thirty-third floor. [blane rekner] (Patreon)

synopsis: relieving nightmares and hallucinations are not a good combination.

content warning: panic attacks

note: i didn't mean to write something so sad but here we are. this drabble has more hints on Blane's backstory and the trauma they face as a result, which ultimately leads to their rude and defensive behaviour. it won't be fully explained until the chapter comes up in the game, but for now, you can guess.

There's little that doesn't trigger Blane. When they were a child, every waking moment was spent reliving nightmares over and over. They used to describe it as being forced to sit in front of a TV as their memories played on a loop.

No matter how terrible they were, no matter how much they made them flinch and cry, Blane wasn't allowed to move. It was torturous, but eventually, when Blane became numb to watching the scenes, they came to thank the program.

Before, mere reminders of their childhood used to make them want to crawl up in a ball and hide. It was so disruptive that continually got separated for it, sent to a different room or ushered away from the rest of the children.

It was the best thing they could have done for Blane.

Silence.

The world was too busy. Still is. Blane craves the quiet of the night, the soft hum of the atmosphere. Alone, they were finally given that chance.

Some people do worse when it's just them and their thoughts, but Blane has always thrived in that environment. When given the remote, memories are easy to control. Emotions can easily be switched off. When it's just them, Blane can finally enjoy that rare moment where they actually feel… okay. Like they're not one word from breaking.

It's this technique that Blane is trying to replicate now.

Work is always the worst place for panic attacks to happen. Blane doesn't get them as often as they did when they were a child, but unfortunately, they didn't go away completely. They wish. Hiding in an empty room on one of the abandoned floors of IAOS isn't exactly their favourite thing.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

They don't know why their usual defences didn't work today. The years spent suppressing everything tended to be enough to block out the nightmares. But being numb isn't the same as being immune.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

Blane's so distracted that they don't hear someone come in. It's only when a pair of shoes enter their line of sight do they look up.

You.

Always you.

Your eyes meet, but for some reason, you don't say anything. Blane is in a state. They're sitting with their knees pushed up to their chest, hands shaky and body trembling. Even if they wanted to say something, they couldn't—their tongue feels numb in their mouth.

A strand of hair has fallen in Blane's eyes. They watch you curiously, the world divided by that singular block of white hair.

To their surprise, you begin to reach out. A strangled noise crawls up Blane's throat but their limbs are frozen. They close their eyes shut, waiting for the contact of skin to skin, but it never comes. A light tug pulls at the top of their scalp and they open their eyes.

Your fingers are moving Blane's hair out of the way.

They feel close to passing out. Their heartbeat is racing too fast for it to be anywhere close to normal. Neither should be good things, but it's nowhere near the level of panic they felt when they were hyperventilating.

You tuck the strand of hair behind Blane's ear, releasing a soft exhale from them as a result.

They don't know where that came from.

Your eyes meet again but when Blane blinks, you're gone. Disappeared out of thin air. They sit upright, looking around wildly for where you could have possibly left to. The strand of hair is back in their face, like you were never even here.

They must be losing it if they're fucking hallucinating you of all people.

Blane's phone buzzes. They search for you a moment more before checking the notification. It's some random app they don't even use anymore.

Still, the reminder was useful. They open up their message app and text N the floor that they're on. Their panic attacks don't happen enough—at work, that is—that N will understand what it means immediately, but N knows enough that Blane is asking for their company.

That alone will be enough to bring them here.

Sighing, Blane tips their head back against the wall. They keep the hair in front of their eyes, not bothering to push it back. If they do, they worry they'll feel the ghost of your fingers against their face again.

One time is a fantasy. Two times is a mistake.

Three times… three times will be their unravelling.