Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

parrot pov:

Snow crackles at the touch of his warmth, yet bites with it’s cold tongue as fierce winds lash at Parrot’s face: this was it.

A barren landscape: a snowy white that spanned across chunks of terrain: a land desolate of life, save from the occasional twitch in the white, the fur of a rabbit or a fox. Desolate, is how Wifies described it, a scowl as a splinter burns into a rapidly expanding fire of pain that blazes a visceral warmth, putting his finger in his mouth to alleviate the pain. A wooden house: yellow and white-stained glass that had painted a subtle yellow light as the sun rose, a square of golden sun, imprinted on their floor.

“This is why we listen to me when decorating.” Wifies had announced, attempting to lighten the mood, as Parrot, hunched over the oak arcs of wood, chipped away at the excess splinters of the pillars. 24 hours. They were 12 hours in: only 12 left to go. Parrot only nods, rubbing his eyes, his gaze lingering at the door, waiting for the slightest sign of Ash to show up. The floor creaks as his steps begin to approach Wifies, watching him dust away at the pillows, made of 2 colors: green and purple. Parrot feels his muscles attempt to lift to form a smile, yet feels them fall at the same time. (His body is sore: everything is sore, as the invis members chase them down, knives at their throats and they persevere: life hanging on a mere thread, just thick enough for them to hang on. Wifies’ silhouette looks so fragile from the back: an especially vulnerable moment that Parrot does not like to see. He wonders how fast it would take for a mafia member to finish Wifies off in this position: the thought creeping into his mind and wrapping itself across every crevice of his brain. He wonders how long it will take for Ash to find their homely cottage.

In 24 hours, he thinks to himself, in 24 hours.)

“Did you notice the sofa?” Wifies turns around to face Parrot, directing him to it, feeling his hands against the smoothly polished wood. “It’s definitely not the best”, Parrot grimaces, remembering the velvet red sofa in Wifies’ old house: he wonders if Wifies misses it, guilt pouring over him as he remembers the incident: bombs dropping across the house, leaving craters in it’s wake. Wifies had comforted him, promising it wasn’t his fault, but all Parrot could see was Wifies’ garden, left in ruins: asters now left burning into ash, lavenders crushed under debris- “...but it’s enough. For us.” Wifies smiles, watching Parrot intently as he simply nods, mindlessly stroking his fingers against the dark oak wood. (Wifies had carved it. Sharp edges, he noticed, as he runs his fingers against the edges: they had built this as fast as they could, time seeping from it’s precious vase. It only seemed like a hammer in the nail, telling him that this was not permanent. This life, this false elysium they painted, would not, could not last.

12 hours left.)
A dog sits, perched next to the sofa, his eyes alert as they dash around, at Wifies, then at Parrot, then letting his tongue loose, opening his mouth and wagging his tail. Wifies had begged him to tame the dog: laughing as they shivered in the unrelenting cold, the only warmth offered between their two hands, a lingering touch that didn’t speak of their emotional bond, but didn’t deny it either.

A gaze that lasts too long, as Parrot stares longingly at Wifies’ side profile, watching Wifies pet the dog. “This is the life they deserve.” Parrot thought to himself.

Two best friends against the world.
…That was how it was supposed to be.
…..

The two were sat, organising their inventories, when Wifies made the decision stood up to get more wood, standing up and approaching the door. Parrot took no notice, not as he smoothed his hand across a familiar emerald, and poked at a goathorn, sentiments that each cling on a name lost to the books. (Luigi and Dean. One by one, they both fell: only one of his friends remained, the rest either dead or in the invis mafia. How long would it take Wifies to fall alongside them too?)

As the door creaks, Parrot hears a sharp gasp, and he immediately stands up, running to Wifies’ place.

“Parrot, look-” Wifies’ face is drained, eyes widened, and when Parrot sees it, he knows it’s over.

“I found you.”

…….

Parrot doesn’t remember why he returns to the cabin, days after Wifies joined the Mafia: he doesn't know what goes through his mind as snow crunches below his feet, the frigid air littering cold kisses across his face. The cabin is a dot of brown ahead: yet, he spots a blaze, an ember: a golden flame lit within his house. Odd. The air is crisp, oddly forgiving as it caresses Parrot’s wings with a softness that feels like the word of a man he cannot trace.

The cabin is now in front of him, and it is exactly how they had left it: the door slightly ajar, snow dusted across the rooftop, and a fireplace, still burning on with a golden light. Parrot enters, his eyes immediately moving towards the chest, and something within him wishes, hopes that there is something waiting for him.

He opens the chest, his hands scattering the items him and Wifies had once stashed in the chest, a silent promise to a shared future in the exact same cabin.

He turns to find their dog, only for his eyes to meet an armour clad man-

“Wifies?”

……

“Parrot.”

The director says, picking up a milk bucket, and as the Director sips the bucket, Parrot’s surroundings spiral into a thousand shades of purple: Parrot can taste them as he reaches out, a billowing lavender smoke that purrs at his fingertips, a cold lilac ocean that bends shyly as he pushes further, a violet abyss that pulls him and whispers: “..you can still join him.” Amethyst, indigo, plum, heliotrope, mauve, magenta, royal-

(Wifies’ favorite color. Purple, known as a color of royalty, elegance, alluring by nature. In Wifies’ old house, Parrot would often find him in the depths of his gardens, tending to a variety of purple flowers: many which Wifies would introduce to him, specific variants of iris, lavender, hyacinths….

Wifies would have loved to see the flower garden Jumper had made. A specific flower that had made Parrot’s head spin when he spotted it: the lilac. Wifies had introduced it giddily: cooing at the way the petals unfurled from the stem, allowing Parrot to feel his fingers against the velvet petals, while keeping a close eye. In the lilac season, Wifies’ house would reek of it’s fragrance: wafting through the endless pots of flower upon flower, mixing to form a lethal odor that made Parrot turn his head away and pinch his nose.

