#i have trouble sitting down and working on a lotta kinds of art for very long

[wanderingmaskdragons]

dragon doodles:

Myth

[adobe-outdesign]

The Draw of the Pipes

The ink is not alive, there are not voices coming from the newly-installed pipe in his office, and Grant Cohen is not crazy. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Loosely based off of the DCTL lore, but modified to play nicer with canon.

(AO3 link here.

TWs: Unreality, suicidal idealization, accidental self harm, body horror, and some mild/unintentional ableism from some characters. This is a fic about someone with depression losing their mind, so there’s a lot of talk about mental health related issues. Approach with caution if these themes may bother you.)

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Distribution fees, $9,842.31. Marketing and publicity, $10,372.12. Special projects, $64,921.98...

The door opens.

Grant sighs, setting his pen down neatly at the edge of the paper. “Mr. Connor, please knock before you enter. I’m in the middle of tallying this year’s revenue and I can’t afford any distractions.” And for that matter, neither could Joey.

“Sorry. Just came in to tell you you can move back into your office now.” The taller man leans against the frame of the door, removing his ink-stained gloves. “The pipe’s in place. We’ll need to put the wall back later, but it might be a while at this rate.”

Grant presses his hands against his temples, trying to fight off his incoming headache. “Remind me again why we’re wasting money doing this when we can barely afford to pay our taxes this year.”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t ask questions, I just do the work.”

“I know. I was being rhetorical, see.” Of course it was Joey’s fault. When wasn’t it?

Grant stands up from his temporary desk, silently rounding up papers and jogging them into a neat pile before following the mechanic back to his usual office. He nearly winces as he enters the room, eyes going straight to the mess that the construction had left behind.

“You couldn’t have cleaned after yourself a little?” The entire back wall had been torn down, bits of drywall scattered about on the floor, with a massive pipe filled with black ink set back into the cavity. “Garish” would’ve been the nicest word he could use to describe it.

“No point when we have to reconstruct the entire damn wall again anyway.”

Grant just shakes his head, setting the receipts down on his desk. “I guess.” Maybe it would seem less intrusive if he just didn’t look at it.

Thomas turns to leave and then stops, standing in the doorway. “By the way, I should warn you that you shouldn’t get too close to the pipe. High ink pressure, exposed wall studs, that kind of thing. Could be dangerous.”

“I’m aware. I’ve already had to pay off several lawsuits from employees getting injured by exploding pipes.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but it probably did anyway.

“I already sent out a memo to the office telling everyone to stay out of the utility shafts. Nothing else I can do.” He pulls back on his gloves. “There’s a shut-off valve back by the right side, behind the drywall. You can use that to stop any leaks. Or refill your pens. But don’t-” Thomas pauses, looking back at the missing wall, as if there was something else he wanted to say. “Just don’t get too close to it unless you need to, all right?”

So am I supposed to touch it or not? Grant just shakes his head, too exhausted to discuss exactly what the mechanic meant by that. “Trust me, I have no intention to go anywhere near it,” he finally states.

Thomas nods, finally leaving, and Grant turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. He felt like something had been off about the conversation, but he didn’t realize what it was until later.

Not once during the entire conversation did Thomas look him in the eye.

__________________________________

Someone is knocking at the door, and it’s not making his headache any less painful.

“Are you still working?” someone asks, and he recognizes the voice of David, one of their auditors.

“I’m always working. You can come in,” he adds as an afterthought. David swings the door open with a bit more force than necessary, jacket already draped over one arm.

“Me and the fellas are headin’ over to Verdi’s to unwind,” he explains, leaning his arm against the back of Grant’s chair as he speaks. “You should come with! Bet they’ll be a lotta cute dames there.”

Grant attempts a thin smile, though it probably looked like more of a grimace with how much his head hurt. “David, I just got a divorce.”

“What do you mean, just? That was eight years ago!”

He ignores that statement but considers the offer for a moment. Going out for a drink certainly would be nice. Forgot all their financial problems for a bit, forget his headache...

“That doesn’t matter. Anyway, I need to stay here. I have to get these claims down to insurance by tomorrow afternoon or else we’ll all be in trouble.” In reality, he didn’t want to go because the last time he went out drinking he had ended up completely bent and crying into the arms of Toby, their paymaster. The man had acted sympathetic enough at the time, but Grant hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since.

“Your call. But hey, if you change your mind you know where to find us, okay?” David throws his jacket over his shoulder and leaves as quickly as he came in.

Time passes. Grant listens to the Bendy-shaped clock on the wall as it ticks down the minutes. God, he hated that clock. Joey had given it to him as a ten-year work anniversary present and had presented it as if it was a big deal, when in reality Grant was sure he had walked down to Heavenly Toys five minutes before to pick it up. Now it swings back and forth idly, as if mocking him.

Tick, tick, tick...

His writing was getting a lot lighter.

Grant leans back in his chair, looking at the pipe for the first time since he had fully moved back into his office. Thomas had said he use it for refills, but he had also said to stay away from it. Which one was it?

He studies it for another moment, contemplating and flipping his pen between his fingers, before sighing and getting up. If the damn pipe was going to be in his office, the least it could do was save him a trip up to the Art Department.

The pipe makes a strange groaning sound and he stops, remembering the multiple claims they had filed over the last few months regarding pipes exploding, but nothing else happens. It was just the glass creaking, he scolds himself.

He turns the shut-off valve slowly, and a smooth stream of jet-black ink flows from the nozzle and into the well in his hand. Grant returns to his desk, unscrewing the fountain pen. It was a bit of a hassle to refill it, but it was worth the effort - it had been a bar mitzvah gift years ago, and it was a finer pen than any others he had used over the years. He dips it into the well, twisting the end to draw the ink up into it, then screws it back together.

He takes out a handkerchief to blot off the top and somehow, while turning it around, stabs himself with it.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, holding his now-bleeding hand. He had refilled this pen hundreds of times before and had never managed to hurt himself with it. He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to do that.

He gently blots away the spot of blood, revealing a tiny puncture wound with a bit of black under the skin from where the tip of the pen had struck him. Grant shakes his head, annoyed at managing to injure himself while doing something so mundane, and goes back to his writing.

He had never written with ink that flowed so nicely, or looked so dark.

__________________________________

Grant swore his headache was getting worse, and the knocking at the door isn’t helping.

“Come in,” he calls out, lifting his hands from his head. The door opens a crack and in steps their file clerk, a timid young man in a cardigan holding a stack of reports.

“Your, uh, secretary told me you could take for a minute.”

“Yes.” He waits for a moment, but the man doesn’t seem eager to speak. “Well, go on. I don’t have all day. I have a meeting in 5.”

The man startles, like he hadn’t been expecting him to speak. “Uh, right. On these papers, sir, I think you got one of the numbers wrong?”

“What? Here, hand it over.” Grant briskly takes the sheet and sets it down, using his pen as a guide as he mentally calculates. $4,592 plus $319 equals $4911, that plus another $6,793 was $11,704, and that plus another $211 was-

$11,915. Not $11,825, as he had written down on the sheet.

“I’m- No, I’m sorry, that’s wrong.” He shakes his head and crosses out the number, recalculating the rest of the amounts quickly, the corrections looking bold and black compared to the rest of the ink on the page. He hands it back to the man. “Thank you for catching that.”

The younger man mumbles something about it being no problem and quickly darts out. Grant stares at the papers scattered about on his desk, head pounding.

He had worked at Joey Drew Studios for ten years, and had spent another 15 working in the finance business. He had never gotten a number wrong before.

__________________________________

“I’m not happy, Grant. Want to know why?”

Joey stands beside him, studying the “work hard, work happy” poster above his desk, which had partially fallen down at some point. The fact that he nearly had a foot and a half of height over Grant was intimidating enough, and sitting down only made the difference feel more extreme.

“Why?” he asks, not that he really cared but because he knew that that was what Joey expected him to say.

“Some people in the studio are starting to talk as if we’re in some kind of financial trouble! And they say they got that information from you!”

“Mister Drew, they were in overpay,” he explains patiently, scratching the wound on his hand. “I had to explain to them why we couldn’t provide them a check this week-”

“DAMMIT, THIS ISN’T ABOUT THAT!” Joey suddenly yells, slamming his hands down on the desk. Grant was very, very used to Joey’s sudden turns of mood, but somehow the sudden noise still manages to make him jump.

Joey takes a deep breath and is instantly back to his cheerful self, like flipping a light switch. “When people think there are problems, they start to get worried! And when people get worried, they start to leave! And if you don’t want to join them, you’ll stop talking about it. Got it?”

“I- Yes,” he breathes, looking down at his desk. Joey slaps him across the back, which was probably meant to be a friendly gesture but instead feels more like he just got hit.

“Good man! And make sure to make those Bendyland payments soon. Bertie won’t get off my back about it!” Joey chirps. He disappears out the door before Grant has a chance to object.

Well, it was official. His headache had been upgraded to a full-on migraine.

__________________________________

“I’ve told him before that we can’t afford to keep spending money like this. But he won’t listen to me, so there’s nothing I can do except cut the budget to other departments. And then that makes everyone blame me, see, even though I’m just trying to make sure we don’t all go bankrupt and end up out on the street.” Grant leans back in his chair, taking a drag off his cigarette. He didn’t normally smoke much, but right now he needs something to take the edge off. “And this migraine isn’t helping anything either.”

"Maybe you should take a break, sir. When was the last time you took any days off?” His secretary didn’t really need to sit there and listen to him, but she always did regardless. He appreciated it more than he tended to admit.

Grant sets down the cigarette in his tray, rubbing at his eyes. Why was he always so tired anymore? “I don’t have any more vacation days, if that’s what you mean. Used them all earlier in the year.”

“What about sick days?”

He scratches at the spot on his hand where he had stabbed himself absentmindedly. Was it just him, or was it bigger than it was initially? “I’m not sick, I’m just tired. Besides, I used all of my sick days up already.” He wouldn’t admit it, but most of those days had been spent on times where he physically couldn’t bring himself to get up out of bed. “And I can’t afford to take any unpaid ti-”

A thin, shrill scream cuts through the air, nearly causing him to double over in pain from his migraine. It was terrified and loud, like it had come from somewhere in the room with them. He jumps up from his desk - then stops, looking at Carol, who hadn’t budged an inch.

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what, sir?” She straightens her glasses, black curls bobbing as she looks around in confusion.

“The- What, you didn’t hear it?” No, she had to have heard it. It was so loud...

 She walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, redirecting him to his desk. “Try to take a break and relax, Mr. Cohen. All of this stress isn’t good for you.” She says it kindly enough but there’s an edge to her voice, like she was concerned, or possibly even scared.

It was just stress. Of course.

__________________________________

At first, Grant thinks it’s an error. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been miscalculating things a lot recently, or maybe there was just an extra investment made at some point that he forgot to account for. He doesn’t start to seriously consider the debt a possibility until he recaculates everything, and even then he tries to convince himself there’s an alternate explanation, even though he knows it’s a lie. He stares at the papers in front of him.

$48,128 short.

Grant checks the numbers, checks them again, over and over until his vision is blurry and his head is pounding harder than usual. He may have made a mistake earlier, but not now. Between the overdue Bendyland payments, the taxes they still owed, and the massive amounts of money Joey had spent on that damn Machine, there wasn’t even close to enough money to possibly cover everything.

He scratches at the ink on his hand again, which removes the scab that had formed there. Grant was certain now he wasn’t imaging the stain getting worse - it had progressed from a small barely-noticeable spot into an ugly black mark about the size of a quarter.

As Grant stares at the final calculations he scratches at the spot more aggressively, digging his nails into it as hard as he can as he thinks about getting fired, about what would happen when Joey found out. He can feel the panic attack coming on but he can’t do anything other than hold onto the table for support. He’s sweating, hyperventilating, his chest hurts, his vision is swimming, it’s so loud-

1-2-3-4. He forces himself to breathe deeply, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, trying to think about anything but the debt. Slowly, the attack passes, and the noise that he had been hearing slowly dims and then disappears. He couldn’t afford a panic attack, not now. What he needed was a plan, something to tell Joey so he might not fire him on the spot. They could file a bankruptcy claim and see if they could win back enough in the settlement to pay off their investments, maybe try to save at least the animation department and work up from there...

But first, he’d have to tell Joey.

He continues to stare at the ceiling, listening to the clock tick on the wall.

__________________________________

One thing he had learned since he started working at Joey Drew studios was that everything was his fault.

Not literally, of course. His job was simply to budget the numbers as best he could and advise Joey on how to invest his money, which he never paid attention to anyway. No, it was the way everyone else perceived things that made him a scapegoat. If someone got an overpay notice and his name was at the top of it, they would blame him, simple as that.

That’s not to say everyone did. His fellow accountants knew he was just the guy trying to keep the company afloat. Some of the department heads understood as well, especially the ones who he had already spoken to, but even their sympathies dried up when the budget cuts started happening.

Grant leaves his office as little as possible, only darting out to use the bathroom or to grab his lunch. It’s still not enough to hide him from catching the angry expressions and whispered conversations in the break room.

“Company will go under any day now...”

“Finances slashed our entire department’s budget in half, yet we’re still expected to produce the same amount of toys! How do they think that’s even possible?...”

“I’ve been in overpay for over two weeks! I’m about to go down to Finances and strangle that Cohen guy myself, I tell you...”

He wanted to scream at everyone, tell them that he couldn’t do anything about the budget except tell Joey not to spend so much and that money didn’t grow on trees, and if it was up to him he’d give everyone a month’s worth of paid vacation and a raise! But he couldn’t do any of those things, so he just spends his time hiding in his office, waiting for the day to be over.

He was tired. He could barely sum up the energy to make something to eat - his last meal had been a piece of slightly stale bread from the fridge. He couldn’t bring himself to have any water, either. For some reason the thought of trying to drink it repulsed him.

He has so many meetings anymore. Angry face after angry face, demanding to know where their last paycheck was or why they had been let go due to downsizing or why they couldn’t hire any new help. All he can do is explain as patiently as possible that there’s nothing the Finance Department can do.

They think he looks terrible, he can tell just by looking at their expressions when they walk in. He spends all day sleeping, yet the constant nightmares keep him restless, jolting him awake. The one where he melted alive, that was a common one. The one where millions of finance reports pile up on his desk and cut him open when he tried to touch them, that was another. And of course there was the most common one, the one with the strange demon creature with overly long arms that either ripped him apart or dragged him under a pool of ink, depending on the dream.

“Why can’t you do anything about this?”

His head hurts, and he’s so, so tired.

__________________________________

Grant studies the memo in front of him. It was some sort of mandatory form to be filled out by all employees, and when he had first got it he had set it aside, figuring it was a standard evaluation form or something. It was only upon actually reading it did he realize how strange some of the questions are. For every straightforward question asking about how their experience in the office could be improved, there was a question about how often they worked late or how many family members they had.

Who is your favorite Bendy character and why? Choose from Bendy, Boris, Alice, or the Butcher Gang. Grant just shakes his head, wondering if Joey had finally lost it. Still, the question was marked as mandatory.

He tries to think back to the cartoons he’s seen. Despite working in the studio, he rarely saw the finished products they produced - the only time he bothered to watch them was when they were screened for the entire studio after completion. They were amusing enough, he supposed.

