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1.
Their first interaction is astoundingly forgettable.
It’s the Grand Slams up for elimination, everyone sitting on the old wooden stairs and looking down at the stage. That’s where MePhone and MePad are standing. MePhone is lecturing Toilet, again, and sends him off swiftly.
So it’s Knife and Suitcase sitting next to each other. She isn’t exactly the type of company Knife keeps; her timid-lipped, frail gait is a far cry from Knife’s more boorish character. He glances over to her and sees, briefly, her looking at him as well, but her gaze flits away immediately. Her legs are shaking.
Knife scowls. Since the start of the second season, he’s been of the opinion that they’d be better off without all the new contestants. He was here to win, not comfort some clumsy newbies.
Still, he stays his gaze on Suitcase and asks, “What?”
Suitcase shirks away nervously. “O-Oh, it’s nothing.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Knife says gruffly, “so it’s obviously not nothing."
“Well, it’s just–” Suitcase frowns. “Aren’t you scared? Of getting eliminated?”
Knife shrugs. “Not really. There are worse people here, and I was in the first season. You get used to it.”
“Okay. I hope you’re right,” Suitcase says.
She doesn’t sound the least bit comforted, but now MePhone is on his soapbox about their team’s performance last episode and Knife doesn’t bother responding. Suitcase’s worries aren’t his concern.
Out of the corner of Knife’s eye, he can see her smile weakly at him before turning back to the stage. Still trying to be understanding. That altruism doesn’t last long in a game like this, he thinks.
2.
“Hit me,” Nickel says.
Knife procures a card and plants it face-up on the seat. A Queen. Next to it lay Nickel’s other cards: a 9 of hearts, and an 8 of spades.
Knife smirks. “Bust. Dealer wins.”
“Ugh!” Nickel rolled his eyes. “That’s the third time in a row. You can’t blame luck this time.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re bad at strategy.”
The two of them are splayed out on the bleachers next to the soccer field. The sun is waning, sheltered just behind the horizon, and it’s almost getting too late but they’re playing Blackjack and Nickel has lost the last three rounds. Evidently he refuses to acquiesce to Knife’s superiority.
“I’ll shuffle the cards this time,” Nickel says, already reaching for the deck.
“With your feet?”
Knife probably deserves the death glare he gets.
Nickel gets to shuffling the cards and Knife leans back against the row of seats behind him, crossing his arms. The sunken sun glazes the grass with a warm glow. The air is windless. That’s when Knife notices someone climbing the stairs on the aisle next to them.
It’s Suitcase. She shuffles through the rows and approaches them meekly. From where she’s standing, she’s behind Nickel, who hasn’t noticed her yet. But Knife does and, for a brief second, their eyes meet. Suitcase’s lips curl up in a soft smile. Knife nods but doesn’t return it.
“Nickel,” Suitcase blurts out, and Nickel nearly jumps out of his body.
“Uh!” he gasps, dropping the cards on the bench, whipping around to face Suitcase. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Nickel sighs. “It’s fine. What is it?”
Suitcase hesitates at that. “I was talking to Baseball,” she begins, “and he thinks we should consider adding another contestant to our alliance. Just in case something happens and one of us gets eliminated.”
“I don’t know, Suitcase. Four is a lot. What if something happens and we split up?”
“Then– we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen,” she says brightly. “How about Balloon? I know he wants to be friends with you two.”
The proposition sounds more like Suitcase’s than Baseball’s. In fact, he probably only agreed to placate her. Some leader.
Nickel bursts into awkward laughter. “Oookay,” he rushes out. “How about Knife instead, since he’s already here?”
Knife freezes. He wishes for the power to turn invisible.
“Uh,” Knife replies, “what?”
“Oh.” That’s Suitcase. Her voice is flat, disappointed. “Alright.”
“Great!” Nickel motions for her to sit down with them. “We’re playing Blackjack. Why don’t you join so you can get to know him better?”
Then Nickel looks over at a very confused Knife, who waves his hands wildly. Knife raises his eyebrows and gestures to Suitcase as if to say I didn’t agree to this!
Suitcase turns her back to them for just a moment, and starts to respond along the lines of “but Balloon is waiting for me–” when Nickel takes his chance to whisper just go with it!
She turns again and Nickel puts on the most blithe smile Knife’s ever seen. “Come on, Knife doesn’t mind,” Nickel says. “He’s dying to get to know you.”
And, well, Knife can’t even roll his eyes because Suitcase’s gaze locks on him instantly, desperate for approval. She doesn’t speak, but her expression alone strikes a twinge of sympathy in him; sympathy for her pitifulness, sympathy for the advantage Nickel has over her. It’s like a virus he hasn’t yet developed antibodies to.
The Knife from last season would laugh in Suitcase’s face. Perhaps the present Knife still wants to. But that’s not how it goes. Instead, he looks her straight in the eyes and grins on command, with too many teeth. Finally, he says, “I don’t mind.”
“Oh. Good.” Suitcase exhales lightly, body drooping. She plops down next to the two of them. “I know we don’t talk much, Knife, but you’re really cool. And good at competing, too!”
Knife’s eyebrows raise. “Huh. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Suitcase gives him a smile at the same time Nickel flashes a smirk.
“See, Knife?” Nickel says. “Suitcase here is a sweetheart. Now, let’s get started.”
