Chapter Text
Morning arrives without prophecy.
No thunder splitting the sky. No choir of distant, judgmental voices. Just sunlight easing through the blinds in thin gold lines that stretch across the room and rest gently against white sheets.
Ro wakes slowly.
Not dramatically. Just… incrementally.
First the shift of breath.
Then the subtle furrow between his brows.
Then eyes blinking open into the quiet.
His hair is a soft spill of white across the pillow, bright even in the low light, with a single lavender streak cutting through it like someone once decided symmetry was overrated. The streak is slightly crooked today. He does not fix it.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment.
The ceiling stares back.
“I’m not dead,” he murmurs. “Shocking.”
He sits up, runs a hand through his hair, and exhales the kind of sigh that belongs to someone who is not expecting anything exciting to happen. His day, as far as he knows, will consist of:
Coffee
Mild existential reflection
Possibly reorganizing something unnecessarily
He stretches and swings his legs off the bed.
The world feels… steady.
That should have been suspicious.
…
The bell above the café door jingles with the enthusiasm of someone who knows secrets.
Ro steps inside.
Warmth wraps around him immediately. The air smells like roasted beans, cinnamon, and something vaguely electric. The walls were splashed with mismatched colors that somehow made sense. The chalkboard menu has been rewritten three times and currently lists:
LATTE
LATTE BUT SAD
LATTE BUT FAST
LATTE BUT HUNGRY
???
Behind the counter, Squiddo is attempting to balance three mugs on one hand while arguing with the espresso machine.
“You are not stronger than me,” she informs it.
The espresso machine wheezes in disagreement.
She spots Ro immediately.
Gasps.
Points dramatically.
“WHITE-HAIRED PHILOSOPHER HAS ARRIVED.”
Ro inclines his head.
“Good morning.”
“Is it?” she asks suspiciously.
“It is morning according to the time.”
“Acceptable.”
She hops down from the counter. No one comments on the fact that she was on the counter.
She does not ask what he wants. She never does.
Instead she narrows her eyes at him, assessing.
“You look like someone who dreamt in grayscale.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Tragic.”
She spins, grabs a mug, performs a small unnecessary twirl, and slides it across the counter with remarkable precision.
It stops perfectly in front of him.
He peers into it.
The foam art is… abstract. Possibly a squid. Possibly a threat.
“Is there glitter in this?”
“Only spiritually.”
He takes a careful sip.
Warmth floods in.
Balanced. Slightly sweet. A faint note of something floral.
He relaxes, just a fraction.
“You added flowers.”
“I experiment,” she says proudly. “You’re my controlled variable.”
He nods once. “Ethical. I totally won't die soon.”
She leans across the counter.
“You feel weird today.”
He considers this.
“No.”
“You feel like the universe is lining up bowling pins.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“Everything is dramatic.”
He takes another sip and glances toward the window.
Sunlight spills into the street outside. People walk. A dog barks. A truck passes.
Ordinary.
“I will take the alley shortcut,” he says.
She gasps theatrically. “The alley? How delightfully ominous.”
“It is shorter.”
“Famous last words.”
He sets down exact change.
“Thank you, Squiddo.”
She salutes with a spoon.
“If you get kidnapped, I will sell commemorative mugs.”
He pauses.
“…Noted.”
He leaves.
The bell jingles again.
The espresso machine makes a noise that sounds vaguely prophetic.
…
The alley is not particularly threatening.
Brick walls rise on either side. A metal dumpster rests to the left. A stray newspaper skitters past his shoes like it’s late for something.
Ro walks calmly.
Coffee in hand.
Eyes looking around thoughtful.
He considers:
Whether destiny is self-fulfilling or externally imposed
If he should buy new shoes
Why glitter exists and is it in his coffee
He takes another sip.
The air shifts.
Not colder.
Not darker.
Just… weighted.
He slows.
The silence deepens.
The sounds from the street seem to dim as if someone turned down the volume on reality.
He frowns faintly.
“That’s not right.”
A shadow moves behind him.
Fast.
He begins to turn.
There is a rush of movement, the blur of dark fabric, and then–
Impact.
Sharp. Heavy. Precise.
The world jolts sideways.
Coffee arcs through the air in a tragic brown spiral.
RIP coffee.
The ground rises far too quickly.
His knees buckle.
Vision fractures into light and brick and sky.
He hears someone say, distantly:
“Oh no.”
