Tired symbolism or not, going from cramped darkness to open space really felt like crossing a threshold between worlds. Neon’s pupils contracted in discomfort as he stumbled forwards, one hand shielding his eyes while the other found balance against the cold edges of what he now realized was a chamber built into the wall like some sort of secret compartment.
When his vision finally cleared proper, he found himself standing in a modestly sized room scrubbed clean of all personality. White walls stretched in dissonant geometric angles, their uneven surfaces so seamlessly integrated with one another that it was impossible to tell where an exit might be —if there was any. It gave Neon the feel that the whole place might rearrange itself at the press of some proverbial button.
Overhead panels projected a flat, shadowless glare that made his sun-kissed skin look clearer than it truly was. While he slowly grew familiarized with their harshness, it remained the uncomfortable kind of illumination that left no place to hide. His already worn clothes looked even more washed beneath them, and that made Neon feel a prickle of self-consciousness. This kind of clean environment would never be one he could possibly belong to.
The only break in the white monotony came from a massive monitor embedded in the far wall. Its black screen bore a loud logo with bold, sleek letters. VS//VileSports. While the name meant absolutely nothing to him, its typography kind of implied… Violence. A corporate font, sharpened to cut.
But none of that mattered. Not the sterile perfection of the room, nor the ominous branding, or even the lingering question of what the hell was happening to him.
Because turning to his direction was someone who made everything else fade to background noise, sitting against one of the walls in a controlled stance that appeared both relaxed and ready to strike at the same time, finding a way to make such a thing look effortless.
When their eyes met, Neon’s interface flickered to life unbidden, data materializing near the stranger’s face in translucent text.
[Contestant 29, Nomine. He/Him. Veteran. Convict.]
The first thing that struck him was Nomine’s sheer presence. It wasn’t just height —though Neon could already tell he’d have to lift his chin in order to meet his gaze were he to stand upright— but something else that made his breath catch.
Nomine’s face was sharp but free of harshness, his pale skin seeming to drink the overhead lighting and making it look softer somehow. If neon had to guess, he figured he couldn’t be much older than him by a couple of years at most. So probably mid-twenties.
Once locked onto Neon, his silver-gray eyes never moved away, tracking the awkward shuffle of his feet with a focus that made him all the more aware of how disheveled he must have looked, or how his naturally rebellious hair was probably sticking in twelve different directions.
Those frigid eyes were beautiful in the way that winter mornings were. Stunning, for sure, but holding an unmistakable warning of coldness better appreciated from a cozier, warmer distance.
Long blue-black hair fell past his shoulders in a loose and voluptuous windswept ponytail, framing Nomine’s face like the embers of a dusk-colored flame. In his very subtle movements, the strands caught light with the sheen of raven feathers before fading into a gray tone at the tips.
Neon tried really, really hard not to stare, but that was a fight he ultimately lost. Did he ever have a chance? Nomine was clad in a body-tight undersuit of matte black that covered him from collar to fingertips, extending into boots that looked like an extension of the outfit itself. It clung to his lean muscles in a way that would’ve made Neon bashful if he were the one wearing it.
However, over it was something that transformed the functionality of that second skin into much more. A flowing garment —akin to a thicker, oversized haori— hung from one shoulder and elbow unevenly, its fabric tinted in a deep crimson with white patterns slicing through where the neck should be.
Such striking contrast between sharpness and flair made Neon feel even more out of place. His worn sneakers, patched-up hoodie, and cheap-looking joggers were hardly a match, weren’t they?
“Sooo…” He tried to break the unspoken tension that had settled between them, making a move to perhaps stretch his hand once he got closer. “I’m guessing by your silence that you’re not exactly here as a, uh… welcome committee of sorts.”
Nomine studied him for a moment that dragged on beyond its seconds, taking details with a focus that made Neon feel like he was being catalogued rather than seen. Then, without so much as a word, he turned his attention away in apparent disinterest, dismissing his poor attempt at humor as if it hadn’t happened at all.
The reaction hit him like a splash of ice water, stopping his already flaky momentum mid-step and halfway across the room. Stubbornness alone kept Neon’s expression neutral. Barely.
Was this how it was? Too high on his high horse to spare him any consideration? Too much of an edgelord to acknowledge him properly?
Still, the sting of being ignored twisted a knot inside his heart. Sure, he wasn’t delusional enough to think every single person would like him, much less care about him. But, after years spent learning how to read the room, of gauging exactly what people needed from him to open up, this sort of shutdown scrambled his usually reliable social radar.
So he just stood there, caught between advancing and retreating. At least until a pop-up notification flickered with gentle insistence above Nomine’s head.
Neon held back on the mental command. Even the word choice made his skin crawl. To probe. It felt invasive, like rifling through someone else’s personal belongings while they weren’t looking. Then again, if Shadow the Hodgehedge here planned on giving him the silent treatment, wasn’t this fair game? The option wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t meant to be used, right?
He still apologized internally as he selected Yes.
And a single augment shone up, surely belonging to Nomine.
[Trait: There’s Only Black]
No conversations with your god or the devil.
Just one? After reading that Veteran tag, Neon had expected an endless flourish of augments to come tumbling down like a shopping list of accumulated power. Something was up, something was being deliberately hidden. Nevermind the fact that the description itself told him nothing about what the trait actually did.
Which probably meant that this thing probably served to conceal whatever cards Nomine kept tucked away in those long sleeves of his. That or probing was just a way of getting some obtuse hint.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
But then there was the other tag, the one Neon had been blissfully ignoring during his mindless gushing. Convict. The rookie doubted it was anything close to a class designation, much like his own Respawned label. At least in this regard, it likely meant exactly how it sounded —it was a brand. A warning. A constant reminder that the person sitting so casually here had done something serious enough to warrant it.
