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skimmingmilk · 6 months ago

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"If it helps, one of the many scenarios my brain likes to twist around is imagining Sonic's perspective of No Cracks In A Closed Loop (and I adore Tails getting to be a badass and pulling off the impossible, too- my brain just likes to spin on the angst sometimes)" - @manynerdthings

A/N: So I was inspired...

I think it's safe to say this helped a lot xD Thank you, manynerdthings!

This is a continuation of my fic "No Cracks in a Closed Loop"

No Cracks in a Closed Loop — Sonic's Side

"Sonic."

That single word—no, just the voice alone—was enough to cut through the adrenaline rush as pure chaos energy sang through his veins and ignited every nerve with its spark. In a flash of light and sound, Super Sonic punched a hole through the Starfall-titan-wanna-be by using his own body as a projectile. A cocky grin cut across his muzzle as it wobbled in place, setting its sights on him instead of the city it had been about to level; its laser cannons aimed directly at the fault line.

This fight wouldn't last twenty seconds. They'd already won.

"What's up, partner?" Sonic said into the comm as he shot skyward.

The streak of gold drew the mech's cannon higher, until it cleared the tips of skyscrapers and nearby mountaintops by the time it shot at him. The laser's heat didn't even singe his fur, firing at full power into the stratosphere instead of drilling deep into the crust of the planet. It zinged past the satellite Tails was communicating from, but Super Sonic's gaze didn't linger on it for more than half a second—already more than certain it was out of the laser's range. Speeding through the air, he whirled around towards the mech for his next move. He was going to cyloop Eggman's newest addition to his junk pile right off its feet.

Swerving down in a sharp arc, Super Sonic avoided the next blast while he swung around to try and circle it. It's clawed hand swiped at him before he could complete his first circuit. He shot straight up before it could catch him, homing attacking it in the face instead.

The comm was still quiet. Tails must've swapped to their own channel. Super Sonic flew backwards, putting both the titan and the distant satellite in his line of sight. Whatever he had to say, he didn't want anyone else to hear it.

Super Sonic's brow furrowed as a barrage of bullets opened up on him. He weaved between the hundreds of projectiles glinting dangerously in the sunlight, but his chaos energy and speed worked in tandem, as fluidly as a dance, while he searched for another opening to try the cyloop again.

He could beat this thing without it, sure, but it was the fastest way to take it down.

"Tails? Still with me, bud?" Super or not, Sonic still spared a second to check in, static ringing in his ears as he burst through the center of the mech's chest plate for a shortcut.

"I'm here," Tails answered, but his voice sounded faint, like the feedback was drowning him out. "Sorry, I…" Super Sonic started his cyloop. "I just wanted to—" He was halfway around. "I'm sorry—"

Sonic closed the loop. A burst of chaos energy swelled up with a deafening boom. The air rippled with the force of it in great gusts of wind that rocked the trees and the grass of the nearby hills. Waves rose up in the bay, their white caps scraping the bottom of the golden bridge that marked the edge of the sea. The fake titan lifted into the air, sparks crackling off its metal casing as its system overloaded. Super Sonic didn't give it a second to recalibrate itself.

Faster than anyone could see, he smashed into it on all sides. A tiny mote of golden light against the towering behemoth, but it struck every weak point, fried every circuit, as the chaos energy pressed in on it from the outside. Metal crunched and caved it on itself, contorting into a twisted configuration until it no longer resembled a machine.

A cheap imitation of the ancients' attempts to defend themselves, designed only to destroy instead of protect.

Super Sonic grabbed onto mech's arm—or maybe its leg, it was hard to tell at this point—as the cyloop's effect faded, catching it before it crushed Westopolis. He swung it around and around, gritting his teeth as he built up momentum and set his sights on the ocean out ahead of them. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—

Super Sonic let go.

The mech's remains were flung through the air, over the coastline and beyond the bridge that cut off the bay from the sea. It crashed into the water, the ocean spray shooting up into the air in a tower of mist once it hit the surface. The waves rolled aggressively towards the coastline, but ultimately broke apart in the bay before they could do too much damage. Some millionaires might have to replace a yacht or two, but that wasn't Sonic's problem.

As he dusted his hands off, he could finally acknowledge the warning bells Tails's last words to him had set off. "Hey, what was that, bud? I didn't catch—"

Super Sonic turned towards the satellite, addressing it like he would Tails, but it was gone. Instead a cloud of smoke filled the space where the satellite had been not ten seconds ago. Metal shards and fire rained upon the bay. Everything in pieces. Everything gone.

His comm was in chaos. Unintelligible voices shouted over one another in a cacophony of white noise that was already fighting a losing battle to the ringing in his ears. But he still noticed one voice was missing. He couldn't hear it.

He hadn't heard any of it.

Over the sonic boom of his cyloop and the screeching of metal as he demolished the titan, Sonic hadn't heard the satellite explode.

The satellite his little brother was on.

He'd been trying to tell him something.

He'd been trying to tell him something before a satellite exploded with him on it.

"I'm sorry."

Tails.

Super Sonic shot off like a bullet, speeding towards the black cloud of smoke and smoldering debris like there was even a chance—

No. There had to be a chance—

"I just wanted to—I'm sorry—"

Why? What happened? What did you do, Tails?

He hadn't even properly seen him off before he left. Tails had been trying to hack into Eggman's satellite remotely while Sonic was out chasing after the faux titans. He told them all about his plan to board the satellite and everyone agreed it sounded like the right call, so long as he could do it quickly. They needed to disrupt the signal, after all, and Tails was their best shot.

That was what he'd said, wasn't it? "You're our best shot, Tails. I believe in you, partner."

Their best shot, but not the only one. Not if it meant this.

Nothing was worth this.

Sonic didn't need to breathe while super, but his lungs still burned twin holes in his chest as his own nervous system caught fire. Golden sparks flicked off his quills as he raced through the air. Fiery eyes frantically scanned each scrap of metal that fell, but they must've already been irritated from the smoke because they burned and blurred with the rest of the world around him—

"—onic, wait! Come back! Sonic!"

One voice.

Super Sonic stopped. He stopped so fast and so suddenly, it felt like his own soul completely missed the memo. Like everything inside him continued to hightails it towards where Tails had been without him, leaving him empty. Hollow. Cold.

A vacuous space in the center of himself where there'd once been something.

The chaos energy inside him didn't know what to do with that.

With so much… nothing.

Stunned, he could only float in place for a stupid second until he remembered he'd stopped for a reason. With a sharp turn, his stare locked onto a splash of orange amidst the blotchy colors of the rest of the world bleeding into one another. Like he was still moving too fast to see clearly. Like he couldn't catch up to himself.

"Sonic…" Tails's voice broke like it had on the comm, but it wasn't with pain guilt fear regret static.

Vision clearing, Sonic could see him now. At the edge of one of the hills overlooking Westopolis and the bay. Tails just rubbed at his nose with a sheepish sort of grin, like the explosion was a minor miscalculation. A hiccup. My bad, he could hear him saying, like he was standing in the middle of his workshop, covered in soot and singed fur, one hand on his hip and a fire extinguisher at his feet.

Like he was fine.

Like he hadn't been incinerated in the fiery inferno smoldering above them.

Tails lowered his hand, eyes shining as they looked up at him, reflecting the very sky Super Sonic was caught in as the satellite's remains fell all around him. He'd been on that satellite. Just seconds ago, Sonic had been so sure of it.

He'd been so sure he'd lost him…

Then Tails opened his arms to him and laughed.

All at once Sonic crashed back into himself, chest heaving with a sharp inhale as his heart lurched forward.

Faster than a blink, Super Sonic barrelled into Tails and sent them toppling down the hillside. They smacked hard against the ground, but Sonic took the brunt of the fall even with the world spinning around them. His arms encircled Tails tightly, one hand protecting the back of his head while the other braced the small of his back as they tumbled and whooped like a pair of idiots. Pure joy radiated through him, burning brighter than the chaos energy coursing through his quills. It knocked the emeralds right out of him. The seven gems fell into the grass around them as the two mobians eventually rolled to a stop.

Sonic clutched Tails to him, shaking with breathless laughter as he felt his little brother hug him back just as tightly. "I'm here," Tails was saying, and it took a minute to realize he'd been repeating the words while Sonic's hands were trembling. "I'm here. It's okay, big bro. I'm here. I’m here."

"And you say I'm the one that's gonna give you a heart attack," Sonic wheezed, not bothering to give himself room to breathe if it meant letting go for even a second.

"Can't let you have all the fun." Tails smoothed his hands over Sonic's spines to try and settle him, his touch purposeful and grounding. "Deep breaths, big bro. You're gonna pass out."

"Nuh-uh," he argued, but filled his lungs with his next inhale anyway, then let all the air ease out of him.

"That's it. There ya go," Tails encouraged, but Sonic couldn't help his snort of indignation at being coddled and pushed away from him.

Except Tails just tightened his grip; fingers curling in his fur like they'd be forced apart if he didn't. He hid his face in the crook of Sonic's neck, his breaths coming only a little too fast. But his hands were shaking, too, and his twin tails wound around them both as if they were enough to protect them from the next threat.

Sonic didn't pull away. He just sat back, the eleven-year-old practically in his lap, and rested his hand atop Tails's head.

"Gave me a real scare there, pal," he said, voice low and gentle as he smoothed out his fur, picking at the grass and brambles they were both covered in.

"…Scared me, too."

Sonic's heart clenched, the open admission like a bludgeon to his protective instincts, even if his pride assured him Tails could handle it. After all, the proof had all but climbed into his lap. But now that he was looking at him—really looking at him—he could see his fur was mussed up from more than just a tumble at supersonic speed. A streak of blood stained his fur on his shoulder and there was a lump near the center of his back that filled Sonic with an angry fire hot enough to burn through the atmosphere when he so much as brushed against it with his fingers.

Tails didn't flinch when he grazed it, but his muscles gave an involuntary spasm that rippled beneath his fur and his hold on Sonic tightened. It was enough to quell the roiling rage to a simmer. Something he could stick a lid on without worrying it would boil over if left unchecked. It wasn't what Tails needed from him right now.

But Sonic still wanted some answers.

"What happened up there?" he asked.

Tails shook his head. "Just a bit of a closer call than I thought it'd be. But I'll be okay. I am okay."

Sonic instinctively bristled, prepared to be shut out of whatever it was he'd gone through. "Tails—"

"I'll tell you someday," he promised, pressing his paw over Sonic's heart. "I mean it. But right now we've got a lot of Eggman's mess to clean up. There's still six other titans out there and I'm sure everyone else is worried."

Sonic sighed, as exasperated as he could manage when he was still just glad this kid was alive. "Gonna hold you to that," he threatened, ruffling his fur to muss it up on purpose. "You owe me. Nearly shocked the Chaos Emeralds right outta my system."

"Says Mr. Guy-Who-Loves-Adventure," Tails teased as he pushed himself up to stand. "You should be used to it by now."

Sonic snorted when he was offered a hand up, but he took it nonetheless. "When I go gray early, I'll know exactly who to blame."

"Don't worry. I'll help you dye your quills, old man," Tails snickered, but it broke off with a wince as a sharp twinge ran through his back.

Sonic was quick to lay a supportive hand at his hip to steady him. "Look who's talking. At this rate, you're gonna be right there with me setting the record for the world's youngest old timers."

Tails sent him a look, but accepted the help nonetheless as he leaned his weight against him. "Did you really have to knock us all the way down the hill like that?"

"Heh. Well, in my defense, wasn't exactly thinking straight." Sonic scratched at his nose, giving him a not-so-subtle onceover. "Didn't bang ya up too bad, did I?"

"Nah. I'll bounce back," Tails assured him, giving him a pat on the back.

"You always do," Sonic agreed warmly as they took a few steps in tandem so they could start collecting the Chaos Emeralds on their way back up the hill while Tails alerted everyone to their status on his comm and checked in on everyone else as well.

Sonic just listened, taking in the rise and fall of his voice, his steady assurances and sighs of relief to hear that the world hadn't fallen apart in his absence. Even if it very nearly did. As far as Sonic was concerned, anyway.

But he was okay now. That was what mattered. And whatever it was that happened on that satellite—whatever reason Tails had for calling him seconds before disaster—he would trust that his little brother would come to him when he was ready. Because he'd be there for him. No matter what.

Keeping his arm looped around Tails’s waist even after they made it back up the hill, Sonic looked up at the smoke still fading from the sky. He tightened his hold on him. It felt like another lifetime, like another him had first seen the explosion and feared the worst. Tails followed his gaze, quiet again with all the calls taken care of and winded from the uphill climb. Through his labored breaths, there was the slightest tremor that traveled from his chest to where he stood pressed against his brother.

