Chapter Text
One thing about Jax is that he always survives.
It’s true. His will to live is sometimes frustratingly persistent. Despite the fact that, even in this simulation where death is never really permanent, the path to that temporary oblivion is shockingly convincing. It’s just like Pomni had said, back when everyone was waiting to see what she would do when she held her breath for long enough—it still feels like you’re going to die.
(Don’t think about her right now.)
Bleeding out still feels a whole lot like bleeding out. Drowning still feels like drowning. But Jax always survives, even when it would be less painful to submit to the call of the void. Digging his nails in and holding on for literal dear life. He just doesn’t die. He can’t. He always holds on, until Caine wakes up long enough from whatever psychotic episode he’s in the middle of to restore his health.
It’s a testament to that tenacity that Jax hasn’t abstracted. Not after watching face after face be reduced to a plaque on a door, crossed out with the Caine-approved “X” of damnation. Not after being subjected to exercise after exercise in psychological damage and forcibly-created trauma bonds. Not after walling himself off from the others, because he understands what they don’t, that when you start pretending any of this is real, when you start believing that there are stakes, you might as well just queue up for the guillotine. It’s not personal, it’s safety, because
Jax always survives.
(Except maybe it is a little personal.)
He always survives, and maybe that splash of water in the bathroom didn’t do the trick and his smile didn’t go back on quite right, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Pomni’s head peering down the dark aisle, backlit by the garish spotlights and obscuring her face, maybe that didn’t help the growing nausea, but that doesn’t make it the cause, either.
He hasn’t abstracted, and it’s been this long. Why would now be any different? Why would fucking Pomni encroaching on his fucking space be any fucking different?
(What would you do if I abstracted tomorrow?)
He’d—he will move on, because
Because he always survives.
So, here’s one of the funny things about the Digital Circus.
A player might not need to eat, sleep, breathe, or shit, or whatever the hell. But their digital body doesn’t get that memo. Lungs still take in whatever approximation of oxygen there is to breathe, the hunger pangs still settle in after long enough. Once you’ve eaten, the digestive system is still shaking, rattling, rolling, and, most crucial of all, the body and brain are still aware of the circadian rhythm.
Jax’s body and brain in particular are extremely aware that his circadian rhythm is utterly fucked.
The insomnia doesn’t have many negative side effects, apart from some hatred for the Circus for leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts. Again, he doesn’t need to sleep, and of course Jax is a consummate actor, so he can bounce back in time for the next adventure. He’s already unpleasant! As long as he can put one foot in front of the other, the rest of the Circus won’t notice a thing!
And if they do, they know better by now than to probe.
(But Pomni hasn’t managed to get that through her skull, has she?)
The effects aren’t physiological, at least. It’s not insomnia's fault that he feels like someone’s bashed his head in with a rock and then shoved it down his throat. That’s just everything fucking else.
The Circus is still dark when Jax drags himself out of bed. He first has to disentangle himself from sweat-soaked sheets, before he can lumber to the door and out into the hall, the straps of his rumpled overalls sagging.
Sometimes, he wonders why Caine couldn’t be bothered to give him a shirt.
Thankfully, it seems like everything is completely still. Jax closes his bedroom door behind him, and when he looks up, finds himself confronted with Pomni’s portrait across the way.
(What would you do)
His eyes slide from Pomni’s pouting face to another door. Ribbit’s door.
(if I abstracted tomorrow?)
An intrusive thought bullies its way to the forefront: Pomni’s door, with a big fat “X” over the portrait. No light coming from the crack underneath the door. Barely different from the one next to it. Another voice to never hear again.
It’s not a new thought. It’s been enjoying its stay in his noggin ever since Zooble shot them to hell and Pomni took off, leaving Jax in the empty hallway with Ribbit’s crossed-out caricature and Ragatha’s accusation bouncing around in his head.
Jax knew he resented her, but even he had been surprised by the volley of shots he’d fired into her already limp body.
(I, like, hate you. But I don’t want you to hate me. Is that weird?)
Jax scrubs a gloved hand down his stupid cartoon mug and trudges down the hall.
Just like he thought, the Circus is dead quiet, which leaves the kitchen free to be raided. The contents of the fridge are always bland and uninteresting, but Caine at least has enough benevolence to supply the players with coffee grounds that are half-decent. Jax makes himself a cup of hot coffee and walks out to wander the Circus’ many wide, open areas filled with nothing.
He doesn’t get far.
“Jax?”
He stops cold in his tracks.
“Yo. Jaxy-boy.”
“No,” he replies, his voice ragged from disuse.