Then everything collapses into black.
…
Cold.
That is the first sensation.
Cold stone against his cheek.
The second sensation is voices.
Whispering. Arguing. Not particularly coordinated.
“…I said controlled force.”
“He looked durable.”
“You cannot determine durability by aesthetic.”
“He has symmetrical bone structure!”
Ro inhales slowly.
Pain pulses faintly at the back of his head.
He does not move yet.
He listens.
Footsteps shift around him.
Fabric rustles.
There is the faint hum of something unnatural in the air. Like electricity, but older.
He opens one eye.
Stone floor. Intricate carvings. A circle of faintly glowing runes.
He closes it again.
“…I dropped my coffee,” he murmurs.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Someone gasps.
“He’s conscious.”
“Yes,” Ro says calmly without opening his eyes. “That tends to happen.”
A figure steps closer.
Boots. Dark hem of a cloak. Controlled posture.
A voice speaks, smooth and irritated.
“Mapic.”
“Yes?”
“You should not have knocked him out that hard.”
“He is speaking.”
“I think he might be insane.”
Ro opens both eyes this time.
The ceiling above him is arched stone, threaded with glowing symbols in pale violet light. Candles line the walls in unnaturally symmetrical arrangements.
He pushes himself up slowly to a seated position.
White hair falls into his eyes.
He can't push it back since his hands are tied.
There are at least four robed figures standing around him.
In the center is the one who just spoke.
Zam.
Even seated on the floor, Ro can tell they are the axis around which the room turns.
Cloak dark as ink. Hands folded behind their back. Presence controlled, deliberate.
Mapic stands slightly off to the side holding what appears to be a metal pipe.
Ro looks at the pipe.
Then at Mapic.
Then back at Zam.
“Is this a cult?”
There is a pause.
“…We prefer organization,” Abyss replies synchronized.
“That was not a no.”
Mapic whispers urgently, “Should we tie him?”
“He is not running,” Pentar says.
Ro blinks at them.
“I do not know where I am.”
“Precisely.”
He nods once.
“Fair.”
Zam steps forward.
“You have been brought here for a purpose.”
Ro tilts his head slightly.
“That is generally how being brought somewhere works.”
Mapic shifts uncomfortably.
Zam ignores the commentary.
“You are close to Jumper.”
There it is.
Ro exhales through his nose.
“Yes.”
“We require her.”
“For?”
Zam’s gaze sharpens.
“The prophecy.”
Ro stares.
“…You have a prophecy.”
“Yes.”
“And it concerns Jumper.”
“Yes.”
“And you kidnapped me because.”
“You are leverage.”
Ro considers this for a long moment.
Then:
“I am not.”
The room stills.
Zam’s eyes narrow slightly.
“You underestimate your significance.”
“I do not,” Ro replies. “You overestimate it.”
Mapic leans toward Bacon. “He’s not reacting correctly.”
“Should we threaten him?”
Ro raises a hand politely.
“I would prefer if you did not.”
Zam crouches in front of him, eye level now.
“You believe you don’t influence Jumper’s actions?”
Ro meets their gaze steadily.
“I don’t even influence Jumper’s lunch choices.”
“And yet,” Bacon says softly, “She hangs out with you.”
“Yes.”
"And you hang out with her.”
“Yes.”
“Then she will come.”
Ro studies them carefully.
Lavender eyes thoughtful.
“You misunderstand her.”
A flicker of something passes through Pentar’s expression.
“We understand destiny.”
Ro’s head tilts.
“You read it yourself?”
A pause.
“…Zam translated it.”
Ro closes his eyes briefly.
“Of course.”
Mapic bristles. “Zam is extremely qualified.”
“I do not doubt Zam’s confidence,” Ro replies.
Zam straightens.
“You will remain here until Jumper arrives.”
Ro looks around the chamber.
The glowing runes. The candles. The dramatic symmetry.
“Do you have chairs?”
Mapic looks offended.
“Of course we have chairs.”
“Excellent. My head hurts.”
Zam gestures.
“Bring him water.”
Mapic hesitates.
“Alive,” Zam adds flatly.
Mapic scurries.
Ro shifts carefully to sit cross-legged on the stone floor.
“May I ask,” he says mildly, “what the prophecy actually says.”
Zam studies him.
Then, slowly and dramatically, whips out a piece of parchment.
