#Yandere Gristol Malik | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yandere-toons · 3 years ago

Note

Hey since you’re doing Psychonauts, could you do a Nick Johnsmith X reader, please?(I am completely aware of this dude’s ulterior motives in the game, I just love his voice actor so much!)

Yandere Gristol Malik | Nick Johnsmith (Platonic Scenario - "The Last Carriage Out of Grulovia")

Warnings: unresolved trauma, famine, body decomposition, drowning, bloody violence, psychological manipulation, toxic mindsets.

A.N. - One of my favourite stories I've ever written.

The tweets of songbirds were muffled by the thick glass of the expansive windows allowing the red light of dawn to pour into the halls of the royal palace.

Many portraits of Gzar Theodore Malik and his family hung on the walls in place of other art, each one a splash of dark and gloomy colours that portrayed little happiness in their blank stares.

Maids worked on their knees to scrub the floorboards and rugs before royal boots stepped on them, and butlers walked up and down the corridors with fresh trays of breakfast still steaming.

“Great Gzar, if I may be allowed to rest.”

Theodore turned back and gazed at you through squinted eyes, drawing his hand to his chest as if even considering the request was shameful.

The crown, which sat upon his skull as if moulded to it, was a hill of red larger than he was wide that spiralled into the arms of various candles and dangling jewels. It looked like a chandelier that should have been hanging from wires on the ceiling, and the question of how his neck supported it was one you often pondered.

The creak of a door opening resounded from down the hall.

The thwacks of boots on the floorboards evolved into the soft thuds of heels on the rug, and a pair of hands seized your own with an impatient tug.

“I require more caviar!” A youthful and spirited voice erupted at your side, brimming with a confidence that demanded attention. Gristol Malik sported an indifferent if not slightly annoyed look as he neglected to acknowledge his father or the previous conversation.

As the Gzar hummed in amusement and started to walk away, you leaned over and bent your knees slightly to lessen the strain of resisting the boy. “There are many servants in the palace.”

His father took confident strides in the opposite direction when Gristol tightened his hold on you and pulled once again. “I wish for you to retrieve it. As your prince, I command it!”

The high-pitched barks of Spotty yipped and squeaked in a distant room, and the noise grew louder with the opening of a nearby door.

Gzarina Rokel Malik entered the hall in a series of controlled steps as if she planned each one before taking it, hands clasped in front of her waist and head angled towards the ceiling. The frill of her rose-pink dress and bejewelled crown, as they shook in a smooth rhythm, caught the eye of Gristol.

Taking a long moment to study the interaction between you and her son, Rokel mustered a posh smile and stood straighter with a quiet inhale. “Gristol, isn't it time for your horseback riding lessons?”

* * *

The common land of Grulovia was populated with shacks, dilapidated homes that had succumbed to the erosion of time and were barely livable, and a few too many citizens clad in rags. Their clothes had become oversized due to a lack of full stomachs most nights, and they devoted much of their remaining energy to carving and painting signs that begged for change.

Gristol may as well have been in a world of his own as he trotted along a dirt road on his pony, never looking at the people his father claimed to serve until a large rock landed in his path.

It was as if a blockage in his ears had been cleared, for as the prince watched the stone tear a line in the dirt, the buzz in the back of his head swelled to thundering footsteps and howls of anger.

On the horizon was a mob of fire, metal, and the silhouettes of peasants charging forward. In the hands of the mob were pitchforks and torches, the flames waving back and forth with a furious intensity and casting an uncomfortable heat upon the boy.

More rocks slammed into the ground near the hooves of the pony, and the animal reared its front legs to whinny. It fought the bit in its mouth and the bridle on its snout, causing the leather straps to chafe Gristol's palms. “Don't you know who I am? I'm telling my father!” he shouted at the mob, only to have his voice suffocated in the outcry of the people.

As he turned to leave, a searing pain struck his cheek and knocked him to the ground. Dirt, a fetid substance foreign to the boy, stained his pristine uniform and took the shine out of the gold buttons. The neigh of his mount echoed in the smoky air, but his attention was drawn to the bright liquid seeping from his skin like water from a river.

It glistened with the rosy glow of crimson and reeked of copper, dripping onto his quivering fingers and coating them in a damp warmth.

The heart in his chest thrummed against his ribcage at an increasing rate that surged to the palpitations of an animal breaking out of a cage. Any control over the situation that Gristol pretended to have was torn from him at that moment, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead while searching for his horse to escape.

The hoofbeats of the pony fleeing caused the prince to extend a hand and demand its return, the hooves flinging earth at him and retreating over the hill.

Gristol pulled his face out of the mud with a desperate cry, and when he flipped onto his back to crawl in the direction his frantic mind assumed led to the castle, he saw only monsters who wished to inflict a type of harm on him that he could not understand.

