm, perhaps that isn’t a good idea.
Screw whatever kingdom they’re talking about.
“H4H4H4H4H, H4H, HAA4!” The cackling ends there, and he looks at you for one last time. He’s dead meat regardless, so...
“TH4NK YOU. F0R THAT... REALIZATION. SINC3RELY.” It’s not very sincere at all, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
A sneer carves through his face. “IT DO3SN’T MATTER ANYM0RE. IF TH3RE’S ONE TH1NG I CAN H4VE– 1F THIS PR0PHECY 3NDS UP TRUE– IT’LL BE Y 0 U.”
Griefer’s arms raise the Venomshank and strike down, but not on you, no. On him, his own leg.
A bubbling pain erupts after a pause, poison blooming through the veins of his thigh until that pain is matched by a euphoria greater than anything his existence has seen yet. Both, at the same time. It’s frightening, lovely.
You gasp. His own father in the corner looks on, shocked. It doesn’t matter. He knows he can just drag you down with him, in the end.
For a couple of days, it’s been the same deal over and over again. Or has it been weeks?
Brief moments of consciousness spurred by some external noises, perhaps a voice he’d recognize every now and again. A blissful floating in the void – something itches near his eyes, he thinks, but his arms itch far worse, useless at his side.
There’s not much thinking to do in a state like this, no, but Griefer wonders if he chugged too many Witches Brew drinks and was now facing the consequences.
No, no, couldn’t be that. There is no energy drink in this world that causes this much itching.
Everything– there is no way he can possibly emphasize it more– itches. Burns. Like a million needles being held beneath the surface of the skin, prodding and poking everywhere they could find. His leg though – the left one? That’s the worst contender.
What the fuck did he do this time? It’s all blurry.
There’s a moment where he feels conscious, feels like he can finally get a grasp of the world. More voices, none that are... blatantly recognizable. It’s not his father, he thinks he’s heard that one around. Why is he here? Little voices, a buzzing poison that flows through the air.
Metal clanks on the floor, and everything briefly stops talking. When they start again, it’s reduced to background chatter, as if drowned by cotton.
Step, step, step. Someone is here in... wherever this is.
“Yo.”
Griefer has heard that voice before. Somewhere. Still blurry. For some reason, it irritates him beyond belief, not that it sounds particularly bad. But why?
In all the ways that a firework would, the voices explode. Loud, crackling and overwhelming – everything surrounds him all at once just with that single word spoken aloud by somebody.
The Venomshank. It’s right there for the taking! Where are you, where am I? The itching somehow gets worse than before, the feeling of something travelling below his skin and reaching to the left, like a sunflower aiming its hungry head towards the sun. GRAB IT ALREADY! What are you waiting for?!
What the hell are they talking about?
His fingers twitch at his side. Then wriggle, then flex, then move. They’re moving? Oh, they’re moving. Moving!
When he shifts, he can tell something’s wrapped around his head. A blindfold? Multiple blindfolds? Oh, bandages. Why would somebody need multiple blindfolds? One does the job, stupid.
Everything ceases to exist in the future, erases itself. Hey, hey, come closer. You, what little family you have left. I’m hungry! Are you really just going to let this happen? Ooough, Bloxy Cola...
They all keep rattling on, overlapping over one another. The final kick in the coffin is one of them saying he looked, quote, “more like a Kevin than a Brad, honestly. Or a Kyle, really.”
What. The hell. Is that even supposed to mean?!
Something about this whole situation is hauntingly familiar, but no matter how he tries,it all slips his memory. The Venomshank, he knows that, knows something about... About...
Minutes upon minutes pass. They won’t stop talking. His mouth feels dry, an uncomfortable gummy sort of feeling to them. Fangs scratch at the bottom lip when he breathes, opening his mouth to speak.
“H0LY SH1T.” None of it stops, a twirling carousel that has no end in sight. His hands raise after a great effort, scratching at the coverings on his face. “5HUT. THE ####. UUUP!”
