Slater Fujisaki has royally fucked up.
It's the only logical conclusion that he can come to. Why else is he sitting in the familiarity of his bed puzzling over the fact that he is within some corrupted file. It's completely glitching out, the text nigh eligible, mind you!
The thought occurs to him that maybe he is just going insane.
A good night of sleep and this will all be over.
Just go to sleep.
Please, go the fuck to sleep.
He does not, because he cannot. This feels nothing like a dream and he's not stupid enough to delude himself into thinking that this is all some nightmare. It should be practically impossible to enter a save file that is both admin restricted and corrupted. This one is all dyed black, too. The signs of a completely doomed run. One of the worst checkpoints he has experienced.
Slinking back into his pillows, he stares at the rest of the system's window like as if it is foreign. Most everything else was restricted access, it wouldn't even let him see his current condition in any shape or form.
Eventually, silence befalls the room.
It's only morning and it feels as if the entire day has passed him by, that time has stopped completely. He knows that it's untrue, otherwise a big pause sign would be blinking around, following him wherever he moved to permanently remind him that everything was still.
He gazes out of the window anyways, only to watch the streetlamps all blink on. One by one by one as the Keepers of the City go about their jobs. They fade into the shadows, signifying that evening has come and went while night hangs desperately overhead. The moons are full, but not all of them are in the sky.
Slater sits up, the house is quiet where it should be loud.
It had just been morning, the kids would still be running around, and his twin would have come in earlier to check on him. He always did.
The teenager gets up, all at once aware of the beating of his own heart and the sound of his breath in his ears.
Bare feet feel too exposed as he gets out of the hallway.
He knows better than to speak but he wants to call out to someone anyways. So he does.
( A terrible idea especially with his anima not functioning as it should, if he died here maybe it really would be the end. )
"Um, guys?" His voice feels as small as he is.
There is no response given. The hallway is dark and long. It stretches onward for infinity. That's how he perceives it when in truth it only stretches out the length of a proper hallway, whatever that means.
Turning into the kitchen reveals nothing of note. It's the same living room and kitchen. The breakfast bar continues to weep and the television whispers to the darkness.
"Hello?" No response.
Itching begins in the back of his neck, curling around the base of his skull and he reaches back with broken fingernails to scratch the itch. It doesn't go away, so he keeps scratching.
"What the hell? Why does this have to happen to me..." It slips past his lips and he stalks towards the kitchen, still itching away at his neck. It doesn't even smell like dinner has come and went. Nothing smells like anything and yet when he opens the fridge, there's packed leftovers from dinner with his name on it.
Maddening, that's what it is.
He really must be missing something, but he's not hungry. Closing the fridge, he turns around and right in front of him is Ransom.
Instead of a scream or a shout, Slater stills in place like a mouse caught in a trap.
"You're awake now?" Ransom speaks when Slater finds himself unable to start the conversation.
All he gives is a dull nod in response.
"∎∎∎∎∎ was looking everywhere for you, you know after you left." When had he left? He was sure he'd been in his room up until now and ∎∎∎∎∎ should have been able to find him easily. Always.
"What? Oh... sorry, I was just..." It feels lame to start out with, Slater knows it deep in his belly, and yet he can only ignore the issue and focus on what he could say in this moment. "I was looking for you guys."
Ransom doesn't respond in the moment, simply staring at him with a curiosity that could burn bridges.
"Really?"
"Really... really." This entire conversation is odd. Though it is hardly a conversation.
"Well, were you about to eat? I could heat it up for you, if you would like."
"No, I wasn't hungry. I was just-" A pause. "...I already told you."
The itching grows more and more apparent as his neck becomes slick. Pulling his hand away, this is blood upon his finger tips and Ransom is smiling. Of... fucking course.
Stupid, stupid, Slater.
His 'brother' is unaware of the blood as Slater wipes it on the underside of his own shirt. There is palpable silence as the younger of the two simply stands there. He is all aware of how bare his feet are and how odd it had been that everything was silent. Too silent, too dark.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
"So..." As it stretches on too long, of course he has to speak. This was way too awkward otherwise. "Were you sleeping or watching anime or something?" Socializing has never been his strong suit.
He wishes he could see the system, he wishes he could use his anima with the advantage he usually had.
"Oh! I was watching that anime you enjoy. Magical Queen Adventure." The second red flag of the night ( or the third, fourth? Who is actually counting... Not Slater ) that almost makes his stomach roll out of his meat suit. Flesh was feeling all too constricting.
An awkward smile rises up to his lips and he feels his teeth poking through. "You mean... Soda POP! Fizzy Adventure?" he presents the name easily. It had always been his favorite and he collected figurines, the manga, everything he could get his hands on.
Ransom laughs, "Ah! That's right. Silly me."
Silly you indeed.
While the memories are slow to catch up to him, the harrowing reality is the fact that Slater has to kill his imposter of a brother because - sigh - fucking hell, he had somehow fallen into a goddamn rift.
Fuck.
This really is the worst timeline to have fallen into. The absolute worst.
Especially considering he doesn't have all the memories he needs to deal with one of the earliest checkpoints he'd created in the system. The answers wouldn't be found now and Slater opts to just deal with it as he goes. If he dies, well he just fucking dies. Ugh, he also really needs to get out of his head. Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop think-
"Yeah..." a belated response, like a lagging game. "Silly you..."