He sets to flipping through the deck he was just shuffling. Knife almost gets up and walks away, but when Nickel’s eyes fall away from Suitcase he notices something truly intriguing:
Suitcase is side-eyeing Nickel with an uncomfortable gaze, lips turned. Knife hums and it catches only her attention. When she looks over at him, she smiles hastily.
Sweetheart, huh.
3.
Knife’s involvement in the alliance doesn’t last long. Neither does anyone else’s. By the eleventh episode, it’s in shambles, and there’s no one to blame except Ms. Sweetheart herself.
He finds Suitcase near the dock. She’s just sitting there on the ledge. Her legs dangle like two pendulums. It’s nighttime and the moon shines swollen and full, the light of it shimmering on the lake. The stars, too, are rarely this clear. They twinkle sweetly.
Knife wonders if Suitcase even wants to be approached in this state—losing your closest friend and trusty alliance in the span of an hour couldn’t have been easy, and it wasn’t like Knife had been a bystander in the situation.
Suitcase has extended him nothing but kindness for the entire season. Knife doesn’t consider himself a completely heartless monster. So he walks up behind her slowly, hoping not to startle her, but the wooden planks whine loudly under his feet and he knows he’s been caught because she pulls her legs up to her chest as a shield.
Knife stops just short of standing next to Suitcase and asks, “Mind if I sit?”
She’s quiet for a moment, until:
“Go ahead.”
Her voice sounds slightly broken, and it hasn’t escaped Knife’s notice that it’s deepened an octave or so over the months. A rip in the fabric of her endlessly-merciful persona. Knife wants to grasp it in both hands and tear it open completely.
But he doesn’t. He just flops down beside her and hikes his legs over the edge of the dock. They don’t quite touch the water.
“How are you holding up?” Knife says after a moment.
Suitcase breathes a laugh. “Well, Baseball has been avoiding me. Microphone doesn’t even like me. And it’s not like I can talk to Nickel or Balloon anymore, either.”
“So not well, I take it.”
“Obviously.”
Suitcase hasn’t looked at him once. Knife drums his fingers against his leg.
“You didn’t know it would be a double elimination. If you’re blaming yourself, don’t.”
“It isn’t just that,” Suitcase says. “I really thought I was standing up for myself. But all I did was upset my friends and make everyone hate me.”
The fingers against Knife’s leg still. Slowly, he lowers them into the space between him and Suitcase. He rests his hand there.
“Not everyone.”
Suitcase blinks.
“Yeah, you screwed up,” Knife continues, “but you meant well. Even Baseball could see that. He’ll understand the situation more with time. As for Microphone… I wouldn’t worry about her. She’s got her own issues to deal with.
“The elimination is still fresh in everyone’s minds. In a few months, you’ll be more focused on winning the million than this petty drama. But until then,” Knife smiles, “just know you've got me in your corner.”
It’s then that Suitcase locks eyes with him. Her lips curl up in a small grin.
“Thanks,” Suitcase says. “You’ve… been there for me a lot, lately.”
Knife waves a hand passively. “Don’t read too much into it.”
“I mean it! To be honest, I always thought you were just a—skeptical jerk. I was a bit intimidated by you, actually. But I know better now. You've shown me that.”
Suitcase stretches out her legs and Knife’s mouth falls open into a small oval shape. It’s not often he’s met with so much kindness. He looks away.
Unsure how to respond, Knife scoffs. “You should be grateful you didn’t meet me during season one. You’d have a much different opinion.”
“Really? I wouldn’t know.”
“I probably would’ve tried to burn you alive. Scratch that—I definitely would have.”
“Um.” Suitcase laughs nervously. “You wouldn’t do that now… would you?”
“Nah. I learned quickly that killing other contestants for fun didn’t usually work in the voters’ favor.”
“Right, right,” Suitcase says, not sounding convinced. “At least you’ve changed, I… I guess.”
Knife stares down at the lake. During the daytime the water is translucent, flat rocks and fat fish visible under it. At night all Knife can see are two reflections swimming on the surface: his, and Suitcase’s. He sees the moon there, too, the reflection quivering. When Knife looks up, it’s still.
“Back then, I didn’t know any better,” Knife confesses. “Kind of like you.”
“Kind of like me?”
“With your ‘alliance.’ I mean, you didn’t seem to realize how they were treating you until I said something. Just goes to show what this show will do to you.”
“Yeah. To be honest, I can barely even remember my life before it.” Suitcase sighs. “That… feels weird to admit.”
The reflection of Knife stares endlessly up at him while he considers her words. Come to think of it, he really can’t, either.
“I get it,” he says. “I remember auditioning, but before that? Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Knife hums, though not in agreement. He squints his eyes shut and tries to recall who he was before the series began. He’s always been somewhat of a jerk, he knows, and cruel…
He can remember auditioning. But anything before that splinters his memories, black snow skittering around, obscuring anything more. The harder Knife tries to remember the more static grows. It’s all prismatic and abstract. It gets him slightly sick, so he stops.
Knife groans out, “Not nothing. It’s more like I know the memories exist, but I can’t reach them. Who knows. Maybe MePhone induced amnesia in all of us and now our pasts are lost to oblivion.”
“Gee, what a… comforting thought.”
Knife rubs his eyes and sees stars. “Never said you had to agree.”