One falls off, and then the next, and one by one they all lift up around his forehead, somewhere above his mouth – doesn’t matter, he didn’t care, didn’t ask. Is his cap missing? Yup.
The room explodes into color, into beaming light that spills everywhere through a singular window. It’s a distinct feeling of home, with the way the entire structure of the building gives away its location in Turitopulis. Staggeringly empty, yet somehow overwhelming all the same.
Empty as in decorations. The entire room is filled with vaguely bed-shaped blobs, bandages and some other items laid out on the shelf next to him. Curtains separate some areas, but most are pulled back entirely. Plants and vines sprawl out around the room, overlapping most at the area where he was.
A healing bay, he realizes.
Somebody is standing off to the side. His vision is too fogged to tell who, but the vibrant red top of some sorts is visible from where he lays. Lays.
Griefer is laying down. Is he on a bed? Clearly, there’s a blanket laid on top of him. Why was he asleep for so long to begin... with...
His limbs. Are green. Green. There are plants covering where his hands should be, leaves crawling up and down the forearms. All of them lean towards whoever it is at his side.
He trembles. And squints.
And squints even further.
“Damn, I didn’t even say anything! Unless you heard that Kevin comment. Then nah, you didn’t.” Hands raised in a surrendering motion, you back away slowly. Then pause. “Oh wait, you’re actually awake! Didn’t think that was happening anytime soon. How ya doing?”
You. You.
A memory flashes by him, collides with his brain at the same speed of the train in Bizville (not that he’s really seen it, moreso heard of it). A full-speed punch to the face.
A punch to the face akin to what Griefer knows he did to you. Among other things, like beating you into a pulp. Or trying to. Trying to kill you, take you down to his level, more like. And failing. Miserably, at that.
He gulps at the memory of the sheer lunacy in your expression. Immediately, he calms down upon noticing the lax and almost empty-brained look you give him, a thick bandage plastered over your nose. Black and blue colors sprawl beneath your eyes.
Griefer tried to kill you. You tried to kill Griefer. Or at least, he hopes you were, in a sick way. Being dead would be a much better fate than having to deal with actually being alive to have to talk about this with his dad.
Already, he dreads it.
“WHY...WHY 4RE YOU H3RE–” He coughs, shooting up to hunch over as something crawls up his throat. A leaf lands on the blanket. “WHAT THE ####. HAPP3NED.”
You shrug. Already, your nonchalant attitude is starting to piss him off.
Griefer wheezes, pain crackling through his lungs and damn-near everywhere else in his body. He can’t help but to raise a hand– what he thinks is his hand, honestly– towards you, accusatorily.
“I TR1ED TO K1LL YOU.”
A humming note fills the air for a second. You nod.
“Yup.”
“I B3AT THE EVERLOVING SH1T OUT OF YOU. AND Y0U– 4CK, YOU CAME B4CK. THEN. AND N0W.”
Now, you’re rocking back and forth on your feet, hands innocently held behind your back. There’s a longer sheath on your belt, he notices. It’s getting harder to keep squinting.
“Yuuuup. Ya sure did that. I sure did that. Anything else?”
It takes everything to not just yell at you, to ask you to get out. But you’re here for a reason, whatever it may be. You have your sword, after all. The Venomshank is yours. There’s no way you’d ever willingly talk to him outside of being forced to.
“WHY 4RE YOU EVEN H3RE. WH4T MORE DO YOU 3VEN WANT.”
For a long moment, the two of you just stare at each other. Nothing. No response from you. Urgh. Since you’re gonna just look at him like he’d grown a third head, he’ll just... unfocus his eyes. Relax a bit.
Still in an unbroken spell of silence, you make the decision to sit on the bed with him, awkwardly shifting his legs to the side before plopping yourself down criss-cross applesauce on the left center. All of this while making eye contact like he’d try to attack you if you broke it.
There's literally a chair right next to the bed if you'd just walk over. Why are you like this?
It’s slightly easier to see you like this, though, to see the way your face shifts as if you’d been trying to come up with a good response the whole time.
You break the silence at last.
