Chapter Text
Lord, give me one more chance.
Could this be the last one, I wonder?
…
9:17pm. August 14th, 2018
Through a haze, Chance feels their eyelashes flutter softly against their shades. There are flashing lights in one corner of their vision, twinkling lights of machines–machines?—arranged in elaborate rows crowded with people, and … Oh. The crowd is looking at him, and, matter of fact, it looks like everyone is. His vision unblurs as he blinks lethargically. His chest feels tight. There is a table underneath him, forest green felt now suddenly very, very, tangible against his sweaty palms as he brushes it to peek at his cards, polymer coatings slippery and uncomfortable underneath his fingertips. The dealer gestures politely, motioning for him to take his turn.
Ace of Spades. King of Spades.
The game is Poker. There are several hundred thousands worth of Robux in the betting circle, sitting in the form of innocent, colorful chips. He’s trembling slightly, though he hastily stills, steels himself, and forces his voice to come out steady and self-assured. Like always.
“Raise”.
“Confident, are we?," the wealthy patron with shimmering limiteds adorned like jewels murmurs beside Chance. He decides that they meant it in a good way.
“Feelin’ stylish this evening," He replies smoothly, evenly as another card is dealt to him. Practiced at least a hundred-and-fifty times in front of the bathroom mirror when he was twelve.
“We’ll see about that. Raise”.
The game picks up its pace. Clockwise, they take turns under the glowing luxury of crystalline chandeliers, air thick with adrenaline and the breath of its addicts. Three other players fold before the final betting round. The dealer places the fifth and final card. From the corner of their eye, they can see the wealthy patron from earlier betray a single, miniscule twitch of trepidation. The thrill of what comes next, what always comes next, tingles in their spine.
“Straight," the patron moves all-in, laying out their hand onto the table. But Chance lets the corners of their mouth lift with a knowing satisfaction, pushing their cards forward, voice ringing out in a charming baritone,
“Sorry, pal”. Royal Flush in Spades. Victory is sweet.
He tilts back in his seat with a polite grin as the other players scowl and the dealer collects the half-a-million Robux pot for him. But the victory is short-lived in its excitement; the crushing haze of the migraine from earlier returns, doubled in its weight now. Oh sweet Telemon. Please not now. I really can’t—
“Well don’t just sit back, give us another game!”
Chance lifts their head, massaging their temples, swallowing the mysterious lump of unease from where it’s been lodged awkwardly in their throat. They wave, “Ah— sorry everyone, I’m retiring earlier tonight—”
“Seriously? Again?”
“Y-Yes. Apologies for the inconvenience. Uh—” Please let me go. I’ve had enough for today.
“What’s gotten into ya lately, Chance? You know ol’ Sr. woulda entertained his guests for as long as we wanted.”
…
“Give me ten.” Please don’t talk about him.
“What a wimp …," is all Chance can hear the crowd murmur as he hastily escapes his seat, the leather still bearing the dent from where they stiffly planted themselves for the last four hours (has it seriously been that long since the game began?).
They wave off the bodyguards that usually accompany them out the lobby.
Please. Please. Please.
“Tired of winning already?”
“Aww, that’s too bad.”
“Hey!”
“Can I get your number?”
Please stop.
They rush, rush from the glamorous lobby crowded with hundreds, maybe thousands, of patrons and guests, past hallways glittering with expensive carpeting,
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
up,
up,
and up staircases padded with a rich maroon, swallowing their heavy footsteps, and—
—out onto the rooftop, where Chance bursts through the grimy heavy-duty aluminum door and takes greedy gulps of the frigid night air for a few moments, before he doubles over in uncontrollable coughing.
It’s suffocating. Like breathing through a straw. Like there are forty Drakoboxxers just sitting on his chest, crushing his lungs. Oh my Telemon, of all things. Running a trembling hand through hair once carefully styled with gel and charm, Chance shoves their shades up and pushes them to rest on their forehead. They fumble in their pockets, feeling the familiar smooth plastic of their inhaler graze their fingers, and bring it to their lips.
Breathing constricted and hoarse, they press down on the canister. The world stills, the silence suffocating, as about ten long seconds go by while they breath in the medication, the albuterol sticking to their throat like a cool mist. They sigh, sliding down from where their back was stiffly and desperately pressed against the door. Their nerves are shot again, for the.. what, fifteenth time this week? It’s Tuesday.
I need a smoke.
They fumble again in their suit pockets—tailored fabric ruffled and creased from their desperate escape—for the sacred box of cigarettes, flipping open the lid to find, thank Telemon, two of them left.
They replace the inhaler for a cigarette, holding it between their teeth as they attempt to click strike a flame click click with this stupid lighter—
…
He gives up.
Reclining his head back tiredly, all he can think of … is some “heir” I am.
…
“Hey.”