Their humanity had been stripped away to reveal gnashing teeth, pounding fists, and wild eyes devoid of mercy.

He breathed so fast that his lungs began to contract in painful spasms, and the sensation of a crushing weight lying on his chest drained his legs of their strength and filled his head with dizzy panic. Even his arms started to fail him, wobbling and threatening to plunge his body into the dirt without a chance of lifting himself out of it.

Just as the sun was fading into the bared teeth and torches of the peasants, a wall of water crashed upon the rear of the crowd and swept it into the air.

Screams of terror replaced the gales of rage, and the waves swelled and stooped to clutch more in a fluid embrace and toss them out of his sight.

Fearing the rough touch of hands seeking to show him no remorse, Gristol tucked his knees into his stomach and wrapped his arms around his face. The noises swirling around him continued for most of a minute as his whimpers were overshadowed by the deluge and shrieks.

After the land collapsed into a peace rife with waterlogged corpses and the silent echoes of agony, a pair of footsteps approached the boy. He shivered with bursts of intermittent sobs, which turned to shouts and squirming when two arms heaved him against a lean chest.

A deep but feminine voice tinged with a Slavic accent whispered, “Easy, little Gzesarevich.”

* * *

The wind pushed the woman's brown headscarf over most of her face and lifted the hem of her blue kaftan, but she remained in the doorway as she ushered the boy inside. “The little Gzesarevich found himself in a mob.”

Tears of different sizes gushed from his eyes at different times as if he was unsure of whether to let them fall or suppress them.

At the arrival of his father, Gristol flung himself against the man and clutched handfuls of his regalia.

The rich blue fabric, a work of tireless hours by someone whom the Gzar had never met, became stained with dark splotches of tears and blood as both substances jumped from his son's face to the uniform.

Theodore looked down at the boy in surprise and conjured the barest hint of pity before the distraught sounds, muffled by his clothes but still piercing, and the damage to his outfit drew his lips into a repulsed grimace.

The Gzar crinkled his eyes and held his arms away from his body.

Rokel darted into the anteroom with clumps of her dress raised in her hands for better mobility, and a dark look of anger crossed her face when Theodore shoved Gristol off him like a man brushing the dirt off his coat.

The boy stumbled aside as his father marched to the psychic in the doorway, his hand in the air and a finger pointed at the outside world.

“Get back out there!” he shouted as though it were the last thing he would ever say. “Rid my land of those peasants!” His limbs shook in fear, and Maligula whirled to the village with a typhoon forming at the doorstep of the palace.

Droplets of water sprayed his long face before the guards closed the door, leading Theodore to recoil and wince as if he had been struck.

Rokel searched for her son, only to find him stamping his muddy shoe on the rug and clomping down the hall.

You had only seen the prince shed real tears twice in your many years of service to the Maliks, once at this moment and once when he had awoken to an empty bowl and convinced himself that caviar no longer existed.

The part of you that stored his caviar on bags of ice so it would not lose its taste and took his dirty plate away at the end of dinner, the servant, was tugged by the impulse to swipe a stick of cotton candy and give it to the crying boy.

The part of you that cursed his father's rule was glad to watch the royal family be slapped in the face by their failing country.

Even more, the selfish part of you inferred that bringing one of his most desirable snacks would earn some degree of favour if the heir or the Gzar decided to go on a termination spree for revenge.

As you emerged from his bedroom with a creak of the door and a ball of cotton candy in your hand, Gristol paused a short distance from the same door. His puffy eyes recognized the pink material spilling out of the white cone, and after a moment of surprise and tears drying, he rushed to claim the dessert.

The familiar splash of sweetness eased his shudders. It blanketed his hand with a pale fluff that smelt of candy delight, allowing him to forget his skin had been covered in his blood a few minutes earlier. “Come, servant. I shall enjoy the cotton candy in my chambers.”

The prince pushed his hand into yours and steered you back into the room. His voice had calmed from the weeping, but it was strained with a thin layer of sadness.

Once the sugary meal was devoured, he ordered you to retrieve a batch of caviar.

Gristol was sitting on his plush bed when you returned, its length and width stretching far more than was necessary to cradle the boy. The bedposts were tapered to spearheads, which sloped down to where his legs dangled from the side of the mattress.

The jewel-encrusted gold bowl resting on the palm of his right hand shimmered like a horde of precious diamonds, and the mother-of-pearl spoon in his left hand glittered like a star in the night sky. The spoon was balancing on his thumb and the crevice between his index finger and middle finger, bobbing with idle anticipation as he narrowed his eyes at you.

After a minute spent wondering if it was a test of some kind and debating whether it would be seen as improper or not, you met his gaze when he refused to turn his eye elsewhere.