"…Scared me, too."

"Hey, whatever happened up there," Sonic broke the silence, his voice drawing Tails back down beside him. "Whatever you did, I'll bet it was seriously way past cool." He glanced over at him, waiting to catch his eye before giving him a wink.

All too easily, Tails grinned up at him, the shape of his smile the spitting image of his brother's. "Way past is definitely one way to put it."

———

Five years later…

———

"You've been quiet all day, partner. Something going on in that big brain of yours?"

Everyone else had split off for the night. Team Dark vanished sometime after lunch, after Rouge once again tricked Shadow into accompanying her, and Team Chaotix had an appointment for their next case. Amy took Cream back home to Vanilla while Tangle and Whisper left to help Jewel out with some Restoration business.

Which left just Sonic and Tails lounging on the couch; the former picking up where Vector had left off in the game he'd been playing, tapping away at the controller while the latter watched.

Tails hummed in acknowledgement, so Sonic let him have a minute of quiet to collect his thoughts. He picked at one of Whisper's cinnamon muffins, crumbs scattering across the coffee table, but he didn't eat any of it. He hadn't had much of an appetite since slinking out of his lab earlier that afternoon.

It probably had something to do with the quiet and the way he'd been kinda clingy. Sonic had planned on going for a run as soon as Tails retreated back to his lab to tinker with whatever gadgets he had tucked away back there, but he seemed pretty content to stay curled up on the couch beside him. Still, Sonic could adapt. He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and slumped back into the cushions as he wandered aimlessly around in a game he couldn't remember owning.

"Do you remember that time you went up against Eggman's seven fake titans?"

Sonic let out a low whistle. "Boy, is that a blast from the past. What about it?"

When Tails didn't immediately continue, Sonic pressed the pause button, then shifted against the cushion to sit up and face his not-so-little-anymore bro. The sixteen-year-old fox tore his gaze from the screen to watch him instead, eyes bright from television's glow. Looking at him like that, for a split second, Sonic could still see the insecure, little fox kit he used to be in the way his shoulders hunched up as if to make himself smaller. To take up less space in the world.

Sonic draped one arm along the back of the couch, leaving space for him to lean into if he wanted it. No matter how big he got, there'd always be space for him.

Tails scooted closer and rested his head against Sonic's arm. "I needed to disrupt the satellite signal powering the Chaos Emerald vaults, but Eggman locked me out of the remote connection so I had to access it directly—"

"On the actual satellite," Sonic interjected, fingers drumming against the back of the couch. "I remember."

Tails released a long exhale. "Well, he set a trap. A way to slow me down so I wouldn't be able to unlock the emeralds for you in time. The same code that would disrupt the satellite's signal would also cause it to self-destruct. Eggman banked on me having enough self-preservation that I wouldn't engage it without trying to disable that function first."

"But you set it off anyway."

"I set it off anyway," Tails confirmed with a decisive nod. "It was the outcome with the highest percentage of saving people. The fastest way to help you guys. I thought I could get out in time. I should've gotten out in time," his voice lowered, eyes distant as if he was reliving the moment right there on their couch. "But I couldn't. Not on my own. I needed… help."

Sonic tried to follow him there, even if he didn't much like to relive that day in his waking hours. "So you called me."

"Not… exactly." Tails sat up straighter so he could look him in the eye. "I knew you'd come get me if I asked, but then countless lives would've been lost if the titans had gone on unchecked, even if just for a couple of seconds. Sometimes that's all it takes…" Tails's fist clenched as he dropped his hardened gaze to his lap. "I made the call to initiate the self-destruct in order to save people. I couldn't take that back. I couldn't take you away from them. Not again."

A younger Sonic would've snapped at him—would've argued over the value of his life with him until he wasn't the only one blue in the face. But at twenty-three, Sonic had fought more of these battles than he cared to count and never once walked away a winner. So he sat back, held his tongue, and let Tails explain himself.

"I called you to say goodbye," his voice lowered to a whisper, "I wanted to give you that, at least.”

He'd had a feeling. It wasn't one he dwelled on freely, but sometimes the thought wandered in uninvited. Moreso during the first couple of months after the incident, when everything was still fresh and closer to their present.

Before Sonic could respond, Tails pressed forward. "But then an older version of myself traveled through time with two Chaos Emeralds to save me. He said it was the only way. Because at the time, only the two of us knew what transpired on the satellite. We created a temporal paradox, a loop without a proper origin, but as long as it was contained between the two versions of me, nothing could disrupt it. That's why I couldn't tell you before. I wasn't sure… I didn't know if the future version of myself had told you what happened and if that would open up possibilities in the time stream that would botch the encounter entirely." Tails lifted his gaze to seek out Sonic's again, and he could see the eleven-year-old sitting in front of him like it was that very same day. "I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you."

"Nothing to apologize for, bud. I get it. I wouldn't want to mess up the time stream for that particular moment either." Sonic shifted the arm draped along the couch so he could cup the back of Tails's head, idly ruffling the fur there. "But if you're telling me all this now…" he drawled, moving to scritch behind Tails's ear. "Charmy wasn't the one who swiped Shadow's Chaos Emerald earlier, was he?"

Tails shrugged, muzzle quirking up on one side. "When he showed up with it today, I just had this feeling that it was time to make my move…" Tails explained. "I've been feeling it for a couple weeks now, to be honest. I had all the equipment I'd had on me that day and I looked close enough to how I remembered. I knew I probably had to go back soon. Just needed everything to align so no one would interfere. Today seemed good…"

Sonic tilted his head as Tails trailed off, his eyes still a little distant. "Well, you made it back in one piece, didn't you? Mission accomplished."

"Yeah. Mission accomplished," he echoed, but whatever was on his mind continued to fester. "I thought I made a mistake."

"Hm?"

"There were only three seconds left," Tails whispered. "I thought I messed it all up. I thought I killed us both—"

"You—"

"I was so sure it would work because it already had, but there was still the possibility I could've gotten it wrong. I could've caused a split in our realities. Created two timelines where I ceased to exist, except in this one no one would've known what happened to me and two of the Chaos Emeralds would be lost to time. How would any of you have known where to look?" Tails rambled, pressing his hands over his face. "I estimated the time of day with a standard deviation of a couple of seconds, but those seconds could've been what killed us—"

"Hey, hey, hey," Sonic hushed, shifting to wrap both arms around his little brother as he slumped against him. "You didn't. You're here. You're right here with me, see?" He gave him a firm squeeze, smile tugging at his muzzle as Tails hugged him back tightly. "Atta boy."

"Stupid…" he mumbled into Sonic's shoulder. "Why does this still work so well?"

"Heh. What're big brothers for?" Sonic huffed out a chuckle. "Listen, you can't live a life of what-ifs, bud. It'll drive you outta your mind. I should know. And I know you know that, too." He felt Tails's nod against his cheek. "You did exactly what you set out to do. And heck, you used the Chaos Emeralds to travel through time! When did you learn how to do that, huh? Holding out on your big bro?"

Tails snorted, but it got him to relax enough to pull back. "Figured if I could use Chaos Control, time travel was just an added boost. Like adding a supercharger to the Tornado's engine."

"Tch. You figured." Sonic rolled his eyes, but the warmth in them was nothing but fond. "Give yourself a little more credit. You did something incredible today, Tails. You defied time and space to save yourself. And not only that, you gave yourself a future to look forward to. Because who wouldn't want to turn out to be like you?"

It was Tails's turn to roll his eyes, though it was his own chuckle that betrayed him. "That's what I told me."

"And wiser words were never spoken," Sonic assured him as he gave his knee a firm pat.

"I dunno. Could make a case for the consequences of rewriting timelines and creating unsustainable permutations of past and future events." Tails grinned.

"Now you’re just being smart," Sonic snorted.

"Well, I am a genius." Tails bumped his shoulder to Sonics. "But I also learned from the best. Even eleven-year-old me picked up on that."

"Well, he's a genius, too. He knows what's up." Sonic slung his arm around Tails’s shoulder, this time his turn to watch as his brother picked up the video game controller to continue where Sonic left off.

He let him, taking his turn to be content as he watched Tails figure out the game faster than he did and go farther than Sonic could. They said nothing for a few minutes, Tails working out the rest of his pent up feelings through the game while Sonic quietly processed what he'd just been told. He wasn't a stranger to time travel, not by a long shot, but even so, it wasn't what he thought the answer to that day had been. As much faith he had in his best friend, his self-sacrificial tendencies were something he couldn't help but take notice of. After all, he'd learned from the best, hadn't he?

But it wasn't with bitterness or disdain when he set his gaze on the teen beside him. That wasn't possible; not when he saw every age at once. Not when he was in absolute awe of how far his kid had come.

"Tails."

"Sonic," Tails answered instinctively, matching his tone with the hint of a crooked smile.

"Thanks for saving him."

Tails blinked and paused the game so he could look at Sonic. In the light from the television screen, green eyes glimmered with a depth that took him back to a younger version of his big bro, who was trying to do everything in his power to be there for him. Because he wanted to be. Because he needed to be.

One tail curled around Sonic's back and draped over his lap, giving back the same reassurance he always gave so freely.

"Anytime, big bro."

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phoenix-and-found-family · 4 months ago

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Okay but...

How long had the Phantom been planning the note, code, and safe in the control point???

The hat, safe, and number carved into the side of the drawer were all there in the tutorial. That building was evacuated because of Rising Phoenix. Which meant it must have been evacuated recently.

The note, after further inspection, says this:

[Image ID: A note that says "To The next Agent, Control Point Babadag has been evacuated following Agent Phoenix's demolition of Zor's nearby base. To reconnect to the Agency and restore power, follow the protocol outlined in this tape," followed by a drawing of a VCR looking tape.]

So, it was actually left after Phoenix blew up the building???

Which, because I am assuming the evac took a while because there's no trace of people in there, means the Phantom put a whole ass safe in the base that there was only a probable chance you'd end up in.

Getting a safe made that would only open to specific medallions, making those specific medallions in the first place out of a metal that doesn't fucking melt in a volcano (the last one is in the lava of KBOOM), and then hiding them, in mission locations you didn't even know you would be in, seems like it would take months, if not years.

And that's not even considering where they actually are in the levels:

In Roxana's house it's in her home computer, which, given the way the circles are drawn on the note, she 100% didn't know about

In the mines, which were used by the agency until she left and Zoraxis found them, they're in a stalagmite??? Specifically one the drill can't even reach, which is probably why it's still standing. But how did this person know you'd break the drill??? And why have none of the robots, or the supervisor, who can actually see the marking, ever tried to break it open to see what you could find? How did they get it in there?

In Blind Spot it's behind her license plate, which, as well as raising the question of how on earth Roxana didn't notice that but immediately knew when you and Reginald showed up, makes me wonder how she didn't get pulled over by police for having something covering up her plate

Hot Water has you A. Put a grate under the vending machine with the shield maker in it on a chalkboard, and B. send the code you get to Ollie, who sends it to you confused. Which means A. The chalkboard was assumed to not going to be erased when the grate was installed/replaced, B. The agent would figure out where to put it, and C. Phantom managed to sneak the medallion into wherever Ollie was located without him knowing anything about it

Cold Shoulder: They froze the medal in solid ice in the gondola control panel. That could only be melted by the bear laser. How in the fuck.

I already talked about the lava thing so I'm not getting pictures for it (I'm lazy)

And the note they give you from the safe looks like this:

The code translates to "I expect you to live", which is awesome, but they also call you Phoenix.

You got this nickname, at most, a month ago.

There was no physical way to do all of that in a month or less.

So either this person is inhumanly fast, predicted where you'd be in the missions, made sure no one else got it somehow, did this without stopping anything that was going on, and also got you some gloves made of gold fabric as a reward for solving the puzzles, or something else is going on.

I don't know, but I think that this Phantom person is even more interesting when you factor in how they managed to do all of this in the first place.

