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007n7 was tired.
Every day passed by, a blur, something he was only an observer to. It was almost as if he was just a clone, no longer whole or aware of his existence except to face daily fight or flight encounters.
The desire to run away was chipped at, bit by bit. With every victory came hundreds of losses- or maybe the wins just didn’t feel like them anymore.
He was so tired.
Every round that started with a glitchy laugh (gods, it was so happy) made him crumble.
People were catching onto him, he knew it. He could see it in their constant gazes between rounds as he stayed stuck in place like a clone awaiting commands.
Well, that was how he felt. It was easier to disconnect and follow orders. Easier to pretend things were fine.
He ached .
Another round. His beloved boy. His son, twisted by the Spectre so horribly… and yet it was still him. Somewhere. Of course it was- his boy still held that same light that had once shown him the path to redemption. The same childish glee that came from being unaware about the world.
How he wished to be the same.
A brick- duck, run.
Run away from everything. Send out clone. Teleport. The same old pattern. Over and over and over and over and
The timer ran out. His boy vanished from sight, just as he himself was removed from the round.
When had he been the last survivor?
It didn’t matter. Nobody was paying him any mind. Everyone would be better off if he stayed put. Stayed away. Stayed gone.
Alone.
007n7 was tired.
So, so tired. And it never left.
It used to leave. It used to only be the occasional thing, easily ignored in favor of trying to rehabilitate his image and keep spirits high.
Now the tiredness was lingering. A cloak around his shoulders. Hands around his throat. Clenching, trying to chase what little feeling could be gained from such an action-
He paused.
Let go.
Walked away from the cabin.
People were watching. Always, always watching. Never stopping, always seeing always judging
he was tired. Of people always knowing he was there. Of being there. Here. Awake.
Why couldn’t he just go home- back to his life before? With his darling boy. Oh, how he missed seeing that joy every morning. Without having to run away.
Why did he run?
Maybe things would be better if he didn’t.
He deserved what he got.
Another round! The same bubbly, oddly pitched laugh.
Before the thought could compute, he walked.
Walked
until the familiar tune reached his ears.
There he was. Such a happy boy. So full of joy that this place somehow hadn’t stripped away.
Was it luck? Was it some god-given grace?
Maybe the Spectre had gifted his son something he couldn’t hope to give.
Was c00lkidd truly happy?
He seemed happy. Maybe it was sick, knowing that he’d choose his son’s happiness over the survivors’ health. Maybe that was what a good father did.
Had he ever been a good father..?
The burn felt dull. Firebrand piercing his chest and setting alight only love for his son.
He felt.
C00lkidd seemed so happy.
The lobby appeared in front of him. He’d barely gotten to enjoy his son’s presence before it was ripped away from him.
The joy was ripped from him before it could sink its teeth into his heart.
He could barely remember how it felt.
How pathetic
He was a dead weight. Useless.
Why even bother trying to help?
His son was happier without him.
The survivors would be better without him.
A whirr, familiar black and red panel appearing in the air. Just within reach. Calling to him.
He was so tired.
An almost unused command was typed into the panel. It had only been used once, yet every character was steady.
Maybe he could finally rest.
[;kill]
Or maybe he would go right back to purgatory.
[enter]
He would deserve it.
.
.
.