Chapter Text
He dreams.
Words float in and out of his head as steadily as a flowing river, though he catches none of them. The sky above him glitters with nonexistent stars. Around him: the void, empty and infinite, waiting to swallow him whole.
Blinking eyes stare down at him. He thinks they’re filled with contempt and judgement, scales of the divine. Among them are Chance’s eyes, golden yellow against the backdrop of black endless void. iTrapped feels a rush of regret unfurl beneath his boiling skin.
He tries to open his mouth– to do anything. Call out, apologize, beg for someone who can hear him. It’s no use. Nothing responds except for the hush of whispers in the dark. The back of his neck– or, where he thinks his neck must be– prickles. Unsettled.
iTrapped can see, but there’s nothing much apart from darkness. Endless darkness. If this is the afterlife, iTrapped can confidently say he had been expecting this yet is severely underwhelmed by the lack of notable features. Even hell shouldn’t be this dull.
(In his head, he knows this is exactly the kind of place he’d call hell, however.)
A dot appears. Far away, but there. iTrapped squints his eyes in an effort to see anything beyond the shadows in the corner of his vision.
He blinks. First once, then twice, and multiple times after he realizes that he can see a faint sort of speck on the horizon, beckoning for him to come towards it. It’s almost like the wind is picking up or something. It is only him, or did a breeze brush past his hair just now?
The point of light pulses. iTrapped reaches out, desperate for something other than the void, and breaks into a run chasing after the singular thing that he could see. There was nothing else. Nothing left. A bullet in his head, and for what? All he has to do is follow the light like a drowning yet thirsty man.
And as he sprints towards that unfathomable brightness, a thought enters his mind unbidden. Would he see Caleb again? iTrapped wonders if that would bring him some semblance of peace; to finally apologize– for what, he doesn’t know– to the person he had wronged.
(Here is Caleb’s smile: a bloody, split-open pomegranate, an ugly thing, pearly white teeth stained with red.)
He can’t feel his legs as he begins nearing the light. He tries to shield his eyes with a hand, but quickly finds that his arms won’t obey him, and all he can do is continue to run. It’s so bright that spots dance across his vision, and nausea spreads through his entire system. He stumbles over nothingness.
And just as he reaches out, stretching every last ounce of energy left in his body—he falls.
iTrapped’s feet hit air. There’s nothing solid to catch him, nothing below him, not that he can see anything but that fading light and the void rearing its head to swallow him up. He tumbles through an inelegant freefall. All the thoughts in his head exit as quickly as they’d come, leaving behind only the rushing of nonexistent air.
It’s almost like one of those dreams he used to have when he was small. Lying on the creaking frame of his bed, ratty blanket thrown over his huddled, ten-year-old form, his sleeping breaths filling the space between here and nowhere.
The dreams where he couldn’t quite describe where he was. Only the distinct, distant notion of nothing beneath his feet and burning wings.
He wonders how long he’s been falling.
Sometimes he wishes he were still a little boy. There are no stars in the sky when he stares upwards– or at least when he thinks he does. Sense of direction does him little good in a place of drowning darkness. iTrapped’s eyes begin to slip closed quietly. Is this the land of eternal rest? He waits for a dreamless sleep, but at that very moment he hits something very solid.
Oddly enough, his bones don’t crack and fold under the weight of his fall. He’d almost expected to break in half; ribcage cleaved open, organs exposed. Yet nothing happens, and all he feels is a little winded. iTrapped picks himself up gracelessly only to freeze.
Ahead of him is an amalgamation of eyes: each one darting this way and that, pupils a violent shade of crimson that reminds him of a noose and blood between the cracks in bathroom tiles. In the center stands a thing. It can’t be called a person. The only defining features that can label it a thing in the very least is its blob of a body and red code.
And a top hat. He’d laugh if it wasn’t so fucking terrifying. Is this hell? Does he await judgement? His first instinct is to scream at his body to move and get away, yet his limbs have locked up– not a single muscle obeys him. The most he can do is look around and open his mouth.
