Computational Dissonance

Chapter 1: Night

007n7 shut the door to the fridge, Bloxy Cola in hand.

It was a late night modifying his copy of the c00lgui panel— tweaking it, fixing rare bugs, releasing patches only to himself. His memory sifted into the funnel containing the thin hole of nothingness that waited for everyone, and he often found himself forgetting even the simplest of quick fixes or functions he had just defined. His terminal was littered with the help menu and its various commands, and his mind was as cluttered as his room— littered with pizza boxes and Bloxy Colas. Cimmerian chords of darkness struck melodies across the kitchen, lights turned off to make sure nobody knew he was here. The act of needing to eat or needing anything at all had become embarrassing, considering Elliott’s attitudes towards him, so he’d become more fond of operating covertly and in the dark. He’d even memorized exactly the floorboards in the kitchen that would alert nobody to his presence, and had figured out the precise coordinates to set the c00lgui to in order for nobody to hear him teleporting into the kitchen. Of course, sometimes he’d forget, but those who were more prone to visiting the kitchen than others (mostly Noob and Shedletsky) were not outright hostile towards him. He tended to forget a lot of things nowadays; his mind was grasping and struggling to hold onto ideas that he would’ve found simple in the past. 007n7 had no idea how he’d become such a famously skilled hacker when he could barely conjure up any new ideas in the face of his own death. He was quickly becoming pathetic and useless. His memory was leaving him, and so was the memory of—

"Your son."

A voice hissed from behind where the fridge door was, and 007n7 flinched back. A shadow loomed above him, coat obscuring any hint of a figure. Beneath that coat, there could be anything; lackeys, bunnies, more killers, even. Coins galore, guns ablazing, bunnies abound. The secrets to everything. The answers to nothing. And all of it was to be accompanied by a thin yellow stripe that vaguely served as a face. 007n7's mouth hung open as he pressed himself against the kitchen wall. Although his memory was leaving him, his muscles worked quicker than any swift dose of caffeine, and his heartrate picked up the pace. He’d been 16 Bloxy Colas down and none the wiser— although he could hardly remember what he was trying to fix with the c00lgui nowadays, he held onto stupid concrete information and little things. If that was what was going to stick with him, then so be it.

It was then he became aware of just how long he’d been staring at that panel. So long, in fact, his vision became blurry in the dark, a headache forming behind his eyes whenever he tried to screw them to figure out who was talking to him. 007n7 had never seen any other of the killers outside of their matches. His son would sometimes visit, sure— but besides that? Unheard of. As his balance nearly left him, caffeine eating away at whatever part of his mind operated the balancing algorithms that kept him upright as he drank Cola after Cola on an empty stomach, 007n7 attempted to grab hold of the logic that was leaving through the hole in the funnel. Nothing came through. His mind could focus on nothing but the immediate threat before him: mere moments ago, he swore he could've heard the other survivors playing pool or cards. He would've remembered glasses clinking against each other and the sound of laughter, if not for this dread set upon him. He would’ve had that to tether himself to reality, and as he tried to screw his ears to hear for anyone else, he found nothing coming up but his heart pounding away. How pathetic he’d gotten. He was searching for comfort in the presence of others, even if they hated him. Maybe he was in a match and he'd forgotten the memory of it to protect himself— was that possible? This could've been a dream induced by the countless nights he'd stayed up, tearing through and rearranging the programming of the panel that allowed him to exploit the minigames. Maybe it was a manifestation of his guilt and pain.

The figure laughed, and the height of the coat seemed to lessen as the figure stepped back. It was then the finer details became clearer in the dim light of the kitchen window. He could see... a gnarly under-eye scar just before the shadow of a fedora, and 5 o'clock shadow. He knew this one, although he rarely saw it anymore— the Dream Killer, as Two Time called it. The others preferred to call it the Mafioso. Maybe it had a name besides that, once, or maybe it was part of some hivemind of debt collectors, but it seemed to be easier to refer to it as the 'Mafioso' rather than try to coax a name out of it. A name didn't seem to matter when there were debts to be collected. "Relax.” He almost could’ve laughed. It was impossible to relax when a killer that had snapped his neck with one gigantic, muscled hand was standing before him in impossible circumstances. “You're his father, correct?"

