Ethnoentomology

by wrongful

A lone human staggers his way into Hallownest with no recollection of how he got there. Or any recollection of anything, really. With no skills in survival or combat, his only hope is to follow this small Knight creature around until he finds his way home. Or until this alien disease in his head kills him first.

36. EitherOr

"You beat it in me, that part of you /
But I'm gonna split us back in two."

Content Warning: Graphic self-harm.

---

Hornet closed the human's bedroom door behind her; let him rest for once.

She'd had to explain this to Tusk, who had put themselves in the way of the doorframe so they could sit at the edge of the human's bed and watch them, as though they didn't have other things to do, as though staring at his sleeping form would make him wake up any faster. For all she knew, he'd put himself in a coma, and would leave Tusk waiting by his bedside forever. Gods knew they'd wait that long for him.

Now the door was closed. He could sleep in peace, whoever he was.

Hornet was left alone in his living room with Tusk. The Vessel's movements were more subdued than usual, looking around aimlessly before pulling themselves up into a chair at the small dining table, where the human's things lay discarded. Their eyes were barely level with the table itself, but they sat there, still and staring at nothing.

They were like furniture, as lifeless as any other object in the room.

Hornet stood just by the human's bedroom door, her feet seeming stuck to the floor. Her eyes glazed over everything in the room, only for her to find it sparse and dull. The dust on the floor and on untouched cabinets; the twin tears and hints of food crumbs on the carpet; the dried orange stains; the wiry bench with cushions, acting like a couch; the unwashed dishes and pans in the kitchen, next to ingredients that were never put away.

A warm, bright smile on the human's weary face, from behind tangerine eyes.

"...T-Thanks for keeping me grounded there, Hornet."

She was moving without thinking.

"It's… It's good. It's very good," Hornet said, taking another guilty bite.

She slumped down into the chair across from Tusk; this was where she sat then, she realized. Memories of honey-glaze drifted over her—memories turned bitter with silence. Tusk stared at her expectantly, and under their innocent gaze, she dug her fingers into her tense forearms hard enough to bleed.

Hornet looked away, and her eyes fell on the human's possessions. His jacket and scarf lay neatly folded, but dirty, and his messenger bag hung off the back of a third chair.

She reached into the bag, and with steady hands, pulled out the revolver. Tusk perked up and stilled.

–the bullet went straight through their side, causing them to stumble over and drop their nail, tears of liquid night pouring from their eyes–

Hornet tensed, quickly setting the gun down on the table, making sure it wasn't aiming at either of them. The cold metal seemed so weighty as to have its own gravitational pull. The barrel of the revolver was facing away from both of them as her silk shimmered in the air, winding itself together and tightening until it was thick enough to wedge into the screw that kept the gun's grip attached. It rapidly unwound, the screw spinning out of the grip and falling out and onto the table like a top.

Tusk watched with keen interest as Hornet gingerly pried the grip's plastic panel off, and unfolded the old polaroid picture of Valleri.

It didn't feel real, seeing herself when she was so small, so happy; her dress from back then, adorned in an oversized crimson bow, would hardly cover her shoulders now. Her chitinous thumb trailed over the glossy plastic of Valleri's face.

Her eyes were emerald green.

He looks so much like her, it hurts.

A thud. Hornet looked up to see Tusk had climbed up and was standing on the table, staring at her while clutching a Tiktik plushie tight to their chest.

She glared, "Get off the table."

They looked down at their dirty, torn plushie, not moving. With some apprehension, they held it out for her.

"I don't want that."

They held it out further.

"Get down, T–"

Hornet paused, before she bit her tongue, looking away. Her grip really was drawing hemolymph now. She felt ill as she forced out, "Leave me be, Vessel. There's nothing wrong."

Silence. Tusk's arms fell, and they held the plushie close to themselves, sitting cross-legged on the table. Still staring at her with their wide, dark eyes.

–the tears and the struggling came to a slow, and the shadowy corpse on her blade was stilled–

The silence weighed heavy.

"...Wasn't wrong before," she mumbled to herself.

Hornet refused to meet Tusk's gaze after several dead moments, so they tried to go back to their chair. Their foot grazed against the frigid metal of the gun, and they hesitated before scrambling away, anxious. Eyeing the gun, Hornet gave one last longing stare at the world behind the polaroid, before she delicately folded it back up and returned it to the gun's grip, screwing it back in. When she placed it back on the human's folded jacket and scarf, her hands paused, trailing over the torn and filthy cloth.

His jacket was green; it matched his eyes. His eyes now, with the Light purged from his body. Green and orange; the future and the past; the jacket and the scarf.

Chance and Jeremy.

Hornet rose from her seat. Tusk stared as she strode towards the kitchen, busying herself with the unwashed dishes. Dirtmouth hadn't had working running water in years, but her silk could move rapidly and with enough strength to break off the days-old crust that had formed on the pans and plates from the honey marinade, making it easier to properly clean them later when the human woke up.

Pale shimmers waved over her shoulder and struck the pans in rapid fire as Tusk watched, sliding out of their chair to slowly approach her, still holding their Tiktik plushie close. Cut up and browned with dirt, it didn't look so different from the one the human had cooked for her.

"...Jeremy might never wake up, you know."

Hornet had done such a good job burying her thoughts in her busywork that she was completely blindsided by Tusk punching her in the back of the knee, making her drop the pan with a clatter and sending her to the floor on her side. Before she could even try to get up, they'd already run off with their plushie in their arms, escaping into the human's room and slamming the door.

"V-Vessel!" she shouted, pulling herself to her feet and storming over to the door, slamming her fist on it. "Vessel, open this door! He needs rest! Stop acting like a child and come out! Tusk–"

Her fist paused before the door, chitinous claws leaving tight marks in her palm. She didn't glance over her shoulder at the black teardrops that stained the floor, trailing from the kitchen to the bedroom door.

–they could not cry, they could not feel–

"...I have to go," Hornet mumbled, more to herself than anything, and she turned on shaky heels and stormed away.

She paused by the table again, her eyes caught by the human's jacket and scarf. Just like the Vessel's plush toy, they were both tattered and filthy from the days and sleepless nights of toil through Hallownest's depths. She had no doubt the human's strange magic could fix them, but that alone couldn't very well wash them, could it? Besides, her Weaver heritage couldn't stand to see such material go unkempt and worn down into base threads.

Though, the material in human clothes was so alien; she may have an acceptable substitute somewhere in her already-meager supplies, but she doubted she could repair both the jacket and the scarf. She'd have to pick one.

Hornet stopped, turning to the table thoughtfully. Two articles of clothing lay out before her.

The jacket or the scarf.

"Chance" or "Jeremy".

Silently, she reached out, her bleeding hands clenching around the fabric of the–

---

Tusk dried their eyes, kneeling on the side of the bed and staring down at the nameless human's sleeping form. The room was dead silent, and for once, he looked at peace.

But something had entered him in the Abyss, something that should have lain dormant forever. Tusk knew he would wake up soon, because sooner or later, its hunger would rouse him. Something that could hunger, but would never starve.

But for now, it—and he—would be dormant. He did need rest.

They looked down at the Tiktik plushie in their arms. With great delicacy, Tusk pried the human's arms open and set the plushie in his embrace, before pulling the blankets over him.

Tusk stared in silence for a while. They could wait.

…

…

…

Bzzt!

---

While wrapping fresh bandages around Iselda's abdomen, Elderbug had made the fatal mistake of saying, "Why, it would be helpful to have some of that healing magic Chance uses, no?"

The air turned sour. Dirtmouth's citizens were gathered in their excuse for a town hall, the same one they had once celebrated the human's arrival in; now, they all tended to the wounds he had inflicted, directly or otherwise. The ghost town had been burning through their already-sparse medical supplies, moreso in the past few days than they ever had in years.

Cornifer had bandages circling his head like a bandana; he'd been applying a fresh gauze pad to Sly's side. Bretta had managed to get away with only light scrapes after she'd tripped on some rocks trying to flee the scene. All of them turned their heads, looking awkwardly between the Elder, Iselda, and themselves.

Elderbug looked up at Iselda to see her face had gone dark at the mention of the human's name. The town hall, already almost silent, had turned sober.

"...Believe me, I'd love to have Chance here, Elder," Iselda grit out. Her abdomen had serious lacerations on her side and abdomen, there was bruising around her throat that still made it an effort to eat and drink, she had numerous long gashes running up and down her back and around her hands, and there were bleeding bite-marks around her sensitive proboscis.

Her memories of what had happened were hazy, but that last wound told her everything she needed to know.

---

Layla Chance

Today 2:45 AM
Layla: Does this still work?
Layla: Oh, good.

Chance: iwhrbfue8w9shdbsidhb

Layla: What the hell? Did you finally snap?
Layla: Wait, you oughtn't even be awake right now...
Layla: ...Oh. It's you, empty one.

Chance: sja7w6b4ow9akxgx

Layla: Tamper not with Chance's belongings. He won't be pleased, I imagine.
Chance: Foh ja der ist schon wieder voll schön geworden mit der Sonne in den Wolken und Schnee liegt schon rum im Regen der Sonne ist nicht

Layla: Is this that "autocorrect?" You're incomprehensible in two tongues, Vessel.
Layla: Pitiful, repulsive thing. You cannot even read what I'm saying, can you?
Layla: Perhaps your kind cannot even comprehend language. "No mind to think," as we both know.

Chance: tttttttttttttttttttttt,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, f

Layla: Then again, as if any words from the Wyrm's venomous tongue mean a damn thing. You things cannot even be nothing correctly.

