Even the Devil Wouldn't Recognize You [Closed]

[meat_mooks]

With the information they received from Zetta, the hack team arrives at Programming, armed with the tools they'll need to make digital avatars of themselves to go into Stacy's programming, as if it were virtual reality. Cortana again reminds them of the danger, mentioning that if they die in this world, they will die in the real world as well, and that any injuries will translate, though more minorly, to their physical forms.

The hackers close their eyes and sink into the digital world. When they open their eyes again, they are inside the lobby of an empty hotel. According to the AIs, they must explore the hotel and find where the files are, which will hopefully manifest themselves as physical cabinets but are more likely to show up as something much more esoteric.

"Good luck," Cortana wishes them, and the hack team sets off and splits into groups.

Comments

[nunpunching]

"Really not a good time to have my piece busted." Punchy shakes his head and stuffs his puppet into his jacket pocket, after giving the nun a kiss on the forehead. "Good thing we packed it up here."

Those swords look like they might hurt. Maybe if they run they can get through the mass and out the door, but Punchy won't make a break for it without Tim's say so. Instead he stands at Tim's side as the soldiers charge them.

He really doesn't know how to fight without that telekinetic sledgehammer on his right hand. It's not as if he doesn't try, but it's as if he keeps forgetting that he can actually punch with that hand and not annihilate half the room. His training's outmatched right now, not to mention less fluid than Tim's, but god knows he's trying with the kicks and left-handed punches.

[battorch]

"It's never a good time, Punchy," he says, though he keeps his voice and eyes level, looking straight ahead.

In his mind, Tim is running through a hundred scenarios, a thousand moves, every little permutation. Because it's not just his own life that counts on this, but it's also their entire mission being kept safe. And he makes the assumption that Punchy may well look to him for a signal.

"Don't hold back," he says lowly, but quickly. There's no time to spare. "Thin them and make your way through to the other side. Getting through is a higher priority than taking them down.

"And watch your eyes." One hand snakes down to the belt, where he's sure he still has smoke pellets. Hopefully it's a realistic simulation.

[nunpunching]

Tony the Tiger launches himself at the enemies and is cut down immediately. Something about the cartoonish talking tiger falling under the swarm, cut to pieces like warm, bloody butter, really drives it home. But there's no time to mourn for their digital companion.

"Word." Punchy nods and follows Tim's orders, because even in his hopped-up ego-trip of a brain, he recognizes that this is a deadly situation. The attack begins and Punchy feints left, narrowly avoiding a spear, and knocks down someone in his way with a shove. It all erupts into chaos, difficult to tell what's happening and impossible to protect one's self from. A sword slashes Punchy's cheek and mouth straight open; he retaliates with a left-handed punch that breaks digital jaw. As soon as each soldier falls, they vanish.

And then are replaced by a new one.

He should be scared. He really should be scared.

[battorch]

Tim swears again, because he sees how serious this is. He sees how quickly this is going bad.

There's a literal infinite supply of foes. The only way to stop the flow would be to rewrite the code, something difficult to do from there when they are simultaneously fighting the things they need to stop.

He's good at multi-tasking, but half of his attention is already taken by thinking of how to make this work. Of the best way to fight this kind of opponent, while taking notice of the injury Punchy gets.

"Watch--" he starts, throwing down another pellet, and trying to get to the side to clear Punchy's back. The movement gets him some distance between him and the one behind him-- fortunately.

The sword only cuts into his back superficially.

"Get to the door," he manages to shout. "Parry, don't take down!"

[nunpunching]

Punchy sees the injury right before the smoke pellet goes off. Unfortunately for them, the faceless soldiers don't seem even slightly fussed by the lack of visibility, and Punchy realizes too late, seeing the code seeping from the cracks and shadows of their forms, that they don't respond to any sort of 'sight'.

Punchy's goggles come down. They don't help much with visibility, but at least he can keep his eyes open through the smoke. They can keep going for the door, but odds are not high that they'll make it. He glances up.

There's an air vent in the ceiling. Big enough for Tim, certainly. Maybe big enough for Punchy. He doesn't exactly have time to do the math of the dimensions of an air vent when he's getting stabbed in the thigh by a virtual spear. Maybe if Tim can get up there he can lift him...

