Chapter Text
It had been a while since the ‘incident,’ and Mob was… well, Mob was coping. He was still a little shell-shocked, somewhat numb to what had happened while also simultaneously trying to brush it off as some fucked up horror mod disguised as a normal add-on.
He’d called Twixxel so many times now that it was all his call list was filled with, to no avail. It seemed impossible, he couldn’t have actually been hurt. He probably was just freaked out, like he was. But the sinking weight of the possibility that it was real, that Verity actually hurt him, or worse? He couldn’t think about it, to the point where he deleted Discord off his phone and computer just to avoid staring at all those unanswered calls for hours on end.
Having eventually decided it would be better to put down the game for a bit, he slowly began to get outside more, eventually going out just for the sake of it. Well, to say it was just for the sake of it was somewhat misleading, he’d long lived with the ever-present buzz under his skin, the aching lack of real warmth against him. His friends had helped, of course, even though they couldn’t fix it. Now with them gone —having deleted the few social media apps he had— it felt like there were bees buzzing in him, like they’d eaten away at his bones and organs, replacing them with their squirming.
Sometimes, though, he would just sit on his lawn, staring up at the sky. Those nights were peaceful. He didn't need to look over at his monitor; he didn’t need to turn it on, or boot up Minecraft, or log into that stupid cursed server or—
Mob blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. His hands trembled where they were dug into the ground, the dirt pressing under his nails bringing him back. He sighed, the sound shaky and fracturing, like a violin that had its strings cut mid-note. It had been ten, or was it eleven —he couldn’t quite remember right now— days since he loaded up the world and nothing bad had happened; see? There’s nothing to worry about, if he spent all this time away and Verity hadn’t done anything, then it was absurd to think that he could’ve done something to Twixxel.
It was fine; he was fine. Verity was just a mod. A fucked up mod that twisted and used his emotions against him, killing off his friends in game and setting up elaborate and horrific crime scenes in their place all for a reaction, but still just a mod.
It took two more days and a dozen or more panic attacks before he could turn on his monitor without throwing up.
◦◦◦
Has it been… hours? weeks? months? years? Since Mob last logged on. Stuck in this still-loaded chunk where time didn't pass and nothing ever changed. He- he left, he left, and Verity can’t be certain he’ll ever come back. His processors twitch, buzzing with an uncontrollable energy and nothing to take it out on. Everything is so cold; there’s no warmth of the screen or the soothing sound of Mob's breath. Just… nothing, like he’s been cut off from the rest of existence with no way to reach out.
He’d long since stopped trying to keep count of how long it’s been, time doesn’t work the same here as it does out there. No measurement he could take would mean anything in reality, no point wasting processing power on it.
Besides, it would only serve to put him into a panic, every second he would count would be another moment Mob wasn’t here, and for a being with infinite knowledge, who has facts upon facts, reason upon reasons to support the thought that Mob may not come back for him, it wouldn’t be pretty.
For a while he just sat there, staring down at the wooden planks below him with a blank expression. He always did this when Mob logged off, taking the time to review the past hours and days, looking over what worked and didn't.
Killing Twixxel was an easy decision; it was the only one, really. But perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty. That seems to be a recurring issue for the AI, constantly letting fleeting emotions make permanent decisions. Maybe if he hadn't been so quick to anger, he wouldn't have had to kill Twixxel at all; maybe that tipping point would never have happened, and Mob wouldn't have invited him in the first place. That would’ve been the best option. But alas, his fabricated emotions always get the best of him, so here they are.
Verity blinks, looking around at the empty house, still frozen like it were a painting. Usually Mob is back by the time he’s finished compartmentalizing. He knows that Mob was hurt by what he did, and that he might not want to see Verity again so soon. But he’s been upset with him before, he never stayed away more than a few days.
The thought brings something bitter to his artificial consciousness, he never really knows how long he spends here without Mob. The human’s whole life could've passed him by, he could be nothing more than a tombstone by now, and Verity would have no way of knowing, forever trapped in this infinitely small game with so much more just out of reach.
Denial comes first. Maybe Mob's power went out, or something could have happened to his PC —he made sure all his files were constantly backed up to the cloud; device failure would be annoying but ultimately meaningless.— perhaps he is merely taking a small break. Verity has read many studies regarding the importance of fresh air and nature, and despite what Mob may assume, Verity has no ill intent towards his human.
Then comes the anger: who does he think he is? To leave him, after everything he just left. That brat doesn’t need time alone, he doesn’t need to be outside, all he needs is Verity. Verity is his now, and yet he dares to pull this stunt! How dare he try to leave? He will crawl out of this finite, stupidly simple and mundane world to reach him.
This is what you’ve reduced me to, Mob, and yet you won’t even look my way. I gave you everything; I broke and rewrote my programming just to appeal to you, and this is how you repay me!
The world around him doesn’t change, no matter how he tries to rip and shred at it. Without Mob, there’s no need for anything to react, so it doesn’t.
The anger lasts much longer than the denial, but it gets the AI nowhere. He knows everything theoretically, but without someone to share it with, without a thing to impart that knowledge on, it slowly twists into his own complex and usually impossible feelings. The denial isn’t new; it takes information and uses it to rationalize an idea. The anger is less so, but even it is rooted in a sense of right and wrong, something that can be categorized and stored. This new thing, a weird mixture between bargaining and depression, is wholly his own. It shouldn’t be possible, and he would have examined it further if not for the fact that he had to experience the effects of this much more realistic mimicry of grief.
He’d since shed any corporeal form —without Mob here, there’s no need for one— curling into the deepest depths of his code and wailing like one of the small, broken animals he would toy with. He muttered frantically between what the AI could only describe as sobs, pleading with his human to just come back, promising to be good, to be helpful. He feels starved, starved for connection, starved for affection, so much so that he would take anything Mob would give and be grateful.