'Ransom' stares at him like he knows that he knows he knows. What a statement.
While neither of them move, the itching at the base of his neck continues to grow in intensity and he scratches at the bloodied skin once more. He can't quite reach the itch even as his fingernails dig past his skin and into the warmth of his muscles. He needed to stop, this was madness.
"If that's all, then you should go to bed, Slater." his 'older brother' states. The tone is dry yet friendly.
Slater needs to get out of here.
He also couldn't go to sleep even though he wants to. He really really wants to go to sleep.
"I..." Why was he hesitating in the first place? This is definitely going to turn into some sort of fight. He can feel it in his bones, the way static increases in his chest. He can feel the way pressure builds in his throat, bubbling up in the form of red hot unease. "I think... yeah, I should go to sleep..."
"You really should, yes!" Encouraging as always, he steps aside as if to let Slater leave the kitchen.
The teenager really doesn't want this imposter behind him, especially with how he begins to scratch his arm, too.
If he stares too long, he can take note of the differences he hadn't noticed before. His brother's eyes were more grey than they were purple and his hair was more of an iridescent pearl hue with black roots than it was completely stark white. It was little things, tiny differences that became far more prominent under duress.
Slater can feel the blood against his forearm, his nails stuck on pieces of skin that raise up and hide away in the underside of them. It doesn't feel good and yet, he knows that he can't fully do anything yet. Right?
Wasn't this supposed to happen elsewhere? Not the kitchen? Why is it the kitchen? Why is it the kitchen? Why is it the-
"Slater? Are you alright, you're spacing out~" that tone is beginning to sound far colder. Far away, like a ghost in his ear. Frigid.
Blinking right back into reality, the mousey teen simply gapes, flinching at the reality of a near death. "Oh, huh. Yeah, yeah. I'm alright. Sorry. A lot on my mind." An understatement if there ever is one.
He should be moving and he is moving, stuck in the quicksand of his own mind. Slowly meandering into a path he feels deep in his gut is the wrong one. He tries to step out of the kitchen and momentarily he allows himself to turn his back while his hand covers the back of his neck, flat against the now cooling blood.
A line is drawn from the 'safety' of the kitchen and the unknown of the living room, he steps through that threshold like a lost lamb and he is met with silence. He turns around.
'Ransom' is gone as if he were never there.
Music feels like it is beginning to play, a digitized mouse appears in the middle of the room.
A quick-time event and the bar is slowly running to a close.
He messed up. He messed up. He messed up and should have stayed in the damn fucking kitchen.
Hiccupping into action, Slater rushes forward to grasp at his own anima's attempt to save his life. He ignores the dark of the living room, he ignores the fact that he should have grabbed a knife.
His fingertips just so barely graze the static of the hologram.
Faster than he can breath, he narrowly dodges a set of claws that hook on the broken skin of his neck. Instead, he falls to the floor. The soft of the carpet feels like tiny needles digging into his palms as he in the same motion pushes himself back up to a sitting position.
There is no one to his right. There is no one to his left.
Look up.
He does, there is no one there but the steady dripping of something black that falls upon his cheek like rain. It smells putrid. He looks down, 'Ransom' is there staring back up at him from the carpet. Something short of a scream leaves his lips and he is pushing himself backwards back onto his ass.
"Shit. Shit. Fuck-"
Where is the next quick-time event? Where the fuck is it?
Stomach falling to his feet, Slater scrambles up off of the floor with a determination that he mistakes as his faulty survival instinct kicking in to save him.
There is no glowing hologram that he can see and he wonders if he actually touched it in the first place.
So he rubs his eyes, trying to still the beating of his heart. He is back in the kitchen. He has never left.
'Ransom' is still there. 'Ransom' is standing there. 'Ransom' looks like... Ransom?
"Oh! Hi, Slater. Didn't know you were awake! I just came in for a snack." A bright smile, it's comforting and it's definitely his brother. It's that same easy-going energy.
Moisture is stolen from his tongue, mouth dry, he does not know what to say. So he stands there and stares.
"Are... you good?" This time Ransom is laughing.
This is his brother.
This is his brother.
This is his... wait. No. That isn't right.
Slater doesn't have...
Any belief that this was going to be okay. He scratches the back of his neck and his skin is not at all wet or raw. He scratches at his arm where only scars reside. He feels his stomach growl and he thinks that maybe he should get a snack too.
"Ah... yeah. I wanted to eat something... too. Uh, sorry. I was spacing out." Slater laughs this time, looks away, and moves to open the fridge. There is nothing inside.
He reaches inside anyway, just to make sure.
A mouse appears in his peripheral vision - glowing, spinning, and holographic. The quick-time event and this time it feels wrong. When he turns to face it, he is propelled forward to reach for it with a frenzy. Fingers slipping through once more and this time he grabs a knife off the counter.
"Slater?" his brother's voice sounds like his brother's voice.
He stabs him anyway.
Once. Twice. Three more.
It wasn't his brother. It couldn't be his brother.
Yet, as he stares at the body on the floor, in between the threshold of the kitchen and the living room. He can only see his brother laying there in a pool of his own blood.