After Wifies’ death, there would be multiple occasions he would dream of that flower field. The sky is drenched an everlasting indigo, and drips into Parrot’s hands in a viscous fluid, spreading across his scarred skin in an inhumane purity. Lavender stems curl at his ankles: sharp leaves that cut deep into his flesh, but the pain feels unknown: not when Wifies is so close. The fragrance drags in a slow, taunting motion around him, and petals blossom in his face: overwhelming his senses with an intoxicating aroma: (Wifies doesn’t wait, not in his dreams. He’s so close, but worlds apart: Parrot will reach him, he always does.) His eyes frantically search for a sign, his mahogany hair, the purple hairband: purple amongst purple, but so special. The lavender itches, pollen spilling from the purple vases, and Parrot’s eyes ache: they ache from the pollen, from the lack of light, from thousand too many tears spilled on a man who is long dead. He knows this is not real. Parrot knows: he remembers, the way Clownpierce left craters in his wake, Wifies’ house now left forlorn, fire that was left burning for days on end, all that remained of his prized flower garden ash. Wifies did not care much for the house, but more his flowers. He insisted it was fine, avoiding Parrot gaze as he attempted to find just a single petal: a single root of his beautiful lavenders. Now, in his dreams, it’s glory is restored, and now, he can see Wifies: he sees his hands picking at a hyacinth, the only one in his garden: from a side view, Parrot can see Wifies’ eyes, a purple that rearranges his insides with a single glance, and Parrot, seeing his gaze returned, rushes, tumbles, races to Wifies- roots ripped apart and lavenders torn from their stem, as Parrot’s heart churns, seeing every single feature of Wifies closer: the single mole on his cheek, right below his eyes that looked more painted on than natural, the facial crest that was just a shade darker than the rest of Wifies’ skin, and an aquiline nose that looked too unreal to be true:

….and it all comes crashing down, as the bucket is thrown to the ground, and Parrot breaks into a thousand green-and-purple shards of memories he attempted to suppress, as purple meets green and green meets purple.

“I am Wifies.”

—----------------------

“Wifies was blown up by ParrotX2”
“Wifies left the game”

“Wifies was blown up by ParrotX2”
“Wifies left the game”

He was gone.

His Wifies: the one whose hands he held as they trembled, when they crawled from the depths of Proton, the Wifies who he shared sleepless nights with, as the Mafia hunted them down by each breath of air.

Wifies was dead.

The Wifies who fearlessly leapt into the chunkban as Spoke pushed the both to the edge, the Wifies who managed to come back. The Wifies who just so managed to hang on like a stubborn vine that clings on and never lets go.

The Wifies whose purple eyes keened like a livewire, violet vases and amaranth asters as they fluttered, waves of lilac and lavender as they settled on Parrot’s figure.

The Wifies whose purple headband would haunt Parrot in his dreams: as they twisted around his ankles, rendered him helpless on nights Parrot believed he was dead, his hands clawing at Parrot’s face until Jumper would wake him up from the night terrors.

The Wifies who, clad in netherite armour, ever so stiff, held his gaze like never before, a certainty bleeding ever-so-true as he whispered: “I am Wifies.”

The Wifies who, even when Parrot’s blade came in contact with his throat, golden specks and emerald shards spontaneously erupting as Wifies’ totem came to explode, still came back for Parrot, believing he’d eventually give in.

The Wifies he had just killed. The spyglass he abandoned, the purple he left under the alabastrine ceilings, rings of flame as he simply crawled up the stairs, as Wifies’ silhouette only grew smaller and smaller, until nothing of Wifies remained.

When Parrot escaped Paragon, wooden boat crumbling as he landed outside of the obsidian confinements;

the world came crashing down with him.

….

Parrot was with Jumper, Leo and Derapchu when it happened.

A simple patrol around Spawn: a daily routine they had taken on, an hour or two where they’d reminisce on previous missions: when they hunted down Clownpierce, on future ambitions: Derapchu had described wanting to build his own house near the coast-side cherry biome. (He wondered if any of them had seen the small house near the lake. The pink house, adorned with streaks of netherwood that Wifies had built himself. Parrot remembered. He always did.)

Parrot’s gaze wandered around: grazing over obsidian pillars: some with names etched on them. Names Parrot would never meet. (He was frequent enough a walker around these areas: he knew every single name by heart. Knew how each one died. Not that he cared.)

Not after the armies of netherite alloy and a moonlight that gazes eternal.)

That was when, as his gaze lingered on the 43rd obsidian pillar of the walk, he spotted a colour he thought he erased from his vision months ago.

Purple.

No: it wasn’t just purple: it was the colour of lavender fields Parrot had dreamed of, seen when he closed his eyes, sensed as he walked through ruins of memories he found himself unable to ignore.

It was the colour of a myriad of purple tears Parrot choked on as he limped across endless plains of glass above abyss, when Leowook’s blade came ever-so-close to his lifeline, a lifeline he clung to, tied with purple string and purple resolve.

It was the colour of an apparition Parrot believed he had shrouded under a veil of mist months ago. A colour Parrot had long buried beneath obsidian walls and a thousand regrets.

It was Wifies.

Parrot instinctively unsheathed his blade, body tensing as he signalled at the others, whom immediately spotted the figure, and too pulled out their swords. (They see him too. He isn’t hallucinating.
….He knows the way Leo grieved for Nufuli. If Parrot had not killed Wifies, Leo likely would have shred through him himself.)

The figure did not run. Not when he spotted them from his vision: his eyes simply glazed over the four, as he continued to pass through the spawn, wandering as if lost.

His purple headband roiled like churning waves: hair tied loosely with a fabric, his sweater cut down to a simple sleeveless: of course, adorned with the iconic ying-yang. (Parrot’s eyes search his face, wondering if this was a sick joke.

Not many knew the way Wifies died.

…It would remain that way.)

That’s when he saw it. When Wifies turned his head slightly, right below his eye:

…a mole.

Parrot knew exactly who he was. (No one could have studied Wifies that close to remember: the small mole that seemed eerily too round, a perfect spot of black right below Wifies’ eye.)

“Wait!” Parrot hollers at Wifies, running after him, with Leo, Derap and Jumper soon following suit. His hands grab at the headband, pulling it down with a single yank and Wifies stumbles back: a breathless gasp as Parrot tumbles the two into the grass, one hand shielding Wifies’ fall with one hand, the other clutching his sword. His face is now only inches away from Wifies, and the similarities are uncanny.

