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Click is the sound that the wooden pressure plate underneath him makes as he steps off of it, leaving a cracked spyglass in his place. He loved that spyglass dearly, polished it until it shined. But there was no fixing the crack on the glass when he threw it from the top of that obsidian tower. Maybe there could’ve been a skilled smith somewhere who could’ve fixed it, but there certainly wasn’t anyone like that in Paragon; it was just him, Wifies, and his friends.
His friends, invisible and dressed in netherite like the dead shells of bugs. Jumper, falling down on a dripstone spike that neatly skewered her through, stone through her chest, her wide-eyed expression of terror and shock as her totem popped, revealing her to the world. Like Dean, falling from a plane, totem popping, a wild desperate look in his eyes please help me as he blew the goat horn Parrot had given him miles and years away from this nightmare. And the guards had stopped being nameless, faceless enemies like the Mafia was and started to be friends Parrot had forced here. Like Dean.
Parrot has a curse. No, that’s not right. He’s the curse, he’s a parasite. Worms his way through the chinks of others’ armor to find his way into their heart. Nestles inside, curls up snugly, and infests it until his problems become their problems and he drags them along with him on his path to hell. Forcing his problems on others until he can’t tell where their goals end and his goals begin.
So when he steps off a pressure plate and leaves his best best friend in the whole entire world to die, it shouldn’t be anything new. It should be just another name to add to the lists and lists of people that he’s sacrificed. When Spepticle, Boomie, Ace die in front of him, it shouldn’t be anything new. He shouldn’t feel anything - he should be long gone, a ghost of who he once was. A shell.
Still, it hurts the same every time.