The implications were quite loud. Nomine obviously wasn’t another poor sap trying to figure out rules alongside him. He was someone who might even be way more dangerous than the sterile prison they found themselves trapped in.
And yet…
If his gaming instincts were anything to go by, he still didn’t believe he posed any immediate threat. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the ruthless veteran convict strike down the obvious newbie as he just stood there gawking?
A familiar grin tugged at his mouth despite everything. Because if there was one universal truth he’d learnt during all his years of drifting through life, it was that the most interesting people were always the ones who came with warning labels.
“You’ve been here a long time?” His question carried that warm, non-judgmental tone that always made others feel comfortable. Neon spoke without cynicism, free of any intent to mock or accuse —only genuine curiosity. “I’m still figuring this whole thing out, so… I apologize for being a bit lost.”
Nomine’s posture shifted subtly. His head swayed fractionally in another direction, and his shoulders adjusted by degrees. It was enough confirmation for Neon that he was indeed listening even if he wasn’t looking.
“I understand. Information is valuable. You probably don’t want to give me too much if there’s a chance I might end up as an enemy.” The rookie continued, words stumbling in his eagerness to maintain this fragile connection. “It’s just… In the off chance that it’s not like that… I’d really rather be friends? No pressure of course.”
Silence stretched on regardless of effort. Heat crawled up Neon’s neck as he tried to cycle through possibilities, landing on one that made him feel both stupid and a little hopeful. It was worth a try.
“Wait… Could it be that you’re mute?”
>> “I actually do know a bit of sign language. Here, let me just…”
His heart wasn’t helping, beating faster and faster like a blind bird inside a cage, flustering his thoughts and making the task of recalling the exact signs even more difficult. Neon’s hands moved basically on reflex, probably cobbling together a greeting as coherent as static.
A display pitiful enough for Nomine to finally grant him some mercy.
“Amazing. Even your hand signs are noisy.” The sentence was as close as it could be to a blade, cutting down his antics without any mercy. “You’re confusing muteness with deafness.” Nomine’s voice caught Neon off guard. It was… Surprisingly softspoken, not the harsh and angry sounds that he had expected from his attitude. “Just stay put. Rules should come soon enough.”
Short and direct. The speech pattern of someone who deemed every unnecessary word as a waste of breath. He still sounded rudely dismissive, sure, but Neon found himself nodding in response anyway. At least now he knew Nomine could talk —even if it came with the price of embarrassment from making assumptions he shouldn’t have.
And so he took his suggestion, letting his shoulders slump as he retreated into another corner of the room. The quiet that followed wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, and he probably needed it to calm his nerves a little. Neon used it to examine the seamless joints between wall panels, tracing their perfect edges while his mind wandered.
This felt familiar. That tension before something started, like standing in a lobby waiting for opponents to chime in.
Reading people had always been one of the things he considered himself fairly good at, in catching those emotional undercurrents that went mostly missed. Right now, those were telling him that Nomine’s antisocial act wasn’t fully rooted in unease. Just… Distance, and focus. Of course, Neon ignored how many times he had been in a situation exactly like this. Hopefully it meant that whatever approached wouldn’t be too horrible.
Around the five-minute mark, the screen finally lit up again.
The VS//VileSports logo transformed in a flourish of visual noise, replaced by something even more ominous. Both their gazes snapped to the monitor as text materialized across the black surface in clean, white lines.
Those words hung there just long enough for comprehension to sink in, apparently enough for Nomine to be already complaining to himself with a barely audible tsch.
Neon couldn’t think on what kind of face he was making or if any involuntary noise escaped him. Nothing beyond how his stomach dropped at the awareness that everything he stood for now belonged to some unknown party. People who seemingly had little to no care about human lives.
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Before even considering the question, Neon’s mind spiraled through all the implications. The two of them were a team, yet that designation felt as hollow as it could be. They couldn’t be more foreign to one another, despite whatever criteria had yoked them together.
Moreover, only one of them needed to survive. If it was ever about life or death… His partner —if he was allowed to call him that— would undoubtedly make the logical choice without any hesitation. The certainty of it was reassuring, at least in a sad sense. At least one of them had their priorities straight.
But what about him? Could he prioritize his own survival if one of them had to fall so the other could advance? The question gnawed at him because he already knew the answer. It wasn’t the smart one.
“Do you…” He tried to speak, to hush his uncertainty if for nothing else.
“I don’t care.” Nomine cut him off, having already overcome his initial reaction. Even that earlier sound had probably slipped out by accident. “Choose whatever. Just avoid giving information on our augments.”
Right so, the name. Neon focused on the Yes command, and a keyboard soonly emerged at an arm’s length. This one he considered more carefully. It involved Nomine, so he couldn’t be as quick on the draw.
“So how about…” He tried to show the veteran his choice, but the lack of anything close to at least a glance was quite clear an input from him. “… Fine then.”
Neon locked in the name, brushing past the warning that this registration couldn’t be undone.
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A mechanical groan echoed through the lobby as something shifted within the monitor wall. Metal grinded against metal as a previously invisible seam split open —horizontal latches turning vertical as hidden locks disengaged. Each sound reverberated through his chest like a countdown.
It was happening, whatever this hunt meant. There was no turning back now, not like he was ever given the chance. Neon’s pulse hammered against his throat as the doors began their slow, inevitable opening.