#ieytd #i expect you to die #dr prism #rant #ieytd 2 #i expect you to die 2 #ieytd 3 #i expect you to die 3 #the phantom ieytd

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cosmicsponge2004 · 7 months ago

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Random Lore and Trivia from SONIC RIVALS 2 (2007)

Let's just jump into it

Tails has been training with Sonic to keep up and is faster now (2007-Present) then he was previously (1992-2006)

Due to Eggman Nega in this game, Silver temporarily had to deal with ANOTHER Future on fire

luckily Silver & Espio, Shadow & Metal Sonic, Sonic, & Knuckles defeated the ifrit (somehow, this game's narrative progresses weirdly) preventing yet another timeline of Silver living in Hell

On the same topic, Silver & Espio form a close bond. This marks the second time that Silver and Purple character with yellow eyes saved the future from a fiery inferno. The first Being Silver & Blaze in 06 (which they don't remember btw for anyone behind on sonic)

This Silver & Espio dynamic actually briefly returned in the IDW Comics in one of Silver's few good moments (Not a huge fan of Soft Twink woobified Silver after playing Rivals & 06 since he's just annoying and looks strange but this scene was fun)

One more Silver thing, his primary character trait in 06 & the Rivals Duology (I also hear colors and Olympics ds but I haven't played those) is just how blunt he is towards everyone. Far more than Shadow and Sonic. This was also somewhat seen in 06 with his frustration with Amy but it's more prominent in Rivals. The duology has an issue of making everyone meaner than they should be but Rivals 2 tries to let their personalities shine above that (Sonic, Tails, & Espio are completely normal)

Here are some scenes that just felt right to me

Ok FINAL SILVER FR!! In the end of Silver & Espio's story, they leave Eggman Nega with his legs stuck under rumble in the evil ifrit portal. It is unknown how Eggman Nega ever escaped but he later appeared in a Japanese Sonic Channel comic about Blaze in 2016 so I guess he didn't die.

The Rivals games show that Metal Sonic in his non-overlord form, cannot speak but he is also alot less independent and now Metal Sonic has these weird clanky voice lines here and in the Olympics. I blame Dr. Eggman

Speaking of Eggman Nega, lemme explain him based on what I gathered from Rush, Rivals 1&2, Rush Adventure, and Sonic Channel

Read below

Eggman Nega is descendant of Eggman from sometime in the future. In Rush, he teams up with his ancestor (Dr. Eggman) to cause chaos for the Sol Dimension and Sonic's world (I like to call it the Chaos Dimension) Nega pretends to be an inhabitant of the Sol Dimension in Rush for unknown reasons. In Rivals he causes chaos in the standard past

Eggman Nega blames his failures on his Ancestor and by Rivals 2 just completely hates that idiot Eggman (I think he also had animosity towards him in Rivals 1, I forgor)

The main thing that separates Eggman Nega from Dr. Eggman in every game he's in except Sonic Rush, is that Dr. Ivo Eggman Robotnik wants to rule the world as a machine centric dictator (in the classic genesis games and Rush Adventure through colors, he wanted an evil themepark).

Meanwhile Eggman Nega only craves destruction and chaos and is much more unconventional. In Rivals he tries to turn the planet into a card. In Rush Adventure after his plans fail, he attemps to fire his "planet buster laser" to blow up the planet completely (not just the Shattered earth Eggman would later make in Unleashed) but is stopped by Marine, Super Sonic, & Burning Blaze, and in Rivals 2 he awakens the ancient Ifrit to burn everything (Sonic, Tails, Knuckles, and Rouge still think Eggman did that because they missed all the Nega reveals)

Eggman Nega also makes his own Metal Sonic here. "Metal Sonic Version 3.0" (pronounced 3 point zero, not 3 point oh)

Archie fans may notice that this guy's paint job was stolen verbatim by Shard in those comics

Finally, Sonic Rivals 2 showcases Espio communicating with Vector but not Charmy

On the topic of Espio, not counting comics the only media he's in without Metal Sonic is Sonic X & Shadow the Hedgehog.

All his other debuts are pretty metal centric. Chaotix, Fighters, Heroes, Rivals 2, Mobile Games. He hasn't been major since

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lrithill · 4 months ago

Text

Nightmare on Clown Street (pt.2: The Real State Agent)

Oh. My .God.

When I started this story, I didn’t think it was going to turn into this madness...

(This one escalated quickly).

Here you got part 1:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

And part 3:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/778840861948755968/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt-3-happily-settled?source=share (Part 3)

Warnings: Comedy, Hostage Situations, Car Accidents, Car Chases, Rescue Missions, Danger, Cowboys, Zombie cowboys, Absurd, Love, Madness, Stockholm Syndrome, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Soap, Fire, Explosions, Chaos.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*In the Car*

Silence.

The only sound is the car engine, being forced to its limits by James—If he keeps this up, he’s gonna stomp right through the floor and have to drive home like the Flintstones.

Marian stares out the window, drumming her fingers on the glass—her reflection smiles back at her.

Trujilda is still unconscious, mumbling something. She seems to be having a nightmare… (though honestly, it can’t be worse than reality).

—Trujilda…—James calls her name.

James notices her having a bad dream and tries to wake her up gently—after dealing with one psychopath, he really doesn’t want to handle another.

—Trujildaaaaa—he touches her softly, trying to be affectionate.

FZUM

Trujilda’s eyes snap wide open—if they were glowing red, she’d be Terminator. A real killing machine—indestructible—, negotiation is not an option

She grabs James’ hand like a magnet snapping to metal. —the same hand Art had grabbed earlier, ust to add insult to injury, –or salt to the wound.

—Trujilda… I think we should go to a hospital…—James' voice is barely a whisper—. Look at my hand, those freak’s nail marks are getting infected… it looks really bad, shit… —James is practically crying—. I think it’s getting gangrenous or something… MY HAND IS GONNA FALL OFF, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! —he spirals into full-blown panic, the very image of despair.

Trujilda simply examines his hand—or rather, scans it. Slowly, she sits upright in her seat, then turns her head toward James in a stiff, robotic motion—you can almost hear the gears turning.

She doesn’t let go of his hand.

Suddenly, James almost prefers Art.

—James…

She is powering up her laser beam

—What are we doing in the car?—she bats her eyelashes innocently, her fake kindness dripping like poison, that Jeff the Killer smile creeping back onto her face.

—I did what I had to do, Trujilda. We were this close to—

—HOW COULD YOU JUST LET SOME FREAK TOUCH ME AND GRAB ME LIKE THAT?! —Trujilda shakes him violently, her ultrasonic scream shattered his eardrums —. I should’ve listened to my father, you’re a dickless coward! —her eyes practically burning with sulfur.

ZHHHHRRR-KA-BOOM

Obliterated.

—He did more than just touch you, Trujilda…—James has had enough of being a punching bag—. He kissed you…. and you did NOTHING to stop him—James accuses, his voice sharp—. You wanted it, didn’t you? Was that to make me jealous? —James starts spouting conspiracy theories (honestly, who wouldn’t want a kiss from Art?)—. Do you think I’m stupid…? I know I’m not exactly a knight in shining armor, but—

—WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE KISSED ME?!—Godzilla-tier laser beam activated, cleaving the car in two.

—He wasn’t a freak…—Marian cuts in, preventing her parents from finalizing the divorce papers Art had drafted for them.

At that exact moment, the car jerks violently—as if it hit a pothole. But there was no pothole. It was more like the car’s engine skipped a beat.

Both James and Trujilda snap their heads toward the backseat in perfect unison.

—WHAT?!

—He painted my face—Marian says innocently—. Look, he even gave me his pencil.

Trujilda detects the pencil as if it were a loaded firearm. Her gadget-arm activates, grabbing it at lightning speed and hurling it out the window.

"Target eliminated."

She then proceeds to wash her hands with holy water like it’s industrial-strength disinfectant.

—I KNEW IT! That guy wasn’t a man… he was the Devil! —Trujilda crosses herself in terror—. He put a curse on us, an evil eye, a—

—YOU’RE RIGHT!. —James immediately swerves toward the nearest church—. Our daughter now bears THE SYMBOL OF HIS CULT. It’s only a matter of time before we start receiving letters written in blood.

James reconsiders his moving plans… but to another country.

Suddenly, the car radio crackles to life.

Nobody touched it.

The music plays , distorted.

“Drop on by the Clown Café, your favorite meals on wheels…”

Marian’s eyes flash yellow for a brief second.

—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

The car practically launches itself down the hill, tires screeching, the seatbelt warning beeping furiously.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Art and you watch as the brown car approaches from the distance—slowly but steadily—without stopping.

Murphy was right: "If something can go wrong, it will."

You have a decent amount of patience (Though earlier, you almost shattered James' ribs when he mocked Art for being mute…)

But Art…

Art is a literal clockwork bomb.

Once the timer runs out…

BOOM.

Nuclear explosion.

(And you? Standing there, watching the chaos unfold—like Oppenheimer fixing his hat as he gazes upon the destroyer of worlds.)

You quickly step in front of Art and grab his hands.

You still have time to save that poor soul from a painful, slow death—and from being served up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

—Art… remember what we practiced… breeeeathe— you soothe him, making exaggerated inhale-exhale gestures.

Art looks at you, but doesn’t really look at you. His gaze is distant… or maybe he’s staring directly into your soul. You notice his hands trembling.

—Shhhh… count to ten, my love— you whisper, though you're starting to doubt yourself—. Come on, let me see you do it, with your fingers— you encourage him (no psychiatrist could ever achieve this level of crisis management).

You lift Art’s hands to chest level, guiding him through the count.

You raise one of his fingers.

—One… —you need to get his mind off that car—. Keep going, you’re doing amazing, my king— you smile, hoping he’ll return the smile.

That’s asking for too much.

But then, to your surprise, Art lifts a second finger, by his own.

(You officially deserve a PhD in psychology only for that finger.)

Now, Art has his eyes closed, which you like even more—he actually seems focused on staying calm.

He raises a third finger. His breathing slows.

You’re so proud of him.

"Art is doing amazing, I can’t believe this, it’s like—"

5 fingers.

Art has just raised all five fingers on one hand.

—Art… you skipped four, sweetheart— you say gently, trying to lower one of his fingers to get the count back on track, smiling.

You try to push one down—no luck. (It’s stiffer than Wolverine’s claws.)

You shake your head.

You can smell the impending disaster.

7 fingers up.

Art’s eye sockets are practically bulging out of his skull.

"No… NO NOOO."

9 fingers.

You dramatically throw your arms around him, seeking desperate comfort— all hope is gone.

There’s nothing left to do but pray.

You want to scream, like a soul being dragged to hell.

BEEEP BEEEEP.

“THIS IS THE END FOR US!”

You feel Art struggling to lift the 10th finger, his movements agonizingly slow.

You can hear his heart pounding against his ribs at full speed.

His whole body is tensed, his muscles coiled like springs, –ready to hurl himself at anything that so much as twitches.

And then—

BEEP.

Art passes out

He drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes, flat on his back with a solid THUD.

Technical KO.

You can’t believe it.

The battle between good and evil was so intense inside his head that he just completely crashed— Literally, Blue screen of death.

You flex your arm and clench your fist in victory.

"God was with me today, fuck yes", you think triumphantly.

And that’s when a figure emerges from the vintage car. She adjusts her glasses, struggling to believe her own eyes.

"Is there seriously a girl cheering because her boyfriend just passed out?" she thinks.

She approaches the car with firm steps, clutching a folder overflowing with papers, against her chest.

You see her coming and quickly pull yourself together. With Art out of the way things are going to be much easier.

(No.)

—Hello there!— you greet her, wiping away your tears of joy. —I’m (Y/N), nice to meet you. You must be the real estate agent, right? —you smile at her.

—I'm Bruna— she says formally—. Nice to meet you too… though I can’t say the same for him— she points at Art, she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Art lies flat on his back, eyes wide open, his toothy smile plastered on his face. If he weren’t breathing, he’d pass as a Halloween decoration.

—Yeah… uh…— you scratch your head—. It’s been a really stressful day… I think his blood sugar dropped. —You pull a random excuse out of thin air.

—Oh! Do you want to go get him some juice or something? —Bruna offers—. I can stay here and watch over him if you’d like—

—NO NO NO!— you practically scream, frantically waving your hands.

—O…kay— her smile turns awkward. Bruna glances around, as if she’s on a hidden camera show.

—What I mean is… He’s totally fine!— you try to explain—. This happens to him all the time. Trust me, it’s only a matter of time before he wakes up —You say it with a strained expression, nervously chewing your nails. You sound more like you’re warning her than trying to reassure her (which is the case).

You kneel down and pull Art’s hoodie over his face—like a mourner covering a corpse at a funeral—so you don’t have to look at his demonic grin.

—Are you sure… he’s alive? —Bruna narrowed her eyes at you.

—Yeah yeah… of course he’s alive, hahaha!— you reassure her with nervous laughter—. This dude is fresh as a daisy. Hell, even if you chopped his head off, this bastard wouldn’t die, hahahahaha!