"Red Robin!" His voice is mangled and spit-filled, the result of a mouth half-slashed. He cuts a path to Tim through the enemies with flailing limbs. "Trust me!"

He drops his hands and laces them, motioning for Tim to make a running jump.

[battorch]

The problem is, Tim does.

He swears again, and tries to run through the calculations in his head. How much time will he have to get Punchy up there? How well with the other teen be able to fit? Will he be able to switch positions to boost him first, and if so, is there time?

He's wasting time.

He doesn't have time to waste any more-- they're both hurt, and waiting longer will just make it worse.

He dives through, taking the boost to launch himself up, using his training to make it up into the duct. Right away, he turns down to stretch a hand out as far as he can reach, reaching for the other teen. "Grab on!" he says, though he knows it's unnecessary.

[nunpunching]

Punchy does, but he knows even before Tim's reached the air vent that it's a pointless gesture. The thing about lifting your arms over your head is that it leaves you open to attack, and a pike rips through his abdomen as soon as he's made himself vulnerable. Not a fatal wound, not on its own, but a bad one. Some of the other soldiers see their chance and grab onto him.

And that's when he realizes there's no way Tim's going to be able to get him up there, not when he's weighed down by these goons. And he also realizes that he's actually okay with that. Tim's safe. The files were changed. He got to ride a tiger, for fuck's sake. It wasn't a total wash.

His life wasn't a total wash.

He's already thinking of himself in the past tense. Maybe he always has been. Stories are usually told in the past tense, aren't they? And every training session, every surly breakfast, every late childhood night spent with a towel wrapped around his shoulders as a cape, every boast and every heartbeat, maybe they were all leading towards this point.

"Go." He lets go of Tim's hand and then, for good measure, wrenches away from Tim's grasp. He lands on his knees as the soldiers pull him down. He may get a few last shots in, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care.

His hands are clenched into fists and he's grinning.

"Bring the noise, motherfuckers."

[battorch]

"No!" Tim shouts down, reaching still for Punchy.

He's trying to see if there's any way to save this. To correct his mistake, because that's what this is. Him failing to make the right call, and Punchy doesn't deserve to suffer for it.

But he can't get him up there now, and jumping down would be an idiotic and ultimately pointless move.

The most he can do now is provide support from above there, try to clear some of the area for Punchy. Hope the other hero can get away, to some place safe, because he knows that even if he takes some down from above, it won't last.

He just has to try to buy him time, and hope he's not making another mistake.

[nunpunching]

When Punchy was little, he wanted to save the world. When he arrived on Stacy, he wanted to save the multiverse. Now, staring down the barrel of death's gun, he realizes he was never that important. It's not a painful realization, just a realistic one. Just because you're a hero doesn't mean you're the hero, the protagonist of a communal story written across universes and through generations. And that's okay.

Maybe he doesn't save the world. Maybe he just saved Tim and maybe the rest of the crew will take the work he did and save themselves. And maybe someday, when things are set right again, someone will tell the story of the Transmigration Nine and mention that really, they couldn't have done it without that one kid. And that they miss him. He'd like to be missed.

Tim's attempts are futile, because before the first weapon is thrown one of the soldiers brings their sword across Punchy's throat. Instinct brings his hand to the wound - the right hand, the one that always held his weapon - but there's nothing to be done, and he collapses onto the ground.

Blood starts to pool around his face and he can't tell if he's blind now because his vision's failing or if he's just closed his eyes. He supposes it doesn't matter. Very few things do.

For all his faith, in this critical moment it isn't the saints or the Lord who appears to him, but Tupac Shakur. And those Punchy's beyond speaking, though he no longer can send commands to the muscles in his face that can mouth words, that doesn't stop a final prayer from running through his mind.

In the event of my demise, when my heart can beat no more, I hope I died for a principle or a belief that I lived for. Because I feel the shadow's depth with so much I wanted to accomplish, before I reach my death I have come to grips with the possibility and wiped the last tear from my eyes. I love all who stay strong in the event of my demise.

Back in the real world, Punchy's body seizes up and his muscles tense. His hands, previously coding, leave a completely undignified keysmash in that line of binary. He makes a choking sound, his eyes roll back, and he dies.