“Uh. So. About that. Do you... know what happened to you? After ya kinda just stabbed your leg and went ham.”
He pauses to think. No, no he doesn’t. Everything around that part felt fuzzy, dreamlike in quality before it cut off completely.
“I D0N’T.”
Again, he narrows his eyes, getting a good look at how you’d respond to that, whatever it would mean. You grin, sheepish.
“That’s both good and not good at the same time. Ya wanna hear the story?”
He scoffs. “0F COURSE I W4NT TO– 3URGH– H3AR THE ST0RY, PUNKASS.“
A coughing fit wracks him mid-sentence, more leaves and flowers spat out onto the thin cotton of the blanket. He knows what would’ve happened when he stabbed himself – courtesy of the voices, how polite. What he desperately ached to know now was how the hell you both survived.
Immediately, your grin drops as you lean closer to him. Look him dead in the eye with a look that makes him think that maybe you really are dead. He swears something’s actually wrong with you.
Was Shedletsky high when he gave his trust to you? Of all people? You, who had hands so cold they could’ve frozen over hell itself? You, who had all the unstable rage of a prey animal? You? You? Was he on crack, perhaps?
...Shedletsky was sure ruffled up though, he knows that much.
“In truth...” He feels like you’re about to tell him someone important died. “...You just kinda turned into some plant monster and bit me. Like, a million bajillion times.”
How anticlimactic.
When you roll up the long, vibrant red sleeves of what he recognizes as your hoodie, a few gargantuan bite marks make themselves known. There’s bandages that were clearly supposed to cover them up. All of them unravel when you mess with them.
“Got this sucker while I was still reeling from your little transformation stunt. Real nasty, that one.” You whistle.
The bite mark is an angry red, scabbed over, yes, but the plants that spilled out were nauseating to look at by now. Plants in general were starting to just... tire Griefer out. He’s scared to even glance at what his body looks like beneath the sheet.
While you’re explaining each and every one of your injuries in a weirdly detached amount of detail, his vision blurs again as he stops bothering to squint at everything. A weird one, you are. You almost never crack, except for that time where you actually did in fact crack under pressure just a tiny bit and it was admittedly fucking terrifying.
As much as he wants to see the true full height of your emotions, to actually just end you right here and now– he can’t. He’s genuinely unable to even move his legs the slightest bit, unlike his upper body. This, too, is terrifying.
You never did answer him about why you were here to begin with, did you?
Your name. That ought to get your attention. He blurts it out, and you snap your gaze to him. Immediately, he can tell your chattery grin has dropped from your face in a record amount of time just like before.
Creepy.
He coughs under the spotlight of your gaze, fixed smack-dab on him. “WHY 4RE YOU H3RE TO BEGIN W1TH.”
As if nothing ever happened, your face lights up again with a lazy smile as you clearly prepare to start rambling.
“Ohh, forgot about that. So like, your dad visited you earlier, real concerned, that one, lucky you–” His heart drops to his stomach. “I was actually here to visit him! Y’know, check how everything’s doing, but you were in the room too so I figured heeey, two-in-one combo, riiight?”
“4RE YOU JUS7 HERE TO T4UNT ME. B3 SO FOR RE4L RIGHT NOW. LIKE, 4CTUALLY, BECAUSE TH1S IS SOME WEIRD 4CT YOU’RE DOING.” Carefully, Griefer squints. Not a hint of malice shows on your face.
“Calm down, not my problem you have...eh, what’d you call it? ’Skill issue?’” Oh, you’re definitely here to taunt him. “I am actually a little concerned, though... sometimes, you talked when I was fighting that monster version of you. It sounded... painful.”
Your thumbs twiddle with themselves, fidgeting around as you shift your position on the bed to scoot a little closer to him. Please don’t. “Anyways. I just wanted to make sure you were alright, is all. Nothing malicious, ‘kay?”
It’s staggering, really, how sincere you sounded, the warmth to be found in that tone. As much as Griefer doubts everything about those intentions, he knows first and foremost that you’re horribly blunt. Honest. It’s awful. The weird twang of something hopeful in his heart is completely awful.
