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Pac wakes up happy; it’s the best he can do.
He’s already had a few conversations with Fit about it (well–he’s had one conversation with Fit about it, but six of one–). The thing is, it feels like a few conversations, like hearing the same thing over and over again on a more metaphorical sense, a bug you can’t swat away, the annoying voice of reason you can’t shake from the back of your head.
(Normally, that voice sounds suspiciously like Mike, but–no. don’tthinkdon’tthinkdon’tthink).
Anyway, voice of reason aside, Pac wakes up happy, just like he goes to bed happy. Or, maybe Pac should say; he wakes chasing happiness, wakes with happiness just a step in time away, just a short trip away, just one pill away. Once again–six of one. At first, when Pac had realized it was a server-side issue, it had been troubling. There was still a part of him, over-burdened with other people’s problems, that wanted to help, of course. But Pac refused to let other people’s problems be his problems anymore, was the thing. It hadn’t taken Pac long–maybe just a few days, he’s sort of lost track–to realize he had control of the whole thing.
He has control. Of the whole thing.
It’s the first time in a very long time, if not ever, that Pac has had control over a situation. A big situation. He’s sometimes had control over the little things, like being able to calm Mike down after a particularly rough night ( don’tthinkdon’tthinkdon’tthink), but the larger things? Those have never been something in Pac’s domain. Work for the agency. Go to the prison. Go to the worse prison. Lose your leg. End up on the island with the guy who made you lose your leg under a worse agency. And rinse, repeat, repeat, repeat.
So this is…well, suffice to say, this is a different beast altogether. The comfort of control covers Pac like a warm blanket, like one of Richas’s hugs, like the edge of the world at his fingertips after leaving the orphanage behind. Like every good thing he’s ever had, magnified by ten. By twenty, even, just one pill away!
So Pac takes the pills. He crashes the server. And rinse. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
And it’s bliss, for a while, even as Pac begins to register there are things he can’t control even in this blissful world. He can’t control, for example, Fit’s reactions to the whole thing. He’s had one conversation with Fit about it; it’s very easy, when he’s memorized what to say to the questions. But there are other days when it’s radio silent, when it’s easy to wake up in turmoil and let it all wash off his back with another pill.
None of that matters–for a while, it’s bliss indeed, until one day, Pac wakes up to a highly suspicious message on his communicator.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
Huh. So that’s weird.
There’s a part of Pac–and he suspects it’s the part of him that has always wanted to help and burden itself with other people’s problems–that wants to go investigate what that’s even about. A mistake caving doesn’t seem likely for Fit. A run-in with another islander? That’s harsh, even for one of Fit’s enemies, of which Pac isn’t sure he actually has many here. Well, except for–
A run-in with the Federation?
Pac feels the itching of a frown cross his face, deep lines that are as uncomfortable as they are alien creasing his cheeks. This is something he can’t deal with right now, he convinces himself. Besides, there’s the server crash. Everything will be fixed when a new day dawns. What’s done is already done by now, and while it’s unfortunate, it’s not like Pac can ask Fit about it or offer any sort of comfort tomorrow.
And that was assuming Pac was in any position to offer comfort in the first place, which that part of him thinks he still is. But he’s already made his mind up about other people’s problems, troubling as they may be. There’s a briefcase at Pac’s bedside by now, the solution inside simple as it is ultimate. With hands that shake far more than they used to, Pac fumbles for the code. It feels a lot simpler than it did just days earlier, going through the motions. The pill is small; matte in the light and powdery.
Pac has one moment of clarity left before he balances the pill on his tongue. He uses it to forget the communicator message along with his sorrows.
Everything will be just fine.
—
Pac wakes up happy, or if not, Pac wakes up chasing happiness with an inhuman ease.
Pac wakes up in the blissful world, one of his own creation, with a buzzing on his wrist tht he checks with a simple hum.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
Huh. So that’s weird. And…slightly disturbing.
Pac tries to convince himself, once more, that everything will be just fine. This is his world of bliss, his world to control, even if he can’t control everyone’s reactions in it, even if he can’t control Fit, or Tubbo, or Cucurucho, or–
Aimlessly, Pac feels himself scratch the side of his face, where another frown has worked its way in unwanted. The bitten-down nails digging into his flesh are comforting. A shudder runs itself through his body. It’s not necessarily the part of him that wants to help that’s concerned–that part is long behind him–but well, he’s a scientist at heart, and even though he’s no investigator like Cellbit, there’s a second, even more annoying part inside of him that wants to run out the door, hunt down Fit, shake him by the shoulders and ask him what trouble he’s gotten himself into this time.
Pac stands from his bed, but his legs are shaky, his body trembling top to bottom. He does that nowadays, more often than he would like to admit. He didn’t use to tremble like that, full tremors that make his hands shake and his walking patterns erratic, that make his daily work nearly impossible, but well–it’s not like he’s much concerned with his daily work anyway.