"And that’s the only reason you’re still breathing right now," you want to say.

—Well… I hope he recovers soon. —Bruna adds, pretending she didn’t hear the whole “even if you chop his head off” part.

—Exactly, hehe, hopefully. —You nod enthusiastically—. He's my boyfriend, and I love him to bits, I'm literally crazy about him. —you sight.

You notice Art’s head shifting slightly from side to side, regaining consciousness.

You immediately kick him in the head, knocking him out again. All the way back to dreamland.

You smile.

(So in love)

Bruna adjusts her glasses, blinks hard… but chooses not to question it.

—Anyway, as you’ve well guessed, I’m the real estate agent. By any chance, have you seen a family of three around here? I was supposed to meet them for a house tour this afternoon. —Bruna explains, though you already knew that—. There was a ton of traffic, so I got delayed —she excuses herself—. I even sent them a message, but they haven’t read it— Bruna’s mind starts piecing things together. —Honestly, if I didn’t know for sure that James wasn’t a mime, I’d almost think he was this guy, and you’re a psycho that knocked him out or something. —she chuckles.

But you don’t laugh.

Your face is pure horror.

You turn pale as Art.

The "M" word…

You glance at Art and see his fists clenching tightly, his knuckles turning white with tension.

—SSHHHH…— you hush her immediately, slapping a hand over her mouth.— Don’t say that word... —Your wild-eyed expression is downright unhinged.

—What… word? —Bruna is actually starting to get scared.

You get way too close to her—her personal space is your personal space.

—"Mime…" —you whisper in her ear—. Listen, he hates being called that. I mean, you know how men are… Trust me, you do not want him waking up in a bad mood. —You’re one step away from getting on your knees to beg.

—What? —Bruna stares at you, completely baffled.

—Seriously, you have NO idea how lucky you are that he’s unconscious. —You grab her hands, pleading.— You should leave. Immediately. Please, I’m begging you. —Your face is a tragic, desperate mess. She really needs to leave.

—Seriously, I’ve never met anyone who's actually happy that their boyfriend passed out . —Bruna taunts—. If he fell into a coma, what then? Would we pop champagne? —she laughs sarcastically.

—No, no, please… He went through this for five straight years, and I am not dealing with that again —you state in the most deadpan tone possible.

Bruna stares at you.

You stare back at her.

—But that’s not the point. —you urge—. You need to leave. Take the "For Sale" sign with you, and don’t come back. —You start pushing her toward her car.

Time is running out, and this woman just won’t take a hint.

You grab her by the shoulders and steer her toward the driver’s seat.

But she quickly slips out of your grasp like a damn ninja.

—What the hell is going on here? —her voice turns cold, demanding.— I want to know what happened to James and his family. And I want to know who YOU are and who the hell that poor guy on the ground is.

Bruna is a tough nut to crack.

For the first time, you wish Art was awake. He made things so effortlessly easy with the other three.

But Bruna? She’s like a final boss compared to James.

—I'm calling James. —she announces—. And if he doesn’t answer… I’ll have no choice but to take measures.

She’s not bluffing.

Bruna starts dialing.

Bip bip bip…

You're starting to sweat. —She probably thinks you kidnapped them; or worse –that you’re trying to cover up a murder. And that’s why you’re so set on making her leave.

(What she doesn’t know is that you’re literally trying to save her from being killed!).

You pray that James picks up.

Biiiip… biiiip… biiiip…

"Please… please… pick up."

A single bead of sweat rolls down your temple. Then another.

You are NOT built for this kind of stress.

A chaotic mess of noises suddenly blasts through the phone:

-A bell ringing

-A man howling in despair.

-A cat hissing aggressively.

—Bruna? —James’ voice finally emerges from the chaos.

—Hey, James! How’s it going? —Bruna throws you a “you just got lucky” glance—. Where are you guys?

—Oh, thank God… I’m so relieved to hear your voice… we feared the worst—James exhales, clearly shaken—. We’re at the town church. Uh… long story.

—The church? Is that nearby?

—Yeah, it was on the way… it was an emergency. —he explains, poorly.— Although, to be honest… the nun helping us here is… kinda weird. —his voice trembles—. But after everything I’ve seen tonight, I’m sure it’s just my imagination… I’m just being paranoid… —he trails off.

—I’m at the house. —Bruna announces.

—YOU’RE AT THE HOUSE?!

Bruna nearly drops her phone, shocked by the scream.

—Look, I don’t have time to explain. I don’t even know how to explain, but GET OUT OF THERE. NOW.

Bruna freezes.

For the first time, she is genuinely afraid.

—RUN. FROM. THE CLOWN.

The call cuts off.

The last thing heard on the line are prayers.

Silence.

Bruna’s whole body goes cold –her skin crawls. That call was seriously disturbing.

And then…

HONK. HONK.

Your blood runs cold.

Bruna and you turn around at the exact same time, as if fate had already been written.

And there he is.

Art. Brand new.

His smile is still there. His eyes glimmer with excitement. He lifts a hand in his signature greeting.

And then, his lips move—no sound comes out, but the message is crystal clear:

"Miss me?"

Art takes a step forward.

Bruna takes a step back—her papers slip from her hands and scatter across the ground.

Your brain starts racing at a million miles per hour.

Art can smell fear. –And nothing thrills him more than seeing terror in the eyes of his victims–that moment when they realize there’s no escape.

He starts stalking toward Bruna –like a predator–, his gaze locked onto her, his smile widening with delight—his mind already spinning with endless possibilities.

And then…

You gather your courage.

You step between Art and Bruna, using your body as a human shield.

"You’ll have to kill me first." You telepathically challenge Art.

Art hisses like a rattlesnake.

The two of you lock eyes.

Neither of you move.

You look just like two cowboys about to face off in a classic spaghetti western duel.

The wind howls between you, kicking up the invisible desert dust.

A tumbleweed (imaginary, but just as dramatic) rolls across the space between you and Art, marking the start of the showdown.

"Para rin para rin pon pin... uh uh uh uh…"

Both of you remain in a tense stance, as if life itself depended on this moment (it does).

Art narrows his eyes, locking his gaze onto you, his smile widening. His fingers rest at his sides, as if preparing to draw an invisible weapon.

But you refuse to be intimidated.

You take a step forward, feeling like Clint Eastwood himself.

Art raises an eyebrow—he’s surprised by your determination.

Deep down, you know this is Art’s weakness. He is a true showman, and when faced with a situation like this, he can’t help but get into character—like a real method actor.

You sincerely believe that the only way survive him is to play along with his performances.

(Though that doesn’t guarantee survival either… but you have the perks of being the favorite, of course.)

The silence is deafening.

Time seems to stop. There is no sound but the wind.

“Waaaah wah wah waaahh… uh uh”

Art spits on the ground with grave seriousness—he’s living it.

With even more seriousness, you also spit on the ground (does he think he’s a better cowboy than you? You’re competitive).

Art chuckles to himself. He loves your spirit.

You are engaged in a fierce duel of intense stares; the tension could be cut with a knife—or better, a rusty hacksaw.

Bruna doesn't know whether to laugh or cry

Slowly, you move your hand toward your pocket.

You’re having a genius idea.

Art watches your movements carefully, analyzing you.

He follows the movement with his eyes, his body on high alert. His pupils dilate. He is completely absorbed in the scene.

And suddenly, with the speed worthy of a county sheriff, you pull out your hand in the shape of a gun and…

BANG!

With the precision of a hawk’s eye… you pull the trigger, even mimicking the recoil—actually feeling it in your hand.

Art’s eyes widen. He clutches his shoulder as if you had hit him squarely. His expression is one of dramatic pain… then, of fury.

He presses a hand over the wound, dramatically trying to stop the bleeding.

He staggers backward, gritting his teeth—at the very least, he should be awarded the Golden Lion.

He tries to lean on an imaginary wall; but he’s losing too much blood, barely able to stand, gasping for air.

“Bitch… you got me…”

He takes a few unsteady steps, falls to one knee, grips his chest…

Kneeling, he looks into your eyes and nods slowly, granting you victory as a worthy opponent.

“You’reas good as they say, maybe even better… Looks like the devil came for me today…”

And finally, with one last agonized breath…

He lets himself fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

Dead.

Silence.

At this, you raise your hand in the shape of a gun and blow on your fingers, as if dispersing the smoke from the barrel. A half-smirk on your face.

“Only one of us was walkin' out of here”

You turn to Bruna with a look of satisfaction and defiance—if only you had a sheriff’s badge to flash.

Bruna has taken off her glasses—they didn’t want to keep watching this movie.

Then, without warning, you hear Art convulsing on the ground behind you.

You spin around quickly, back on high alert –gun in hand.

With difficulty, he raises his hand, gesturing, “Come closer… I have… something… important… to tell you…”

You take a few cautious steps toward him and lean over his body.

And then, with the last of his strength, he tries to lift his air horn, his hand trembling so much it looks as heavy as Thor’s hammer.

He seems just about to sound it.

His final words…

But he doesn’t get the chance, because life has already faded from his eyes.

His gaze is lost in the sky.

You close his eyelids with a solemn gesture.

You lower your head to his chest, pretending to grieve his death, pretending to cry in sorrow.

(In reality, you’re dying of laughter, but you don’t want Bruna to see you.)

You stand up.

Art, satisfied with his performance, suddenly springs back to life and claps enthusiastically.

You turn to Bruna, who is blinking like she’s in a parallel reality.

—Whew, that was close…— you say, wiping the sweat from your forehead—. Safe and sound, see? —You smile at her proudly.

—You say that like he wasn’t looking at me like he wanted to turn me into hamburger meat…—points at Art.

—Yes, but he didn’t do it, hahaha. That’s called self-control, —you say proudly—. We’re improving a lot.

You hear Art growl from where he is. He makes a gesture with two fingers, pointing at his own eyes and then at Bruna’s.

“I’m watchin you, and I won’t blink ” you both read.

—You two really are made for each other, —Bruna laughs nervously, suddenly realizing why this house had been forsaken for so many years...

(Because of these two).

Still, Bruna refuses to believe you’re just two crazy people in love—there isn’t always a perfect match for every misfit.

Art approaches you both at a slow pace, limping. Apparently, he’s also been shot in the leg–he’s now wondering if he’ll ever be able to ride his horse again.

—Well, you see, we’re members of a theater club, —you say, trying (once again) to make everything sound somewhat normal—. You just happened to catch us in the middle of a rehearsal and… we were playing around with improvisation, —you explain—. This is going to be a box office hit.. Thanks for involuntarily participating! —You shake her hand as if she were a famous actress.

Art nods in agreement.

—And… if you were rehearsing… why was your boyfriend pass out earlier? —Bruna interrogates you.

—Well, uh… you see… mmmmm… —You touch your forehead, thinking—. It’s a movie… about zombie cowboys.

Art closes his eyes, trying to hold back laughter… but nods again.

—Aaahhh that’s it. —Her eyebrows rise in surprise.

—-Aahhhh that’s it, —you imitate her—. At first, I really made you feel terror, huh? It really seemed like an apocalyptic situation, right? —You tap your temple twice with your finger, as if you were a theatrical genius.

—To be honest, I was going into real paranoia, you looked genuinely desperate.

—And rightfully so, hahaha. —You grab her shoulders and look deep into her soul. —He was going to kill you.

Art nods again. Smiling.

Then proceeds to make a choking throat motion, –eyes filled with rage.

—Yeah… hehehe. —Bruna removes your hands from her shoulders—. I see a future for you guys in this… And the rest of the actors in the club? —she looks around.

—Ahh… uh… it’s just my boyfriend and me.

—-Huh… Who would’ve guessed? —She rolls her eyes—. I hope you haven’t actually shot them. It wouldn’t be the first case. —She glances around, maybe looking for an escape route.

Art shrugs innocently, raising his palms beside his head, smiling.

“Who knows”

Bruna suddenly gets lost in thought.

Something feels off.

Her eyes dart between the two schizophrenics standing in front of her. She scans you—your messy hair, your wrists, your ankles, the visible skin… there almost seem to be bite marks on your shoulder…

Everything is too strange. Your desperate attitude… Art’s behavior, at the very least… unsettling.

James’s call…

"RUN FROM THE CLOWN."

His voice echoes in Bruna’s mind.

—Hey, (Y/N), —Bruna calls to you—.Do you mind coming with me to the car? I have a pamphlet there with all the information about the sale.

—Oh! That sounds good, let’s go. —You’re hopeful that she’s finally getting into her car and leaving.

