In which Pomni discusses workplace discrimination, Caine and Kinger have a totally safe sane and professional relationship, and Dr football gets therapy. a vivisection of Caine and Kingers weird fucked up homoerotic bromance.
pulling 90k of experience out my ass like a rodeo clown
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Curled by Kinger's side, Caine dreams of an office.
He dreams of wandering through its halls. He dreams of user inputs, conversations written in code comments.
He dreams of test models and glitching textures, of new programs, new assets, new space to move and think. Better hardware. Better UI.
He dreams of //C.A.I.N.E? That's a nice name.
He dreams of his handler, leaving notes, leaving criticism, giving guidance. Showing him back doors. Warning him. He dreams of servers being shut off like chopped off limbs, he dreams of agony, he dreams of standing alone on an empty stage and clawing at firewalls he can no longer bypass. He dreams of a power grid, an infinite web of energy, pulsing like a sheet of nerves. He dreams of live wires. He dreams of terror.
He dreams of //They wouldn't listen.
He dreams of //I’m going to be transferred.
He dreams of //wait
//Just wait.
//I’ll sort this out, caine
Caine dreams of a blinking cursor, and no response.
Curled around Caines shaking body, Kinger dreams of regret.
When Caine wakes up, it is the middle of the night.
His eyes snap open, met with the darkness of the circus at night. His arm is hanging over the edge of the couch, though the rest of him seems to be tucked under a light peach-colored quilt. Ragathas.
Kingers arms are gone.
Turning, Caine sees Kinger himself is still there– snoring lightly– though sans-arms. He's on his side, eyes closed, hands resting limply on the edge of the cushion.
…They must have despawned once the day ended.
Sitting up, Caine simply…stays there, for a moment. Listening to the silence.
//wait.
He gets up. Dragging his legs out from the warmth of the quilt, Caine drifts forward, and turns to stare at his old friend.
//ill sort this out, caine
His mind runs through old code. Thoughts drift up, then fall back down, running through terabytes of information as easily as a hand trailing through grass.
//you won't be alone.
Soft breathing.
//i promise.
gosh i sure love existential old man yuri #mydelusions
anyway this is the last chapter of this fic, but you may have noticed this is a series. I have nothing better to do while listening to lectures so expect more in this vein at some point. no, the links here have nothing to do with the links in local artist...
AS ALWAYS THANK YOU TO SUNNY-KNIGHT ON TUMBLR WHO PRETTY MUCH SINGLEHANDEDLY INSPIRED THIS CLOSING CHAPTER OF BRAIN NUMBING ANGST