Chapter Text
Egg isn't stupid.
He might be bad at PVP. He might get roasted more often than not. He might make Wemmbu’s life a little harder every other day. But he isn’t stupid.
He knows what people say about him. That he’s Wemmbu’s weakness. Trophy. Prize. Treasure.
It's not new. He's been called worse, and half of them weren't wrong.
He’s also an easy target—he knows that too. Wemmbu makes it painfully obvious how much he cares, which makes Egg the perfect pressure point to poke.
It's more annoying than anything. Only losers take hostages. And most of them can’t even handle Wemmbu when he’s sleep-deprived, starving, and/or bleeding. Idiotic bozos always think they can threaten him and live long enough to brag about it.
So when one of them throws him into a cell and punches him hard enough that his cheek still stings every time the wind brushes it, Egg just thinks: yeah, this is actually shit.
The air in the cell tastes like rust and damp stone. Every time he breathes, he swears he can feel the dust scraping the back of his throat.
He pushes himself upright against the wall, eyeing the gang of—well, gangsters, he guesses—gathered in front of him. Some glare at him with disgust. Others with greed. One looks kind of sorry, but doesn’t move to help.
They’re arguing in low, sharp voices. Egg strains to pick out words, anything that might help him escape—or help Wemmbu destroy these guys more efficiently.
The first thing he catches is: “Don’t damage him!”
Which, okay. So they’re the merchandise type. Great.
“We’re trying to threaten Wemmbu,” the speaker—whom Egg promptly names Eyepatch because, well, he’s wearing one (creative genius, he knows)—continues. “Not die when he kills us all for hurting that cyclops!”
The redhead who hit him—Idiot, naturally—rolls his eyes and throws Egg another nasty look.
Egg gives him a flat smile back, pretending he’s not eavesdropping. And that he’s totally not nervous. Totally.
Idiot sneers and turns to his friends. “I don’t see the problem,” he grumbles. “That purple tryhard wouldn’t hurt us if we just use the cyclops right.”
Eyepatch groans, loudly enough that a few of the other goons flinch. Egg tilts his head, listening.
“Idiot,”—hey, even his own boss agrees—“he’s not gonna think straight if we make him angry. He might just kill us all before we get what we want.”
“And what we want,” Eyepatch added sharply, “is for him to walk in here holding that mace. That’s the prize, remember? Not the body count.”
Idiot doesn’t look happy about being scolded in front of everyone, but he shuts up and nods. Huh. Egg’s almost impressed. He’d pegged the guy as the “pig-headed, brainless, impossible to control” type. Guess Eyepatch actually runs this circus.
Also means Eyepatch is the one responsible for kidnapping him. Good to know who to blame later.
“Good,” Eyepatch says, clapping Idiot on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about this, okay? Just don’t mess it up, and Wemmbu will have fallen straight into our hands.”
Egg can’t help it, the image of Wemmbu, of all people, “falling” for anything these clowns do makes him snort.
The sound slips out before he can stop it.
That draws Idiot’s attention again. The glare he sends could probably strip paint.
Egg looks away quickly, feigning interest in the floor. He can feel his pulse jumping under his skin, but Idiot just mutters something to Eyepatch through gritted teeth instead of stomping over to break his ribs.
Probably because Eyepatch gives him that “don’t test me” look again.
Small mercies.
Egg nearly melts into the floor with relief when they finally leave. He knocks his head against the jagged stone wall, trying to think of an escape plan or something. He comes up blank. Then he just curls up on the floor, trying to conserve heat and energy.
If there’s one thing these kidnappings have taught him, it’s that Egg needs to keep himself alive long enough for Wemmbu to come.
And he’s gotten good at that.
He’s startled awake by the creak of a door opening.
He can’t help it. Being stuck in this small, cold room makes his skin itch, and every little noise sounds like the start of something bad.
Still, he doesn’t show it. Not the tension in his shoulders, not the quick spike of panic in his chest. He just blinks the sleep out of his eyes and calmly meets Idiot’s glare.
Idiot doesn’t seem to like that.
His face purples with anger, and he storms across the room, boots thudding against the stone floor. He crouches down in front of Egg, way too close, breath sour and heavy.
Egg tilts his head slightly, unimpressed. “Wow, personal space? Never heard of it?”
Idiot’s jaw ticks. “You think you’re funny?”
Egg opens his mouth, already halfway to saying ‘objectively, yes’, but then Idiot’s fist slams into his ribs.
Air rushes out of him in a sharp wheeze.
