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Impulse hadn’t thought he would die the way he did.
Not in a million years would he have imagined he’d lose his last life like that. To a day one friend. To Bdubs.
It’s a strange feeling, having your fear for someone’s life turn into a fear for your own at the drop of a hat. That mind numbing anxiety, so overwhelming you can’t feel anything. Not your hands or your feet or your face. It all melts together into a muddled mess of shaking limbs and cold shivers, trembling fingers and sweaty palms.
Impulse was scared for him. He was afraid so Bdubs didn’t have to be. He took on that burden, that heavy weight that hung on his shoulders, shaky and achy. He carried it well.
But now he was scared of him.
Because that fear was twisted into something entirely new and frightening when Impulse was met with a chilling calmness, a shifty grin on his friend’s face. When he was met with a sword to the chest, a barrage of arrows soon after. When he was met with dying grass, pressed against his cheek, tinged red and brown from his own blood dribbling past his lips.
At first, it was shock. Pure, unbridled shock. Confusion and worry danced together inside his head, a wobbly waltz that had him stumbling back, a nasty gash painted across his torso. Because it didn’t make sense. None of it made any sense, not at all.
Once that had begun to simmer, the raw terror had set in. It made itself a home in Impulse’s gut.
He could taste it, he swore he could. Something weighing down on his tongue, bitter and numbing, almost sour. His throat stung with it, with all the pleas he screamed, with all the words that fell upon deaf ears.
He almost felt like he was burning, fire lapping at his insides, climbing up his throat and licking along his teeth. It banged against his skull, made his bones ache, made his eyes water. Like poison gas, swarming around his face, choking him.
Impulse tried to beg. Even with his quivering lips and shaky voice, he pleaded with Bdubs to stop. To put the bow down, to listen to him, to care about him.
But the clock ticked on, hung loosely around Bdubs’s waist. Time didn’t stop for Impulse. Bdubs didn’t, either.
It was weird, having Bdubs so blatantly ignore him. He had always hung off Impulse’s every word, it seemed. He actually listened to Impulse, to his crazy plans and ramblings. Not anymore, though.
Now, Bdubs aimed his bow at him with an uncanny calmness, a dismissive look on his face. Almost like he just couldn’t help himself, like Impulse had just been caught in the crossfire, like it wasn’t a big deal. Impulse swore he could see a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Each arrow felt more painful than it should’ve. Salt poured into every wound, gritty and rough, stinging a raw sort of sting that makes you want to curl in on yourself and hurl.
Being pierced with arrows hurts, Impulse knew. Of course it did. But there was something so much worse about Bdubs being the one firing each one. Impulse never took him to be that good a shot, honestly. Not until he was shooting at him, at least.
The precision was terrifying, how each one landed and sunk into his flesh. How the pain only festered and grew until Impulse was blinded by it, scrambling backwards, barely even able to lift his own weapon.
He raised his own bow in some sort of retaliation, an attempt at self defense. But he didn’t want to, his mind screamed. He didn’t want to hurt Bdubs.
Because Bdubs was all he had left, wasn’t he? He was Impulse’s world. He had been, ever since day one.
But Impulse’s world was now crashing down on him, the walls closing in as his peripheral began to fade into something dark and fuzzy. Arrows stuck painfully out of his arms and chest, not deep enough to kill, just deep enough to drive Impulse crazy. He was losing his mind, begging for his life, his mouth going numb with every pitiful plea.
A pathetic sight, he was sure. He couldn’t even aim his bow, his hands shaking so much. He couldn’t seem to get any good hits on the other, either, no warning shots to scare him off or knock some sense into him. Honestly, Impulse isn’t even sure they would’ve worked.
He just kept going, firing into Impulse without a care. His eyes held no sympathy for the tears beginning to stream down Impulse’s cheeks. Just a sort of nonchalance that had Impulse wanting to scream.
Suddenly, something sharp had plunged itself into Impulse’s chest. The arrowhead dug in deep, deeper than all the others, burying itself inside his aching flesh.
Impulse’s hand fell from his bow, his own arrow dropping to the ground as his fingers splayed across his pec. His mind flashed white as he felt something warm and wet and pulsing, and he couldn’t help but lose his footing, stumbling to the ground in a disgusting display.
As his vision blurred, Impulse looked down, eyeing his chest and the arrow sticking out of it. His gaze followed along it, towards where it was plunged into him, where all that searing pain was coming from.
His heart, Impulse had realized, a cold wave of shock rippling through his body. Bdubs had shot him in the heart.