“Servant,” he addressed you in the same graceless way as always, “are you loyal to me?” There was a genuine curiosity to his words, and the fork hovered just shy of his lips.

The bruise on his cheek, a darker shade of purple, seemed as vivid as the moment the rock left the grip of the peasant and split his skin into a bloody contusion. “You would never stone me, never spit in my face?” Gristol plopped the lump of caviar into his mouth, savouring the buttery flavour without breaking eye contact and swallowing before finishing his thought. “Never betray me?”

Recalling the sight of a maid no more esteemed or regal than yourself being tossed into the mud for speaking out of turn, you bowed your head. “Of course not, Gzesarevich.”

She had been doomed to starve along with the rest of the population simply because she voiced an idea at a time when the Gzar happened to be in a foul mood.

If the prince recognized the superficiality of your promise, he did not show it.

“Good,” he muttered through a spoonful of caviar. When the utensil was removed from his mouth and plunged into the bowl once again, his voice became much clearer. “And, 'Gzesarevich'?”

Gristol twirled a few pieces of caviar on the edge of his fork, and he turned to you after watching the motion for a few seconds. “I'm going to be Gzar one day.”

The sunshine streaming through the long windows caught the tip of the utensil before it was stuffed between his teeth. “Call me 'Gzar' from now on. I'll need you prepared for when you're serving me on the throne.”

The fact that he had planned your future and decided the extent of your life with such careless ease as if you were a number on a spreadsheet almost made you forget he was a child.

Apprehension flooded your mind as you imagined the confusion at dinners when the young Malik asked for a refill or said anything to you that demanded a greeting. The inevitable assumption that you were either stupid for mistaking the titles or disrespecting Theodore would be the end of your employment and life.

“Gzar is your father's title.”

Gristol pulled the fork out of his mouth with a delighted hum. “Ah! So you're already familiar with it. Splendid!”

* * *

When the storm of liquid slammed into the windows and crowded around them, it rose to such impossible heights that much of the sunlight was eclipsed. The chamber was drowned in the shadows of the tide, which danced and writhed with furious strength and cast the walls in periodic spots of light.

A darkness fell upon the jewels that once glittered like snowflakes in the night of a full moon, and despite the stone barrier separating the flood from the room, it seemed as though your lungs were unable to find air.

The waves beat against the glass as if there were hundreds of fists pounding to batter the majestic halls of the estate and plunge them into a watery grave.

A hiss echoed in the bedroom as a crack darted across the middle of a window in a jagged shape that was not unlike the claw of a beast, and it twisted and swerved in many directions with such intractable speed that streaks of water began to shoot onto the carpet. The fractured glass was lighter in colour and seemingly thicker, appearing to protrude from the rest of the window.

Gristol opened his mouth to release a frightened gasp, his eyes widening in search of an explanation for the attack. He retreated from the portion of the carpet stained with the dark texture of water and backed towards you.

The silken fabric of his royal garb brushed your skin, and you looked down to see the prince grasping at your hand. “Where is my father?” he asked, tugging your arm as if doing so would provide a quicker answer.

You glanced between the roaring water and the boy with confusion on your lips. When the cracks grew until the windows resembled a mosaic, you clutched the doorknob to the ornate slab of wood preventing you from leaving and yanked it open.

Rokel stood on the other side of the door with her hand raised to do the same, the look of surprise on her face turning to relief after she spotted Gristol.

The sound of rushing water flooded your ears, but the corridor had gained only a narrow flush of water around the carpet and rugs.

Over the sloshing of the tide, a yell was heard from the end of the hall. “Gzarina!” A guard was waving his arm beside a hidden passage, a chunk of the stone protruding from the wall and swaying into the corridor to form an entrance.

The round texture of a tunnel strewn with cobwebs and dirt glistened in the final streaks of sunlight that broke through the water.

Rokel grasped the hand of her son and darted towards the solder, and as Gristol lurched forward in an unprepared stagger, he clutched your hand. A living chain was established between the three of you as the cold liquid pooled at your feet, draining into your shoes and chilling your skin.

Each step required more strength than the last until it was as if you were trudging in the bowels of a marsh.

The guard hauled the door back as far as the decrepit hinges would move, and the shaking of his limbs coincided with the howl of pain forcing his mouth open.

As Rokel lifted the soggy hem of her dress and stepped into the dark tunnel, Gristol hesitated at the edge of the entrance with a curled lip and crinkled eyes. He yelped when his mother tugged him over the frame of the door and planted boots that had scarcely touched anything more than tile into the dirt.

Water had begun to spill into the passage and be absorbed by the old earth, hitting the legs of the guard as his footing slipped a bit.