Chance: u r hdhdufurhdjxnd soak 5:76

Layla: Faulty beyond fault. Your kind are cursed, blasphemous, unwelcome and unseemly in this world of Light.
Layla: May you never know peace, shadowed one.

Chance: Let's Play 8-Ball:

---

"Has he still not awoken?" Cornifer asked.

"Will he ever?" Sly groaned, feeling the ache of the gauze pad against his weary chitin. "He looked next to death, and that was before Iselda got at him."

Iselda huffed, weary hands clutched at her sides like a vice. "That wasn't me." Then at Sly's wince, she added without thinking, "If it were, I would've beaten him harder."

"Iselda!"

"He did this!" she raised her voice with indignance. "With that… damn crystal of his! It hypnotized me when I first saw it, and I was an idiot for not recognizing that and asking questions, like how a rock could glow–"

"It's not your fault," Cornifer assured her, standing to rest his hands on her tense shoulders. "We are dealing with forces none of us know how to understand. There's nobody here to blame."

All of them were silent for a moment. The alien, otherworldly voice that had stepped into Iselda's chitin and tore through her voice still haunted them.

"...Except for Chance," she huffed.

Cornifer's arms fell to his sides in silence, not sure where to stare other than at Iselda's bitter expression.

---

Layla Chance

Today 2:52 AM
Chance: You Win!

Layla: A fucking farce.
Layla: Meaningless, anyway.

Chance: trapezoid . png

Layla: Don't send me that.
Layla: Can you even read this? Am I wasting my time?

Chance: adderal goblin . mp4

Layla: I don't need your attitude.

Chance: 蜘蛛女出车祸死了所以你永远得不到丝歌

Layla: This is useless.
Layla: You are not empty enough to stop me, Void-Thing, but you're certainly too empty to hold a conversation.

Chance: 管道炸弹

Layla: Pitiful. I'll end your misery soon enough.

Chance: stupid bitch

Layla: WHAT

---

"I-Is it true? That he's… cured his Infection?"

At Bretta's blurt, the heavy silence shifted. Everyone in the town hall was looking at one another.

Sly huffed. "Well, he did something to cure Iselda. And I didn't see that sick orange glow in his eyes."

Elderbug's hands were shaking in reverence, hope shining in his eyes. "By the Wyrm. Wyrm, he's done it, hasn't he? Has he truly–?!"

"Wait," Sly cut back in. "We still don't know how he managed to overcome that plague, what he did to himself or Iselda. If her Infection is a byproduct of Chance's ignorance, then so too may be its cure."

And just like that, the tide shifted back.

Bretta's claws came up to her face in anxiety. "W-Well… I suppose he did find a cure awfully quickly–"

"Now hold on!" Cornifer objected. "Are we truly accusing Chance of fraud?! If he's found a cure to the Dream Plague, then is that not a cause for celebration, not contempt?! Why, I scarcely think this havoc could've been wreaked on purpose–"

"I said ignorance, not fraud, Cornifer. I concur that none of this could've been intentional, but given what's happened to Iselda, that makes it all the more concerning."

Iselda glowered. "I don't believe any of this was on purpose, but I don't much care, either. It makes me no less angry with him."

Cornifer's arguments withered when he looked at his wife; she looked mummified in all her bandages, and it was only by a miracle she was healing so quickly. Yes, he was upset about this, as upset as everyone else in the room, but should that anger really be directed at Chance…?

"C-Chance, he's…" Elderbug stammered out a defense. Everyone stared at him, and he shrunk back, before continuing on shaky breaths, still shaking in reverence at the idea of the Infection finally being cured. "He's… He has had a long journey. He's braved the horrors of this Kingdom and is only barely alive. Forgive his ignorance. He's done a good thing. A good thing…"

Bretta looked down. "W-When you put it that way… he almost sounds like something of a hero…?"

---

Layla Chance

Today 3:02 AM
Chance: potato . png

Layla: That's a potato.

Chance: !
Chance: birthday . png

Layla: A cake.

Chance: treefrog . jpg

Layla: I… don't know what that thing is.
Layla: Vessel?
Layla: Vessel. I can see you through this device's camera.
Layla: Why are you laughing.

Chance: treefrog . jpg
Chance: treefrog . jpg
Chance: treefrog . jpg

Layla: IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY. IT'S JUST A GREEN THING.
Layla: CUT THAT OUT!

Chance: goldfish . gif

Layla: What even IS that fucking thing
Layla: YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE A VOICE TO LAUGH WITH. YOU'RE JUST TUMBLING AROUND LIKE AN IDIOT.
Layla: I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU SO MUCH IT PHYSICALLY HURTS.

Chance: hampter . jpeg

Layla: WHAT IS SO FUNNY?
Layla: STOP THAT!

Chance: whale . mp4

---

Sly shook his head, standing. "Well, since everyone's alive and mostly well now, I suppose it makes little difference to me. My injuries are fine; I've had worse in nailplay training."

"I thought you came from a merchant family?" Cornifer raised an eyebrow.

"I… dabble," Sly deflected, before changing the subject. "Iselda, you mentioned these 'glowing pink crystals' of yours? Have you dealt with them?"

"I've feared approaching it again, but I figured since I've been cured, that… thing, oughtn't affect me again, whatever it was. I've smashed it to pieces and buried them far from the town's outskirts."

"Good. Though, if these mysterious crystals are identical to the ones in the Peaks, which our town exists in the shadow of… Perhaps we were never safe after all…?"

The silence was sickening. Iselda thought she could still hear that otherworldly voice's laughter, and underneath her bandaged hands, she thought she could still feel the slick of her friend's hemolymph.

"Well, we now know the pink crystals as a source of the Infection. That's more than we've known for countless years; we can protect ourselves now, to some extent," Sly mused. "But if this 'cure' is so miraculous, then surely we ought to learn what it is, no? I'm sure Chance would love to share his secrets."

"Yes… Yes!" Elderbug was shaking with excitement. "What power could possibly resist that contemptible plague of Light? Does salvation grace us at last, by the outsider's pale hand?!"

Iselda simmered dangerously. "Yes… Just as he forced his disease and 'cure' into me, I'll pry the answers out of him if I have to."

Cornifer shuffled away from his wife, tense and gulping. "A-As soon as he awakens, of course. H-He needs rest. Did you not see how dark bags weighed under his green eyes, how his movements were buckled with lethargy and imprecision? Uninfected he may be, Chance is on the verge of death even still."

"W-Wasn't he awake earlier?", Bretta asked. "When he attacked… erhm."

"Briefly," Sly clarified. "Whether his exhausted state is a side-effect of his nebulous 'cure' or simply a byproduct of his hastened, impossible journey, we will have to see… When he awakens, of course, provided he does at all."

Bretta squealed, throwing her stubby arms over her face as she shook. "D-Don't be so morbid! O-Of course he'll wake up, won't he?!"

"Surely," Elderbug comforted her, though Cornifer noted he didn't sound too certain. "And then, he will reveal the secret of his miracle to us all, so despair not! Why, a brighter future for Hallownest shines yet!"

The bandaged, bleeding, and broken around him gave no vote of confidence, the town's gloomy silence speaking volumes. Cornifer felt ill.

Chance… For your sake, I hope you have a good explanation for all of this.

---

A cubism dream /

The most beautiful squares I'd ever seen.

---

UNKNOWN SONG

[I THINK] at [THEREFORE]:[I] AM
Jeremy: Aren't you going to say anything?

Roy: jeremy?

Jeremy: I wasn't sure you still used this number.

Roy: i wasnt sure you were still alive
Roy: its been two years, jay

Jeremy: Don't call me that.

Roy: where the hell have you been?
Roy: what happened? and why are you back now?

Jeremy: I'm here because the waves keep pulling me back to you, no matter how hard I try to swim away.

Roy: what?

Jeremy: That, and I know you've been looking for me.

Roy: what?

Jeremy: I've seen you, creeping through the undergrowth, stalking me.
Jeremy: I realized that neither of us can keep living like this anymore, playing a game of cat and mouse the size of Los Angeles.
Jeremy: So fine. You win. Even now, I can't escape.
Jeremy: There's a bonfire party on the beach tonight, the same one we used to go to.
Jeremy: Come to me.

Roy: how did you know i've been looking for your ass for two years?

Jeremy: You think I've got my eyes closed?
Jeremy: I've been looking at you the whole fucking time.

Jeremy left the conversation

LAYLA: ...
Conversation deleted.

---

I will never know /

What had rot my heart /

It just came and went, in the dark.

---

The town hall's door creaked open, and everyone turned to stare.

Barely opening the door a crack, just wide enough for them to shuffle through, absent and inoffensive, was Tusk. The reaction from the townsfolk was immediate, but Cornifer eyed the despondent slump in their shoulders, the way their mask-holes hardly looked up from the floor.

"Tusk? Oh!" Iselda called out. "Are you doing alright? It's been some time since you last came outside."

Cornifer shuffled closer to Iselda as Tusk approached, taking a seat on a step next to Iselda, who patted their shoulder with a gentle, comforting claw. He mumbled, "Is Chance still…?"

Tusk didn't move, not nodding or shaking their head. Of the few times they've come out to visit them, this non-response had become more common.

Bretta curled her arms around herself. "Still? He's been sleeping for so long… He's gotta wake up soon, right?"

Nobody affirmed her. Bretta curled up closer into herself, shaking. Tense gazes and stilled tongues seemed to cut the room into pieces.