“C’mon. Is that any way to greet a pal? I thought we were friends, Jax.”
Clutching his mug tight, Jax reluctantly turns on his heel to face the source of the impossible voice. The dread in his gut suffuses into outright terror, not unlike a bucket of icewater over the head.
In the dark, Ribbit’s body looks…wrong. Awkward. Jax can see their eyes and not much else, but even just their silhouette looks off-kilter and strange, like their avatar hasn’t been rendered correctly. Like their code’s gone bad.
“There you are,” says Ribbit, their big eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, goofball.”
Jax can feel his breathing starting to lag. “Stop it.”
“Do you want to go to the lake?” Their body quivers. “I won’t push you in this time, scout’s honor.”
“You’re dead,” Jax snarls, his chest heaving. Is this one of Caine’s sick jokes?
Or is he really losing it this time?
“Maybe Raggy can make us some sandwiches. We could bring Zooble and Gangle if you’re in the mood for games. Remember when Kaufmo and Kinger made that killer sandcastle?”
“You should stay dead,” Jax screams, but Ribbit doesn’t seem to hear him.
“Even Caine was impressed! We could show them a real sandcastle, though. You could ask—”
Jax watches as their frame goes very still, the just-visible pupils of their round eyes expanding into inky, bottomless pools as their voice comes out flat and steely.
“Who’s Pomni.”
The rabbit flinches, his own voice dropping to a whisper. “Go away. You’re not real.”
“Jax. Jaxy-boy.” Ribbit’s shape drifts closer to him, and it’s all so wrong. Their hands limp at their sides, their legs unmoving even as they approach. Their webbed feet drag as they glide across the checkered tile. “You’re not seriously thinking of replacing me. Are you?”
No. No, that wasn’t the plan at all. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until Ragatha opened her mouth, he was just having fun—why does everyone always have to ruin his fun?
Jax squeezes his hands into fists. “Why does it matter? It’s not any of your f[BOING!]ing business what I do!” He scoffs, raising his voice, “You’re the one who lost it! You left me here, idiot! You lost your mind and tried to kill me and I watched Caine send you to the cellar! You’re—”
“You’ll break her.”
Their voice cuts through his rage like a knife, void of compassion and anything akin to emotion. Jax takes another step back, away from Ribbit’s dangling body.
“You know you will,” they continue, lifeless eyes following his movement. “It will be just like last time. One of you will abstract. If history repeats itself, it will be her. Do you want that to happen, Jaxy? Do you want to be the one left standing again? Do you want to be the reason someone gets dropped in the cellar, again? Put down like a dog?”
“I didn’t make you abstract,” Jax croaks out, hands trembling. “It’s not my fault. You were hurting a—”
“Don’t deflect onto me. You’re going to make her like you, and someone like you deserves what’s coming to them.”
It’s as if all the air in the room is sucked out. The rabbit’s shoulders slump. He puts a hand over his chest as if that will stop it from constricting, but it doesn’t. Maybe this is what it’s like to run out of oxygen in space. As his knees buckle and he’s deposited on the ground, he recalls for a moment a movie he watched, back when he was still human. What was the tagline, again? It was something like—
Ah, that’s right.
(In space, no one can hear you scream.)
His vision swims with Ribbit’s silhouette closing the distance between them, still suspended from an invisible wire like a corpse being puppeteered. Jax cranes his neck to look into their still-obscured face, paralyzed under the glassy black gaze of his friend. The kind of nightmare that no amount of code could render perfectly.
“Stop running from it,” says Ribbit’s voice, only it’s not their voice anymore, not really, “What’s the point, anymore? You burned all your bridges, just like you wanted. Why are you still pretending there’s anything left to survive for?”
And…
He doesn’t have an answer for that.
Whether it’s his mind playing tricks on him or actually the vengeful spirit of Ribbit, come back to haunt him—
Maybe it’s right.
Jax always survives, but is that really what anyone wants?
Is anyone really happy to see him?
Maybe before today.
Maybe before Ribbit abstracted, and Jax did what he had to do.
What is there left for him that’s worth sticking around for?
When his eyes focus again, Ribbit isn’t just a shadow anymore. Their limbs spasm, rounded, friendly cartoon curves becoming sharp, deadly edges. Swirls of color in their cold eyes as they outstretch a hand, beckoning him, giving him an out.
(Giving the others an out.)
Jax can’t feel his heartbeat anymore. Can’t feel anything. There’s all so much nothing, just the roaring of white noise as he leans forward to welcome the touch of Ribbit’s hand on his face.
And suddenly—