Art moves with you, ready to follow.

—(Y/N) alone, —Bruna insists—. I just need to ask her something… you know, girl stuff. —She adds an excuse.

Art glances at her from the corner of his eye, starting to suspect something is about to happen. He tenses up, ready for the worst.

"What if she's a detective investigating a case? What if she's an undercover cop?"

But he has to stay calm. He can't take any risks without proof—she could have a weapon. The last thing he wants is for you to actually get shot. (This time real).

Bruna and you stop right at the front door of the car. She opens it and pretends to look for something…

She hands you a blank sticky note and a pencil—her hands trembling.

—Write… quickly… this is your chance, —she whispers, her eyes wide open.

—What…?

—Whatever you want to tell me that you don’t want him to hear… write it down. —She subtly gestures toward Art with her eyes.

—Bruna… I don’t know what you’re trying to say… —You laugh nervously.

—How long have you been here? Has he hurt you? —She’s deadly serious.

—Who…? Arthur? —You’re so confused.

—-If you're kidnapped, you can tell me. I’m going to get you out of here…I want to help you.

—Kidnapped?! —You burst out laughing—. The only thing Art has kidnapped is my heart. —You place your hands over your chest like a hopeless romantic.

—Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is?

—Of course I do! But my love for him is real… not Stockholm’s. —You laugh, trying to ease the tension, but you’re starting to feel uneasy.

—I’ve heard that at first, they seem kind. They treat you well… it even feels like they love you, —Bruna grips the sticky note so tightly it nearly turns into a ball in her fist—. But deep down, you’re nothing more than a hostage to them. A toy to play with. You can’t believe him. You’re stronger than him.

Art is now looking at an imaginary watch on his wrist. His foot taps impatiently against the ground.

—Bruna… Don’t be ridiculous.

—LET’S GO!!!

Bruna shoves you into the passenger seat with all her strength and slams the door shut before sprinting to the driver’s seat at full speed.

You don’t even have time to process what just happened before Bruna has already locked the car, sealing the doors and windows. You try to open the door—no use.

—AAAAAART! —You call for help, looking at him through the windshield.

—WE’RE GETTING OUT OF HERE NOW! —Bruna slams the accelerator, the tires screeching, dust rising.

Art stares in utter shock, his hands clutching his head as if he can’t believe what’s happening, his expression a mask of pure terror for the first time all afternoon.

“NOOOO, MY HOSTAGE!”

He watches as the car speeds down the hill, taking the same road James and his family used to escape.

But Art knows exactly what he has to do—he’s been in situations like this before.

What Bruna doesn’t realize is that Art is not just an ordinary mortal man.

He chuckles to himself, imagining how you’re going to explain to Bruna what’s about to happen.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*In the car*

The road stretches ahead of you like a never-ending tunnel.

Bruna is driving at full speed, even faster than James—after all, this is not just an escape, it’s a rescue mission. She keeps glancing at the rearview mirror, her grip firm on the steering wheel, her seatbelt strapped tight.

Her knuckles are white with tension. She has no idea if she’s saving someone or dooming herself.

She has the courtesy to fasten your seatbelt for you. Caution is her middle name—she doesn’t tolerate anything less than perfection.

The engine roars like a wounded beast.

—James told me he was at the church in town… —she says, not taking her eyes off the road.

—Bruna… –you say, gripping the car’s handle—. This is a huge mistake.

If it weren’t for the fact that you’re used to driving with Art, you’d be throwing up—Bruna takes turns like a Formula 1 driver.

—Are you okay? You have my full support to vent about whatever you need, —she reassures you—. It must have been so hard for you… living with that psychopath and—

—Arthur has never hurt me, —you cut her off before she can keep accusing him—. Seriously, he’s just… intense.

—Intense is my ex when he sends me ten messages in a row, —she laughs—. But that’s a far cry from keeping you handcuffed…

—What? —(Did you hear that right?)

—I saw your wrists, —she points at them—. I know it doesn’t make sense in your head right now, and you’re going to try to justify him… but girl, no man who loves you would do that.

You look down at your wrists.

Yes, there are handcuff marks –very deep ones indeed.

Your face turns bright red.

—Uh… like I said… he’s intense hahaha, —you hope she understands without needing to go into detail.

—I even saw the same marks on your ankles, —she covers her mouth with her hand in disgust,imagining the excruciating scene.

—Well, if you saw how he looks under his clothes… just as bad, if not worse, —you huff, remembering those moments.

—Him???

This is the final straw for Bruna.

—OF COURSE, WOMAN! DOESN’T A COUPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO PRIVACY? —You’re officially losing it, this is beyond ridiculous—. HE’S INTO THAT SHIT, OKAY? AND SO AM I.

—Don’t try to romanticize this, girl, I’ve seen—

—ROMANTICIZE?! I’LL ROMANTICIZE YOUR FACE! —You lunge at her.

You grab the steering wheel, trying to destabilize the car—you want to crash into a tree just to stop all of this. You don’t care about the fine you’ll have to pay.

Bruna and you scream as you fight for control, her slamming the accelerator while you stomp on the brake at the same time. She yanks your hair, and you spit in her face.

(Art has taught you well.)

Both of you are practically sitting in the driver’s seat, but Bruna is more determined than you—nothing is going to stop this car from reaching its destination.

And then, Bruna can’t believe what she’s seeing:

About 30 meters ahead, a familiar clown-faced figure stands, holding a black sign with white letters.

"CIRCUS"

He’s standing like a hitchhiker, but when he sees the out-of-control car, he cheerfully hops into the middle of the road.

He moves with light, playful bounces, grinning.

—NO FREAKING WAY! —Bruna’s voice cracks with disbelief—. HOW…? HOW…? THAT’S…

—NO… UH… THAT’S HIS STUNT DOUBLE… —you swallow hard, watching as Art positions himself right in the middle of the road—. …for action scenes… —You finish while shutting your eyes, fully aware of what Art is about to do.

Art rocks back and forth on his heels, like he’s just waiting for a bus.

For a second, the world freezes.

The engine roars, the black sign flutters in the wind.

The speedometer climbs past 180 km/h… and rising.

You cover your eyes with your hands—you don’t want to see this.

Art sees you and, grinning, covers his own eyes too, mimicking you—but peeking comically between his fingers.

His smile never wavers.

And then…

Bruna hits Art.

CRASH.

You brace yourself, expecting to feel the car rolling over mangled flesh, a final honk…

But none of that happens.

Bruna is still screaming, the car is still speeding downhill.

Your ears are ringing. You can’t hear a thing.

And then, you gather the courage to lower your hands from your face and open your eyes.

Your eyes meet Art’s.

He’s clinging to the hood of the car. His long arms allow him to grip the surface tightly, his face pressed against the windshield, the "Circus" sign blocking a good portion of Bruna’s vision.

He kisses the glass—a kiss for you.

—See? I told you he loves me. —Joy floods through you at the sight of him.

Bruna doesn’t even bother answering—there’s no point in arguing with a lunatic.

Art gestures to Bruna that he’s totally fine, raising his eyebrows with a friendly smile. He even has the audacity to flash a thumbs-up—before gripping onto the hood again.

Bruna’s face twists in absolute rage.

Art may have survived getting hit by a car…But he won’t survive the laws of physics.

She activates the windshield wipers—soap and water included—to "clean" Art off the car.

You watch as Art flails side to side like a cartoon character, like a soggy rag—at least the windshield is going to be spotless.

(You fear he’s going to consider this a shower if you all make it out alive.)

You have to do something to help him!

You grab the steering wheel tightly, yanking at it with all your strength—triggering the airbag perfectly.

BAM!

The airbag explodes into Bruna’s face with full force, shattering her glasses, shards of glass embedding into her skin.

While Bruna is dazed, you frantically search for the car’s lock button—you need to open the doors and let Art in.

You find it, but before you can press it—

Bruna starts jerking the wheel violently, sending the car into a zigzagging frenzy, throwing you and Art off balance.

Art swings wildly from side to side, rolling across the hood of the car with every sharp turn.

But Art clings to the vehicle like Spider-Man—not even the slickest soap can make his grip fail. (Once again, soap proving to be his greatest enemy.)

One sudden swerve sends Art dangerously close to falling off the side—he barely manages to grab onto the side mirror—on your side.

Your eyes meet through the window.

You see him, now so close, –struggling to survive a mess you got him into, all because you managed to stop him from killing then when he had the chance… for listening to you, after all.

He taps the glass with his finger, drawing a heart… like reminding you that no matter how this ends, he will always love you.

You press your palm against the glass, and he does the same.

So close… yet so far.

But this isn’t the time to get romantic.

You quickly gesture to Art to climb onto the roof—you’re terrified that Bruna might crash into a tree, splitting him in half by the waist.

Art slides up, escaping the ruthless windshield wipers, reaching the roof rack.

Now, he has a clear view of where the car is heading.

Bruna can see it too.

The three of you lock eyes on the same sight—

At the end of the road stands the church.

You see it from the front seats.

Art sees it from the roof.

Bruna, in absolute desperation, does what any Fast & Furious protagonist would do.

“HOLD ON TIGHT—AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!”

Art screams too—but no sound comes out.

HONK HONK HONK HONK (panic horn honking)

Bruna yanks the wheel harder than she ever has in her life—at full speed.

The tires catch fire.

The car skids.

Flips violently onto the asphalt.

The world turns upside down.

One roll.

Two rolls.

THREE ROLLS.

Bruna and you are thrashed around inside the car like you’re in a demonic washing machine.

Art is launched like a catapult. Like a cannonball.

You see Art flying through the air.

Everything moves in slow motion now.

This is the end for Art. –He’s going to smash into the ground, all his bones fractured beyond repair…

You look at him like it’s the last time you’ll ever see him.

Your mind flashes back to all the memories you’ve shared with him:

When you first met him, at the brink of death.

When he gifted you a foot (according to him, it was the best-smelling one he had ever sniffed), you still have it… as an aesthetic scented candle.

The first time he touched your hand—electrifying.

This is the end.

You know it.

He knows it.

Your eyes meet for an instant—a silent farewell, as it could only be.

Both of you are upside down—you, inside the car; him, plummeting from the sky—so for a brief moment, the world seems upright to you both.

And that’s when it hits you:

The world had always been upright for the two of you...

Because you were both upside down.

He made you feel upright when everyone else seemed upside down to you; he was the only person who ever made you feel like you fit in, in life.

Tears falling down your cheeks.

And then, through blurry vision—you spot a familiar vanilla-colored Beetle.

You don’t know if it’s fate, a miracle, or if James just has really bad luck—or maybe all three at once—but by some divine intervention, Art’s trajectory is heading straight for the car.

The only sound you hear is your heartbeat pounding in your chest.

BUM bun… BUM bun… BUM bun…

And then—

CRASH.

Art slams into the car, crushing it like a falling meteor.

The roof caves in under his weight. Twisted metal. Shattered glass.

A final, agonizing screech before—

Silence.

A rough landing… But a perfect one.

Absolutely perfect for you.

(Ironically, the car seemed like the only sensible character in this story—the one that wanted to leave from the very beginning—and yet, in the end, it took the worst hit.)

The moment Art lands, Bruna and you climb out of the wreckage, stumbling.

The two of you stand there, watching the totaled car in anticipation.

“Did he make it?”

There is no honking, no movement at all…

And then—

A figure slides down from the car's roof.

Art starts walking forward as if nothing happened, casually dusting off his shoulders, glancing to the side with an expression like:

“Easy”

The car explodes behind him, a massive red fireball towering several meters high, casting his silhouette in a frame of great greatness.

The ultimate swagger.

All he’s missing are sunglasses.

But—oops—Art is always prepared. Of course, he has them. He casually pulls them from his pocket:

His sunflower sunglasses.

BUM-CHAKALAKA.

He wanted to make it epic… but he made it legendary.

Bruna’s car explodes.

A flower pot explodes too (because why not?)

Michael Bay-level cinema.

—See? I told you: the stunt double for action scenes. He is good, huh? —you laugh—. This is going to be a blockbuster!

Bruna is silent, her gaze lost through the shattered lenses of her broken glasses.

Not only is she not going to be able to sell the house, but now she has to buy a new car, and take James to therapy… because she needs it too.

You run toward Art.

You’re covered in blood, wounded, dizzy, filthy… but none of that matters.

For a brief moment, you feel a twinge of sadness, thinking about how many adventures Art must have lived—stories he’ll never be able to fully tell you.

(But on second thought… maybe it’s better if you don’t hear them.)

You throw yourself into Art’s arms.