Grant rolls his pen between his fingers as he thinks. Finally he writes down “The little spider fellow. He’s charming in a way.” He resists the urge to write “Why are you making us fill this out?” under the comment section and instead folds it up, setting it neatly on his desk so he can drop it in the mail boxes on the way out.

As he sets the memo aside he notices that his injured hand looks worse than it did earlier. He holds his wrist, inspecting it under the dull glow of his desk lamp. The black area had gone from a tiny pinprick to a large black splotch covering most of his palm. It didn’t hurt, but it did feel slightly numb and cold to the touch.

Maybe it was infected. Could infections cause headaches? That would explain some things. He didn’t know much about medical care, but he did know that infections should be drained and cleaned thoroughly to make sure they healed correctly. 

He digs around in his desk, retrieving a letter opener from one of the drawers. It was one of the nice ones, with a carved wooden handle and a long pointed metal top. Almost more of a knife than a letter opener, really.

Grant takes out his handkerchief and lays it to the side of the desk. Cut open near the most infected part, drain any puss, and then wash and bandage the wound. Easy.

He selects a spot slightly above his palm and gently slides the metal point into the skin, wincing at the pain. He wriggles it a bit to make sure the opening is big enough, then sets down the letter opener and squeezes gently.

There is no puss, or any sign of an infection. What there is is a lot of blood. And then he realizes that his hand isn’t black, and it never had been - the wound was still a tiny pinprick in the center of his hand. What there was was now a much larger-than-intended cut on his palm, bleeding profusely.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pressing the handkerchief against the spot. It’s soaked through within seconds and he quickly pulls off his neck tie, wrapping it tightly around the wound. Stupid, stupid. What the hell was he thinking?

Grant darts out of his office and takes the back way to the restrooms, keeping his head low and his hand close to his chest to avoid any questions from onlookers. He carefully unwraps his hand as he slips into the men’s room, and for one terrified second he wonders if the bleeding will actually stop. He breathes a sigh of relief as he unwraps the blood-stained tie, revealing that the wound had clotted and dried.

He washes the area carefully, then splashes some cold water on his face. The previous injury was still just a tiny speck in the middle of his palm.

It was just a hallucination, he reassures himself, rubbing his face with a hand towel. He stares at his own tired eyes in the mirror.

No, only crazy people had hallucinations.

And he certainly wasn’t crazy.

__________________________________

Grant had long since given up on trying to get Joey to meet with him by asking him directly, as it was becoming increasingly obvious that the man was just flat-out ignoring him. He had instead tried sending a memo to his secretary, asking her to slot him in as soon as possible. Apparently that had worked, as Joey had unexpectedly barged into his office that morning, slamming the door open so hard Grant was almost surprised that it didn’t fall right off its hinges.

“All right, all right, I’m here. What do you want?” he demands, quickly brushing out his suit. He looked disheveled, and there was ink splattered haphazardly on his hands and face. “For all of your ‘time is money’ talk you sure do like wasting mine, Cohen!”

This was not good. Joey didn’t take bad news well when he was in a good mood - trying to talk to him about the debt when he was already irritated was sure to end badly. “Mister Drew, it’s about our current budget-”

“Hmm? The budget?” Joey licks his finger and rubs at one of the spots at his hand, not looking at the accountant. “I told you, just pull the money from the investors!”

This would be easier if it didn’t feel like someone was pounding a stake into his head. “Mister Drew, as I explained in my earlier memo we don’t have enough funds from the investors to-”

“Isn’t it your job to handle the damn budget? Pull the funds from Heavenly Toys, I don’t care! Just make it work!”

“You see, we can’t cut funding to the Toy Department because-”

“It’s always the same with you! Complaining about taxes and budget cuts and everything else under the sun! Stop dragging me all the way down here and do your goddamn j-!”

“WE DON’T HAVE ANY MORE GODDAMN FUNDS!” Grant screams, standing up from his chair so fast that it crashes back onto the floorboards. He stands there, breathing heavily as Joey stares at him.

He had worked at the studio for ten years. He almost never yelled at anyone, as he considered it unprofessional, unnecessary.

And he sure as hell didn’t yell at Joey Drew.

“I’m sorry,” Grant mutters, slinking down to avoid the taller man’s gaze. Joey was at least looking at him now - really looking at him, like he was just now noticing how terrible he looked, or the ink splotch that once again seemed to be covering his palm.

“No, go on.” He can’t read Joey’s expression.

Grant takes a deep breath. He had mentally rehearsed what he needed to say dozens of times, but his outburst had left him struggling to remember any of it. “We can’t pull funds from the Toy Department because there are no more funds, Mister Drew.” He pulls the piece of paper with the damning final calculations on it and holds it out to Joey, who grabs it with enough force to crumple it. “Couldn’t even cover it if I fudged the numbers.”

Joey remains silent, looking over the sheet. Grant clears his throat. “The best thing to do would be to file for bankruptcy. If we aim for a Chapter 7 case, we could have exemptions cover the debt, so we’d be able to keep the studio’s property. And it takes less time to complete than a Chapter 13 case, see.”

The other man rises from his chair, sliding the now-wrinkled calculations back onto Grant’s desk. He puts his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, digging his fingernails into his sleeve. “How did this happen, Grant?”

Grant was used to Joey screaming at him. He could handle Joey screaming at him. This weird pseudo-calmness was not something he was used to. “I tried to warn you, Mister Drew. About the overspending-”

He stops speaking as Joey puts more pressure on his shoulder, making him wince. “You see, I’m not very fond of people letting other people steal from me.”

This conversation was not going at all like he expected it to, and the sudden twists were catching him off guard. “What? Mister Drew, I didn’t-”

Another squeeze on his shoulder cuts him off. “Oh, but you did! If I put someone in charge of watching my house while I’m gone, and they let someone walk off with my $3,000 Kandinsky, whose fault is it that my painting is gone?”

He leans down close to Grant, close enough that he can smell the aftershave he put on this morning. “Fix. It.”

Joey stands up and slams the door so hard on his way out that it sends that godforsaken Bendy clock smashing onto the floor, breaking it into a million tiny pieces.

__________________________________

“Be quiet,” Grant insists, even though logically he knows there’s no one else in the room with him. He can hear all kinds of noises though - people screaming, crying, whispering so quietly he wasn’t even sure there was any whispering at all. He struggles to focus on the typewriter in front of him, the words on the page blurring over.

“Be quiet!” he snaps at no one, and the noise seems to quiet down a little. He eyes the pipe on the back wall warily. It sounded as if the noise was coming from-

No, that was crazy people talk. There were no voices - he was just overstressed and tired. Grant takes a moment to rub at his tired eyes before turning his attention back to the typewriter.

We regret to inform you that Joey Drew Studios is going to be significantly downsizing within the next few months... 

His head feels like it’ll split apart completely if he doesn’t press his hands against it. Does the wording of this memo even matter? Everyone already hated him; it’s not like breaking the news that they’d all be out of a job soon would somehow make them change their opinions.

He turns his attention back to the pipe. The pipe... ever since that damn pipe had been installed he had been having these headaches, hearing the voices. But that didn’t make sense, did it? It was just a pipe full of ink.

“Stop it,” he hisses, one hand still pressed against his head. He uses his other hand to wipe away the sweat dripping from his brow as he stares down the pipe, as if expecting it to respond somehow.

The whispering... he can almost make out words, if he pays close enough attention. Something inside of him is pulling him towards the pipe, calling to him. He sets his head on the back of the chair, and as he does so he notices that his entire hand is black now-

Get outside. Get some air. Grant stands up unsteadily, knocking the chair over again and nearly tripping over its legs. The room swims unsteadily around him and there’s ink dripping down from the ceiling, from the walls...

The floor rises up to meet him and he grabs the trashcan from under his desk at the last second, retching into it. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to get rid of the burning sensation in his mouth as he opens his eyes again.

Ink.

There’s ink splattered over the inside of the trashcan, dripping from the crumpled papers inside and splashed up onto the metal edges. He wipes off his mouth and there’s more ink on the back of his hand, dripping onto his clothes. He can taste the saltiness of it in his mouth-

He might have screamed - he didn’t remember. Someone was grabbing him, dragging him away from the floor...

__________________________________

Grant wakes up slowly, waiting a moment for his eyes to focus. There’s wooden boards composing the ceiling above him. Still in the studio, then.

“Where am I?” he manages to croak. His voice is sore and his whole body aches. There’s something soft under him. A cot, maybe. A hand is holding out a wet towel and he takes it, pressing it against his head as he lies back down.

“You’re in the infirmary,” a voice he doesn’t recognize explains. “Your secretary brought you down. You have a fever.”

A fever. That was all?

He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

__________________________________

Grant spends the next two days lying at home in a confused, feverous haze. He can’t tell if what he’s seeing are hallucinations or fever dreams, if he’s awake or asleep. One minute there would be ink dripping from the walls; in another there would be a strange looking demon in the corner of the room. The pan he had dragged in by the bed yielded no more ink, just water and stomach acid. You’re not crazy, he reminds himself, staring at his mostly-black hand. You’re just seeing things because of the fever. The sickness was comforting, in a weird way, just because it gave him an excuse.

By the third day the fever has broken, and he checks the thermometer just to be sure. It yields a normal temperature, but instead of getting up continues to lie in his bed, staring up at the moulding on the ceiling. Part of him feels disappointed that he didn’t die from the illness, and yet another part feels guilty for thinking that at all.

The very idea of going back to work is overwhelming - even the idea of taking a shower feels like too much right now. But this was unpaid sick time, and he couldn’t afford any more of it. Skip the shower, he reasons, managing to sit upright. He manages a quick change of clothes - an undershirt and a vest, but forsaking his usual tie and sleeve garters. He doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror.

Grant barely makes eye contact with Carol, just mumbling an apology for scaring her as he slinks back to his office. He eyes the trashcan warily, but Wally must have taken out the garbage since then, as there’s a fresh bag in place of the old one. He sits down, straightening the papers on his desk. There wasn’t any ink to begin with, he scolds himself, shuffling through finance reports and several statements from the IRS. Something dark catches his eye and he starts moving papers aside, sliding the page out from underneath the stack.

It was the jet-black ink from his pen, certainly, and it’s his handwriting. He can even pick out a few familiar sounding words from the scratchy jumble of words - “taxes”, “48,128 short”, “time is money”. The pen was pressed down so hard in some areas that it had torn straight through the paper. But he didn’t write it. He didn’t remember writing it.

Grant abruptly crumples the piece of paper and throws it into the trash can, pulse pounding. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths. I must have written that when I was ill, he rationalizes, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling settling around his shoulders.

He leafs through the rest of the papers with a sense of dread, but there’s nothing but bankruptcy forms.

__________________________________

Grant hadn’t noticed it with everything else going on, but his headache had dulled considerably when he was resting at home. Now it was back in full force, and the ticking of the clock only seems to aggravate it.

He glances at it to check the time, only to remember with a start that it had broken permanently when Joey had slammed the door earlier. He shakes his head, combing his fingers through his greasy hair. Didn’t matter. He was pretty sure it was after five, at least.

There was screaming, and it was so vivid it was hard for him not to run off to try to find the source of it. It’s not real, he reminds himself, turning to glare at the pipe in the wall. No, don’t look at it. Focus on the bankruptcy filing, but the words blur and become meaningless the more he looks at them.

“Hello?”

Grant almost writes off the voice as another hallucination, but it sounds vaguely familiar, and after a few minutes of grasping at thoughts he realizes it’s the voice of Sammy, their music director. He didn’t know him very well, but they had spoken a few times about budget issues regarding his department.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

Normally Sammy’s voice was nice sounding, smooth and calm. Now it feels like every word is pounding a nail into his skull. He winces, clutching his head with both hands.

“Now’s not a good time. Come back later. Please.” Grant’s aware of how pathetic he sounds, but right now he doesn’t care. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation, not in this state.

“...Very well, then. I’ll be back later,” Sammy mutters. When Grant finally lifts his head, the room is empty.

Strange. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

__________________________________

“So we’re going to be keeping parts of the department, see? And if we’re keeping the animation department, we’ll need some sound to go with the cartoons.” Grant scratches at his hand, focusing on the papers before him. “We’ll need to downsize, though. Probably sell off some instruments as well…”

Jack leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks ominously under his weight. He takes a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, revealing a rather obvious bald spot under his hat. “I guess. Never been very good at firing people though.”

“You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.” 

Jack leans forward again, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes drift downward. “What happened to your hand?”

“My-?” Grant holds the appendage up, inspecting it under the dim fluorescent light. It was completely black now, like he had dipped it into ink and the skin had stained long after it was washed off. He stares at the cut on his hand, a reminder that this was yet another hallucination, that there was no ink.

And yet Jack was staring at him, normally cheerful face lined with concern. What was he looking at? The original puncture wound, which had long since scabbed over? The cut across his palm? Or maybe-

“I, uh, cut it. On some glass from one of the pipes,” he mumbles, hoping that was a decent enough explanation for whatever Jack was looking at.

Jack shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Sammy had stains like that all over his body,” he confides. “Then he went crazy and disappeared.”

“Yes, well, I’m not crazy, so-“ Grant stops mid-sentence, suddenly taking in what the lyricist was telling him. Sammy had disappeared months ago - that’s why he was talking to Jack about this in the first place, because he was filling in in Sammy’s absence. How had he forgotten that?

“What?”

“Sammy. Sammy was in my office last night, he…“ Grant stands up to look over Jack as if he expected to see Sammy still standing there, but there’s nothing except for the pipe.

 Jack’s expression is somewhere between discomfort, concern, and fear. “Uh, no offense, but maybe you should consider taking some days off. I’m sure spending all day cooped up in here can’t be good for you.”

“He was here. He was here, I heard him-“ Grant looks around helplessly before slumping back down in his chair, holding his throbbing head. “He was here! You believe me, right? He was...”

__________________________________

The thing about rumors was that once they got started, there was no way to stop them. And after that meeting with Jack, there was all kinds of speculation being passed around that Grant caught in snippets and whispers in the halls. That he had gone crazy; that he had had a mental breakdown and that’s why he was out for a few days; even that he had rabies.

Perhaps the only thing worse than the rumors were the response people had towards them. Complaints and anger, that he could handle at this point. What he couldn’t handle was those complaints being replaced with sympathy or fear or sometimes both. People treated him as if he was fragile, like he would break if they said the wrong thing. Soft tones, simple wording, smiles from people who were supposed to be concerned for him but seemed to be more concerned of him. Grant hated that more than anything. He was not crazy, and he certainly wasn’t a child.

At their weekly department meeting, he puts everything into his performance. Dressing as best as he could, talking in fast tones and quickly and efficiently telling everyone what to do and how to do it. It was exhausting, but he was fairly certain he had convinced a good portion of the staff that he wasn’t crazy as they left the room.

“Nicely done, sir,” Carol greets, setting her ever-present clipboard down on the desk. Her appearance was impeccable as always, and it only made him look worse in comparison.

“You think so?”

“Better than your last few meetings have been, at least.”

“I’ll take it.” Grant rests his head on the desk, closing his eyes momentarily. “How many more meetings do I have today?”

There’s the sound of a paper flipping over as Carol checks something on her clipboard. “Six.”

Six meetings. He had only done one so far and he already felt like he was about to pass out; six was surely impossible. “Can you reschedule?”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’ve already rescheduled most of them earlier this week, sir.”