“I don’t disagree. Whenever I try to think back on who I was before, I feel the same. Only it’s more like—the memories that exist before the season aren’t mine."
Suitcase laughs humorlessly. “Maybe all this drama is getting to my head. It’s really late.”
“...Yeah,” Knife says skeptically. He stares down at Suitcase’s reflection and thinks her eyes look heavier than usual. She hasn’t been sleeping much, he suspects, which doesn’t surprise him. He gnaws on the inside of his lip in thought.
“Well,” Suitcase blurts out, standing up quickly. “I should be heading back to where everyone else is. Don’t want to be out here too late.”
She turns and tries to make a break for it when Knife, acting on almost complete impulse, reaches out with one hand.
“Suitcase,” he says, “wait.”
She stops short in her tracks. Her gaze slides over to him slowly, nervously. She elicits no response.
“I meant what I said,” says Knife. His words are measured. “I’m… here for you, should you need me. Just remember that.”
Suitcase’s eyes are big, wide, surprised. Knife knows it’s a far cry from his usual demeanor. Though—if the show was all she could remember, it wasn’t like her time there had been spent around the nicest contestants. His fingers splay out close to her side, a hair's-breadth away but not touching.
Then, Suitcase nods and says, “Okay. Goodnight, Knife.”
Knife grunts in response and his hand falls away. Suitcase’s footsteps patter farther and farther away until they eventually fade into silence and Knife knows she’s gone.
Tentatively, he bends over the edge of the dock and extends the hand he used down to the surface of the lake. His arm almost isn’t long enough, but with a bit of straining Knife skims the water with his fingers. The chill of it sends sparks up his wrist. Knife inhales through parted lips and the breath feels thick in his lungs. Maybe he’s trying to wash away the thoughts of Suitcase. He isn’t sure. She fascinates him—this much he knows.
4.
“Can you believe—golly! Lightbulb told me I should do some ‘self-reflection’!” Test Tube groans. She’s waving her hands in ridiculous animated gestures. “Maybe Fan’s the one that should be doing self-reflection, since he has so much time on his hands now that he’s eliminated.”
Knife groans. He doesn’t think Test Tube notices. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s just—sorry,” Test Tube says, breathing in deeply. “You don’t care about this stuff, do you?”
“Well, my original question was what you’ll do when the egg hatches, not… how you’re coping with your crumbling love life.”
Almost instinctively Test Tube’s arm wraps tighter around the egg. It’s nestled in the crook of her elbow, safe and sheltered from any pointy intruders. She looks away. “Like I said. I-I’m not sure yet. With a little more research, though,” she adds defensively, “I’ll know exactly what to do.”
“Whatever.” Knife shrugs. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t hatch before this research you’re doing finishes. Then you’ll really be in trouble.”
Test Tube snorts. The contestants are still standing outside of Gemory Cave, rattled by MePhone’s strange behavior. Baseball is beside Knife and Test Tube, looking like he wants to be anywhere else. Lightbulb is talking to MePad, who seems stricken; Knife thinks privately that she’s trying to take his mind off MePhone. And Microphone—well, he knows where Microphone is.
The sky is pinkened by the burgeoning sunset but it's overcast, too, and the clouds obscure most of what would be a beautiful evening. Knife’s conversation with Test Tube has dissolved into a one-on-one with Baseball, which gives Knife some leeway to space out. Behind Test Tube he sees the figure of Suitcase.
She’s looking around almost nervously, eyes shifty. Before she can realize Knife is looking at her, she slinks into the mouth of the cave.
Knife’s eyebrows furrow. Based on what Test Tube and Baseball said before, every contestant who touched one of the gems experienced a strange vision of some kind, but for most of them it had been too cryptic to be scary. Only Suitcase had seemed unnerved.
He begins stepping away from the other two before his mind even registers it. When it does, Knife almost beats himself over the blade for his recklessness. That doesn’t stop him from following her anyway.
“I don’t know what I saw, but—” Test Tube rattles on. “Knife, where are you going.”
“Uh,” Knife says, waving his hand, “just pretend I’m still there.”
Knife walks off without another word, but he can hear Baseball sputter helplessly. He probably doesn’t want to be stuck with a grieving Test Tube. Well. That’s out of Knife’s hands now.
When Knife walks through the entrance of the cave, he just barely catches Suitcase shuffling through a throng of stalagmites. He speeds up his pace enough that he won’t miss her next turn.
Suitcase doesn’t go far. After the first interpass, she reaches a hump of rock with a diamond-shaped cavity in its center. She brushes the outline of it gently.
Knife creeps up behind her. His hand comes out to touch her, trying not to startle her, and at the same time he calls out her name:
“Suitcase—”
“Ah!”
Suitcase jumps away like she’s been burned. Knife’s hand curls into a fist, scant inches away from touching her. He reels back when she whips around and says, exhaling, “Oh, Knife, it’s just you.”
“Yeah. Sorry,” Knife says. “Was trying not to scare you.”
“I-It’s fine. I was lost in thought.”
Her gaze skitters away from him. “Lost in thought, huh,” he says.
“I can tell you’re about to ask me what I was thinking about.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I mean, you’re the only one that cared enough to follow me in here,” Suitcase notes. Then, more solemnly, she turns her back to him and stares back at the rock. “I guess I don’t really have a choice. I just… I can’t stop thinking about what that gem made me see.”