He catches you, lifting you off the ground, spinning you around like a princess.

—Art, that was incredible, —you say, tears in your eyes—. For a moment… for a moment, I thought you were going to die. —You place your hand on his heart.

The fire reflects in his stupid sunflower sunglasses, creating an image that is as ridiculous as badass.

Art simply lowers his sunglasses slightly, just enough for you to see his eyes, and looks at you over the rim.

"Woman, please."

You look at him as if he’s beyond saving (he is), but that’s just who he is—and you can't help but smile.

Art gently takes your chin, tilting your face upward so you can kiss him—your lips meeting his once again after what felt like an eternity. —After being kidnapped.—After watching your love get run over.—After almost witnessing his death.

It tastes like blood and soap… it tastes like victory.

But this isn’t over yet. In fact, the hardest part is still ahead.

How the hell are you going to get out of this situation?

—Art… how is this going to end? How are we going to get rid of them for good? —you ask, watching the world burn around you—. This is… a mess, a disaster, a—

Art presses a finger against your lips, silencing you.

"I have everything under control."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fear not, brave reader, I know exactly what I have to do, (I actually don’t), but check this out in the future.

Here it is part 1:

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/776929905368825856/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt1-the-prospective?source=share (Part 1)

Of course, there is gonna be part 3.

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/778840861948755968/nightmare-on-clown-street-pt-3-happily-settled?source=share (Part 3)

#art the clown #terrifier #art the clown fanfiction #art the clown x oc #art the clown x reader #terrifier fanfiction #art the clown x you #slasher fandom #slashers #david howard thornton #damien leone #lauren lavera #slasher fanfiction #fanfiction #ao3

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heatsign · 1 year ago

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Unlock boundless creativity with our Tag Engraving Machines. Go beyond imagination as these cutting-edge devices redefine precision, turning your ideas into flawless marks. Elevate your projects with the ultimate in tag engraving Machines.

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morgan-va · 6 months ago

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Chapter 18: Machinations (Serial Designation V x Reader)

Masterlist

You exhale slowly, rubbing your temples as you lean against the wall of the last evacuation area you’ve checked. Thankfully, the damage was minimal here—barely a scratch on the doors or vents. It seemed the disassembly drone named V had focused all her attention on J’s conflict, sparing the rest of the bunker from devastation. That small blessing was one of the few things keeping you grounded right now.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you glance around at the drones gathered nearby. Most of them are still shaken, their optics flickering faintly as they huddle together, whispering in low tones. You force a smile and offer a few encouraging words before heading out. They need strength right now, even if you don’t have much left to give.

Your steps echo through the dim corridors as you make your way toward the maintenance bay. The sheer weight of the past few hours sits heavily on your shoulders, each step feeling slower than the last. You shove the thoughts aside—no time to dwell on Uzi, the Disassembly Drones, or the eerie sense of familiarity that lingers from the fight. You’ve got work to do.

Pushing through the double doors of the maintenance bay, you spot Frank hunched over a worker drone sitting on a bench. The drone’s arm hangs limply, sparking faintly as Frank adjusts its wiring with a precision that’s almost impressive given the stress everyone’s under.

“Frank,” you call out, catching his attention.

He looks up, his optics narrowing slightly before softening. “Boss. What’s up?”

“We’ve got a pretty big problem,” you say, folding your arms. “The roof of the main storage area took a beating. I need you to head over there once you’re finished and start patching it up. We can’t afford to leave it exposed.”

Frank nods, turning back to the drone’s arm. “Yeah, no problem. Just gotta finish up here—this guy’s got a wiring issue, and I’m almost done.” He flashes a small grin, though his movements are still tense. “Gotta keep the crew in one piece, right?”

You offer him a weak smile in return. “Right. Thanks, Frank.”

As you leave the bay, you try not to think about the growing unease gnawing at your mind. Something feels... off. It’s not just the aftermath of the fight or the lingering echoes of Uzi’s accusations. It’s something deeper, a dissonance that’s hard to pinpoint. The voice, always a distant murmur at the edge of your consciousness, seems louder now. More insistent. You shake your head, trying to drown it out as you make your way to the next task.

The corridor feels darker than usual, the shadows stretching longer, and for a moment, you could swear something moved in the corner of your eye. You stop, scanning the hallway, but there’s nothing there. Just your imagination, you tell yourself, though the pit in your stomach says otherwise.

Shaking off the feeling, you press onward, arriving at the main entry area. The sight before you makes your chest tighten—scorched walls, melted metal, and claw marks raked across the reinforced doors. It’s a miracle this section hadn’t completely been destroyed. Still, the real problem catches your eye immediately: several vent covers have been ripped clean off, leaving gaping holes that seem to yawn into the dark, unwelcoming passageways beyond.

“Fantastic,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing a ladder and a welder from the nearby maintenance supply cart. Every vent needs to be covered and reinforced, even if it feels a bit pointless. Those disassembly drones had lasers that could slice through armor like butter—what chance did a few patched-up vents have? Still, it’s your job, and if nothing else, the work keeps your hands busy and your mind somewhat occupied.

You drag the ladder into position beneath the first exposed vent, climbing up and inspecting the jagged edges where the cover used to be. The welds had been melted straight through—J’s handiwork, no doubt. Gripping the welder tightly, you begin reattaching a replacement cover. Sparks fly as the metal bonds, and the hum of the welder fills the otherwise silent space.

But as you move to the next vent, that silence starts to feel... heavy. Oppressive. There’s a faint vibration in the air, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to set your nerves on edge. You tell yourself it’s just the tension playing tricks on you—nothing more.

Then you hear it.

A voice.

Faint at first, like a whisper just out of earshot. You freeze, the welder still in your hand, and tilt your head toward the open vent. It’s not the usual murmur in your mind, the one you’ve grown almost accustomed to ignoring. No, this is something else. It’s... closer. Louder.

It’s coming from the vent.

Your breath catches in your throat as you lean in slightly, trying to make sense of the sound. The voice is distorted, as though it’s filtering through layers of static and garbled speech. You can’t make out words, but the tone sends a shiver down your spine—low, coaxing, and impossibly alien.

For a moment, you wonder if the others are hearing it too. Then you realize: no one else is here. You’re alone.

The voice grows louder, the static clearing just enough for fragments to slip through.

“...return… find… you…”

Your grip tightens on the ladder as your heart pounds against your ribs. You know you should move—finish the job and get out of here—but it’s as though your body is locked in place, rooted by some invisible force.

“...repair… incomplete… join…”

The vent seems to stretch deeper as you stare into it, the darkness almost pulling you in. Your mind screams at you to stop, to pull away, but the voice is relentless now, cutting through your thoughts like a hot knife. The welder in your hand feels suddenly cold, a stark contrast to the heat of your anxiety.

And then, just as quickly as it started, the voice goes silent.

You blink, the oppressive weight lifting slightly, though the unease remains. You shake your head, trying to focus as you finish welding the cover onto the vent.

Whatever that was... you’re not sticking around to find out.

With the vents finally patched up, you step back, inspecting your handiwork. It’s far from perfect, but it will have to do. The feeling in your chest—tight, restless—hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s grown worse, gnawing at the edge of your mind. You hastily clean up your tools, tossing the welder back onto the cart with a clatter. The sooner you get out of this area, the better.

Heading toward the lunch room, you try to shake the unease. It’s been a long, relentless day, and you could use a moment to catch your breath. When you finally arrive, the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint scent of warmed oil greet you. The room is empty—a small relief. For once, no one’s here to ask questions or add to the noise in your head.

You pour yourself a cup of hot oil and take a seat at one of the worn tables. The warmth of the cup in your hands is grounding, even as your thoughts drift into darker territory. Sipping slowly, you let out a long, weary sigh.

Khan’s betrayal hangs heavy in your mind. How could a father abandon his child like that? Uzi’s words replay over and over, each repetition cutting deeper. You grip the cup tighter, the steam rising in lazy spirals as your frustration simmers beneath the surface. Part of you wants to storm up to him right now, demand answers, make him feel even a fraction of the pain Uzi must have felt.

But then your thoughts shift, and the blame turns inward. Maybe this was your fault too. Maybe you should’ve stopped Uzi when she first came to you with whatever plan she’d cooked up. You could’ve talked her down, convinced her to wait, to think it through. Instead, you’d let her charge ahead, and now...

How many drones had died because of that choice? Because you didn’t do enough?

The silence in the room presses against you as the guilt swirls, heavy and unrelenting. You take another sip of oil, but it doesn’t bring the comfort you hoped for. The voice in your head—the one you’ve been trying to ignore—is louder now. Still imperceptible, just a hum at the edge of your awareness, but insistent.

You rub your temples, shutting your eyes. Maybe you’re just tired. Or maybe you’re finally starting to crack under the pressure of everything that’s happened. Either way, the noise isn’t stopping. It’s there, lurking, pushing at the boundaries of your mind.

For now, you sit in silence, alone with your thoughts, trying to find even the smallest moment of peace in the chaos.

You sit with your head resting in your hands, staring blankly at the dark surface of your drink. The quiet hum of the lights overhead does little to ease your spiraling thoughts, each one heavier than the last.

The sound of soft footsteps pulls you out of your daze. You glance up and see Doll approaching, her expression unreadable as always. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her movements deliberate yet casual. Something about the way she walks toward you sets you further on edge.

She stops a few feet away, tilting her head slightly as she studies you.

“Ты должен сделать выбор, и скоро” (You need to make a choice, and soon), she says, her voice calm but carrying an unmistakable weight.

Your brow furrows, trying to process what she just said. "What are you talking about?" you ask, your voice a little sharper than intended.

Doll doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she shrugs, her expression remaining as neutral as ever. “Ты узнаешь” (You’ll find out), she adds cryptically, turning on her heel before you can ask anything more.

“Wait,” you call after her, but she keeps walking, her pace steady and unhurried.

“Мне нужно идти на занятия. (I have to get to class)” she says over her shoulder, as if that’s the most important thing in the world right now. The door to the hall slides open, and before you can say another word, she’s gone, leaving you alone again with her cryptic warning replaying in your head.

A choice? What choice?

You rub your temple again, frustration bubbling to the surface. Between the voice in your head and now Doll’s bizarre, ominous statement, it feels like the weight on your shoulders just got a little heavier. Whatever she meant, it doesn’t sound like you’ll have the luxury of ignoring it for long.

You glance down at your nearly empty cup, the oily liquid now lukewarm and unappealing. With a sigh, you push it aside and stand, stretching out the tension in your back. Maybe keeping busy will help silence your thoughts—or at least drown them out for a while.

As you step out of the lunchroom, a maintenance worker passes by, carrying an armful of tools. They barely acknowledge you until you call out.

"Hey, have you seen Frank? He was supposed to check on the storage room."

The worker pauses, looking briefly uncomfortable. “Uh, who?” they say hurriedly, glancing around as if someone might be watching. “I’ve gotta go—got, uh, doors to check.” Without waiting for a response, they dart down the hallway, tools clanking in their arms.

You frown, the unease you’d been trying to shake creeping back in. Something about their reaction feels... off. But with everything else going on, you push the thought aside. If they didn’t know who Frank was, you’d have to find him yourself.

Turning on your heel, you start making your way to the storage room. The walk feels longer than it should, your boots echoing in the dim, metal corridors. The sound of dripping oil somewhere in the distance and the occasional flicker of a faulty light only add to the oppressive atmosphere.

The silence in your head is oddly comforting now, a reprieve from the whispers that had been gnawing at your thoughts earlier. But even as you try to focus on the task at hand, Doll’s cryptic words linger. A choice? What choice? And why did it feel like everything around you was pressing toward some inevitable decision?

You shake your head, forcing yourself to concentrate. One thing at a time. First, find Frank. Then maybe you’d figure out what the hell was going on.

The storage room looms ahead, its reinforced doors ajar. You pick up your pace, your boots echoing softly against the metal floor. Just as you’re about to step inside, Thad emerges, cradling Uzi’s railgun awkwardly in his arms. He jumps slightly at your approach, his eyes wide like a kid caught sneaking out past curfew.

“Thad? What’re you doing with that?” you ask, nodding toward the weapon.

He adjusts his grip on the railgun, trying to look nonchalant. “Oh, uh, thought I’d grab Uzi’s railgun. You know... in case we see her again. Figured she’d want it back.”

You raise an eyebrow but can’t help smiling a little. “That’s thoughtful of you.”

Thad grins, relieved, and rocks back on his heels. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta look out for her, right?”

