Chapter Text
Slivers of light reach into the far corners of your cave; peeking signals of hope through the rugged walls.
One by one, you cover it.
One by one, you stuff the holes with pebbles. Boulders and rocks and patches of dirt, mud and sticks, concoctions of material just to block out that light.
To keep yourself enclosed.
To save that light for those outside. You don’t need the sight; you can’t see just fine.
What?
And just like the close of an oven, the gentle shut of a pizza box, cardboard scraping your fingertips, it loses access to all that is hope.
It changes inside.
You change.
What’s happening?
Dear Elliot,
you interest me.
-
Elliot can feel his conscious flicker in and out; a broken lantern trying to keep its edge, to keep itself shining throughout the darkened trees.
There’s a cloud fogging his thought. Like a rainy morning, everything feels heavy, five feet in front of him he can’t see past. It swirls around his head and he can’t think straight.
Where was he last?
The docks? He was sitting there. He was thinking. He was thinking for too long. He felt the way his chest weighed on him like a ball and chain; the pull of gravity wanting him to sink deeper into the pit in his stomach.
He can’t remember the feeling. Enraged? Saddened? Not anything lovely, he can conclude.
Now he’s dissociating. He thinks. He’s not sure. Everything around him blurs like a thick smoke from a pizza oven left shut just a little too long. He can smell the sharp stench of burnt cheese.
It could be a delusion. A hallucination of the mind, something he didn’t doubt would happen sooner or later. One might be driven mad down here, with the constant cycle of life peril. The constant feeling of rock through your chest, code seeping through your vision, the constriction of breath, the sharp blade slicing a clean cut through your skull.
It never pleased him. He didn’t want to die. He never wanted to die. He would cry and beg for his life and seek mercy like a sinner in church. But they were no pastor, and he was no saint.
No, they were demons. The anti-christ given form into beings, the imps sought to torture him for all of eternity. Tearing into his limbs and forcing him to relive his worst.
He was in hell.
He wasn’t meant to be here.
He’d treated everything as he should have. He offered the kindest to his kin and to strangers. Lived by the golden rule. Following rules with perfect leniency. Only breaking it for the benefit of others.
Being a victim was never in his best interest.
Then the assailant, would you seek?
That's strange. That’s his thought, but it feels forced upon him. Words that isn’t his own, echoing through his head with his own voice.
-
Elliot was a healer. He sought to help.
With a hop in his step he traced the battlefields, his eyes scanning the fields for his fellow damned.
Who was hurt, who needed him, who pleaded for a savior.
And like the descent of angels upon the world, he rose, he rose to the challenge. Head first into conflicts, he’d toss them a decadent shape, slathered in dairy and meat and they’d accept it, refreshing themselves and feeling good as new.
To continue their fight.
Something he couldn’t.
Purposeless rings true. Couldn’t they just heal their own?
You’re just convenient.
-
He loved his job. He felt useful. He felt needed. His colleagues threading through the halls and kitchenry in the establishment, fretting over late orders and right timing, but he was always perfect.
He was always the best.
The thanks from his employees when he reminded them where stock was, the relieved sighs when he’d pull out a pizza none had paid attention to, the rings of laughter echoing in his ear when he’d crack a joke to a customer.
Delivering pizzas to homes was his favorite.
Hearing the warm chuckle of family gatherings, the blaring of chaotic house parties, sometimes the gentle melody of older, vintage homes and a couple ready to indulge for a night and talk their ears off.
Kids answering the doors was his favorite, too.
From the shy to the boisterous, to the snotty and the busy, he loved the younger ones.
He loved seeing their faces light up as they opened that front door, beaming with joy at their food coming home.
Their tiny hands passed wads of cash and change into his palm, oftentimes he’d drop tons and tons and he’d laugh it off and reassure the kid it was okay as they picked it up for him. Thank them for the money.
Sleepovers with teenage girls with snotty attitudes, tapping a card reader and rolling their eyes as they grab their meal. Then, as the door closes, the squeal of excitement echoes behind the wood, and he hears them gather for dinner.
His creations bring people together.
He was proud of that.
A home of the mind, the warmth of family.
Would you go back, given the chance?
-
The dissociative episodes became more frequent. He’d function just fine outside of his clouded mind, tuning out passing conversation or concerned words as he performed duties or took care of his own.