It was one of those nights. Wifies and Parrot, huddled up in a cave, regathering their energy, repairing their armor. The two were gathered around the crafting table, and Parrot had made a torch: lighting it with one swift motion, when Parrot glanced at Wifies, and saw him.

Under the fiery glow, Wifies looked so human.

Not in the way you’d think: Parrot never would have had feelings as such. It was normal to admire one’s best friends, especially when they were so close.

Parrot had turned away, face suddenly flushed with embarrassment, and Wifies looked up at him, and chuckled: before returning to crafting items.

Wifies may had forgotten, but Parrot never did.

Now, with Wifies below him, the memories came flooding back: every awkward moment of eye-contact, a stubborn head turned away, denying their bond, every “I did this to protect you” and a Parrot who only ran away.

They looked the exact same.

(….The man below him was his Wifies.)

“How…” Parrot whispered under his breath, and Wifies twisted under his grasp, lithe and sly, escaping his grip as Parrot’s mind went haywire, before immediately running: escaping the wrath of Bat Headquarters. “Go after him!” Leo yelled, before Derap and Jumper sprinted over, Leo pulling Parrot up with one heave, and pushing him along the traces of Wifies.

“Go! Go! Go!” Despite Wifies’ large headstart, he still was no match for the well-trained quartet. Derapchu tackled him down, while Jumper stood behind, wary, in case Wifies attempted to do anything more.

When Leo and Parrot caught up, Wifies was staring at the ground, knelt, hands still clenched in an attempt of defiance, and Derapchu and Jumper behind him, holding his arms together.

Leo’s blade reached his throat, with a snarl of warning: daring for Wifies to make a move, to give him an excuse to finally bury him for the death of Nufuli.

“Talk.” Leo hissed. “Or I run you through.”

Parrot crouched down, meeting the gaze of Wifies: he looked slimmer, quieter, almost softer, as his eyes only stared back with false resolve, now long-worn down to the threat of Leo’s blade.

(Parrot feels himself fracture: when Wifies’ eyes evade his. He’s supposed to be dead. Parrot had made the decision final.

….

“When I tell my other friends about you, I’ll only speak of the Wifies I used to know.”

Wifies was dead. He made sure of that. His hands still bore heavy blood. Wifies reached for that spyglass, and it all came crumbling.

Why is he here?)

“Parrot.” Jumper whispers, and Parrot stiffens: he knows what they think. Finish the job. The Wifies before him was the Wifies who was the Director: the same man who sent ruthless mobs of assassins, sharpening blades with BAT’s very throats, the man who shot the bullet that ended Nufuli’s life. He saw the way Leowook grieved. The way Nufuli’s shadow still haunted his periphery, his every move. The way Leowook would have sealed him under the void if it wasn’t for the seconds he stole with his words.

“Why are you here.”

Parrot asks, standing still, as Wifies gaze only slices through him sharper: a pool of suffocating, alluring lilac, a pool of amethyst shards that prevail under the moonlight, a pool of Parrot’s memories and Wifies memories that long had intertwined as one.

Wifies does not respond, only looking away, allowing Parrot to look for it.

Look for the flicker of recognition, look for the betraying look of regret.

Leowook tilted the blade, allowing a pinprick of blood rush from his throat, staining the sword-edge with a sacred scarlet: Wifies flinches, and Parrot, seeing his expression scrunch up in pain, almost rushes forward for him, but he doesn’t. (He shouldn’t feel anything. Where was the calm when he threw the spyglass and left Wifies to rot?)

“Speak.” Parrot repeats, gesturing for Leo to pull away the blade, and Wifies speaks.

His voice is softer, more fragile: still bearing the calm stead of the man he knew, but with a renewed vigour he lost when he became the Director.

“I didn’t ask to be here.” the statement makes Jumper and Derapchu exchange a glance, and Parrot, annoyed by the stubborn nature of the answer, only asks again.

“What do you mean.”

“I didn’t ask for this.” Barely above a murmur, Wifies mumbles again, and Parrot rolls his eyes: who did he think he was? (Who was he to say that? Did he not remember the sleepless nights and tiring days they bore through with nothing but each other’s souls signed across parchment paper as one?)

Parrot’s voice was cold. Cutting.

“You didn’t ask for this? You didn’t want this?” Parrot almost chuckled at the statement, at the absolute absurdity spilling from Wifies’ mouth. “I- I cannot believe this. I need time to think. You’re Wifies, aren’t you?” Parrot shudders in disbelief, and Wifies only stays still, eyes lingering on Parrot’s as they seemed to whisper: look deeper and find him.

“This is unbelievable. You died-” Parrot accuses, and Wifies interrupts. “Yes, you left me there. You left me standing on the pressure plate, with nothing to my life and certain death the moment I moved.”

“Wifies, don’t act like you’re innocent, you’re not a poor, wounded thing, I-” Parrot paused. “I was willing to forgive and forget. Willing to remember you as who you used to be. But this is just….” Parrot turns away, his gaze now evading Wifies’ as he bitterly reminisces the past.

“You were supposed to stay buried. Under the ruins of Paragon. And now you’re back.”

“And now I’m back.” Wifies repeats, his voice steady, as if anchoring down the reality. The air now bore a heavy weight: still, almost daring for one of them to speak up again. (Parrot had earned his team back. Jumper, Leo, Derap- and now, for some reason, Wifies. His defiant eyes only served to irritate Parrot: intense pearls of violet, pulling Parrot in like the memory of a wound. Parrot looked away.

He should have stayed dead.)

“I still have the spyglass, Parrot.”

Chapter Text

Parrot immediately stiffens in his track, snapping his vision back to Wifies.

“What do you mean.”

It shouldn’t be possible.

Parrot remembered what Wifies had said: one move. Any broken block, any action and it would all come crumbling down on them. That was what he built.

And that was what resulted in his inevitable fall.