They cough, sputter, and the unlit cigarette is flung out from where it was clenched between their teeth.
“Oh— uh—” They work hastily, swiping their shades back down lopsidedly onto the bridge of their nose, smoothing out the creases on their suit and swiveling to look at the source of the voice.
“Careful now.” A white gloved hand reaches swiftly and catches Chance’s cigarette mid-air, pausing for a moment, before retracting. Mechanically smooth in its fluidity.
“Pardon me,” is what Chance can muster awkwardly, quickly slipping into a practiced facade. “How may I assist you—
They see him. Dazzling edges of the Ice Crown. Poise and elegance in his stature. A coat, lined with fur woven from luxury linen, shimmers serenely, effortlessly against the darkness of the night. And his eyes, oh God his eyes, like two beautiful winter jewels. Cold. Assessing. One arm tucked behind his back—dignity—the other hand gracefully cradling the cigarette, the only thing out of place in this image of perfection.
—esteemed guest?” Change finishes with a smile, composed. Though the wobble of his legs as he attempts to push himself up using the door behind him as leverage completely betrays him. Damn it.
The stranger evaluates him tranquilly. They feel his eyes on them as they press their back against the cold aluminum again in an attempt to regain their balance.
Get up. Get up. Get up.
They’re visibly trembling. They know it. Their fedora flops ungracefully over their face.
Well. This is humiliating.
“Sit down,” is what Chance registers through the brainfog. He has nothing better to do than comply. His heart is racing once more. Is this the asthma—he thinks—or the stupid embarrassing nerves? They don’t want to call it anxiety. That means admitting that there’s something wrong with them, more wrong than the asthma diagnosis that came nearly a decade ago, when he was thirteen, thrashing about in the doctor’s office. He wanted to deny it then, too.
“Deep breaths,” the guest murmurs, now kneeling down beside them but keeping his distance, “In. Count to three. Out. Count to four. Again.”
Their breathing slows, weak and raspy, as they follow this mysterious person.
The guest reaches towards them again. They jerk a little in surprise as he holds the cigarette to their lips and flicks open a lighter of his own. It’s flashy and red, the sides decorated with obsidian engravings … there are letters that begin to spell E—
The lighter flicks shut with a smooth click, and Chance realizes with another start that the end of his cigarette is successfully lit, burning amber and smoke rising slowly. They feel a bead of anxious sweat roll down the side of their head as they awkwardly replace the guest’s grasp on the cigarette with their own. Their heart stutters a bit when their fingers brush against his gloves, but Chance attributes it to their stupid nerves, again. They take a long drag, their lungs burn and they cough from the roughness of the smoke, but the creases in his mood are smoothed by the narcotics.
“Long night?” the guest asks. He’s sitting slightly farther away now.
“Heh, you could say that,” Chance takes another drag, wispy smoke exhaling through his nostrils, “Oh— where are my manners? I oughta properly thank you— Er—” They blanch.
“It’s iTrapped.”
“...pretty…”
“Pardon?”
“Uh— name’s Chance!” They reach out for a firm handshake, hovering in the air before being accepted. His fingers are so cold. Why?
iTrapped then gestures to the cigarette resting languidly between Chance’s lips. “Smoking isn’t good for you, you know.”
The giggle comes easy this time. “Pfft, says the person with a fancy lighter!”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Then how come?”
There’s a beat of silence. Chance’s grin falters for a moment because by the way the str— iTrapped looks … pinched, for lack of better vocabulary, has got them thinking they said something wrong.
“It belonged to a friend of mine,” is all that iTrapped stiffly reveals, before his face is once again stone cold and impassive.
“Ah, well, I won’t pry,” Chance lets his gaze drift to the cityscape around the Casino’s rooftop. The lights are prettiest at night, when the golden strobe lights illuminate the deep tranquil purple of the sky in bright radiant streaks. For the City of Robloxia that never sleeps, the roads connecting thousand-stud-high skyscrapers and multiple entertainment districts are permanently bathed in a handsome amber hue. Chance feels their tense limbs slowly unravel into peaceful idleness. I probably shouldn’t ask how he got onto the roof without a keycard, or what he was doing here in the first place, should I? They are bold enough to steal a glance at iTrapped—oh, he’s already looking at them—but his expression is unreadable.
“Watcha thinkin’ of?”
“You should return to your patrons, Chance.”
Chance looks away. “Ah, you’re right, you’re right,” there’s a hup! as they hoist themselves up from where they were seated and turn the knob to the rooftop access door.
“I’ll uh, see you later?”
“...” Chilly silence.
They brush it off with a playful shiver. “Brrr— Well, alright then! Have a nice evening, iTrapped. And thank you. I really appreciate it,” and a moment later they’re gone, descending the grimy staircase, passing the decorated halls, and stepping once more into the fever and excitement of the golden Casino floor.