Cornifer leaned closer to his wife, who seized up when he accidentally bumped into a fresh wound. He mumbled his apologies and scooted a bit away, every inch feeling a mile in the chasm of his chest. Fumbling with his glasses so he didn't have to look at anything in particular, he asked Tusk, "Is he at least recovering from his injuries? I've tried to bandage him up as best as I can, but… Why, his biology is just too alien, and I'm no doctor."

Tusk's head only leaned a bit further into Iselda's side, silent as ever. Cornifer supposed it'd be asking the little one too much to have any medical experience.

"Is something else the matter?" Iselda spoke up. "You're even quieter than usual."

Tusk looked… somewhat away from them, and Cornifer could tell there was a story behind those dark eyes that they had no voice to tell.

---

The phone was warm in their lap as they stared at the screen. Their non-eyes glanced over the buttons for a moment, but made no motion to act.

Her words, Her laughter still bounced around the hollow inside of their mask, and the light from the screen still glared against the dark bedroom. A dull, heavy slough rolled through their Void body, like a wave of molasses roiling through their non-gut, stillness all too still, unsure if they were alone in the room or not.

A pause.

Apathetic, Tusk threw the phone on the floor.

It clattered hardly a foot away from them.

…

Long minutes passed where they did nothing but stare at it.

…

…

…

Layla: Don't look at me like that. I can't stand that empty gaze of your kin.
Layla: Now that all these traces of Chance's memory are gone, we can always play a new game. A new world, unmarred by past regrets.

Tusk stood up and left the room.

Layla: So fun. So boundless. So beautiful. So… disposable.
Layla: Why would you willingly subject yourself to the frigid grey of your "reality?" What good does it do you? Reality is only how we perceive it. Why not choose a world of light and warmth, over those dead and haunted caverns of a forgotten Kingdom?
Layla: You remember your Kin from the Ancient Basin. It was so good to me… You would make a fine replacement.
Layla: …What's that.

Tusk had returned, carrying something about the size of their torso. Through the grainy camera and the dark room, She couldn't see it very well as Tusk sat back down in front of the phone, their back pressed to the foot of the bed as though bracing themselves.

The 'something' tapped against the phone screen. Something metal.

Layla: H-Hey, put that away! You don't know what you're doing!

Tusk was hugging the butt of Chance's gun like a teddy bear, holding the barrel right up to the phone.

---

Tusk shrugged. They and Cornifer both knew they wouldn't be telling any stories anytime soon, so he had no choice but to let it go.

Iselda patted their head, rubbing circles on their mask between their horns. "No use in worrying so much," Iselda consoled them. "None of this is your fault. Chance… Chance will awaken soon enough." She trailed off, tensing as she said the human's name. It was poison on her tongue, staining the air thick.

Elderbug shuffled. "Perhaps we ought to resort to other methods, for the sake of his health. I-I recall he responds rather well to Lifeblood!"

Sly's large eyes narrowed dangerously at the village elder. "Lifeblood?"

Elderbug stilled, realizing his mistake. "...Erhm—"

"Damn him!" Iselda wanted to throw something. She picked up a half-used roll of bandages and chucked it across the room, despite Cornifer's outcry. "Give me more reason to want to smack him, why don't you?!"

"Iselda," Cornifer urged. "He's an outsider, unaware of our taboos—and one put in an awful position, no less! Is any of this truly his fault?"

Elderbug watched the exchange on bated breath, silently praying Chance would forgive him if he ever found out.

"It's just—!" Iselda cursed, glaring down at her husband—who, for a moment, really thought she was about to scream at him. He tensed, bracing himself. But Iselda tensed, cursed again under her breath, and turned her body away, arms crossed over her bandaged chest. "Look at us, Corny. Our whole town's in bandages. We were already small and fragile, just watching one after another jump to their deaths down that well…"

Her whole body was shaking, and she had to force herself not to lean on Tusk for support, who turned and stared with a blank expression.

"Then he comes along, and just like that, things… fall apart." Her hands curled into fists, so tense it seemed like hemolymph would ooze out of a reopened wound. "How can I not be angry? How can I not blame him? Because if I don't… then who?"

Cornifer tried to speak, but bit down on his words. They'd all heard that haunting, angelic voice that tore through Iselda's throat and puppeted her body like it was a toy. All of them except Iselda.

She paused to catch her breath. "...I remember hearing rumors… Of a Huntress that stalked the outer edges of this land, picking off trespassers and treasure-hunters who would defile the ruins of the Kingdom beneath our feet."

Bretta looked away at the mention, legs curled up to her chest, refusing to make eye contact. Sly's eyes just narrowed, half-looking between Iselda and the floor. Tusk didn't outwardly react at all.

"Doesn't Chance seem like the kind of person she'd have killed already?"

…

It was Cornifer's turn to glare. "Iselda! You don't hate him so much as to want him dead, do you?!"

"I didn't say that!" she retorted. "I'm just saying he ought to be more mindful, lest he end up impaled on a blade. Frankly, it's a shock he hasn't already!"

"Mindful of what? He's doing what's necessary to survive!"

…...…

Tusk's head shot up. They swore that they heard something; within or beyond themselves, something rumbled.

"This is necessary?!" Iselda shouted, gesturing to her injuries, to the bandages on every other Dirtmouth resident in the room. "He can fight whatever wars he sees fit, but it's not his place to bring them here! This is our home, Cornifer!"

"It wasn't his fault!" Cornifer objected. "None of us knew what those crystals did, so how could he? I was planning on bringing one of those crystals back as a gift to you; would that have made me guilty?!"

…….̷̢̙͑.̸̲̗̉͌.̵̢̾……

Iselda almost did scream at him this time, but she paused, tensing when she saw the awkward and averted gazes of everyone else in the room. It made her think about Cornifer's words, the warmth in her chest when he'd first declared that intent to her, the way her eyes widened with awe when she first spied that accursed pink glow in Chance's bag…

"I… was naive," she admitted. "But Corny… What else are we supposed to do? How else am I supposed to feel?"

Cornifer didn't know how to respond to that. He only leaned in, supporting his wife as they embraced; he held her gently, his fingers hovering, glancing over her, afraid to hug her too hard and injure her bandaged chitin.

He opened his eyes in the embrace, his head buried in the crook of Iselda's neck and looking over her shoulder. He startled up.

"Tusk, what's wrong?"

Tusk was in a fetal position face-down on the cold stone floor, hyperventilating. Inky black tears trailed like rivers out of their eye sockets. Their little arms curled around their chest.

Iselda glanced at Cornifer, and scooched closer. "Tusk, please," she tried to console them, "I'm sorry you had to see that. None of this is your fault. Chance is going to be alright, you see—"

Her hand tried to pat Tusk's back, who shot and scrambled away in a frenzy as though electrocuted. Iselda looked at her hand, and then back at the little Vessel.

"T-Tusk, what's gotten into you?!"

.̵̗̗̮͎̀́̎̿̌̑̈́̚.̴̜͍̼̉͒.̵̗̱͔̎.̵̣̗͎̙̊̊.̶̱͚͌͋͂̾̉͐̔͒.̵̨̼̮̜̓̌.̴̰̥̱̗̂̕͠ͅ.̷̡͇̘͕̺͈̏̎̎̃͛͊͠ͅ.̷͎̮̖̙̓̀̏̕͝.̷̤͖̫̱͕͒̈́̎.̴̧̛̣̣̓͑̍̿͂̈̐.̶̛̭̽̂̽̕.̵͙̳̖͉̃̀͆̆͋.̸̛̘̭͉̟̙̯̪͌̈́͑͒̈́.̷̺̯̠̠͎̆̀ͅ

Tusk couldn't even hear her through the sensory overload. They felt like their whole body was on fire, the emptiness of their not-organs somehow both hollowed further into a bottomless chasm, and filled with a blazing rage that threatened to swallow them whole like a tidal wave.

Something had awakened—some one —and the Void in their very core wasn't just hearing its cry, they were deafened by it. This wasn't like the Hollow Knight's distress signal: irresistible, but so distant and weak; something had abruptly exploded back into awareness, and all of its pain tore through their connection.

Phantom pains wracked their little body; memories, a name, an identity, a purpose, a person; pain, longing, hatred and rage, blind and erupting; immutable and intolerable; the madness of desperately reaching and grasping for something that just wasn't there.

All these emotions, all of this hatred and confusion and suffering, all of it vomiting from across the Void and stabbing through them like a burning knife. With what little strength they could muster from the crushing weight, they managed to look up, in the direction of the signal.

It was so close, they could almost taste the venom.

---

For waking up in an unknown place /

With a recollection you've half erased.

---

The nameless human's house was silent. Dark. Tusk had left the bedroom door open, and a bitter wind seemed to curl through the doorways and wash over the bed, chilling everything it glanced across. The house was no home, but a blackened den; as the pallid and destitute wastelands—enshrouding the Kingdom like an ashen, frigid sea would an island—were inhospitable to any sane living thing, no more was his abandoned house a respite from the harsh and grating winds of Hallownest.

In his bed, the Tiktik plushie hung limp in stiff, coarse hands. Too-thin blankets were tugged up past his shoulders, and his dry, unkempt hair was brushed over his face, obscuring his closed eyes. A chill brushed his cheek like a ghost's withered hand; goosebumps rose and skin crawled, reflexive, unconscious.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

He shuffled in his dark, dreamless sleep, rolled over one way and the other, restless as the chill's claws raked across his shoulders and down his back. His knees knocked together and his arms pulled close to his chest, curling and shriveling up.

