#aynee writes

He feels the person caressing his cheek freeze, like cold water had been poured over them. The silence that followed Pac’s question was heavy with unspoken words and a tense atmosphere.

“Don’t worry about that now.” The voice murmurs, and suddenly Pac feels very tired. “Just sleep, it’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t want to. He wants to know what happened, why he feels like he died, why his body hurts, why can’t he feel his leg, but his eyelids betray him, slipping shut despite his efforts to stay awake. The darkness pulls him in again, deeper this time, wrapping him in its comforting embrace.

The last thing he hears is “I'm sorry.”

《 ♧ 》

The second time Pac wakes up, he’s a bit more aware of his surroundings. He knows something happened to him, and that he’s so drunk off pain-relief medications that everything seems too much and not enough.

He can feel someone pressing against him, trying to cuddle with him but being mindful of the machines hooked up to him and the mass amount of bandages wrapped around him. He attempts to say something but the words won’t form on his dry tongue, and his eyelids seem like they’re being weighed down by anvils.

So he just listens and feels.

He can feel the hard plastic of glasses press against his neck and the rough cloth of a prisoner’s jumpsuit brush against his arm.

A familiar voice murmurs in his ear, soft and soothing. “Hey, moço, it’s okay. I’m here. Just rest.” The voice is gentle, filled with a mixture of relief and worry. Pac recognizes it, though it’s buried under layers of drowsiness and confusion.

He tries to turn his head toward the voice but finds the effort too exhausting. Instead, he focuses on the sensations around him– the warmth of the person next to him, the steady beeping of the heart monitor, and the occasional soft hiss of the oxygen machine.

Time seems to stretch and bend, and Pac isn’t sure how long he lies there, drifting in and out of awareness. At some point, the person holding him shifts slightly, and Pac feels a cool hand brush against his forehead.

“You’re safe now.” The voice says, and he can hear the tears in it. “You’re going to be okay. I’m sorry for everything, fuck, I should’ve been there.”

Pac’s mind swims with questions. He wants to ask who did this to him, why he’s in so much pain, and how long he’s been here. But the words get tangled up in his thoughts, and he can’t quite manage to pull them into coherence.

He can hear the sound of a door opening and the sound of footsteps approaching. He hears a sigh, before a lady speaks up. “Time is up, inmate.” She says, and Pac notes she sounds bored. “An officer is waiting to escort you back to your cell.”

The male feels the body laying next to him freeze. Pac's sense of confusion deepens as the person next to him tenses up. The warmth of the body against his grows cold with dread, and Pac can feel the subtle trembling. The pieces start to fit together in his mind, albeit slowly and imperfectly. The person beside him is also a prisoner, and they’ve taken a significant risk to be here with him.

“If it’s the same officer as the one who brought him in, I’m not going.” The person answered defiantly.

Pac can hear the nurse rolling her eyes. “Either you go with him now, or you will be thrown to isolation and now allowed to visit him.” The woman says, and Pac feels the person hiss. “Your call.”

The voice that’s been comforting him sighs, before he whispers. “I’ll be back, I promise. Just hang in there, okay?” The male voice is strained, filled with an intensity that cuts through Pac’s haze.

Pac wants to hold on, to reach out, but his body won’t cooperate, and then the warmth is gone. The absence is immediate and profound, leaving Pac feeling more vulnerable than ever.

Footsteps recede and a door closes, leaving the room in a heavy silence. Pac’s thoughts swirl, questions without answers pressing against the fog in his mind. His eyelids grow heavy once more.

The last thing he thinks before falling back into consciousness is ‘Why can’t I move my leg.’

《 ♧ 》

The third time Pac wakes up, it’s with a clearer head. The fog has lifted enough for him to think more coherently, though his body still feels heavy and weak. He looks around, taking in the details of the room with greater clarity. It’s still the infirmary, still filled with the hum and beep of medical equipment, but now he can make out more details—the cold white walls, the flimsy bed he’s lying on, the tray with medical supplies nearby.

He shifts slightly, testing the limits of his movement. Pain radiates from his right leg, but it’s a dull throb now, not the sharp agony he remembers from before. He’s still heavily bandaged, and the IV drip attached to his arm supplies a steady flow of fluids and medication.