007n7 fumbled for words, mouth shuttering up and down like a broken, useless automaton. He was a father, once— a sorry excuse of one, but a father nonetheless, to a child that wasn't here anymore. A child that laughed as he murdered others in cold blood. As far as 007n7 knew, he was the only one who deserved such a fate for his awful exploits: the rest, like Elliott or Shedletsky, were innocent in comparison to the rot that stained his soul. He would have liked to think c00lkidd was innocent, but he knew better than anyone that he ruined anything he touched, and that included cradling his son.

"The kid. Cool Kid."

"c00lkidd." 007n7 sputtered out, words a broken roll of ribbon coming off the spool and unraveling on the floor.

Mafioso blinked at him, flintlock eyes glowing in the dark. "Yes, that's what I said. Cool kid."

In all of his complete disregard for consequence and honor in stupidity, 007n7 shook his head, shifting his weight onto one leg. "No, there's a difference. There's the pronunciation cool kid, like a cool kid, Coolkidd, and then there's c00lkidd."

“They all sound the same.”

The text made sense. If 007n7 had the capacity to write it out for him, the Mafioso would clearly see the difference. He itched to pull up the terminal. “They’re not the same.”

A single gloved hand poked out of the mountain that was the jacket, not to choke 007n7's sweaty face out, but to rub the tension out from between tired brows. Polished and well taken care of black leather gleamed beneath the mountain's fedora. "Fine. Coolkidd.”

It wasn't quite right, but 007n7 could accept it if his son wasn't listening. Knowing him, he had probably corrected them a million times over already, raving about his name and how he was the coolest c00lkidd around. 007n7’s eyes glazed over thinking about where his son could be— every inch of the village, from the marshes to the roofs of the homes, was familiar to him because he'd spent his first week searching for c00lkidd. There were no introductions, and the others seemed to be completely and totally alright with that. Elliott's cold attitude seemed to rub off on the others, and everyone who knew the infamous exploiter was quick to fill in the others, who promptly left him alone.

"Eyes on the prize. This is not important in comparison to the mission objective." 007n7's attention was immediately drawn back to their conversation— he jolted from the feeling of the wall meeting his shoulder blades. "You're his father? Coolkidd?”

He swallowed as the Mafioso lurched forward. Those leather boots were not visible beneath the jet black trench coat, but as he moved forward, their squeak reminded 007n7 of the imminent danger he was in.

"Yes." 007n7's mouth dried, a bold contrast from the well of sorrows emerging from his throat. "I don’t, uh— understand? Where did I incur debt? Do I have— maybe, uh, debts from my previous life? If so, I’m sorry, and I’ll offer whatever I have—”

"Understanding my reasoning for being here is not the mission objective at hand. You are in no debth to me. Never give yourself away so quickly." The gloved hand left out a single, accusatory index finger to him as he pondered the absolutely absurd way the Mafioso had pronounced the word 'debt.' Who added an ‘h’ to the end? Sure, there was ‘tomato’ and ‘tomato,’ or ‘data’ and ‘data,’ but there was no ‘debt’ and ‘debth.’ That wasn’t an argument— it was just a misspelling. "Your kid is unaware of the true and vile property of this game and the world."

007n7 let his body go slack in relief from his complete lack of any actionable debt. Honestly, considering his history and the things he’d done, it was a surprise that the Mafia hadn’t gone after him sooner for his exploits, but having his son brought up to him was more concerning than some measly debt. "I'm— sorry, I'm—" His hand was starting to slip on the can of Cola, and he reaffirmed his grip. "What?"

"Coolkidd—" still not the right pronunciation (if there even was a right one)— "is aware of the game-like nature of this world. He is young and engages in the game. This playfulness prevents him from engaging in the true nature of the task. Are you aware of this?"

The grasping, greedy hands of his mind ripped the funnel in two and found some answers. He'd recently had a game with his kid, and in that game, the Mafioso happened to be attending nearby. Luckily, c00lkidd didn't seem to have witnessed 007n7's violent end at the hands of a flying rabbit, but he was sure his son would've come across his limp corpse sooner or later.

"You seem to have realized something. Give it here." The Mafioso held out his hand in a grabbing motion, open-palmed and waiting.

"My son. He doesn't—" 007n7 tried to make the words form, but the sand was slipping through his fingers now. "He doesn't know he's... What?"

"Precisely. Excellent work."

