Itrapped.
The name circled in Chance’s head with no end.
He’d loved him. He’d loved the man, no doubt. He spent every minute of the day hanging out or around him, almost. It became a habit to cling to him, despite how cold Itrapped was. It didn’t bother Chance, none of what Itrapped did bothered him. It was as if he held a sort of internal antidote that made him immune to Itrapped’s offhandedness & cold nature.
Chance’s other affiliates—not friends, really—claimed that Itrapped wasn’t to be trusted, that he was a manipulative person. Chance hadn’t believed them—he’d pointed at the doubters & proclaimed them as liars, aimed to destroy what could finally be his that was true.
Nothing about that relationship was true.
Chance knew that he reminded Itrapped about one of his old friends—Ellernate. Ellernate had been a great guy, in Itrapped’s eyes at least. Chance had taken Itrapped’s every word for what Ellernate was; according to Itrapped, Ellernate was one of the best friends he ever could’ve asked for. The very best.
So, Chance started dressing a little bit more like Ellernate on purpose. First it was the fedora, then the Clockwork glasses. Next, it was the suit, with the tie & all. Chance was uncomfortable in such suits, yet he accommodated himself to them to appease more to Itrapped.
& he saw the changes. He saw how Itrapped looked at him, almost dreamily, on long nights spent outside getting wasted at the bar. Chance knew that Itrapped wasn’t in the right head at those times, especially when Itrapped was drunk. Itrapped got gullible at those times, & extremely dazed. He didn’t act like anything he usually did when he was intoxicated.
Chance savoured those moments. Those moments when Itrapped looked at him like he actually meant something to Itrapped, more than a tool.
That one night, Itrapped had invited Chance to the casino for a round of Russian roulette. They’d played it before with fakes, it was no big deal. Chance had accepted happily, donning his Ellernate-façading suit & tie.
Chance sat across from Itrapped at the circular table, the gun in front of them. He felt almost giddy, sitting directly across from Itrapped like that. Itrapped was staring at him, right at him, not through him, it was so intense… Chance didn’t see anything else.
“Why don’t you go first, Chance?”
Chance took the offer almost immediately, taking the pistol from the centre of the table.
It felt a little heavy. A little too heavy to be loaded with fakes. He lifted it to his head, &…
…he didn’t quite remember the rest.
All he last remembered was a blur. The owner of the casino, Don Sonnelinno, taking him in; murmuring something to his henchmen about mechanical advancements. He didn’t know what happened to his body, but it wasn’t his anymore.
He wasn’t Chance.
& the whole cause of that was Itrapped.
He didn’t really know where he was nowadays. He just stalked these lands like a lost being, his mouth forcibly etched into a smile that was all teeth & no joy, his eyes… nothing but roulette slots, constantly rolled to the big Seven when he spotted a new survivor.
They fled from him. They called him scary, said they were afraid of him. Chance, well, he didn’t care. He’d lost every soft corner of himself after that night, after his whole soul got reconstructed along with his brain & body.
He just lifted his arm & fired whenever he found a soul still intact.
He wondered, often, when he’d find Itrapped. He’d heard some of these survivors talking about him, & Chance had a piece of his mind to give to that guy.
He wasn’t going to be taken advantage of anymore, oh no.
Chance was wandering the desolate streets one night. He didn’t know when & where it was, all that mattered right now was who he was approaching.
It was Itrapped.
After all these years, after all these pains… He could finally get his back on his backstabber.
Itrapped was facing away from him, on patrol or something similar. It gave Chance the opening—the opening to creep up on the guy, lifting his barrelled arm, the thing beginning to warm up to fire.