His eyes were closed, and he could see.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

The shadows stretched long and cut deep into the tangible space and bled nothing; nature beyond the natural swept into his chamber like a flood's wave or a stalking figure. He was like a child, pretending to be asleep past his bedtime as a parent crept in to ensure he was soundly unconscious. His toy was hidden under the pillow.

His muscles couldn't, wouldn't move, because he was asleep. But he felt every second stretch, until the seconds themselves threatened to split in two.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

Someone; a perversion of a man; once a man, now a thing, in very the same way a 'someone' becomes a 'something' when a corpse is made of him; it approached his bedside. No black claws or soft hands cupped his face or scraped across his skin, because there were no such hands or claws or a person to attach them to; none except for the cold wind whispering through the doorway. And yet, not an inch nor a mile would be far enough away from the thing that stood there, and with its mere presence, it already had the human by the throat.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

The formless, somnambulistic being peered over his sleeping form, leaning closer, and he was paralyzed. No eyes to see, no muscles to move, no air to breathe.

Ba-thump.

Behind the thing's night sky was a shroud of moonlight, a snow-white cloak that scorned to be swallowed by the nothing. Twin suns on a featureless expression blazed down at him; atomic fireballs, millions of miles away and billions of times broader than he could grasp, the smallest flickers enough to wash him away into the base particles he was formed from. Eternal, tangerine sunsets.

Ba-thump.

Curling over the not-thing's human head, like a golden arc, were two long, soft antennae—

BANG

Chance whipped the revolver out from under his pillow, where Tusk had left it, and shot at the nightmare.

The bullet went right through a wall, hitting nothing. There was never anything there to hit, anyway. Chance had gone from deathly still to shaking uncontrollably, staring unblinkingly at the spot where nothing once stood. His eyes were wide open and narrowed to pinpoints.

—BathumpBathumpBathumpBathumpBathump—

He thought, in the distant recesses of his mind, that he recognized that face.

The frozen time, like elastic, shot back into steady rhythmic seconds, which wore on into minutes. The silence clawed and the windchill bit, the front door still creeped open a lazy crack from Tusk's carelessness. His skin crawled, and his cold sweat dried and crusted. As his chest rose and fell in hoarse labor, his limbs began to steady, and his tense gun-arm lowered to his side.

He sat up in bed for unaccountable minutes. His face was buried in his free hand, the other clutching the revolver in a vice. Spasms wracked his face. His nose and eyes stung.

After everything that had happened, how was he supposed to wake up now? How was he supposed to rise from bed and keep walking; towards what? It felt like the story had already ended on a sour note. He still felt ill, lost, not fully present in his own body or his own time—even with the Infection purged from his body.

—the Infection—

Chance stilled. His breaths were steady and measured. His hand covered his expression, and his eyes were squeezed shut.

Thoughts in time and out of season, his legs inched and slipped off of the edge of the bed and hit the floor, before he half lowered himself, half collapsed the rest of his body to the floor, slumped on his side against the bed's edge until he was sitting under it.

His toes curled and uncurled, his fingers flexed as though not fully his. He curled up in a fetal position in his corner, his head buried in his arms and against his knees.

Emerald eyes rose from behind his crossed arms like twin green suns over the horizon. He was dead silent, dead steady; but even with the Infection flushed from his veins and guts—or perhaps because of it—a subtler madness still grew within him.

A black glare like the sun blazed from his brain and through his every organ. A deep, settled, fanatic delirium was in his eyes.

Her name, her laughter, echoed through his ears like war drums.

---

"Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me."

~Captain Ahab, Moby-Dick

---

Everyone followed Tusk when they burst out through the door and ran to Chance's house, only for their crowd to freeze and stare when they saw Chance—awake and well in his living room—pick up the sobbing Tusk in his arms to comfort them like a child.

He was, in a word, unkempt; dried dirt, blood, and Infected pus crusted across his skin and clothes, his hair was frayed yet matted, he looked deathly pale, and the tips of his fingers were shaking as he rubbed Tusk's back and patted their head between their horns. And yet, he looked reborn. His signature jacket and scarf discarded, he seemed far more lean, almost dangerously skinny from malnutrition in the apocalyptic Hallownest. With only a t-shirt, they could see his thin, bare arms, littered with dried Infection scabs like battle scars.

And his eyes; Iselda recalled them being green, for those brief hours before he was Infected, but it was bizarre seeing them any hue other than that sick, neon tangerine. They were dull, and weighed down by dark, heavy bags, but they were green like fresh-grown grass, frosty and pale in the early spring.

He was holding a small, grey mass; he handed the Tiktik plush to Tusk, who took it in their arms and held it tight, staining it with their dark tears.

Those green eyes of his fell on all of them; all of the Dirtmouth villagers who had burst into his house, tailing just behind Tusk. His gaze, apprehensive from so many bugs all crowding by his front door at once, darted between all of their bandages, and how they limped as fast as they could in pursuit of Tusk.

His throat hoarse from disease, disuse, and dehydration, Chance took a measured breath and asked, "What happened to you guys?"

Iselda marched over and slapped him.

---

They had him sit down on his bench-couch and tell them everything.

Cornifer and Bretta sat on the carpet, the latter fiddling with the twin tears in it, Elderbug and Sly pulled over chairs from the table, and Iselda remained standing, dangerously hovering over Chance, with Tusk in his lap, hugging their plush. All eyes were on him, expectant, anxious to hear his first words. It left him a little stunned, his gaze running over all of their expressions before he even thought about breathing.

"Uhm… Before we begin," Chance started slow, "How long was I out?"

"U-Uwah! It feels like we haven't seen you in forever! " Bretta blurted. Chance almost screamed before Sly cut in.

"Calm down, it's only been a few days," he said. Whatever he thought of Chance's horrified reaction, his expression didn't betray it. "At least, it's been that long since that mysterious stranger in red brought you up here. Do you know her? I couldn't quite catch her name."

—Hornet shot down like a silver dart onto Iselda—

"—Wake up, Jeremy—"

"H-Hornet?!" Chance startled, memories rushing back all at once. "I-Is she okay?! Where is she?! Is she—"

"She's vanished, I'm afraid," Elderbug interrupted. "She brought you to your home, but nobody's seen her since. An elusive figure, that one."

Chance's heart fell; he wasn't sure why he expected anything else from her.

"...Right. I see…"

Beretta's arms curled over her knees, as best as her form could accommodate, and she rocked back and forth, fidgeting. "Hornet…? She seemed strong. Is she that Huntress you were talking about earlier, Miss Iselda?"

Huh? What were they talking about the Huntress for? Chance looked up over his shoulder at Iselda, who said nothing, refusing to look him or anyone else in the eye.

"Moving on," Sly effortlessly took the reins of the conversation, "Chance, it was those pink crystals that Infected Iselda, yes? Tell us what you know about those."

Chance's lips pursed. He could feel the discussion turning; this was where it became an interrogation, one he probably deserved. "Well… Yeah. You probably realize they're from the Crystal Peaks, too. They Infect anyone who's exposed to them—I don't really know how, o-or why. But the Peaks are filled with mining crews who've all been Infected from working there. I… didn't make the connection myself, until… She…"

"Hm?" Cornifer spoke up. "I-I'm sorry, you mumbled there for a second."

"N-Nothing," Chance forced out. He could feel Sly and Iselda's narrowed eyes on him, but they said nothing about it. He didn't know how much Dirtmouth knew about the Radiance, but it wasn't something they needed to worry about. Maybe they knew, and already connected the dots. He wasn't about to be the one to mention it first. "Iselda… I'm sorry. I had no idea. I-I just found a couple of them along the way, and I thought…"

"You didn't think, you mean," Iselda snapped, shutting Chance up. "You're an outsider, so of course you wouldn't know. But everything in Hallownest poses a threat, Chance. You can't take anything for granted just because you can't see its teeth."

His lips parted and pursed, looking at the floor. "...Well, I know that now," he mumbled to himself, dejected.

Iselda huffed, turning away as she meandered around the couch-bench he was sitting on. She paused.

"...A 'couple' of crystals, you say? Chance, you didn't… Infect anyone else, did you?"

She turned to face him, finally looking him in the eye for the first time since he'd woken up.

Chance couldn't return the gaze. He was silent, staring at the floor.

Iselda slapped him again.

"Idiot!"

"Iselda!" Cornifer rose from his seat and put himself between her and Chance, rubbing at his shoulders. Tusk, in Chance's lap, was just short enough to dodge all of Iselda's blows to Chance's face; he wondered if they were entertained by this. "There's no need to get violent! I-I know the situation may seem… unfortunate," he struggled to pick the least offensive word he could, "but if Chance cured you, surely he could cure anyone else, yes?"

Cornifer's expectant, sideways gaze wasn't lost on Chance; he was waiting for him to speak and affirm him. "Uh—"

"How'd you cure the Infection, anyhow?" Bretta spoke up so innocently, but her question stabbed right at the heart of the issue, confused and ruthless. "I think I saw… something when you cured her, but I couldn't make out what it was in the shadows. But it must be a miracle, I'm sure!"

Chance froze up.

—an ocean of skull-like masks, stretching out as far as his eyes could see in the oppressive darkness—

—a liquid shadow that unfurled itself into a ghost—

—And all it took was a slight, involuntary, twitch—

…He couldn't tell them.

It wasn't so much a conscious choice as it was a simple fact. Saying anything about the Abyss would only bring him hell later on, if not immediately. They would ask questions. They would discover horrors they wouldn't be able to live with. Worst of all, they might dare to find more about it themselves; Lord knows Cornifer would go down there in a heartbeat if he knew such a place existed.