007n7 wanted to turn and throw up into the sink. He'd been hearing the sounds of necks cracking from all the way down the hall, even though none dared to leave their rooms at night. The shadows of limp, broken necks imprinted on the insides of his eyelids— it was the only thing keeping him awake for nights on end. His personal failures pushed him past years of sitting on the couch or running after the growing c00lkidd. With every step he took to save, with every gash or wound he bore, he was inching closer to pure atonement. He was far too aware of the horrors of the game. Was it for better or for worse that c00lkidd didn't know?

"What— is the meaning of this?" 007n7 did not choke, did not falter in any sort of response. It spilled out immediately without any barrier. There was no room to be soft spoken or think too excessively about how others might feel about any decision he might make.

"I wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding.”

The Mafioso seemed to sense 007n7’s shock, or at least could read his raised brows as complete and total surprise. 007n7 was going to respond with questions (mostly ‘what?’ and ‘why?’), but he felt his hand slip on the can of Cola, and the Mafioso reached out.

"Set that down."

Hand shaking, he made eye contact and saw shining eyes beneath the shadow of the fedora. He never once felt like he could trust any sort of enforcer— not with his history, not with his usual evasion and covering up— but these eyes did not feel like that of any sort of enforcer, whether that was debt or otherwise. Maybe it was more than just enforcement; maybe, out of anyone, someone who dabbled in illegal, shady activities would understand the kind of guilt 007n7 carried.

He handed over the can of soda. The Mafioso set it down on the table. While his back was turned, 007n7 did not move out of fear he might startle or elicit some adverse reaction from the killer— after all, he'd seen what one hand could do.

"I don't think I'm owed an apology," 007n7 said as the Mafioso turned back around. "You haven't done anything to me." It wasn't like he didn't deserve it, anyway. He did. He deserved all of it. Even those games where his son lifted him up into the air by the neck— shining, playful eyes looking into 007n7's own. He concealed his fear from his son, lest he catch wind of the overarching roles they were meant to play and hold at the forefront of their minds. c00lkidd was never to blame for any of this— it was 007n7's own fault they were dragged into this.

"You were trying to play with your son. Clearly, I was intruding."

"You're a killer." 007n7 swallowed. "You didn't do anything outside of what you were told to do. That's..." He sighed, wishing he had the can tab to fiddle with. "That's just the way the game goes. I don't fault you."

"I didn't realize your son was unaware of the objective. Perhaps someone should have filled him in—"

"No!—" 007n7 shouted, but not before instinctively covering his mouth. It seemed to elicit a curious eyebrow raise from the Mafioso. "No. Don't. Don't tell him."

"... Don't tell him? Why?"

This was going to be an awful lot to tell someone who could hold it against him, but here goes: "He's just like me. Any... any rule that's set, any guideline, any role... he'll break out of it. He'll defy it. He's just like me. So if he learns he's doing something bad, if he— knows he's, uh, killing people instead of playing with them or putting them to sleep, he'll..."

The buzzing of the refrigerator seized the thick silence between them. He tried to clear the clutter in his mind of functions and commands, but all that stuck out was what The Spectre could do to his son if he misbehaved. The Mafioso seemed to understand, judging by the faint shift in his clenched jaw.

"... Why did you have to come tell me about this?" 007n7's voice cut through the buzzing blanket of staticky silence.

"I happen to have taken a liking to your son. I was curious."

007n7 let out a faint, forced chuckle. "I'm not sure if that's a good thing. Is he eating his vegetables?"

"Yes. Lots of protein, too, so he can grow up big and strong."

"I don't think he'd like to see his dad has... such a poor diet." He laughed pitifully to himself, remembering the times when he had to spoon feed the little monster. He would always throw a fit over brussels sprouts, but never when they were blended up. It seems that the idea of something was always better when it was covert.

"You seem to be right about that. You hold him to a much higher standard than yourself." The Mafioso crossed his arms. “Why?”

"He's young. He hasn't made the mistakes I have. He has time to learn. I’ve tried to put him on a good path, but, uh..." He trailed off, knowing he was telling only half-truths. The truth was that 007n7 wasn't exactly made to last long— if he could affect his 'newer,' 'better' version, if he could impact his son in any positive way... he would never leave him with the lasting scars that left 007n7 looking towards the door in any room he was in. He wanted to fix those mistakes he’d made in his life by teaching his son all of the good qualities he didn’t possess: bravery, good morals, mindfulness, and compassion. 007n7 had tried teaching himself those things, but obviously, it was better to scrap spaghetti code entirely than to restructure it. Hearing his son was up to no good only twisted the knives in his ribs— that he hadn’t done enough in the limited time they had together.

