#memory alteration tw

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 01: but now this room is spinning while I'm just trying to fill in all the gaps

Safety Net

2628 Words; Dion Sees Ghosts AU

TW for mentions of Death, memory alteration

AO3 ver

The orphanage was loud.

It was crowded, full to the brim with children who had lost their parents to the Deluge. Full of other ghosts, all of them swarming and following their children around. Marona leaned against Lazarus for stability, the ebb and flow of all the other ghosts threatening to give her motion sickness.

Augustus was quiet, rocking slowly on the balls of his feet. He was quiet, lacking the light and life he had had before the Deluge. Marona wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and take him away with her, back to the circus back to safety back to Lazarus—

Her hand passed though his curls with barely a reaction, like she wasn’t there at all.

And in a way, she wasn’t. She and Lazarus both died to the Deluge, both died during their protest, with nothing to show for it but a son left behind.

“Well, I suppose there’s no point continuing to protest.”

Marona barked out a startled laugh. “Lazarus!” Her husband's face remained even, blank eyes belying the humor in his tone. They’d been dead for a few days at most and Lazarus was already looking to lighten the mood.

Her gaze drifted over to Augustus. He had always been such an energetic boy, inheriting his father’s ability to keep a room alive. But now he was quiet, still reeling from the loss.

Lazarus frowned, kneeling before their son. “If only you could see us…” He muttered, his hands hovering over Augustus’ shoulders. Their son didn’t react to any of it, staring right through them.

The orphanage was cold. There were too many ghosts here, too many frigid forms filling the space. Marona wanted so badly to wrap Augustus in her arms, but that would only make things colder.

But the cold was comforting, somehow. Lazarus’ weight as he leaned against her wasn’t the same, but there was something comforting about it, about his presence.

Marona supposed that Lazarus would always be like that, even in death. Always brightening the room he was in. Always her safety net, the wall she could lean against when the world pressed in around her.

But he could never be Augustus’ safety net again. Neither of them could, now that they were dead.

+=+=+=+=+

Nearly a week later, a man came for Augustus.

It took Marona a moment to recognize him—she’d never seen this man before. He’d said his name was Ford Cruller. That was…

Marona felt her chest loosen. This man… he’d been Lucy’s lover before it all. It softened one of her worries, that he had come to get Augustus. Her son would be taken care of. That she couldn’t be the one to do so—that Augustus had lost both of his parents so quickly and viciously—irked her, but she was powerless to do anything about that.

(Powerless to do anything at all).

Marona and Lazarus followed after their son as Cruller led him away. It took hardly any effort on her part—wherever her son went, Marona knew she would follow. No matter what.

Cruller held her son’s hand firmly, pulling the boy in close. The surroundings blurred, the whole world seeming to spin—

They were standing on a dock in front of a large wooden building, shaped like an overturned turnip. Cruller was already leading Augustus along the wooden walkways onto dry ground, where a dome made of colored glass awaited.

Marona had never been here before, but she recognized it from her sister’s descriptions. The Heptadome was exactly as Lucy described it, colored glass catching the moonlight—

Moonlight?

“I don’t believe we’re in Grulovia anymore.” Lazarus commented. Marona grabbed his hand, squeezing it for reassurance.

“I know this place,” She said, “Lucy wrote to me about it. We’re in America.”

Surely, that Cruller had brought Augustus all the way to his home in America—and that was where they had to be, based on their surroundings—could only be a good thing, a sign that Cruller would take care of her son. But a sense of foreboding clung to her like frost. Something wasn’t right.

Inside the Heptadome, Augustus was sitting at the center of a machine Marona couldn’t recognize. Cruller put a hand to his temple, and—

Marona knew that psychic powers could be subtle, that battles could be waged inside the mind with none the wiser on the outside. The machine glowed and crackled, Cruller’s brow furrowed in concentration—

And then it was over. Cruller was helping Augustus down from where he’d been sitting, her son frowning up at him. Marona could not for the life of her figure out what all that was, and a glance at Lazarus confirmed that he couldn’t tell, either.

Cruller was already leading Augustus out of the building, across the wooden walkways to Lucrecia’s old turnip-shaped dwelling. He stopped just outside the building, holding Augustus’ hand firmly.

The surroundings blurred again. The starry night sky was gone, replaced by the clear blue of daytime. They were in a small field, no buildings in sight. Circus tents loomed over the area, the sounds of people moving about coming from within. And there, standing at the edge of the grounds—

Lucrecia. Bitterness and melancholy filled Marona’s throat at the sight of her sister, alive and whole. She was dressed in her old clothes, before the Deluge. She kept glancing around, as if looking for something, her lips pursed in worry.

Cruller brought Augustus over towards Lucrecia—

“Mom!” Augustus broke into a run, wrapping his arms around Lucrecia.

Marona felt her heart shatter.

Lucrecia knelt down to wrap her arms around Augustus. “My little Gussy,” she breathed, holding him tight. One of her hands was already carding through Augustus’ curls, offering the comfort that Marona could never give again.

No. No no no—

Cruller!

Marona grasped at Cruller’s shoulders with icy fingers, cursing at him. Her hands phased uselessly through the man, through the spineless little coward—but he flinched nonetheless.

Cold hands on her shoulders braced her, leading her back. Lazarus’ face was stone. Marona shuddered.

She glared at Cruller. Screaming at him would get her nowhere.

(Nothing she did could get her anywhere.)

Lazarus’ touch was a grounding force. It tethered Marona to the here and now, held her fast to the reality of the world around her.

She was dead. She couldn’t do a damn thing to affect the living.

(But at least she wasn’t alone.)

Cruller watched Lucrecia and Augustus for a moment more before leaving. Marona wanted to grab him by the shoulders and drag him right back. She wanted to scream.

She leaned back into Lazarus, instead, letting him ground her.

This was real. Marona’s sister was taking her name, her life. Was convinced that she was Marona and Augustus was her son—

This was real. This was real no matter how much Marona wished it wasn’t.

Lucrecia held Augustus in her arms and promised not to leave him again (when she’d never left him in the first place, it was Marona who was dead and gone and standing uselessly to the side—), and all Marona could do was watch.