Sometimes, not knowing was a blessing.

"...I don't remember the details… The Infection was starting to get to me," Chance lied, rubbing his temples as he spoke like a child trying to skip school by feigning sickness. "But I remember… A lake. Some kind of black lake… I don't know what was in it, or what it was made of. There was this… darkness in it. But that darkness attacked and destroyed the Light of the Infection, and… I dunno. I dunno what it is. But I've been feeling better ever since. I think it and my Infection canceled each other out, and they're both gone now."

A half-truth mixed with baldfaced lies. But Chance knew one little white lie could save a lot of needless explanation; he did it to people all the time. He's done it to you already.

"...A lake of darkness." Sly deadpanned at him, as best as he could with two eyes the size of baseballs. "You expect us to believe such a—"

"Oh, I know what you mean!" Cornifer perked up, interrupting him. Everyone, including Chance, stared at him in horror. "There's those strange barriers around Hallownest that seem to be made of a liquid night; it rejects all who would try to cross it. Strangely, it seems to have a mind of its own, and has a tendency to… lash… out…"

Cornifer trailed off, and Chance couldn't decide if he was grateful or not. Iselda seemed to realize someone was lying to her, or at least, that she was being told next to nothing. She meandered around his living room, eyes darting around in a way that seemed unfocused, but was analytical and calculating.

"...Where's my nail, anyhow?"

Chance's heart froze. "H-Huh?"

"My nail. I don't see it anywhere around here. You've been taking good care of it, right? Sharpening or at least polishing it every day—"

"I…" He gulped. "I threw it out a window."

Iselda stopped pacing on a dime to stare at him; for once, she seemed more genuinely shocked than angry. "...You… Huh?"

"...'m sorry," Chance mumbled. He could've sworn there was sweat pouring down his brow by now. "There was a guy flying and teleporting around me, and he was out of reach so I threw it at him but he was in front of the window and it hit him but he flew out and I don't know where it landed but I can—"

She stormed back over and slapped Chance so hard he fell right out of his seat and hit the carpet.

His embrace around Tusk loosened, and the Vessel almost went down with him, before they deftly rolled to the side to stay in the couch-bench's seat.

But as he was falling, Chance's arm reached out and grabbed a loose end of her bandages, tugging them away and unraveling them as he collapsed to the floor.

Iselda jerked away, "Don't touch me–!"

But her bandages came away clean. Not a scratch, crack, or drop of hemo underneath. She stared at where her wounds should be for a long moment, reaching for them, before she noticed her bandaged hands. Gingerly, she untied the gauze all around her body and let it drop to the floor, finding all her injuries vanished in a heartbeat, rubbing her thumbs over the smooth chitin where painful cracks ran not hours ago.

Groaning on the floor below her, cold wisps of pale faded from Chance's fingertips. Staggering, he managed to push himself to his feet, standing upright.

"I'm sorry. I really am, I mean it," Chance said, stepping past Iselda and approaching all the other Dirtmouth residents; his Pure Focus washed over them, and one by one, he removed their bandages while he spoke. "I was ignorant, a-and naive, but I'm taking full responsibility for putting you in danger. It's my fault. Your suffering is because of me."

Everyone else marveled at how their injuries were healed with such ease, like a miracle had graced them. Even Sly looked pleasantly surprised at Chance's magic; did he ever tell anyone in Dirtmouth about his Pure Focus? He couldn't recall. Maybe it seemed like he just randomly got this power out of nowhere, from their perspective.

God, there was so much shit they were missing out on, and they were all the better off for it.

Iselda stared at his process, then huffed; Chance couldn't tell if it was laughter or scorn. Maybe both. "It's easy to claim responsibility when you can fix everything with a wave of your hand," she said. "If you want to be responsible and fix people, you can start by curing everyone else you've Infected along the way."

Chance paused. His hands clenched, but not out of frustration with Iselda; a very different kind of resolve riled up in him as a slow, steady exhale escaped his lips.

"...I will. Believe me, I will."

"Good."

Iselda turned, her healed arms crossed; it felt strange, feeling her own chitin without being mummified in gauze or bandages, like she had been for the days Chance had been unconscious. It was like being naked, the room too cold, feeling too thin and tender without that protection. She shuddered.

"...That bug you threw my nail at. Did you kill him?"

Chance was silent for a moment. If he was staring at Iselda's back in surprise, she wasn't turning around to see.

"...I did."

"...Good. That's good."

It didn't take long after that for many of the bugs to rise wordlessly from their seats and leave. Some shot him glares, some gazes of pity. Some left so he could get space and rest, and others didn't want to see him. Cornifer had given him a strange, half-apologetic hug that Chance leaned into a little too much. By contrast, Tusk demanded hugs from almost everyone, and few dared leave without paying tribute.

Everyone else had gone home, but just before Iselda walked out the door, Chance spoke up.

"Um… Iselda." At her sharp gaze, he faltered, but he needed to know. "Do you… remember anything about 'Jeremy'? Anything at all."

—"I… I think I remember a cloaked figure going down the well, saying he was headed for the Peaks. Is that your Jeremy?"—

Iselda was silent for a long, long minute. Chance thought his heart had stopped before she spoke again.

"...Jeremy? No, I can't say I recall the name."

His house felt much darker, much more cold with Iselda holding the door open. His outstretched hand slowly fell back to his side.

"Did I say that name while under the Infection's influence, or—?"

"No," Chance mumbled. It felt like a yawning chasm was opening in his chest. "Don't worry about it."

Iselda paused; suspicion, or perhaps dread, or perhaps simply not even wanting to know. "...Alright. And Chance?"

"Yeah?"

"...Take a damn bath already."

She closed the door behind her, leaving Chance alone with Tusk in his house. It felt far too big, too empty, like some shadowy hand had reached in and hollowed it out by scooping out all of its warmth and life, just as it had done to Chance's soul in the Abyss. He couldn't manage to lift his gaze from the floor, exhaustion and guilt like steepened gravity on his features.

Even Dirtmouth barely welcomed him anymore, the scorn and suspicion palpable with every breath and every sideways glance. Hell, there was infighting over him, now. He knew he'd fucked up and didn't deserve it, but at least a simple "welcome back" or a "glad you're not dead" would've been nice. Just when he'd finally cured himself, too. He could never catch a break.

And, oh, God. How many days had passed? What had happened to Quirrel and Lightfoot? And Lemm, and Rio? His Infection had gotten near fatal in, what, a week? And he thought he recalled Elderbug saying it might've been slower for him than normal, on account of his humanity. He couldn't even afford to rest any longer. He might already be too late to save any of them. They'd all be mindless, zombified slaves to Her, and it'd all be his fault.

Entirely unprompted, his phone began to play The Beatles.

"Boy! You're gonna carry that weiiiight! Carry that weight, a looong tiiiime~!"

Chance screamed and threw his phone at the wall, where the screen cracked but didn't shatter, and the music kept rolling. He stared at it, breathing heavy; he patted his arms and neck, looking for his scarf and cloak, before saying "fuck it" and yanking open the door.

"I'll be back," he huffed to Tusk. Then, mumbling through gritted teeth, "I'm gonna take a bath."

The door closed behind him as the song ended.

…

…

…

Riiing, riiing!

Tusk stared at Chance's phone for a moment, before they wandered over and lifted it up. The phone was flat and awkward to press against their shell, but being wary of the cracked glass screen, they held it up to their face in the same way they'd seen Chance do it at times, as best as they could.

There wasn't a sound coming from the phone. Tusk was as mute as ever.

The house was dark and empty.

Tusk nodded along.

---

I'm going out sleepwalking, /

Where mute memories start talking.

---

Fuck all if anyone saw him.

The hot springs were a welcome respite after everything; the ambient warmth and pale light was a shelter from the harsh winds, and the humidity was already starting to make him sweat. Steam rose up from the pool of natural Soul-infused springwater, and it felt good on his scarred, dry skin, the moist air flowing freely through his healthy, un-Infected lungs.

Chance peeled off his filthy t-shirt, tattered and almost plastered to his skin from the sweat, blood, and dried Infection, and tossed it on the stone ground. Before he reached for his pants, though, his eyes lingered on his skin: it was littered with dried scabs, once Infected cysts, countless scars that covered every inch of his body. They were jagged and sickly pale, running up and down his arms, his back; his abdomen looked like he'd been struck by lightning. They even creeped up across his face, inching dangerously close to his left eye.

Huffing after a moment, he hovered his fingers over the scabs on his arm, the pale light of his Soul dancing across it. When it faded, however, the scab was still there, and his brow furrowed.

His thumb trailed across the scab, a snaking scar that ran along his arm, a scattershot of welts that were once bloated with tangerine pus, oozing from every pore. It ran along its jagged edge, where the skin went from supple to firm and withered. Were these dead cells of his own skin, or were they from the Infection?

Brow furrowed and lips pursed, Chance's thumb hardened and sharpened into a gleaming metal Claw, and began to pry away at the edge of the scab.

Working through, rending apart his own skin along the perimeter where the dead scab was fused with his body, Chance's teeth grit as he cut up his own body. The skin underneath was pink and raw, but it was his; warm, crimson blood dribbled down his wrist and dripped down to the stone floor he was kneeling on, but it was red, not the sickly orange that had churned through his every organ and body fluid.

Through the pain, through the methodical and masochistic mutilation of his own scarred skin, Chance's grit teeth began to curl up in a dazed, frenzied grin.