It was only fitting that his son was his worst tormentor— his torturer, his demon to damn him personally and judge him. c00lkidd was his son. The reflection of himself that he'd raised by hand: that he'd bottlefed, that he'd cradled, that he'd loved and played with and appreciated and cared for, that he'd taught arithmetic and programming to. When his son's hand wrapped around his neck, 007n7 was never afraid. He knew this was his fate— it came for all of them. Shedletsky knew it, but Shedletsky would never look 007n7 in the eyes. They were too afraid of the fate they knew to be true of them, except 1x1x1x1 loathed Shedletsky, and c00lkidd loved his dad. That was why Shedletsky could never stand to look at him. His son cared for him more than anything else in the world. Their creations both itched to meet them, and while Shedletsky hid, 007n7 embraced his son with open, gentle arms.

The Mafioso leaned down, looking about his features, almost as if optically shaking him down. 007n7 stayed obediently still, if not for a quick swallow. "I can give this to you: you are cowardly, but you're mindful. Sensible. You learn and adapt quickly. These are good traits to have, especially in dangerous environments. You have instilled good traits of fairness and integrity onto Coolkidd.” Not the right pronunciation. “He cares much about the rules of the game. He looks up to and raves about his father.”

007n7 tried to look away, but he couldn't make himself, so he just squirmed under the Mafioso's gaze. The shame of receiving any praise at all for his parenting made a pit form in his stomach— he began sweating with the knowledge that the Mafioso couldn't have been doing anything but lying. He was a terrible role model for that kid, as much as he'd tried. He didn't deserve any of those kind words. The Mafioso was objective and harsh— being part of the Mafia had clearly made him cruel, too. His mind made no room, however, to ponder why the killer would want to deceive him. Under that watchful gaze, his confession squeezed out of a throat that gasped for air. His work was not meant to be stuck so suddenly in the limelight; he was a covert man, preferring to be shoved anywhere but center stage. Yet here he was, being put under scrutiny by a mob boss with nothing better to do. If he was being tested, maybe he should come clean and be humble: "If you can’t tell, or maybe haven’t heard—” he doubted that, considering the things the Mafioso knew about other survivors— “I, uh… haven't exactly used my abilities for good. There’s not much to admire.”

"I can tell.” Ouch. “My men and I have been keeping an eye on you for a while." That should've struck 007n7 with the fear of 'The Spawn,' as Two Time called whatever God they believed in, but he honestly wasn't paying attention to the implications. "Who minds that? It's a stupid thing to think about. You have garnered respect and fear for your ability.”

"It's not stupid to me."

"Things have the meanings you assign to them."

"I assign—" 007n7 paused. He was going to trap himself in a way that made it impossible not to forgive himself, and that just wasn't possible. 007n7 didn't have any time nor room in his mind to think of forgiveness— all he could think about was persistence. The act of survival and his constant guilt made it impossible to think of anything else. Who he would be if he was redeemed of his sin, he didn't really know— that thought made his hands itch for the panel. "I don't know how this conversation got from my son to me. Is it really awful that he doesn't know?"

From the shadow of the fedora, 007n7 could see the Mafioso's eyes squint in question.

"I suppose he's getting the job done. Good kid, he is. Efficient. You taught him well."

007n7 returned the amused squint with a squint— in confusion.

"... Forgive me, but I… still don’t, uh… understand. Why are you here?"

There was rustling beneath the coat. "Stupid question. I already told you."

He had nothing to lose. Nobody here would miss him. He never saw his son, and his son didn't really need him. His son could use a better father— one that didn't screw up everything with everyone. "No. You didn't."

The Mafioso loomed over him. Shadows seemed to embrace him, and by instinct, 007n7 pressed himself further against the wall. He left a hand free to summon the c00lgui if needed.

"What do you think I'm here for?"

He was in too deep not to explain himself, even though he could make out the faint outlines of a knife pointed at his throat. He tried to hold back a gasp, which resulted in the sudden inflation of his lungs with no release. He teetered on the edge of surprise, all because he wanted to run his mouth. "You said to apologize, which I cleared up instantly, because you're not at fault. You said it was because you took an interest in my kid, but... if you wanted to use him, you would've isolated him from me already."