Grant sits back up, struggling to get the desk back in focus. “I know, I know. Forget it. I’ll try to figure something out.”

Carol studies him for a moment with her sharp eyes. She was all business all the time - it was almost impossible for Grant to imagine what she was like outside of work. “With all due respect, why haven’t you quit yet? It’s obvious you can no longer function at work anymore.”

Quitting. God, how he had fantasized about the idea of barging into Joey’s office and handing him his resignation, savoring the look he’d imagine he’d have on his face as he told him off for all of the terrible decisions he had made as a CEO. The very thought of it made him feel better, at least for a fleeting moment. 

“I have. It’s just...” he admits, then stops, not wanting to say any more.

“I take it that’s not an option?”

Grant remembers how proud his parents had been when they had heard what a high-end job he had snagged, how they had bragged about him to all of their family members. And he knows, deep down, that he simply will not be able to find another job as high-profile as this one, not like this.

But he can’t say that.

“I don’t think anyone will be eager to employ me after finding out the last company I managed financially went bankrupt,” he mutters, which isn’t a lie.

Grant sits in silence for a while, rolling his pen between his black fingers.

“I... I can hear things, sometimes,” he mumbles. He’s not really sure why he’s telling her this, other than the fact that she was there and listening and he felt like he needed to confide in someone. “It’s like the ink is... alive, or something. It wants me to be with it, I think, or a part of it-” He cuts himself off, burying his head in his hands. “Sorry. That doesn’t make any sense.”

There’s another uncomfortable bout of silence. Eventually Carol sits down on the edge of the desk, setting her clipboard in her lap. “Have you considered seeing a professional?”

She doesn’t say more than that, but he understands what she’s implying. “No, I can’t. If I told anyone else... they’d lock me away, I’m sure. I’ve heard of what goes on in those asylums of theirs; I wouldn’t make it out in one piece.”

“There’s no family members you can contact?”

He thinks about how disappointed his parents would be if they saw him like this, so tired and pathetic that he couldn’t even manage to do basic things like showering. He can picture the looks on their faces - his father’s stern look of disapproval, the disheartened look on his heartbroken mother’s face.

“No,” Grant mumbles.

She sighs, standing back up and straightening her pencil skirt. “I’ll try to clear your schedule for today.”

He nods, brushing his hair back. “Thank you.”

“And do try to at least eat something. You look thin.” With that she dismisses herself, leaving him alone in the room.

Grant stares at his pen, trying to remember the last time he had had a proper meal.

__________________________________

He was becoming increasingly good at avoiding people, slinking through the less-used halls and cutting through utility shafts to avoid the crowds. Now it’s inevitable that people see him as he shambles into the break room, and he does his best to avoid eye contact as he grabs a bag of nuts from the only non-bacon soup vending machine in the place. He fills a paper cup from the bathroom and finds a small secluded table tucked into the corner.

It couldn’t have been that long since I ate, or else I’d be dead by now, Grant rationalizes, but it feels like it’s been weeks since his last meal. Even when fasting he at least felt hungry; right now he feels nothing. In fact, the water seems downright repulsive, like a cup of lukewarm saliva. He tries to force himself to drink it, but a sudden convulsion causes him to gag and choke.

He straightens up, still coughing, and realizes that Thomas was watching him from the far table, with a look on his face that Grant couldn’t quite identify. As soon as they make eye contact Thomas looks away, quickly gathering his things from the table. But that one second is enough to know.

“Wait,” Grant manages to choke out between coughs. “Wait!” He abandons the table, scrambling after the mechanic as he darts around the corner of the hall. “What do you know about the ink! What-”

He stops short.

The hallway should have lead to the Art Department. Thomas should have been there. Instead he’s standing in an empty balcony in the center of a huge room with chains hanging from the ceiling. He brushes his fingers over the handrail in front of him, wondering if this was another hallucination, but it seems solid and cool to the touch.

Grant glances behind himself, realizing that the hallway leading into this room was completely different than the one he had just exited. Stop it, he insists to himself. Stop being crazy.

Cautiously he steps forward, walking around the perimeter of the balcony as he tries to get his bearings. There are no handrails in this section, just chains hanging down from the ceiling and descending into the darkness below. He leans dangerously close to the threshold of the wood, wondering what was so big and heavy to need that much support...

A loud grinding noise cuts through the air and he startles, stumbling back away from the edge at the last second. As the thing raises up, he notices the spicket first, then the pipes, then the ink flowing from it. The Ink Machine? He knew what it was - heck, he was the one who budgeted for all three versions of it - but he had no idea how huge this incarnation was. He leans closer, lost in thought. Why would Mister Drew spend that much money on something that just made ink? Joey’s spending may have been irresponsible and stupid, but he wasn’t irrational.

A cold sensation pulls Grant out of his thoughts, and when he looks down he sees that everything is covered in a strange black pattern, like spider webs. He runs his hand over the pattern on his clothes, but the darkness merely covers his fingers instead, like it was a shadow. No, no. Not now...

Grant takes a moment to breathe, willing the illusion away as he works his way back towards the hallway, dragging his hand against the walls to guide himself. The room seems to be getting progressively darker, and he can feel the hair on his neck standing up. Something was wrong-

He turns around.

It takes him a moment to realize there’s something standing on the other end of the balcony. Its body is emancipated, and so black it blends straight into the darkness, making only a few details visible - its face, its bowtie, the glove on its right hand. It looked like Bendy in a twisted way, like a terrible caricature.

It turns towards him blindly and starts slowly limping forward, one of its legs sticking to the floor and pulling away in long, gooey stands. Ink drips from it and puddles around the floor as it moves, the shadows on the walls seemingly following it. Run, Grant thinks to himself, knowing that he could outpace the creature easily. Instead he just stands there, paralyzed. He can feel something urging him towards the demon, the same strange draw he felt towards the pipe in his office. It was calling to him, and he couldn’t move-

Grant slumps down on his knees in a helpless panic as the creature approaches, getting close enough that he could see the drops of ink running down its skeletal figure. It tilts its head, its drawn-on smile vibrating, as if it were studying him. Slowly, it reaches a disturbingly human hand down towards him, sliding the ice-cold appendage under his head as he struggles to breathe. It curls its fingers, hooking its hand under his chin.

It turns its head again and taps his head up, once, like he was a child who had just said something amusing. It takes a step back, smile still vibrating, and walks directly through the wall beside him, the shadows vanishing with it.

Grant doesn’t remember how he found his way out of the department, or if anyone tried to stop him. All he remembers is running, running, running...

__________________________________

He had spent the weekend lying in bed, trying to lull himself to sleep, even though sleep just brought more nightmares of the strange demon creature. If he wasn’t asleep, he was crying; if he wasn’t crying, he was debating on overdosing on the pills in the medicine cabinet. The only real thing that stopped him was remembering that he had had the foresight to hide those pills on the top shelf when his depression had been less severe, where he would need a stepstool to get to them, and it was too exhausting to even think about fetching it from the garage.

And it was while he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes, that he finally decided he had to quit. He simply wouldn’t survive otherwise.

The plan had sounded good in his mind - he would go into work on Monday, pack up his things, leave Joey a resignation notice, and check himself in somewhere to get help. It was only now, hitting the down button on the elevator, that he realizes that he couldn’t handle going back to work again.

As Grant steps onto the elevator, he notices the look the other occupant is giving him. Lacie, he realizes, one of the Bendyland workers. They had gone out drinking a few times before. Now she’s inspecting him with those sharp eyes of hers, taking a cigarette out of her mouth with gloves that were stained with either grease or ink.

You look terrible, he scolds himself, slinking into the corner of the elevator. When he was doing well mentally, he was an incredibly well-kept person - suit vests, ties, even taking the time to comb his mustache - because as far as he was concerned one’s appearance was as important to the job as their performance. Now he’s still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing on Friday, unbathed and unkept. Lacie continues to study him, as if she was debating on saying something, but the elevator screeches to a stop and she exits with commenting.

Carol doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised when Grant tells her that he’s quitting, nor does she seem bothered by him practically begging her to cancel his meetings for today. She just nods, her black curls bouncing, and he suspects she had already known this was coming for a while now.

Within the first half an hour of work he realized what a mistake this plan had been, and by the end of the first hour his head was pounding with another migraine. The walls swim dangerously around him as he pulls the cassette recorder from his desk drawer and sets it on his desk. Joey had distributed them around the entire office, claiming that they should use them to “express their feelings”, whatever the hell that meant.

Grant had only recorded one tape before, but now it seemed appropriate to do another, as surely a recording of his resignation would be better than a letter. He turns on the tape and tries to speak, but the words get lost among a sea of noise and screaming and he can’t remember what he needed to say or why he was saying it. He slams his hand down on the stop button and jerks around towards the pipe, which sits motionless in the wall.

“STOP IT!” Grant screams, even though he knows that the ink isn’t alive and that that’s crazy and everything he’s doing is crazy. He slumps down onto the floor, tears running down his face as he holds himself, as if he would fall apart into a million little pieces if he didn’t. “Stop it,” he begs. “Stop it. I don’t know what you want from me.”

The silence in the room is almost deafened by the noise in his head, but slowly he can make out a voice, a whisper, urging him to come closer. He can feel it, the need to be closer to it, to be a part of it. He shakily rises to his feet and stumbles forward, pressing his blackened hand against the cold glass.

The relief is instant - the overwhelming call of the ink is gone, the migraine suddenly subsided, and he understands that this is where he needs to be. He squeezes himself into the little cavity beside the pipe, curling up and resting his head against the glass. The noise is deafening, he can hear thoughts that aren’t his or maybe they were, but none of that matters anymore.

Grant drifts in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep some bearing on reality. He thinks he can hear the clock ticking but he has no idea what time it is, and it feels like it’s been days already but maybe it’s only been a few minutes.

He slowly comes to again and realizes that someone is standing there, trying to pull him out of the crevice. He struggles blindly against their grip. No! I need to be here! he wants to insist, but he can’t find the words. The figures shushes him softly and he hazily remembers how Carol had found him during his fever. Was he sick again?

He goes limp and the figure drags him out across the floor, propping him up against the wall. They roll up his sleeve and he can see that his entire lower arm had turned black, spreading out from his palm. His hand had tiny drops of ink clinging to the outside of it, and the veins above the area were dark. He wonders in a haze if the rest of his body was turning black as well.

“There, there, my sheep,” someone whispers, and some confused part of his brain recognizes Sammy’s voice again. His skin is icy to the touch as he puts a hand on the back of Grant’s neck, pressing something against his lips.

“Drink this,” Sammy insists, and he does so. The liquid is thick, salty tasting, and it burns his mouth slightly. He struggles to sit up, suddenly feeling a bit more lucid.

“Sammy...?” he manages to ask. The music director is covered in ink - it’s coating his entire body, dripping onto the floor, puddling around the Bendy mask he was wearing. Sammy merely shushes him again, wrapping his arms around his torso and dragging him to his feet.

“Can you stand?” he asks, and Grant nods, leaning against him for support. Sammy would bring him to the infirmary. He would be fine...

They walk slowly, Grant struggling to keep track of the hallways they were passing through. Some of them were familiar, some of them weren’t, some seem to lead to areas that logically they couldn’t connect to,

Finally they walk into a large open room, almost completely barren except for a few massive pipes running along the ceiling. Sammy guides him over to a nearby support beam and carefully pushes the other man away from him.

“Where-?” Grant mumbles, struggling to think, to processes what was going on. Something was wrong. They were supposed to go to the infirmary, weren’t they? Why were they here? He grabs at Sammy’s shoulder, only to recoil in disgust as his hand sinks into it, like he had just plunged it into a jar of molasses.

In one swift movement Sammy twists around behind the accountant, grabbing his hands and pulling them behind his back. Grant utters a protest and manages to pull free for a moment, but his movements are confused and uncoordinated and he merely ends up collapsing onto the floor.

“Easy, little sheep,” Sammy soothes, picking him up and dragging him over to the support beam, Grant struggling weakly as his hands are forcibly tied behind his back, then again against the pole. “Soon you will be in the hands of our Lord.”

Sammy seems to disappear for a few moments, and when he returns there’s a new voice with him. 

“...It won’t work anyway! And I don’t need another corpse on my hands!” Joey, that was Joey’s voice. Why was he here?

“He's already infected. We need to sacrifice him now, so our Lord can save his soul-”

“Damn it Sammy, stop talking like a lunatic!” Joey snaps. Grant can hear him pacing, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet. After a few moments the noise gets louder as Joey approaches, kneeling and cupping the other man’s chin with his hand as he forces him to look up.

“Grant, look at me,” he demands. Grant opens his eyes slowly, struggling to get Joey’s face to come into focus through the haze. It was hard to breathe, like his lungs were filled with water, and he was so tired...

He gives up and closes them again as Joey removes his hand, mumbling something under his breath. The other man stands back up and is quiet for a few moments, the only noise in the room coming from a persistently dripping pipe.

“Do it quickly,” Joey snaps at Sammy as he leaves the room. “You know how I feel about this.”

Grant can feel someone tugging at the rope around his wrists, loosening it. “What’s going on?” he manages to choke out. Words seemed almost impossible to form, the sentences breaking apart in his mind and falling from his lips in confused jumbles. Confusion gives way to fear as he struggles against the ropes again, but he only manages to fall sideways, hands still bound.

“Don’t be afraid, little sheep,” Sammy whispers, grabbing him by the shirt collar. “It will all be over soon enough.” He drags him a short distance across the floor, then forces him to sit upright in a kneeling position. There’s a screeching noise behind him that stabs into his mind, sharp and painful.

In front of him is a vast black area, expanding endlessly outward, and it takes Grant a moment to realize that it’s not the floor that’s black, but rather a huge empty space that’s been completely flooded with ink. Looking up reveals the cause - a shattered pipe, dripping ink into the basin rhythmically.

Something slams into the floor behind him with a heavy crash and a burst of steam, and he manages to turn around enough to see the Ink Machine, lowered so it was sitting on the floor. It’s on now, and the noise it’s making is awful, like the machine itself was screaming.

Sammy grabs him from the back, forcing him to lean forward, and as he does so he catches a glimpse of some sort of strange symbol on the floor beneath him. The ink is less than a foot away from his face now - it’s impossibly black, blacker than anything he had ever seen before. The only movement on the surface is a few small ripples created by the tears rolling down his face, which are lost instantly in the black void. He wants to struggle but he can’t, not with the ink beckoning to him.

“Sheep sheep sheep, it’s time for sleep,” Sammy whispers, shoving him into the abyss.

The ink is ice cold, and the shock of it makes Grant involuntarily gasp, his last bit of air escaping from his mouth and disappearing up into the void. He can feel the ink getting into his lungs, into his throat, but he can’t struggle and it’s not because of the ropes binding him. His lungs burn, everything burns, and it was dark, darker than he would have thought possible.

He stops feeling the burning sensation after a moment, and then he stops feeling anything. He just keeps sinking, deeper and deeper...

__________________________________

It was cold. Cold and wet.

Someone was grabbing him, pulling him away from the wetness, and he squeaks in protest. It wasn’t fair! He wanted to go back to sleep!

He can hear the person speaking, but he can’t make out all of the words. Something about asking if he was awake. Of course he was awake! They just woke him up, didn’t they?