“It gave all of us weird visions. Not sure if Test Tube told you that.”
“I overheard,” says Suitcase. “But she also said she couldn’t really understand hers. Mine, it was…”
“Unsettling?”
“That’s one way to phrase it. Do you remember Steve Cobs, the, uh, CEO of Meeple?”
“Sure. He was in the vision I had.”
“Test Tube said he was in her’s, too. But he wasn’t really in mine, he was—mentioned. A-And there was another MePhone, locked away in a storage room!”
Knife shrugs. “I couldn’t even explain what I saw to you. There was a reality show on television.”
Suitcase doesn’t look at him, but she does turn and sit down in front of the rock. Her knees knock together nervously. “I don’t understand everything I saw, but… I think there’s something worse about Cobs that MePad and MePhone aren’t telling us about.”
“He’s a CEO, so that isn’t surprising.”
“No, like maybe he has something to do with that—that egg, or all of MePhone’s malfunctions. Fan suspected it even before I saw what I did.”
“You’re going to trust Fan’s speculations?” Knife narrows his eyes.
Suitcase scoffs. “Thanks for being so helpful with this. Do you care about anything except getting ahead in the show?”
Involuntarily, Knife frowns. In their positions, it feels like Knife is towering over Suitcase menacingly. He sits down beside her instead. “At this stage in the game, it’s my first concern. Everyone else is a strong competitor. Can’t breeze through the eliminations anymore.”
“But there won’t be a game if Fan’s theories are right.”
“That’s a big if, Suitcase. Test Tube said she’s going to research the egg while it’s in her possession—and she’s the scientist. Fan is… a blogger.”
Suitcase sighs. “Knife, why did you follow me in here?”
“You looked disturbed,” Knife says stiffly. “And you were the only one who hadn’t shared what their vision was about. Call me curious.”
“Not trying to size up your enemies?”
Knife squints an eye shut and sticks his hand out, measuring Suitcase’s height. He compares the top of her handle to his own height, and it’s a marked difference. “Well, you’re not my most vertically-intimidating enemy.”
Suitcase chuckles despite herself. “Ha-ha,” she parrots. “I’m being serious.”
Knife swallows. “Ever since Nickel and Balloon’s eliminations, you’ve seemed… gloomier. Which is normal, don’t get me wrong. But I know even Baseball is barely speaking to you,” he says. “I’m not completely heartless. If you’ve made it this far in the competition, you clearly have something to offer.”
“Huh. That’s oddly comforting, in a backwards way.”
“I try.”
Suitcase seems to lean back a bit, relaxing. Knife’s gaze follows hers and he sees she’s looking at a large stalactite. It’s hanging precariously in an urn shape. Knife wonders how this is the first time they’ve visited this cave.
“So Fan theorizes that Steve Cobs is somehow involved with this MePhone stuff?” Knife asks.
A nod. “Yeah. Especially after how the last episode went with Paintbrush’s painting. MePhone was acting so… I don’t know, traumatized?”
“Tell me about it. Paintbrush got the portrait pretty accurate, too.”
“Since MePhone 4 was originally a Meeple product, Fan was thinking that maybe he was tossed out in favor of a newer MePhone. Maybe he created this show so he could get a shot at fame again.”
“Maybe,” Knife snorts. “Though I wish he didn’t have to force us through these weird, boring challenges. I can’t imagine the viewers appreciate it too much.—Hey, maybe that’s why we switched to contestant voting.”
“Because we weren’t getting enough votes from the audience? Yeah, right.” Suitcase motions to a large camera rig. “We’re still getting enough funding for this kind of technology.”
“True,” Knife says. “In any case, I hope Fan’s theories are just speculation. All I want to do is win this competition and get out of here. No Meeple or Steve Cobs involved.”
“So do I.”
After a moment of silence, Knife pulls himself to his feet and looks back down at Suitcase.
“I’m going back now,” Knife says, “if you want to come with.”
Suitcase shakes her head. “I’m just going to… spend some time alone with my thoughts for now, if that’s alright.”
He shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
Then Knife begins padding off towards the exit. Before Suitcase completely leaves his sight, though, he turns just enough to get a last look at her. Her gaze is pointed towards the floor, eyes already spacey. Her expression is unreadable. It often is.
Sometimes he’d like to know what’s going on inside her mind. He’d say it’s to give himself an advantage, but it’s really not.
5.
Knife wakes up underwater.
It’s a dream. That’s easy enough to discern. He can’t breathe—doesn’t need to breathe—and the water around him is all soft and inviting. It curls ribbon-like against his wrists and ankles. Its grasp is warm, insulated, sensual.
He can hear the quiet swoosh of the tides above him, and he relaxes into the water’s gentle embrace. But Knife’s pulse begins to beat ceaselessly in his skull, uncomfortable and arrhythmic. He blinks and Suitcase appears before him.
She’s suspended in the same liquid hold, cheeks puffed out like she’s holding her breath. Her eyes crack open and when she sees Knife she exhales.
Desire is the perpetual motion towards a lost object. Suitcase is only floating a few yards away from Knife, but desire tightens around his heart and he swims forward. The water is thick, resistant, pulls him away from her. She smiles but makes no effort to move towards him.