“Have you lost your mind?” It says. Although there is no inflection in its otherwise toneless voice, iTrapped thinks it sounds rather impatient. He flounders for a second before finding that he can speak.
“No?” He responds, trying to seem unimpressed and achieving a somewhat bored tone. Every single last one of the eyes within his line of sight narrow, but he can’t tell whether they are displeased or amused. It seems to hesitate a moment longer. And then–
“Well, go on, then,” mutters the thing, “don’t you just have so many joyful questions for me to answer? Perhaps you’re in the mood for screaming, like that other one did?”
iTrapped ponders this statement. Although he’s decided that he does have questions, he’s not really sure if he wants to scream his head off the way that thing is suggesting he should be. Also, the fuck does it mean by “other one”? Has he been indoctrinated into some cult in the afterlife? It checks out, considering his luck.
He’s figuring out what he wants to ask when it tsks. The sound comes out distorted, but he gets the gist of it well enough. It’s started to get irritated by his silence, maybe because everybody else who ends up here never shuts up, or maybe just because his existence is bothering it.
By now, his fear has abated, and he slowly clenches his fingers. Good. He can move. The “ground” beneath his “feet” feels awfully uneven, so he sits down and props his chin up on his palm before asking, “Does that mean there have been other people here?”
Its grin stretches like a Cheshire cat’s. He can hardly call that abstract shape a grin, really, but it looks to be one from the way jagged teeth reveal themselves through its mouth. The eyes in the air start to undulate. It looks like they’re laughing at him. “Gosh, you’re a happy one. Most of them start with silly questions.”
“You told me to ask something. I did, and now you’re avoiding it.” He points out with little to no joy, but he does find it funny. For an entity so imposing and terrifying, you’d think it would try to scare its prey at the very least.
The thing laughs. It’s an ugly noise, filling his ears like shrapnel, yet he makes no move and keeps his mouth shut. Something tells him that he’d better not offend it.
Its eyes begin to calm down, returning to their normal size. It huffs, and in the same second its body twists to form a semi-humanoid shape before crossing its bloody red arms. “Of course there has been others,” it leers, “but not all of them make it through.” The thing then makes no more moves to say anything, so iTrapped assumes he is allowed to continue asking away.
“Cryptic much?” He snipes, although still taps his finger on his knee, deep in thought. It hums as it waits for him to speak. “Where am I, then? Am I dead?”
“Your consciousness is in my domain. You are alive, in a sense, and we will find out very soon whether you’ll still be alive once I’m finished with you.” Retorts the thing, sounding bored– as if it had answered questions like these many times before. iTrapped files this bit of information away quietly. He also tries his best not to feel disturbed by the fact that it’s going to do something to him, but soon finds that he can’t stop thinking about it.
He raises a careful eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re going to torture me to death after bringing me back to life?” What a way to go out. Truly. He’d prefer just dying after the first time, except that option is quickly slipping through his fingers.
“No, I’m going to test you. If you respond in a satisfying manner, I’ll spare you. If you don’t, I’ll leave your soul to the Banlands. Simple.” The thing says, smiling pleasantly with all its teeth.
iTrapped feels his heart drop. For one, he doesn’t quite care what happens to him anymore, yet the haunted expression on Caleb’s face stays in the corner of his mind. For another, this monster is insanely straightforward with its answers. It almost scares him how un-cryptic it’s being. Unless this is some kind of strategic ploy, and he is too stupid to see it, he doesn’t know why it’s just giving him information so casually.
He’d expected a villain monologue. And then maybe torture, followed by a slow death. Apart from its earlier threat of throwing him into the Banlands– which he is sure it will follow through on if he doesn’t answer correctly– he doesn’t feel any malicious intent coming from this thing.
“What can I say? We’re kindred spirits, after all.” It murmurs, checking its nails as if it is simply waiting for iTrapped to regain his wits. He is certainly creeped out by the way it reads his thoughts so casually.