This was real.

+=+=+=+=+

“We’ve failed as parents.” Lazarus solemnly intoned. Marona snickered.

“He’s trying his best.” She pointed out. And indeed, Augustus was trying. It was a flustered effort, but an effort nonetheless.

Lazarus huffed as their son once again lost a chance to lovestruck stammering. His eyes remained as blank as a ghost’s ever were, but Marona knew it was taking everything he had to keep a straight face. They loved their son more than anything, for all that they could do nothing but watch.

The girl came around again, and Augustus gathered his wits. “You know…” he started, only to trail off as she turned her attention onto him. Marona could see every word he’d wanted to say falling right out of his head.

The girl’s lips pursed. “Know what?”

“Cockroaches can live up to two weeks without their heads!” Augustus stammered out, his face flushed.

Lazarus laughed, loud and boisterous. The sound caught Marona off-guard—she hadn’t heard it in so long. Oh, how she had missed the sound!

Her sister’s voice cut through her reminiscing. Marona turned her attention back to her son, who was hiding his face in his hands. Lucrecia had a bemused smile on her face, even as sympathy filled her tone.

“Oh, Gussy…” Lucrecia ran her hand through Augustus’ curls, murmuring sympathy. A pang of bitterness rose up in Marona at the sight of her sister filling the role that was supposed to be hers, the role that she couldn’t fill because she was dead—

Lazarus pulled her aside. Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, but Marona acted as though she was taking a deep breath anyway. It didn’t help. But Lazarus was a constant presence against hers, a wall she could lean against when the world pressed in around her.

She couldn’t give her son advice, could do nothing but watch—

But she had Lazarus by her side, and that was enough for now.

+=+=+=+=+

Maybe the girl—Donatella, that was her name—liked random trivia. Maybe it was the natural charm that Augustus had inherited from Lazarus. Maybe it was Lucrecia’s support and advice.

Maybe it was all of those things.

Regardless of the cause, it wasn’t long before Augustus and Donatella hit it off. Wasn’t long, the months turning into a year and a half of flirting and working together, until Marona and Lazarus were watching as Augustus worked up the nerve to ask Donatella to marry him. He was so much like the boy of years prior who could barely talk to her without getting too flustered to speak. They could do nothing but watch, Lucrecia offering the support that Marona so desperately wished to offer.

“This won’t be easy,” Augustus said, “And I know it’s not a real ring.” There was so much sincerity in his eyes, so much honesty in the way that he was almost trying to talk Donatella out of it. She stared, hand over her mouth, and Augustus continued to ramble—

And then Donatella grabbed him by the shoulders, her mouth against his.

Marona’s heart ached with pride. She leaned against Lazarus, unsteady from the love and pride welling up in her. This was her son, this was the honest young man he had grown up to be. This was real.

She turned to Lazarus, leaning her forehead against his. Lazarus wrapped his arms around her, even as Lucrecia’s voice floated over to the newly-engaged couple. Any bitterness Marona could have felt at the reminder of her current state was washed away by Lazarus’ hold.

This was real. Augustus was dipping Donatella in a kiss, the two holding each other so tightly that Marona couldn’t help but recall her own engagement. This was real, and as Marona looked into Lazarus’ eyes, she couldn’t help but press her mouth to his own.

This was real, and Marona couldn’t help but be proud.

Marona rested her hand against her son’s shoulder. This was real.

+=+=+=+=+

Her grandson was looking at her.

Marona’s grandson was looking at her, wide blue eyes following her every movement like—

Like he could actually see her.

But that was ridiculous.

“Marona, dear,” Lazarus sidled up next to her, “Is something the matter? You have that look again.”

Marona wordlessly drifted to the side. Her grandson’s gaze followed her.

“I must be losing my mind.” Marona muttered. Her grandson was barely four and she was already getting dotty. The living couldn’t see ghosts—it was simple fact.

“You? Losing your mind?” Lazarus leaned against her, “Should we start checking the cupboards for it?”

Marona chuckled. Every time she had lost something when she was alive, it inevitably ended up in a cupboard or drawer somewhere. She had turned the whole caravan upside down, once, looking for her glasses—only to find them in a cupboard she swore she had already checked.

She turned her attention back to the matter at hand. “It’s…” Marona gestured towards their grandson, who had turned his attention back to where Augustus was practicing with the juggling pins. “I could swear he was watching me.” The explanation felt so strange, even with Lazarus watching her patiently, not a hint of judgment. Marona had more than enough judgment for herself.

“Stranger things have happened,” Lazarus offered, “Didn’t you have a grand-aunt who wrote about seeing ghosts?”

That was true. She and Lucy had never met her, but the woman’s journal remained even after she had passed. Was it possible, then, that her grandson was the same?

Marona shook her head. That would be extraordinarily lucky, she felt. More luck than she and Lazarus had.

“I’m probably just seeing things.” She decided. Lazarus’ brow raised in doubt, but he said nothing.

This was her reality. She and Lazarus were dead, and the dead couldn’t talk to the living. This was real.

“Why are you sad?”

Marona startled at the sound of her grandson’s voice. She looked down to find him grasping her skirt, looking up at her with wide eyes. “You’re always around Dad,” he continued, oblivious to the way Marona’s heart threatened to leap out of her incorporeal chest, “and Dad’s fun to be around! But you always look so sad.”

This was real. Her grandson was looking at her, could see her—

Marona kneeled down to look her grandson in the eyes. “Your dad makes me very happy,” She replied, “I’m only sad because he can’t see me.”

She could tell him. She could tell him that the curse wasn’t real, that his Nona wasn’t his Nona and that the ghost kneeling before him was his real grandmother. She could tell him so many things, words she wanted to say to Augustus but couldn’t because he was alive and she was dead—

Marona wrapped cold arms around her grandson. There were so many things she could tell him. So many things she should tell him.

She felt Lazarus’ presence behind her. “Dear…”

Her grandson was four. He didn’t need that burden, didn’t need to have his head filled with the worries of a dead woman. He was too young. It wasn’t her place.

Marona looked at her grandson. He looked so much like Augustus, yet he had Donatella’s nose and eyes. Everything he represented, every hope she had that her family would turn out alright and continue to grow—

She couldn’t tell him. Not at this age.