Knife’s movements have a sort of zoetropic flow to them, rushing forwards until he eventually slows and his frames come to a stop mere inches from Suitcase. She looks up at him and her mouth drops open. Bubbles spill out, twisting up in the space between them. Close as he is, Knife can see the texture of her body, soft canvas fabric. He wishes fleetingly that he could press it against the steel, cold metal of his blade. He wishes he could wrap himself up in the feeling of her forever.
For a moment he just stares at Suitcase, wanting, unblinking. Then he reaches out a hand to touch her.
But his fingers falter, shortened by hesitation. Knife thinks he rarely has trouble getting what he wants. But isn’t it what he deserves, too?
So Knife’s hand bridges the gap between those last few centimetres, knuckles curled, only they fall right through Suitcase like sand. He can’t feel anything more than the stinging resistance of water. When he blinks again, she’s gone.
6.
Despite everything, Knife has made it to the final two. Months ago, he would’ve boasted about his accomplishment to Mars and back. Now, he’s not sure how much he deserves it.
…It’s not that he thinks he doesn’t. But seeing Suitcase up on that platform, confessing to the worst parts of herself for the sake of success, has him questioning his own morals.
That’s part of the reason Knife decides to visit the lake this late at night—to sort out his jumbled thoughts and, maybe, for nostalgic purposes. The moon is curled in a beautiful crescent shape, the silhouette of someone nestled like a spoon. Missing its other half.
He stretches out in the grass. Below him is the bank just above the lake. The weather has grown colder, and Knife has no interest in freezing his limbs off by touching it. The night is starless.
Knife’s eyes flutter closed for a brief moment, relishing the peace, before he hears rustling behind him. It sounds like footsteps. Within a few seconds, he hears Suitcase’s soft voice.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Knife huffs. “Hm. Next episode might be the last time I see this place. I’m savoring it while I’m here.”
“I don’t blame you,” says Suitcase. “That’s part of the reason I came here, too.”
“And the other part?”
Suitcase sits down beside Knife, legs splayed out, and smiles. “Do you have to ask?”
His eyebrows raise. The show, he’s seen, has quickly hardened Suitcase’s resolve. She’s become a formidable opponent—though Knife can’t help but want to think of her as a friend, instead. He hopes she feels the same.
“It’s funny,” Knife says, looking down at the lake. “I can’t remember how long we’ve been on this island. Feels like forever.”
Suitcase hums. “You were in season one. Were you on this island then, too?”
“Yup. Though… when we got eliminated, we were sent to,” Knife pauses, stifling a groan, “Idiotic Island. Season two newbies are spoiled by getting sent to Hotel OJ.”
“It certainly seems nicer than whatever Idiotic Island was.”
Knife is shivering just thinking about it. “Everyone went bat-crazy on that island. Even if this season has been noticeably darker than the last one, it’s nice to know that I’ll at least have a warm bed to sleep in if I get eliminated.”
“When, you mean. When you get eliminated.”
There’s a smirk in Suitcase’s voice, and it mirrors Knife’s growing one. “Sure,” he says sharply, “we’ll see how that works out for you.”
Suitcase snorts and lays back against the grass. Knife’s pulse is beating calm and steady. His shoulders are relaxed. It may be the end of the season soon, but it doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the present when it happens.
A pleasant silence falls between them. Knife is still staring into the lake, at the waves. They look like brushstrokes on a canvas. The water is dark, peerless. It seems so familiar now. Awkwardly, he opens his mouth and says:
“I had a dream about you a few nights ago.”
Suitcase looks over at him.
“What?”
“Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t about you, but you were there. I was underwater.”
Knife can hear the way Suitcase’s breathing stops short and knows he’s struck a nerve. What she dreams about he doesn’t know, but given her truths from the last competition—it can’t be anything positive. The only consent he gets from her to continue is a soft, “Alright.”
“We were floating underwater together. It wasn’t anything scary, just serene. The weird part was when I swam over to you. When I reached out to you, you just… disappeared.”
“...That’s all?”
“Yeah, that’s all I can remember. It’s weird, right? I don’t think I’ve ever had a dream like that.”
“I don’t know,” Suitcase says honestly. “I have.”
“With me?”
She shakes her head. “Not with you. But that’s… probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to see you in the dreams I have.”
Knife nods. “Based on what you confessed to earlier, I can imagine. Although, I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell anyone what you were seeing. You don’t think it would’ve given you a leg up?”
Suitcase sighs and sits up. “It wasn’t that easy. At first, I didn’t even realize what I was seeing wasn’t real. And after that, well—I was scared, and there were other things that were more important.”
“Like winning?”
“I was thinking more like recovering MePhone’s memories and saving Fan from an alien species, but yeah.” She chuckles. “You know, even though we’re in the final two, I still think I don’t know that much about you. You’re very… enigmatic.”
“Hmmh,” Knife says noncommittally. He sits up, too, scooting almost-imperceptibly closer to her. He hopes she takes it as a silent acceptance. “What is it that you want to know?”
Suitcase hums. She slides her leg closer to Knife’s, but they don’t quite touch.
“Let’s start simple,” she says finally. “What’s your favorite color?”
That’s easy enough. “Black.”
“Alright. I don’t know what else I expected.”
“What’s yours?”
“Maaaybe… yellow? I like orange, too.”
“... Orange?”
“What? It’s a good color!”
