Maybe Samuel could tell himself that the past never mattered. That nothing was real. It would be a relief.
If nothing was real, then the betrayal didn’t mean anything. It was just duty. They were never friends, Samuel was just a mark. Someone to trick, to sweet talk, to lead astray. To guide with a smile and neat little steps down to the abattoir.
If nothing was real, then nothing was personal. It meant that he didn’t mean
anything. It meant that the journey meant nothing. It meant that Samuel was just another Hero, Lysse another Retainer, and that everything was as it should be.
That’s what gets him, really.
The idea of how things should have been. How this Hero’s journey was supposed to go.
Hindsight poisons everything. Every smile, every friendly nudge. Every laugh the three of them shared around a campfire. Was it all just acting? It couldn’t have, yet it must have been.
Some part of him wishes for ignorance. If he were ignorant, he wouldn’t be standing here now. He wouldn’t be bloody, exhausted, covered in ash, staring down his betrayer and would-be killer.
The sword in his hand doesn’t falter, but his steps certainly do. His breath does. Samuel stops, sword lowered, and stares down Lysse. She does the same.
She looks horrible.
The uniform she wears is charred, torn, still smoldering in places, but she stands strong. Wind tussles her hair, stained grey with soot.
He’s too far to see her expression.
He hopes it’s angry. Cruel. Cold, joyful, even. He hopes she opens her mouth, tells him that nothing mattered, and that he was a fool, and that she will enjoy killing him. Anything but this.
Samuel walks forward another couple feet. There's now only a yard between them. Close enough for an opportunistic lunge, a surprise attack. A quick blade between the ribs. At least that would break the lull.
From here, he can see her gaze, her features. A set jaw. Narrowed brows. But the eyes are soft.
Hurting. Familiar. That’s almost the worst part.
How many times had he seen her look at him like that? Countless, yet now he knows the significance.
An inhale. An exhale. His fingers tighten on the hilt. He licks his bloodied lips.
Samuel opens his mouth, hesitates:
“I wish things were different.”
He shouldn’t have said that. What do wishes ever do? It doesn’t matter. The words are out. No take-backs.
There’s a long moment of silence, and he almost thinks she won’t respond.
“But they aren’t.”
It’s not an apology. It’s not a threat. There’s no shame, no anger, not one ounce of emotion, it’s just flat.
Samuel grits his teeth, stepping back. Mud squelches under his boot.
“That’s all you have to say? After everything? That’s it?”
The words are angry, and he takes care not to express the hurt he feels. It seeps out anyway, miserable and pathetic, god, he was so stupid!
Another step back. Something crunches under his boot. A quick glance shows it’s the hand of some poor fallen soldier. Impossible to tell the allegiance. The body is too burnt to tell.
Nausea churns. He swallows it down. Shifts his foot so that it’s the squelch of mud underneath, not the snap of bone.
He wonders what his name was. If he had kids. A brother. A sister.
All this. Because of him. For him. He should have turned himself in. Then things would have been different.
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But what’s done is done. Lysse stands before him, silent. Her sword loose in her hand. Her grip tightens, knuckles whitening.
Wanting won’t change a goddamn thing. Lysse already made her choice. He needs to make his.
Samuel draws his sword. Levels it. His arm doesn’t tremble.
One of them is going to die here. It won’t be him.
If only he were smarter. If only he were stronger. If only he figured things out on his own.
If only, if only.
Lysse draws her blade. Samuel swallows.
So this is how things are going to go.
If only things were different.
If only, if only.
Wanting won’t change a thing.
“GO LEFT! GO LEFT! I SAID GO LEFT!”
Sam has never been so mad in his life.
It doesn’t take a genius to tell left from right. It’s a basic skill most adults have, that most children have. His eight year old sister knows which is which.
So Tox1k13U is either a moron, or an infant. Possibly with no arms, because that gameplay was frankly ridiculous.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Sam roars into the mic, strong enough that spittle flies over his computer screen. He stares blankly forward, hands shaking.
DEFEAT, it says, italicized red letters.
Stupid Tox1k13U didn’t know left from right. Now he’s lost the round. His streak is ruined. His twenty-three won games in a row. Gone. Decimated. Disappeared. Because of some loser with no directional sense.
That kind of streak isn’t easy to maintain! It takes time, skill, continued effort.
And Tox1k13U went and—
Sam stands, yanking off his headset. His chair rolls backwards behind him. He stares at the screen in dismay, raking a hand through his hair.
The letters on the screen stare back. Mock him. He sucks in a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Counts to ten…
Sam grabs a nearby can of Monster Energy and chugs it. His hands tremble.
He can still make this up. Restore his steak. He just needs to… win another twenty three games in a row again! Should be easy enough, so long as there aren’t any other Tox1k13Us mucking things up for him. Besides, it’s only…
Sam glances at the clock. His heart stutters.
…3:17 AM. He started at 9 yesterday. Had it really been that long? Couldn’t be. 27 matches of Overwatch didn’t take seven hours to complete. But before Overwatch was Fortnite, and before Fortnite, Valorant…
Whatever.
He’ll regain his win streak. It’s not like he has anything important tomorrow. Just a few stupid college assignments he can ChatGPT.
Just a few more rounds.
Time passes.
The headset is hot against his ears, slick with sweat.
It’s been hours, he’s sure. Morning light has begun to creep across his floor, peeking, from under his closed blinds.
His team is three seconds from losing, and this Reinhardt– clearly, a complete and utter moron– keeps charging straight into the enemy team instead of protecting their flanks.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"
Sam screams into his mic as the enemy Reaper decimates their backline. His fingers clench around his mouse, knuckles white, as he desperately tries to pick off the attackers with precise headshots.
He’s too late. The payload reaches its destination with a cheerful little ding that feels like a taunt through his speakers.
DEFEAT.
Another loss.
Sam punches his monitor. Tosses his headset onto the floor. He covers his face with his hands.
His knuckles throb. His eye stings. His head pounds. His chest tightens.
That stupid Reinhardt! If you choose to play a tank, you should do your goddamn job, not go off solo!
If you have a role, you play it to a T, dammit!
His head spins. He sucks in a breath, trying to relax. His heart pounds so hard he can hear it in his ears.
Sam stands. His knees fold.
...What?
The carpeted floor feels oddly cold against his cheek. Not uncomfortable, just... there. Present. A contrast to the burning in his chest. A wildfire across his ribs.
Sam tries to call out, but his voice catches. Tries to scream, but his throat constricts.
His fingers twitch uselessly against the carpet. His eyes roam the floor beneath his desk. Dropped chips. Tissues. A dead roach near his nose.
His vision narrows. Darkens around the edges.
This can't be happening. He's only twenty-two. He can't—
The pain intensifies, a vice grip crushing his chest from the inside. His breath comes in short, desperate gasps.
He needs to get to his phone. Call someone. Anyone.
But his body won't respond. His muscles seize.
I can’t die here. Sam thinks with a desperate fear. I can’t—
Samuel Watson dies alone on the floor of a filthy apartment.
...and awakens with a gasp, cold and bare in a marble tub, surrounded by masked figures chanting a tongue not meant for human mouths.