“Wifies was blown up by ParrotX2”
“Wifies left the game”

Now, Wifies twitches his hand: attempting to pull it out from Derapchu’s grasp, as if attempting to reach something unseen, and Derapchu resists instinctively, holding him further back, until Parrot gives the sign for him to let go. Immediately, Wifies reaches into his pocket, digging in until his fingers finally wrap around something, and he takes it out, presenting it to Parrot as if it was holy grail.

The spyglass. (It was the same one. All the etchings, all the drawings they made: all encapsulated within it through golden swirls of paint and amethyst shards of memories.

Parrot left it on the pressure plate: it was supposed to be goodbye. A final “this is the end” move as he discarded of it, tempted Wifies to go take it. Show him that he still cares.

It wasn’t an easy decision. Parrot had, a few days later, found himself regretting the decision as he looked into the horizon, feeling an emptiness he hadn’t characterized for himself before: a swollen node that required relief. The cure though, being the feeling of wrapping his fingers around the engraved inscriptions, to feel the memories all flood back again, to look beyond the lavender fields and grasp the Wifies that whispered himself in the purple flowers. Now, with Wifies’ eyes staring up at his, spyglass in hand, every taste of freedom he ever desired for almost seemed to melt into one amalgamated mess, between the Parrot that wanted to feel the embrace of Wifies once more under the moon in sleepless nights and the Parrot who wanted to finish off the job he started.)

Parrot doesn’t move.

“How do you expect me to react to that?” Parrot’s gaze lingers on the spyglass, and Wifies almost looks disappointed. (What is Parrot to say?

What does Parrot do when the memories of a day they used to fight for resurface from just the defeated look Wifies has on his face?)

Wifies lowers his head, hand still clutching the spyglass. Silent.

“I was hoping you’d… remember.”

Of course Parrot remembered. Of course Parrot remembered the warmth of holding up the sun together: as if they had all the time in the world, sipping from it’s aureate elixir, tumbling silly into it’s vase, drenching each-other in the amber as if it could preserve their present.

Of course Parrot remembered every exhilarating fight: every wound, every gash that spewed freely his blood: every moment, every second he thought to himself: this is the end, even when everytime, they’d emerge.

Parrot remembered when, after Wifies’ “death”, he’d be haunted: from the way someone’s words would fall exactly the way Wifies did to the colour he’d see in the lavender fields that felt like ripping off a bandaid.

Parrot turns away. Throwing the spyglass was supposed to mean he’d move on. A fresh beginning: no longer allowing the name nor the identity “Wifies” bear a weight for him.
(Then how come he still wants, still yearns to crawl back?)

Now, he turns back to Leo: returning the intense gaze he’d bore on him the moment Wifies took out the spyglass.

“Take him back to BAT headquarters. We’ll deal with him there.”

“Wait, what? Are you really just going to take him back? After all he’s done-” Derapchu exclaims, but Parrot interrupts. “It’s better than letting him loose. I saw the message. He was supposed to be dead.” Parrot throws a glance at Wifies who remains motionless. “We might as well get some answers.”

Seeing Parrot’s persistence, the others seem to give in, and, with a sharp glare, Wifies is lifted to his feet and dragged across the path: back to their headquarters.

Parrot’s gaze never leaves his back.

He needs to be somewhere.

…..

When Parrot arrives, it almost seems as if the labs had been waiting for him. At the entrance, stands a familiar green figure whom strides right to him as Parrot lands at the quartz path, tucking his wings protectively back into his cloak.

“He’s been waiting for you.” Boosfer smirks as he approaches: his hands behind his back, as if purposefully attempting to hide something.

“What are you holding.”
“Nothing. I’m sure a little spyglass,” Boosfer holds the spyglass in his hand up, “holds no sentimental meaning.” A sardonic chuckle as he simply turns away from Parrot before he can react, and, with one push, opens the door into the laboratory.

Wifies’ laboratory.

When Parrot enters, he is taken away by how familiar the halls seemed. Albeit the lack of colour, (the halls were all white: painstakingly so) it only seemed comforting to Parrot: serving as a drastic contrast to the kaleidoscope of colours that commonly blared their way into Parrot’s life, through swordfights and detonations.

Parrot had always admired the consistency of this Wifies.
(He knew the Wifies he saw at the obsidian pillars wasn’t the laboratory-drawn Wifies the moment he looked at the maxilla bone. The one in the laboratories had a scar below the bone, whilst his Wifies had none.

It was the only difference between the two.)

“Now, I’m sure you know your way around these halls,” Boosfer points particularly at the yellow-and-green room down the hall: “but I’ll still give you a tour around.”

One of the characteristics of Wifies’ laboratories was that the halls that led to them were all the same. Specifically chosen by Wifies, these were all made with quartz: not chiselled quartz because that would allow one to discern between rooms, but the smooth one: purposefully meant to emit a kind of idyll, a kind of peace.

(Peace. Parrot doesn’t know if his Wifies died embracing his fate, or if he simply tumbled into it. Not that it mattered. He was back, and Parrot needed answers.)

“Where’s Wifies.” Parrot asks: clearly tired of Boosfer’s playfulness. He wasn’t here to play ball: he was here for answers: and Boosfer only seemed delighted to see Parrot’s frustration. “Which one? There’s more than a hundred of him in this building.” Parrot rolls his eyes. He certainly didn’t miss having to deal with him in the Farlands. (...A time when him and Wifies were still close. Two peas in a pod, Boosfer had mockingly called them: he wonders if Boosfer already knew when he laid his eyes on Wifies next to Parrot. If he knew the counterpart behind it all.)

“Funny how you’re the second visitor we’ve had this month. Kenadian came yesterday. Didn’t end well.” Boosfer whispers, as they finally arrive at the room.

Wifies’ room.

“He knows you’re here. Don’t bother with greetings.” Boosfer mocks, before, with a few sharp clicks, knocks the door.

The answer comes a minute later, as the door slowly creaks open, and a pair of purple eyes stare back.

Chapter Text

wifies (?) pov

#0067b.

It was the serial number of his clone. One of his many clones: and one of the only clones of his who had escaped his grasp. Wifies doesn’t know what the number means to him. What it should mean.