9:46pm. August 14th, 2018.
iTrapped lazily glides a jeweled and gloved index finger along the rim of his fresh glass of … something. Some Royal Crown… Cocktail bullshit. He can sense the bartender’s raised eyebrow from the other side of the bar, but he simply can’t bring himself to care all that much. iTrapped can’t remember the last time he had a full night’s sleep. All he can think of is Ellernate. Caleb. Ellernate. Caleb. Free them. Keep your promise to them.
He’s been tracing leads to the Banlands key for months, finally landing on intel that led him to this Casino, how the key is safeguarded by the owner. And my God the owner is a complete and utter fool.
Said owner is actually in the Casino pit currently, immersed in yet another game of Poker.
Perhaps fool isn’t the most apt descriptor, if the Casino is doing this well even with a person like them at the helm, but what else do you call someone with the most ridiculous dumb luck? They win pretty much every game they play. They bore of slot machines because of their predictability of all things, and instead they chase the thrill of Poker, roulettes, and Blackjack, and for what? What can there possibly be to enjoy with these people more than the monetary reward? You ought to use your head sometime, luck is supposed to be used for that.
What a waste.
They don’t cheat at their games. At all. No, in fact, iTrapped has not spotted a single instance where they abused their status as Casino owner nor attempted a sleight of hand.
Filthy rich. Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, no doubt. You disgust me. Your type tramples over the masses, over the people who actually built all of this for you, people like—
Deep breaths. People can see you here, iTrapped. He has to calm down. It doesn’t matter that the target is nothing but rich filth; it simply makes the kill all the more clean. He doesn’t need to even know their name (oh, but he does, it’s Chance. What a stupidly fitting, mascot-like alias), he just needs to know when they’ll be alone. They’re always with people, with their guests and patrons, it’s like they can’t live without the attention.
Commotion. That sly grin that iTrapped can see from seven hundred studs away. The Casino owner wins. Again.
iTrapped shifts in his seat. Something is different. When the Casino owner has decided to switch floors or leave the Casino, there’s usually at least five security personnel gluing themselves to their sides. There’s nobody today. They’ve just waved them off.
This is iTrapped’s chance, unironically.
He abandons his untouched cocktail, slipping away into the shadows, into the one blindspot undetectable by the abundant security cameras. The admin panel is silent, ice blue rim glowing discretely, as iTrapped opens a tab and begins typing out a command.
<function teleport(fromCurrentPosition, toCasinoRooftop1)>
<function apply(to.entity.iTrapped)>
He feels the usual pull from his navel as he teleports to the Casino rooftop, where he waits for the owner. The Darkheart materializes at his hip, sharp unforgiving edges swallowing all light. They always come here. Recently now more than ever. For some, probably pompous, reason. Think you’re so above everyone else, do y—
His thoughts are interrupted as they burst through the door. iTrapped’s icy gaze inches ever so slightly out from the shadowy corner, hand on the Darkheart’s hilt, poised for a clean strike through the vitals. The key is on them. He knows it. He’s been studying them for weeks, and there’s no other place where it could be.
They’re panting, and for a moment iTrapped is reminded of the villainous wolf that huffed and puffed and blew the houses of the poor little pigs to smithereens in his childhood storybooks. But then there’s a weak whimper of sorts, broken and leaking out of their mouth along with a cascade of coughing. And that’s most likely their sobbing that his ears are being assaulted with. iTrapped is repulsed. But also mildly intrigued. For some, probably inconvenient, reason.
They’re right there out in the open. Just stab them and get it over with.
…
But iTrapped is frozen where he stands. His sword-arm isn’t complying with his brain’s commands. There’s a very, very unwanted, invasive thought (other than the usual invader) that permeates his mind: Ellernate had those, too.
He thinks of Ellernate. Caleb. That’s Ellernate, having another panic attack. iTrapped looks at Chance, at a distance closer than the other nights. Ellernate’s pitch-black hair, though he preferred it loose rather than styled with gel. He smoked too. He smoked a lot. Ellernate’s favorite lighter, left behind when he was taken to the Banlands, rests heavy in iTrapped’s back pocket. He’s been using it to burn documents and evidence, and— occasionally flicking it open and clicking it closed when the missing got worse. All he can think of is Ellernate. Caleb. Free them. Keep your promise.
Ellernate. Caleb. Isn’t that Ellernate right there, right in front of me?
Just what are you doing?
The Darkheart disappears from his side. He is only subconsciously aware of what he is about to do, like he’s an observer in his own body.
I was supposed to kill them tonight.
“Hey.”
… Wasn’t I?
iTrapped stares.
At the empty space that Chance has left behind.
You did tell them to leave.
Indeed I did.
Why?
…
He doesn’t know how to answer that one.