“‘In silentio ante murmur tenebrarum scriptum est: exsurgat Electa per vinculum fidei, nec ferro nec igne ducta, sed voluntate hilaris.
Illa tanget abyssum et non absorbebitur, sed ipsa abyssum mutabit, sive ad gloriam altam, sive ad ruinam sonoram.
Abyssus esurit. Abyssus semper esurit.
Date ei liba dulcia et panem calidum; nam placenta mellita melior est quam panis aridus, et crustulum butyratum fortius est quam biscoctum durum.
Si abyssus bene pascitur, ridebit; si male pascitur, fremet et luces tremescent.
Electa discernet inter cibum dignum et indignum, inter sacrum et sapidum; et per electionem eius renovabitur Abyssus, sive saturatus in gloria, sive offensus in pulvere.
Nam ipsa erit axis et ruptura, et fortasse etiam pistrix magna sub eadem luna.’”
Ro listens carefully.
“…That’s vague.”
“It is sacred.”
“It is grammatically ambiguous.”
The room bristles.
Zam’s gaze sharpens.
“You presume much.”
“I hear mispronounced Latin,” Ro replies calmly.
More of that he was confused at Zam saying: ‘placenta mellita melior est quam panis aridus’
and wondering why the void has pastry standards.
There is a ripple of uncertainty among the robed figures.
Pentar’s fingers tighten slightly behind their back.
“Zam assured us of its clarity.”
Ro offers a small, almost sympathetic look.
“That is concerning.”
Mapic returns with water.
Hands it over.
Ro drinks.
Silence stretches.
Then:
“Did you at least consider asking Jumper.”
Zam stiffens.
“Asking.”
“Yes.”
“For participation.”
The concept hangs in the air like a forbidden word.
Zam’s voice lowers.
“The Chosen One does not get asked.”
Ro sets the cup down gently.
“That is where you are wrong.”
The runes hum faintly.
Far above, somewhere in the city, life continues as if nothing has shifted.
But in the stone chamber beneath it, something subtle tilts.
A prophecy invoked.
A variable miscalculated.
And a random guy sits calmly in the center of it all.
Still mildly annoyed about his coffee.
…
Ro is given his phone back under supervision.
Which feels insulting.
“I am not going to call emergency services,” he says flatly.
Mapic squints at him. “You might.”
“I would not.”
“You might.”
Zam raises a hand. Silence falls immediately.
“Let him call.”
Ro rubs the back of his head where he was definitely hit too hard.
He scrolls.
Finds Jumper’s contact.
The name is simply:
Jumper.
No emojis. No dramatic title.
He presses call.
The chamber is very quiet.
It rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
No answer.
Ro’s expression barely changes, but his fingers tighten slightly around the phone.
He hangs up.
Waits five seconds.
Calls again.
Ring.
Ring.
Voicemail.
He lowers the phone slowly.
“She is not answering.”
Zam steps closer.
“She would answer for you.”
“Yes,” Ro says quietly. “She would.”
That is when the air shifts.
Not ominous.
Just… aware.
Abyss turns sharply.
“Bacon.”
Bacon straightens from where he was leaning dramatically against a pillar.
“Yes.”
“Prepare the ritual.”
Mapic gasps. “The ritual ritual?”
“Yes.”
Pentar drops the ceremonial bowl he was polishing. It clangs loudly.
“Already?”
Zam’s voice lowers.
“She has not answered.”
That, apparently, is enough.
…
Within minutes, the chamber transforms from “kidnapping site” to “theatrical disaster.”
Candles are rearranged.
Chalk circles are redrawn.
Mapic brings:
A loaf of bread
A slightly burnt cookie
A suspiciously crispy strip of bacon
Pentar holds a large book upside down.
Bacon is already chanting under their breath.
Ro watches from the edge of the circle, arms folded.
“…Is this necessary?”
“Yes,” Zam replies.
“For what.”
“For clarity.”
Mapic whispers loudly, “Do we start with the bacon or the honey cake?”
Bacon snaps, “The bacon is symbolic!”
“Of what?”
“Depth!”
“That makes no sense.”
Zam steps into the center of the circle.
“Silence.”
Everyone freezes.
Even the candles flicker respectfully.
Zam clears their throat.
They began chanting in Latin. Confidently. Perhaps incorrectly.
Pentar tosses a pinch of salt into the bowl.
Mapic dramatically places the bacon in the center.