“Edgar?” they try again. He burrows his way into their lap where it’s warm and tries to look around, but he doesn’t have eyes yet. Whoever it was sounded nice, friendly, but there was a strange edge to the way they speak that he can’t place. He knew that voice, yet he didn’t.

The ink making up his body suddenly spasms, twists. All Edgar can do is squeak in pain as the ink contorts, warping itself into a different shape. His limbs stretch out, refining themselves into fingers, forming into bone and flesh. He stares, transfixed. Hands. He hadn’t had hands before, had he?

His thoughts are abruptly cut off as the figure swears, shoving him off of his lap. He hisses angrily, wheeling around to face them. Part of his face burns, and he can see now in blurry black-and-white. In front of him is a massive machine, spilling gallons upon gallons of ink onto the floor from its spicket. In front of that is the man, who steps back away from him, recoiling in disgust.

“Damn it, I knew it wouldn’t work,” he mutters under his breath, and Edgar recognizes the man as Joey, except that wasn’t possible. He didn’t know this person, did he?

Joey squats down on the floor, suddenly cheerful, holding out his hand in front of him. “Why don’t you come here?” His voice is friendly, but his face is not. Edgar backs away, dragging himself on his half-formed legs.

“Grant, come here.” The cheerfulness is gone now.

Edgar puts his hands over his head, which was pounding with a stabbing pain. He can’t think straight. Grant. That was his name, wasn’t it? No, he was Edgar, he had always been-

The pain reaches its peak as his head abruptly rips open along the top, forming teeth and a tongue. The human scream that spills from it isn’t his. He claws at the new mouth frantically, ink spilling into the floor. No, no, this was wrong-

“I said COME HERE, DAMN IT!” Joey storms forward, reaching a hand out to grab him.

He doesn’t have fangs anymore, but he remembers how to bite. There’s a metallic taste that fills his head and a sickening cracking noise as his teeth clamp down on Joey’s hand. He screams, recoling, then draws his foot back and drives it into Edgar’s side. The spider releases his grip as he skids backwards over the wooden floorboards, squeaking in pain.

“SAMMY!” Joey barks, clutching his injured hand and backing away from the inky figure on the ground. Edgar slowly lifts his head, looking behind him. Some sort of inky mass is rising from the sea of black in front of them, as if the ink itself were trying to escape onto shore. Slowly it refines into a masked figure, who lays another mass of ink on the ground gently. They slowly move whatever the thing on the ground was into a horizontal position, ignoring Joey completely.

“Sammy!” Joey snaps again, voice tinged with pain and rage. “Lock that... abomination up somewhere!”

The masked figure raises his head for a moment, studying Edgar through cardboard eyes before looking back down again. “Whatever form he takes, it is our Lord’s decision, is it not? It is not our place to go against His will.”

Sammy lifts some part of the mass up, and as the ink drips down Edgar can make out a hand. Sammy gently draws it across the figure’s chest, then does the same with its other arm. Edgar perks up. Someone dead? Some of his best friends were skeletons. Maybe they would want to play with him.

Edgar glances back at Joey, wondering if he would try to grab him again. Insead the man takes a few steps back, face contorted in revolusion, and Edgar realizes that he was scared of him, scared of his own creation.

He cautiously drags himself across the floor, unable to stand fully on his half-formed limbs. Unlike Joey, the masked figure doesn’t seem to fear him at all. “It’s okay, little sheep,” he murmurs, moving aside so Edgar can get close. “You can look.”

Edgar nudges the body once with his hand, then pushes against it with both limbs, trying to get it to wake up. But it remains motionless, save for the ink slowly dripping away and puddling down around it.

“This body was poisoned,” Sammy explains. The corpse’s mouth is still wide open, black even on the inside, and Sammy slowly pushes it shut. “You would have ended up like me. Trapped in the abyss, lost... But through the grace of our Lord, you were saved. Your soul was still there, so He graced you with a new body, a new form. You should feel very blessed... do you understand?”

He didn’t, not really.

Edgar stares at the corpse, transfixed. Something stirs in the corner of his mind, except he’s pretty sure it’s not his memory. He remembers it being cold, noisy, hard to breathe. He was drowning-

A body. A dead body. 

His body.

Both minds scream and claw at themselves in a panic, trying to get the ink off as it once again writhes and reforms. A searing pain shoots through the left side of their face, and half of the world is suddenly in color. Another throat and mouth form, this time in the correct spot, and they nearly choke on the excess ink. They manage to stand up as another limb forces its way out of their side, transforming into a gloved hand.

Get to the office, call for help...

Edgar isn’t sure why this is so important to his other mind, but he can feel his other self’s desperation as clearly as if it was his own. He rises to their newly formed legs unsteadily, his entire body aching. He looks around, half expecting Joey to still be standing there, but the room is empty save for Sammy and the Machine.

They stumble out of the room as quickly as they can, Sammy making no attempt to stop them. The winding hallways are strange and foreign to Edgar, but Grant navigates through them effortlessly, sometimes walking bipedally and sometimes scampering on all of their limbs. The halls swim around them dangerously, dripping ink - even their own body drips and leaves trails of it through the halls. They drag themselves through the doorway, eyeing the pipe on the wall uneasily, but the ink no longer calls to them. It no longer needed to.

Tape player. Use the tape player, call for help...

He grabs at his chair and uses it to pull themselves upward, blindly hitting buttons as another convulsion overtakes them. Grant tries to speak, but the noise catches in their first throat and comes out as nothing but a whimper. He starts tearing at the stitches over his mouth in a panic, a third limb starting to form out of their right side.

He thrashes around blindly in pain, unable to scream, knocking something off the desk and shattering it. Edgar is scared, crying, but the noise comes out as a strangled snarl. Ink separates from their back and starts to split down the middle to form two separate limbs, then stops. Grant struggles to stay lucid, to stop transforming, but he can’t do either.

Help, he tries again, but something is blocking one of their throats and he can only whimper again, gasping for breath. They clutch the table for support as the ink solidifies, forming flesh and bone, forcing them to cough up the thick ink that had been choking them. There’s excess ink dripping off of them, in their lungs, breathing for them. Edgar slumps forward onto the table, gasping for breath, mashing buttons on the recorder until it finally turns off. They lay there for a long time, Edgar crying, Grant in shock.

They start to write.

Over the walls, the floor, using the ink dripping off of their body. They write everything they can’t say, covering every inch of the surface, writing until their fingers are bleeding ink and they’re too tired to move. They write until the walls are as inky and black as they are.

It takes Edgar a long time to realize he’s screaming, and then he realizes that it’s his other mind screaming, the noise dying in their first mouth and coming out a nothing but a muffled whine. It hurt their throat a little, but Edgar just lies on the floor, not daring to move.

He stays there for a very long time, waiting patiently until the horror his other mind feels numbs back into shock, until the screaming quiets and then stops. He gets up slowly, cautiously, making sure the movement wouldn’t cause them to start screaming again. Their whole body aches, but he forces himself to move forward, slipping out the door.

This room gave them headaches.

__________________________________

Edgar was pretty sure that something was wrong with his other mind.

He doesn’t ask, of course, because Charley and Barley got annoyed with him if he asked too many questions. It was just a suspicion he had.

For one, his other mind had very confused thoughts, ones that didn’t make any sense to Edgar. Most of them were repeated, over and over; he couldn’t always remember if they were real or were just dreams. Sometimes he didn’t think at all, which was scary for both of them. On the other hand if he thought too much he’d send them both into a panic attack, so Edgar tried to distract him if he started thinking sad things again.

He pounces on a can of bacon soup, which he had been using as a toy for a few days now, because even though they were hungry Grant had refused to let him eat it. It springs out from under his hands and goes flying into the far wall, smacking Charley in the process. Edgar lets out a garbled giggle in delight, snatching the can from a distance before Charley has a chance to take it from him. Charley snarls, smacking his hand with his pipe in a rather un-Charley-like way.

Edgar had seen that kind of thing happen with his friends a lot. Suddenly they wouldn’t be his friends anymore and he’d have to wait patiently for them to wake back up, which wasn’t easy as he hated waiting. His other mind almost never forced him to do anything he didn’t want to, unless they were in danger or he felt Edgar was doing something foolish. Edgar suspected he was simply too tired to fight back.

He didn’t know much about his other half. He had learned from his memories that his name was Grant, and that he used to work here. He also liked numbers - he counted every day, keeping track of the minutes and hours as they passed, even though Edgar suspected he had lost count several times already. He wasn’t really sure why it was so important to his other mind anyway.

He tosses the can above his head with their mechanical arm, which ricochets off a rafter in the ceiling and clatters to the ground in front of him, and he stares at it, feeling inexplicably sad. His other mind was sad all the time - sometimes if Edgar was happy Grant would feel it, but sometimes if Grant was sad it would seep into Edgar’s feelings and make him sad too. And sometimes they’d even stare thoughts - he can hear him now in the corner of his mind. He was so tired. He needed to lie down, needed to rest...

Edgar stares at the can in front of him. It didn’t seem very fun anymore.

He picks it up carefully and sets it on one of the nearby hallway shelves, where hopefully it would be safe until he was ready to play again. He picks out a spot on a couch to lie down on, burying his head under his arms. His head hurts, which it does sometimes if he lets Grant think for too long, and he scratches at his second mouth unhappily before curling up to sleep.

Maybe Grant would want to play tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so sad then.

Maybe.

[artnerd1123]

Roo’s Character Sheet

I started this a good long while ago, but finally finished it!!! Here’s all the deets on everyone’s favorite lil paint kitty :D (and apologies to those the cut doesn’t work for lskdjfs)

Character Chart Character’s full name: Roo Pingere Reason or meaning of name: “Roo” is what happens when you mash “red” and “hue” together; aiden’s not the best at names, and named the lil guy after a red paint splotch the kitten took an interest in. Fitting, seeing as Roo himself was made out of spilled paint. Pingere is latin for paint. Character’s nickname: Roodle, Roodle doodle, paint spot, honey bun, bud/buddy, doughball  Reason for nickname: Roodle/Roodle doodle are Aiden’s nicknames for Roo, on account of him looking like a doodle of a cat. Also, rhymes. Aiden also calls him bud/buddy sometimes jus bc it’s an affectionate nickname for a son. Journal will occasionally call Roo “paint spot” as a kinda older-brother giving younger-brother that he likes a nickname type deal. Honey bun is a term of endearment seraph uses for him, as is doughball Birth date: October 13th Sexuality: biromantic  Gender/pronouns: ???, he/him

Physical appearance Age: 10 (note: familiars are “mature” at 3yrs of age) How old do they appear: depends how mature he’s acting. some people would say he’s baby, but he normally acts around 17-19 tbh Weight: he’s made of paint. Maybe somewhere around 50-60 pounds tho? Height: 2’9’’ Body build: he is a Literal Bean™ with noodly arms n legs Shape of face: cat Eye color: black scleras, his irises are white with a black ring inside it, but his iris turns orange w/black slit in feral form Glasses or contacts: none Skin tone: pale indigo with darker indigo fur, and lavender cheeks Distinguishing marks: his cheeks each have two horizontal purple lines on them, and he also has freckles *shrugs* Predominant features: his big ol ears n fluffy tail, as well as dripping paint Hair color: technically fur, but indigo Type of hair: fur :V Hairstyle: none Voice: his vc is over here! Overall attractiveness: jus an adorkable lil bean Physical disabilities: none (unless not being able to touch water is one :V) Usual fashion of dress: doesn’t tend to wear anything but cloaks Favorite outfit: his classic brown cloak w/ many layered patches added over the years, held together with his indigo gem/silver cloak clasp Jewelry or accessories: has a silver cloak clasp with a circular indigo gem inlaid

Personality Good personality traits: good natured, wants to help, good listener, gives good advice, easy to make himself and others laugh, loyal, bubbly once you get to know him, dedicated, supportive, extremely loving/affectionate, does his best, very slow to anger, good secret keeper, will let loved ones know how he feels regardless of the emotion Bad personality traits: frightfully shy, indecisive in times of stress, easily scared, easily stressed, social and regular anxiety, very emotional, has a tendency to beat himself up over mistakes/things he did wrong, scares himself sometimes, if you actually somehow manage to make him mad he gets vicious, needs gentle handling if he’s overwhelmed or he’ll have a meltdown Mood character is most often in: a toss up between anxious and content Sense of humor: wordplay and making stupid faces are his go to. Puns are his favorite! These, likewise, will pretty much never fail to make him smile or laugh. Corny jokes are another failsafe that’ll cheer him up/make him laugh easily Character’s greatest joy in life: being able to paint on just about anything with his tail, and sitting in the sun/other warm places near people he loves Character’s greatest fear: being separated from Aiden unwillingly (aka getting lost) and blood Why: blood just… freaks him out. It always has. Whether it’s the implication of violence or just the sight of the bodily fluid, it will never fail to distress him. Aiden is also his originator, and the one person he relies on most. Without him, Roo wouldn’t know what to do with himself   What single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil? Losing Aiden. Character is most at ease when: with aiden, especially in places that they stop to rest in towns. If aiden’s not around, he’s most at ease with good friends or staying in the place they’ve found to live in. If there’s a windowsill or armchair to curl up in, then that’s even better! He’s almost always calm when he’s curled up somewhere comfy, with people he knows well close by. Most ill at ease when: aiden’s away, he’s on his own, during thunderstorms, or they’re right in the middle of somewhere really dangerous. Foggy/dark forests, old abandoned ruins, and anywhere wet/damp are all fair game. But he has to be alone to be truly ill at ease. He really doesn’t like being all alone. Enraged when: you manage to push all his buttons and break through his anxiety to tick him off. This barely ever happens, but it can if you continuously harass his friends/family. The moment he stops being scared of you, he’ll fight you himself. Angery Kitty™ Depressed or sad when: he messes up, he feels like he’s failed, he’s been anxious too long, [redacted] happens, they’re out of his favorite food/paint/etc at home, it’s been raining for awhile Priorities: helping/hanging out with aiden, tryna keep him safe, doing the same for all his friends, trying to do his best in any situation, and taking time to himself to recuperate if he needs it Life philosophy: treat others how you want to be treated, always be kind and respectful, and give plenty of chances. But when it comes down to it, know when to put your foot down, and know when things are out of your hands. Just do what you can while you can. Do the best you can do. If granted one wish, it would be: to have a safe home where he and aiden can settle down… (particularly with a partner of his own~) Why? As much as Roo likes exploring new places with Aiden, he misses the days when they were happily settled in a questor village, with friends and familiar surroundings that never changed. He wants to find a place in the world and settle there, away from danger and scary things where they can jus hang out together. He’s also always been a bit of a romantic, and he’d really like a partner one day. Jus someone to lov on and to lov him back, y’kno? Character’s soft spot: shiny/colorful things, friends, and scritches behind his ears Is this soft spot obvious to others? Yep. Completely. Spend a little time around him and present one of these things to him, and you’ll def be able to see him light up :D Greatest strength: he’s really observant of others/his surroundings, and thus very introspective. This allows him to offer good advice and insight on any given situation that he’s a part of. Also, his feral form def packs a punch >:V Greatest vulnerability or weakness: he’s scared of a lotta things, and his anxiety also super sucks. if he’s in a stressful situation, these tend to lock him into a state of horrible indecision. Not to mention his feral form is kinda out of control. He gets really anxious/self conscious about it. Biggest regret: not being able to control himself in his feral form Minor regret: being so shy around new people Biggest accomplishment: he doesn’t quite have a crowning achievement, but he’s helped aiden outta plenty of dangerous situations while questing. Minor accomplishment: he’s found a way to sleep on literally any windowsill, no matter how small. Magic kitty :D Past failures they would be embarrassed to have people know about: back when he was still learning how to clean up properly, he used to get the places objects went confused. Clothes would end up in the kitchen, paints in aiden’s dresser, and pots n pans would end up wedged in with the art supplies. It was a fun time. Why? Roo likes to think he’s helpful n organized… this is certainly a big spot on his record XD Character’s darkest secret: he’s actually terrified of himself/his feral form. Like. Pure, unbridled fear. He gets really bad nightmares about it hurting people he cares about sometimes.   Does anyone else know? Ye, aiden does. Aiden tries to help Roo get past this fear.