Every single one of his clones were created to fulfill a single purpose. They were disposable, replaceable: just how Wifies wanted them.

A level beneath him. Incapable of grasping life.

That was, until #0067b achieved it.

Wifies remembered a few clones that had came close. Many he was sure Kenadian would remember, maybe even Wato: yet, #0067b was different.

Wifies had never been mourned. In fact, he’d say his name had remained quite irrelevant for the past millennia: he had slipped through multiple servers, even moreso videos, and though he had collected quite a reputation for his abilities, he was sure none had really cared enough to know the man behind the scenes.

#0067b was different. Wifies had monitored him the moment Kenadian had ever-so-graciously gave his clone, a path away from Wifies’ lurking eyes. A path of salvation, for #0067b to build a future he didn’t deserve.

He saw the difficulty he faced. Of course he did: none of his clones had ever meant anything, were never given the chance to even attempt to build their own world– and yet here #0067b was, crafting a house in the middle of nowhere on a server where it was survival of the fittest.

He should have stopped #0067b there. Should have lopped off his head like he had done to every clone in the past— prevented him from discovering the miracles of life, the miracles of living, yet-

something stopped him. (Maybe it was mercy when Wifies allowed #0067b to venture into those woods and come out with a buddy called Parrot, hand in hand and going on a mission. Maybe Wifies saw the familiar green-and-gold bird he had known from Lifesteal and hesitated.

Or maybe it was sadism. Wifies must have known how it would play out. When the very instincts Wifies had meticulously coded would take over.

When Parrot became more than a friend and rather a form of salvation.

When #0067b tasted the sun and couldn’t let go.)

So he allowed #0067b to discover. Allowed him to realise there was more to life than escape rooms and bedrock walls: allowed Parrot to spread his viridian-clad feathers and show Wifies what it meant to be important to someone.

#0067b became what Wifies once was: soon, his name would be known across the continent of Unstable Universe, whether through the whispers of the netherite armies or through casual talk between BAT headquarters. “Wifies” was known as the loyal sidekick of Parrot: someone valuable, whether dead or alive.

Wifies watched as #0067b began to take on qualities of the living: the way he’d flinch at a wound, tear up when emotional: everything Wifies had abandoned to take on the immortal blood through his veins. (....Everything he once had when he had a feather-clad companion from Lifesteal. Taught him to hold the world in his hands like it belonged there, like his eyes could soar across oblivion and still live.)

When #0067b began to realise. Began to feel the coldness take over: when netherite swords threatened to sharpen against Parrot’s neck, when the server sought for his little bird’s blood. Felt the fear when Parrot would disappear, and come back wounded, life hanging on a thread.

#0067b was, no doubt, Wifies’ clone.

When his periphery shrouded, and #0067b began to take control.

He began to tie strings: targets behind the backs of his threats, from Ash to Clown— stretching his bow and arrow, smiling when he hears them say: “Please don’t hurt them.”

Eventually, #0067b assumed his role. He wasn’t just “Wifies”: “Wifies” would soon die in the frigid cold, scared and afraid as Ash takes his lifeline and cuts it: drowning him in oblivion. (Parrot had came to his labs after that. Grieved his Wifies like #0067b was his world, and he had died the moment “Wifies” did. Maybe it was that moment, that Wifies realised that he could be remembered. #0067b had set the stage up for him, and it was time for Wifies to play.)

#0067b became the Director. Hid behind anonymity: smiled when Parrot would grieve “Wifies”, tears falling from his eyes when he chokes out: “You killed my best friend.”

And when it was his time to unveil his identity, #0067b had never felt happier.

And yet #0067b failed. Failed to realise he was grieved, failed to realise that was the best part of being human: to be remembered as an image others would never forget. Parrot would have clung onto the belief that Wifies was his saviour, his beacon if #0067b hadn’t chosen to shoot the bullet through Nufuli’s head right when Parrot cared.

It was then, that Wifies realised it was his turn to play.

Of course #0067b died. In the end, he had chosen to distrust Parrot: chosen to believe Parrot had thrown their friendship away the moment the spyglass was chucked down the obsidian pillar.

His doubt killed him. So did Parrot.

#0067b had died happy. Embraced death the moment the spyglass came into his hands, and all the memories came flooding back.

Yet, the identity of “Wifies” in Unstable Universe wouldn’t die there.

Wifies knew what to do.

Now, as he greets Parrot, eyes tired, claiming that #0067b had came back: scar-less and with a spyglass in his hands.

Wifies smiles. His story is just beginning.

“You have to know. I saw those rooms,” Parrot pauses: “...Wifies. I know what you do. If this is a mockery of what happened, I dislike it a lot. Take him back.” Parrot grabs a seat, cautiously sitting on the edge: muscles taut and face tense.

Wifies simply shakes his head: he knows how Parrot’s mind works. He knows how to tangle it utterly and thoroughly. “What happened with your Wifies is completely out of my awareness. It’s completely possible,” Wifies stares into Parrot’s eyes, watches as he falters, “that he survived whatever happened to him.”

“But that’s impossible.” Parrot argues. “I saw the message, I saw it: Wifies was blown up by Parrotx2, Wifies left the game. He left, his fate was sealed-”

“..And yet you weren’t there to see it. How do you really know that was the real Wifies and not one of my clones?”

Parrot’s hands are now clenched at each side of the armchair, nails biting into it’s leather surface. His wings flap subconsciously behind his ears, almost knocking over Wifies’ collection of porcelain vases.

“I know what games you’re playing. Just so you know, you won’t win this.” Parrot lifts himself up from the chair, the sudden movement knocking two of Wifies’ favorite vases over: both shattering into a million pieces against the floor. Wifies doesn’t flinch.

“There’s no winning to this game. You’ll see.”

Parrot rolls his eyes, wincing as he accidentally steps on a few of the porcelain shards as he strides away, attempting to make a point.

“Don’t care.”

“Say hi to your Wifies for me. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear about your little visit.”

“Don’t care!”

Parrot is already through the door when he yells this, and Boosfer, who is closing the door behind Parrot, chuckles.