“Why bacon,” Ro asks softly.
“Because the void prefers savory contrast,” Mapic whispers.
“Because the void loves me.” Bacon said, in a voice that was not a whisper.
“That is not canon,” Zam hisses.
The runes begin to glow.
Not violently.
Just… annoyed.
The air thickens.
The candles flare.
The bacon crackles louder than it should.
Zam raises both hands.
“Reveal the secrets. Accept the snacks. Please show us Jumper, Abyss. Please.”
The circle hums.
The light sharpens.
And then–
It shifts.
Not toward Ro.
Not toward the cult.
But outward.
Elsewhere.
Zam gasps.
“The vision!”
The light forms an image in the center of the circle.
A room.
Bright.
Sterile.
Metal walls.
Glass containment.
A familiar silhouette sitting inside.
Jumper.
Calm.
Hands folded loosely in her lap.
Watching something off-screen with mild irritation.
Ro’s breath catches.
Mapic leans forward too far and nearly steps into the circle.
“That’s not us.”
“No,” Bacon says quietly.
Zam squints.
“Those markings…”
Ro recognizes them instantly.
“…The Foundation.”
The image flickers.
Another angle appears.
A hallway.
Four figures walking briskly.
Minute.
Clown.
Ashswag.
Jepex.
Efficient. Coordinated.
Not eating snacks.
Clown is talking animatedly with his hands.
Minute is carrying a tablet.
Ashswag looks deeply unimpressed.
Jepex stands there like he doesn't know what he's doing.
The image sharpens.
A badge flashes briefly.
Foundation insignia.
The chamber goes still.
“They have her,” Ro says.
Not panicked.
Just certain.
Zam swallows.
“The prophecy did not specify this.”
“It rarely specifies anything,” Ro replies.
The image fades.
The candles sputter out one by one.
The bacon collapses into ash.
Silence.
Heavy and undeniable.
Zam lowers their hands slowly.
“The Foundation has taken the Chosen.”
Mapic whispers, “We were too slow.”
Pentar mutters, “Or too loud.”
Ro steps forward.
“She was already taken before you kidnapped me.”
Zam turns sharply.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“Why did you not say.”
“You were busy debating pastry hierarchy.”
That lands.
Hard.
Zam adjusts his robe nervously.
“The Foundation is structured. Calculating.”
“Yes,” Ro says. “They do not chant over baked goods.”
Mapic looks personally attacked.
Zam’s expression sharpens into something colder.
“Then we will retrieve her.”
Ro studies them carefully.
“Not to use her.”
A pause.
A real one.
Zam’s jaw tightens.
“…To secure her.”
“That is not the same answer.”
The tension hums again.
Then Zam straightens fully.
“Bacon. Pentar. Mapic. Prepare for intervention.”
Mapic blinks.
“We are fighting the Foundation.”
“Yes.”
“With… what.”
Zam glances at the ritual circle.
“With…uhh.. snacks.”
Ro exhales slowly.
The game has shifted.
The prophecy is no longer theoretical.
The Foundation has the Chosen One.
And the Abyss is not accustomed to being second.
Far away, behind reinforced glass, Jumper taps her fingers lightly against her knee.
Waiting.
Absolutely bored.
…
The ritual smoke hasn’t fully cleared when Zam pivots sharply.
“To the armory.”
Mapic straightens immediately.
“Yes.”
Pentar clutches the ritual book protectively.
Bacon looks mildly pale but determined.
Ro follows.
Because at this point, of course he does.
They move down a narrow corridor carved into stone, lit by torches that hum with faint violet light. The air smells faintly of incense and, unfortunately, bacon ash.
The armory doors loom ahead.
Heavy metal. Engraved symbols. Dramatic.
Mapic steps forward and places his hand against the seal.
The doors slide open with a mechanical groan.
Everyone stops.
The room is… empty.
Not fully empty.
But distressingly so.
A single dagger sits on a table.
One.
Dagger.
There is also:
A cracked ceremonial shield
A coil of rope that looks decorative
Silence.
Long.
Dense.
Zam steps inside slowly.
“Where,” they ask evenly, “is everything.”
Mapic blinks.
Pentar blinks.
Bacon blinks.
Ro leans against the doorway.
“Define everything.”
Zam turns.
“The void-channeling amplifiers.”
Silence.
“The resonance staffs.”
More silence.
“The containment relic.”