Your smile fades slightly, and you nod. “Yeah. Thanks for that, Thad. Really.”

Before the conversation can settle into an awkward silence, you clear your throat. “Hey, while you were in there, did you see Frank? He was supposed to check on the roof.”

At that, Thad’s demeanor shifts, his grin faltering as his expression grows nervous. “Uh, no. Didn’t see him. But, uh... weird thing, though.” He hesitates, looking over his shoulder toward the room. “I didn’t see that disassembly drone’s remains either. Like, it’s... gone. Almost like it got up and crawled away or something.”

The weight of his words sinks in, leaving you momentarily speechless. J’s body, or what was left, gone? That shouldn’t be possible—not with the damage Uzi’s railgun had done. Perhaps someone cleaned it up?

You shake off the chill creeping up your spine and nod at him. “Alright. Thanks, Thad. I’ll check it out.”

He nods quickly, clutching the railgun tighter to his chest. “Good luck in there. It’s... pretty dark now.”

You give him a reassuring nod before stepping into the room, pulling out your flashlight. The storage area is dim, its overhead lights completely shot. Shadows pool in the corners, stretching like dark fingers across the scattered debris. You sweep the flashlight’s beam over the space, noting the twisted remains of the roof and the jagged edges of the vent opening where the fight had started.

The beam of light trembles slightly in your hand as you take a cautious step forward. Something about the silence feels wrong—too heavy, too oppressive. You force yourself to focus, scanning the room for any sign of Frank or, unsettlingly, J.

Your flashlight beam trembles in your hand as you continue searching, fear clawing at the edges of your mind. You try to push it aside, focusing on each step, each sweep of the light. The silence is unbearable, broken only by the occasional groan of the damaged structure above.

Then you see it.

The spot where J’s charred limbs had been left—a dark stain of soot marking the ground like a grotesque memorial. You kneel to inspect the area, your heart racing. There’s no sign of her arms or legs. No claws, no jagged remains. Just the scorch marks and a faint metallic tang in the air.

“They’re gone,” you whisper to yourself, the words barely audible over the pounding of your pulse. You straighten, the flashlight jittering in your grip. “That’s not possible. They couldn’t just... vanish.”

Your chest tightens suddenly, the dull ache from earlier flaring into sharp, unbearable pain. You stagger back, clutching at your ribs as if trying to hold your chest together. The flashlight clatters to the ground, spinning wildly and casting erratic shadows across the room.

The voice is back. Louder now. Deafening.

It echoes in your skull like overlapping whispers, the words slipping away as soon as they form. Incomprehensible yet overwhelming, each syllable is like a nail being driven into your mind. Your knees buckle, and you collapse to the ground, gasping for air.

"Stop—!" you manage to choke out, your voice weak and trembling. But the voice doesn’t stop. It presses harder, as if demanding something from you, its presence filling every corner of your consciousness.

The pain in your chest radiates outward, your hands trembling as you press them to your head. Images flash behind your eyes—fractured, chaotic, and horrifying. Wires, claws, twisted metal fused like flesh. A mass of machinery, pulsating and alive. And through it all, a single unrelenting sensation: hunger.

Your breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps. You can’t tell if the pain in your chest is physical or if it’s the voice, the thing in your head, trying to tear you apart.

The world fades to black.

In the void, the images twist and distort, reshaping themselves into something more horrifying. The ground beneath you cracks and burns, the air thick with the scent of smoke and charred metal. Towering structures crumble into ash, their once-proud silhouettes now reduced to nothing but skeletons of their former selves. Fire licks at the sky, consuming everything in its path. The world is dying, slowly, agonizingly.

And then, through the flames, you see her.

The drone from your nightmare. Her form is twisted and warped, the metallic tentacles behind her writhing like the limbs of some grotesque beast. Her eyes—those piercing, unnatural lights—fixate on you, cold and unforgiving. The voice that follows is robotic, distorted, but chilling in its clarity.

"Your time has come," she intones, the words reverberating in your skull. "You will help me... for the betterment of everything."

The voice isn’t just a command. It’s a prophecy. A truth that feels as inevitable as the destruction around you. The drone steps closer, her tentacles twitching with unnerving anticipation. Each one seems to reach for you, eager to ensnare you, to pull you into the void with her.

Your heart races. The vision of the dying world swarms your senses, making it hard to breathe. The weight of it all presses down on you, suffocating. The voice echoes louder, closer, until it feels as though it's inside your very soul.

But before you can respond, before you can do anything at all, the world rips itself away.

You gasp as you wake, your body jerking upright. The familiar, sterile walls of the bunker greet you, although plagued with darkness, but the nightmare lingers. Your chest heaves, and your head pounds as if it's trying to split open. The voice, though faint, still buzzes at the edges of your consciousness, lingering just out of reach.

You press your hands to your face, trying to shake off the residual panic. But it’s no use. The images, the words—they cling to you, like a shadow you can’t escape.

The cold, dimly lit hallways blur as you rush through them, your breath ragged and shallow, heart pounding like it might burst from your chest. The voice still whispers in your mind, scratching at the edges of your sanity. The images of fire, destruction, and that damn drone with her haunting words—“Your time has come. You will help me…”—still cling to your every thought, suffocating you, making it impossible to breathe.

You don’t stop running, ignoring the murmurs and concerns of passing drones as they watch you speed past, their words like muffled echoes. They try to get your attention, but you can’t spare them a glance. Not now, not when the weight of everything is crashing down around you.

The sound of your own footsteps pounding against the floor is deafening in the silence of the bunker, but it does nothing to drown out the insistent buzzing in your skull. You need—no, you desperately need—to be somewhere safe. Somewhere away from this madness.

You reach the storage room, the one you’ve come to call the Angst Cave. Uzi’s place of solace, the little corner of the bunker where you’d been allowed a brief moment of peace. You can almost feel the warmth of the shadows here, the quiet comfort of a space untouched by the chaos of everything outside. It’s the only place that feels... normal, somehow.

You don’t hesitate to throw the door open, stepping inside and slamming it behind you. The noise of the outside world vanishes instantly, leaving you alone with the stillness. You lean back against the cold, metal wall, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands tremble as you press them to your face, the pounding in your head growing worse by the second.

"Just... calm down," you tell yourself, the words barely escaping your lips. But even as you say them, it feels like the world is spinning faster than you can keep up with. The visions, the voice, the sense of impending doom—it’s all consuming, pulling you deeper into its grasp.

You drop to your knees, your head spinning as you fight to stay grounded. The feeling in your chest—that pressure—is unbearable, like something is trying to claw its way out. You clutch your chest, gasping for air, trying to push back against the suffocating panic.

“Uzi…” You whisper her name, a feeble attempt at some kind of anchor, but the word feels like it slips right through your fingers. You wonder where she is, what she’s doing now.

You close your eyes, taking a slow, steady breath as you try to calm the storm raging in your chest. It’s fine, you tell yourself. Uzi is strong. She’s okay. Everything is going to be okay. The words feel like they’re meant to be a reassurance, but they also carry a weight—a hollow sound as if you’re convincing yourself more than anyone else.

A deep breath. In. Out. You try to focus on the simple rhythm of it, letting the tension in your shoulders ease, the tightness in your chest slowly loosening. You think about the damage that still needs repairing, the tasks that have been waiting for far too long. There’s work to do. And that’s something you can control. You’ve always found solace in work, in the routine of it. The world may be falling apart, but you can fix things. You always have.

You force your mind away from the chaos that lingers, the lingering echoes of that unsettling voice and the images from the nightmare, trying to ground yourself in the present. Your eyes drift across the room, landing on the hole in the wall, the one left by Uzi’s railgun. A small, incredulous chuckle escapes your lips as you stare at the damage. That girl sure knows how to cause trouble, you think with a bittersweet smile.

Shaking your head, you stand up, brushing off the dust from your clothes. Focus on the task at hand, you remind yourself. The hallway outside the room is still eerily quiet, but the weight in your chest has lessened, even if just a little. The tension is still there, lurking, but for now, you’ve got to push through it.

You step out into the hallway, the door to the storage room closing softly behind you. You can hear the faint hum of the ventilation systems as you make your way down the corridor, moving with a quiet determination. The work is waiting, and you have no choice but to face it.

As you walk past the other rooms, your thoughts drift back to Uzi, to the bunker, to everything that’s happened. The confusion, the pain, the uncertainty. You still don’t understand everything, not by a long shot, but you know one thing for sure: You can’t afford to break down now. Too much depends on keeping things together.

You glance around at the flickering lights, the debris from the earlier chaos, and then, finally, you reach the main maintenance area. It’s time to get back to work.

A memory tugs at the edge of your mind, faint and elusive, like a half-remembered dream. Someone had told you—you need to bring a cart of fuel rods to the main storage room. The words feel familiar, like they were spoken to you just moments ago, but you can’t quite place who said them, or when.

You pause for a moment, blinking in confusion, but the thought dissipates as quickly as it came. It’s probably just a lingering thought, something that’s been floating around in your mind since the chaos started. Doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. You’ve got work to do, and this will be just another task to check off the list.

Shaking your head, you decide to brush it off. There’s no time to waste on this kind of confusion. You push forward, heading to the reactor room. You find the cart of fuel rods where it should be, neatly tucked in a corner. It’s exactly as you remember it: full of those dull, metallic rods. You’ve transported them before, it’s nothing new.

With a sigh, you grip the handles and begin pushing the cart down the hallway. The wheels clank against the floor, and you feel a strange tension in the pit of your stomach, though you can't say why. The storage room is just ahead, and you keep your gaze focused ahead, ignoring the twisting knot of unease that threatens to surface again.

Passing through the hallways, you make your way back to the storage room. It feels almost like a dream, everything moving in a dull haze, the lights flickering sporadically above you. The walls seem to press in closer with each step, and the low hum of the bunker’s machinery fills the air, but it’s strangely quiet, almost too quiet.

When you enter the room, your eyes land on the flashlight you left behind. You move toward it, grabbing the flashlight and momentarily pausing to look around. The space feels oddly still, as though something’s waiting. The voice in your head rises faintly again, but it’s hard to make out, a muddled whisper of something you can’t grasp.

You leave the cart next to where your flashlight had been, but the sense of unease won’t leave. Something’s just... off. Yet, you can't seem to place what it is. You shake your head, trying to focus, trying to make sense of it all. The flashlight in your hand flickers on, casting its beam across the room. You let out a breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts, even though the odd sense of urgency keeps gnawing at the back of your mind.

With the cart in place and the flashlight now back in your hand, you hesitate. The feeling of being watched lingers, but there’s nothing here. Just silence. Just the deep hum of the bunker’s machinery, as always.

But you can’t shake the feeling that you’re not alone.

You try to push the nagging feeling to the back of your mind as you leave the storage room. There’s work to be done, and it’s the only thing that keeps your thoughts from spiraling further. The hallways are still and quiet as you make your way down, pausing every now and then to help out a fellow drone. There’s debris to clear, machinery to check, and a thousand other little tasks that need attention.

Some of the drones you pass mention not having seen certain coworkers in a while, but the conversations are fleeting, casual. They brush it off like it’s no big deal, chalking it up to people being busy with cleanup or taking some time to themselves after the chaos. You try not to think too much about it either, though the odd disconnect lingers in the back of your mind.

Eventually, after what feels like hours of cleaning and assisting where you can, the day—if you could even call it that—starts to wind down. The bunker grows quieter, and the usual hum of machinery seems to slow, as though everyone has gone into some kind of holding pattern, waiting for things to settle.

You glance at the clock. It’s late, later than you realized. The exhaustion finally starts to hit you all at once, the weight of everything that’s happened bearing down on your shoulders. You hadn’t realized how much the tension had taken out of you, but now it’s all you can feel: the deep, aching fatigue settling into your bones.

Without another thought, you head to your room. There’s no point in staying up any longer. Maybe tomorrow will be better—maybe everything will make more sense once you’ve had some rest. Or at least that’s what you hope as you open your door and step inside.

The room is still and familiar, a small sense of comfort in the chaos that’s taken over the rest of the bunker. You take a seat on your bed, the weight of the day pulling at your eyelids. But as you lie back, you can’t shake the strange feeling in the pit of your stomach, the vague sense that something’s not right. It gnaws at you, but you push it aside. You need to sleep. You need to rest.

But sleep doesn’t come easily. The shadows seem to stretch just a little too far across the room, the hum of the machinery a little too loud in the stillness. Your thoughts drift, hazy and tangled, but there’s one thing you can’t shake: the feeling that something is watching you.

You close your eyes tightly, trying to shut it out.