Goals Drives and motivations: maintaining safety during quests is a big one, as well as finding time to himself/to rest from being around people. If he can avoid crowds in general, he’ll do jus about anything to make sure it happens. He also wants to help his friends n family stay happy, or at least give them good support. He’s driven by a sense of responsibility, as well as knowing how bad it is to feel horrid, and jus wantin to stop people from feelin that way. Immediate goals: make sure the house stays relatively clean/organized, help where needed, find a warm place to nap, find some sort of scrap/etc to play with, try and get into the cookies (again) or jus get his paws on som sort of sweets. Long term goals: help out on any and all quests, protect aiden, and find somewhere they can properly put down some roots How the character plans to accomplish these goals: attentiveness, working through his fear/anxiety, and trying his best How other characters will be affected: positively! He jus wanna have a safe place with his originator n friends ;w;

Past Hometown: the town aiden had settled in before taking up his questor career Type of childhood: happy and untroubled! He had a few major run ins with fear, but aiden was always there for him. It was pretty perfect as far as a familiar’s “childhood” can get. Pets: none First memory: seeing aiden in his living room Most important childhood memory: his first thunderstorm; namely, what happened during it. Why: It was the first time Aiden had left the house without him, and he wasn’t able to follow. The fear he felt from all the thunderous crashing and rain ended up pushing him far enough to turn into his feral form-- also a first. However, Aiden came home as soon as he’d found out about his familiar’s troubles, and spent the whole rest of the night with him. It taught him that Aiden was a constant, and would always be there to comfort and take care of him. It was also his introduction to his feral form-- something that definitely still impacts him to this day. Childhood hero: aiden!!! Dream job: he’d like to go into design tbh. He enjoys drawing patterns, and likes decorating things. If he could do that for a living, he’d be gold! Education: plenty of book knowledge, taught by aiden, and plenty of world experience too. He’s pretty well rounded in all aspects (tho he’s skewed in the direction of observation/working out solutions to actual situations rather than anythin else) Religion: n/a Finances: aiden takes care of that

Present (for all intents and purposes, present counts as mid-story. Makes things easier to answer.) Current location: an apartment in a bustling town surrounded by forests. (town still needs a name) Currently living with: Aiden and Journal Pets: none Religion: n/a Occupation: familiar (doesn’t really have a job, but cleans around the house and such) Finances: aiden still takes care of this

Family Mother: Relationship with her: Father: Aiden Relationship with him: loving and caring, lossa respect and trust! There’s nothing Aiden wouldn’t do for em, and the reverse is true. Siblings: Relationship with them: Spouse:  Relationship with them:  Children: Relationship with them: Other important family members: Journal, ruffy (in the future), seraph (also in the future, becomes spouse)

Favorites Color: dark blue! Least favorite color: that kinda pukey looking brownish green color. When it gets later in the story, he absolutely hates the color of blood (both dried and still wet) Music: anything kinda jaunty and upbeat! Pop and carnival music are some he likes a lot. He’s also got a soft spot for lullabies and anything played by a music box. Food: biscuits!!!!!!!!!! Literature: loves fairytales, particularly ones with cute romance plots. He’s a sucker for mushy gushy cute stuff, happy endings, and magical expeditions. Form of entertainment: fireside storytelling!!! Or regular storytelling. That’s fine too. The more hand motions, voices, and possible magic visual aids, the better. Expressions: that shouty, loud, bubbly excitement that happens when you put someone in front of their favorite things. Mode of transportation: riding on someone’s shoulders, or otherwise being carried Most prized possession: his cloak. It’s patched up and well loved, since he’s had it so long!

Habits Hobbies: painting, watching birds, dancing, reading, climbing on things, finding out new ways to get into the cookie jar Plays a musical instrument? nope Plays a sport? If parkour across the apartment at 3am counts, then yep How they would spend a rainy day: inside, curled up somewhere warm. Preferably as far from windows as possible, with a cup of hot cocoa and a ball of yarn to paw at. Spending habits: doesn’t tend to buy much of anything. He buys hot cocoa packets, biscuit mix, paper, and new patches for his cloak every so often tho Smokes: no Drinks: the only thing he consistently drinks is hot cocoa Other drugs: nooooooope What do they do too much of? Worrying about things and what strangers he’s interacted with are thinking of him What do they do too little of? Letting go of situations that went horribly wrong in the past. Extremely skilled at: organizing, picking apart a situation or how people are feeling to give good feedback/advice, sleeping on windowsills Extremely unskilled at: tasks that require you to do a whole lotta things at once, interacting with a lot of people at once, coping on his own in a really stressful situation Nervous tics: fidgeting with paws, quiet meowing, constant glancing around, flicking his ears back and tucking his tail between his legs Usual body posture: kinda slouched, ears perked, and tail either resting on the ground or up in a loose “S” shape Mannerisms: around strangers he’s very soft spoken and timid, hides behind things a lot, and sticks close to places/people he knows. If you manage to get him out of his shell, he’s easily excitable and very bubbly. Likes to ask questions, play with scraps and trash, and clean things up so it looks nice. He’s kindhearted and sweet to everyone, and will occasionally rub up against things or people he really likes. Easily startled. Avoids water/damp things. Doesn’t tend to spend much time in crowded areas, or enjoy it at all. Peculiarities: if he gets too overwhelmed by negative emotions (mostly fear), he can only meow instead of speak. He’ll also drip paint at different rates depending on his mood (the faster it drips, the more distressed and/or angry he is)

Traits Optimist or pessimist? Tries his best to be optimistic, but can sometimes break down and turn into a kinda paranoid pessimist (thank u anxiety) Introvert or extrovert? Biiiiig introvert, but needs close friends somewhere he can reach to feel secure. Daredevil or cautious? Def errs on the side of caution! He can be reckless if distressed tho Logical or emotional? V emotional. Trusts his gut on things. Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? Methodical ftw! He likes his space at least mostly clean! Prefers working or relaxing? He’s alright as long as he’s enjoying himself, but relaxing wins out. Confident or unsure of themself? Yes. (depends on the situation lol) Animal lover? Yea!!! Dogs and other canines make him nervous, and bugs kinda freak him out, but he likes jus about everything else :0

Self-perception How they feel about themself: he thinks he’s timid, a little too anxious, and a little too easily scared, but a good, kind familiar who’s doing his best to improve himself n live a good life!!! He’s absolutely terrified of his feral form.  One word the character would use to describe self: sheepish One paragraph description of how the character would describe self: “My name’s Roo, an’ I’m a twelve yeah old cat familieh. I’m kind of a nervous mess sometimes, b-but I’m doin my best to fix that! Or at least teh cope! I’ve been told I’m a sweetheart, and that i’m really easy to excite ‘n make laugh. I’m always tryna be kind an’ understandin! I’ll lend yeh my ear, if yeh need someone to listen, an’ I’m really good at giving advice.” “Um… about my hobbies… I like to organize things, paint, an’ dance! Oh, and watch birds!!! They’re really really cool… Just like my friends! I love them a whole lot, and there’s nothin I wouldn’t do for em!!!” “... One last thing…? Mnn… um… I’m… I’m not all too fond of my feral form. And I see it a lot more ‘n i’d like to. I-I’m way more emotional ‘n easily stressed than I’d like s-sometimes…” What does the character consider their best personality trait? His excited nature and/or ability to give quiet support What does the character consider their worst personality trait? His fear/anxiety What does the character consider their best physical characteristic? His freckles!!! He likes his lil spattering of spots across his snoot. His fluffy fur is another good contender. What does the character consider their worst physical characteristic? How he drips paint, tbh. It can make quite a mess if it gets out of hand. How does the character think others perceive them: helpful, kind and sweet, but a little childish (that last part kinda bugs him sometimes) What would the character most like to change about themself: his anxiety and feral form. Anxiety has always been something he struggles with, and he’d really like to downsize it to at least a more manageable level. As for feral form, he absolutely hates that he turns into a giant violent panther when he gets too stressed-- especially since it’s hurt people before.

Relationships with others Opinion of other people in general: people are mostly good, even with the few rotten apples that pop up from time to time. Large amounts of em are exhausting to be around a lot tho. Does the character hide their true opinions and emotions from others? Not often. Roo’s pretty much an open book. If he does hide something, he’s got a good reason for it, or you’re someone he doesn’t know well at all. Person character most hates: nobody, really. (this does change as the story goes on tho. Ho boi) Best friend(s): Aiden, Journal, Ruffy and Seraph (both in the future) Love interest(s): Seraph~ Person character goes to for advice: Aiden Person character feels responsible for or takes care of: also Aiden, Journal sometimes, and Seraph/ruffy in the future Person character feels shy or awkward around: any new person ever. Feels awkward around Seraph until crushes are admitted. Person character openly admires: all his friends!!! Person character secretly admires: Seraph (for a bit, anyway ;3) Most important person in character’s life before story starts: Aiden After story starts: Seraph, Journal, Ruffy, and still Aiden

[mirajens]

a cosmic shift

paring: mirajane/laxus rating: t chapter 5 of the rockabye series part two of sandbox bullies  found on ff.n

Sometimes, all it took was one action to rearrange a galaxy. For Mirajane, whose Milky Way took shelter in the adorably round face of her six year old, Yukino, the shift felt cosmic.

She'd been worried about Yukino's transfer to another class. Her girl had already been through so much with the move; was it wise to make her adapt to more change when she barely settled into the last one?

The transfer to the other class proved to be a good one. Mira wished she knew it would be that simple. Kids weren't picking on Yukino anymore and she came home from school still excited about the friends she played with. Mirajane felt her heart was swollen with joy. The whole household was drastically altered: cheerful since they left the comfort of their old lives. It felt like things were finally, finally falling into place.

The decision to leave behind the town she grew up in, all the family and friends that supported her through her pregnancy and the first years of Yukino's life, had been a difficult but necessary one. But no matter how crucial, it had been painful. There had been challenging moments when Mira considered going back with her tail between her legs, were it not for the desire to give her child a better life. In the end, homesickness couldn't trump ambition.

These days, Mirajane would settle into bed exhausted, but warm thinking of how her baby had a bright future ahead of her, how she bubbled with giggles so often or how her aura radiated. Sure, things weren't perfect, but they might as well be.

Mirajane wished she had the foresight to take better care of herself, though.

She was supposed to take Yukino to the lake today but the tightness in her chest last night turned out to be a fever this morning. Yukino only looked disappointed for a few minutes before crying from driving herself into a pit of pity for her ashen-faced mother.

"I promise I'm fine, baby." Mirajane smoothed a hand down her daughter's cap of hair, a shade nearly identical to her own. "I'll just take a nap for a while and then you can help me cook lunch, okay?"

"Yes, mama." Yukino sniffled, her nose pink and running. It almost made Mirajane laugh. Kids had a tendency to be entertaining when they were being dramatic.

"You can watch TV for a while, but don't sit close to the screen."

Yukino scrambled off Mirajane's bed and sat by the foot of it in front of the television. When the History Channel blinked into Elmo, Mirajane let her eyes flutter close, falling asleep to a song counting in multiples of two.

.

.

Mirajane startled awake a couple of hours later to the loud ding of the doorbell. She saw Yukino bolt up from her sprawl on the floor.

"I told you that you can't answer the door without me, Yukino." Mirajane sat up and put her feet into the house slippers Yukino got for her.

"Don't worry, mama, it's only Mr Dreyar," Yukino told her as she exited Mirajane's bedroom.

Maybe it was the fever, but Mirajane took a while to remember a Mr Dreyar. When she did, she was speed walking down the hall, the stairs, while simultaneously taming her hair into something that didn't resemble pulled cotton. When she reached the landing, Yukino was already smiling up at her old teacher as he hung his coat on the hat stand.

Mirajane had kept correspondence with Mr Dreyar enough that she was on a first name basis with him. There was a lot to discuss about the transfer, meetings with the guidance counselor, reports of academic process, more meetings with the new teachers, and then some. Mira enjoyed most the unnecessary but absolutely appreciated status reports that Laxus sent her about how Yukino had crawled out of her shell and played raucously with the children in her new class.

Admittedly, it was a bit weird that he was here, in her house, apparently expected by her daughter. It wasn't a bad weird, though.

"You… look like you don't know why I'm here," Laxus said cautiously when he finally saw Mirajane.

"I'm sorry, I just woke up."

"Mama has a flu," Yukino said.

"A fever," Mirajane corrected. "Did I-?"

"Yukino called me on your phone. She asked me to make lunch for you because you were sick." Laxus couldn't quite stop his amused smile. "I assumed she told you about it, and that she had your permission."

"No, it's fine. I'm just sorry to trouble you." Going down the rest of the stairs, wishing she wore anything other than the most embarrassing clothing she owned (matching yellow Yoshi pajamas that she reserved specifically for days that had zero chances of anyone seeing them), Mirajane told herself to calm down. "I was gonna call a sitter for her," she said, feeling the need to defend herself for some reason.

Laxus shrugged. "Great. I normally charge an exorbitant forty bucks an hour because I have a PhD in babysitting. But we can discuss alternative payment later. I bought supplies for lunch." He shook the bag of groceries in his hand. "I hope you're not violently opposed to soup. It's the only thing aside from Hennessy that I know is good with fevers."

The laughter that bubbled out of Mira made her temple throb. She placed a hand on Yukino's head and lead Laxus to the kitchen. "If I'm going to pay a premium, I might as well make proper use of you, shouldn't I?"

There was a funny look on Laxus' face when he stopped by the counter, one with a brow raised and a small, smug tilt to his lips. "I suppose you should. I wouldn't be opposed." He began to sort out the groceries, and then helped himself to the utensils and equipment.

Mirajane probably shouldn't be so at ease with a guy she barely knew cooking in her kitchen. Red-faced (and definitely not from the fever), she made her way to the eat in area, intent to check her email for all the work she missed for the last couple of days as she listened to the quiet noise of someone cooking.

"Do you like celery?" she heard Laxus ask. When Mira looked up, she saw him addressing Yukino who sat on the counter beside his chopping board.

Yukino stuck her tongue out and made a disgusted face in answer.

"Too bad. It's good for you, so it goes in the pot," Laxus said as he continued chopping.

"You're putting an awful lotta green in there, Mr Dreyar," Yukino remarked, her face retaining the sickened look. "You said this was gonna be chicken soup."