It’s night, probably midnight if the stillness and quiet are any indication. The infirmary is bathed in a soft, dim light, casting long shadows on the walls. Pac’s senses are more alert now, and he can hear the faint hum of the ventilation system and the distant murmur of voices from somewhere down the hall.

He’s about to try to move his body when he hears the faint sound of a door opening and familiar footsteps approaching him, so he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.

He can feel the person stare at him, deathly still and cold, and Pac can feel his skin crawl with unease. The footsteps halt beside his bed, and the silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Pac's heart pounds in his chest, the sound loud in his ears as he tries to control his breathing.

The person doesn't say anything, but Pac can feel their gaze burning into him. He wants to open his eyes, to confront whoever it is, but fear keeps him still. He wonders if it's another inmate again, sneaking in against the rules, but something about the atmosphere feels different—darker.

After what feels like an eternity, the person finally moves. Pac hears the rustle of clothing and then the faint click of something being placed on the bedside table. A chill runs down his spine as he senses the presence lean closer. He can feel warm breath on his face, and then, in a voice low and menacing, the person speaks.

“I know you’re awake, queridinho.”

Pac’s eyes fly open, and he's met with a pair of cold, calculating eyes. Those same blue eyes that were wide and dilated and feral as they bit, bit, and bit.

“Good to see you finally awake.” The Butcher of Alcatraz says, his voice dripping with malevolent amusement. “You’ve been quite the topic of conversation while you were out. Everyone’s been wondering if you’d make it.”

Pac’s heart pounds in his chest as he meets the Butcher’s gaze. He feels a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead, the pain in his leg momentarily forgotten in the face of this new threat. The Butcher’s presence is suffocating, his eyes never leaving Pac’s face, and the menace in his voice sends shivers down Pac’s spine.

The Butcher leans closer, his breath hot against Pac’s ear. “I must say, you’ve proven to be quite resilient, queridinho.” He says, and there’s this sick twisted tone to his voice. “Most wouldn’t have survived their leg getting eaten on, but you’re special. I knew you could do it.”

And suddenly, everything clicks in Pac’s head.

The memories rush back in a painful, disjointed torrent. The hallway, the footsteps, the sudden, excruciating pain… Pac’s breath quickens as panic sets in, his body finally realizing that he's missing his right leg. Every nerve in his body screams at him to get away, but he’s trapped, immobile, and at the mercy of his tormentor.

The Butcher’s hand brushes against Pac’s face, cold and callous. “Such a shame, really. You were always one of my favorites. Never thought you’d end up here.” He chuckles, a low, sinister sound that makes Pac’s blood run cold. “But I had to teach you a lesson. You understand, right?”

Pac tries to pull away, but his body refuses to cooperate, the pain in his leg flaring up as if to remind him of his helplessness. The Butcher’s fingers dig into his skin, a reminder of the brutal force behind the deceptively gentle touch.

His mind races, desperately searching for a way out, for any means of escape. He tries to remember the layout of the infirmary, the location of the door, the position of the medical staff, but his thoughts are scattered, his senses overwhelmed by the immediate danger.

“Calm, queridinho, I won’t hurt you.” He says, voice sweet like honey. “You already learned your lesson, didn’t you?”

Pac’s heart pounded furiously in his chest as the others words washed over him like a chilling wave. His mind raced, grappling with fear and confusion. He knew this man, this sadistic figure who had haunted the nightmares of Alcatraz’s inmates.

“Anyways,” He started, pulling back and folding his hands behind his back. “You better heal quick, because soon we’ll be escaping. If you’re not ready by next week, we’ll take off without you.”

For a moment, Pac thinks it’s not a bad idea. Without his leg, he is basically a dead weight. He’s useless, only there to bring the group down and to get the all captured. If he stays here, he could garantee everyone to escape safely and successfully.

Then again, he would not be happy with the decision.

Cell gives him a smile (Pac feels like he can see the blood staining his teeth) and gives him a wave, before walking out the way he came. “Tchau, queridinho.” He says, nonchalany. “I trust you to not tell anyone about this.”

And off he goes.

And as always, nobody pops in to greet her. He doesn't come down to greet.

Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes it's so heavy that she can't do anything at all.

And other times, it's so heavy that she doesn't know if she wants to do anything at all.