Impulse hated how that only made his tears fall harder, how it made his chest tighten so agonizingly that he could feel bile rising in his throat. He swore the arrow moved ever so slightly with every slowing pitter-patter of his heart, a little jerk every now and again, like a dying animal.
He felt like that. A dying animal. Left to fester in its own tears and fears, curling in on itself on the ground, sobbing into the grass.
Impulse wondered briefly if they felt like that, if they could feel the overwhelming sadness the way he did. He wondered if they cried like he did as the world began to fade from view. He wondered if their mouths trembled with silent pleas and ugly hiccups, begging for it all to just be a dream, a nightmare they’d wake from one day.
That day never came. Not for Impulse, at least. No, this was real, and he was dying, and he couldn’t do a single thing about it.
Everything began to grow quiet, a fuzzy silence save for the everlasting ticking. Impulse couldn’t make out anything anymore, everything in front of him melting into one big mess, a muddled picture of what once was. His fingers began to lose all feeling, and the numbness traveled up his arms, to his neck and his jaw and his face.
Impulse knew it was over. The pulse that thudded through his body was slowing to a halt, the blood draining from him and onto the grass, into the moat. His head felt so heavy, and soon it became impossible to move, and he was stuck, curled up and crying. He felt so infantile. He hated it.
His eyes struggled to stay open, and Impulse tried with all his might to meet Bdubs’s gaze from across the way. His brow furrowed just barely when their eyes met, something angry and bitter and ugly boiling inside of him at the complete and utter lack of care in the other man’s.
Bdubs looked down at Impulse like it was a job well done, like killing Impulse was easy. It shouldn’t have been easy. But maybe Impulse just made it so.
Maybe he was easy. The thought made Impulse’s limp body shake with fury.
But it had been easy, because before he knew it, death came for Impulse.
It wasn’t a relief, like some say. It felt like a wave, crashing down on him with so much force that all the wind was knocked out of him, wisping by as he was swept away to somewhere dark and desolate. His chest ached from everything, from the sword and the arrows and the heartbreak. His ribs cracked under the pressure. His heart just about burst.
Death felt like being swept away into the sea, currents thrashing you about, tugging you one way and then another like a puppet. They gripped his strings in a vice, pulled his limbs about so hard that he swore they’d be torn right off. That all that blood would turn to stuffing, and it’d be swept away by the water keeping him down.
It was reluctant, the water. It didn’t want to relent. No matter how hard he tried to tear away, the currents kept on.
Impulse found a sick sort of solace in that. Being held by something that just couldn’t seem to let go.
The waves held him in a way that would be comforting if the pain wasn’t so mind numbing, if his body were still intact and not the mangled mess it became. The water could be gentler, sure, but anything was kinder than the man who put him here. Threw him to the ocean. Left him to drown.
Death is like drowning, just as drowning is like death. It’s suffocating. You thrash about, you try to get your head up, you try so desperately to cling to life as the world begins to muddle. But that last gasp brings your doom, and there’s a flood crashing in your lungs, and then you’re one with the sea.
But suddenly, the currents begin to settle, and what once was tugging you limb from limb turns to a soft lapping against your skin. The waves are kinder to you, gentle as they send you along, letting you float atop them like it’s a privilege, a prize. The worst is over. You didn’t survive.
So Impulse did the only thing he could do, now that it was all said and done. He laid in the ocean. He looked up into the dark. He cried.
No stars blink down at him, no moon hangs in the sky. Because there is no sky, just black stretching on and on. It’s a dark and desolate place.
It’s Limbo.
It’s scary, being left alone with your thoughts. Being stuck in some strange place where they’re the only thing to keep you company. And god, did Impulse need company.
He tried racking his mind for any coherent thought, for something to cling onto, something that made sense. But none of it did. None of it made any sense at all.
There was no rhyme or reason for his death. He didn’t do anything! So why did Bdubs of all people have to take him out, take it all away?
Only one word rang in Impulse’s clouded mind: betrayal.
Bdubs betrayed him. After all they’d been through, after all Impulse did for him, Bdubs betrayed him.
They were friends, day ones, together since the start. Impulse had put so much faith in Bdubs. He thought Bdubs had faith in him, too.
Clearly not, he knew that now. Clearly Bdubs didn’t care like he did. He couldn’t have.
Because he did it so easily. He killed Impulse like it was an easy thing to do. Like all he had to do was lick his fingers, pinch Impulse’s flame between them, snuff out his life like it was nothing.