Laxus turned to dump the cut vegetables into the chicken broth. "It's chicken soup with vegetables." Laxus' eyes flickered up to catch Mirajane's gaze for a second, before facing Yukino again. "Some crazy old lady yelled at me because you didn't eat veggies so I'm putting some in the soup. It's my grandfather's recipe and he used to make me eat it before he let me go out to play with my friends."

"Crazy old lady, huh?" Mirajane called out.

"Yeah. White hair, angry little face. Pretty, though," Laxus replied. He celebrated internally when it got his intended reaction, which was a smile.

"I have white hair!" Yukino declared with a beam.

"You sure do, kid. Wanna go set the table for your mom? This is gonna be done in a bit."

Mira tried to relax and not hover as Yukino retrieved three bowls from the dish racks. The small girl asked Laxus for help getting the pitcher of water in the refrigerator before bringing it to her mother with a glass. Yukino sat in the curve of the nook, her legs swinging under her.

"Thank you, baby. Isn't this very nice service? And all I had to do was get sick."

Laxus hefted the steaming dutch oven from the burner and brought it to the table. It smelled good enough to bypass the nausea.

"I didn't know I was so hungry until now. Thank you, Laxus. This is great."

Laxus placed a filled bowl in front of Mirajane. "Good. Because you're gonna have enough leftovers for a few days. This keeps really well in the fridge."

Mirajane didn't make it a point for any man she was interested in to meet her daughter (much less bring him home) unless she knew it was serious. So far, none had gotten past the third date, and yet here Laxus was, no date, but already making lunch with Yukino. It was kind of surreal, wasn't it? And funny. It seemed to Mira that it was Yukino who found Laxus first and brought him to her. This time, in a literal sense.

She ate and watched Yukino collect the peas from her soup on her spoon.

"Mr Dreyar?"

"Yeah?"

Yukino gave the bigger man a sweet, heart-melting smile before putting her spoonful of peas in his bowl. She giggled when Laxus made a play at being distressed.

"Now I gotta eat peas. I don't like peas."

"Why did you put them in the soup?" Yukino asked.

"Because we're not the ones sick, so it doesn't really matter if we like peas or not."

Mirajane grinned at him over her soup. "I don't like peas, either."

"Right. I'll keep that in mind next time."

Next time. That sounded nice.

"Mama, can Mr Dreyar see Angel?" Yukino asked, already inching out of her spot in the banquette, soup untouched if not for the bits of chicken she fished out of the mix.

"If you clean the pen real quick, then yes. She wouldn't want her guest to see a dirty home. Be careful." Mira called out to her already sprinting daughter.

Laxus jogged his memory. He remembered an Angel from one of Yukino's art projects. "Her rabbit, right?"

"She begged and begged. I'm only human and I couldn't say no. I got her a pair."

"Understandable. Only a rock could say no to that face."

"I'm glad you agree." She studied his face for a bit, unabashed. She liked the way his expressions hardened, and then gave way to softer ones. "I've been trying to figure out why you look so different today. I just noticed that you're not wearing your glasses."

Laxus' lips fell into thin lines and his eyes expressed the fakest attempt at annoyance. "I doesn't go with my outfit."

His dry tone made her laugh. "Well, who really needs good vision when you're wearing a band shirt, right?"

Laxus made a not very subtle attempt to sweep his gaze over Mira. "I can see well enough." And the view looked terrific. Even in Yoshi pajamas.

The silence that passed between them was easy. For a very brief moment, Mirajane thought to herself that she could get used to this: having quiet meals with a gorgeous, educated man who got along well with her daughter. The idea made her blush before it could even pass. Hoping to clear the heat simmering under her cheeks, Mirajane cleared her throat and set her spoon down beside her empty bowl."So… about that payment."

"I was kidding. I don't really charge forty bucks an hour."

"Cool How about dinner, then?"

"Dinner as in you want me to stay a bit more and make you guys dinner?"

"I was thinking along the lines of me getting an actual sitter. We can go somewhere fancy. Maybe you can take me back when Yukino's in bed." Mira was sure her hand wasn't shaking when she reached for her glass of water and sipped. All things considered, she was being really cool about all this. She liked the man. Really, really, really liked him. The fact that he was a kindergarten teacher made her heart swell, and to make it burst was the fact that he saved her baby from bullies. He was efficient, kind and he knew how to cook soup. His ass was great in his jeans and his glasses, when he wore them, turned her on. Why shouldn't she, for once in her life as a mother, do something potentially reckless? "She's a very heavy sleeper."

Laxus looked like he was about to choke or go through several red-hued complexions at Mirajane's suggestions. "You're forward. I love it."

All Mira could do was smile proudly because Yukino chose that moment to come running back into the kitchen.

"The cage is clean!" Yukino announced, planting her palms on the table, looking straight at Laxus with the manic eyes only an excited child could possess. "Come see her, Mr Dreyar."

Laxus got up and took Yukino's proffered hand. The conversation wasn't over with Mirajane and he thrived off the promise of more.

"Angel has a friend named Racer because he's fast!"

As Yukino urged Laxus away, Mira settled back into the breakfast nook and smiled at the sight. When Laxus looked back to grin at Mira, she winked back, feeling, perhaps for the first time in a very long time, both frightened and thrilled to let someone into her life.

[eienias20]

Ordinary Day

A calm and peaceful day on planet Mira...

Ordinary Day

New Los Angeles was positively shining this morning. Wonderful clear weather, light streaming into the Habitat Unit from above. A more comfortable day than this one seemed impossible.

Kruse smiled at the peaceful surroundings as he headed towards the East Gate. Jaynix and Elma were out in Primordia doing some early morning sparring. A routine Jaynix established long ago and always adhered to. He’s watched a few of their spars and it is never boring.

However, as he reached the spot they’d indicated, he found the two not fighting but lying on the grass looking up at the sky.

“Hey. Shouldn’t you two be causing each other bodily harm?”

Jaynix turned her head to see Kruse coming and smiled.

“We were but…it’s just such a nice day!”

Elma nodded.

“She’s right…we didn’t want to spend too much time working up a sweat, not when the day is like this.”

Kruse turned to look out over Primordia. Seeing Indigens roaming about, the sun keeping him warm, a very comfortable warmth. A breeze came by causing Kruse to sigh in relief.

“Wow. Yeah. I’m sure we’ve had some good days before but this one is just…so calm.”

Jaynix nodded.

“I think this is what a normal day should be like. By all accounts the weather and everything is relatively normal but…Mira is anything but normal.”

Kruse chuckled, thinking back to some of his first trips across the planet. The weather changing constantly from one type of storm to another.

“Truer words, Jaynix.”

Jaynix closed her eyes, Kruse noting her even breathing. No doubt she was on her way to a quick nap. She rarely took those kinds of things but if she’s in a comfortable enough state to do so…go for it.

Moving over, Kruse placed himself down onto the grass next to Elma. She looked at him and smiled.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself…got any work today?”

“Luckily I didn’t take on any tasks after completing yesterday’s backlog. I was considering stopping by Mission Control after this but…”

Kruse smirked “You don’t want to?”

“No. Which is strange. I’m always set to work. Being a BLADE is a huge part of me yet…this comfort I feel…it’s only made warmer by Jaynix’s presence…and yours too, of course.”

Kruse laughed “Of course. Good to know I’m number two on your list.”

Elma joined him in laughing before realizing something.

“Jaynix. Didn’t you say you were heading to Oblivia again?”

Jaynix perked up.

“Hm? Oh. No…well, sort of. I’m meeting Ga Buidhe at the entrance to Oblivia then we’re going to Noctilum. We’re having another task competition.”

Kruse shook his head “Of course you are. Who won the last one again?”

Jaynix thought back.

“That’s odd…I can’t really recall…ah well. When we meet, I’ll ask her. She’s always got this stuff in her head.”

Kruse nodded “I’m certain she has the sparring wins between her and I still logged away.”

“81 to 74 with her thoroughly kicking your ass.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to know what it was.”

Jaynix and Elma laughed as Kruse let out a heavy sigh. As they apologized to him, he allowed a smile to come to his face. This was a good day.

Back at the barracks, Jaynix decided to bake some cookies. She was in the mood for something sweet and everyone benefitted. She had a habit of making…quite a few to say the least.

“Damn Jaybird. That smells incredible!”

“They’re cookies, Frye. What did you expect?”

“Pffft. I know cookies smell great Irina, I was just complementing our mutual friend on her baking skills. You could stand to do the same.”

Irina rolled her eyes at Frye’s huge, toothy grin.

“Just wait till you taste em you two!”

Jaynix called out as she continued looking into the oven. They were almost ready.

“Ey. Jaybird. Where is Lin and that talking potato?”

“Lin is with Alexa. They have a very important Outfitter task to attend to. They should be back in a few hours. As for the potato? I don’t know. I kicked him pretty far. Probably landed in Sylvalum.”

Frye blinked a few times before bursting out laughing.

“Great joke!”

Jaynix turned to face him, showing him her steely gaze. Then she smiled and turned back around to open the oven and take the cookie tray out.

Frye leaned closer to Irina “Was it a joke? I honestly can’t tell.”

Irina shrugged “I’m not telling. Figure it out.”

As Jaynix approached the table, the barracks door opened. Elma, Kruse and Gwin walking in. Frye could only groan.

“Seriously? I was about to down half of these. You guys have the worst timing.”

Irina chuckled.

“I don’t know Frye. Looks more like they have perfect timing.”

Jaynix passed the cookies out before addressing the newcomers.

“So! What had you guys out and about?”

Gwin scratched the back of his head.

“I uh…I’d rather not say. I mean, it’s such a great day.”

Jaynix sighed, sitting down last.

“Even good days aren’t safe from…things…is it serious, Elma? Kruse?”

The two looked at each other with Elma speaking.

“Yes. But it can wait. We honestly can’t do anything about it right now.”

Kruse nodded before gesturing at the cookies.

“So, how about we cut the gloom and have a good time?”

“MILK!”

Jaynix shot off her seat as Frye shoved two cookies into his mouth, all the while attempting to say.

“Who needs milk?”

Jaynix opened her eyes, finding herself laying on the couch in the barracks, Abyssion sleeping on her. She looked around the barracks feeling a bit…odd. Her eyes finally found Kruse, sitting down with a glass of water, looking rather intently at his comm device.

“Hey, Bro. What’s up?”

“Hm? Oh. Sis. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“How long was I out?”

There was silence as she petted Abyssion, she expected an answer but looking back at Kruse she saw him once again absorbed into his comm device.

“Bro. You alright?”

Not receiving an answer, Jaynix got up, Abyssion standing and directing a small complaint at her. Shrugging at the cat she approached Kruse and put a hand on his shoulder.

“This day has been goin’ swell…what happened?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Standing he put the comm device away before turning to Jaynix.

“By the way…I seem to recall you were going to meet with some of your friends in the Residential District.”

Jaynix narrowed her eyes, trying to recall who when it just all came back. Jumping in shock she ran to her room to pick a few things up.

“How could I forget!? Brilliant time to conk out!”

Thanking Kruse she exited the barracks, her brother laughing as Abyssion looked around, confused.

Deliverance Park found Jaynix and her Prone friend, Thea Falsaxum dancing together. Jaynix couldn’t help but smile as Thea once again told her she was doing extraordinarily well.

Standing close by was Erio, she was the one who wanted this get together to learn more about dancing and art forms in general.

Dance coming to an end, both women bowed to each other as Erio brought her hands up and clapped once. After a few moments she did it again.

“This is correct…right?”

Jaynix nodded “Yes. That is how you clap.”

“I must say Jaynix, you picked up on our traditional Prone dances so quickly…you’re very clearly devoted to dancing, much more than I ever imagined.”

Jaynix bowed to Thea.

“Wouldn’t matter how devoted I am without a good teacher.”

The pair moved over to Erio, all three sitting down with the Definian in disguise asking.

“How many teachers have you had?”

Jaynix thought for a bit.

“Three. Thea, my commanding officer Hideo Kumon and Mari Atlas…well…she wasn’t really a teacher but I saw her dance once at the academy and I like to think she inspired me to choose dancing as one of my activities when I joined the 3rd Soldier Unit.”

The other two women nodded with Thea asking.

“Was this Mari famous?”

“She was getting there…after what happened to Earth though I really don’t know where she ended up.”

Jaynix shook her head.

“But no use getting down about it! This is a day I refuse to cast a shadow over.”

Thea chuckled as Erio looked up to the sky.

“It’s strange…it’s still so early yet I feel like…”

“Throwing yourself on the grass and falling asleep?”

Erio looked over to Jaynix who smiled at her.

“Yeah. I’ve had that feeling a lot today. Lotta naps. Usually I wake up exhausted but…”

Jaynix laughed a bit before realizing something strange.

“Naps? I don’t…have I been sleeping at multiple times throughout the day?”

Erio and Thea noticed Jaynix’s deep thought, whatever was troubling her was doing so very well.

“Jaynix. Are you alright?”

Jaynix looked up at Thea and nodded.

“Y-yeah. Truth be told I tend to avoid sleeping so…the fact that I’ve taken naps without a second thought is pretty wild. In a good way.”

Jaynix watched as Erio fell back on the grass and looked up at the sky.

“Hmm…this is comfortable.”

Jaynix and Thea glanced at each other before doing the same.

In the Commercial District, Jaynix sat at a table, looking at her friend’s comm device.

“Wow. You put those missions away like nobody’s business!”

Jaynix couldn’t help but whistle, obviously impressed by Mia’s list of completed tasks. The Jr. BLADE blushing as she spoke up.

“W-well…I still don’t have much on you. Your record is pretty unbreakable.”

Jaynix looked away from the comm device and at Mia.

“Don’t worry about it. As long as you put in the work you want to put in…that’s all that matters. Seriously though Mia, you’ve been on a roll. It’s hard to believe there was a time when you weren’t a BLADE.”

Mia giggled, putting her comm device away.

“Have you heard all of my misadventures back when I was trying to make a name for myself?”

“You mean all the times Kruse had to bail you out?”

Mia nodded, her smile never wavering.

“Yeah. I owe him a lot…at least I did. Now he insists we’re square since we’re both BLADEs. Whenever he taps me for a mission though…it’s just so great to work with Chief out in the field.”

“Awww, you got a little crush on him?”

Mia’s cheeks were always glowing, but in this moment they flared up as she shook her head.

“W-what are you talking about? Don’t say things like that!”

Jaynix could only laugh as Mia turned away and pouted.

“I’m sorry. My bad…any other plans for today, Mia?”

“No…I’ve done more than enough. Think it’s time to head back home for a bit. Relax. It’s a great day.”

Standing from their table, the pair began walking.

“What about you Jaynix? Plans?”

As they walked, Jaynix brought a hand to her chin.

“I feel like I should have some plans…or one at least…I don’t though…”

Mia shrugged.

“It’s a good change of pace for you, I think. Right?”

“Yeah. It is.”

Jaynix and Mia shared a smile before they continued on their way.

“Oi! Red!”

Looking up, Jaynix blinked a few times, trying to find the source of the very familiar voice.

“Red? I’m right here.”

Focusing back she found the person right in front of her, eyes traveling up the body before her, they found the narrow, purple eyes.

“Hey, Sharon. Whatcha need?”

“I need my ringer to be up and about.”

Standing, Jaynix let out a yawn.

“What’s doin?”

“Well. I just picked up a few bets from a couple of suckers on some missions. It’s a race. They have three, I took on five. With the right partner, I’ve got this in the bag.”