The creature grins. “No need to fear. Fire away with your questions, we haven’t got all day.”
He scoffs, trying his hardest to regain a semblance of control. One breath in, another out. You are okay, iTrapped. It’ll all go away soon. “We do have all day. This is your domain after all– you can do whatever.”
“I’ve got things to do and rounds to run. Tick, tock, the grandfather clock tells me that time is slipping away. Hurry up, little mortal.” It laughs while speaking to him, and what else can he do but comply? He does feel, however, that its general attitude towards him has drastically changed since his coming here and this current moment.
“Alright then,” grumbles iTrapped, “what are you going to do to me if I pass?” He thinks this is a reasonable thing to ask.
It hums and haws for a bit until he himself is feeling impatient. “You will see.” It decides on eventually. He frowns. What an awful answer to give, considering it had promised to answer truthfully. He supposes that that must be the truth, anyway.
“Fine, fine. How about this– how are you even testing me?” He says. iTrapped is, indeed, deeply curious.
It looks like it’s happy with his question, which he takes as a good sign. “I am testing you right now. Currently, everything you say is being taken into consideration.” The thing pauses for a moment, then suddenly leans closer, peering at his expression– which had contorted into one of slight disgust at its movement. He felt that it was much too close to his face.
“Now that I have graciously allowed you to ask me questions, I think that it is my turn. Don’t you agree?” He says nothing in return, so it simply chuckles at his silence. “I want you to answer truthfully. Do not lie. Why did you kill yourself?”
His ears are r
i
n
g
i
n
g
.
Bright golden eyes, mouth the shape of a crescent moon, the lingering ghost of a whisper on the shell of his ear. What else? Nothing else but them. It could’ve only, only, only ever been them.
iTrapped’s throat is a bit hoarse as he responds. He feels like he’s been screaming for days on end. “I guess everything was weighing down on me.” Lie. Lie, lie, lie. Lie all he wants, but he’s not the one in control of the game here. There is something else at play.
“Something else at play indeed, eh?” Snarks the thing. “You needn’t lie. Your true answer was lovely.” Cough. He wants to throw up his insides, his intestines, the steady heart between his ribs, the ugly self sitting in the bottom of his stomach, waiting to be eaten whole. Throw up all the truths living in his lungs.
It sighs. “Come on, now. We’ve only just started and I can’t have you going insane yet. You’re very promising.”
He dry heaves, but only after he confirms that there is indeed no parasitic being within him does he dare glance up again. The thing is still just as close to him as it was before. It no longer makes him squirm in discomfort, so he waits. It’s like he’s sitting on a chair made of wooden stakes, waiting for one to be just a little longer than the others so it will tear through him whole.
“Can we continue?” He asks. He leaves out the bit about how the agony is gnawing on him and how he needs to get out very, very soon. It doesn’t push for anything, nor does it acknowledge his thoughts, so he assumes that they are going to keep playing this twisted game.
“Of course,” it says jovially, yet again with no inflection, “how about this? Would you like to see them again?” It makes him uncomfortable how he can’t tell what it’s thinking. He’s used to being able to read faces like cards– or perhaps he simply got used to being near Chance.
The question doesn’t bother him as he knows it should. It makes the tiniest pang of regret reverberate in his chest. “I suppose I do, even though I know it’s not possible. They’re dead.” Doesn’t make it easier. Time heals no wounds, not even ones on the exterior.
The thing laughs; a small noise, glitchy and distorted as it is. “Well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you otherwise.”
iTrapped takes this with barely a grain of salt. It has shown itself to enjoy joking around about events that are heavier than its own weight, so he chooses not to dwell. The only thing that would accomplish would be paranoia and anxiety. He wonders, distantly and oh so very vaguely, whether he’ll ever be able to leave.
How many hours have passed? What is Ellernate doing at this moment? Will he be alright?
