Chapter Text
Wake up.
Eat.
Go outside.
Work.
Go home.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Wake up,
Eat.
Go outside.
Work.
Go home.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Wake up.
She smiles at herself in the mirror. Brushes her hair to the side. Watches the clouds go by from out her window.
Eat.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner. She’s always loved food. Her friends called her a glutton. Her friends called her greedy– although it was lovingly. It’s not like she minded. Food was food.
Go outside.
School, usually. Sometimes a trip with friends. Sometimes she’d just stand outside. Touch grass, heh.
Work.
School again. Work work work– stuff she was always tired of and yet the days melded in on themselves. The days melded in on themselves and blurred into one time after another– something endless that she watched go by with blurred eyes.
Sleep.
Tucked into bed. Her only escape. Drifting off into dreams is a wonderful way to leave reality.
Repeat.
Wake up.
It was a regular day. It was supposed to be normal. She gets out of bed and hops downstairs and eats breakfast like normal. It was a family trip, wasn’t it?
Eat.
They went to a restaurant, a nice one at that. The food was delicious and she had several bowls– more than she usually did. More than those small portions she usually choked down with a wide smile on her face. No, this time it was genuine. Maybe her intuition was telling her something.
Go outside.
They were going to the bank to pick up a few things, make a few deposits. It was for her college fund, apparently. Her dad had wanted to check on the amount she had in her savings, discuss a plan for the future and what to expect when she went to college in two years. That is, if she gets accepted.
Work.
She was always the one in her family to first notice something was wrong.
It was too quiet. The silence was too loud, the ringing in her ears more apparent than it usually was– it was usually drowned out by the noise.
Then she saw the gun.
She’d always told herself she was a coward.
But when she grabbed the teller’s attention, she’d wanted to prove herself wrong. Wanted to make up for her mistakes, at least once.
Everything went black.
Sleep.
Sirens. Sirens. Sirens. Fading away– the desperate grip of hands on her hands still there– she felt it. She felt their touch. She felt their love.
She felt herself slipping, her senses slipping, her mind slowly bleeding out, thoughts becoming incomprehensible, thoughts blurring, one after another, minutes into hours into days into weeks–
And without even a goodbye, she was gone.
Wake up.
The brief flutter of wings is what reaches her ears first, rays of sunlight hitting her face through the open window. (No. Bad. She should’ve left it closed. She was getting forgetful.)
The chatter of people outside, the buzz of phones and devices and sharp pangs of phone calls and texts drilling into her mind. She groans and reaches up blindly, grabbing the edge of the curtains and pulling it shut. The comforting rays of sun extinguish, leaving her in bland morning.
She opens her eyes and is met with a butterfly on her face. It flies off before she can process its existence, turning a corner and disappearing.
With a sigh, she pushes herself out of bed, a hand reaching up to brush aside her hair– but it meets the thick shell of keratin, instead. A soft pressure pushes into her forehead at the touch, and she pulls her hand back before further damage can be done.
Right. Horns. Of course.
She meets her reflection in the mirror and flinches back, bright teal horns adoring her head like a helm, four points curling up in front of her face, two framing the bottoms of her eyes and two reaching upwards.
Way too similar to a specific scientist that she despised . Kept getting weird looks because of it. She hadn't even seen him before, hadn't even talked to him– but he was her least favorite. Even when she was human. She sighs again, poking the diamond-shaped base of her horns, and she lets her hand drift back to rest at her side, flexing her claws.
So many reminders that she wasn’t human anymore, not after what had happened.
She makes her way out the door and down the small hall of her apartment, pausing at the door frame.
How much food did she have left?
Eat.
Turns out, not that much. A simple bowl of cereal with the last of the milk is good enough.
She places her empty dishes in the sink and watches the clouds go by outside her window, the busy chatter and colorful crowd of Inphernals walking around outside meshing with the buzz of their phones. The whirr of their devices. The ringing of the internet.
8 Bit Blaster was someone who didn’t quite appreciate the world until it was ripped away from her.
Who didn’t quite appreciate her friends until she couldn’t see them again. Talk to them again.
Who didn't quite appreciate love until she couldn't feel it anymore.
Who didn't quite appreciate life until she learned what death felt like.
She used to be human. That much was clear. She remembered nearly everything. What it felt like to breathe in near-polluted oxygen and feel the feeling of crisp air burn through her lungs.
She’s alive now. No longer human. And the air feels different.
It’s probably one of the only things that she misses.
There’s a faint memory in the back of her mind that she can’t quite grasp. A faint word on the tip of her tongue.