He'd won back his body. And now he was cleaning up every little mess She left behind. No matter how much it hurt on a physical level, or however long it took, or however degrading of a chore it was, Chance relished the catharsis. She was gone. He was purging every last scar, every last regret.

Blood washed over in rivers and stained his metal Claws, pooling on the floor; he was pouring sweat now. It was over. He was free. He'd won. No more hallucinations. No more dreams. No more nightmares.

"...Maybe you're myhallucination. Mynightmare."

His incessant cutting at his scabs paused with that memory. His maddened grin faltered. His hands were shaking, he realized; he slowly turned them up to see the red blood that stained them.

From cleansing himself of his scars, rivers ran red down his arms.

He'd saved himself, and left Jeremy behind.

"You exercise your right to your precious "freedom" and this is what happens."

"They'll both let you go… And in turn… They'll take me instead…"

Chance was frozen. He couldn't breathe.

Then he grit his teeth, and kept cutting.

He was getting hasty. Sloppy. The incisions he made with his Claws, once slow and methodical like it was his first time shaving, became even more jagged than the scabs he was trying to remove. Pink and tender flesh bled even more, and he only kept working through the pain.

"Once you get cured, we'll have plenty of time to figure things out together, won't we?"

"You lack the qualifications for free will."

Their voices spiraled in his thoughts like a hurricane. A hallucination on either shoulder, whispering, shouting, screaming into his ears to try and talk over the other; the Light and Dark subsumed his vision, both of them blinding him.

Rage and regret.

'Don't apologize for what She did to you,' said one voice.

The other, 'You don't have the right to be angry at anyone but yourself.'

"C-Chance… It's dark…"

"My embrace will swallow you whole."

He'd torn away most of the scabs on his arms and was reaching over his shoulders, his abdomen, trying to claw away every inch of skin left on his body. The blood on his metal Claws was so thick, he couldn't even feel the difference between scab and normal skin anymore, his eyes glazing over as he clawed frantically at everywhere he could reach.

"Yin and Yang rage within and without him."

"It can't be real, Chance; not born of any loving God, not entirely of this world."

"Mortals will wander in mysterious ways, but whether they realize it or not, my toys will always do what I want."

The blood pooling out from where he was half-collapsed on the stone and ran in crimson rivulettes into the hot springs themselves, staining the pale, ethereal water with cloudy red. His breathing, his heartbeat, were both speeding up from the bloodloss; from the insane emotions that spiraled in his chest; from the sensory and memory overload; from being soaked in his own blood, by his own hand.

"Why are they all struggling to the top, if they're just gonna fall back down in the end, anyway?"

"'Chance'... A fake name for a dead body with a wiped mind."

"You were never much more real than Jeremy."

—His sharp metal thumb jammed right into the inside of his elbow, and Chance finally snapped out of his spiral with a yelp, jolting away from himself and collapsing on his side into a pool of his own blood. It was warm, crimson, stuck to his patched skin like syrup.

This was everything he'd fought for. This was everything he'd won.

To be lying alone in a pool of his own blood.

"J… J-Jer…"

His Claws turned back into shaking hands, stained with blood, and he fell to pieces on the floor.

Tears mixed with blood.

All the sleepless nights, with hunger and cold stretched together in one rocky bed with him; all the mutilation and abuse; every drop of adrenaline that had rushed through his brain as Death kept glancing off of him, again and again; the gaping hole in his brain, on the verge of implosion, where his name and identity should be; the blinding lights and bottomless shadows that disoriented him, and threatened to swallow him whole; the whole, mountainous weight of everything all piled onto Chance at once, and he buckled and collapsed.

The warm blood, the steaming hot springs, the humid cavern, and with his skin peeled like an orange, he felt frigid. His hands wrenched around his shoulders, holding himself right, Clawing into his flesh.

…Through the misty haze, he saw a figure standing over him. Kneeling over him. Red, but it wasn't his blood.

Chance craned his head up, his hair plastered with blood. Hornet was kneeling down in front of him, looking down at his blood-soaked, defeated body; he looked filthy beyond filth, wholly pathetic. He couldn't gauge her expression from behind her mask. Was that pity in her dark eyes? Disgust? Indifference?

No words were exchanged between them.

Folded neatly under Hornet's arm were his scarf and jacket.

---

With hidden cracks that don't show /

But that constantly just grow.

---

"I'm not taking off my pants."

Beneath her mask, Hornet clicked her mandibles with impatience. "You need to clean yourself, lest you wind up with some other unsavory disease. Be an adult."

Chance tried to glare at her, but with his grimace, he probably just looked like a pouty child. Even if he was still drenched in blood. He made a vague, tense nod of his head towards her, teeth grit; Hornet seemed to get the message and turned around, giving his shattered dignity some small mercy as he looked down at his well-worn pants.

He'd thrown his shoes and socks next to his discarded shirt, and it took a long, humiliating moment, but Chance managed to line himself up with the edge of the basin, and yanked his pants clean off in one motion, quickly throwing them aside before he rushed to hide his lower body beneath the humid haze of the spring's surface. He hissed as the warm water stung against his tender flesh, and sat wringing his hands over his lap, averting his gaze from Hornet.

He was too busy looking at how his blood washed away from his skin and into the spring, the deep crimson turning pink and pale against the white water, where the natural Soul magic diffused his filth into nothing.

—Chance startled when water splashed down over his head and dripped down over his face.

"Have you ever bathed before?" Hornet asked, a cynical edge in her tone as she cupped more water in her hands to pour over him. "Wash the rest of that blood off of you. You're not a grub anymore."

His mouth opened, and he pursed his lips at the remark. Muttering out misplaced apologies, he began to rub the water across his torso and pour it down his arms, watching the blood and dirt wash away. It hypnotized him, watching his blood seem to melt and thin away until the crimson clouds in the water turned into invisible vapor.

What's clean is pure, but hey…

An anxious silence settled between himself and Hornet, where he pooled more water onto his cut-up shoulders—and paused, watching how he gripped his own flesh, as though neither the shoulder nor the hand were his, the sharp, glistening steel of his Claws inching up from his fingertips before he snapped back into focus. If she noticed him zoning out, she didn't say anything.

Hell, Hornet didn't say anything at all. Aside from a few soft reprimands to bathe, she didn't breach the subject of what she walked in on, kept her questions to herself to make sure he was alright. She didn't even ask if he was okay; because of course he wasn't fucking okay. And in a weird, wordless way, he could appreciate her for that. Maybe the silence wasn't bad.

She dipped her own feet in, letting the warm, Soul-infused water soothe her aching chitin. "Before I forget, I also brought bath salts and some loose cloths to use as towels; I saw none when we were here last."

"O-Oh, thanks," he mumbled out.

The soft rippling and bubbling of the warm water, pouring in waist-high waterfalls from the mouths of giant stone heads along the wall, were the only sounds. Soft steam rose past Chance's face, seeming to soften it. The warmth of the Soul-infused water seeped deep through his cold bones and nestled into his chest. It wasn't uncomfortable, though he couldn't stop shooting glances at Hornet, who had taken out her needle and was seemingly polishing it across her lap.

He scrubbed away at his forearms, his chest, and—careful to keep his lower body hidden under the steam—his legs. From head to toe he bathed, even ducking his head under the water to soak his hair and squeeze the water out of it. With so much Soul all around him, it didn't even take a conscious effort for his magic to flow over him; every little wound, every cut inflicted, every bruise and every sore muscle all sealed away into smooth, healthy skin.

If curing his Infection was being reborn, then finally bathing in this spring was religious; he felt real again, as his cleansing hand rubbed over his shoulder, feeling the tender skin beneath his soft fingers.

"After all," Hornet continued after a pause, swaths of silk still brushing across her silvery blade, "I still owed you for that Tiktik you cooked for us, Jeremy."

—His Claws jolted deep into his flesh and blood ran like a river.

"Hm? Is something the matter, Jer—"

"Don't call me that," Chance croaked out through grit teeth. Every muscle that he had loosened up under the warm spring water was now wound up tighter than a bow; it felt like his brain was on fire. "My name… is Chance."

Hornet blinked, and seemed to curl in on herself by the slightest margin, an invisible guard going up around her at the wild look in Chance's eye. Her grip on her needle tightened. "Chance…? Quirrel called you that as well… But then why—?"

"How do you even…" He wanted to hurl. "...even know that name?"

Her glare narrowed. "You told me. You introduced yourself as Jeremy."

"I don't remember that."

Equal parts indignation and confusion rose in Hornet's chest, and her expression behind her pale mask reflected as much as she tried to recount all her previous encounters with this bizarre and endlessly frustrating human. Even his very name couldn't be consistent.

"On the outskirts of the City, outside that old nailsmith's hut, that's the name you gave me."

"I remember that, but… I didn't… A name? Did I give you a… name?" Chance's expression went from a pinpoint blaze to a bewildered, averting mess.

Hornet couldn't hide the way she crossed all four of her arms. "And when you were cooking that Tiktik? I even called you Jeremy then!"

"What?! I was asleep when you… when Jeremy…!"

His composure collapsed, and with widening eyes, as emerald as the acid rivers of Greenpath, a realization seemed to creep up on him from behind; a tortured, strangled laugh escaped his lips, followed by more hollow laughter as his body went somewhere between going limp and thrashing against the water's edge. A hand covered his eyes, possibly to hold back tears, as his laughter echoed through the hot springs cavern. Hornet could only stare.

