The third session ticks into play, and it's just Etho and Skizz at the Team T.I.E.S. base. They move around one another mostly in silence, organizing chests, gearing up for the day. To most, this would be awkward, uncomfortable. But these two know one another well, and know one another by looks across tables and peripheral guards on battlefields. Their comfort is shown not in chatter, but in resources wordlessly passed from one of them to the other. Small gifts, appreciated by the fae that counts all hindrances and slights. Small kindnesses, appreciated by the reaper that cannot get enough of the warm moments of life.

But quickly, of course, they are joined by their T and I, and camaraderie comes easy in the chatter! Jokes and jabs, stories and snickers, friendship is thick between words that flow freely. They share what Impulse and Tango brought from the nether, and plans are fully formulated for the week now that they're all together. But behind it all, there is a sound the most pleasant of noise can't drown out.

The ticking of the clock continues.

They all split off to their business quickly to make the most of their quickly draining countdowns, and Skizz finds his in the sky. Skizz's clock is the loudest, his pull toward death the strongest, and he knows it well. The reaper's wings may not keep him safe as he begins to build SkyNet below his own feet, the pure white feathers thinned and clipped by this world that doesn't allow flight (an unfair advantage, particularly for a fighter of his caliber), but they bring him a sense of security anyway. A reminder, if nothing else, that he was made for this. He looks over the server with drained, yellowed eyes, and for just a moment he can hear every heartbeat in time with the persistent ticking. The reaper's senses remain with him, not enough to be unfair, but to keep him confident. He knows death. He does not fear it.

Well, until he takes a stupid fall to his stupid death. It was just one second, just one distraction as his foot slipped- it doesn't matter. He drags himself back from spawn, frowning and screaming his frenzied frustrations as Tango and Impulse laugh at his literal slip up. But he knows they're not really laughing, and they know he's not really angry. Not at them, at least. But he feels his time running out, and he feels the desperation beginning to well up. His yellowed time is beginning to rust toward red, and it rubs against the back of his throat. Impulse warns him that he has to look out, and he knows. Trust him, he knows.

(Down below, a different warning is uttered. Tango pokes at Etho as he passes the man by, giving a passing comment about thieves at the mob farm. Etho nods, and later, when the phoenix returns to find him standing with a red-handed Bdubs, he gives a quiet signal with a half-joke. A quip about killing Tango last, disguising acknowledgement that he's got his head in the right place. They don't have time to kill- it's come time to kill.)

They meet in the middle for a moment, a sweet moment. Etho is tired, his hands fumbling with the crafting materials and his mind jumbling the recipe. He tosses the materials toward Skizz, the reaper in need of his teammate's confidence and in need of his own, and a trade is made. Both spirits are boosted as Etho is allowed to let Skizz be the competent one for a second, and Skizz catches the knowing look Etho gives him as he's given this chance to prove himself useful, if mostly to himself. They give each other a smile before parting ways again.

Clock back in.

(Up above, a different threat is woven. Impulse passes Skizz on SkyNet, taking a handful of TNT from him. He makes no response to Skizz's questions, but his knowing look and barely-suppressed smile says it all. And he steps back, an acknowledgement that his head's in the right place. The reaper will help the demon with his silence. They are on the same timeline- time to kill.)

They're all milling about like ants at work, and Etho feels even more ant-like as he finds his work below ground. He watches his clock closely, his elevated senses twitching with every tick. No matter how far he is from death, he can never be far enough for comfort. So it's a boring task, threatening death by boredom for a chaotic soul like him, but the protection of diamonds is simply too powerful to ignore. His tail flicks back and forth, and though his connection to the world is different in this place that careens so quickly toward death, the fae is still grateful for the small hints he gets from his surroundings. Even if they don't lead him toward diamonds, they are a reassurance, the tremor of mob footsteps and shifting stone a comfort. He hears death. He does not fear it.

Well. Until his stupid death lands on top of him with a stupid fall. It was just one second, he didn't have time to dodge- it doesn't matter. Now all he can do is hear his death with the painful blast, and the even more painful taunting at spawn. He is silent against the noise around him as he steps into the water to escape the laughter, Tango and Impulse among the loudest of them. But they're not really laughing, and he's not really mad. At them. And yet there is an anger that he continues to carefully listen to within him, and it's getting louder. It's all he can do to keep it at a whisper as he tells the silent, watching Grian that the time to kill is near. And he knows what he'll do with it.

Trust him, he knows.

[There will be one of these for each week! This is 3/?]

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