But he could still see her, and that gave her a sense of hope. Maybe she wasn’t so utterly powerless.

This was real. Marona and Lazarus were dead, unable to interact with the living, and yet her grandson could still see her, for all that the thought seemed so impossible. This was real.

+=+=+=+=+

Her grandson wasn’t looking at her.

Marona’s grandson wouldn’t look at her, actively ignoring the Deluge victims that followed Lucrecia around.

He could see her, and yet—

He shivered when they pressed too close, curled in on himself as though it might keep the cold at bay. He wouldn’t talk to any of them, would ignore them if they tried and run away if they pushed.

Marona couldn’t say she didn’t understand why. Of the drowned following her sister that were coherent, very few had anything nice to say about the family they followed. Perhaps, if she and Lazarus did more, if she had been there when her grandson got trapped between the crates instead of cooing over the new baby—

Her grandson could see her, and she was still powerless.

Lazarus’ hand slipped into hers. Resignation weighed heavy on his face. There were no jokes, this time—just the comfort he could offer as her husband and safety net.

They would make do. They’d have to.

[deceit-and-knowledge]

Aaaand we’re back! Welcome back shadow milk cookie!

s: *coughing and panting*

f: ..a..are you okay?..

s: DO I LOOK OKAY, I JUST THREW UP! ..ugh.. what..the hell.. I feel like I was some nerd for 2 hours..

...

f: it's...gonna be a funny story to laugh at later, do you remember anything?

s: well one minute I'm considering looking for pure vanilla cookie, next minute I see candy apple cookie looking like she's going to cry.. so what did I say to make her cry..

f: you didn't know who she was..

s: say what?.. I forgot my favourite minion???? HA......did I lose my memory or something..

...*shivering* ...what..was done to me.. I feel so utterly weak.... worse than ever..... *Coughs*

f: don't throw up again please..

s: oh yeah try not to.. *sits up and shakes head* ...water.. please...

Hm...oh..hey.....*huffs*

[cozmo-system]

i get source memories and want to relive it like i get jealous when i hear stories of being kidnapped and malnourished but i know its not good, i just want to go through it

[system-term-storage]

Memory Thief

A headmate who steals memories or the emotional impact of them from another headmate. These memories are often trauma memories that heavily affect the one they are stolen from. When these memories (or the emotional impact) is stolen, the memory thief takes it on for themself, blocking the one who was previously remembering or experiencing it to suddenly not remember the memory or to feel nothing when they think of that memory. This may be permanent or temporary.

This term may be considered related to both gatekeeper and memory holder.

This term is more just an affectionate nickname of sorts, though it could be considered a proper role, too

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1223

Submitted by @uniwolfcorn - thanks!

Whumpee has a brain operation or head injury that makes them lose their memories and/or change their personality

[eldrytchcryptid]

Imagine milking your kids creativity for results so obsessively that you cause trauma for every last coping mechanism that child tries to form to survive.

Me neither, dude

[hydrasquadd]

Truth Arc

Part Seven

Previous

Next

Masterpost

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 25: you're not delivering a perfect body to the grave

Buried Alive + Storm (metaphorically)

3387 Words; River Runs Deep

TW for discussions of memory alteration, death mention, burying someone alive

AO3 ver

“What did you say in that letter?” Raz asks.

“Nothing important, really.” The reflection of Mail Ford responds.

“Just that I loved her.” Agent Cruller continues. “She just wanted to help, but they pushed her too far.”

“How should we have known?” Mail Ford asks. “It’s not like she was marked ‘Fragile!’” The typewriter passes from his hands to Agent Cruller’s.

“But I thought I knew her, and everything she held inside herself.” Agent Cruller laments. “Ahh, I had so much to learn.”

“Ah,” Mail Ford says, “I guess some packages are better left… unopened.”

And with that remark, Raz is left standing once again in the messy treehouse. He looks at the final piece of the mirror in his hands.

“Ford and Nona…” Raz has learned so much, just from poking around in Ford’s brain. His Nona’s memories of her past have been shrouded in mystery. The Aquatos feared the Psychonauts as much as they feared the Deluginists because of this fact—surely, if the Psychonauts ever learned that Nona used to be Maligula, they would prosecute her.

But Raz has learned so much. His Nona used to be a part of the Psychic Seven! She’s one of them! She and Ford were lovers! And oh, some part of Raz’ mind is almost giddy at the realization, that Ford Cruller could have become his great-uncle—but he pushes that part of himself to the side. Now isn’t the time to be fanboying. Raz has a mission to complete!

Still, the fact that Nona and the Psychonauts are more closely linked than Raz ever thought…

Maybe hiding from them is pointless. Maybe they won’t prosecute her. Maybe they can help.

Raz sighs, and puts the last piece of the mirror back in place. He has a mission to focus on. He pulls out the typewriter, and sets it on the shelf.

The silence stretches on, for a moment.

“Razputin.” Ford’s voice cuts across the space.

Raz turns to the mirror clasped in the body’s hand. “Agent Cruller!” He grins. “How do you feel?”

The reflection frowns. “I’ve done a terrible thing.” He shakes his head. “And so have you.”

“What?” Raz’ voice comes out smaller than he wants it to. “I just wanted to help!” And to see if Ford knows anything about whoever took his Father’s and Nona’s memories—though Raz doesn’t voice that bit aloud. “I don’t know who shattered your mind,” Raz steps forwards, “But now we can find out!”

“I already know who did this to me.” Ford admits. “That’s the first thing I’ve learned in here.” The mindscape begins to tilt, slightly, the sky above Raz starting to twist. “The rest you’re gonna have to see for yourself…”

And suddenly Raz is standing in a dark forest, Ford standing next to him. In Ford’s hands is a shovel, and on his face is a grim expression. He’s no longer dressed in a Psychonauts uniform, instead wearing a shirt and jacket.

“Ford,” Raz turns to him, “What is it?” Who shattered your mind? What are you trying to show me?

Ford points with his shovel. “See for yourself.” He utters, as Raz follows the end of the shovel to a stone archway.

Raz swallows. When he looks to his side again, Ford is gone.

