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Two puppets on strings. Controlled by a higher being. Dancing around each other, tormenting what had previously been their companions. Origins and real names forgotten under the static. Hoods, masks, hiding them from others, and from themselves.

If they could wonder, they might ponder about what might have been if Marble Hornets had never happened. But they can't, and they don't.

Numb minds still have functioning bodies. It's almost like maintenance. The smoke clears, but only slightly. They can't run anymore. Only act.

And so they do. It's a desperate clash of hands on bodies, the wheezing pants of choked coughs. Dull thumps of plastic on fabric, an attempt at face-on-face contact. A tangle of limbs, neither of them tipping over to allow the other full control. In these moments, control is what they are hungry for. Clenched muscles and strangled groans, before they are finished.

And the static comes back.