“Don’t you worry yourself. I’ve got a close eye on that one, too.” It tells him with amusement. Only now does iTrapped bristle– what the fuck does it mean by close eye? His brows knit together as he stares down the thing in front of him.
Stepping back, it starts walking in perfectly symmetrical circles. “Moving on, moving on. How would you feel about killing them again?” It asks joyfully. It doesn’t stop pacing. He feels nauseous just watching it, although that could just be– it could just be–
(The blade sliding cleanly into their midsection, red blossoming on their expensive suit like a new-moon rose, the shock in their lovely golden eyes and their cold, cold hand reaching for his own.)
He stutters, blood onto his palm, throat raw, his answer stuck somewhere between his uvula and his esophagus.
(Look into the pool of bottomless water, and watch his reflection blink back. His face is disfigured, mouth the wrong shape, scarlet droplets seeping from his hairline onto his shaking palms, ugly emotions strewn on his expression like a crossword with no hints. No face. Censored face. Thick black line in permanent marker over where his eyes should be. Big black block over where he remembers his smile used to sit.)
iTrapped swallows. And again, and again, and again, until he finds that too many things are bubbling up, so many things that need to be said, and he pushes down all his urges to scream only to say, “I guess not, if I had the choice.” His voice is unbearably gravelly and chipped. It pauses in its pacing, turning at neck-breaking speeds, the leer in its grin unmistakeable. He tries very hard not to find it jarring but fails.
The thing claps once, then twice, and a third clap comes so loudly it makes him flinch, yet he can feel it mocking him every single time. “I like that. You’re doing very well, and in such an unexpected way!” It congratulates, although iTrapped knows this is not a victory.
He squeezes his eyes shut to trade the grinning face of this thing for darkness. Cool, still, darkness. It doesn’t protest, but he hears the click of its tongue– a clear sign of displeasure. He doesn’t open his eyes, and chooses to speak instead.
“What are you?” Asks iTrapped. “If you have the so-called pleasure of knowing everything about me, can’t I know something about you?”
It hums. “Ah, it’s not your turn, is it? However, because I am so gracious–” it dips into a ridiculous little bow, “--I will tell you this: I am the Spectre. Remember it.” The thing– no, the Spectre says, leaning in to tap him on the crown of his head. Here, he realizes that he no longer has his crown of ice. He probably lost it during his fall.
“Odd name for an odd thing,” he responds with no reverence whatsoever. Its eyes narrow again, but quickly return to normal as the Spectre laughs quietly.
“Alright, then,” it chuckles, “one last question before I send you off?”
iTrapped also laughs at its face for this. “You would force me to answer it anyway, so what difference could asking me possibly make for you?” His smile drops. “Though I suppose you could’ve dug through my mind for anything you wanted, huh?”
It waves an absentminded arm around. “Come now. It’s not as if I strung you up and berated you constantly to say something. Count yourself lucky compared to the others!”
“Ugh. Did you do that to one of them?” He’s somewhat peeved by this and also a bit disgusted. Count himself lucky? For what? Shooting himself in the head and then being thrown into the realm of an eldritch god who wants him in its cult? The Spectre doesn’t react, but it responds in a flat voice, “Of course.”
“Ew,” mutters iTrapped, wrinkling his nose, “to think you would stoop to that level.”
Every single last one of its eyes blinks, like it’s slightly shocked at his sudden display of humor. It had a valid reaction, especially since iTrapped had either been moaning and groaning or angrily sulking the entire time he’d spent here. He feels a bit hysterical. Maybe that’s why he chose to make a joke.
“That’s that.” It sniffs. Almost offended, in a way. “Final one, then. What is your opinion–” he begins to brace himself for the worst, “on those wonderful admins of yours?”
Huh. He’d been preparing for something reality-breaking, perhaps with a sprinkle of logic-defying. He certainly hadn’t expected the most mundane, boring question of the century. iTrapped smiles past the lump in his throat and the sting in the corners of his eyes. This almost felt like a street interview.