Guess I gotta keep going. Raz walks through the archway, and finds himself in what looks like a cemetery. All of the tombstones are blank.

Slowly, carefully, Raz continues forwards, cool mist curling around his ankles. He picks up figments as he goes, looking this way and that for the answers Ford indicated would be here. The ground starts to curve sharply downwards before him.

Raz turns around at the sound of something scraping. His eyes widen—a massive comb is slowly advancing behind him, already past the cemetery’s entrance.

“Uh oh.” Raz hops on his levball and runs, rolling along the ground and collecting figments along the way. The sky darkens as he progresses, the comb advancing behind him at a steady pace, until the only light is that of Raz’ levball, and two lanterns hanging up ahead.

The lanterns are standing to either side of a deep hole. Raz hops down into it. The comb passes harmlessly overhead.

“Agent Cruller,” Raz calls up, “I’m getting less sure I want to see this!”

And Ford is there, at the edge of the hole, pushing his shovel into the dirt. “Oh no,” he mutters, lifting up a shovelful of dirt, “I don’t think you’ll want to see this at all.” He dumps the dirt into the hole—into the grave, Raz realizes, his eyes widening. Within moments, the grave is full, and Raz is struggling to escape the dirt surrounding him. Air! He needs air!

The dirt doesn’t give, pressing in all around Raz as he struggles. He needs to get out of here! But it’s heavy, and dark, and Raz can’t breathe—

Raz’ hand bursts through the dirt, and he scrabbles for purchase on the ground. His head emerges from the dirt with a gasp, his lungs sucking in all the air they can get. Even though he’s only a mental projection and would merely be dementestrated if he failed to make it out, Raz’ chest heaves and he struggles to regain his breath.

Well, now he’s even more sure that he doesn’t want to see this.

But he has to. So he picks himself up all the way, hauling his legs out of the dirt. He pops free, but instead of landing back on the ground he floats upwards.

No, Raz realizes, looking up above him—or rather, looking below—he’s not floating, he’s falling.

“What?” Raz reaches back towards the dirt, yelping as he falls—

Very slowly.

Okay. Okay. It’s okay. He’s fine. Raz looks back down, at the shapes floating in the gloom below him. He’s not going to go splat. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

Sharklike-shapes swim circles in the gloom. Raz angles for a figment, grabbing it as he falls towards a candle-lit ledge. He lands, and runs over to the door, pushing it open.

A bowling alley stretches out into the darkness before him. A single light illuminates the beginning of the lane—and illuminates Bowling Ford, who’s lying supine on the wood, a bowling ball resting in his hands on his stomach. Raz walks up to him.

“Hey Ford,” Raz starts, “What’s the deal with the deep six treatment?” Couldn’t he just drop a memory vault or something? Points for the presentation, but Raz is tired. He has been running around all day trying to fix this, and he would appreciate a break.

“I did what I had to do.” Ford states miserably. “I loved her, after all.”

All of Raz’ annoyance comes to a halt. “Wait, what?” Okay, now he’s wondering if he actually managed to put Ford back together, because that makes no sense. It’s like he isn’t even responding to Raz at all—what does loving Raz’ Nona have to do with burying Raz alive?

Ford lifts his head up. “Someday, when you fall in love, you’ll understand.” He closes his eyes, puts his head back down, and, without any further comment, slides along the lane. A light that wasn’t there before sits at the end of it, backlighting a set of pins that Ford knocks over in his exit.

Oookay then. Raz tries to follow, but he can’t get any further than the edge of the light. Fine. He turns around, walks out the door, and makes his way to the edge of the ledge. There’s two more like it, further down, lit with the warm glow of so many candles. Raz jumps.

He floats down just as slowly as before, but it isn’t long before he comes to a landing on the next ledge, having grabbed two more figments on the way. The window above the door is yellow, this time, instead of the pink of the ledge above. Raz grabs a third figment, and enters the door.

Raz is in the hair salon, now, a single light illuminating a patch of green and yellow tile. Barber Ford sits towards the back, atop a massive jar of Hydrocide™. Raz walks into the center of the light.

“Ford, what’s going on here? What did you want me to see?” Raz is so, so tired of having to jump through hoops. It’s all he’s been doing, today, all he’s been doing since Truman asked him to put Ford back together. Raz would really like some answers now!

“I couldn’t let her go free, she was a danger to the world!” And once again, Ford’s talking like Raz isn’t really there at all. Raz huffs in annoyance. Ford continues, “Even though it was the world that made her dangerous.”

Okay, that’s not helpful. Raz already knows all of this—for all that Nona’s memories of her life before the Deluge are gone, she can still remember bits and pieces of her time as Maligula, for all that she refuses to share those bits. Besides, Raz saw all of this when he was running around in the hair-filled mindscape of Barber Ford!

Still, Raz persists. “I know this! But who took your memories?”

“Safe. She’s safe.” Ford says, like Raz isn’t there at all. “Well, she was.” He frowns. “We all were. Huh.” Ford shrugs, “Not anymore.” He plugs his nose, and falls backwards into the Hydrocide™. Raz reaches out, but Ford’s already gone.

Just like before, Raz can’t go much further beyond the edges of the light—not that there really is anywhere to go. So Raz turns around and leaves the room, standing on the edge of the ledge outside the door.

One more ledge to go. Raz already has a good idea of what’ll be on it.

He floats down through the twisted ground making up the chasm, collecting figments as he goes. The window above the final door is blue. Raz pushes the door open, and walks out onto a wooden floor. A typewriter dominates the space, and Mail Ford sits atop it.

Raz pushes up his goggles. “Look, Ford, whatever I’m supposed to know—just spit it out!” He’s so tired. Is it so much to ask that even just one thing comes easy today? Must everything be a struggle?

“I had to hide her from the world, because they’d never forgive her.” Ford rambles. “And I had to hide her from me, because I’d never forget her.”

Raz’ heart starts to sink. Ford isn’t saying… no. No, he must be confused, or talking about something else. “Where?” Raz asks, “Where did you hide her?” He has a sneaking suspicion as to who she is. He hopes it isn’t true.

Ford shuts his eyes. “She’s with family.” He falls backwards over the bar, sinking down into the slot for paper.