She never could fully recall her name after what happened. Couldn’t really recall what had happened to make her like this, either– simply darkness. Floating. Butterflies–? A wish?
Then she woke up. Alone. Afraid. Confused. No longer human.
Go outside.
With a sigh, 8bit pulls the curtains closed. There’s too much to think about.
Stepping out into the world feels like whiplash compared to what she’s used to. She lets the door swing shut behind her, rustling in her bag to grab her keys– with a butterfly keychain, how ironic– to lock it.
Her apartment is decently located– on one of the lower floors, and one of the windows overlooks the sea outside. She’s on the outskirts of Crossroads, thankfully, but it doesn’t make the place any less crowded.
It hadn’t been too difficult to get the place, considering she woke up with a good stack of cash– and the fact that the landlord was one of those who didn’t ask questions. She’d been lucky enough to get her hands on a unit with minimal neighbors and a quiet atmosphere. Even though it was slightly cramped.
8bit can’t help but duck her head down instinctively when one of her neighbors comes out. She can feel the stares, the judgemental eyes digging into her. With a quiet huff, she vaults over the railing, forgoing the stairs just to get away.
It’s a common enough occurrence that nobody really questions it.
She hits the ground with a roll, popping back up and leaning against a wall to regain her balance. There’s a goal today. And that goal is to do her job, wasn’t it?
8bit walks over to the bike rack, fiddles with her keys, and unlocks the chains that held her bike in place.
It's a quick trip to her workplace, much as it always is.
Something she's been doing every day since she's woken up here.
Hoverboard had never seen someone this dedicated to a job in his life.
When he started his mail delivering business, he’d been expecting to fail within the first two months or so. An endeavor he didn’t believe would succeed.
Then he got one employee.
For someone with such a powerful ranged gear, you’d have expected them to be more focused on a future career in phights.
Instead, what Hoverboard got was a quiet individual who didn’t seem to have any life outside of work, work, and more work.
It might've been due to her medical condition– the entirety of her horns all connected to one, singular base. She was fragile. She called herself weak. He called her focused. Intense. Productive.
After all, that’s another stack loaded onto the back of her bike, and another source of bux in his wallet from the subscriptors.
8 Bit Blaster (or 8bit, as she was insisting on being called,) was an individual that didn’t question much. She showed up, did her job, and left with some more money in her pocket. She asked to be paid in cash. He didn’t question that either. A good employee is a good employee– and for someone who did 3-4 rounds a shift, four days a week , without complaint, she was a damn good employee.
Hoverboard was raised to always question everything.
He won’t question this. Both for his sake, and for her's.
If there’s something nobody’s ever told her, it’s that tossing newspapers every day helps with your accuracy.
8bit’s gone from accidentally hitting other Inphernals in the head to being able to do it on purpose to the people who piss her off. All while riding a bike, hooray!
And they can’t hurt her. Not when they don’t have proof. She’s known for being very topsy turvy with the way she tosses them, after all. Why pick a fight with an Inphernal over a known flaw?
The job is easy enough. Grab a paper, check the house, toss. Grab a paper, check the house, toss. Rinse and repeat.
Sometimes she gets new routes that throw her off. She's learned to memorize the locations beforehand– Hoverboard gives her enough warning in advance to prepare. He's a pretty good boss. Communicates. Warns in advance.
She's also recently gotten a raise– apparently her dedication at the job inspired others to come and see if they could apply- “looked easy enough” – and luckily, they've gotten two more employees, allowing their work to expand to more neighborhoods.
8bit turns into an unfamiliar corner and takes some time to check her list– yup, right street, let's go.
Paper toss. Paper toss. Paper toss. Paper toss– that one annoyed her on the way to the grocery store the other day. She nails them on the head, speeding off before they can turn around and see her.
Yet another corner. She grabs a newspaper from the back and tosses it as needed.
That door.
That door.
That door.
That door.
That door.
That door.
That– door?
8bit backtracks and stops pedaling, tilting her bike so that one foot rests on the ground.
That was a very tall building. A very familiar tall building, cracked windows and all.
Who–?
She’s pulling out her phone with suddenly shaking fingers, ignoring the way the device's internet connection jitters against her skull. She’s checking her own location. She’s checking the list of neighborhoods she was tasked with delivering to.
… It’s listed under a different name, but it’s definitely the building she remembers.
Fuckkkk fuck fuck fuck…
Fucking hell, Sword and Venomshank of all people…
It’s on the list.
It’s newly on the list.
Fuck.
She’s going to have to start delivering here, isn’t she?
8bit lifts up her bike, steadies herself, and backpedals the fuck out of there.