The only one he ever focused on was Noob. He took care of Noob. They’re young, they're scared, they need it.
They reminded him of a girl.
Everything else blurred. Even that certain smirk he’d come so far to recognize and return, a friendly finger gun aimed at a confident man hidden behind sunglasses and a fedora. He never raised a hand to him anymore.
He's not sure if they noticed.
He's not sure if anyone noticed.
He reminded himself of 007n7.
So distant.
He didn’t like that. He’d never be like that man.
What’s happening to him?
Safe-kept memories, far lost into the depths of your mind.
Creating more only clouds it further.
-
His heart beats loud in his chest. Sweat runs down his forehead, heavy breaths screaming loud in his ears. There’s a glow ahead of him.
Hurt. They’re hurt. They’re in a round and Noob’s hurt.
Cooldown. No, no, I need it now. I need to help them.
Rush to your destination. Run. Run like a late delivery order. Run like your work car has broken down and you need to get it to the property in time. A family can’t go starving.
His legs pick up, a rhythm in his desperate chase beginning and he swears he’ll fumble if he even shifts slightly in direction or speed. His head is heavy, but he knows he’s needed.
The cooldown ends.
The glow disappears and Elliot sees Noob in the distance, an imp following. One of them. Masked features and the blaring rev of a chainsaw.
This can be his hell, but not theirs. Not Noob’s. They’re limping. They’re hurt. Red stains their cerulean sweater as they hug their own arm. No one else is around.
There’s a shout; he can’t make it out. He doesn’t know where it came from, or who said it, but what he does know is that a pizza spawns from his hand, and it’s swiftly called to that robloxian in that desparate state.
It flies through the muddied air, and for a brief moment, time doesn't move.
Their hand reaches to grab it.
Then, everything stops.
The loud buzz of a chainsaw rings through the battlefields.
Elliot watches a body fall.
They’re not here anymore.
He failed them.
You could help them, if you chased harder.
They are your customers. This is your restaurant, and you're a good employee.
-
He’s back at the docks. His gaze focuses on the water beneath him. His face twists and contorts with the waves of the sea. He can’t recognize himself.
Noob forgave him. Noob didn’t mind.
Elliot didn’t forgive himself.
He’s meant to help. He’s meant to help but he can’t.
And when he can, when he tries, it’s always for naught.
The cycle just starts again.
All he’s here for is to repeat his life.
Throw half-tasteless delectables to those who don’t need it. Who can handle themselves.
Fail those that can’t.
He wants to help more.
He can help more.
He can, can’t he?
You’re a hard-working machine, never given a thank you.
All you’re meant to be is scraps of metal. Expendable pieces put together to serve a purpose. A purpose no one appreciates you for.
No more than a pizza oven, no?
No. No more than a pizza oven.
These feelings were so unfamiliar. He didn’t feel like this before damnation.
Before…
Mia… how is she?
He wishes he knew.
Can’t you?
…Could he?
Come here, dear Elliot. This world has been too, too cruel.
I’m scared. I’m scared for the people I love.
You don’t have to be. You can protect them.
Your hands form the dough of this opposite Earth, detailing the surface with toppings of grace.
You are a brother.
You are an employee.
I follow my service.
That’s good.
How far would you follow it?
Only to help them. Only to serve them. All I want is to be good.
You are. You’ll be better. Let me help.
My hand twitches.
I can’t selfishly accept.
Too much, you hurt yourself too much. You give and you give and you throw and you don’t receive return.
It’s okay to accept repayment. Accept mine.
I reached out.
And no longer is Elliot anywhere. And no longer is Elliot nowhere.
Elliot’s home.
There’s boxes of pizza sitting in front of him. They smell delightful; freshly made, a waft of nostalgia dancing through the air. Paper notes taped on top of the cardboard, addresses and numbers and order details.
Almost on instinct, his heat-protected delivery bag slings its way into his arms. On instinct the boxes go in.
He’s hopping into his favorite Mo-Ped. Placing the bag safely in the compartment on the back. Racing to the addresses in his neighborhood, with no care for the hair on his face or the wind passing him by.
He’s happy.
He’s home.
He’s in his favorite place in the world.
He’s useful again.
I will return when you are ready. Then, you can help more people.
That voice echoes one final time. Elliot accepts it, absorbs it, and continues on his shift.