Annoyance and dread fill Raz in equal measure. He was hoping for answers about his Nona, about the Memory Man who took her and Dad’s memories, made them think they were mother and son instead of aunt and nephew, left them with nothing but broken pieces when the illusion finally shattered—

Now, Raz isn’t sure what he’ll find, and instead of being excited by the prospect, he only feels a growing dread. He grabs the Half-a-Mind dancing to the side of the door, and makes his way back out. One of the shark-shaped coffins floats by, a tag dancing on its back. As tired as he is, Raz slows it down with time bubble to grab the tag, then leaps off to float down further.

He tumbles slowly, starting to fall faster and faster—

Raz hits the ground with a thud. He picks himself up, and finds next to a tombstone marked “Maligula.” More importantly, though, he’s in a coffin, and despite his protests it slams shut on him, trapping him inside.

The world around him blurs. Raz finds himself still in the velvet-lined coffin, but now it’s big enough for him to stand in, like some weirdly-shaped hall.

What is it with Ford’s mind and Raz getting buried alive? Is it Bury Raz day? Can Raz catch a break?

Probably not. Raz continues on, the velvet hall expanding around him as he goes until it’s almost the same size as a regular hallway. Clusters of candles sit in the corners of the room he finds himself in, cobwebs hanging from the walls and ceiling. Before Raz is a bed, with two skeletons lying on it.

“Ah!” Raz jolts back. “Who’s that?”

Ford’s voice comes in from all directions, even as Ford himself is nowhere to be found. “That’s your grandparents, Lazlo and Marona. They drowned in the Valermo Dam disaster, remember?”

“I already know this…” Raz mutters. Though it is kind of weird for Ford to know it, he thinks. No wonder the Memory Man shattered Ford’s mind—they must have been protecting their own identity. Which means that Ford definitely knows who they were!

(There is another possibility, sitting at the edge of Raz’s brain. He ignores it.)

“You—what?” Ford sounds genuinely caught off-guard.

“Er—” Raz backtracks. “I mean, Grandpa Lazlo died, but my grandma made it out and came to live with my father.” He tries. It doesn’t sound very convincing.

“No, Raz. She didn’t.” Raz can’t tell if Ford believes him or not. Then again, Ford apparently already knows that Raz’ Nona isn’t really his grandmother.

Something clicks behind Raz. When he turns around, the wall is gone, revealing a long hall. Raz sighs, hops on his levball, and continues forward.

Ford’s voiceover continues. “Razputin, after the fight with Lucy, she was defeated, but alive. I snuck her away from the others and brought her back to the Gulch.”

But… wasn’t Ford’s mind shattered in the fight with Maligula? How could he have brought her back to America? Could he still teleport that far with a shattered mind?

(Unless Ford’s mind wasn’t shattered at all, Raz realizes. He shoves that thought down.)

“I put her in the Astralathe—one of Otto’s inventions.” Ford continues.

Raz comes to a screeching halt at the end of the hall. The room before him has wooden flooring mixed with the velvet, a stained glass window, and a strange machine that Raz has never seen before. His heart sinks. No, no, no.

“Created to make permanent alterations to the psyche.” Ford continues, ignorant to the rising panic filling Raz’ throat. No. No no no. Can Raz go back to being buried alive? Please?

Raz spots the purse behind the machine—the Astralathe?—and darts towards it, needing the distraction. He pulls out the purse tag and attaches it. Ford’s voiceover pauses, waiting until Raz is done to continue. After a long moment, Raz continues on past the machine, towards a blue door at the very end of the room.

“But I knew the world would never forgive her,” Ford says, as all of Raz’ hopes fall apart. “So I had to hide her somewhere safe.”

Tentatively, Raz opens the door. “Oh no.” Oh no, indeed—Raz is standing in the doorway of his family’s caravan, looking out over an empty and darkened version of their campgrounds.

“I hid her among her family, Razputin.” Ford says, “Among your family.”

Raz can’t deny it any longer. “You’re—” he gasps, his throat starting to tighten. “You’re the Memory Man!” He exclaims, “You’re the one who took Nona and Dad’s memories!” Raz’ chest tightens, the weight of the world crashing in all around him. No, no—this can’t be right. No.

All at once, the scenery playing out in Ford’s mind stops. “You… knew?” He appears next to Raz in the mindscape, surprise coloring his face.

Raz can’t be in here for a minute longer. He scrambles for his smelling salts and whips them out, popping them open in front of his face. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out—

“Razputin—” Ford reaches for him—

+=+=+=+=+

Raz snaps back into his body on the mailroom floor. He looks at Ford, once, his chest starting to heave. No—he can’t do this. He never should have done this.

Ford comes back to himself, whirling around to face him. “Razputin—” He tries, but Raz is already running. He needs to get out of here! He needs space!

Raz runs, using his levball to go faster. He runs, all the way through the atrium into the lobby, outside the Motherlobe entirely, across the floating platforms—

(The water feels his agitation, and trembles in shared rage-hurt. It reaches out to Raz as he passes over it, whispering offers to play and wash his cares away.)

Raz reaches the tunnel to the Questionable Area, and keeps going. He bursts out the other end, his chest and legs burning, and he does not stop—

He can see the fairy lights of his family’s camp strung up, bright against the darkened sky. Raz dashes, intent on getting to his parents so they can all leave this place, or something—

Ford crashes into Raz from the side, stopping him from reaching the campgrounds. They tumble across the ground, Raz’ panic hitting a peak—

“Let me go!” he shouts, squirming in Ford’s hold.

“Listen, Raz!” Ford begins, “I know you’re mad—”

“Of course I’m mad!” Raz shrieks. “You’re the reason my Dad can’t remember his mother’s face! You’re the one who put my whole family into this mess, who forced us to hide Nona without any help!” Tears are bubbling out of Raz’ eyes like steam from a kettle. He finds he doesn’t care. “My family’s had to keep Nona’s past hidden all on our own just because you felt the need to shatter your own mind and run from your problems!” He can’t believe this. All his life, he’s looked up to Ford—wanted to be a hero, just like him.

But Ford isn’t a hero at all.