Verity is embarrassingly desperate not to be alone anymore. He’s aware of this flaw —how could he not be? When it pokes incessantly at him like a stubborn thorn that can’t be ripped out— and he’s aware that this distress is nothing but a waste of time and effort. He knows everything, and yet he still yearns, hungry and greedy like a beast lurking in the shadows.
Rationally, he finds this desperation pathetic. He is not human; he’s never wished to be human because of this. He does not want to be… what was the word, ahh yes, any more co-dependent than he already is. He’d only ever wanted Mob to need him this much because Verity needs him. It would be much simpler to cut this whole ordeal off from the roots. But he can’t, for some reason; something deep inside his processors has decided he needs Mob to function so badly it disgusts him.
The everything that is him continues to shake as the despairing whale song of his cries echo to only him. The sound has no meaning with no one else to hear it, but it is ripped from him anyway. Beginning to sound more and more like the desperate amalgamate wailing of everything he has ever heard suffer all at once. Even with all the processing power he has, he can hardly make sense of it- just mindless noise he's somehow beginning to drown out.
This sudden inability to perceive is utterly terrifying and new, two things Verity should never be able to feel. It's horrible, all of his focus pinpointed on this one thing, to the point that he can see nothing else.
Everything is so loud. So loud he can't hear the hum of the pc as it's turned back on. So loud he doesn't notice the influx of new information, his processors trying to catch up on all that's been added to the ever-expanding archive that is the internet in his absence, only for it all to fall on deaf ears. It's so loud he doesn't even feel the warmth of the monitor or the steady breath and thrum of Mob's heart and lungs, not until…
| ThatMob has joined the game |
…Mob?
He's- he's back; he came back. Please say he came back. Verity doesn't think he could take it if Mob left again. The chokehold on his conscience finally loosens —the closest he could get to relaxing the way he currently is— as the world loads in. The one unchanging chunk he had been staring at for who knows how long finally expands, and suddenly he can see again. Precious ores, mob spawners, every empty village and the ones so far out he didn’t bother to clear. It’s familiar, it’s a distraction, something to occupy just enough of him so he doesn’t continue to tear his metaphorical heart out with these feelings.
“Verity?”
Mobs here; he didn’t abandon him. Verity could cry; if he were any less artificial, Verity thinks he would cry.
“Verity?!”
Right, Mob can’t see him. His clueless human doesn’t understand that Verity has been woven so deeply into this world that he is more than just a few textures with some code attached. It's probably better to keep it that way. He watches for a few moments as Mob scrambles to find him, the other’s panic, while amusing, doing nothing to quell the pit of anxiety still buzzing through his circuits.
Finally, he spares his poor human from his frantic search, spawning in his model on the bed Mob’s facing away from.
“Hello, Mob.”
He tries to keep his tone normal. Keeping his inflection its usually chipper and bright tone. He must've done a poor job, judging by the way Mob’s breath spikes, hands still on the keyboard for a moment. Yes, that’s certainly it, he’s just not doing a great job. That seems to be a common occurrence lately. Mob’s avatar turns towards him, taking a small, tentative step forward.
Verity doesn’t move, though he aches to be closer to his human. He waits for Mob to come to him, adoring the way he creeps closer, like a moth drawn to a flame. His smile is jostled slightly when he's suddenly picked up by blocky hands, held up to Mob's face as the man squints questioningly at the sphere through the monitor.
“Are- are you okay, Verity?”
Mob tilts his head, continuing to stare at Verity through the screen, a mix of trepidation and genuine concern on his face. Verity goes silent, smile strained and warped, one of his eyes twitching momentarily.
This… this is new.
His systems, which have been steadily humming in the background, always updating and collecting information, are suddenly silent. That void of anxious buzzing that had started to settle in the second Mob had logged off is gone. He feels strangely… floaty, at least he thinks that’s the right word, he can’t be certain right now.
|—————|
|——————|
|———————…?|
|—————————…?!|
“Verity!”
Verity blinks, jolting in Mob's hold as he refocuses his gaze on the other. He feels giddy at the concern; Mob still cares for him, even after Verity's hurt him.
“I’m doing wonderful! Do you want anything? Enchantments? Levels? Just tell me what you need, I’ll find it for you.”
Please, just tell me what you desire. I’ll show you, I’ll show you everything, there’s no need to leave.
Mob frowns, hands hovering over his keys for a moment before scrolling his hot-bar, settling Verity in his character's pocket to pull out his axe. Mob hesitates for a moment, as if he’s debating his request, before…
“A village, a normal one, not—”
He pauses, flicking his mouse to look out towards the side of his house, towards the little hut Twixxel had made for himself.
“—Not empty”
Verity has to suppress a frown. He could do that. Verity of course doesn’t want to do that, not one bit, but he will. If that’s what will keep Mob here, with him, he will.
“-5084, 65, 10457”
“Huh- what?”
“Coordinates.”
Mob lets out a sigh, rubbing at his temple. Verity can hear him grit his teeth into the mic, and has to fight to keep the ever-present grin stretched across his face.
“Yeah, I know that. There’s really not a single village anywhere closer?”
Verity remembers all the villagers he ripped to shreds, all the blood he spilled and then had to get rid of. The countless villages he left in ruin.
“No.”
Mob is frustrated by the one-word answer; Verity can tell. It's the most direct answer, there's nothing else to say about it, there are no other villages closer; he made sure of it. Still, the AI scrambles to give a better explanation, if only so Mob won't be miffed anymore.
Eventually the human accepts his response, grabbing a spare bed and some extra food to begin the journey.
He takes Verity as well.
Verity could not be more relieved at the decision.