Mapic raises a hand slowly.
“…Wemmbu borrowed those.”
The chamber temperature drops three degrees.
Zam’s voice becomes very calm.
“When.”
“Last week.”
“For.”
Mapic swallows.
“An experiment.”
Bacon adds helpfully, “He said he would return them.”
Ro sighs quietly.
“And the tactical cloaks.”
Pentar coughs.
“Squiddo.”
Abyss freezes.
“…Explain.”
“She said they matched her café aesthetic.”
Ro presses a hand to his forehead.
“You let Squiddo borrow stealth cloaks.”
“She was very persuasive,” Mapic mutters.
Zam slowly turns in a circle, surveying the desolation.
The armory of the Abyss.
Reduced to:
One dagger.
And vibes.
…
Ro pushes off the doorway.
“You are planning to infiltrate the Foundation.”
“Yes.”
“With what.”
Zam looks at the dagger.
Then at the rope.
Then at the cracked shield.
“…Adaptation.”
Bacon whispers urgently, “We could request the items back.”
“And alert both Wemmbu and Squiddo,” Zam replies flatly. “Two individuals who cannot keep secrets.”
“That is true,” Ro agrees.
Mapic brightens slightly. “We still have the ritual chalk.”
Ro stares at him.
“You cannot chalk a containment facility.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Zam raises a hand.
“Enough.”
Silence falls instantly.
They walk to the center of the empty room.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And then they begin pacing.
Ro watches.
This is dangerous.
The entire Abyss thinking collectively is always dangerous.
“The Foundation relies on structure,” Zam begins. “On surveillance. On layered defense.”
“Yes,” Bacon nods.
“They expect resistance.”
“Yes.”
“They expect force.”
“Yes.”
“They do not expect,” Zam continues, eyes sharpening, “theatrical misdirection layered with symbolic incursion.”
Ro closes his eyes briefly.
“Please define that.”
Zam stops pacing.
Their gaze gleams.
“We do not storm the Foundation.”
Mapic looks confused.
“We invite them into collapse.”
“That,” Ro says carefully, “sounds expensive.”
…
Zam sweeps their cloak dramatically, even though there is no wind.
“We begin with misinformation.”
Bacon perks up. “Forgery?”
“Yes.”
Pentar nods eagerly. “We can fabricate a secondary prophecy.”
“No,” Ro interrupts. “Please do not fabricate another prophecy.”
They begin listing it like an architect drawing a cathedral.
- Stage One: False Disturbance
Spread rumors of a void pony in the city.
Foundation deploys a response unit.
We observe patterns. And eat snacks. - Stage Two: Symbolic Interference
Launch fake ritual.
Not an attack. Just noise. With snacks.
They escalate security. - Stage Three: Psychological Messages
Deliver a sealed message to their leadership.
It contains only the prophecy fragment.
Highlighted ambiguously. With an empty bag of chips
Ro exhales.
“That will not make them cautious.”
“It will make them confused,” Zam corrects.
Mapic whispers, “Confused is slower.”
Zam nods.
- Stage Four: Internal Problems Identify dissent within their ranks.
Exploit it. Bribe them with snacks
Bacon brightens. “I can research personnel files.”
“How,” Ro asks, “are you accessing personnel files.”
Bacon hesitates.
“…Research.”
Ro decides not to pursue that.
- Stage Five: Controlled Extraction
While they are divided, we create a narrow breach. Not large enough to trigger full lockdown. Just enough.
Pentar raises a hand timidly.
“With what.”
Zam pauses.
Silence returns.
Everyone slowly turns toward the empty shelves.
The cracked shield.
The single dagger.
The rope.
Zam straightens.
“We improvise.”
Ro stares.
“You are planning a multi-phase psychological operation against a structured containment organization with one dagger.”
Zam meets his gaze steadily.
“Yes.”
A long pause.
Then Ro sighs.
“…Fine.”
Everyone looks at him.
Zam narrows their eyes slightly.
“You are assisting.”
“You need someone who understands how she thinks.”
“And you do.”
“Yes.”
The words settle heavily.
Mapic shifts awkwardly.
Pentar looks uncertain.
Zam clears his throat.
“We should also account for Minute, Clown, Ashswag, and Jepex.”
Bacon nods once.
“They are efficient.”
Ro’s voice softens slightly.
“They are loyal.”
Zam’s expression flickers.
“So are we.”