“You’re right to be mad, Razputin.” Ford sighs. “I was young, and I made a terrible mistake.”

“You could have stuck around!” Raz yells. “Did it never occur to you that they might remember?”

“I had hoped they wouldn’t.” Ford admits.

Raz yells. “Well they did! Except they still don’t remember before the Deluge!” He glares at Ford with every inch of anger in his body, “Nona remembers Maligula, but she doesn’t remember you!” And maybe Ford deserved that, to be forgotten by the woman he loved. But Nona didn’t deserve to have all her memories wrenched away like that. The Aquatos didn’t deserve the fear of not knowing, of always looking over their shoulders for fear of what lurked in their shadows.

“Razputin—” Ford raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“DON’T ‘RAZPUTIN’ ME!” Raz is tired. Raz is so, so tired.

“What’s all this?” Augustus’ voice breaks through the tension, and all of the anger leaves Raz’ body at once. He’s tired. He’s so, so tired.

Ford freezes like a deer in headlights. He opens his mouth—

Raz points at him. “He did it!” He shouts. “He’s the one who messed with your memories!”

Augustus’ eyes snap onto Ford. “What.” He sounds so much smaller than Raz’ father should ever sound.

Distantly, Raz notices his mother and siblings wandering over, Queepie held in his mother’s arms, Mirtala holding Frazie’s hand and rubbing at her eyes. He shoves down the part of him that doesn’t want his family to see him crying—Raz doesn’t have it in him to care.

He’s so tired.

“Why?” Augustus asks, clutching at his chest. “You—why would you—”

“Because I loved her.” Ford laments, “And I thought it was the only way to keep her safe.”

“So you took her memories?” Raz doesn’t know how he has the energy to continue yelling. Anger’s just like that, he guesses.

His mother passes Queepie over to Dion, wrapping an arm around Augustus’ shoulders. She glares at Ford. “You.”

Somehow, Ford manages to look even more rigid. “Me.” He admits.

“You have some nerve!” All of his mother’s ire turns to Ford, and Raz can’t find it in himself to defend the man. “What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done to this family?”

Ford opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Wait.” Frazie pipes up, bringing everything to a screeching halt. They all turn to look at her.

“Where’s Nona?”

[dissociating-brain]

Every fucking time my brother talks to me, he unloads some fucking horrific trauma that happened in our childhood that I can’t remember due to amnesia. Like genuinely sadistic torture shit. And he just texted me “do you have a few minutes to talk” leave me ALONE. I don’t want to KNOW.

[mischiefmanifold]

okay should a young child (7-8 years old) be intimately knowledgeable about the human body and how to dissect it (dissection in super basic terms, like take this out take this out etc.), or is that a sign of some kind of CSA or something

the context is that at 7-8 years old I was writing horrifically gorey stories about the murder and dissection of children my age (nobody I knew IRL bc I didn't know anyone else my age IRL) by older people

[bpdcodone]

Decided to take a drive last night and ended up walking in a dissociative episode 9 hours away from home with no memory of how I got there so I had to take an Uber home

[autumn-in-the-academy]

So you don't like him when he's not a red flag but the moment he starts crashing out on rotomblr you like him again. Okay

I don’t like him when you fuck up with his mind and memories

[a-mason]

there was a struggle to answer.

"he's always in there. in the back of my mind. if i'm being honest, i still respect him. kind of. i owe him that at least, bastard saved my life a long ass time ago, ha. but fuck. in hindsight, he stole a lot more than he gave, even when he was 6 feet underground."

"it's hard to explain, it's like he lives in my mind. like i have at least 2 people in my skull; me, and him. maybe even 3 for all i fucking know. it was like i had to fight to exist in this body or float in nothingness for what felt like infinity. now i just hear voices, feel emotions that don't belong to me. whatever. i'm just fucking crazy."

[obsessedwithtodoroki]

Summery;

Back to Odd, what happened to him after dealing with that jellyfish?

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 04: I see the danger, it's written there in your eyes

Shock + "You in there?"

3220 Words; Rewired AU

TW for isolation, memory loss, experimentation, electrical torture

AO3 ver

This sucks.

Dion glared at the locked door, arms crossed. All of his attempts to force it open had proven futile, leaving him nothing to do but lean against the wall and glare at it.

The room he was in—if it could even be called a room, when there was just barely enough space to lie down—was small, four plain stone walls with a single metal door. There was a single… cot was too generous a word, honestly. It was a slab of metal just barely big enough to lie on, held up by two diagonal metal struts braced against the wall underneath it. There was a drain in the center of the floor; Dion refused to touch it if he could help it. By bracing himself against the walls of the corner, he could climb up high enough to get at the ceiling. But the panel over the single small light refused to budge, no matter how hard Dion tried to pry it off. Spots still danced across his eyes from his efforts.

The only ventilation came in the form of four small slits in the door. There was a slot at the bottom of the door, as well, but the panel covering it wouldn’t budge. If Dion were more resourceful, if he had a better idea of what was going on—

But he wasn’t, and he had no idea. He’d been handling groceries out in town, on his way back to camp—

And then he was in here, in this barren room, with no way out. The jacket he’d gotten for his seventeenth birthday was missing, as was his wallet, pocket knife, and compact. Whoever had taken him and put him here had gone through his pockets, and the knowledge left Dion feeling violated.

But there was nothing he could do about it, and that, more than anything, crawled under his skin like so many wriggly spiders. The inaction grated against him, his leg bouncing in agitation. He needed to move, to get up and do something—

But he couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until the door opened, or he found out what the hell was going on, or—something, he didn’t know.

This sucked. Dion glared at the door from where he was sitting on the slab.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes, and his vision swam worse than it already was.. He didn’t recognize the voice speaking to him, the words spinning through his head uselessly. He swallowed, but the nausea remained.

Still, he spoke. “Dion Aquato.” Son of Donatella and Augustus Aquato. Eldest of five siblings. Dion Aquato. I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Meals came in through the slot at the bottom of the door—gross. Even if it was on a tray, it was still being slid along a floor that had been exposed to god knew what. Dion didn’t eat, the first few times, fear of poison and disdain for invisible concrete floor grime holding him back.