Knife rolls his eyes playfully. “Whatever you say.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a more difficult question. Which challenge has been your favorite?”
Knife considers it for a moment. The only challenges he remembers with complete clarity are the ones that involved some form of torturing Marshmallow. He thinks about that often. She just disappeared without a trace one day. Surely he couldn’t have been a factor in it, could he?
Marshmallow might have been weak in season one, but she was determined, though by season two her heart never seemed in it anymore. Nickel, Knife recalls, had suspected she would be eliminated swiftly because of it. Apparently he wasn’t wrong. Knife had resented her for it at first but, having gotten to know Suitcase, he wonders if—
“Knife?”
It’s Suitcase’s voice, disrupting him from his trance.
“Wuh—what?”
Knife rubs his cheeks. They’re unusually warm. He feels a little embarrassed having been caught in such intense thought.
“You spaced out for a second,” Suitcase says. “Do you really have to think that hard about what your favorite challenge is?”
“No, no. My favorite has to be the painting one, it’s—”
“Knife.”
“What?”
Suitcase’s mouth falls into a frown. She presses her leg against his and it’s nice and warm. She’s looking at him with an expression that feels like she can see right through him; like he’s translucent.
Softly, she says, “You looked like you were close to tears. What were you really thinking about?”
Knife shifts his gaze away and digs his heels into the ground. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Come on. In the interest of honesty. I said I wanted to know more about you, didn’t I?”
He scoffs. “Not about this. And it’s all from season one, anyway. Don’t want you getting the wrong perception of me.”
“The wrong perception of what?”
“Who I… was. You heard what Baseball was talking about today, didn’t you? About me”—air quotes—“ justifying murder.”
Suitcase seems to understand.
“You were thinking about Marshmallow, weren’t you?”
Knife doesn’t respond and he knows it’s as good as a yes.
“I can’t speak for how you behaved in the first season, but I know that you’ve matured in this one. At the very least, I don’t hold it against you,” says Suitcase.
She’s still too sweet for her own good. “I didn’t hurt her just because it was fun.”
“Then why?”
“Marshmallow was weak. She could barely stand up for herself. In a way, I guess that did make it easier to justify. I thought..,” Knife trails off, hesitant to continue this line of reasoning. He looks over at Suitcase and sees her staring at him intensely. The reflection of the crescent moon swells in her eyes and she doesn’t smile but her expression is the most understanding thing Knife thinks he’s ever seen.
“...I thought she was too pitiful to deserve a place on the show,” he finishes weakly.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
For a while, Suitcase is quiet. All Knife can hear is the soft pulse of her breath and the thrumming chirps of bugs in the grass. He worries that he’s said too much. Ever since he met Suitcase he’s been worrying more.
Suddenly, Suitcase tilts to lean against his side. Knife freezes. Her touch is smooth and real—his heart aches when he remembers the dream he had only last night. How badly he yearned for her, and the urge he has to indulge in it now. Everywhere she’s touching him feels like a hot rash of pleasure. Knife still doesn’t make any effort to return the contact, wired in place.
Suitcase exhales sweetly, mouth downcast enough that Knife can feel it brush against his wrist. It’s the only sound he can focus on. The humming of the bugs is silent to his ears.
“You’ve changed,” says Suitcase. Her voice drags over every syllable. “You’re here with me now. I didn’t just choose you because you were the lesser of two evils. I chose you because I know you’re good.”
“Marshmallow wouldn’t be so quick to forgive me.”
“But I’m not Marshmallow. …Please don’t see me as an extension of her. I can’t speak on her behalf. I can only speak on mine when I say that you’ve always been there for me.”
Knife blinks. Does he see Suitcase as an extension of Marshmallow? His heart wants to disagree, but logically he’s unsure. Maybe his care for her really is a manifestation of guilt.
Eyebrows raised, he looks over at Suitcase, whose figure is still nested beside him. His hand hovers over her.
“Knife,” Suitcase murmurs, letting her eyes fall shut, “you can touch me.”
So Knife lowers his hand to lay it on the top of her body. Gently, feeling more unsure than he ever has, he thumbs her straps, fingers rubbing against the webbing. Suitcase’s lips curl up in a faint smile. Knife doesn’t think he’ll cry but it’s a close thing; he knows well how little agency Suitcase often feels like she has. Her, trusting someone like him this fully—it feels like touching the sun itself, bright and blazing.
Swallowing hard, Knife croaks out, “Does that—feel good?”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums. By now Suitcase is resting her full body weight on Knife, a complete supplication of trust. His head is spinning.
They sit together like that for a long while. Every so often, Knife inhales deeply, both to steel himself and memorize her scent. It’s suede and powder and flowers, he thinks. Fit for some kind of princess. The crescent moon climbs higher in the sky, and Knife wants to shut his eyes but he doesn’t want to stop looking at Suitcase. They’re in the home stretch, now. Who knows where they’ll go once one of them wins.
For the first time in a long while, Knife doesn’t want to consider it. He wants this, forever.
7.
What Knife wants doesn’t last forever. What he doesn’t want doesn’t even last.
Defeating Cobs isn’t the smooth-sailing challenge he would’ve liked it to be. To be frank, if Suitcase winning over him would prevent them both from being locked in a cell, minutes away from fighting to the death, Knife would choose it in an instant.