The thought of the tremors–the thought that he’s not used to be–make him feel more than register a sharp breath sucked in through his throat. Suddenly, there isn’t enough air in this room, his chest rising and falling at a pace that’s almost painful as he tries to breathe through it, get just one gulp of oxygen through his erratic hyperventilating. It’s no use, he can feel his fingers dig into his face again, smack the side of it, like he’s trying to knock the frown clear off his features, and–
The briefcase. The briefcase.
He isn’t who he used to be, the who he used to be would be on Fit’s doorstep in an instant. But the who he used to be had a son, a real son and a future and a–
(don’tthinkdon’tthinkdon’tthink.)
Pac grabs his briefcase, fumbles with the code, and doesn’t think about the disturbance for a while after that.
—
Everything is fine when Pac wakes up. He feels a lot better after yesterday, after he spent some time…well…he can’t entirely remember what he did, but he remembers how he felt for the most of the day, and he remembers a shadowy print of Tubbo’s face in the back of his mind, asking him something with a furrowed brow. It doesn’t matter what he was asking, now does it? Surely, something upsetting. That’s not entirely his style. He felt good, yesterday, all the troubles of the morning he could hardly remember long forgotten. Forgotten for good, he hopes.
That’s when he checks his communicator.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
Okay. So that’s not normal.
Pac is not burdened with other people’s problems, and Pac is not who he used to be–not a scientist, not at all. But what Pac is is someone who is deeply, irreversibly, and regrettably invested in the wellbeing of FitMC.
Pac stands up again; Pac swallows wave of panic after wave of panic at the way his legs tremble in his moments of full clarity. Pac takes one step towards the door, then another. He’s going to go to Fit’s house, he’s going to get to the bottom of what’s happening with his friend, and he’s going to prove to himself that this is just a small, very fixable dent in the side of his world of bliss.
It’s fixable. So fixable, in fact, that he grabs his briefcase, opens it with trembling hands, and pockets the bottle of pills in his hoodie. So there.
The trek up to Fit’s place is not made easy by Pac’s tremors. He can barely get that far with the way his hands shake along the runes of the warpstone. Eventually, though, he finds his way up and invites himself in, uninvited. Hopefully, Fit will be home this early, before he goes and takes his daily swim in a pool of lava, and Pac can…
He doesn’t know.
For all the power he has given himself, for all the control he is relished in, Pac sure doesn’t feel like he has much grasp on this situation. How is he going to convince Fit to not seem what he seems to adamant on doing without admitting the truth? He can’t give up what he’s worked so hard for; sure, maybe he stumbled conveniently across the solution, but he’s worked so hard in this life, on this island, to keep it. Giving up the answers so early won’t end well for anyone, he convinces himself. But…maybe he can find another way. Maybe he can accompany Fit just for a little while, pause the reset just until he figures out what’s going on without delaying it all together.
He’s not really settled on a solution by the time he nears Fit’s bedroom, but he soon realizes it doesn’t matter, because something is very, very wrong.
It’s the smell that hits him first. Burning, but not just burning. Something charred, like a piece of meat you have well overcooked over the fire. First he gags, then he clamps his hand over his mouth, staving off wave of nausea after nausea. If he gets any closer, he’s certainly going to be sick. If he gets any closer, he will have to face the reality of the situation he has built from the ground up.
Pac is running in the other direction before he can think better of it. His voice hurts by the time he manages to choke out a sob, sitting somewhere on the shoreline, and he realizes only then that he’s been screaming, inhuman sounds, more like wails than anything. He hopes Fit hadn’t heard him, though he knows in the long run that won’t matter, will it? Fit will burn, and he will wake, and Pac will pretend not to remember a damn thing.
Pac buries his head in his arms and digs his nails into his elbows so harshly he breaks the skin, continuing to choke back wails until they stave off altogether, nobody coming to his rescue, nobody to familiarly comfort him like he cannot comfort anyone else. Wiping his eyes furiously, he contemplates his fate, wonders how he can pretend to forget.
Except–except he doesn’t have to pretend to forget. He doesn’t have to do anything, does not have to be a servant to the whims of his own mind. If Pac was anyone else–if Pac was who he used to be– he would most certainly be strong enough to face this head-on.
But, but, but, Pac laments as he unscrews the safety lock of a bottle.
But he is not.
—
Pac wakes with the burning feeling that he’s forgotten something important.
Rolling over in bed, he drags an arm lazily across his eyes. Sure, he’s forgetting a lot of things lately, but it’s better in the long run. Nothing in his days happens that’s important enough to warrant memory, nothing except a wave of pure adrenaline and exhilaration and joy that washes off with a server crash. And rinse, repeat, repeat, repeat. Yes, Pac decides with a giddy giggle, he could most certainly do this for the rest of his days.
…Or at least until he gets this situation sorted out, he reminds himself semi-bitterly.
It doesn’t matter. His communicator is buzzing, and Pac should probably look at that before he can think any more nasty thoughts.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
FitMC tried to swim in lava.
Pac reaches for the briefcase.