He curls slightly, a grimace twisting his face, but he forces out, “Okay, I see we’re skipping the foreplay—ow, okay! That’s—”
Another punch, harder this time.
Egg yelps despite himself, the sound sharp and breathless. “—that’s definitely a yes on skipping it, then!”
“Shut up,” Idiot growls, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “You think you can mouth off when you’re in chains?”
Egg sucks in a shaky breath, trying not to flinch when Idiot draws back his fist again. “Technically,” he manages, voice strained, “you’re the one talking right now—”
The next hit lands somewhere between his shoulder and neck, making his head spin.
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry!” he gasps, the words half a laugh, half a wince. “No more jokes, promise. Totally done.”
Idiot sneers down at him, breathing hard. “That’s what I thought.”
Egg blinks up at him, eyes watering a little, smile still faintly tugging at his lips despite it all. “Y’know,” he says quietly, “you hit like a guy who peaked in Bed Wars.”
Idiot snarls, raising his fist again. Egg braces for a hit, teeth clenched, eyes screwed shut, but instead both of them freeze when Eyepatch’s voice cuts through the hall, shouting orders.
Egg cracks one eye open to see Idiot lower his fist, muttering a curse. He doesn’t look happy.
Egg gives a choked-off laugh that rattles his ribs. That earns him another withering glare, and a kick to the side for good measure.
The pain bursts hot and bright; his breath stutters, a pathetic noise barely catching in his throat before he swallows it back down. His vision swims for a moment.
Not even the worst part. Egg can handle a few hits. Hell, he's handled worse because of his subpar PvP skill. No, getting beat up is basically his daily life with Wemmbu at this point.
The worst part is hearing Idiot’s grating laughter, loud and piercing, as he grinds his boot into Egg’s chest.
“Can’t laugh anymore, huh?” Idiot gloats, voice dripping smug satisfaction. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here to keep you company. For a long time.”
Egg doesn’t answer—can’t. The only thing that escapes his lips is a thin wheeze as Idiot finally stalks out, slamming the door behind him.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy.
Egg slumps back against the wall, groaning softly. “I’m so cooked bro,” he mutters, voice hoarse. Then he coughs once, immediately regretting it.
A few hours later—or what Egg thinks is a few hours, since there aren’t any windows or clocks in this glorified dungeon—a metallic clatter jolts him awake.
Something scrapes against the floor, and a second later, a tray slides through the small slot in the door before it snaps shut again.
He blinks blearily at it, then groans when the motion sends pain rippling through his ribs and shoulder. Every muscle feels like it’s been stomped on by a horse. The chains bite at his wrists when he shifts, metal scraping skin.
Nice. Still alive. And chained. And sore as hell. Ten out of ten experience so far.
It takes him a second to realize that, yeah, that tray really is for him. Just sitting there on the floor, steaming faintly. It doesn’t look poisoned either—though, granted, that’s the kind of thing you only find out after eating.
“Huh,” Egg mutters. “At least they feed their hostages. That’s new.”
He’s had worse kidnappers before. Some forgot to feed him entirely—he would’ve starved to death that one time if he hadn’t kept an entire double chest’s worth of food in his inventory. (Lesson learned: always hoard steak.)
Shame they stripped him of everything this time. Even his armor, his tools, the stuff Wemmbu gave him. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with hunger.
He stares at the tray. Then the distance between him and said tray. Then the chains that keep him conveniently just out of reach.
For a few long seconds, he pretends to think about his options. Dignity versus food.
Then his stomach growls, loudly.
Yeah, okay. Dignity loses.
He starts crawling—slowly, carefully, every bruise complaining—and manages to drag the tray closer. The soup looks like it could give him tetanus, and the bread could probably dent a skull, but it’s food.
He eats in silence, chewing mechanically. Every swallow burns down his throat, but he finishes every crumb. Then he slumps back against the wall, breathing out hard.
“Still alive,” he mutters. “Barely.”
He lets his head thump against the wall and stares at nothing. The chains rattle faintly when he shifts, the sound echoing off cold stone.
He tries to imagine the sun. Or Wemmbu yelling at someone. Or the sound of their base’s jukebox playing something stupidly upbeat. Anything that isn’t this.
But there’s nothing. Just the drip of water somewhere distant and the ache settling deeper into his bones.
After a while, he sighs and closes his eyes again.
Might as well sleep. The faster time passes, the faster Wemmbu finds him.
(Or the faster someone tries to beat him up again. Either way, something’ll happen.)