The statement hangs in the air.
Charged.
Complicated.
Ro studies them carefully.
“You must decide,” he says quietly, “if this is about ownership or choice.”
Zam does not answer immediately.
Instead, they turn back toward the armory exit.
“Gather what remains.”
Mapic picks up the dagger reverently.
Pentar grabs the rope.
Bacon collects the cracked shield like it still has dignity.
Ro lingers one second longer in the empty room.
Then follows.
Because the Foundation has Jumper.
And whether the prophecy means ruin or glory no longer matters.
Someone moved first.
Now the Abyss moves.
Dramatically.
Overcomplicatedly.
Under-equipped.
And absolutely convinced this will work.
…
The room is very white.
Not peacefully white.
Institutionally white.
The walls are seamless. The lights hum faintly overhead. There is no visible door handle. The glass barrier in front of her reflects her own face back at her in faint distortion.
Jumper sits cross-legged on the cot.
Hands resting loosely in her lap.
Expression neutral.
She taps her finger against her knee.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She exhales.
On the other side of the glass, Minute stands with a tablet in his hands.
He looks concerned.
Not hostile.
Not triumphant.
Just… careful.
Clown leans against the wall behind him, arms crossed, rocking slightly on his heels. Ash stands with the posture of someone who distrusts the air itself. Jepex adjusts his position for the third time in two minutes.
Minute presses a button. The intercom clicks softly.
“Jumper,” he says gently.
She looks up.
“Minute.”
Her voice is calm. Mildly curious.
“We would like to clarify that you are not under arrest.”
“I noticed,” she replies.
“You are under protective containment.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“That sounds like arrest with better marketing.”
Clown snorts quietly.
Minute ignores that.
“We intercepted anomalous readings connected to the Abyss. You were within the radius.”
“I was drinking tea.”
“Yes.”
There is a pause.
Minute adjusts his grip on the tablet.
“We believe you are central to an emerging prophecy.”
Jumper blinks.
“…what.”
Ash speaks for the first time.
“It’s significant.”
She shrugs.
“I’m sure it feels that way.”
Minute steps closer to the glass.
His voice lowers slightly.
“I asked you to come with us.”
“You did.”
“You agreed.”
“I did.”
“You are free to leave.”
She glances toward the seamless walls.
“Am I.”
Minute hesitates.
“…Within reason.”
She smiles faintly.
“That is not an answer.”
Clown pushes off the wall.
“She’s not trying to escape.”
“No,” Jumper says. “I’m not.”
And she isn’t.
That’s the strange part.
She doesn’t look distressed.
She doesn’t look angry.
She just looks…
bored.
Minute clears his throat softly.
“I asked you,” he says again, “if you would remain here. Under our protection.”
“Yes.”
“And you said you would consider it.”
“Yes.”
There is a beat.
“I have considered it.”
The room stills slightly.
Ash’s eyes narrow just a fraction.
Jepex stops adjusting his glasses.
Minute straightens.
“And?”
Jumper leans back on her hands.
The fluorescent light catches faintly in her eyes.
“It’s boring.”
Silence.
Clown laughs once before catching himself.
Minute blinks.
“…Boring.”
“Yes.”
Ash frowns.
“This is a secure facility.”
“I know.”
“It has state-of-the-art surveillance.”
“Yes.”
“It has reinforced containment layers.”
“Yes.”
She tilts her head.
“It has no windows.”
Minute’s shoulders lower slightly.
“We are trying to keep you safe.”
“From the Abyss.”
“Yes.”
She studies him.
“They haven’t asked me to join anything.”
“They kidnapped Ro.”
Her fingers still.
Just slightly.
Minute softens.
“We retrieved you because the situation is escalating.”
“And because you don’t trust them.”
“Yes.”
“And because you don’t trust me to decide.”
The words are not accusatory.
They’re observational.
Minute hesitates.
“That is not–”
“It’s okay,” she interrupts gently. “You don’t have to pretend.”
Clown glances between them, sensing tension like it’s sport.
Ash crosses his arms tighter.
Jepex quietly stares at the ground.
Minute lowers his voice.
“I trust you.”
She looks at him steadily.
“But you don’t trust what they might do.”
“…No.”
She nods once.
“That’s fair.”
A pause.
Then she sighs.
“But this place feels like waiting for something that isn’t happening.”
Minute studies her carefully.
“You are not concerned.”