"Hornet…" He finally managed to huff. He could tell her, right? Hornet was there, in the Abyss with him. He could tell her anything. "There's something I gotta say. Jeremy… He's me. Or he was, while I was Infected. But even then, he wasn't me, either."

Hornet wanted to stab him. "Elaborate."

"The Infection messes with your head," Chance said; he was dripping wet with spring water and blood, completely nude, and with such a manic glare in his eye that Hornet thought he was still plagued by an entirely different madness, one of his own making. "Even I don't really understand what happened, even now, but… Jeremy was… another 'self,' sharing a body with me. I don't know where he came from or why he was… 'made'... but he was me, and I was him.

"We looked the same, but we acted differently, 'cause we were two different people. To anyone else, I probably just acted funny sometimes, but… even though there was only one body between us, only ever one of us in control…"

His insane rambling faltered; and a good thing, too, because Hornet was struggling to digest even a bit of this. She could only watch, shaking her head, horror and bewilderment overtaking her as Chance seemed to break down all over again in front of her. "So Jeremy was a… what? A split personality? Was I not right to call you Jeremy in those moments, then?"

"You were," he laughed, tortured, "except for when you weren't."

Just as all the pieces seemed to finally fall into place for Chance, what little understanding Hornet had formed completely broke down at that moment. It was like being left out of some sick inside joke.

"...It felt so real, Hornet. You wouldn't understand. He was there, in front of me, just like you are right now; I could feel him, I could—"

His hands were shaking. He reached around, and felt the wound he had dug into his shoulder, still oozing red into the waters below. His eyes seemed distant as his Claws raked over his shoulder and tore clean through his flesh. He was still laughing, light and breathless, as he mauled himself; the red rivers running down his back threatened to overflow, levees breaking, turning his back into a crimson tapestry and the pale waters into a maroon cloud.

"She did this," he could only say. "Did She put him there, in my brain? Did I? I don't know, but She's the one who took him away. She… She made him exist just to use me, like a tool, a toy, a puppet… I can't even imagine that. Existing—No, not even existing, but—your entire life being an illusion, all to manipulate someone else. Like being a character in a story, trying to fight back against the author. She did all of this, just to…!"

"—Just to keep you entranced."

The tension drained from the fist Chance had carved in his shoulder. His brow furrowed in bewilderment, he more breathed than spoke, "What?"

"Listen to yourself. Even without that Plague, you're still obsessed with the illusions you've been shown. What I am hearing is that She showed you a bait, and you're still chasing it now."

Chance looked at her, eyebrow arched, glowering as he reached back and grabbed a rock to sit up straight. "...So you know, then. The truth about Her."

"I think most of Hallownest does, somewhere deep within themselves; it is simply beyond their comprehension. But even knowing that fact, you still choose to follow that Light, searching for the Dream you once saw. Are you certain you're not still under Her control?"

His fist clenched again. "Nobody is controlling me anymore."

"She has already deceived you once—"

—Pink lightning coursed through his veins and into his metal hand, and the rock he was holding in a deathgrip shattered into dust and shrapnel.

Silence. His hands were shaking, fingers twitching. His breaths were shaky. Neon static blipped off of his arm.

He seemed to realize that the object of his animosity was not here, no matter how Her laughs and Her name echoed in his head like war drums, and he slumped back down in the water. He bit his lip and refused to look Hornet in the eye.

"...I'm sorry," he breathed. He needed to stop pushing people away. "I'm sorry. I've been—"

—shaking hands, stained with blood, and he fell to pieces on the floor—

"—Overwhelmed. Lately."

Hornet stared with an apprehension that only bloomed anew every time she saw Chance's self-mutilation, his frigid glare; physically healed he may be now, Hallownest had broken something deep inside of him. But staring at the human across from her, blood pouring out of the hole in his shoulder, she felt the need to reach out, say something, do something to ground him again.

"...And your name is… Chance, yes?"

His gaze shot up to meet hers; those blazing pinpoints had vanished, and there was only a lost, awkward resolve in his emerald eyes. He seemed embarrassed, self-conscious at his outburst. "O-Oh… Yeah. I don't really know my real name, but… everyone calls me Chance."

"Chance…"

Hornet paused, and then she reached out and took his hand; it was like electricity on his skin, and his Crystal Heart damn near actually electrocuted her from the surprise. His tension unwound. It was like he'd been stepping on a hose until now, and his Soul could flow free; the blood climbed up his back and returned to the wound on his shoulder, which gradually filled itself in until it was gone.

A soft laugh escaped Chance's lips; for once, it sounded genuine. Sane. "I-I'm sorry," he mumbled out. "Thank you. Thank you, Hornet."

Hornet wanted to say something, about that blazing fury in his eyes, about how she'd only ever seen that once before in her—

–Almost involuntarily and as though possessed, she rose from the spring to dry off. Chance's breath hitched and he looked away as she walked away, stopping to stare at him; he also seemed like he wanted to speak, but no more words dared pass his tongue. He could barely look her in the eye, nor could she in his.

"...I'll see you again," she managed, and then turned to leave. This seemed to be enough to spur Chance into blurting out:

"I'm sorry. For everything, for the confusion, for… for not being Jeremy, I guess."

Hornet paused mid-stride. Over her shoulder, she could spy the jacket and the scarf, patched and cleaned, neatly folded aways from the hot spring on a metal bench. She'd made her decision already.

"Jeremy was never here."

Hornet threw her needle out of the cavern mouth, and with a shimmer of silk, left Chance alone in the spring. He could only watch her leave.

---

Once he'd dried off and gotten dressed, Chance gingerly picked up the folded clothes Hornet had left for him. They looked brand-new, though he could see where she used her silk to repair and refit them. He decided he didn't mind it; it gave his prized possessions some more character.

He slipped on his green jacket, tugging his arms through the sleeves and pulling its collar taut with a satisfying whomp.

He threw his crimson scarf over his shoulder and around his neck, leaving just a little to drift in the open wind behind him.

Chance wished he had a mirror with him, but it wasn't like he needed one. He took a deep breath with fresh lungs. The only thing he was missing was a clean shave.

It felt right. It felt good.

---

Swiping all the other clutter off of his table at home, Chance slammed their map of Hallownest down and had Tusk help him unfurl it. They wouldn't waste any more time.

Damn, I've always wanted to do that.

The parchment was segmented and folded awkwardly, since they kept stitching new sections of it on, turning several maps of multiple regions of the Kingdom into one big cluster of paper that was bound to fall apart eventually. Parts of it were drawn up by Cornifer, while Tusk had inked the rest of their explored regions that the mapmaker hadn't fleshed out; a handful of gleaming metal pins were stuck to it, marking points of interest.

Dirtmouth; the Crossroads; Greenpath; the Fog Canyon; the Fungal Wastes; the City of Tears; Deepnest; the Ancient Basin; the Crystal Peaks; the Resting Grounds; the Kingdom's Edge; and finally, only roughly sketched together on a new sheet entirely by Tusk, the Abyss.

Unconsciously, Chance's eyes traced the path of their long journey so far, memories flashing through his eyes. Where else was there to explore, even?

"We don't know where Layla is," Chance started. "She exists in Her 'Dream Realm,' at least, which we know is connected to everyone who's Infected… Does She live in the minds of every single Infected, then?"

He looked up at Tusk; expressionless as ever, but like telepathy, he seemed to know what they were thinking; or maybe he was making it up.

"Maybe, but… that's not really workable," he said, shaking his head and brushing hair out of his eyes—God, it'd gotten long. "I don't know if She has any real, physical form; though, somehow I get the feeling She doesn't. We have to attack Her physically. …Fuck, what even is She? Some kind of collective unconscious? Or does She have some centralized body, affecting everyone else? Is She alive, or even real?"

Tusk was laying belly-down on the table, kicking their little legs in the air behind them, holding their mask to prop it up by their elbows; like a schoolgirl doing homework on her bed. Chance wondered what Tusk's priorities in this journey were anymore. They came down here with a purpose, he was sure, but it's not like they'd ever sat down and explained anything to him.

Were they still following him because they were on the same path? He couldn't think of any other good reason. Surely, whatever he was doing, then, he was doing it right. He could push forward.

"Their Void is the antithesis of my Light."

"We can start by curing the ones She's Infected, then," Chance said, adjusting his map as he reconsidered his objectives. "We know how, and it might give us a clue on how to bring Her down for good.

"I've cured Iselda already, and… Rio and Lightfoot should still be in the Mantis Village, Lemm should still be in the City, and Quirrel… Shit. Where'd Quirrel go?" Momentary panic; but he smothered it under his resolve, "Lightfoot went with him, though; if we cure Lightfoot first, he should know where Quirrel ran off to. That makes a priority list for us."

"You're declaring war on a God, then."

Chance spun around; Hornet was standing in his doorway. As always, her presence was imperceptible until it stabbed through him. He defensively shuffled in front of his map, as though it would do anything to deter her.

"I'm…" He searched for the words. "I'm making things right. How they should be."

"How they were before?"

"Maybe."

Silence. Neither of them betrayed any expression, nor what either of them meant. Hornet circled closer, her silver needle glinting in the Lumafly light.

"I figured you were doom-driven; you've been caught up in far too much as it is. This may surprise you, but in light of recent developments, I'd rather not see you killed."

"Why thank you."

However Chance tried to keep himself between Hornet and the map, she still found her way over. "I overheard you mention Quirrel, that wandering scholar? You seem to have a plan, but must I point out it is unnecessary. You recall that ostentatious hat upon his head, do you not?"

