Mirai SMP (SMP Live AU x Future Diary)

➸ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3: game begins now

chapter 3 ; the game begins now

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TECHNOBLADE

His eyes snap open, and he finds himself lying dead on the floor.

". . . Was that a dream?" he subconsciously murmurs to himself out loud.

Everything in the house seems to be perfectly normal — was he just tired from work today so he took a nap?

... In the middle of the floor.

Yeah, something didn't seem right.

He hears his phone buzz from the armrest on the couch. Getting up, he stumbles over to the device and pushes it off into the sofa's cushion. He turns on his phone. In big, bold, red letters, the words flash fleetingly on the completely white screen:

THE GAME BEGINS NOW

He feels his own eyes grow wide at the words. In disbelief, he rubs them, praying that he'd just gone crazy; rubbing them as if he would suddenly wake up from this terrible nightmare he's been having, like in the movies.

But when he opens his eyes again, nothing changes. Somehow, he anticipated this result.

So this isn't a dream.

It's real. Everything is real.

He feels his heartbeat quicken, as beads of sweat become visible in his palms. This race to become God is actually real. There are going to be real people coming after him. Real people chasing him down to murder him. God said it himself — a 14/15 chance of dying. What are the odds he'll survive that?

How he wishes that those stalkers offered him the position of a real hitman instead — now that would have been more tactical.

The first thought that comes to his mind is his contacts. He needs to get a hold of his colleagues — or manager — or anyone. He just needs to tell someone this.

He presses the home button in an attempt to exit out the white screen he was on. His fingers go straight to the email app — well, where was once the email app, anyway. He notices that everything is erased. There are only two apps — phone, and notes. But all his contacts are deleted. He can't even call any emergency lines, like the Police or Ambulance.

Techno decides the best thing to do is to get prepared. He won't be able to live a normal life anymore — from now on, he'll be a fugitive, always on the run. He shoves the phone in his pocket and runs up the flight of stairs to his bedroom.

Swinging open the doors to his room, he rushes inside, turning the place upside down as he tries to desperately look for his bag — he rips open the cupboards, tears down the items on his shelf, kicks over the basket of untouched 2-week old laundry, until finally—

"There!"

Underneath his bed, tucked at the very back against the wall, is his backpack. 

With jittery hands, he reaches out and grabs it, pulling it out from under the bed as he shakes out all of its contents. Out falls a jacket, a few opened tins of mints, ripped books, and pencil shavings. And a few tissues.

He pauses, thinking to himself as he allows his mind to be consumed by his survival instincts. The clock is ticking, and he can't afford to waste any time. Someone could be on his tail right now and he wouldn't even know it.