The jingling of loose gold, overpowering the distant cries of peasants, echoed in the corridor as Theodore sprinted in the direction of the tunnel with arms full of coins and jewels.

You were placing your foot in the dirt when he rammed his elbow into your chest and knocked you aside to clear his path to the escape route.

The hold Gristol had on you was severed in a desperate instant, and his attempts to look back and find you were thwarted by his father screaming for the door to be sealed.

Rokel refused to stop running or let go of her son for even a second, not sparing her husband a glance as he rushed ahead. Coins and small jewels bounced out of his grip with each slam of his boots against the ground.

When the guard collapsed onto his knees and swung the door shut with a rumbling thud, darkness enveloped the passageway except for the dim light of the moon glowing at the end.

The crashes of waves and the yells of peasants continued to explode on the opposite side of the door, growing fainter and overshadowed by the sight of a carriage waiting for the royal family on the cobblestone road.

The driver waved his hat at their approaching shapes. “My Gzar!”

Theodore rushed to dump his gold and jewels in the bottom of the cart, beginning to climb inside before the shocked voice of his son gave him pause.

“You took your gold and not them?” The prince stood a little ways from the carriage with a look of frightened confusion like a cat who had just been shaved. The accusatory edge of his tone met his inability to understand the need for this swift departure, his eyes twitching as if seeing a different, far more pathetic man than the one he called his father.

“I'm securing our future.” Gusts of air whipped the Gzar and pulled the cape and medals he treasured like breath. Theodore grasped the shoulders of his son and, with a yell of strain, he lifted him off the ground. “Now, get in the carriage, boy!”

He tossed Gristol into the arms of his mother, who set him on the corner seat and took the opposite corner for herself.

Theodore hopped into the middle seat and commanded the driver to spur the horses. The rattles of the carriage's wheels zoomed across the cobblestone, and the sound of screams carried on the wind.

When the Gzar shoved you, the back of your head collided with a thin rug that did little to separate the hard floorboards from your skull. Pain bloomed and ran across your brain in a series of throbs and tingles as if insects were scampering along and biting your nerves.

The tall ceiling staring down at you was a blur of meaningless shapes and colours, and the rising water lapped its frigid tongue against your neck.

Silhouettes of various sizes darted into view and hovered around you, their heads turning back and forth to report any injuries and trade observations. Multiple pairs of hands seized your arms and heaved you to your feet in a flurry of water droplets cascading down your back and side.

The faces, once blobs of indistinguishable features, sharpened into looks of concern and alarm as the rush of adrenaline that came with standing so quickly reduced the pain.

The chef, a muscular woman who still bore the smears and crumbs of a recent pie, inserted herself under your left arm, and one of the butlers whose suit was covered in dark stains inserted himself under your right arm.

As the duo guided you farther away from the main entrance and towards the servant quarters, a crew of maids were opening another tunnel in the kitchen.

The sous-chef waited near the secret door with the small figure of Spotty wrapped in his arms like rope, the dog flattening its ears and whimpering at the strips of water trickling into the room.

When the group emerged from the end of the passage, the clop of hooves was heard galloping into the night as servants who had found their way outside raided the stables.

The land was consumed by a moving shadow, for the tower of water had risen over the top of the palace like a great beast opening its mouth to bite down. It plummeted towards the ground with the force of a thousand winds, drawing screams and cries from the lips of all who beheld it.

An explosion of bright light preceded a thunderous crash.

The wave spread outwards instead of forwards with the birth of a transparent shield, which pulsed and shimmered like a ripple on the surface of a pond.

A middle-aged man with a white beard and hair stood in front of you, and he pressed a finger to his temple while extending his other hand to the water.

The liquid spilled over the magical barrier with unending strength to form a bowl-like shape.

With veins bulging in his forehead, the stranger clenched his teeth and fought to steady his wobbling arm. “We'll get you folks out of here! Just hold on!”

* * *

The Lady Luctopus Casino was true to its name, sporting a building in the shape of a gigantic octopus that rose so high above the waves it poked the clouds.

The babble of water as the ocean licked the rocky beach was overpowered by the joyful shouts of winners and the mournful wails of losers.

Atop the head of the octopus sat a luxurious crown, which glowed like a lighthouse to wayward boats in the fog.

Its tentacles were lined with neon suction cups and provided the foundation for various penthouses and balconies, structures that housed martini bars and dozens of people looking for wealth and thrills.

The sharp aromas of wine, margaritas, and pastries swirled around the establishment in an atmosphere of intoxication and indulgence.

These odours wrinkled the nose of Gristol Malik, who wished to save his ears from the assault of enthusiastic shouts but found his arms entangled in those of his mother.