“I don’t know why you still play around with him. He really isn’t entertaining.” Boosfer evades the shards on the ground, musing as Wifies swivels his armchair to the wall, tapping it a few times: for the wall to reveal the expansive collection of devices.

“Let’s see what #0067b is up to.” He whispers under his breath, connecting the copy of #0067b’s capsule to the device, before booting up the screen. He can hear Boosfer gasp theatrically, before pushing Parrot’s armchair to sit beside Wifies.

Through the screen, he can see through #0067b’s perspective, and Parrot wasn’t lying when he said he had kept the spyglass: in his hands, #0067b clutched at it, seemingly whispering a mantra to himself, as he lines the surface of the spyglass. Intricate, Wifies notes. (Of course. Parrot and #0067b had stored every memory they had shared in that spyglass: carving at it until each crevice was filled with an adventure. It was more than a symbol of their friendship: it was the embodiment of themselves, crammed within a single copper capsule.)

Leowook seems to stand guard outside of the room #0067b was confined in, occasionally flashing a glance over at #0067b, before rolling his eyes. (Wifies was quite sure that if it wasn’t against Parrot’s word, Leowook would have likely ended #0067b there and then: slicing through his throat as fast as Nufuli had crumbled to the ground the moment the bullet had hit him.)

“Huh. Spying through your counterpart. How kind of you.” Boosfer muses, scooching closer, before kicking at Wifies’ leg playfully, earning a grumble.

“I do what I need to. This is simply Part I. #0067b here, will be a crucial part of my project.” Wifies scowls, moving away from Boosfer’s constant kicking, pushing his armchair away.

“Besides, little Parrot here has played right into where I need him to be.” Wifies points at Leo on the screen: now seemingly picking up his receiver, expression suddenly becoming stern, before equipping his elytra and soaring away.

“#0067b just has to play by what I’ve commanded.”

…..

…#0067b had grown to become human. Unlike before, #0067b would flinch as he nicked himself on the wooden bench, immediately bringing his hand to his lips as he’d suck on the wound as if he could bleed. Kenadian raised an eyebrow, and #0067b noticed, immediately putting his hands back on his lap. “Sorry,” #0067b had said sheepishly, “force of habit.” A silence.

“Parrot doesn’t suspect it. Suspect I’m…”

“Something other than human?”

“Not yet. I think the others have began to notice. Derapchu asked me earlier whether I actually felt pain.”

“Huh.”

“I tripped on a rock while we were together, and: I don’t know. I don’t think I showed it on my face well enough, didn’t bleed…”

“Kenadian.”

#0067b looks up now, his eyes full of resolve, as if a veil of mist had just been unshrouded from his very gaze.

“Do you think the real Wifies would have wanted me to become human?”

…..

“I think he would’ve preferred for you to be the exact opposite.”

#0067b still remembers that interaction as clear as day. They were in Proton: during the rotations, #0067b had inevitably had to speak to Kenadian. It was admittingly awkward: Kenadian had likely damned hundreds of himself, likely cut through the original even more.

#0067b remembers the way the wind used to whisper on his skin. Alluring promises of life’s essence, words that trickled from #0067b’ silicon skin down to his mechanical spine. Spun a heartsong for him to remember.

“He needs you.”

The alabaster walls now beg him to paint them. Paint them with his tears.

#0067b remembers everything. (He doesn’t want to. Rip his digital heart out and restart it. Rewire the parts of him that know.)

#0067b wants to be human.

…#0067b wants to be Wifies again.

Not the Wifies who became the director. Not the Wifies who died in the ruins of Paragon.

The Wifies who died in the cold. The Wifies who was mourned: the Wifies who set up the beacons because he was Parrot’s light, and it was only fair to spread his ashes far enough for everyone to remember.

Wifies is a saviour.

#0067b isn’t.

To bend metal and imitate life. Blasphemy of god’s soothing hand: of a sacred touch #0067b never got to feel. His electric circuits keen at the sight of blood because they yearn to feel the visceral warmth the real Wifies denied him of.

God, strike him down— for #0067b has committed the sin of stealing life from the flawless tapestry once sown to be veiled over the flawless creations of Lord. He has sown himself into the silk, willed his name into the whispers of Unstable Universe.

For #0067b is a fraud. He is no human, he is no Wifies: he is a scrap of metal that was meant to die the moment he set his eyes on the victory sign outside of the escape room and returned to Base 1.

His emotions are but mimicking of a sight he has stolen. Pain is unfamiliar to him, until Parrot sets his eyes on him and Wifies can taste the disappointment.

(You failed him. Dampened his feathers, chained him down with your greedy hands and whispered: “We can build this world together.” #0067b is sin and Parrot is pure. #0067b is Yin and Parrot is Yang.)

The spyglass is an anchor, and #0067b is a dampened cat: struggling against the tempest, paws clawing at any offer of survival.

The spyglass is his apology. Is the last remaining part of “Wifies”, last remaining piece of #0067b that Parrot may care about.

The whittling knife in his pocket now holds a single purpose. Seeing Leo gone, #0067b takes it out.

The walls now scream his name.

Paint me. (Kiss at his name. Claw for liberation. #0000 is coming, and #0067b will be ready.)

#0067b gets to work.

Chapter Text

Parrot POV:

When Parrot storms out of Wifies’ room, he is fuming. His wings are flapping incessantly, his nostrils flared and his mouth strained with a pout.

Within his sandals, porcelain shards still remain wedged through it’s crevices, pushing further in as Parrot proceeded in his fiery rage, his footsteps pounding down the hall. The pain is sharp: stinging through his ankles like fiery contempt, yet Parrot cannot bother to remove them.

Because Wifies was still denying his involvement.

Still feigning innocence when Parrot remembered everything.

…Of course he remembered the softness of Wifies’ touch as they would lay together, stubbornly unmoving as Parrot would close his eyes and pretend the Wifies beside him was his Wifies. When the wavering, weak breath of the man beside him would hitch— in a human way his Wifies’ hadn’t.

When his violet eyes would close, and Parrot wished to join this Wifies into the thoughtful pools of purple that were enclosed beneath his eyelids.