He scans your face for anything that suggests otherwise. That this was all some cruel prank, that maybe you’d had the intention of taunting him this whole time.
Nothing. Just a stupid, sheepish grin.
He’d take it over the vacant expression anyday, but this... even this was unnerving. Somehow.
Neither of you even really know the other, but yet here you are with your bleeding heart. He wishes you had even bled at all, wishes that he had just toughened up his resolve during that fight and slashed you when he had you rather than gloating.
He got out practically on the brink of death. You walked out with a broken nose and a few bites. One of you clearly had it better than the other.
Your eyes widen a bit, head whipping around at the closed door. Amidst the background noise, a clear-cut voice drawls out in the background– Dad, a realization that causes more panic than anything else.
Turning back to him, your grin fades a little. “Gotta take care of some things. Be right back, I wouldn’t try to get up if I were you.”
It’s a long few moments that you take to practically throw yourself off the bed and bound over to the door, but it gives Griefer just a bit more time to think with a clearer head. An indent replaces where you were. If he were able to move a leg over it, would it already be cold?
Before you’re out the door, you turn around. “Ohh, by the way, I gotta mention that you’re awake to your dad when I can. Sorry! Not really. Also, if you want your hat back, then go and talk to him.”
You talk. A lot. So much so that he’s still processing the word “oh” by the time you also move on to whatever you’re rambling about now. Did you always do that? No, no, he remembers you practically keeping your mouth shut the whole time up until that fight – up until now.
What time is it?
“You sure are lucky to have him, y’know! Lucky he still loves you too. Try not to get too shaken up! You got this, dumbass.”
The only word he got out of that for a good few seconds was ‘dumbass’.
“WH–” Huh??? “WH4T?”
The reassurance-to-insult in such a short span of time almost gives him whiplash as he continues to process everything you just said. His dad still loves him. Are you on his side or not? Hat. You’re not sorry at all. DON’T YOU FEEL WEAK?
...His father still loves him? After that?
Before he can even get any of these questions out, you’re straight up gone. The door made practically no noise as it shut. Each inquiry buzzes and rots inside his brain.
Are the voices getting worse or not? It’s impossible to tell. For the most part, they’ve quieted down as you left (strange), but one still persists with enough intensity to replace the rest. It’s the one he’s heard all along, the one that taunts him so with tellings of nothing but pure hatred.
Oh, everything’s spinning now.
As much as he’d like to just plop back down, to not have to sit upright like this – it hurts – the thought of the Mayor entering any second now is the one thought that keeps him still like this.
...Should he... look at the damage?
...
Griefer doesn’t think he’s ready to look at the evidence of his failure. Not the full picture, not yet, not yet, not yet. A sacrifice of mortality gone wrong in every way possible – living was the worst case scenario to be had. And yet, here the two of you stood.
Speaking of which, the sound of the door across the room opening causes him to snap his full attention over. One person enters. It’s not his father, but rather, you in all your annoying glory. Is this disappointment he feels, or relief?
He grumbles something even he can’t decipher as you stride your way over to him, the pep and energy of a living ray of sunshine with a smile to match. Your eyes though? Almost dead. Almost. Not a single shine of anything positive.
The incessant chatter of voices starts up again the second you enter his space.
Already, you’re peering down at him from a distance way too close. “Yooo. He’ll be coming in soon enough, ‘kay? Just wanted to warn ya.”
“...0KAY.” Another cough. This time, an entire strand of a vine lands with the rest of the bits and pieces of plants. Is it harder to breathe, or is that just his imagination? “IS TH3RE AAANYTHING 3LSE THAT I SH0ULD KNOW? ARE Y0U DONE TORM3NTING ME?”
“Pff, nah. Didn’t know my presence – goddamn, shut up–” You screw your eyes closed, bonking at your head with a fist. “...I forgot what I was saying. Anywhooo!”
Who were you even talking to?
DON’T YOU DESPISE IT?