As the shadow of the metallic beast passed over him, Gristol thought, if he turned his head the right way and imagined so, he could see the tentacles moving up and down like the spokes of a Ferris wheel. The carnival seemed like a far more enjoyable destination for the prince, but any words of protest he offered were lost in the shuffles of cards and the jingles of chips.

His father had not deigned to look his way since the royal family stepped out of the carriage, not that Gristol was eager to speak with the man who had uprooted his life.

Rokel let go of her son and put some distance between the two of them once there were many eyes ready to pry and observe.

The interior of the suite Theodore rented after dumping a handful of gems onto the counter and making the concierge struggle to breathe for a minute was even colder, holding a bed with a canopy and other furniture imported from distant countries that did little to impress Gristol.

It had not been more than a few days in the casino when the Gzar tumbled into his bed and lacked the strength to get out of it, and it was then that the prince broke the silence.

Theodore brushed his palm across his chest as the congestion travelled from his lungs to his throat in the harshest cough his frail body could muster, which jerked his head up and down before it dissolved into a weak sputter.

Gristol eyed the man from his bedside and studied his pain with disaffection, resting a hand on the edge of the mattress. “Father, do you remember that servant I used to play with?” His voice was a persuasive blend of curious and expectant.

The Gzar propped his head on the pillow to look at his son, and his mouth hung slightly open with drooping eyelids. “No.” The word came out as little more than a mumble sliding off the tip of a haggard tongue.

Not displaying the least bit of surprise, the prince maintained his clear and innocent tone. “I remember them.” A pinch of malice leaked into his words like the drip of an oozing faucet. “They were kinder to me than you ever were.”

Theodore closed his eyes for a slow blink, opening them with the same dazed expression he had worn for hours as if oblivious to the statement. He watched in sickened apathy as Gristol pressed his hands against the sheets to stand on his toes and leaned his upper body over the bed.

Rokel blew her nose into a handkerchief, and she turned away to weep as if she were alone in the room.

The prince, his mouth beside his father's ear, lowered his voice to a whisper and condensed years of unrestrained spite into a single breath. “You left them to die. I wish you had drowned instead.”

A croaky breath escaped the Gzar as his eyes widened. His heartbeat fizzled like a candle doused in water, and his final gust of air struggled to pass his lips.

When Gristol retreated to his original position, he embraced a twinge of satisfaction at seeing the life in the man fade into nothing.

* * *

After the door to the Levitation Lounge opened, you looked away from your conversation with Sasha Nein at the sound of papers fluttering like tiny wings.

The new mailman, Nick Johnsmith, stood in the doorway with the look of a man slapped and his arms positioned to embrace the letters that now swayed in the air beside him.

The impulse to clean a mess whenever you saw one - an echo of the hours spent helping maids and butlers wipe stains to avoid being fired or executed - nearly pulled you out of the seat, but you told yourself this environment was not so unforgiving.

Despite multiple Psychonauts levitating to the aid of Nick and asking if he was feeling well, Nick looked nowhere but at you. His appearance was fuzzy at a distance, and he gave you no opportunity to move closer.

The mailman dismissed the concerns of his coworkers with a few timely laughs and assurances of his health, joking about “first-week jitters” and handing a variety of envelopes to each Psychonaut.

It was not until later in the same month that he forged a letter addressed to you.

The tired hinges on the door squeaked shut behind you, muffling the shrill mutters floating through the laboratory. A compact list was held in your hand, and your eyes coasted from one line to the next before you squinted in disbelief. “What is he having me pump into this doctor?”

The roll of wheels across the tile floors drew your gaze to Nick, who was driving his cart to you with unblinking eyes and tenacious momentum.

When he reached you, the mailman clicked his heels together and closed his eyes with a look of innocent glee. “Message for you!” chirped Nick, one hand behind his back and the other raising an envelope beside his head.

You lost the first words on your tongue before they were spoken, for as he lingered at the edge of the door, the buttery scent wafting into the air after each breath he took reminded you of fish eggs on a mother-of-pearl spoon. “Have you heard about the caviar surprises in the vents? Someone's been eating it like catnip.”

Nick tilted his head and squinted, nodding slowly as if you had spoken in code. “Yes, someone has been.” He watched for any subtle movements - a nod, a twitch of the eye that vaguely resembled a wink, a repetitive tap of the finger - that he could interpret as support for his budding hope.

When motion in your peripheral vision caused you to glance in his direction out of instinct, the mailman seemed as though he was given new life and approached in joyful haste.

“What do you think of cotton candy?” It was a simple and anodyne question, yet the intense focus of his eyes on you added to it a special significance.

You flirted with a few different responses, only to discard each one as a revelation took hold of your mind like puzzle pieces connecting.

“After all this time, you awaited my arrival.” Nick stood as close as possible without bumping into you, and his look of excitement did not falter even as you turned a suspicious eye on him.