“About what.”
“The prophecy.”
She shrugs.
“People misread Latin all the time.”
Ash stiffens.
“How do you know it’s Latin?”
She smiles faintly.
“Because it always is.”
Clown laughs again, this time openly.
Minute rubs his temple.
“We believe you are pivotal.”
“I usually am,” she replies mildly.
That lands harder than intended.
Minute steps closer to the glass.
“If you leave, they will attempt contact.”
“Yes.”
“If you remain here, we can mediate that.”
She considers.
“You asked nicely.”
“Yes.”
“And I like you.”
Clown makes an exaggerated gagging motion.
Ash mutters, “Professional environment.”
Jepex pretends not to hear.
Jumper continues.
“But I don’t like cages.”
Minute’s expression shifts.
“It is not a cage.”
“It’s not not a cage.”
Silence.
He lowers his tablet.
“If you stay,” he says quietly, “it’s because you choose to.”
She watches him carefully.
Not testing.
Not provoking.
Just measuring.
“And if I leave.”
“Then we will adapt.”
Ash looks like he would like to veto that statement.
Clown looks entertained.
Jepex looks tired.
Jumper shifts her weight.
The cot creaks slightly.
“You’re worried they’ll manipulate me.”
“Yes.”
“They won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can.”
Minute’s jaw tightens faintly.
“You don’t know them the way I do.”
“And you don’t know where they have Ro.” she replies softly.
That name hangs in the air.
Minute exhales.
“We are tracking him.”
“Good.”
“He is with Abyss.”
“Yes.”
“He is not in immediate danger.”
“Yes.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“You asked me to stay.”
“I did.”
She thinks.
A full five seconds of stillness.
Then:
“I’ll stay.”
Relief flickers across Minute’s face.
“But.”
There it is.
“But,” she continues, “if this turns into indefinite containment, I’m leaving.”
Minute nods.
“Understood.”
Clown claps once softly.
“Look at that. Consent. Revolutionary.”
Ash shoots him a look.
Jepex sighs.
The intercom clicks off.
Minute lingers a moment longer.
She looks up at him.
“Minute.”
“Yes.”
“If they come for me.”
“They won’t.”
“If they do.”
He meets her gaze through the glass.
“…Then we’ll see who misread the prophecy.”
A faint smile curves at the corner of her mouth.
“Good.”
He steps back.
The lights hum.
The room remains white.
Jumper lies back on the cot and stares at the ceiling.
She is not afraid.
She is not impressed.
She is just… waiting.
And somewhere beneath layers of stone and ritual chalk, the Abyss is planning something far too dramatic.
She sighs softly.
“I hope they bring snacks.”
Because if the void is hungry,
someone should at least have good taste.
…
Wemmbu is digging through a dusty crate labeled “Totally Normal Cult Stuff.”
Squiddo: “Why do we still have all this??”
Wemmbu (holding up ominous glowing orb): “Oh. Huh.”
Squiddo: “Is that–”
Wemmbu: “–Yeah.”
They both stare at the pile: robes, mysterious blueprints, a comically large red button, three humming batteries, and something labeled ‘Emergency Apocalypse Backup (Do Not Shake)’.
Squiddo: “…We were supposed to return these.”
Wemmbu: “Counterpoint: science.”
Cut to two hours later.
They’re both wearing goggles. The machine now has way too many wires, random kitchen utensils attached for “stability,” and a disco ball on top “for intimidation.”
Squiddo: “Are we sure this won’t, like… end reality?”
Wemmbu (tightening a bolt): “Probably not. I removed the ‘End Reality’ setting.”
Squiddo: “You REMOVED it?”
Wemmbu: “Yeah, I replaced it with ‘Mild Inconvenience.’ Way safer.”
The machine begins to glow. Dramatic humming fills the room.
They both freeze.
Squiddo: “…Did we just accidentally rebuild the cult’s ultimate device?”
Wemmbu: “…Whoops.”
They stare at it for five long seconds.
Then Squiddo’s phone buzzes.
Squiddo: “Oh wait, we have snacks downstairs.”
Wemmbu: “Oh nice.”
They walk away.
The machine continues ominously charging in the background.
Cut to the next morning.
They both walk past it.
Wemmbu: “Why is there a glowing orb in our living room?”
Squiddo: “No idea.”
They both shrug.
Fade out as the machine quietly powers down because nobody pressed the giant red button.