There’s not a single word that he can get in before you’re gripping onto his shoulders. Cold. So cold. It’s felt even through the warm layers of leaves that jolt at your touch. The cheery smile on your face is gone in a flash, and he’s beginning to think that it’s just a constant poker face at this point. Why are you able to do that so fast?
“One more thing, Brad.” He shivers, not just from your icy grip. “If you don’t apologize I’ll make sure to finish the job. If you don’t appreciate what you have, what you take for granted...”
There’s a flash of something in your expression at last, in your scrunched down mouth that doesn’t even need squinting to see. Something pained, something that makes it seem as if you’ve seen it all before.
Something lonely. That’s a new one.
“...Eheh, I’m rambling again. Ignore that–”
THEY’RE LOOKING DOWN UPON YOU. DON’T YOU DESPISE THEM? ALL OF THEM?
...No.
Y0U’RE LY1NG.
He cuts you off.
“N0.”
It’s said completely to himself, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, but it piques your attention anyhow. “Hmm? No?”
“I W0ULDN’T EVER NOT T4KE HIM FOR GR4NTED. NOT AFT3R THAT.”
Hesitantly, well, ‘hesitantly’ isn't the word, it’s more along the lines of ‘painfully-while-practically-grinding-his-teeth-into-dust-at-the-action’, Griefer raises his own hands and plops them onto your own shoulders. The foliage that envelops them is sickening to look at.
You’re close enough, too close, these are just the consequences of your lack of understanding for personal space.
Isn’t it?
“EV3RYTHING 1 DID W4S FOR HIM. EV3N IF HE GOT IN THE W4Y– AGH– I’D RATH3R HAVE D4D HATE ME TH4N TO SEE H1M GONE.” The snarl that forms on his face is involuntary. Along with the coughing, but that’s usual by now.
You blink through huge eyes. Once, twice. Startlingly, all semblance of any previous emotion is gone again, replaced by a neutral frown. Your eyes stare into the plant-covered hands on your shoulders, then back to him. You retreat your hands. He retreats his own after an awkward few seconds.
What’s even happening at this point?
Your voice comes low and quiet, indistinct compared to every other bit of background chatter. “He didn’t see it that way. You should tell him that, okay?”
And in the blink of an eye, you’re back to a smile that beams so much light that the plants on his body could probably photosynthesize from it. What a stupid thought. “Not that I mean to meddle, yeah? I already am, though, so before I go, good luck, sunshine!”
The emotional whiplash you radiate just through conversation alone is headache inducing. He’s not even gonna breach the topic of the nickname just to get you out sooner.
“Y0U’RE GOING? ALRE4DY?” Thank god.
“Yuuup! D’ya want anything?” Briefly, Griefer opens his mouth only to get interrupted. “And I’m not bringing you soda. I don’t know how the hell you can chug thirteen hundred cans and quite frankly my wallet doesn’t wanna know. ‘Kay?”
That... wasn’t anything near what he was going to ask for, especially from some weird stranger like you, but fair. He was just gonna ask you to get out already. Stranger. Acquaintance? Enemy? Friend? What can he even consider you?
You wished him some semblance of good luck, even with everything he did to you and everyone else. Came and talked to him, even if a bit of it held vague threats. Vague. That’s a good word to describe you, this whole connection to begin with.
There’s taunting from you. Some menacing side that’s only shown through brief moments, a cold air to you that definitely isn’t personality alone.
...
SO W E A K.
If nothing else, he can consider you weird, that’s for sure.
In the midst of thinking, you however seem to have gotten impatient, waving a hand close to his face. “Yo. Hello? Helloooo? Robloxia to Griefer? Braaad. Heeey.”
Annoying too.
The final straw, you hesitate before just straight up booping him. On the face. Directly.
Now, he’s pretty sure most of the influence the Venomshank had on him when he transformed is gone, but... he can always just blame his next action on that should push come to shove. You look squishy. It won’t hurt you too bad if there's no venom left. It’s only fair.
Griefer bites down on your hand, fangs and all.