“Pardon me?” Your full attention shifted from the list to the mailman.

He shook his head. “There's no need. You were loyal from the start.”

Nick raised his hands to yours and guided them downwards, removing the paper from your immediate vision. His purple skin, coupled with his yellow, cat-like eyes and the way his hands fit into yours like those of a child, kindled a sense of familiarity in you that was both troubling and intriguing.

As the contentment radiating from Nick brought you inexplicable relief as if an unknown danger had been evaded, a Brazilian-accented voice called from down the hall.

“Darling!” It was followed by the clicks of high heels, and a slender woman in a turquoise shawl and striped skirt emerged from the opposite end of the corridor. Milla Vodello gazed between the two of you with calm happiness that betrayed nothing else. “Sasha and I are eating lunch in the lounge. Would you care to join us?”

An absentminded nod given after a few moments of collecting your thoughts was your answer, which prompted the psychic to address the mailman. “Nick, darling, how about you?”

The man rolled his shoulders and offered a laugh of fake anxiety. “That sounds delicious, but unfortunately, I already ate!” You went to move, but the hands grasping your forearms did not.

Milla squeezed her palms together for a silent clap. “I'll tell Sasha you're coming! Or would you like to tell him yourself?”

Your gaze drifted between Nick and the Psychonaut, noticing the glimpse of rage that flashed across his face like a momentary glint of steel.

A light shake gripped his body that worsened and endured for several seconds before he released you and stepped back. “Forgive my indelicacy.” The chuckle that sailed from his lips was full of nervous energy, ending as Nick curled a hand in front of his chin and placed the other hand on his hip. “The day has been long for all of us.”

He waved at Milla with a calculated friendliness learned from the days of rehearsal, but when it came time to wave at you, his arm wagged at a far brisker and more determined pace.

Once you were out of earshot, his smile disappeared in a cold second. He lowered his arm, and the pleasant aura that had radiated from him like a warm blanket after a stressful day sank to one of dissatisfaction. “I understand now why you hold your tongue.”

Nick turned to his mail cart and cast a final glance down the hall. “I shall break you of the Psychonaut's chains.”

* * *

A void surrounded the dinner table, plunging the area into a bottomless black that swallowed all light and teased the threat of falling without an end. It was diminished by the sways of the candelabra positioned on the centre of the table, which illuminated the fine mahogany texture.

The chair upon which Gristol sat was throne-like and encrusted with an assortment of rubies, emeralds, and other gemstones that Razputin could not hope to identify.

The chair taken by the psychic was much simpler and less imposing, for it was embroidered with only the images of jewels. He confirmed the deceit of the photorealistic patchwork once he lowered himself onto it, finding the comfort of a soft cushion rather than the sharp pain of rocks digging into his spine and legs.

The silence was broken every minute by a clock chime, its hand moving to the next half hour with each stroke of the mechanical timer. An incessant tick-tocking filled the space like an earwig tunnelling through the brain, unreachable and maddening.

The prince gradually sank further into his chair, sliding his upper teeth against his lower teeth and curling his fingers into a tight fist. A quiver was visible in his body as though there was a fury desperate to escape.

As Razputin swayed his head to peer into various corners of the darkness through his red-tinted goggles, he kicked his legs under the table and drew his lips into an unimpressed frown. “Is something supposed to happen?”

The question was directed more at himself and Lili than any of the mental projections that could have been lurking in the shadows, but Gristol faced him as if he had laughed at a funeral.

He composed himself just as quickly and tempered his look of hostility into one of calm irritation. “My servant will be along shortly with the feast.” Despite his downcast gaze and the suffocating aura of displeasure radiating from his end of the table, the prince spoke with unshakable certainty.

Razputin looked around once again and smelt the air, finding no aroma of steam and bread wafting out of a kitchen or a singular door from which to enter with trays of food. “Gristol, there’s no one else here.”

The head of Gristol snapped towards the young psychic, and the prince raised a hand to brush his cape off his knee. He draped his right leg over his left leg and pressed his fist against his cheek, leaning on the table and using his other hand to tap the wooden surface. “It would appear something is keeping them,” admitted Gristol as if hearing that truth on his lips made his stomach churn.

Once another examination of the pseudo dinner scene yielded nothing but darkness, Razputin pulled his goggles from his eyes to his forehead. “If you're just going to sit there, I have something to say.”

Gristol twirled a fork and looked askance at him with overflowing disdain.

The psychic fought to keep his visage free of any distress that would gleam like an open wound, but he could not deny the quiver of uncertainty that shook his voice. “Would you mind explaining what I saw on the way in here?”

Gristol tapped the rear of the fork against the tablecloth and acquired a look of mischievous pleasure. “I don't know what you saw.”