Impulse stared daggers into the nothingness above him, his gaze fuzzy and muddled by the tears in his eyes. He wasn’t easy, he thought to himself, sniffling. He wasn’t easy.
God, was he angry. He was fuming. He was surprised the water wasn’t steaming from beneath him, that mist wasn’t dancing along its surface from the fire stoking in his gut.
He did everything right, didn’t he? So why did Bdubs hurt him so much? Why did he let him down?
The more he thought about it, the heavier the tears became, his entire face red and trembling. He did what he was supposed to. It wasn’t fair.
His hands came up to try and clutch at his arms, but nothing was there. His hands didn’t feel quite there, either. Nothing felt there at all.
It only made Impulse cry harder. The waves didn’t hug him like he wished they could. He needed something warm, something soothing, something human. The ocean just wouldn’t do.
Impulse just wanted something who cared to hold him, something that wouldn’t leave him at the drop of a clock, something that trusted him the same way he trusted it.
Why didn’t Bdubs care?
Impulse’s lip quivered as a lump settled itself in his throat.
How come everybody he hurt did?
And finally, for once, Impulse’s mind cleared. He dug through the memories, searched for times when he felt seen, appreciated, loved.
What he found was beyond the Crastle walls, beyond the deadly moat, beyond the dying grass scattered around it. He found a white castle made of wool, scorched from flames. He found a torch lit house on a platform, flat roof and stone walls. He found a kingdom with an altar, stained red from something Impulse couldn’t quite understand.
Impulse found love in places he wasn’t supposed to find it. But he threw it all away. He gave it all up for Bdubs, for Cleo, for people who didn’t spare him a single care.
Was this how they felt, when he betrayed them? When he abandoned them? When he let them down?
He killed Martyn once. He watched Skizz die for good right before his very eyes. He took Etho’s last life with his own two hands.
Hands that barely even shook as he held his bow. Hands that aimed his arrow with terrifying precision. Hands that killed Etho like it was something easy.
Impulse could still see his eyes, those eyes filled with raw horror, nothing but primal fear. Etho had looked like a dying animal. He had looked like him.
He curled in on himself at the memory. Guilt he should’ve felt ever since he stared down at the Red Army from the top of the Crastle nestled in his gut. It ate at him, gnawed at the nothingness that was his body, searching for something to swallow up.
And it did. It was blinding, the complete and utter shame that washed over him. It made a home inside of him, like it should’ve all that time ago, like it should’ve since the day he made up that stupid plan.
He had been so enamored by his little day one crew, by himself, by his own selfish wishes. What he wanted for him, what he wanted for them, what he wanted from the sick world they’d been thrown into.
Impulse thought he had a choice. He thought he had control. He thought it was his place to decide how the story goes, who wins and who loses. What a foolish thing to think, a silly game to try and cheat.
He had only ever been a pawn himself, really. Maybe a queen in his own delusion, with some semblance of power, but he was nothing more than a piece to move around by something he couldn’t wrap his head around. Something so much bigger than he could ever even begin to understand.
Impulse had no control over the game. He only had control over what he did, his moves he made, his captures and kills.
Oh god, he killed so many people. His lifeless body shuddered at the thought. Guilt wrapped around his throat like a thorny vice.
He did it for them, Impulse reasoned. For his team, for his day ones, for the people he cared about.
Impulse tried to ignore the shame bubbling inside of him, that voice in the back of his head that screamed at him that that didn’t change a thing. But to Impulse, it did. It made all the difference.
He wasn’t selfish. He couldn’t be.
Impulse sighed, gazing up into the darkness, a disgusting feeling settling in his gut.
Oh, but maybe he was. He wanted something so badly, he did so many awful things to get it. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t just for him. He abandoned those who trusted him. He did so without a care.
It was hard to reason with himself, to accept it all, that maybe he wasn’t perfect. That he did a very bad thing. That he hurt people who didn’t deserve it.
But remembering what Bdubs did to him made it easier. It made him feel less alone, almost. Like maybe there’s more nuance to it all—
He shook his muddled head. Bdubs didn’t deserve any benefit of the doubt.
Because when Impulse thought he was finally safe, that all had been said and done, a knight was there to get him from behind. Bdubs had taken the upper hand from a place Impulse didn’t even know he could find one, hopping across the board by the hold of someone else. Knocking him down, watching him clank against the square beneath him.
To say Impulse felt powerless would be far too much of an understatement. He had been doing so well, he did what he was told to do, what he had planned to do ever since the start. He was supposed to be in control. He was supposed to win his team the game.