The Mafioso did not retract in his towering mood; no. He sat and thought, and thought some more. The knife stayed steeled against 007n7's throat. "I didn't think you'd care so much. You seem to spend more time with your head in the clouds than in the games with those idiotic dolts you call friends."

"They don't care about me. They're not my friends."

"If they aren't, then do us both a favor and stop trying to be more brave than you are. Whatever reasoning you think there is, there isn't. Don't martyr yourself more than you already do."

"What reason would you have for giving me helpful advice?" 007n7 persisted.

The tip pressed into his artery, and he was sure he was beginning to squirm. The Mafioso put a hand on his shoulder to keep him still— a concrete block had placed itself on his shoulder now, weighing him down with the truth like Atlas bearing responsibility for the sky. Something like confirmation shone in the Mafioso's eyes as his met 007n7’s own eyes. Even though this was an active threat, 007n7 hadn’t felt more involved mentally than right now. Even in the games, he seemed to be checking out and going through the motions. The tangible threat of imminent death in a place he’d previously believed was safe seemed to be sparking some mental clarity he didn’t find often. With the games, he expected bloodshed and injury. Here? Never. This was supposed to be safe. Maybe under the threat of judgment, he would finally be productive instead of staring at the oak wall of his room all day.

"The truth is, only one kind of person could raise a child like that with such efficiency, and that's—"

The light in the kitchen turned on.

The dim light of the moon illuminated the bare kitchen table. The wooden floorboards were beginning to tarnish and dry. Nobody had cleaned them in years. The walls were bathed in the fresh, new light of the chandelier, sparkling and reflecting lights against the wooden wall. There was no trace of shadows, except hidden in the darker nooks and crannies typical of an old, creaky home.

The Mafioso was gone. 007n7 felt his whole body rack with relief as he moved away from the wall. Somehow, he could still feel the sharp steel of the blade against his neck, could still feel their hand on his shoulder.

"Praise be to the Spawn."

He turned his head to see empty eyes and an ominous, crescent smile standing at the entryway to the manor's kitchen. Although he didn't enjoy Two Time's presence, Two Time seemed to be one of the only survivors that remotely tolerated and spoke kindly to him. Plus, it was a relief to be able to see someone’s eyes— even if their eyes consumed all light, leaving no shine of life to reflect generously off of them.

"Ah— sorry. I'll be out of your hair now." He mumbled, grabbing his Bloxy Cola off the table.

"I welcome your presence regardless." Two Time entered the kitchen, beelining towards the pizza box that 007n7 had been picking off of for multiple hours— taking a slice, going back to his room, and then repeating the process when nobody was in the kitchen. Sometimes, he even used the c00lgui to grab some pizza quickly and teleport back. 007n7 said nothing in return, pursing his lips in discomfort and making his way to the exit of the kitchen. Two Time broke open the box of pizza and commented, as if it meant nothing at all, as if 007n7's whole being wasn't shaken— "Were you visited?"

007n7 did not turn around, but lingered in the doorway. The bravery he'd gained in the face of adversity quickly left him as he noticed himself becoming more and more soft spoken. The question of if it would be worth it to tell Two Time anything was not really a question at all— its answer was always no. In his role as a hacker, he never felt as if he'd withheld information at all. He was always honest about what he was and what he did, and his work had helped improved security for so many games. At what cost was trivial. The guilt he would get from not telling them anything would eat at him, but he wanted to limit the information he gave freely, especially to a creature of the shadows. "Yes."

"Those demons... those undead... can visit us?"

His hand became sweaty on the doorway as he fumbled for a proper answer. What was he supposed to say to them? No? "I... I don't know."

The clinking of glasses filled silence between them as 007n7 lingered. The conversation wasn't over, but 007n7 hadn't had much experience in the realm of chatting recently, seeing as he tended to sneak around the mansion, lest he fall victim to a conversation or strange looks. Besides, Two Time seemed to be thinking about something, and 007n7 wasn't exactly keen on interrupting their train of thought in what seemed like a dire moment.

"Farewell. Your day shall be blessed with good fortune for your generous answer. You've given me good insights to think about." Even though he wasn't facing Two Time, he could hear the forced joy in their voice. That pleasantness, as fake as it was, comforted 007n7 briefly; not many had shown him the same care.

"Goodnight." He mumbled, and slipped into the long shadows of the hallway once more.