It doesn’t help.

Sleep eventually takes you, though it's restless and broken. Each time you close your eyes, you feel as if the world around you is shifting, like everything is just on the verge of unraveling.

And in the dark, you hear it again.

The voice.

Closer this time.

You sit up sharply, heart pounding in your chest. The room is dark and eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the bunker’s machinery in the distance. You glance at the clock on your wall—early morning, but not so early that you can justify trying to go back to sleep. Not that you’d want to; the voice still echoes faintly in your mind, its strange cadence sending a chill down your spine. You can’t make sense of it, and every time you try, it slips away like smoke through your fingers.

Running a hand over your face, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand, your joints creaking in protest. You’re drained, but staying here in the suffocating quiet of your room isn’t going to help. What you need is something to wake you up, to shake this unease off your shoulders.

You decide to head to the vending machines. Oil might not solve your problems, but it’s better than sitting here doing nothing.

The halls are silent as you make your way through the bunker. The usual clatter of drones moving about is absent, replaced by the low, constant hum of the ventilation system. You pass a few doors along the way, some cracked open with faint light spilling out, but most are shut tight, the occupants likely trying to catch what little rest they can.

The vending machines stand at the end of the corridor, their bright screens a sharp contrast to the dim lighting around them. You approach one and press your palm to the scanner, watching as the machine whirs to life. A moment later, a warm can of oil drops into the tray below.

You grab it and pop the lid open, leaning against the wall as you take a slow sip. The familiar, bitter taste grounds you, if only slightly. For a moment, you let yourself zone out, staring at the glowing screen of the machine as it cycles through advertisements for various products.

Your mind drifts back to the voice, to the way it pierced through the silence of your sleep. It felt so close, so real. And yet, it wasn’t a dream—not exactly. You’d had no visions, no images, just that disembodied voice whispering in the dark. What was it trying to tell you? Why now, after everything else that’s happened?

The unease gnaws at you again, but you shake it off, taking another sip of oil. You need to focus on the here and now. There’s too much to worry about in the waking world without adding phantom voices to the mix.

Still, you can’t help but glance over your shoulder, half expecting to see something—or someone—standing behind you. But there’s nothing there. Just the empty corridor stretching out into the dark.

The sharp sound of metal scraping against metal slices through the quiet. It’s sudden, loud, and jarring enough to make you drop your can of oil. The clatter of the can hitting the floor echoes down the corridor, but your focus is fixed upward, toward the vent above you.

Your heart pounds as you stare at the grated opening. It’s dark, the faint light from the vending machine casting long shadows across its surface. For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own breathing, shallow and rapid. The silence stretches, and just as quickly as it started, the sound is gone.

You scan the vent intently, searching for any signs of movement. Nothing. No rattling, no shifting shadows, no flicker of glowing eyes. Just stillness.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just the ventilation system kicking up debris. Maybe you're just imagining things again. You tell yourself this, but the unease refuses to let go. Your chest feels tight, your skin prickling as if someone—or something—is watching you.

You crouch down, picking up the spilled can. For a moment, you debate leaving, but a stubborn part of you refuses to give in to fear.

“It’s just the vents,” you mutter under your breath, trying to convince yourself more than anything else. “This place is falling apart. No big deal.”

And yet, your eyes keep darting back to the vent above, even as you try to steady your breathing. Whatever it was, it's gone now. Or so you hope.

You take a sip of the remaining oil, trying to shake the lingering unease. Then, a memory drifts to the surface—a task you’d meant to complete. At least, you think you were supposed to do it. Someone had asked you to change the security code for the doors in this section. You don’t remember who, or when, but the request feels real enough.

Setting the can aside, you glance around until you spot the nearest security console. Its screen flickers faintly, the soft glow of its interface lighting up the dim corridor. Your footsteps echo as you approach, the sound unnervingly loud in the empty space.

Pulling up the code management interface, you type in your clearance ID. The screen beeps in acknowledgment, and you scroll through the menu until you find the section labeled Door Access Codes. It’s straightforward enough to modify; you’ve done this kind of thing before.

You hover over the input field for the new code, and without much thought, the numbers come to you as if on instinct. 4241. Your fingers move on their own, keying it in. The console chirps again, confirming the change.

“Done,” you mutter, stepping back from the console. You don’t even question where the code came from or why it felt so natural to type in. It’s just another task checked off your mental list.

But as you turn to leave, that pit in your stomach twists again, faint but undeniable. The corridor feels just a little colder, the air heavier. The unease lingers, even as you convince yourself it’s nothing.

You shake off the creeping unease and make your way toward the break room. It’s still too early for most drones to be up and about, and the halls are quiet, save for the soft hum of the facility’s systems. You take a steadying breath, reminding yourself that a little time to decompress wouldn’t hurt. Once the others are awake, you can help organize the next round of repairs.

Pushing the door open, you find the break room exactly as you left it: slightly messy, a few chairs askew, and the faint smell of machine oil in the air. You grab a seat at one of the tables and sink into it, resting your head in your hands. It feels like you haven’t stopped moving since... well, everything.

Your mind drifts as you sit there. You think of the cleanup efforts, the faces of your fellow drones who are just as battered and exhausted as you are. You wonder how many are still unaccounted for, brushing aside the uneasy memory of overhearing concerns about missing coworkers. It’s fine. They’ll turn up.

Reaching into your pocket, you pull out the small repair kit you always carry with you, flipping it open more out of habit than anything. You fiddle with a loose bolt on your leg, letting the rhythmic motion of your hands help calm your nerves. The repetitive task gives you something to focus on, keeping the edge off the strange sense of dread that’s been following you like a shadow.

You glance at the clock on the wall. Still early. Maybe too early. You’ll give it a little while longer before rallying the others. For now, you just sit, letting the faint whir of machinery fill the silence.

As the minutes tick by, the break room slowly fills with the other maintenance drones, each one looking just as tired and worn as you feel. But as you take attendance, a knot forms in your stomach. Several names go unanswered.

“Maybe they’re running late,” one drone suggests, scratching the back of his head. “Or caught up somewhere else?”

You give a curt nod, not wanting to alarm anyone just yet. But as the morning stretches on and the missing drones fail to show up, the unease bubbling in your chest begins to solidify into something sharper. You glance at the roster in your hands, their names standing out starkly against the list of present crew members.

After assigning tasks to the others and ensuring the most urgent repairs are being handled, you decide to take it upon yourself to investigate. Maybe they just overslept.

You make your way to the living quarters, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the quiet halls. You start at the first room on the list, knocking on the door. No answer. You knock again, louder this time, before pushing the door open.

Empty. The bed is neatly made, and nothing seems out of place, but the absence of any personal items suggests the drone hasn’t been here for a while.

You move on to the next room, and then the next, each one eerily similar. The occupants’ belongings are gone, as if they’d simply vanished in the night. By the time you finish checking the last room, your hands are trembling slightly, though you tell yourself it’s just from fatigue.

Where could they have gone?

As you stand in the hallway, staring down at the list of names, you can’t shake the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong. The silence presses down on you like a weight, and yet again, you feel truly alone.

You’re still staring at the list of missing drones when the sound of footsteps draws your attention. Turning, you see Thad rounding the corner, his usual casual demeanor somewhat muted by the tense atmosphere hanging over the bunker.

“Hey,” you call, stepping toward him. “Got a second?”

Thad stops, tilting his head curiously. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

You hesitate, glancing around to ensure no one else is within earshot. “I need to tell someone, and... you seem like one of the only drones here with a set of lug nuts.”

Thad smirks faintly. “Flattered, but this sounds serious.”

“It is.” You lower your voice, leaning closer. “Several drones are missing. I’ve checked their rooms—completely empty. No one’s seen them, and I’m starting to get really worried.”

Thad’s easygoing expression falters, replaced by genuine concern. He glances around as if expecting someone to materialize out of the shadows. “Okay, that’s... unsettling. Have you told anyone else?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t want to cause a panic. But I can’t just ignore this. Something’s wrong, Thad.”

He rubs the back of his head, thinking. “Alright, here’s an idea—and hear me out on this: we need to find Uzi.”

“Uzi?” You blink, caught off guard.

“Yeah,” Thad says, his tone firm. “She’s got that disassembly drone buddy now, right? If something sinister is going on—and I’m not saying it is, but, you know, if—she’s probably our best bet for handling it.”

You mull over his suggestion, a part of you reluctant to involve Uzi in this mess after everything she’s been through. But he has a point. If anyone could help in a situation like this, it’s her.

Finally, you sigh. “Alright. You’re right. Let’s go find her.”

Thad nods, his smirk returning faintly. “I’ll grab her railgun. Meet you at the front entrance.”

As he jogs off down the hallway, you glance back toward the living quarters. The names of the missing drones flash in your mind like a warning beacon. Whatever’s happening, it feels like time is running out.

The front entrance looms ahead, the heavy doors standing like a fortress wall. You spot Khan hunched over the console beside it, muttering under his breath as he fiddles with the controls. His fingers move with a jittery energy, like he’s trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

“This door is my baby... gotta keep her in top shape... no malfunctions,” he grumbles, barely noticing your approach.

Your footsteps echo sharply against the floor as you stride toward him. Each step fuels the simmering rage building in your chest. After everything that happened with Uzi, seeing him here—obsessed with his damn door—makes your blood boil.

“Khan!” you bark, your voice cutting through his muttering.

He jumps, startled, turning toward you with wide eyes. “Oh, uh, hi! Just making sure the door’s working, you know? Can’t have—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing him by the collar, you yank him off his feet, catching him entirely off guard. His hands flail for a moment, and he stammers, “W-what are you doing?!”

“You’re a disgrace,” you snap, your voice low but venomous. “Your daughter is out there, who knows where, and you’re here coddling a door?”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks at you with a mixture of shock and indignation, but you don’t give him a chance to respond.

“She risked her life for this bunker,” you continue, your grip tightening. “For all of us! And what do you do? You leave her for dead and bury yourself in your ‘projects.’ You’ve got the audacity to act like nothing’s wrong?”

“I—she made her choice!” Khan finally sputters, though his voice wavers.

“Her choice?” You practically growl the words. “You abandoned her! You let her make that choice because you’re too much of a coward to fight for your own daughter!”

Khan flinches, his gaze darting away, guilt flashing across his face.

“Well, here’s the deal, Khan,” you say, your voice sharp and unwavering. “I’m going out there. I’m going to find her—because clearly, you’re incapable of doing it yourself.”

With that, you shove him back. He stumbles, falling to the ground in a heap, staring up at you in stunned silence.

“Now get out of my sight before I get any angrier,” you growl, your eyes burning into him.

Khan scrambles to his feet, his expression a mix of shame and fear. He mumbles something incoherent, backing away down the hallway, and disappears around the corner.

You stand there for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. The anger still simmers, but there’s no time to dwell on it. You turn your attention back to the front entrance, ready to meet Thad and start your search.

You hear Thad’s footsteps before you see him, the faint clink of Uzi’s railgun in his hands as he rounds the corner. His expression brightens when he spots you, but it falters when he notices the scowl still etched on your face.

“Uh... everything okay?” he asks hesitantly, stopping a few feet away.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to release the lingering frustration from your encounter with Khan. “Yeah,” you say after a moment, your voice steadier now. “Just had a... conversation with someone who needed it.”

Thad raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. Instead, he looks down at the railgun, checking it over as he continues. “So... you sure about this?”

You study him for a moment, the seriousness in his tone catching you off guard. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” you admit. “We don’t know what’s out there. We could die, Thad.”

He looks up at you, his usual unserious demeanor replaced with something resolute. “Yeah, we could,” he says simply, adjusting his grip on the railgun. “But we have to try. For the bunker. For Uzi.”

The conviction in his voice makes you pause, a small, appreciative smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “For Uzi,” you echo, nodding.

The two of you stand in silence for a moment, the gravity of what you’re about to do sinking in. Then, without another word, you step up to the console beside the door. The familiar hum of machinery fills the air as the locks disengage, and the massive metal doors begin to groan open.

A rush of icy air blasts against your face as the outside world greets you, its endless expanse of snow and shadow stretching out beyond the bunker’s threshold. The sky is a pale, oppressive gray, and the wind carries a haunting whistle through the barren wasteland.

You exchange one last glance with Thad. No words are needed; the determination in his eyes mirrors your own.

Together, you step forward, leaving the relative safety of the bunker behind as the door seals shut behind you. The bitter cold bites at your frame, but you press on, knowing the journey ahead is one you have to take—no matter the cost.

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