The eyes glint with an air of curiosity as they circle him cautiously. He lets them, mostly because he doesn’t have a way to ward them off anyway. “I dislike them. A lot.” Flashes of a vision in his mind– Caleb and Ellernate, slumped against a dirty wall, the souls around them wailing and screeching by their ear, yet they didn’t wake. The horror he’d felt when he discovered them in that state.
His curses to the gods and his promise of death to Doombringer. He’d kill that filthy admin if it was the last thing he did with his hands. He remembers how quickly the fight had drained out of him as he was carrying both of them back, when he couldn’t stop seeing bright red between his nails and the dried blood on his Darkheart.
Chance’s stupid smirk, Ellernate’s once-gentle voice, Caleb’s burned-out spirit, LonelyTree’s steady gaze: all of them testaments to the things the admins had taken from him, ripped from him, without so much of a warning.
iTrapped looks down at his hands. “Really, I feel like… I feel like I’d strangle them if I ever saw them again. Nobody would be able to stop me.”
The Spectre beams proudly.
And maybe they told themselves it was justified because they were all exploiters. They’d hurt people, hadn’t they? So they deserved it, those hackers, but only because they were also trying to live. Isn’t that how it was? The admins looked the other way when three lonely children wandered the streets aimlessly with nowhere to go, yet the moment they chose to do whatever they could to survive, suddenly they’d become a threat.
Not a threat to society. Simply a threat to the admins’ untainted reputations. And that was why Ellernate and Caleb had to go in the end– just because they’d decided they didn’t want to lie down and die like a dog.
Its smile stretches so wide that iTrapped nearly becomes afraid that its face will split in two. “Well said, little mortal.”
The exhale he lets out makes the air around him feel just a little warmer. The Spectre reaches down and pats his shoulder with too much force; at the same time, however, it was almost like it’d patted him gingerly, afraid that he should break as easily as a flimsy toy.
He says nothing, just keeps his head down without a word and focuses on the too-fast beating of his faltering heart. Of course, it was the admins’ doing when Ellernate and Caleb were banned, but the circumstances that had led them there were all of iTrapped’s doing. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to remember the look of absolute fury on Ellernate’s face when he realized what iTrapped had done with the control panel, and the pointed silence Caleb had given him that entire day.
Then he’d never seen them again. Not for another three months, not until Chance skipped their way happily into iTrapped’s life and left a large hole in it when they left.
“You’re done here. Aren’t you happy?” The Spectre muses while iTrapped remains in his reverie. He snaps out of it, shaking his head a few times before gazing back up at the massive red silhouette before him. Is he happy?
He pushes himself up and grunts. “I guess I am.” Responds iTrapped shortly. At this, it shakes its head.
“All ready to go. Just one more thing.” It twirls its index finger in a circle. There is a somewhat loud gonging noise that reverberates throughout the empty realm as the Darkheart materializes before iTrapped. He’s reaching out to grab it before he can blink. It’s his. His Darkheart, returned to him by this odd being.
The handle falls into his hands as easily as if he’d just been holding it a week ago, its blade jammed into Chance’s chest.
He’s not sure how to respond to this. “Thank you… Spectre?” One upwards glance tells him that its expression is that of an extremely smug someone, so he simply glares at it and looks back downwards at the Darkheart.
Its sharp, refined edges are still as hauntingly deadly as the day he’d used it to kill Chance. The thought nearly makes him gag again. He can see his reflection in its polished surface– his blue eyes are dull and tired, hair mussed, heavy bags resting underneath his exhausted gaze.
“Go on. You’re certainly ready now, aren’t you?” It asks. He contemplates this, and meets its stare.
“I am.” iTrapped responds. It grins devilishly, then snaps its fingers together. He is struck, sudden and dizzying, by the feeling of vertigo once more– always falling. Never to stop, ever again.
The darkness reaches to catch him. This time, he lets it.
He wakes, oddly enough, on a couch.