---

Chapter 2: Gallows Humor

007n7 laid crumpled on the grass. The lawn in front of the haunted mansion of Yorick's Resting Place cradled his body, like a return deep into the studded earth— blades like fingers itched to hold him in a soft, familiar place. Those mirror-like eyes grew glaze like dandelions in concrete, growing in spite of the terrible, industrial construction that oppressed their desire to spread. The growth of the fog within the hacker's mind was a weed that the mafia member wanted to rip out of the ground and tear into pieces. Anything should be faced head-on— why 007n7 would want to put off facing inevitable consequences, it was confused on. Two things were guaranteed in life: debt and death. Why 007n7 seemed to ignore his son in matches, it had pondered, turned over in its soul for days and days on end since their little encounter in the kitchen. Blessed be the gift of patience to its mind; it was being spread far right now, its thoughts spread like red string weaving between 007n7-blue strings on a loom looming over its consciousness. In the void, it and its lackeys had no time to do anything but think. Now, looking upon the red splatters staining the ground, staining the future grave of the hacker… it was starting to have regrets it was never going to own up to. Regrets had no place where ends and means met in court to be justified and wed together.

“Get up.” It picked what it knew to be 007n7 up by the back of his collared shirt, drawing in a breath of surprise that he wasn’t limp in its single hand yet. 007n7 seemed to animate, slowly becoming aware of both his existence and his surroundings, as well as the swift consequences of ignoring both. He never seemed to be keen on biting pain like a bowlful of bullets; it made him greatly weak, that was for sure. In comparison to its strength in numbers, lifting 007n7 seemed to be like lifting its morning cup of coffee. Despite the uncertainty and vagueness of the situation, one thing was for sure: avoiding the truth made him weak, and the Mafioso could not tolerate that. “I’m not done with you yet. Quit later.”

007n7 had faint crusts on his chin where blood had left trails from his mouth. Crimson was a good color on him, the Mafioso decided. But, nevertheless, he did not pick his face up to look into the mafia member’s eyes like he did so indignantly last night. Any fight or struggle seemed to come in oscillating bursts, with a kick coming its way maybe every ten seconds— when he could muster up either the courage or strength for it.

“Who is your son?”

007n7 rasped, letting out short, hurried breaths. Unlike its own trained mind, the hacker didn’t seem to be keen on getting much cardio— strange for a man who should’ve had to chase after his own son. From what the Mafioso had heard from Cool Kid (Coolkidd? c00lkidd, like his shirt?), his dad was quite keen on getting him out and playing with others, so much so that the kid seemed to have sustained a 50 minute Ultimate Frisbee game with John Doe. All of that aside— the match didn’t matter much to it anymore as much as the questions resting at the forefront of its minds. It could kill him afterwards. What it needed now was answers, and answers it would get.

“My son?” He sighed, exhaling and gasping for an inhale in tandem. 007n7 tried to kick against the tight collar prophesying his slow death, but found no relief. The Mafioso would not let up. “What?”

“You have a son.”

“I— yes, he’s—” It tried to look within 007n7's eyes, but only found something lost in there. The small man it’d intimidated— the fearlessness, the quiet courage, yet without confrontation— was quite externally different than the man it held in its grasp now. He was a quiet man, but quite disruptive left unchecked. “My son? Why— why do you ask?"

“What’s his name?”

Now something was lost. It knew it now; it knew it in the look of his eyes, the searching for hope. He’d done it last night. He was doing it now. No matter how much The Spectre interfered with his mind, he was still the same beneath— cowardly, but courageous, a beautiful dance of contradiction and tears. Spreadsheets, account numbers, and data failed to plot data points that could've spelled out the shape or 007n7's fate, nor did LIDAR reveal any position to it. The sound of his steps thumping against floorboard was inaudible— how clever it was, to teleport. The points spelled out little correlation, but instead formed constellations that the Mafioso could not connect alone. Clearly, 007n7 worked under the cover of night.

“I don’t— I don’t know what you’re—” 007n7 kicked again, and the Mafioso shook him.

“You have a son. Do you remember what he looks like?”

Tears beaded at the edge of 007n7's eyes as he stopped gasping for air. Pain had seemed to push him into an anesthetic delirium. The jagged edges of his own mind seemed to cut him his own silent, pitless pit of delusion. Any time he'd try to crawl out, he'd cut his hand on the sharp corners of his panel, and down he would tumble into darkness and blindness, fumbling for answers that had revealed themselves once he'd started to climb. Intermittently, the light would shine into the pit. The mafia member held the rope that was supposed to pull him out. Now, it was looping the rope around his neck and leading him to the gallows. "What?—" He rasped, and the Mafioso swore he could see knuckle-shaped indents in his throat.

