Jay nodded. A lot of what Sirpa said was relatable. You can have any number of friends and loneliness doesn’t care. It’ll ambush you regardless. But what did she mean by being bothered by it? Was she comparing herself to what her social life should look like?

“Do you know why it bothers you?” Jay asked.

“For me... I get lonely because I can’t see my friends as often as I want. But... with these particular people, I’m actually confident we’re friends. Like, friends, friends.”

A new window appeared in front of them: the Discord friends list, with its green dots and idle moons and gray absences.

“I’ve felt lonelier being part of this online group than I’ve ever been physically away from my friends. Which is so weird...” Their hand lifted to scroll down the list. “They’re right here. Closer than my IRL friends ever could be.”

Jay closed the window and looked over at Silver Blade as she gave her answer.

“Sure. He tried to kill me, but we’re good now. He was just doing his job, y’know? I might’ve done the same a couple years back.” She waved a hand. “So. You know. Communication’s good.”

That made Jay’s eyes go wide. Then, after a beat, the shock rearranged itself into a smile.

“You know what? That’s a solid friendship right there. You can be blunt with each other. Fight it out. And still be friends at the end of the day.” They chuckled, though something sad lived in it. “‘Communication’s good,’ huh? … Man. Makes me jealous.”

A long sigh left them.

“How’d you… overcome your differences? Sure, you can say he was just doing his job, but you can’t really get more personal than someone trying to end your life, right? I imagine it couldn’t have been easy to become good friends from there.”

Out of the corner of their eye, Jay noticed one guy who hadn’t chimed in, but they let him be just in case he didn’t want to be part of the conversation.

“Do you know why it bothers you?” Jay asked.

Sirpa shrugged. "I grew up having a lot of friends, so it feels weird to not have many around," she replied. "I prefer to have a 'pack' or a 'tribe.' I like having an active friend group." She thought for a moment, then continued. "I'm not super close with my family. So when I was younger, my friends were my family. At least emotionally."

Sirpa looked up from her hands when Jay spoke again.

"...with these particular people..."

What did that mean? Who-?

And then a list of usernames appeared in front of Jay like a hologram. Sirpa was surprised at how less surprised she was at the new visual. She must be getting more used to this place.

“I’ve felt lonelier being part of this online group than I’ve ever been physically away from my friends."

Sirpa understood that. People online aren't really here. They are, in a way, but that Internet connection cannot replace the feeling of someone sitting on the floor with you in your living room while you talked about life and laughed about stupid guys...

"He tried to kill me, but..." Silver Blade's words pulled Sirpa out of her own thoughts. She blinked in surprise at her statement, but otherwise showed no reaction. This seemed like a normal thing wherever Silver Blade was from, and that seemed to make sense for a person named "Silver Blade." It was like she was a super hero or something.

Sirpa eyed Silver Blade for a second with that thought in mind. Was she real? Or from another dimension? Could she be from another dimension? Sirpa pushed the thought aside. That was definitely too much to think about for right now. And besides, Silver Blade had finished talking.

"Communication's good." Sirpa smirked, then quieted herself as Jay spoke again. They asked a good question, something Sirpa hadn't thought to ask. Or think, really. She looked from Jay to Silver Blade, curious about what she had to say.

.

Damien's eyes remained fixed on the table. His leg began to shake. He almost didn't catch what Vicis had to say.

"But you were born - or however you were made - in Hell, yes? One would think you would have the upper hand over the mortals cast down there."

"Yeah," Damien said in a low voice. "You would think." His leg bounced faster. Only bits and pieces of what Silas said made it into Damien's conscious awareness.

"...is there a ranking system? ... chaos 'nd shit down there... organized torture or whatever...if there's a ranking system it still prolly sucks..."