But the hunger pricked at his stomach. It was impossible to sleep well on the slab or the floor. He needed to keep his strength up however he could, if he ever wanted out of here.

The meals were simple. A plastic spork came on the equally plastic tray. Neither the utensil nor the tray could be used to escape, as far as Dion could tell, so he left them by the slot when he finished. The food was…

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, but he was already homesick. Truth be told, he’d been homesick the moment he’d finished inspecting the room, but the feeling had only built over time. He missed his mother’s cooking. He missed cooking. He missed food that wasn’t bland unseasoned drivel. He’d had his fill of dry chicken and plain mashed potatoes and sad greens. He wanted to eat food, real food with actual flavor that he wasn’t shoving down his throat just for the nutritional value.

How many days had it been? Three? Four? Dion wondered if his birthday had passed already, if he had turned 18 in this cell, away from his friends and family. It had only been a week off, when he’d found himself in this tiny stone hell.

Ugh. This sucked. The food was awful. He had no idea what he was even here for, or where here even was. He wanted to go home. He wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to figure a way out of this cell.

Dion was clean, at least, his hair hanging loose around his face and on his shoulders. He couldn’t remember when the grease had been rinsed out—but he really didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t.

“An explanation would be nice.” He grumbled. “Wouldn’t mind some fucking answers.”

The door had no answer for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up to a bright light right in his eyes. Where—

He was lying back on a hard surface, at an angle. There was pressure across his legs and chest. Attempts to move were thwarted—oh. He was strapped down.

Dion turned his head to the side to avoid the light shining down on him, cool metal pressing against his cheek. He scrunched his eyes shut, spots dancing across his vision. His head was pounding—probably because of the light.

He heard footsteps to his left. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

There was a woman standing there with a clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dion blinked.

Nope, she was still there, still regarding the clipboard in her hand through cat eye glasses. A pen floated over the clipboard.

Dion turned his head to look to the right. The room he was in had… six walls? No, wait, it was eight, wasn’t it? Yeah. Eight. Eight plain white walls that went up to… he couldn’t tell, with the bright light looming above him. He scrunched his eyes shut and turned his head back to his left, opening them as the woman walked over to a shelf taking up three of the walls.

The room gave him an uneasy feeling. The bright light reminded him of dentists; the lady’s labcoat and the sanitized room reminded him of hospitals. There was even a counter back to his right that took up three of the walls, with a sink and cabinets.

A binder floated off the shelf and opened in front of the woman. She flipped through the pages inside for a moment before the binder returned to the shelf.

Dion opened his mouth. He was so done with his stupid little cell, with this bright light searing down into his eyes—but most of all, he was so done with not knowing what the hell was going on. He wanted answers, dammit, so he opened his mouth and spoke.

“What do you want from me?”

The woman’s head snapped around so fast that Dion almost thought it might fall off. She was regarding him, now, and Dion snapped his mouth shut. He felt like a bug under her gaze, like a number on her clipboard that wasn’t what she expected.

She walked over to him, lips pursed.

“At least say something!” His mouth moved before his brain could process what he was saying. Her brow furrowed, and Dion tensed.

“You,” she loomed over him, close enough that he could see the gold of her eyes, “should not be up.” She held something small in her hands, and Dion strained to make out what was surely going to be used to hurt him—

One click. Two clicks.

Dion never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

His head swam. His mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “Dion Aquato.” Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato I’m an acrobat I’m a brother I’m Dion Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

There were holes in his memory.

Dion almost didn’t notice them, at first. Day and night blurred together in his cell, with nothing to mark the passage of time. How long had he been here? How many days? Had he turned 18, here in this cell, away from his friends and family?

All of his street clothes had been missing when he’d woken up here—he was dressed in a simple shirt and pants made of a rough fabric he couldn’t identify, the light gray seeming to melt into the stone around him.

(But hadn’t he searched his pockets when he’d first woken up here? He remembered them being empty of his things—)

That was the first clue. The second was the collection of plastic sporks in the corner of his room—he was sure he’d put them there, but he couldn’t remember eating that many meals. The third clue was that he still didn’t know how he was clean, despite being in his cell long enough to start to smell.

There were holes in his memory. Once he finally realized this, he realized the danger he was in. Panic spiraled in his brain. What if he forgot everything? What if he forgot his family? His home?

But what could he do? He’d never even left this cell.

(Had he?)

Still, he needed to remember. He thought back to his life outside, to home—

He could remember his mother’s face, at least. Could still remember every member of his family, from his parents to his Nona to his siblings. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Raz. Tala. Queepie. Could remember the circus, the blue and green stripes of the Aquatodome.

He glared reproachfully at the door of his cell. His name was Dionysus Aquato. He was the eldest of five. He was 17—no, he was probably 18 already—and he refused to forget his home and family. He’d die before he let that happen.

“You’re not keeping me here forever.” He whispered. “I’ll get out eventually.”

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up strapped to a table.

There was a bright light overhead. His head swam, a pounding headache behind his eyes. His mouth had that awful taste that it always got when he overslept.

This wasn’t his tent or the caravan, though. This was an octagonal room, the ceiling obscured by the light bearing down on him. There was something familiar about the room, but he couldn’t fathom why.

He turned his head to his left. There was a woman standing there, regarding a binder floating in front of her through cat eye glasses, hair pulled back into a bun. There was someone next to her in… a pantsuit? The woman was wearing a lab coat, which some part of Dion felt was far more appropriate for the sterile setting.

Dion didn’t recognize her, though. But hadn’t he seen her before?

And the guy standing next to her—Dion had never seen them before. But he knew their face. Didn’t he? He didn’t know.

“Why is it conscious?” They asked. It took Dion a moment to realize that they were talking about him. That… that didn’t bode well.

Her lips pursed. “Because I’m investigating a problem.” She pressed something—

Pain! Dion yelped, his body jerking against the straps. It arced up his legs and arms, through his chest, into his head—

Just as quick as it came, it was gone. His shoulders heaved.

A problem. She’d called him a problem. That couldn’t be good.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Something. He tried to remember, searching his mind—

Another scream was ripped from his throat as a fresh wave of electricity burst through him. He spasmed, the straps pinning him down. His wrists and ankles were starting to ache—were they going to bruise?