It seemed the Mafioso would have to return to the simple questions— maybe 007n7's brain wasn't running properly when overloaded with adrenaline. Funny how such a renowned exploiter and hacker could be reduced to sniveling and gasping for breath at a few punches. "Tell me your son's name." It spoke through grit teeth, fist tightening around the collar. If it was good for anything but servitude to its goals, it would've used any other tactic— maybe one that didn't involve beating him halfway to a pulp. It knew that there was no other way to approach 007n7 inside of the matches, though. He would have ran away or run off, scared out of his wits.

007n7 shook his head, trembling as he lost air. In those eyes that looked towards it now, it saw various commands retrieving and sifting through files upon files of data. "No— I don't—"

"Don't what?" It seemed nothing came up, as finally, the terminal in 007n7's eyes stopped registering commands. Maybe he'd finally given up.

"I don't— know!— I don't remember!—"

...

A sickening snap could be heard halfway across the map. 007n7 had been distracting, but it seemed the gambit was up. Chance never knew much about 007n7, besides the fact that Elliott wasn't much fond of him. He'd tried to get close to the guy (and was more intrigued by that little panel he carried around than any sort of shady activities he might be up to), but any time he tried to talk to him, it was clear his brain was wandering over to Timbuktu and trying to army crawl his way back through the jungles of unconscious thought— AKA, 007n7 was too out of it, or maybe too anxious, to pay attention to their conversations. Didn't he know that friendships were reciprocal? Stupid. That was a fact of life— you get what you give. That's why gambling always worked— you got outputs from inputs. Someone well-versed with computers should've known that, Chance figured. But, then again, he did get what he gave— he always seemed to be sticking around the edges of the group and never liked Chance's hypotheticals on chances. Now, Chance knew reputation was important, but he was more fond of taking a gamble on moral ambiguity than following the crowd of righteousness. Besides, he'd know better than anyone that, in terms of statistics, past results never equated to future ones. Anything, and by association, anyone could change in an instant. 007n7 just didn't seem keen on flying anywhere but beneath the radar, and Chance's plane was upside down and actively taking a nosedive towards the great stars.

Two Time stood up from the wire connectors and paused. Chance got up as well, screwing his ears to see if anything else besides the deadly snap of a neck could be heard.

"Hey, uh... Y'hear something?" Chance muttered, turning to his teammate.

"It's just like what I saw yesterday."

"... What?" Chance said, slamming the butt of his palm on the generator as the panel popped out to meet him. As per usual, Two Time had their... strange ramblings. Chance tended to tune them out.

"They had it in for us, didn't they? Right from the beginning. Who'd have thought that we were so important?"

"Heh, yeah..." Chance mumbled along. The rubber wires were concrete beneath his fingertips, and so was the electricity that snapped at his hands.

"Good, good... Very good! Took me in completely!" Two Time turned to Chance. "Didn't he take you in completely? Encore! That's it, then, is it? The sun's going down." They pulled out the red wire from the panel and plugged it into the red port. "Or, the earth's coming up, as the fashionable theory has it." Two Time plugged in the blue cable right next to it. "What was it all about? When did it begin? Couldn't we just stay put?" Chance wanted to speak up, but saw Two Time was still doing the task (now assigning the black wire to the black port), so he figured it was generally meaningless to rile them up. "I mean, no one is going to come on and drag us off, they'll... just have to wait. We're still young. Fit. We've got years." Two Time laughed in what sounded like a cry. Chance didn't look over. "We've done nothing wrong! We didn't harm anyone!"

Chance turned his head to face them. "Just seems like bad things happen to good people."

Two Time stopped in his monologuing and looked back at Chance. Briefly, there was light in those eyes. Briefly, there was recognition. Maybe Chance had gotten lucky and guessed at what they'd been talking on and on about.

"All right, then." Two Time shut the panel on the generator as Chance finished up rearranging the wires. "I've had enough. To tell you the truth, I'm relieved."

"Good. Good to hear that."

The generator sputtered to life. Two Time looked at him, and Chance looked away.

Immediately, the whole stage was lit up, like the sun had exploded— and they were awake, away from the bad dream, no longer sleepwalking and holding moral compasses pointing south.