The next time someone comes into his cell, Egg is already awake.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been—maybe a few hours, maybe a day or two. Hard to tell when you don’t have a window, or anything to look at besides four walls and your own hands. He’s spent most of the time alternating between sulking, swearing under his breath, and groaning whenever he shifts wrong and his ribs remind him they exist.
So when the door creaks open, Egg actually perks up a little. Not out of fear, surprisingly, but sheer boredom. Damn. He really is that starved for human interaction.
The light from the hallway spills in, outlining Eyepatch’s frame. The guy doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at him with this weird expression—somewhere between annoyed and… thoughtful?
Egg blinks lazily. “Are you just gonna stand there all day, or…?”
Eyepatch doesn’t respond. He just keeps looking at him, like he’s waiting for something to click into place. The silence stretches, heavy enough that Egg can feel it sitting on his chest. He can feel himself starting to fidget before he catches it and forces his muscles still. He’s not giving this guy the satisfaction.
“Uh, hello?” Egg tries again, tilting his head. “Is this—”
“Tell me about Wemmbu.”
The words cut through the air like a blade.
Egg’s mouth shuts with a soft click. For a second, his mind goes quiet, then spins back up in that low, tired way it always does when people start asking about him.
Of course. Of course they're going to interrogate him. Not the first, won't be the last.
From what he’s seen, Eyepatch and his gang don’t seem especially prepared. Unless there’s twenty more of them outside, Wemmbu would destroy them, easily. And Egg can tell that Eyepatch knows this, because he came down here himself instead of sending a lackey.
Which means he doesn't want anyone to know how unprepared they are. Ha.
Egg exhales slowly through his nose, then leans his head back against the cold stone wall with a dull thunk.
Eyepatch is still waiting. Impatiently. Too bad for him, Egg’s not giving any answers.
“Nah,” Egg says finally, the corners of his mouth twitching upward when Eyepatch’s brow furrows. “Did you seriously think I was gonna tell you anything? Get good, bro.”
“Besides,” he adds, voice light but eyes steady, “Wemmbu doesn’t exactly hide during fights. Pretty sure you could find someone who survived and get more info from them than from me. I don’t even do PvP, dude.”
Eyepatch’s lip curls. A flurry of particles swirls around his hand, and suddenly he’s holding a stick—enchanted, judging by the purple shimmer along the grain.
Ah. Crap.
Egg’s eyes dart between the stick and Eyepatch’s face. “What, you gonna beat me up? Low blow, man. Beating up a guy who’s chained to a wall? Real classy.”
Eyepatch tilts his head, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Listen. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
He twirls the stick once, then brings it down hard against the wall. Instead of snapping, it leaves a spiderweb of cracks across solid stone.
Egg blanches. He can feel the color drain from his face. Eyepatch sees it too—his grin widens.
“So?” Eyepatch asks softly. “What’s your choice?”
Egg swallows hard, inching back even though there’s nowhere to go. “Hey, man, uh… how ‘bout we talk about this? Without using your Unbreaking III stick on poor, innocent me?”
Eyepatch’s eyes narrow. “Think I’m an idiot? Talk. Or I’ll show you what else this stick can do.”
Despite himself, Egg snorts—and immediately regrets it when Eyepatch stalks forward, expression icy.
“Okay, okay, wait! I’ll talk!” he yelps.
Eyepatch stops just a few feet away from him, lowering the stick in his hand. He raises an eyebrow. “Well? Get on with it.”
Eggchan hates this place.
It's been what felt like hours, and Eyepatch is still asking questions Egg can't answer.
“Dude, I already told you,” Egg groans. “I. Don’t. Know.”
Eyepatch just stares at him, stone-faced. He doesn’t look happy about the answer, but honestly? Egg doesn’t know. He's not even intentionally waffling or stalling for time this time.
“You’re useless,” Eyepatch finally mutters.
Egg would throw his hands up if they weren’t chained to the wall and sore to hell and back. “Dude. I literally said I didn’t know before you started this whole thing.”
Eyepatch scowls and raises the stick. Despite himself, Egg shuts up, ignoring the grin that earns him.
Yeah, staying quiet isn’t really his thing. But that stick freaking hurts. His whole body aches, and when he glances down, bruises bloom everywhere like ugly purple stains. At least his face is still mostly fine—Eyepatch probably avoided it on purpose. Wouldn’t want Wemmbu killing them on sight when they eventually show him off, huh?
He watches as Eyepatch straightens, twirling the stick in his hand like he’s showing off.
“Well,” Eyepatch says, disappointed but smug. “I’ll believe you for now. You don’t seem like the type to lie.”