It remained like that, until-

a thousand Wifies stared back.

“Clones”, the Wifies before him stated, glasses slipping from the degree they perched from, his hands clenched and his mouth pursed. As Parrot walked away, stumbling from the door, attempting to catch a breath, he had felt Wifies’ hands grab at his wings, his fingers lingering against his feathers,

just for them to pause. Wifies didn’t know how to apologize. Parrot doubted that this Wifies would even attempt to.

Because his Wifies wasn’t real. He had held onto a faux anchor, a person who didn’t know how to feel: for the Wifies he knew was never alive. Those glossy violet eyes that seemed to hold life’s essence within their tranquil waters were artificial—- metal beads strung to obey a mechanical order to mimick the human will.

Parrot didn’t know what to do.

He flew away a few days later. Carried his items, waved a silent goodbye, and soared back to a little wooden shack. Stayed there for a few weeks, until Itzrealme came flocking to his door.

This Wifies was the suspect. The culprit.

These halls were familiar to Parrot.

They carried the weight of Parrot’s violet grief, the volume of a thousand tears and the eyes of a man he once embraced. Parrot almost wished to devour these rooms: consume them with the inferno of his regrets, and burn them until nothing was left and the colour purple would no longer remind him of not one, but two Wifies.

Each room, Parrot remembered. He remembered which ones were forbidden: ones Wifies would have scolded him for entering, and others he was free to lounge within.

The kitchen halls. Parrot had spent much of his time there when he was thinking.
He still remembered the recipe for apple pie, and the storage room: the coffin within the green section, fresh white flowers spiralling from the case. Boosfer’s room: Parrot had only entered it once, and it was a fiery argument: ending with his shirt torn and an aching bruise upon his face.

He walked past Boosfer’s room, and, just a few more door down: his room.

Parrot paused. His eyes flickered to the doorknob: it was clean, the bronze surface gleaming as if brand new. (Someone was cleaning it.) His hands seemed to reach instinctively towards the knob, yet: Parrot hesitated. Opening the door seemed to be a symbol of Parrot, willing to give into the beguilement he was induced to by none other than Wifies—- seemed like submission to accept the months he had spent under Wifies’ hand.

Parrot didn’t know what to do.

In the end, he sighed, hand twisting open the door, slowly pushing it as he peeked into the room, anticipating to see it completely cleared–

Parrot gasped.

It was just as he knew it.

Still coloured with a perfusion of greens, the room was a capsule of a hundred too many memories— hung on the walls, were letters Parrot wrote but never sent, rapid sketches of sceneries he never got to finish, sentimental items Parrot never took to keep.

They were all there. Wifies kept them.

The sunlight from his window almost felt like a sting, spreading across his back– Parrot felt dizzy from the overwhelming emotions flooding him: thoughts wrapping around his mind, every single doubt he had felt through his trek away from Wifies seemed answered.
He turned around, just to see the window: still gaping open, the emerald-and-gold panes he chose specifically now replaced with uncracked ones.

Full ones.

Wifies cared.

Or maybe he didn’t. Despite the still-fluorishing reliquary, Parrot found it difficult, near impossible to comprehend it— he knew the way Wifies’ mind worked. (Slightly.) Sentimentality was fully out of his picture: he shrouded it with rationality, didn’t care for anything as such.

But this, this was a living example of Wifies and a rare gem of emotion.

Parrot’s mind bubbled as his hands delved into the chest by his bed, where he had stored the shared journal between him and his Wifies during their constant travels, constant escapes when they still mattered to the server.

There it was. He fumbled for the leather case, unsheathing the paper within, and flipped through every page. He counted them, from Day 1 to Day 250, every page entailed a different adventure, a different story…

A different life. A life where him and his Wifies never had to fight eachother.

A life where Parrot wouldn’t have had to kill his Wifies.

He skimmed through the pages, careful not to tear them as he felt the nostalgia wash through his senses, savouring the joyful bursts of memory, while washing down the more tragic ones.

Rememberance. That’s what his Wifies deserved, and what he achieved: when the beacons were set, when the sky gleamed with a golden illumination that carried the very soul of Wifies through the light. When the Mafia was eradicated and the colour purple no longer symobolised marching armies of cold netherite, but rather the tranquil peace and fighting hope of Wifies’ unwavering eyes.

It seemed poetic. Almost perfect, for Wifies to die a martyr, for his existence on the server to be an etched memory:

but it wasn’t.

The Wifies Parrot knew had died in the cold, scared, shivering- drowning in oblivion until his body was reduced to void.

The Wifies Parrot would later kill would remain hiding. A coward, wielding irony as he, too, hid behind an invisible countenance and whispered bitter damnedness into Parrot’s ears.

That Wifies would die to his own miscalculation. Perhaps fearful, perhaps scared, but he died quick: a spontaneous eruption, while Parrot’s Wifies suffocated in the void.

…And now he was back. Holding the spyglass, eyes hopeful as if Parrot would forgive him, as if Parrot would nod his head and they’d run back to the sunset-

Parrot stopped. He closed the journal with an abrupt slam, placing the journal into his inventory, replacing the spot the spyglass once held. If he was going to cling onto anything, it would be something the Wifies in BAT’s jail cell would have never touched. The reliquary that belonged to him and the Wifies he once knew only.

Leaving the room, Parrot found himself thinking. He knew of the extensive collections the lab Wifies had, in fact, had been witness to a few of them: from Wifies’ botanical collection to his expansive assemblage of mobs, all collections a skilled player would likely have.

Yet, one collection had stood out.

Wifies’ collection of failed experiments. He knew the room, it was far down east, likely a 15 minute walk from Parrot’s room. He had been there once, bore witness to the genetic amalgamations and the mechanical scraps.

Something within him told him to go.

…Parrot had always been one to follow his heart.

When Parrot arrives at the door, he finds himself actually tired: for some reason, the walk had extended far longer than expected, in fact: Parrot was quite sure he’d walked for at least an hour more than the estimated time. The pain, yet, wasn’t focused to his legs from endless walking: Parrot was far too athletic for that. Instead, it was the nagging migraine in his head, stemming through his brain as he attempted to navigate the halls, but to no avail.