Damien sat quietly for a moment, then spoke again with rising intensity. "Yeah," he said, a small dose of mania creeping into his voice. "Yeah, there is. And we're trash. We’re just trash, made by some Sin to do their bidding. Heck, Belphagor is only ever too asleep or too high—-or both—-to even think about to rest of us in Sloth!” Damien let out a panicked laugh and steadied himself with a hand to his head. He seemed to be looking beyond the scene in front of him. His claws gripped at the base of his horn. "Humans come before us. Can you believe it? The Sinners have more rights than anyone in Hell who isn't royalty. Because Hellborn like me? We were made to serve."

The vines that hung from the plants above began to grow longer. Their stems slowly morphed into heavy links. By the time they could reach Damien, they resembled chains. But Damien took no notice.

"I'm supposed to be dead, ya know." He took a few breaths on the edge of hyperventilating. His leg continued to shake. "I killed myself. I'm supposed to be dead. And I'm supposed to have gotten away from him!"

The bar surrounding the three men began to fall away, with all other tables and patrons disappearing into darkness. Again, Damien didn't seem to notice. He didn't notice the lights in the distance dimming and going out. He didn't notice as the chain-like vines settled across his shoulders and snaked down his legs.

"What the fuck else am I supposed to do?!" His eyes were wild as he spoke, almost shouting. His breathing transitioned into panting. "It doesn't fucking matter what I do, it- Nothing matters, I'm just stuck here in this-" Tears began to form at the corner of his eyes. "And I didn't do nothing, I didn't ask to be created, I-I try my best to be better than this, and what does it fucking get me?!"

Then, a deep voice echoed through the missing bar, ringing in a sing-song tone. "Damien."

Damien looked up at the sound, his eyes wide and his movement stopped. "Oh my god." In a split second, the chains tightened and jerked Damien up into the darkness past where the ceiling would be.

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

Damien’s admission had struck a nerve that Vicis hadn’t even known he had.

Death in battle was an action of great reverence among the humans. It mattered not to them that they were putting a premature end to their pittance of a lifespan; the honour of giving their hearts up for their so flaunted “greater good” was a satisfactory enough reward that none of them thought twice about it. Little better than the sheep they reared, those Blessed Knights – and the simple peasants who egged them on were worse. Vicis had no love for most humans, but the idea of forfeiting one’s life for such petty reasons was beyond him.

That Damien had attempted at all curdled the dinner inching through his stomach.

But there was no time to ask any questions. Damien was still going, spilling frantic words, gripping his horns so tight that Vicis wondered if they might snap. Their surroundings flickered like a bad illusion spell between the cave and another place that seemed more... constructed. Polished wood. Leather, painted in stark colour. Potted agriculture hanging from the ceiling. Unusual potted agriculture, considering the vines creeping downwards towards Damien.

‘Damien.’

Polished wood and leather snapped into place. The vines snatched Damien up into shadows where the ceiling used to be. That made for an exceedingly easy decision to make amidst the noise of conflicting thoughts and emotion running through Vicis’ head right then.

Quick as a blink, he coiled into a tight spring and leaped after Damien.

Now, Elder Wyrms couldn’t fly, but they were capable of leaping great heights. Their monstrous length and size were more than simple ostentatious features, after all. That also meant that when his tail pincers snagged onto the back of Silas’ shirt, Vicis didn’t notice, for the weight of a human dangling off his tail was hardly anything substantial.

Instead, he kept his focus upward as the dining establishment faded away into a murky abyss.

In walked a dark-skinned, dapper gentleman wearing a vest the color of coffee. He glanced around at the establishment, which seemed like a cafe but was also serving alcohol. His eyes lingered on some customers that stood out: someone being tied up, a dragon-like person leaping toward the former, a purple-haired woman that looked troubled, and a green-haired woman that seemed to be mumbling to herself. Regardless of the place's mysterious nature and chaotic nature, most of the patrons showed no signs of panic. The man in brown's curiosity got the better of him, so he soon approached the counter and claimed a seat.

“I’m not super close with my family. So when I was younger, my friends were my family. At least emotionally.”

Something turned over in Jay’s chest. Quiet. The click of a lock they hadn’t known was there.

Was that it?

A tribe. Friends who were present for you, and you for them. Maybe that was what they’d been grieving all this time. Not about the group. Not even about the falling out. But the family that could’ve been…

They let that thought sit for exactly one second before deciding it was way too much to unpack right now.