Chance paused; he did remember Quirrel's hat, the one forming the same symbol he'd seen above the Black Egg Temple, and the Dreamer's monument in the Resting Grounds.

"Monomon," he breathed. Even after everything, he didn't let himself forget the names of the Dreamers who'd tried to seal him and Tusk away in the Dream Realm. Assholes. "That's right. They're acting as some kind of seals on the Black Egg…"

"A call from beyond the Seals? By the Vessel, or by that captive light?"

A steely focus sharpened in Chance's glare.

"And we know exactly where the Dreamers are, don't we, Tusk?"

Hornet's dark eyes widened at him. "You—?"

Chance gave up on trying to hide his efforts from Hornet. "Monomon, in her Archive surrounded by fog and mist," he quoted the monument's inscription, his finger pointing to the Fog Canyon. "Lurien in his Spire," he ruffled the paper as he dragged his finger over to a particularly tall tower in the City of Tears. "Herrah, in her Den beyond the Kingdom," he finished.

He wasn't the only one shaking when he honed in on Deepnest.

Hornet's bewilderment with Chance was immense, and frustratingly without limit. Her stomach was doing somersaults as she struggled to tear her eyes away from Deepnest's map. "And just how do you know this—"

An ethereal, purple-ish light flooded Chance's house, Hornet hissing as she recoiled. Tusk was standing up on the table, proudly presenting their Dream Nail.

"You're right about one thing," Chance said, "We've been caught up in way too much. We had to beat up, like, two old ladies to get this thing."

…That apprehension, and the sense that Hallownest had broken something in Chance's mind that even his Pure Focus could not fix, came roaring back in Hornet's mind. At this rate, nothing and nobody in the Corpse-Kingdom would be safe from this duo's nonsense; for better or worse, they posed a greater threat to Hallownest's continued stasis than the Radiance ever did.

And that's exactly why she was helping them, she reminded herself.

"...Chance," she used his chosen name, terse and with a creeping edge of stern exasperation, "Against my better judgment, and for both of our sakes, I will refrain from asking questions. For the moment," she added before Chance got too relieved. "We have twofold duties to fulfill. First—"

"Wait, we?"

"I'm going with you, nitwit."

Chance snorted at that. Then he paused, and his eyes widened. "Oh. Uhm. That's… Thank y—"

"First," Hornet cut him off as he had her in turn, "You were used as a vector for the Infection, and a rather effective one at that. We need to locate those you've spread that plague to and cure them with whatever means necessary. Considering Iselda, I feel you will be quite capable of this."

Tusk pulled out a small handful of new map markers, glistening honey-gold, rolling the round little metals in their paws. They dropped two in the Mantis Village for Rio and Lightfoot, one in the City for Lemm, one tentatively in the Fog Canyon for Quirrel, and a final one for Iselda—before they tilted their mask, and retracted that last one with a nod.

Equal parts guilt and resolve tugged at Chance's chest, but something else burned at him, too; a feeling that had been gnawing at him ever since he woke up. "Right. And then—"

"You wish to strike at the very nerve of the Light, do you not?" Hornet's dark gaze was intense as the room fell silent. "I can see it in your eyes. I do not claim to know precisely how to do so, but the Black Egg and its Dreamers are our only lead. It is through their efforts that the Temple remains sealed, and the Kingdom in eternal stasis."

Her Silk shimmered in the air; embroidered into the parchment of the map itself, three small mask symbols, pale and glowing, marked the approximate locations of the Dreamers.

Combined with the golden markers, Chance's map had become quite the mess.

"Of course," Hornet added slowly, "If the Plague's heart truly does lie within the Temple's black walls, then undoing the Dreamer's seals will unleash it fully upon Hallownest, and possibly into the world beyond. There's no telling what the Radiance will be capable of if Her shackles are removed. If you wish so badly for change, you need to accept that things may change for the worse."

"Show me you can accept this Kingdom's past… and claim responsibility for its future."

Chance didn't even look up at her from the map. That same emerald ice frosted over his steely gaze. Maybe he was doing this for selfish reasons at this point; maybe he always was. But once again, that monomania seeped out of Chance's fractured brain and caked it like mold; Hornet felt quite confident in her assessment that Chance was the greatest threat to Hallownest's eternal suspension.

And that was what Hallownest needed now.

"I'll accept whatever happens," Chance spoke under his breath.

A knock came at the door. Chance and Hornet were both snapped out of whatever trance they had been in, but not before Tusk hopped up with all the enthusiasm of someone who was just plotting to kill a Goddess, and answered the door before either of them could react.

"Forgive me; I admit I've been eavesdropping for a little while now," Iselda stepped inside. "I overheard my own name through the door. …So, you're heading back down into that hellhole, are you, Chance?"

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "I've got extra backup now."

She shrugged. "Whatever your reasons, I still think it's beyond suicidal. But it's noble. And I can respect that; it's not something you see much out in this wasteland these days."

She sighed; a metal baton was in her hands as she ducked down through the doorway, closing it behind her to keep the winds out.

"Chance… I'm not going to apologize for what I've said or felt. But I've talked it over with Corny, and thought it through myself some; nothing that's happened here is your fault. I'm still upset, but moreso, I'm still terrified of what might've happened, what still could happen… But honestly, I can't say I wouldn't do much the same as you." She sighed as she leaned back against a wall. "I'm still coming to terms with you having found a cure to the Light Plague… And that you used it on me, of all people. I don't even know what it is, but I suppose I can't deny the results. I've slept more soundly these last few nights than I have in what feels like years."

Chance's expression was tense at the mention of the cure, but he nodded along with a smile. "Don't worry about it; there's nothing to apologize for, anyway." Hell, I deserved it. "But I appreciate it."

"More importantly," Hornet interjected, "What is that thing you have with you? Is it a farming tool of some kind?" Tusk was also standing near Iselda, poking at the metal rod she was carrying.

Iselda laughed as she unstrapped it from her back. "No, though it's been called such many times. Corny's work as a cartographer has him and I travel many far-off lands, and we accumulate many bizarre trinkets from around the world; this was a gift from a friend in another distant land, though I have little use for it, as Hallownest has no seas to speak of."

She clicked a small button on the side, and the rod shot out to its full length, almost as long as Chance was tall. A sharp dart glinted on its end.

"A spear?"

"Not quite. A harpoon."

The metal rod thinned down near the spear-like blade, which was sharp and angled down like a barb to keep any flesh it pierced from escaping; the metal was scratched and worn, and did not glint in the light, but the blade was razor-sharp. Trailing from its barb down its shaft and then out the bottom was a long, coiling rope, which Iselda had wrapped around her arm.

"I figured this would be a good fit for you," Iselda barked a laugh with only the smallest hint of spite, "since you like throwing your weapons so much."

She handed the harpoon to Chance, who took it in both hands, studying and weighing it in his hands, running his fingers along the cord and the shaft. He ran his thumb along the bladed barb, feeling how the rod thinned near the end.

Iselda spoke up. "You're headed to the City next, aren't you? Maybe a throwing weapon would take much more training than a simple nail, but I see no reason it can't be used as a normal spear as well. Everyone knows how to use a spear."

But Chance wasn't listening anymore, as Hornet noticed. That buried, blazing madness crept into his eyes yet again, and his expression was emotionless, but fixed. Maybe the darkness in his eyes was inherited from the Void; maybe that searing pinpoint glare, from the Radiance; but his drive was all his own. Even now, Layla's laughter echoed through his mind, and his heart was a magnet at his brain, dragging him to the depths of revenge.

A cold intent washed over him, thick like mist and loud as bombs. He gripped his new harpoon in a vice that threatened to bend it, as he stared at the blade just a moment too long.

Iselda smirked.

"You'd better not lose it again, alright?"

---

Chapter name and summary are a reference to Either/Or (album) by Elliot Smith
Other musical references in this chapter include:
Cubism Dream by Local Natives

Maybe I can lighten the mood by saying this chapter originally had a 3,000 word scene of Tusk playing Minecraft on Chance's phone that ended up getting cut for tone reasons and I'm not joking. I still have the draft.

So now you might be able to see why I wanted to prewrite the first few chapters of Act 2 for "tone reasons." I think I mentioned this in the notes of the last chapter, but I was going through a rough time when I wrote this chapter, and I think it pretty clearly shows. There's definitely a dose of vent writing in this, though not so much in Chance's issues but in the general apathy and frustration in the tone around it.

Stopping to really write an argument between characters can be a bit painful, but it's also insightful and even cathartic in a strange way; not taking sides as the author but just thinking about how the other person would feel, and what they would really say. It's a mental exercise that I hesitate to call "fun" but I think it adds some important emotional depth.

Speaking of being based on real-life emotions: that sleep paralysis scene was based on real-life experience. :)

There's more I can say, such as about the overall nautical theme and the parallels to previous chapters, but I don't wanna say too much and be any more overt than I already am lol. Just a slower, more down-to-earth chapter, so people can talk and get up to speed. Don't worry, the next chapter will be much more fun :)))))

Also worth noting, I was absolutely floored by the positive reception to the last chapter! Words can't express how happy I am that people are still looking out for this fic, even after a year of silence. For those who have been waiting a whole year, welcome back, and to any new readers, I hope you enjoy!

Please leave a comment, and we'll be back with the next chapter soon! :D

OUR DISCORD SERVER CODE IS PYXCv9tUPg AND ALSO GO READ THE ARCHIVEOFOUROWN VERSION OF THIS STORY ITS MUCH BETTER