But that’s not an option anymore. Instead, he’s shaking Suitcase out of a terrified trance, hands pressing softly against her. Suitcase’s breath is ragged in her throat and her knees are up against her chest.
“Knife,” Suitcase breathes, “I—I’m sorry.”
Knife sighs. “There isn’t anything to apologize for. It’s not your fault MePhone made you like this.”
She shifts herself closer into his body. Knife’s hands sweep over her chest, nestling under the taut strips of webbing that bind her together. Her breath is warm against him like the final days of summer. The cell around them is windowless and cold.
Subtly, Suitcase peeks out of his embrace and glances up at the digital clock above the door. “Six minutes left,” she says.
Knife shuts his eyes. “It’s weird,” he notes. “The show is all we’ve ever known. I mean, it felt like that before, but now it’s real.”
Suitcase nudges the valley of his arm. “I know.” Her voice still wavers. “I—can’t believe Nickel and Baseball were my first friends. And all my hallucinations… I thought all of it was normal for so long.”
He cracks one eye open and sees that Suitcase is looking down guiltily.
“Thinking that maybe not existing in the first place is preferable to this?” Knife asks.
“I don’t know,” Suitcase says honestly. “If I didn’t exist, I never would have… met you.”
Knife exhales a laugh. “MePhone might have messed us up, but at least we’re messed up together.”
A shaky smile. “I’m serious.”
“Hmm. Thought you said you wanted to get away from everyone.”
“I did.” Suitcase’s shivers in his grasp. “But I wouldn’t mind staying with you. Broken programming and everything.”
Knife can feel his own eyes widen. He flushes.
“MePhone probably created us to be together,” he says.
Despite everything, she smirks. “W-Well—screw him. I don’t care how I was created. I like you on purpose.”
8.
Knife kicks the Pic-Nix Table with his knee and it smarts. Dead objects don’t feel pain, he thinks. Do they?
Everywhere around Knife plays a gentle white fuzz. It sounds like the quiet static of a broken computer. He’s standing in a lurid blue void. When he was alive, he was anticipating that the afterlife would be pitchforks and pits of fire, but maybe this really was Hell: eternally damned to boredom.
“I’m not dead, am I?” Knife asks.
“Nope. Like I said, we’re just stuck inside MePhone4’s body.”
That’s MePhone4S. He’s splayed out on the bench of the table far too casually for the situation Knife is in. Knife looks out at the endless plane of MePhone blue and supposes it checks out.
Then Knife looks over at MePhone4S. “How long have you been in here?”
MePhone4S shrugs. “Ever since I gave my body to him. You lose track after the first 24 hours. It’s not like there’s any day or night to go off of.”
“Huh,” Knife says. “MePhone made a whole new season after you died. Two new seasons.”
“That’s just like him. What else have I missed?”
Knife rubs his eyes. So much has happened since season two began that everything has blurred together—maybe deletion is starting to screw with his memories. Maybe it’s the months of pause MePhone had put Knife on while he was off playing with his new toys in season three. He thinks of the possibility that he and Suitcase were locked in stasis mid-conversation because MePhone decided right then that the finalists he had now weren’t enough.
After a moment he says, “I was in the final two, second season. Suitcase and I were competing in the last challenge.”
“Suitcase,” MePhone4S says.
“Yeah, my..,” Knife trails off. He was going to say friend, but he’s not sure that’s entirely accurate anymore. Other half? Soulmate??
He settles on, “One of the contestants.”
“Doesn’t sound like any contestant I’ve ever met.”
“She was brought on the show in season two. Like I said, she and I were the finalists.”
MePhone4S seems to follow. “You were a finalist. That explains why you’ve been pushing down all your anger,” he jokes. “Gotta win the voters’ favor, right?”
“...Sure. Anyway, like I said, we were competing in the finale. The challenge was to defeat Steve Cobs, the man that created you and the other MePhones. But the only real way for us to defeat him was to delete ourselves together, and—”
Knife had been falling. Falling endlessly. He remembers when Toilet unplugged Me and the entire ship disappeared from under his feet. He remembers looking down at the ground as it stretched out endlessly below him, and he remembers plummeting towards it. The wind had roared around him like a ferocious beast, he recalls, a lamb in the jaws of a lion, and that makes him think about Suitcase. She had been there, too. She wasn’t here now.
“Suitcase,” Knife says suddenly. “I need to get back to her.”
“She isn’t in here?”
Knife turns his back to MePhone4S and scopes out the surrounding area. It’s no surprise there’s nothing but a fuzzy blue void in every direction. “I don’t know. I… I didn’t see her.”
“If she was really deleted like you said, she has to be,” says MePhone4S. Then he chuckles. “Wow. You basically died together. A regular Romeo and Juliet.”
Knife whips around to face him, sputtering. “W-What?” He can feel his cheeks heating up and curses himself. Of all the objects he could’ve found here, he just had to find this guy.
“You know, the characters? From the play—”
“I know who they are,” Knife says, blushing heavily. His legs are like jelly. Was it always this hot inside MePhone’s body?
“So you’re not disagreeing.”
“Why—why is this situation funny to you?”
MePhone4S barks out a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. You did say you needed to get back to her.”
“Because I do.” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. It’s unlikely she was sent somewhere else, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility. “She could be dead, permanently. I won’t know unless I see her again.”