It was a slow day. Hoverboard's leaned over his desk, his gear laying on its side.
Pencil scribbles over paper, then goes into the 'scan to convert’ pile. Paper to digital. Everything's easier when they're digital reports.
The back door slams open.
Hoverboard freezes, a stamp hovering in midair. He looks up.
8bit. The Inphernal was standing at the door, an uncharacteristic– and frankly terrifying – stormy look on her face.
Was something wrong? He frowns, setting the stamp down.
“8bit? What's–”
His question is cut off by the other barging in, near slamming her phone onto his desk, a screenshot of her route marked in bright, screaming red.
“This one. This. Is it new?”
She jabs her finger at the text, claws barely clipped enough to avoid scratching the glass.
Hoverboard squints at it.
“Yes? It's a new route, what about it?”
“Can you get someone else to do it?”
At that, he blinks. Rubs his eyes. Then blinks again.
8bit is still standing there, impeccably calm despite the expression on her face and the way her free hand balled into a fist, knuckles turning pale.
She's never questioned his changes before.
Hoverboard picks his next words carefully.
“...Why? Is it not… a good spot? I can put it on the blacklist…?”
To his surprise, 8bit shakes her head in response. That expression is still glued onto her face, although her fists have relaxed somewhat, skin returning back to its light gray hue.
“I can't deliver there,” she repeats, voice firm. “Can we get someone else?”
He was raised to always question.
“If we can get another hire, I'll hand the route to them.”
His star employee stares at him, expression still plastered on her face.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then she nods, expression shifting into something unreadable.
He swears he can see fear in her eyes.
“I've finished with my shift. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“...”
Hoverboard watches her. She's standing there, unmoving.
“Are you sure they didn't do anything?”
She shakes her head. A clear negative. She's never had a reason to lie to him before. She never has.
“...”
Hoverboard frowns, but nods reluctantly.
“Alright. See you tomorrow.”
8bit turns around to leave.
“Stay safe,” Hoverboard calls.
8bit freezes. Then nods.
The door swings shut behind her.
The sky is darkening.
She continues to pedal home, stopping occasionally to check the street signs as she makes her way back to outer Crossroads.
8bit stops under the sign marking the entrance to Blackrock.
There's a payphone there, sitting next to the bus stop. She slowly wheels up to it, leaning her bike against the side of the thing.
Practiced motions have her bringing out her wallet. She cursed under her breath, struggling to keep a grip on one of the bills with her non human claws without tearing it.
Despite her clipping her nails near religiously –filing the things down every week– they still remained stubborn.
The phone doesn't even work.
She's just wasting bux everyday on something that's dead– or worse, being monitored by Blackrockian government for whatever reason.
“…”
Does she care?
“…”
No.
No, she doesn't care.
She's already checked the area for cameras. There were none, surprisingly. Not even in the street lamps, which was surprising. She'd have thought a powerful government like so to be more uptight about monitoring their entrance.
She's been careful, too, making sure not to give any information about herself during her nightly visits.
With new conviction, 8bit inserts the bill into the payphone's money collection slot, hearing the click of the phone unlocking.
The sky is darkening.
She picks it up, carefully using a knuckle to dial a phone number. One engraved in her heart.
Her days are filled with work– it's different now that she has to do it to survive another day. There's no more chance for thought, for if she slacked off even slightly, she might not be able to afford her own home the next day. She has to stay vigilant, stay a star. That way nobody would ever question her ability. That way she won't lose what she has now.
That just made everything worse when nighttime hit. She's supposed to be a functioning being, godsdamn it– she can't afford to think about what she lost. If she's lucky, then she'll live until her eighties.
The phone rings, much as it always does.
She's already wasted so much bux on this thing. Where's the money even going? Funding Biograft creation? Funding unethical experimentation? Making weapons?
The sky is dark. The moon shines from behind clouds, but the overhang of the street sign blocks its glow. Everything's casted in shadow.
She can't bring herself to care. It's not her problem.
It takes a while, but a sound starts up in the phone's system.
An error buzz, the long, obnoxious tone of a dial up.
It's faint when she notices, but becomes louder when she brings it up to her ear. Something about it is comforting, in a way. This phone number doesn't exist here. It never did.
That means that nobody ever took it. Took one of the last things that signified her past life, in a way. Her humanity.
Helps that it doesn't utilize the internet, either. Her head hurts less when she can't sense the thing's connection.
8bit breathes out and leans next to the payphone machine, picking up the phone's wire and twirling it between her claws.
She closes her eyes.
“Hey, mom. I'm doing alright.”
Silence from the other end. No response except for that long beep. That error tone.
“I miss you.”