“Actions over words. That’s what worked for me.” Silver Blade’s words hit bone.

Because yes. That was it. That was the entire thing, stripped clean. People could say “I care” and say “you matter” and say “I feel a kinship,” and if none of that ever translated into anything you could actually see, then what had any of it been? Actions required follow-through. And follow-through was where it all fell apart.

Jay’s face crumpled into that of someone who’d been chewing on something bitter for six months and just bit through to the pit. They didn’t realize they’d been staring at the floor until they stopped.

When they looked up, the Moderator was watching them. Warmth in her eyes and patience in her posture. Like Jay could take another six months and she’d still be sitting there with that same expression.

It had been months. Literal months since Jay walked in here to unburden themselves about something that happened even more months ago. And these people—Sirpa, Silver Blade, even the quiet ones who hadn’t said a word—were still here.

Jay appreciated that more than they had the words for.

Now came the harder part. The part where Jay actually talked about themselves. Which (and they knew this was ridiculous, they knew) still felt like something that required permission. This was a venting space. That was the entire point. But knowing a thing and feeling it had always been two different countries, and Jay had never held a valid visa to the second one.

At what point did talking about yourself tip over into unsolicited? Where exactly was the line between opening up and making everything about you? Jay had never found it.

Years of “friends” who never asked about you. Never turned the question around. The conversation would just flow around you and carry on, like a current rerouting itself around a rock. After enough of that, you stopped wondering if you were part of the conversation and started wondering if anyone would notice if you weren’t. A body in the chat. Furniture that occasionally typed.

So Jay compensated. Asked about others. Listened more than they spoke. Waited for an invitation to share, which rarely came.

They didn’t want to make anyone feel that way. Replaceable. Invisible. God, they really didn’t want to be that person.

“The people I had a falling out with,” Jay said, fingers finding each other again—interlacing, pulling apart—“it came down to actions not matching their words. And that gap just... eroded everything. I kept trying to trust them. Kept giving them the benefit of the doubt.” A short, flat exhale. “Didn’t matter.”

Another breath. Then:

“Before I go on a whole monologue, I want to be really clear about something.” They looked around the circle, making sure to meet each pair of eyes. “This is my side. My point of view, and only my point of view. I don’t speak for the other people involved, and I’m not going to pretend I know what they were thinking. Whatever I say is just what I felt and the impression I got. Nothing more, nothing less. I have no doubt they’ve got their own version of how things went. So just... keep that in mind.”

There. Good. Disclaimer out of the way.

And then their brain, helpful as always, chose that exact moment to dredge something up from the past: A “friend” talking behind Jay’s back. Just decided what was going on in Jay’s head and passed it around like fact. Never once thinking to just ask. Not once.

All that talk about honesty and trust, and what did these “friends” do? Talk about someone instead of to them.

Disgust curled Jay’s lip, eyes narrowing, jaw tight before they’d made a conscious decision to feel anything at all.

The arrival of a newcomer snapped Jay back. They caught the tail end of whatever expression they’d been wearing—felt it, really, in the tightness of their muscles—and smoothed it out. Or tried to.

“Sorry about the face,” they said, forcing a smile that was maybe sixty percent convincing. “That wasn’t aimed at you. Promise. Just—”

They took a breath. Reset. “I’m Jay.” A small wave. “Welcome to... this.”

Sirpa stilled as Jay made a face as if they were about to cry. It was like that was a cue that activated a sleeper agent in her. Not that she wasn't practicing active listening already, but seeing someone cry--or about to cry--automatically put her in her caretaker shoes. But here, she didn't have to be in charge. Sirpa looked over at the creature. It was obviously the one in charge here. What would it do?

But Jay spoke again. They seemed ready to talk, to get into the meat of it. “The people I had a falling out with—-it came down to actions not matching their words. And that gap just... eroded everything. I kept trying to trust them. Kept giving them the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t matter.”