And even sometimes, she knows what she needs to do, but grief makes her take an excruciatingly long amount of time to actually do it.

Like today, when the grief is heavy enough that she's gone to his house, but it's not heavy enough that she wants to do anything, yet, except sit in the lobby.

Serra worries, because of course she does. When she catches her sitting in the lobby of his house, or staring at the painting she made of him, she doesn't say anything. She only wraps her arms around Beatriz, and holds her.

Sometimes, Beatriz feels like she has to cry. Sometimes, she doesn't think about crying. She only realizes, when the tears fall, that she's crying.

And other times, she doesn't know how to start.

Today, she doesn't think she can cry. She sits, and stares, and doesn't say anything. She tries to make sense of it all– how did this even happen? When did things start going wrong? Was it because of her? What could she have done to change this, to prevent this, to save him?

"I miss you Pac." She whispers once to the painting. And then she's silent.

And then she cries.

So much for not crying.

And when the tears dry, and the tears stop falling, and the silence and the staring becomes too much, she finally speaks again.

"I wish you weren't so ambitious. When I met you, I thought it was a cool thing about you. All the plans you had told me while we built my house, how you wanted to become someone bigger than you, you wanted to feel a purpose. I thought it was cool." She says, softly, to the painting. "But now, I don't know if that's what killed you."

The silence stretches.

"It's what I loved about you. It's what I hated about you. It's what I'll miss most." She continues. "And it's what killed you."

Her words are not cruel. They're true.

She thinks back to that day he started covering his face. She had wondered back then if it was just a fashion statement. But then he kept pulling away, isolating himself, rarely speaking to them. She should've known. She should've been better.

She should've actually tried talking to him, instead of just sitting back and hoping Pac would find his way back to her if he needed her.

She should've stopped him. She should've saved him.

"Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can see your corpse." She says, feeling blood in her hands. "You were so broken and... and so cold. There was so much blood I... I couldn't hold you."

And then the tears fall.

"Why didn't you come to me?" She asks, feeling her heart breaking. "I could've helped."

Could she have, though? Could she really have saved him, if he didn't want to be saved?

She could've tried.

"Why didn't you let us help? Why didn't you let me help?" She asks to no one, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I thought I had your back like you had mine. That's what siblings do, right? But when you needed me, you pulled away."

And it hurts. It hurts.

"I could've saved you." She whispers. "But I didn't."

And she can't keep looking at the painting.

It hurts too much.

"Why didn't you let me help, Pac? I would've done anything to save you. Now there's this... void inside me. Milo tries to reassure us he's fine, but we know him. He's trying so hard to pretend he's fine, but we know he's not. We can see the pain. He's..." She laughs, but there's no joy in it. "He's just like you in that regard."

She takes a deep breath.

"I wish you didn't leave, Pac. I wish you could've let us help you." She says, and her voice breaks. "I wish you would've come to me for help."

A tear slides down her cheek.

She stands up and leaves.

Sometimes, when the sun shines too brightly and the wind blows with a chill, she sits in his lobby.

She stares. She thinks.

The wastes are so much more than what Fit explained.

Pac stood against the remains of some poor house, staring at the land surrounding him. He adjusted his cloak, making sure the hood was still covering his head. The gasmask he managed to steal from a dead body was secured around his neck, and the quiver of arrows some kind soul gave him was clipped on his back. Pac fiddled with his bow, scanning around his surroundings in case of any danger or the sight of a familiar person.

2b2t really was a dead man’s land– burnt trees were scattered around the land, craters the size of the Favela were everywhere, and any sight of water was either poisoned or toxic. Animals were basically non-existent, and Pac could hear the sounds of Tnt and end crystals exploding far away. He'd had a handful of encounters with other players, but only one tried to attack him. They were wearing non-enchanted iron armor, so Pac managed to kill them swiftly with his arrows.

The Brazilian sighed, leaning against the remains of the base. His free hand moved down to his prosthetic leg, pressing the little plate Ramón installed before he left (he was honestly surprised the tracker wasn’t deleted when he switched servers). The little metal box shaped like a communicator popped out, and Pac grabbed it, powering it on. A sad, gentle smile appeared on his lips when the map loaded in, the red dot he had grown to feel bittersweetness to blinking towards the north.