rating: mature
summary:
What to do when your best and only friend still thinks of you and your home layer as sub-human? Straight forward, no 180s, please and thank you!
notes:
wall-artist2's post inspired this chapter!
and this one by in-parkour-civilization shaped this chapter too!
Edited: 12/31/25
Rewritten: 1/27/25
It takes EMF an uncomfortably long stretch of time to reach a section unmarred by red. Stubbornness is the only thing that keeps them from thinking about how many names they have begun to recognize, and how many of them are their fault.
Evbo was not the first Pro EMF had battled. He was just the one to survive.
But nevermind that. There was no need to bring up something that even God did not want to address.
With just a click, they open up the top name. Eyes narrow in frustration the further they read, recognizing the player to be the self designated real estate agent of the Master layer. It had possessed the incessantly annoying habit to battle others for the job ticket, and when they had first ranked up, they had become one of its first victims.
The less said about that time in EMF's life, the better.
Right below, there is another Master, spawning into the position in this very lab.
Fingers tap against the desk as the next file loads. They blink when it does, realization hitting them, as they do know this player. She had helped them settle into the layer, and they were— they were glad she was still alive.
Three spaces below, they stop at the fourth one, born on the day of the start of the Evil Champion's reign. What a horrible time to be raised in.
"Why are they all Masters?" EMF mutters to themselves, paying no mind to how Evbo's breath hitches behind them.
Two names reviewed, they pick the third. The word Master feels like an accusation, especially with the way Evbo's eyes burn into their side with such intensity.
Clicking on another name, they resist the urge to tap their leg in place. Pro. With relief that they'll admit is quite silly, their shoulders drop.
The file loads for just five seconds, before it reveals another one with iron boots.
Blond hair then swarms their vision, forcing EMF back, to make room for their god. They stare at Evbo unabashedly, drinking in the sight like a starving man. What?
It wasn't like there would be anyone to know of the way they admired his golden hair and the way it framed the almost pink sunburnt skin of his neck, or of how their eyes traced the loose ends of his headband, wishing, almost praying to know of how the fabric would feel, laced in between their fingers.
There would be no witness in this lab. There would be no one to know. Not even God himself.
Another second passes. Evbo remains glued to the screen, his black eyes seemingly intent on studying every detail of one random Pro's profile. Then, just as suddenly, he meets his friend's now repentant stare. Raising a pale finger, made that way by years without the Sun beating on his back, he points to the player's ID in an unspoken demand that they follow without any hesitation.
"I know them," he says, voice a hush that makes them have to strain to even pick up. "He was my neighbor down there, on the Pro level. Read my tasks for me when I couldn't do it myself."
EMF hums in favor of any verbal response, untrusting of their ability to keep the irrational jealousy from their tone. Scrutiny has them scanning the profile again, and it reveals a familiarity only known by listening in while practicing in the Arena, from times where they had been closer with their fellow Masters.
Yes, EMF knew of the Master who had run from every battle he was to face, too fearful to risk even one impressive jump to hold his honor. They held no sympathy within themselves. That Master, now a Pro, had been weak, and he should've known that weakness was intolerable amongst their ranks.
It is a wonder that Evbo had taken even a bit of liking towards him. What did that coward have, if not dulled iron from misshapen gold, that they did not?
(No conditions to his devotion, to his loyalty, to his love. But hasn't Evbo heard yet, that a friend to all is a friend to none? No, they would guess not, given how fast he had gone through the ranks, too fast to stop and hear folk-tales.
Maybe he should have, before ranking up and meeting them.)
(Everyone's Master Friend was what those three letters stood for back then. There is a reason on why the other Masters avoid them.)
With gritted teeth, they maneuver the mouse down, towards another player. Pro as well, having ranked up during Evbo's short stint in diamond.
They go through three more, go through three Pros' profiles, before they stop.
Where were the Noobs?
Perhaps Seawatt had sorted them by rank. EMF feels embarrassed by their own obliviousness, before they're skipping a name. Pro.
Four skimmed, iron. Two skipped, the third residing around two-block jumps.
Near the end of the list, only four names before it, they open a player's ID. Noob.
EMF breathes out a sigh, turns towards their side. "Evbo, do you remember how many Noobs there used to be?"
"Probably around fifteen or ten, the last time I was champion. After the Evil Champion and the Parkour Villain, our— their numbers dwindled."
They give him a nod, ignoring his slip of tongue. EMF scrolls up. One, having spawned in at the very end of Seawatt's time in power. Another, with leather boots, having lived in the Prison for the whole of their sentence.
Pro.
Evbo inhales sharply, at that last one. They spare a glance towards him, watch his wild eyes, ones like an animal's. For just a moment, they are reminded of the remarks made by other Masters, of the comparisons made between players in leather boots and the animals the Pros slaughter on their orders.
He covers his mouth with his palm, his shoulders tight, and feet poised, as if he's getting ready to run off. But EMF grabs his shoulder before he can even try, grips it to force him to be still, to stay in place.
"What's the matter with you?" they demand, despite how their mind tells them this is impiety, demands for them to show some respect, some decorum to their God.
"I just— I just didn't realize there were so few of them— of us left."
His voice sounds strained, sounds fragile, like he's seemingly struggling not to cry, like he's resisting the urge to make a noise of pain, throat choked as Seawatt was when he went on monologue upon monologue about his family, about the tragedy that was the Fighters, about the destruction of his home—
Oh. Oh.
EMF's hand falters in their recognition, and Evbo shrugs it off with a wince, even though he had held no real pain in their hold, it being too slack to even ache.
Something like shame stings in their gut, for not having predicted this. They had known of his misplaced affection for one-block jumps, long before now, after all. They had known of how he'd held onto the memories of belonging down there, how much he had valued his sense of community with leather boots, despite his now prestigious position.
It was a shame, EMF decided right then and there, that Evbo belonged down under and not here with them.