Jaynix stretched, looking around the Administrative District.

“Does this day feel like it’s just…flowing by?”

Sharon gave Jaynix a strange…perplexed look. It was something no one else would ever see on Sharon’s face, one of the few things she only ever showed Jaynix and it never ceased to make Jaynix smile.

Sharon frowned as a few giggles escaped from the red haired Interceptor.

“Did you just say that to get a reaction out of me? Knock it off, Red.”

“Sorry. I forget not to get too deep with you.”

Sharon sighed, punching Jaynix’s shoulder.

“I’ll take your spaceyness as a no, Red. I’ll find someone else.”

“Sorry, Sharon. This day hasn’t been leaving me in the mood to do much. Next time.”

Sharon continued walking away, without turning around she brought one of her hands up to give a small wave.

Night fell on New Los Angeles, Jaynix found herself heading back to the barracks, whistling along the way. In her own thoughts she wanted desperately for this day to not be a one-time thing. That the future held more come and ordinary days.

Entering the barracks, she found Elma rushing out to see her.

“Kruse?”

“Huh? No. It’s me.”

Elma sighed, Jaynix finally realizing that Elma had an almost panicked tone in her voice.

“Is something wrong?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jaynix.”

As Elma returned to her seat, Jaynix followed.

“Kruse was saying the same thing about something earlier. I know you guys just care about me a lot and that’s why you choose to be careful about what you tell me…but I’m strong. I’m still here. I can take it.”

Elma nodded.

“I’m sorry Jaynix. You’re right…this day just…it’s had you glowing all day. A rare energy you never seem to have…”

Jaynix smiled, placing a hand on Elma’s shoulder.

“I love that you and Kruse care about me that much…but if something is wrong with my Brother, I have to know.”

Elma let out a long sigh before bringing up her comm device and sending the information to Jaynix, who looked at it on her own device.

“There were a lot of dead BLADEs and Indigens found out in Primordia. BLADE HQ found several other piles of corpses much like this one all over the region.”

Jaynix looked at the images, it was indeed a lot of BLADEs and Indigens, dead and thrown onto each other.

“A Tyrant?”

“Yes…finding the first one we thought it was an Indigen’s food stash but then we kept finding more piles and…it’s very clearly not eating them. With this taken into account, BLADE HQ deemed it necessary to have this Tyrant eliminated. Kruse took on the mission, recruiting three other Harriers to help him out. They all took off earlier today and after their second check-in about an hour after they left…nothing. Silence.”

Jaynix narrowed her eyes, no doubt Kruse left for this mission after she talked with him earlier.

“No one’s heard anything? At all? Then…we have to go find him! They could be in trouble! Or dead!”

Elma sighed.

“I tried to avoid thinking that but…yes…I held off on the belief that they were fine. I figured if I went out alone and panicked it’d help no one.”

Jaynix stood.

“Well. You won’t be alone. Let’s go, Elma.”

The other woman thought only for a moment before standing up and nodding.

Rain fell on the pair as they drove through Primordia in Jaynix’s rover. Using the positions of the corpse piles as well as dating the victims, the pair had a rough estimate on the Tyrant’s patterns and based off Kruse’s last transmission they had a good guess of the direction he was headed as well.

Both theoretical paths crossed only a few more miles from their location. It was their best bet.

Bringing the rover to a stop, Jaynix and Elma got out, drawing their weapons and proceeding slowly. Elma’s comm device beeped, taking it out she sighed in relief.

“Nagi get back to you on the request?”

“Yes. They’ve successfully pinged Kruse’s comm device…we’re not too far off from where he is.”

“You’d think they’d have tracking chips installed on our Mimeosomes…”

The pair continued walking in silence before Jaynix sighed.

“They do, don’t they?”

“…yes but…they aren’t accessed for the very reason I’m sure you aren’t happy to have this knowledge. I imagine you don’t like people being able to know when you’re…”

Elma trailed off, shrugging her shoulders. Jaynix sighed.

“I could say the same about you.”

The pair kept walking with Jaynix feeling something odd.

“Wait…Elma. Who would I be with?”

“What?”

Hearing a groan the pair turned in the direction of the sound. Looking to each other they nodded before moving at a quicker pace, eventually finding a clearing with a few boulders and trees scattered about. Four BLADEs were on the ground but no Tyrant of any kind around.

Jaynix watched the perimeter as Elma ran over to Kruse.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

Kruse turned to see her.

“…in moments of delirium…you really do look like an angel, Elma.”

The woman sighed before pressing her forehead against Kruse’s.

“I love you…”

“I love you too…as for what happened? Well…”

Kruse got up, now standing on his knees, he groaned in pain as he gestured to the other bodies. Elma shot Jaynix a look, the Interceptor sighing in relief, Kruse was okay. Turning her attention to the other BLADEs she walked towards them.

“The Tyrant?”

“I’d like to think it bled out as it ran from us but…chances are it’s still about. Wounded.”

“Did your team get ambushed?”

Kruse looked down, silent for a few moments before nodding.

Jaynix pushed a body over and began studying the wounds. Tilting her head, she found something odd about what she was seeing. Running her hands along the burns she could only whisper something to herself before moving to the other bodies.

Elma helped Kruse stand only for the man to clench his teeth and groan before falling back to the ground.

“Got me good…”

“We’ll carry you. Jaynix, report this in!”

Jaynix could only nod as she moved from the second body to the third.

Something was off.

“Jaynix!”

Turning her glance over to Elma, she saw something she refused to believe. Eyes widening she began running, Elma giving her an odd look.

With the ignition of a photon saber, Elma turned to Kruse who was now standing and facing her with his weapon drawn. Jaynix tackled Elma to the ground, Kruse’s weapon searing across her back as they fell to the floor.

Biting back the pain Jaynix rolled to her feet and drew her longsword. Elma stood up, confused as she looked to Kruse.

“The other BLADEs. Their injuries. Their deaths. All consistent with Photon Saber scorching and cuts.”

Elma looked to Jaynix then back at the Harrier who had his eyes on them.

“Kruse. What have you done?”

With a yell, Kruse charged at them, Jaynix standing and stopping his blade with her own. She stared into her brother’s eyes but saw nothing recognizable. Clenching his other fist he delivered a brutal punch into Jaynix’s stomach before bringing his blade up and cutting across her torso.

Stumbling back, Jaynix before returning her attention to Kruse as he prepared to make his next move. As a soldier she knew to not let anything distract her. There was no time for doubts. But she couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. Kruse would never do this willingly.

Kruse charged Jaynix again, the two blades colliding over and over again, Kruse’s photon saber flashing, sparks flying, illuminating the dark Primordian surroundings, the rain coming down even harder on the pair.

Elma watched everything going down, trying to piece together how it was that this was happening. It couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream.

“Kruse! That’s your sister! That’s Jaynix!”

Kruse did not even flinch as he continued his assault. Elma could see that while Jaynix was perfectly parrying and redirecting his blows, she wasn’t fighting back.

In that moment Elma recalled what Kruse had told her, expressed to her so long ago, before either would ever admit that they loved the other.

“…somehow, I was giving all this information to the Ganglion. I mean, what do I really know about myself? What if it’s not because of some stasis hangover? What if I was born here, on Mira? They planted me in Starfall Basin and all they had to do was wait. I'd be accepted into BLADE and no one, not even I would know what I was truly here for. I was convinced but I kept thinking if that was the case, why haven't I done anything more? The Lifehold, the Black Skell…I could do so much more damage being here. They could have me kill Vandham or Chausson, bring down our leadership or…"

“Kill…me…”

Elma sat there in the rain as Kruse and Jaynix yelled at one another, blades colliding without end. It couldn’t be true. Kruse wasn’t the traitor. That very idea died along with the real traitor. And yet, what she was witnessing was real, he had tried to kill her, so soon after telling her that he loved her.

The Ganglion lost yet…was this really happening?

Jaynix saw Elma, frozen, lost in thought. Cursing she broke away from Kruse and ran towards her, feeling a burning slash along the back of one of her legs. Coming to a halt near Elma, she turned to face Kruse, addressing her Colonel.

“Boss! Get up!”

“Jaynix…I…this…”

“Elma! We can figure out what’s wrong with him but we need to bring him in! We have to stop his rampage here! Disarm him! Do something! I need your help!”

Elma looked over to Jaynix, before she could speak, Kruse charged them. Cursing, Jaynix moved in front of Elma, her blade locking with Kruse’s.

“C’mon Bro. We’ve sparred plenty of times…you may be crazy right now but-”

Time seemed to slow as Kruse’s other hand drew a pistol from his back. Jaynix watched as he brought the end of the weapon to bear and fired three shots into her stomach. Gasping in pain, she felt her strength leave her and stumbled out of the blade lock.

Her hands went to her stomach, gripping the injury. She could barely make out Elma yelling her name. Then she felt a hand grab her arm, forcing her to drop her blade. Turning she saw, Kruse pull her arm straight and raise his blade.

She knew Elma was screaming at Kruse to stop, but she could see…nothing in his eyes. His blade came down, slicing clean through her arm. Jaynix fell to her knees, gripping the remains of her appendage and screaming in pain.

Kruse stood over her, unmoving. She looked up at him in shock, tears streaming down her face. Blue eyes unflinching, the man raised his blade again.

“Kruse!”

Turning, the Harrier saw Elma, now standing, aiming her gun at him. Elma felt like she was back in the Ganglion Weapons Hangar…but the stakes were much more real, much more meaningful. Before her was a man she loved with all her heart. Someone that nothing could ever convince her to harm him…yet, here she was.

“Drop your sword, Kruse. I mean it.”

Jaynix looked over to Elma and shook her head.

“Don’t do it…”

“Jaynix I-”

“I’m not…you can’t kill Kruse, Elma. You can’t!”

“I have to!”

Elma’s eyes returned to Kruse, her heart pounding as he stared at her, unblinking.

“Step away from her Kruse…please…don’t kill Jaynix. Don’t kill your sister.”

The rain came down on the three of them, Elma almost incapable of breathing, Jaynix trying to prevent herself from crying, the pain all over her body making the effort meaningless, and Kruse, silent.

“I mean it Kruse! Move!”

“Elma. Don’t…”

After a brief silence, Kruse smiled.

“You can’t do it.”

Turning back to Jaynix he raised his blade again. Jaynix looked up at it, hearing Elma scream.

As it came down on her she heard a gun go off.

Sitting up in bed, Kruse looked around. Confused he continued looking over the room he and Elma shared. Dark. Silent. Calm.

Tilting his head, he continued staring at nothing as Elma sat up next to him. Rubbing one of her eyes.

“Kruse?”

“Did you hear something?”

“Hm? Hear what?”

He could only shake his head.

“I don’t know…it was like…a yell or a…scream…”

He looked to Elma, who despite being tired also seemed very concerned.

“A scream?”

He could only nod. Did he imagine it?

Sighing he shrugged to Elma and laid back down, Elma doing the same. However, she still wore a concerned look on her face. She opened her mouth to ask Kruse if he was fine with dropping it when their door was kicked open.

The pair sat up as their light was flipped on.

“DON’T MOVE!”

Kruse and Elma found themselves staring at Jaynix, their door now on the floor. She held her blade up and was pointing it at Kruse.

“Sis-”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Jaynix was breathing heavily, her eyes darting back and forth between Kruse and Elma.

“Get away from her.”

“What?”

“GET OUT OF THE BED! GET AWAY FROM ELMA!”

Jaynix took one step forward, thrusting her blade slightly. Nodding, Kruse scrambled out of the bed and stood away from it.

“Jaynix. What-”

Jaynix shook her head.

“It’s fine. Everything will be alright, Elma. Everything is fine.”

Kruse held his hands up.

“Sis. What are you doing?”

“SHUT UP! Don’t say another fucking word until I figure this out!”

Jaynix closed her eyes and began muttering an assortment of things to herself. Kruse could make out names and places. The hill outside of NLA, Deliverance Park, Mia, Thea, Sharon…

“When! When did it happen!? When is it going to?”

Kruse shook his head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“I’m going to kill you Kruse! I’m going to kill you. Tell me when and how it happens before I do! Tell me. NOW!”

“I don’t know what to say!”

Jaynix screamed, swinging her blade, slicing clean through the barrack walls.

“TELL ME!”

“Jaynix.”

The woman looked over to Elma.

“Everything is fine. Jaynix. Whatever you think is happening or is going to…it isn’t.”

“…what?”

Jaynix looked back at Kruse, then at Elma, then at the blade in her hands. She clenched her teeth, desperately trying to remember what was happening. What happened. What was going to happen.

“No. I saw it…no…it happened…no…when…why did…”

Jaynix brought one of her hands to the side of her head. Clenching it into a fist she began striking herself in the head, screaming while doing so.

Elma quickly got out of bed and ran over to her, catching her fist to stop her from hurting herself. Kruse attempted to step forward only for Jaynix to yell and thrust the blade at him again.

“Jaynix. Tell me. I’m right here. What happened?”

Turning to Elma, Jaynix whispered.

“Kruse…killed…he…he tried to kill us. He killed me…I saw it…I don’t…I don’t want that to happen! IT CAN’T HAPPEN! You killed him Elma! You did it and…it can’t…”

Elma looked from Jaynix to Kruse, then back to her.

“We’re all here, Jaynix. All of us. Alive. We’re fine.”

Elma closed her eyes, she knew she had to say this. Looking Jaynix in the eyes she spoke.

“It was all a dream. Whatever it was. It was a dream. A nightmare.”

Elma could see some sort of…realization, recognition, in Jaynix’s eyes. The Interceptor shook her head.

“It was real.”

She looked to Kruse then back to Elma again.

“It…it was real…”

She ran through everything again. It all happened. All of it. It was real. Hands shaking, she shook her head.

“Nightmare? Dream? But…how?”

Jaynix continued to shake her head, balling her hand into a fist and striking herself again, Elma stopping her.

“Jaynix! You’re awake! This! This is real.”

Jaynix finally dropped her blade, tears streaming down her face as she whispered.

“When…?”

Falling to her knees, she brought both of her hands to her head.

“When did…when…”

She looked at Elma, fear in her eyes.

“When did I fall asleep? I don’t…”

Everything began flashing through her head. Everything she swore was real. Everything that was a dream. It all began mixing together. It didn’t make sense.

“I don’t remember.”

She closed her eyes, trying to force it only caused everything to jumble up even further. Faces became unrecognizable. Friends were strangers. Words meant nothing.

“I don’t remember…I can’t…when did I fall asleep?”

Then all her memories stopped. One person appeared.

Someone she loved with all her heart.

Alexa.

And she finally remembered.

Alexa left NLA on an extended mission with the Outfitters.

This was her first night alone since they got together.

Realizing this she began crying.

Finally opening her eyes, she looked at Kruse.

“I’m sorry.”

Kruse immediately ran to her side and embraced her along with Elma.

The pair held onto her as she continued to whisper apologies and cry.

[poedes]

The bizzare story of Fauve

APRIL DAYS

It was a sunny day in spring and Fauve was feeling under the weather, she needed to get out of the house after this long and cold winter.

Fauve walked down a small country lane toward the lake which was about 2 miles away from her house. The birds were returning and singing their song, the horses were out on their field and as they saw her coming they eagerly trotted toward her.