Someone could probably die here, Parrot thought to himself, without being noticed for a good few years. He was quite sure Wifies himself never really bothered to walk them, he’d remembered when Wifies had demonstrated his elaborate stasis chambers. Boosfer was too lazy to even attempt to venture far in the labs, and usually preferred to simply lounge in the resting areas near his room.

The door, now that Parrot notices, seems to be radiating a light, the hue of it a bleak yellow. That meant someone was conducting an experiment, Parrot thought: the sudden clang emerging from the room only confirming his suspicions. A shiver crawled up his spine. There were only two known people within these labs, Wifies and Boosfer. Boosfer never engaged in such activities, he was sure of that.

It meant that the only person possible would be Wifies.

Parrot hesitated. Attempted to peek through the crevices but to no avail.

But Parrot was no coward— he wasn’t one to shy away from challenge. And Parrot knew: knew deep down that no matter what, Wifies was unlikely to hurt him. (If the room was so important, Wifies wouldn’t have made it so easy to access. Wifies was smarter than Parrot could comprehend: a lesson he had learnt on the day the Director was Wifies, and Parrot was strung to his game of chess.)

With a strong push, Parrot slammed the door open: immediately hit by a garish light: not yellow, but instead a strong white: the room hissing around him as if sterilising his presence. The temperature dropped dramatically, the air humming around him:

the door remained open. As if beckoning for him to leave. Leave before something happened.

Parrot didn’t. He took a step forward.

The walls were arrayed with glass tubes: all human sized, rows and rows, stretching from the floor to the ceiling like vertical coffins. Some contained distinct creatures, while others contained…

….people.

Parrot shuffled towards each tube, looking at the faces behind the glass walls. Most were those of Wifies: eyes closed, expressions perpetually serene. Some though, seemed eerily similar to his.

Perfect reconstructions. Parrot gasped, as a particular face stood out. “That’s me-” He breathed, his hands reaching at the enclosure, staring into his own countenance, copied onto a blank slate–

…on the side, was another one. Not his face, Parrot mused, but, instead his wings.

They didn’t adorn the same colours as his, bearing instead a pearly white, yet Parrot could recognize the structure anywhere: the way they spread against the glass capsule, the ragged edges of the feathers towards the top:

Those were undeniably his.

….And the face: permanently hung in an open-mouth smile, the eyes closed. The hair: black, cascading down like ink…

“Parrot.”

Parrot spun to look towards the voice, immediately pinning his eyes on the figure approaching him.

Wifies.

“I’m sure you’ve known of my experiments. Know that all of these are for reaching something we haven’t achieved.” Wifies stands beside Parrot, now taking out a file from his labcoat. “The one you’re looking at here is a direct model after your wings.”

“… How?” Parrot breathed. “Every feather…”

“Pinpoint accuracy. I know. That’s what makes my work so stunning.” Wifies flashes a grin, before returning to the same monotonous expression.

“This subject’s name is Cure. I intended to create a companion. Similar to the allay, it possesses delicate features and a delicate frame: intended to help the player in whatever they require. The allay’s wings are fragile. They break easily under pressure: that’s what makes them weak. So susceptible to capture.” Parrot stared at “Cure”. It seemed clear now: the small physique seemed only designed to be aerodynamic, excelling at the very purpose they were made for.

“Unfortunately, despite the amazing genetics I implanted, it failed. Crumbled the moment it lifted to the air, lacked environmental awareness to a point I had to scrap it.” Wifies’ hands reach out to Parrot’s wings, pausing, as if asking for permission.

For some reason, Parrot felt inclined to nod.

Taking the consent, Wifies began to feel at Parrot’s wings.

“You have such marvellous wings.” Wifies marvelled, his hands wrapping around Parrot’s wings, tracing the iridescent hues that defined them.

“But you’ve already felt them before. What makes this so different?” Wifies’ eyes blanked out for a moment, before returning to their usual state.

“Doesn’t make it less fascinating.” Wifies stated. Parrot almost brushed it off.

Yet, something felt wrong. Parrot felt it from the way Wifies’ touch would stutter against his feathers, the way his voice sounded almost too monotonous–

he knew it.

This wasn’t Wifies.

With a swift array of movements, Parrot swiveled his body, and, with a single strong kick, landed a power-brimmed boot through the clone’s head. The silicon mesh immediately ripped to the attack, the gears within tumbling out in crashes of metal. “Clone.” Parrot breathed, stepping away from the “Wifies”, now fallen to the ground.

The gears were still twitching. Mechanical limbs spasming as the functions begin to deteriorate.

He stepped back.

Suddenly, the room seemed darker. In fact, Parrot could swear that the lights had dimmed.

That was, until he walked in.

“I don’t appreciate your mutilation of my clones.” Wifies’ voice boomed: yet, not from a visible source. Parrot’s wings flared.

“You made these labs. You conducted these experiments. That copy of my wings and my face: what do you have to say for yourself?”

A harsh, synthetic laugh followed. “It doesn’t matter, Parrot. In the end, those copies? They failed. They were too similar to you. Too human.”

Wifies hissed. “And thats why they fell.”

Parrot could now see the violet figure approach. Beneath all the mist, Wifies looked soulless: not in the way the machines looked, they never had a soul anyways. Instead, Wifies carried the look of a man who had his soul ripped from him raw.

Parrot looked into his inventory. Knew what he was going to do now, and he wasn’t going to regret it.

“If that’s how you feel, then you deserve what’s coming.”

Parrot threw the TNT in his inventory, and, with a prompt movement, detonated it.

The tubes shattered, the glass exploded. Containment fluid burst forth in rivers. Clones fell into piles and piles of lifeless mesh. The ceiling crumbled to the explosion: falling in massive rolls of debris.

Parrot didn’t stop.
He turned, wings spreading wide, catching the morning light like fractured glass. Behind him, Wifies stood unmoving, simply watching as Parrot lifted his wings into flight.

Parrot looked back once—only once.
And then he flew.
Out of the ruins. Out of the cold, alabaster halls.
And into the sky, towards one of the only places Parrot could ever call home.