His eyes were narrowed into a look that taunted and belittled the Psychonaut, but when Razputin merely deepened his frown into a scowl, the prince relaxed his gaze and set the fork next to the spoon.

He crossed his arms and looked away, turning slightly and narrowing his eyes. “If that green peasant dies, good riddance.”

Razputin clenched his teeth in a snarl and pointed a finger at the prince. “Damnit, Gristol! This isn't about your revenge quest. This is a man's life on the line!”

His expression filling with indignant surprise, Gristol lowered his fists to his side and spun his head back towards the young Psychonaut. “It has everything to do with me! That rube forfeited his right to draw breath after—”

He was not given the luxury of completing his testament to how he was wronged, for Razputin predicted that his words held no truth. “After what? After he had a pleasant conversation with a coworker?”

The prince turned his head with a scoff. “I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

The Psychonaut gritted his teeth, tensing his shoulders and squeezing the edge of the table. “That you're a deranged little weirdo with way too much time on your hands?”

Halfway through the insult, Gristol took the appearance of a man screaming on the inside.

“They served me—" he slammed his fist into the table and produced a cacophony of rattling silverware “—before anyone else!”

The forks, spoons, and knives seemed to jump and shudder as if they, too, were frightened by the outburst.

Gristol pushed his chair back and stood with a loud creak, leaning towards Razputin and placing his palms on the table like an emperor overseeing the war strategy.

“And if that scum dares give them another order in my presence—” he stopped as a cold malevolence, like a scheme realized, fell over his anger and shrouded it in a fantasy unfurling its wings in the theatre behind his eyes.

The prince lifted his hand and admired his pristine cuticles, but he soon looked askance at the young psychic with an airy voice that teased amusement. “Well, if I was still in Grulovia, I would have him executed for treason.”

Razputin saw the sincerity in his yellow gaze, the dim glow of candlelight fluttering across his lavender skin and giving him an almost luminous quality.

As the frigid whip of fear struck the calm of his stomach, the Psychonaut narrowed his eyes and heaved himself from his seat. “They don't live to serve you!”

Gristol arched his fingers like a cat hissing, digging his nails into the wood and peeling the uppermost layer of the mahogany in jagged strips. The splinters were a paler shade of brown that accumulated beside the divots.

“Yes, they do!” His voice teetered on the brink of an enraged whisper, but the final word boomed with such impossible strength that the room was shaken as if a giant had shouted it from the sky.

The young psychic recoiled just as the nasal tone of Lili overtook his comms, a brief moment of static preceding the young girl's thinly veiled discomfort. “Raz, what's going on? That annoying ride-thing went dark.”

The halls were filled with children's choirs singing in reverse, their pitch corrupted into spurts of discordant chanting that rose and fell like the theme of a nightmare.

Straightening his back and assuming his best imitation of royal poise, the prince turned his nose up and gazed at Razputin as if he were an insect. “They served me faithfully for years. Not my father, not my mother, not Maligula.”

He held a hand to his chest. “Me!”

Razputin shook his head, unwilling to hide the snarl that crept onto his face. “They didn't have a choice! Your father would have killed them or thrown them to the streets if they disobeyed.”

Gristol sneered at the thought. “I would never have allowed it. Besides, they were free to walk out the door at any time. It wasn't locked!”

The surface of the table began to peel and curl into lumps of wood shavings. The wax of the candles started to melt as if dunked in lava, and the flickers of the flames were extinguished in a sudden gust of wind that howled like a ghostly whisper.

When the clumps of hot wax splattered on the rotting table, the back legs of Razputin's chair snapped and threw him against an invisible floor. Pain gushed in the rear of his skull and compelled him to stick a hand on the area.

“Raz,” came the slow voice of Lili, “what's wrong with the people?”

From behind the psychic appeared a ragged figure, the sag of its detached jaw and the wrinkles contorting its face failing to hide the Grulovian colours of its unkempt uniform.

The eyes shone with an eggshell white devoid of pupils and irises, and they gazed at Razputin with no discernible emotion. When the zombified soldier tilted its head to examine him closer, its neck almost popped out of alignment with its spinal cord.

The Psychonaut hollered and squirmed as the creature slapped a rigid hand onto the top of his head and hoisted him into the air.

“Hey! Put me down!” Hearing this plea, the agitated voice of Lili clamoured in his ear for details about his situation. Razputin kicked the flat spot where the soldier's nose used to be, but it merely twitched in response.

The roar of Gristol thundered in the void. “You are no longer welcome here. Soldiers, throw him out!” He pointed a finger at the psychic and swung it towards the endless mass of darkness as if there was more to this slice of his world than a decaying dinner table.

Razputin narrowed his eyes to slits and bared his teeth in a silent growl, exposing his palm to the zombified creature's face. A blast of fire erupted from his hand, and the soldier was propelled into the far distance in scorched pieces.

