(how am i supposed to write about characters that havent done anything)
The Hotel is a pretty strange place.
Though the contestants of the Battle for The Power of Two have used it plenty for all sorts of assorted shenanigans, it's more well-known for housing the ones that... *aren't* doing any of those things. Those that were given a shot at competing for that limitless power, based *solely* on their appearance and activity for a few seconds, and just didn't quite make the cut. It was a pretty strange arrangement whenever they thought about it for more than two seconds: they aren't allowed to join in on the action most of the time, and yet at the same time they can't really leave. They're all just forced to share the same room, allowed to just... exist.
Rubber Spatula was among those that were just fine with that whole new way of living; if there *is* one thing that this world has taught them again and again, it's that things often go best if you just roll with it and don't complain. Instead, they've largely been focusing on a completely different mystery, one which hopefully won't bring any more trouble than being stuck with several dozen others already provided.
Out of all of those that could've possibly gotten a shot at joining the competition, they'd received the least overall; 177 is a pretty hard number to remember, largely because it's an unremarkable 3 digits, but they remembered it in every single waking moment, for it was the number that decided the rest of their life. Most of the time, they'd just hum and haw over that quantity while trying their hardest to blend into the background, remaining unseen; after all, it's not like the cameras are pointed at them, right?
On one hand, the thought of it definitely stung. Rubber Spatula had *one* chance to make a name for themselves, and not only were they unable to seize that opportunity, they were the *least* unable. What kind of distinction is *that*? Remembering that little factoid, that nobody liked them, hurt them quite badly. And every second they spent continuing to linger in this proverbial prison only made it ache more.
But then they'd remember what that strange writing utensil said before they were thrown into that fate; despite having done basically nothing in the show, despite having barely had a chance to do *anything*, let alone anything of note, 177 people were still deeply moved by their brief display, so much so that they decided that they wanted to see more, wanted to see them succeed. 177! Paradoxically, it seemed now that that number was so little, yet so massive; who could've guessed that they could make such a big impact by just squashing a pest? That small victory would be something they'd carry in their heart (if objects have that, anyway) for the rest of their stay; if they were able to influence lives *that* much with such a small act, who knows what else they could do once they were out of this rut?
That brings us straight to the mystery: just who exactly were those 177? Who are these mysterious voters, besides names on a screen that they recited at great speed? Rubber Spatula felt so indebted to them, incredibly thankful that they used their one and only vote to express their desire to see them in the spotlight, and yet they knew so little about them. What were they like? What did they do outside of typing a single letter in-between some symbols? Did they have hopes, dreams, and aspirations too? Did they also go unseen and unnoticed, just like they were? Could they possibly help them out with their own struggles, just as they helped out with theirs?
Sure, they were just one, and *they* were so many, but they've already proven that even just a little action can affect so much.
-
Leek was on the phone again.
They didn't have anybody they could call, they didn't have any games on it (it was far too primitive for that), and it didn't have *anything* that could even be remotely considered as entertaining. Regardless, they kept on using it despite its effective lack of value. It was something to do, anyhow, and it was also a neat conversation starter. How'd they get their hands on it? Where did it come from? Are there more of them? All questions that none of them could answer, even if they all put their heads together, but it was a sort of unsolvable mystery that they were more comfortable with; far better than all that existential dread about algebralians and competitions and all that.