"I guess my guys will just have to settle for going in blind," he says thoughtfully. Then, with a cruel grin: "They might not be as... forgiving as me, though."
The implications in Eyepatch's words don't escape him, but Egg just stares back. Not worth the energy.
Eyepatch smirks. “Dinner’ll be here soon, don’t worry.”
Egg blinks. Dinner.
Right. So it’s night. Probably day two.
Fantastic.
He watches Eyepatch saunter out, the door clicking shut behind him, then groans. More waiting. Great. Just what he needed.
When “dinner” finally comes, Egg’s… very unimpressed.
It’s literally just more bread and soup—if you can call it that. The liquid’s a weak red color with a few limp mushroom stems floating on top. Supposedly mushroom stew. Realistically? Probably poison-flavored water.
He sighs and starts crawling toward it anyway, every bruise in his body screaming in protest as he drags himself across the cold stone floor.
By the time he manages to pull the tray close, he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. His arms tremble, his ribs ache, and his wrists sting where the cuffs rub raw.
Still, he picks up the bread—rock-solid as always—and tears into it. Then he takes a sip of the soup.
It tastes like watery ketchup. He makes a face, but keeps eating. Bad food is still better than getting beat up again or starving to death.
He finishes the rest slowly, chewing mechanically until the tray’s empty. The bread scrapes his gums, the soup burns his throat, and by the time he’s done, he feels both full and sick at the same time.
He drops the spoon back onto the tray with a soft clatter, then slumps against the wall. His wrists ache from the cuffs. His ribs protest every breath. His head feels like it’s full of sand.
For a long moment, he just stares at nothing.
Then, because there’s nothing else to do, his brain drifts.
He wonders what Wemmbu’s doing right now.
Probably tearing half the server apart, knowing him. Shouting at anyone who looks at him funny. Threatening random players and guards for “intel.” Egg can almost hear it; that loud, infuriating tone Wemmbu always uses when he’s pretending not to panic.
The thought makes him snort, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Bet you’re real fun to be around right now,” he mutters under his breath.
His voice sounds weirdly small in the empty room.
The smile fades after a while, replaced by something heavier in his chest that he doesn’t have the energy to name.
He leans his head back, eye slipping shut. The stone is cold against his skin, grounding in a miserable sort of way.
“Don’t do anything stupid, yeah?” he mumbles softly, not sure who he’s saying it to.
The silence doesn’t answer.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. His breathing evens out, the rattle of his chains fading into the background as he drifts into uneasy sleep, the last thought in his mind a blurry image of Wemmbu, furious and alive, and the hope that maybe, maybe that’s enough to keep him that way.
Wemmbu is going crazy.
Egg has been missing for two—two!—days now, and literally no one that he's interrogated has seen him. At all.
“Are you lying to me?” he demands, pointing his mace at the random guard he’s cornered. “Because if you are, I swear to God—”
The guy flails his hands in front of him. “I’m not, bro! None of us have seen him, I swear!”
Wemmbu squints at him. Long, painful silence.
Then he sighs. “Man… you guys are so useless.”
He drops the mace a little, and the guard just deflates, shoulders slumping like he’s about to cry.
Meanwhile, Wemmbu’s mind is boiling.
He’s checked every outpost, every cave, every shady little base within render distance. He’s killed mobs, broken chests, ripped through walls looking for any sign of Egg—and still, nothing. No logs, no footprints, not even one of Egg’s dumb items lying around.
It doesn’t make sense. Egg always leaves a trail.
Unless…
Unless whoever took him actually knew what they were doing.
The thought makes Wemmbu’s stomach twist. He clenches his jaw until it aches, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his horns.
He should’ve been there. He should’ve protected him.
“Can—can I go?” the guy stammers, voice small.
Wemmbu looks at him blankly for a second, as if just remembering he’s there. Then his grip on the mace tightens.
“You didn’t see anything,” he says, low and cold. “If you did, you’d tell me. Right?”
The guard nods so fast he's practically vibrating.
Wemmbu hums, a humorless sound, and finally steps back. “Then get lost.”
The guy doesn’t wait a second longer.
Wemmbu watches him bolt, then, long after the guy disappears from his field of vision, he looks up at the horizon. His eye twitches.
Two days.
“Okay, Eggy,” Wemmbu mutters to himself. “If you’re just ignoring me, you better be ready for me to yell at you when I find you.”
A pause.
“And if you were kidnapped, again—” his grip tightens, eyes flashing, “—I’m gonna kill whoever did it this time. Twice.”