Sirpa frowned. That was familiar, too. She fidgeted in her seat for a moment, masking the movement as getting more comfortable. Soon, Jay was asking to share more of their story. Sirpa nodded as they looked her way. Another person arrived, and Sirpa was happy to not be the one in the spotlight right now.

The gentleman returned Jay's welcome, comforted by the man's assurance that he bore no ill will. He waited a moment, wondering if the less-than-energetic fellow would continue speaking after vaguely describing the scene as "this". The sound of mugs landing on tables and utensils clattering resounded in the vacuum of a conversation that hadn't even started. Realizing that the statement was complete, he looked around to get a closer look at what "this" was. Other than a silent woman oriented like a partner to this conversation, nothing really shined light onto his situation. He didn't want to embarrass himself by asking what "this" was, so he nodded as if he understood. "Pleased to be here Jay. My name is Floriano." The gentleman offered a handshake to Jay with a smile.

He then began to ponder on how what he should order, checking his metal watch as he did. He hadn't docked into this port with any itinerary, but embraced the saying about not being particular about ports in inclement weather. He supposed that he could watch the barista until he was introduced to a menu and then inspect it to make an informed decision. However, the vague response from the fellow customer mirrored his own uncertainty, to which he drew some comfort from. Seeing Jay as someone he didn't have to impress, Floriano innocently inquired, "Do you recommend anything on the menu Jay?"

Jay shook Floriano’s hand. Nice grip. Nice watch. Nice vest. The man looked like he had his life together, or at least his wardrobe.

“The menu?” They glanced around the room as if looking for one. “Uh, let’s see. Endless venting about relationships, a side of existential dread, and I think the house special is quietly falling apart in front of strangers. No prices listed. Which probably means it’s free, or they’re selling our personal information to some data broker as we speak. Either way.”

The folding chair squeaked as they settled back.

“I only just got here, though, so hard to say what’s actually good.” A nod toward the others. “They’ve been here a while. Probably know more about how this place works than I do.”

And they would, having been here long enough to actually have something valuable to share about this place.

Jay never had much to offer that group either. Maybe that was why those people felt fine with the promises that quietly became nothing, or worse, got replaced with something else entirely; the placating replies and decisions made about Jay without Jay. Why put in the effort for someone who isn’t worth much to you?

None of it was ever big enough to point at. Each one a needle-prick, barely enough to notice. You’re overreacting. You’re reading too much into it. It’s not that deep. Maybe it wasn’t, the first time. Or the fifth. But micro-needles don’t stop being needles just because they’re small. They keep pricking. Tic, tic, tic, tic—so tiny no one else can see the marks, so frequent you stop being sure they’re real. Until you look down one day and you’re bleeding from a thousand places you can’t even name.



It started small.

Tic.

A prick. Something you’d mistake for a stray thought, a muscle twitch. Nothing worth naming.

Then another.

Each one belonged to whoever felt it. Their own history of small hurts.

Tic.

A tear. Deeper than skin. Closer than bone.

Tic.

Tic.

And the insides started leaking out.

@Tlazolteotl

"Again?"

Charlie once again found herself back at the strange bar. She wasn't entirely sure how, or why, but she felt an odd sense of comfort and apprehension seeing that it had replaced the break room for a second time. After a moment of taking in the somewhat familiar surroundings, she sat herself on one of the bar stools.

"Will?" she asked looking behind her, "You're seeing this too, right?"

Floriano frowned, realizing that the man's uncertainty extended past a mere first impression. "Oh, I'll pass on those so-called appetizers. That doesn't sound like a sustainable business for either side. It seems that we're both new to this establishment." Lacking any recommendation or menu, the gentleman looked around for the barista so that he inquire about his options for coffee. Unfortunately, the barista was nowhere to be found. This bothered Floriano, as he had been sitting there for a few minutes without any greeting or welcome by anyone other than Jay.

The gentleman tapped his foot impatiently, then felt a sting as if he had stepped on a nail. He checked his dress shoes but found no puncture or blemish on either or them. He complained loudly, "Buggers, how long must a man wait to be served some coffee."