But his team was dropping around him, and the one knight he thought he could trust was no knight at all. There was no honor, no respect, no care. Just an L shaped move.
Maybe Bdubs was just another pawn. Maybe it was all of his own volition. Maybe it was something Impulse could never wrap his head around.
Maybe he should’ve been better, more open and present, like a good teammate ought to be. Maybe then Bdubs wouldn’t have hurt him—
That bitter taste crawled up Impulse’s throat again, his face scrunching up as he shook his head once more.
No matter the reason, Bdubs had betrayed him. And it’s a special kind of pain, being hurt by the only person you have left. Seeking them out only to be met with a sword to the chest.
He wondered for a brief moment if they knew that, all the people Impulse betrayed. If they saw it from a mile away like he should’ve. If they found solace in knowing he had nothing after them, not even Bdubs.
Maybe that’s what they were thinking, when they were in Limbo like Impulse was now. How stupid he must’ve been for everything he’d done, everything he let happen to him. Impulse couldn’t even bring himself to be upset. He couldn’t blame them. He really was stupid, he supposed.
It made his mind race a little, thoughts flooding his hazy brain. He couldn’t help but think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t done what he did. If he had stayed with Dogwarts, kept his promise to them. If he had betrayed his day ones instead.
The thought alone made Impulse’s fading skin crawl. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like that.
He wouldn’t have betrayed Bdubs even if the entire world was against him. He would’ve gone down with him right then and there if it were his choice. He trusted Bdubs enough to do that.
Impulse was ready for anything, for any fight he’d have to put up. When he saw Bdubs alone, atop the Crastle with the desert people below, he knew he had to do something to save him. He had to run.
So he ran. He ran into it. He ran into death and betrayal and a whirlwind of regret.
That was his mistake. Being blinded by fear, by concern for someone he cared about, having only one goal in mind that made everything else seem invisible. That was how Impulse’s brain worked. When he had a plan, he dug his teeth into it.
He just couldn’t help himself, could he?
Impulse hiccuped, the only feeling left being that of tears falling, streaming down cheeks that were long gone, melted into the sea. Everything was becoming nothing, his body in tune with the wobbly waves. The dark around him began closing in.
Impulse was an idiot, his brain had decided. And there was nobody to blame but himself.
He regretted his stupid plan. He regretted betraying so many people. He regretted trusting Bdubs.
And he could hate Bdubs all he wanted for what he did, for taking it all away, but it was bound to happen eventually. He had done horrible things, hurt people who didn’t deserve it, all for people who didn’t care. So karma had come around, and Impulse got what he deserved.
But that didn’t stop the tears. It didn’t stop his endless crying. It didn’t stop the pain festering in his poor heart, the red bleeding into the deep blue around him.
He cried for himself and his own demise. He cried for Bdubs and what he’d done. He cried for all the people they both hurt to get to where they were now.
The sobbing only grew worse. He thought of what they could’ve had. Of what he could’ve changed. Of what he failed to save. It made his heart ache.
Impulse grieved what could’ve been. What will never be. What he knew deep down he could never have.
But maybe, just maybe, a little acceptance was buried in there somewhere, in all those stages. Past the denial and anger, beyond the bargaining and depression.
Because Impulse knew he did wrong. He knew Bdubs did him wrong, too. And he knew everything just went so, so horribly, and it probably would’ve gone down that way no matter what. But there was nothing he could do about it now, was there? Nothing at all.
He was dead, and the waves were beginning to pick up again, currents sweeping all around him. He felt an eerie sort of pressure begin to weigh down on him, suffocating him just like it had before, tight in his chest.
At the end of the day, Impulse had stood for nothing. So he fell. He fell for Bdubs. He fell for Cleo. He fell for everything.
And now he was falling again, into nothingness, into whatever was waiting for him. Water lapped hungrily against his muddled corpse, what once was his body now the ocean, his limbs moving along with the waves as if they were one. Sinking deeper with every crash, down beneath the surface, into the dark.
His endless tears melted into the blue that surrounded him, a heavy sadness pulling him down like an anchor, dragging him further into the depths.
He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t been ready for any of this. But here he was, somewhere between one life and the next, being thrashed about. It was nauseating.
He deserved nothing better, his brain whispered, a silent confession. Even if his thoughts became jumbled and what once was his stomach felt sick, he knew he had it coming. It was his price to pay.
This was the end. No sobs would save him now. When water was everywhere, his tears didn’t matter, no matter how he seemed to drown in them.
And with one last gasp for air, Impulse was swallowed whole, lost in a sea of regret.