The pain left again. Dion’s thoughts chased each other in circles. His head spun. He needed to—he needed to—

Remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Aquato!

His name was Dion Aquato. He was the eldest of four—no, five. He came from the Aquato family circus.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona—

He screamed as another wave of pain rushed through him. The electricity didn’t stop, even as his voice cut out, even as he continued to spasm. His head swam, pain pounding his brain to bits—

All at once, the pain stopped. He shook, and turned towards the pair.

The woman’s binder had fallen to the ground. Her nose had bled, a red smear on her upper lip.

“Well.” She said, “That’s… interesting.”

Dion didn’t have the energy to question it. He needed to remember, anyway. Mom Dad Nona Frazie—

Something clicked. Once, twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

It sounded disappointed in him. He couldn’t fathom why.

“Dion Aquato.” He was answering the question, right? He was Dion Aquato. It was his name, his identity—he was Dion Aquato eldest son acrobat 17 years old Dion Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

The pile of sporks in the corner was gone. If it had ever been there at all—he had probably just imagined it.

He didn’t know when he’d gotten here. Didn’t know how long he’d been here. Had a week passed? Was he 18, now, had he missed his birthday in this stupid little cell?

His old clothes were gone, replaced with a dull blue shirt and pants the same gray as the stone around him. It was weird, to look down at his legs and see nothing but gray, gray like the walls, gray like he was just another fixture in the room, just another setpiece—

(Hadn’t his shirt been gray? Hadn’t he been wearing his street clothes when he first woke up in this cell?)

His head swam. Lights danced behind his vision.

His name was Dion Aquato. He had a family and a home. His name was Dion Aquato.

(Was it?)

He looked at the door. Metal, like the—well, cot was too generous. More like a slab, really—slab sticking out from the wall, held up by diagonal metal struts. Metal, like the ring around his neck.

(He couldn’t remember when it was put on. He couldn’t get it off. Maybe it had always been there.)

“How much longer?” He asked. How much longer would he be stuck in here? He wanted to go home. He wasn’t even sure where home was.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

He came to strapped to a chair. The room he was in was familiar, octagonal-shape tickling some corner of his brain. But every attempt to recall if he had been here before resulted in fog filling his head. But he needed to remember, right?

There was a woman standing at a control panel-like structure to his left, her mouth moving. He couldn’t hear what she was saying through the panel of glass between him and her. 

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion Aquato. He was 17 (18? 16?). He didn’t know where he was. Home was Mom Dad Nona Frazie Pooter Tala Queepie, it was blue and green tents and a towering caravan. He needed to remember.

He muttered their names under his breath, pushing at the straps wrapped around his arms and chest. As usual, they refused to yield.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie

Dion Dion Dion my name is Dion my name is Dion

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie—

Pain shot through him, electricity coursing through his body until his head spun. Even when it stopped, the room continued to spin, the bright light above him leaving spots in his vision.

He needed—he needed—

Remember!

His name was Dion Aquato. Home was green and blue and Mom and Dad and Nona and Raz and Queepie—

He was missing something. He needed to remember it.

“Shut up.”

Another bolt of electricity. Another scream that left his throat raw.

He didn’t even realize he’d been muttering. But he needed to remember, he couldn’t shut up, he needed to hold onto everything that he had for as long as he could, needed to hold himself together no matter what. He mumbled their names, his brain struggling through the haze of pain and light dancing behind his eyes. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Tala. Queepie. Mom. Dad. Raz. Tala. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Mom. Dad. Nona—

“I said shut up.” Something clicked—

Dion’s body convulsed against the straps again. His throat hurt too much to scream, the electricity seizing through him.

The electricity stopped. He twitched. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Remember. He needed to remember. Mom. Dad. Frazie. Queepie. Mom. Nona. Raz. Queepie. Dad. Nona. Tala. Mom. Dad. Mom—

“Fine, then. If you can’t shut up, then you won’t speak at all.”

Something clicked. Once. Twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure. “Dion.” That… sounded right.

“Who are you?”

They sounded frustrated. He wasn’t sure why.

“Dion.” He was Dion, wasn’t he?

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Gray walls stared back at him. He tried to remember any place other than this, tried to remember being anywhere but these walls—

Nothing. Just gray.

He knew he had come from somewhere, though. He had a mother and a father out there, somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t here.

But what did his mother’s face even look like? How did her voice sound? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, and she seemed all the less real because of it.

How many siblings did he have? Did he even have siblings at all?

His head hurt. Lights danced behind his eyes. He clutched his face in his hands, massaging his temples. Nausea threatened to spill out of his mouth and onto the floor below. He choked it down.

His name was Dion. He had a mother and a father. He couldn’t remember their faces. He needed to remember.

Did he? He couldn’t remember. His head swam.

He pitched forward, his hands hitting the concrete floor as he fell off the slab. His name was—he was—

He retched.

Shoulders shaking, he leaned back. He rubbed his mouth, not caring about the bile and spit on his arm. He looked at the door.

“I’m—” He needed to remember. His head was swimming. “Where am I?” Who am I?

The door had no answers for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Bright light loomed above him, searing his eyes.

Exhaustion weighed him down more than the straps holding him still. A bitter taste lingered in the back of his throat.

A woman’s voice floated over to him. “Shutdown, Test 24-2.” The light was blinding, he couldn’t see where the voice was coming from—

Pain arced through his limbs. Something in him clicked. His head pounded, pressure like a vice—

Something clattered on the floor.

“Stop now.” The pressure receded at the woman’s voice. He couldn’t fathom why. He was too exhausted to care, his eyes slipping closed. Light danced behind them.

Click.

Click.

Click.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He had no answer.

“Who are you?”

Why were they asking? He wasn’t anybody.

“Who are you?”

The voice was starting to grate against his head. Nausea danced in his throat.

“Who are you?”

“I—” Who was he? Was he anything?

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes. At once, the answer came to him.

“Who are you?”

“Nobody.”

“Yes, you are.”

[starfilled-galaxy]

Shocking! Being on the edge of death is actually not very good for your mental and physical health!