Rapid squeals like a stuck pig emitted from the corpse.

Doors materialized on all sides of the table, and from them burst dozens of soldiers and peasants. Their corpses were bloated, some missing limbs and chunks of flesh. Many dragged a limp foot behind them, while others waved torches in an unsung chant.

The lyrics to the Grulovian anthem playing on repeat in Gristol's mind were whispered on their cracked lips.

Landing with grace, the Psychonaut turned around and faced the prince in his last demand for reasoning. “If your servant could see what you're doing, they would be mortified!”

The chaos of the mind lulled to an ominous pause.

Gristol widened his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, the twinkle of surprise on his face that gave Razputin a moment of hope washing away in the birth of a sinister rage. “Get out.” He slammed the sides of his fists onto the table each time he yelled the words, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He swept his arms across the furniture and knocked the silverware to the ground, and the desperation in his movements brought the mobs to a standstill.

Decomposed heads swivelled on loose necks to the prince, their groans quieting to idle shifts in their jaws.

“What are you doing? Seize that welp, and rid me of his ungrateful presence!”

Gristol's mask of confidence slipped further off his face as the soldiers and peasants began to form a half-circle around him.

“Did you not hear me?”

The aggressive yet lopsided thrusts of their legs and the gurgling in their throats sparked a dreadful fear, one familiar to the sense that overwhelmed his boyhood self.

“I am your Gzar! You will obey me!”

The clock fell from its perch on an unseen wall and shattered onto the floor in a mess of serrated glass, tolling like a church bell.

Gristol jumped at the noise and flinched away from the destruction.

More doors spawned on either side of the preexisting ones, and additional hordes of peasants and guards stampeded through them.

As he retreated deeper into the void, a hand as cold as the Siberian winter fell upon his shoulder. It lowered each finger individually and dug its sharp nails into his uniform.

Gristol stiffened as if on reflex, and the involuntary tension in his muscles only constricted him tighter when he looked up.

The hand was attached to a pencil-thin arm, which led to an unnaturally tall silhouette with a prominent resemblance to his father.

The shadow of an extravagant crown, the same as the one on Gristol's head, hid in the darkness, untouched by the light but shining with a distinct outline.

“Father?” questioned the prince, his voice strangled by panic and on the cusp of breaking.

The eyes of the figure were black and soulless like the depths of a cave that had never seen daylight, and the teeth in its lipless mouth were sharp and crooked as if struck by a hammer.

Without moving any other body part, the hand slid from his collarbone to his chest. Gristol managed the beginning of a scream before he was yanked into the darkness and vanished from Razputin's sight.

“Gristol!” yelled the psychic, but with the prince gone, the mobs of reanimated corpses turned to the Psychonaut once again.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled. Razputin pushed his goggles over his eyes and spun on his heels to scramble in the opposite direction, having mere seconds to judge every door he passed and bet his life on which one would deliver him to safety.

“Lili,” he shouted into the earpiece, “where are you? We have to get out of this mind now!”

* * *

The spherical walls of the Psychoisolation cell were a nearly transparent wave of pulsating magenta, the rich shades of purple and red like strawberry jam fading into a hazy mist around the centre as if it were underwater.

The dual antennae of an old television set, the green leaves of a house plant, and the dark brown wood of two bookcases were visible beyond the psychic shield.

Razputin eyed the pale imitation of normalcy left behind by Compton Boole after the man had locked himself inside and spent weeks dangling on the edge of overwhelming panic, assuming that Gristol had far less respect for anything that was not his royal palace.

The soles of his shoes clanked along the metallic floor, and just as the Psychonaut was nearing the cell, a pair of yellow eyes moved in front of the slot in the door.

“Have they asked for me?” The question flowed so readily from his mouth that it seemed he had been holding it on his lips and waiting to spring at the first opportunity like a predator lying in ambush.

Razputin did not waste a second in responding. “Nope, they haven't said a thing about you.”

Gristol toiled in silence for a moment, his eyes widening and his breath wavering as the illusion he clung to like the last scrap of food in famine was threatened. His pupils dilated in anger, and the truth of this momentary shake in his conviction was drowned in the lie poisoning his mind.

“You can't deceive me.”

There existed a scathing kind of malice in his glare as if the suggestion of otherwise was insulting.

“I know them better than you could ever dream, psychic.” The prince hissed the word “psychic” like a snake twirling its forked tongue, prompting Raz to withdraw from the door and pull his lips into a frown.

The young Psychonaut considered these words before his shoulders slumped in disappointment, and he shook his head with a quiet sigh. “I hope you find peace, Gristol.”

Do anything you want with my work, but never make me boring!

63 notes · View notes