She looked at the clear sky and shouted; "I want to find love, no more loneliness!" The sky looked back at her and she had the feeling it promised a great summer. When she got to the lake she sat down on a huge stone by the lake and drew a heart in the sand on the bank and thought about creating something new in her life.

A lot of thoughts were gathering in her mind, especially that she wanted to leave this country. It was time, she had been here long enough and  was getting tired of the country life.

Soon after she moved to London, got a job and began her life there. A new adventure? Perhaps! Her interests were easily fed in this city where art and music were a daily thing and so many museums. Definitely a city of great culture.

The suburbs varied a lot from Central London which was well kept and pretty clean. Suburbia had parts that looked pretty dreadful and poor, nevertheless there was a good vibe to this city. It was vibrant, lively, full of music, art and performance, and people from all walks of life.

She loved a good story and had a passion to write. One afternoon she found herself in the midst of Soho where tourists mingled with the crazy bunch of people from the "quartier". Rent boys, gays, prostitutes, transvestites, actors, homeless, runaways, drug addicts, police, the lot. Every night was party here and the drunks were uncountable.

A girl was crouching in a doorway under a torn up bedsheet, she was withering away. Fauve thought, to young to die, she stopped to talk to her. "People don't care.", said the girl and showed her abused arms and hands full of scabs. Fauve went and bought her some food and  thought how could this be in a city like London, the world must seem cruel to her, where was help? She brought her the food, wished her well with some encouraging words  and walked on.

Someone said; "Hey beautiful where are you off to?" Fauve felt talked to but kept walking, after  a few feet she stopped, turned around and walked back. "Did you just say that to me?", she asked a good looking elderly man. He nodded and invited her to a cup of coffee. She sat down on the chair next to him said: "Do you know Soho well?" "I do indeed.", he replied. "I have been here all my life". "Can we talk about that?",  asked Fauve politely. "We can, if you like.", he answered. "I'm Fauve",  she stretched out her hand and shook his. "Bertram, my pleasure".

It was late, yet she had the time to tell him that she was researching for a book she was writing and that it was a bizarre kind of story which begins in London's Soho, and that a truly dangerous occurrence  happened and later events had lead her here.

"Do you remember a documentary which was filmed here by John Willis in the early seventies called 'Johnny go home', followed by a second called 'The murder of Billy Two Tone'?", she asked Bertram. "Oh yes",he said, " I was right here when it was filmed."

Bertram outlined the story from his viewpoint as a bystander. "The boys were very young, I was in my twenties. John Willis and his crew were in the area a few days. I didn't think nothing much of it those days, in Soho films were often made, but now that you should mention it again it's all coming back to me quite clearly. The boys did whatever they had to to survive, play a trick, hustle, work as rent boys, get jobs like working in the laundry's, whatever gave them their daily bread and paid their rent. They were mostly dropouts or runaways and had left their homes, parents trouble I presume."

"Of course parents trouble and troublesome boys. It's pretty late Bertram would you mind meeting up with me again another day, right here in this Cafe?" Fauve asked. "Sure, I'd like that.", said Bertram. We exchanged our phone numbers and walked toward Leicester Square. I noticed that Bertram had a bad leg so we walked slowly and I offered him my arm."Old age.", he mumbled, she waited for his bus to arrive. “Bye, till soon and thank you”. she said, and Bertram replied. "Thanks for walking me to the bus, and yes see you soon."

The Tube was not running, it was on strike, so Fauve walked down to Trafalgar Square to get a bus. There was a lot going on as usual. People chatting, a beggar asking for some money, a woman pushing a pram with a baby screaming terribly in it. The sound of the engines of the busses and cars. A musician was playing Bob Dylan's 'Visions of Johanna' on his guitar and singing:

  Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet ?

We sit here stranded, though we're all doin our best to deny it

And Louise holds a handfull of rain, tempting you to defy it

Lights flicker from the opposite loft

In this room the heat pipes just cough

The country music station plays soft

But there's nothing really nothing to turn of

Just Louise and her lover so entwined

And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind.

In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain

And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the D-train

We can hear the night watcman click his flashlight

Ask himself if it's him or them that's really insane

Louise she's all right she's just near

She's delicate and seems like the mirror

But she just makes it all too concise and too clear

That Johanna's not here

The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face

Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place.

Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously

He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously

And when bringing her name up

He speaks of a farewell kiss to me

He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all

Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall

Oh, how can I explain ?

It's so hard to get on

And these visions of Johanna they kept me up past the dawn.

Inside the museums, Infinity goes up on trial

Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while

But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues

You can tell by the way she smiles

See the primitive wallflower freeze

When the jelly-faced women all sneeze

Hear the one with the mustache say, "Jeeze

I can't find my knees"

Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule

But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel.

The peddler now speaks to the countess who's pretending to care for him

Saying, "Name me someone that's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him"

But like Louise always says

"Ya can't look at much, can ya man "

As she, herself prepares for him

And Madonna, she still has not showed

We see this empty cage now corrode

Where her cape of the stage once had flowed

The fiddler, he now steps to the road

He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed

On the back of the fish truck that loads. While my conscience explodes

The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain

And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain.

Those who had stopped to listen gave him genuine applause and donated coins into his hat. Fauve walked on to reach the bus stop, there was a lot of traffic and she saw her bus approaching the stop and was hoping to get across the street in time. Half an hours ride to Fulham.

PoeDes

[junker-town]

‘The Bachelorette’ Episode 4: This show isn’t fun anymore

In light of the racism in recent episodes and sexual assault allegations on ‘Bachelor in Paradise’, the franchise has turned sinister.

The intro of this weekly recap is usually where I say something along the lines of, “Hello, Sports Bachelor Nation!” and crack a joke about how you’re probably getting ready to pour a bottle of wine down your throat, or about how this reality show is sports, or something else that’s meant to entertain you as you read about a show that is also meant to entertain you. In fact, whose only job is to entertain you.

Tonight is not that night. For several reasons:

1) I can’t get the taste of last week’s episode, in which Lee, a racist piece of garbage, picked a fight with several black cast members.

2) The Bachelor in Paradise had to shut down filming because of alleged sexual assault between two incredibly drunk cast members, a situation which casts a very sinister shadow over the entire franchise.

Neither of those things are entertaining. They’re both dangerous. They’re both gross. They both make me feel sick to my stomach, so you’ll excuse me if I’m having trouble mustering up enthusiasm.

With that said, let's take a look at what happened last night.

DEALING WITH LEE SOME MORE

We left off with Lee baiting Eric with racially-charged statements. Lee refuses to apologize. Instead, he says:

“You’re damn right I enjoyed pissing him off. I have so much fun talking shit on these nights.”

Eric removes himself from the situation. Lee drops the “I’m not here to make friends” line, which used to be funny, and now, like so much else on this show, is not.

Then Lee interrupts Kenny while Kenny and Rachel are talking to each other. He refuses to go away, then gives Rachel a block of wood that he rudimentarily carved the word “enchanting” into using his grandfather’s pocket knife. This is not only creepy, but also means that this guy came onto the show with a switchblade and no one was like, “hey, maybe we should take this guy’s switchblade away.”

Dean, one of the white guys, says, “I think Lee’s a f[bleeeeep]ing moron,” and, “I just think he’s kind of a bitch.” It’s good to see a white dude grow a pair and call Lee out, but of course Brady, another white dude, is like, “Everyone comes form a different background and has weird quirks.”

Oh, is that what we’re calling it these days? Being racist is like, a fun little character flaw?

Meanwhile, Bryan tells Rachel that they’re in a 100% real situation that’s like a fairy tale. Sure, if by fairy tale you mean the original text of Grimm’s Brother’s stories in which they describe the bloody way Cinderella’s sisters cut off their own heels to try to squeeze into the glass slipper. And then everyone dies of the bubonic plague.

Dean says he hopes Kenny punches Lee in the face and I’m like, why don’t you just do it, dude?

ROSE CEREMONY

Rachel speaks to the camera about the pressures she feels about being a black woman on this show. She’s crying.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. “I get pressured from so many different ways, being in this position. I didn’t want to get into all of this tonight. I already know what people are going to say about me and judge me for the decisions that I’m making. I’m going to be the one that has to deal with that, and nobody else, and that’s a lot.”

Good work, Bachelorette producers. Way to put a smart woman who appears to be trying to take this show as seriously as anyone can in a really horrible position. Knocking it out of the goddamn park.

Rachel gives Lee a rose. Diggy goes home. I liked Diggy.

GOODYEAR BLIMP DATE, THE ONLY GOOD THING

The fact that Lee is still around makes everything extra bad, but Dean and Rachel go on a one-on-one date in the Goodyear blimp, which is a bit of brightness in an otherwise very dark moment for the franchise.

Dean is absolutely petrified of heights, not in a cute “haha I’m so scared LOL” way, but in a “oh my god I’m going to puke everywhere and maybe actually pass out” way. Rachel is a little worried. But then Dean gets himself together and drives the blimp, then he and Rachel drink champagne in the blimp, and then they make out in the blimp. Lotta blimp action. Also: I’ve always wondered what the inside of a blimp looks like, and now I know: a bus.

The Goodyear Blimp’s Twitter account proved to be the only good Bachelor-related thing we have left. It was trolling people all night as the episode aired:

When throwing shade, it helps to cast a blimp-sized shadow. (and have a giant LED screen, sure) https://t.co/2inuOHnbUK

— Goodyear Blimp (@GoodyearBlimp) June 20, 2017

Awesome people. https://t.co/CDl9MVmz3a

— Goodyear Blimp (@GoodyearBlimp) June 20, 2017

Back at the house, the guys are like, “Dean is five, six years younger than Rachel,” as though that were a problem. My dudes, I’m sorry you’re so insecure in your own fragile masculinity that you can’t imagine an older woman with a younger man.

DEAN TALKS ABOUT HIS MOM’S DEATH AND IT’S MOVING

At dinner, Rachel and Dean talk about their upbringings. Dean says he was raised very religious, and that his mom died of breast cancer when he was 15. He says that when she moved to hospice, he asked her when she’d be coming home, and she said, “never.” And then Dean says that his dad sobbed on his bed the day he told him that she passed away, while Dean just sat there, stoically, supporting his father.

I’m not not tearing up.

My tears quickly dry when Rachel and Dean go to a surprise country music concert. The singer’s name is Russell Dickerson, which is like Mad Libs for a country singer name. But everyone knows it’s not an episode of The Bachelorette unless a generic country singer gets his two minutes of glory. The producers probably go on the Facebook group called, like, Aspiring Country Singers Who Want to Sing Good and Look Good Too, and just choose a guy at random.

I can imagine the conversation. “Who should it be, fellow producers? Harrison Butterson or Flint McDustbuster?”

What is a Russell Dickerson

— Jonquilyn Hill (@jonquilynhill) June 20, 2017

PLOT TWIST: Russell Dickerson is actually a hologram of a stock art photo of a country music singer.

BOAT DATE

The group date takes place on a boat. They’re all dancing, and for some reason Peter decides to rap, and his bars are trash. He rhymes “heart” with “fart” and calls Rachel a “girl from the hood.”

Let’s go to writer Katie Barnes’ Twitter feed for a moment:

Um. Rachel's dad is a judge. She is not from "the hood" as it were. She's just black. #TheBachelorette

— Katie Barnes (@katie_barnes3) June 20, 2017

SPELLING BEE

Rachel says she wants to test the men in a cerebral way, so she’s making them compete in a spelling bee to find out how clever they are. This is terrible news, because I can’t spell for beans. If this is the measure of a human’s brain power, it’s truly astonishing that I even have a job.

All the words have to do with dating, like, polyamorous, which I couldn’t spell without spellcheck if you put a gun to my head.

Iggy sucks. He’s talking to the camera about how much he hates Josiah, and I can tell that he’s turning himself into the Dude Who Hates All The Other Dudes. Which means that he’ll be going home soon. Someone I can’t remember calls Iggy a “gossip queen,” and I’m laughing.

Josiah wins.

Josiah floats like a butterfly, spells like a bee! #TheBachelorette http://pic.twitter.com/ErVDWCbN5b

— The Bachelorette (@BacheloretteABC) June 20, 2017

NIGHT GROUP DATE WHICH IS AWFUL BECAUSE LEE IS THERE SO OF COURSE IT IS

Josiah spills a drink on his crotch. I deeply identify with him. Iggy calls Rachel sweetie. I hate Iggy. Iggy seems to have aligned himself with Lee, so Iggy can go straight to hell.

Rachel takes Lee aside and Lee says that Eric screamed at him aggressively. He calls Kenny a ballerina. He picks fights with almost every black contestant while telling the white guys at the bar that he doesn’t have a problem with them.

When Kenny tries to talk to Rachel about Lee, Rachel is like, “Why would Lee say you were aggressive if you weren’t?” And Kenny is like ... “Because Lee doesn’t tell the truth?” And Rachel doesn’t seem to totally buy it. Kenny is left sitting there on a bench with his head in his hands, and I want to punch my television screen.

“Nothing I said made a dent in how she felt about me,” Kenny says. He also says he feels like he’s living in a reality of alternative facts, which is true, and sad, and descriptive of not only the Bachelorette, but also our current cultural state.

NEXT WEEK WILL BE EVEN WORSE

Lee is a reptilian piece of trash. The producers might be, too, because they’re setting Kenny and Lee on a two-on-one date from which only one can return. Oh, and they’re getting two episodes of television out of it. Yup, that’s right: Next week we’re stuck with two evenings of this show.

Clinton Yates, of ESPN’s The Undefeated, said it best:

yeah, two night special with this particular relationship? Incredibly slimy

— Clinton Yates (@clintonyates) June 20, 2017

ENDING THIS RECAP ON “UGH” FOR THE SECOND TIME IN TWO WEEKS

In light of The Bachelor in Paradise allegations, I’ve been reading a lot of first-person accounts from producers on the franchise. They’ve all basically said that morals come second, behind explosive filmed moments, as the TV show UnREAL made so clear.

I can’t help thinking of all of that while watching the microaggressions and coded, racist language that Lee spews everywhere. These people are in a mansion they can’t leave with 24/7 surveillance — it becomes a cage. They have no cell phones or any connection to the outside world. Their environment revolves around killing time and withstanding excruciating boredom. It’s punctuated with bursts of intensity when they’re with Rachel, followed by hours of emptiness to obsess over what they just said and did, as well as what everyone else just said and did.

Producers use this pent up energy and brain spirals to build beds of tinder out of people’s emotions. Then they get contestants to rub each other the wrong way until the whole thing goes up in flames.

This is what reality shows are made from, and it’s slimy in any context. But it can be slimy in a funny way when the lighter fluid is, say, the fact that a contestant eats too much cheese, as it was during Nick’s season. It’s an entirely different ballgame to make blazing drama from racism. It’s not drama. It’s just awful; and the fact that they could’ve avoided this by not putting Lee (whose alleged racist tweets recently surfaced, meaning that the producers either didn’t check his private account, as they claim, or willfully ignored it) on the show, makes it far worse. This is not some way to further a conversation about race in America; it’s exploitative and painful.

I can’t remember what it feels like to watch this show and be amused. I forget that we’re supposed to be watching a show about dating, or something like dating. Instead, it’s become a sinister fun-house that traps viewers and contestants for two hours on a Monday night that we can never get back. And I, for one, would like to get out.