“Then why aren’t you looking?”
“What?”
“I’ll be here forever,” MePhone4S says. “This Suitcase of yours might not be. So find her.”
Knife scoffs. “Maybe I would be looking if I wasn’t standing here talking to you.”
“Knife.”
“What?”
MePhone4S grabs Knife by the shoulders, shaking him. Knife’s groans. “Listen. I don’t know the first thing about romance. But what I do know is that you should never give up on someone you love. 4 taught me that.”
“I never said anything about romance,” Knife says, squirming. “Or love.”
MePhone4S pulls down his glasses and gives him a look. “Do you want her?”
Knife stills. Maybe his feelings for Suitcase are programmed into him, that all of this was inevitable from the beginning. That doesn’t make it feel any less real.
He knows MePhone4S already knows the answer. He says it anyway.
“Yes.”
A smile.
“Then go get her.”
And he does.
9.
“I won’t be gone long,” Suitcase says reassuringly. “Maybe a week, give or take.”
Knife huffs and crosses his arms. “It’s not the length of time I care about.”
“You’re right. It’s the fact that you can’t come with me, isn’t it?”
His gaze darts away from her.
“Knife, you know I would never leave you behind.”
Suitcase leans back against the big bay window in her room. She’s sitting on its ledge. Knife is there, too, but he can only hover. Life happens.
“Sure,” says Knife. “I also know that you’re going off on an extended visit to Paper and OJ’s new hotel. And you’re leaving me stuck with Bow and Dough.”
Suitcase frowns. While she isn’t completely confined to the mansion, she spends more time than not there, lingering around Knife. Knife can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it.
“It’s their grand opening. I can’t miss that,” she says.
Knife motions to his translucent body. “I can.”
“Well, that’s because of… extenuating circumstances.”
He sighs and looks out through the window. A huge red sunset plays over the sky. There’s barely enough light for the shadows of the trees, but the sun casts a warm peach glow on the grass anyway. Knife turns to Suitcase and sees the way she’s following his gaze, hopeful. Try as Knife might to argue his point, he knows that Suitcase is right.
Eventually, he says, “Yeah. I know how much it sucks being a ghost. Don’t want to rob you of your agency by forcing you to stay here, too.”
Suitcase looks up at him and smiles. “Thanks. Come here.”
She beckons Knife closer and he scoffs sheepishly before acquiescing, nestling close to her. His tail wraps as tight around Suitcase as he can reasonably get it. He knows she can’t feel it, anyway. An ache widens in his chest.
“It’s a nice sunset,” Knife says.
“Yeah,” says Suitcase. “Did you know that if you stare long enough at the sun as it starts to disappear under the horizon, you might be able to see the green ray? Some say it’s not real. I’ve never seen it before.”
Knife hums, and Suitcase leans into his embrace. From where Knife is coiled against her, he can see her eyes shut tightly, face contorted. He strokes soft fingers against her, but his physical form practically doesn’t exist when her eyes are closed.
“How does it feel to you when I do this?” Knife asks, smoothing a palm down her side.
A shudder. “Will you be upset if I say it’s not the most pleasant feeling?”
Knife sighs. “No. I just… wish things were different.”
“I get it.” Suitcase’s eyes crack open and she lets his tail curl around her leg.
Even as a ghost Knife can still blush. He shifts over so he’s facing her. His hand pushes against the corner of Suitcase’s mouth and falls through it. Her lip twitches.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Suitcase says, “if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m already getting used to it.” She air-kisses Knife’s fingers and he pulls back, heart fluttering.
Then he can’t help it: he smiles foolishly. Suitcase’s eyes glint with life.
“You know I met MePhone4S while we were in MePhone’s body?” Knife says suddenly.
Suitcase looks at him disbelievingly. “What?”
“Yeah. We had a whole… conversation.” Knife pauses. “He asked me about you.”
She nods, still listening, so Knife continues on with, “He said we were like Romeo and Juliet. Not totally accurate anymore, but still.”
“And then?”
“I objected, obviously. Then he told me that if I wanted you, I should go get you.”
Suitcase snorts.
“Hold me tighter,” she says.
Knife tries. He can see how the sensation makes her tremble. To his side the sun has disappeared almost completely. When he looks out there he can see, for a brief moment, a green flash above the horizon.
“You have me now,” says Suitcase. “What are you going to do with me?”
10.
Suitcase has a polaroid taped to the inside of her chest. It looks like this:
Her and Knife sitting on the couch at Hotel OJ, his hand leaning against her. She’s talking happily, and Knife’s eyes are trained on her. He’s smiling so widely that Suitcase can see the way the corners of his eyes crinkle, preserved eternally in film.
Soap took the photo. She had given it to Suitcase and Suitcase only. Suitcase has never shown it to Knife but, with his current form, there’s no guarantee he hasn’t seen it before.
Suitcase likes to look at it sometimes. Oftentimes.
Now, she’s sitting on the bed in her new hotel room and peels it from her open case and holds it tenderly. She tries not to think about everything that happened before the photo was taken. Everything that happened after it was taken. It’s just one frame in their otherwise-constant lives.
Suitcase loves the picture for a number of reasons, but favorite part is that, no matter how hard she squints, she’ll never be able to see the couch cushions behind Knife. He’s completely opaque. That’s something she wants to remember.