#someone please extract the worm from my brain

[artsideblogofsorts]

Daniel practice ~

[hollowknightheadcanons]

Spooky/scary ideas for funny soup au Cont.

OH BOY!

Why now do I just keep imagining this sitcom but the intro has the friends theme playing. this is awful my brain is tainted

Ohh, worm? If there's no one left alive by that point, that would mean no more soul is being drained... Is the restaurant meant to have a downfall throughout the show/story? Or would Lurien only discover the basement after the Soul Master has been killed/arrested?  I just think it'd be neat if. And hear me out, scene idea: Lurien discovering the basement. It's midnight. The restaurant's closed. He's just down there with a flashlight, hovering it over the sunken faces of bugs who've been drained. He goes to help them, but surprise! the Soul Master's there. Ominously/threateningly hovering, asking in the lowest voice "What are you doing here, dear Watcher? This is a staff-only room."

Then Lurien is ✨ captured, ✨ eventually escapes, now he's got his proof, bringin' it in to the last season where everything truly begins falling apart! Lurien trying to prove it to the king, the restaurant begins to fail, the Soul Master has fully contorted, season finale of absolute hell where either 1) Epic(tm) final confrontation  2) it's /after/ the epic final confrontation, and we see a fun epilogue where everything's a-okay! With some... vague and unsettling hint somewhere that no, it's not all okay, and someone is meaning to follow in the Soul Master's foosteps :)

True about PK maybe not being in on it. Hmmm I'm just wondering then how PK wouldn't have found out on his own? Seeing as a common theory is him being a deity of soul or something, he would know when it's being,, abused, I guess? Right? Maybe? I dunno I'm spitballing now heheehe

Worm! There is the soul warriors/twisters, that's true! I understood that they'd be like... helpers, in this whole operation, rather than subjecting themselves to be drained,,, especially seeing as,, in canon, they, too, used soul to power themselves up, right? I mean! Actually. That could work as it's own twisted thing! Willingly succumbing themselves to soul overdose so to supply more for the restaurant... Their contortions are the prelude to what the Soul Master will become. some foreshadowing if we see one just,, falling apart. becoming a folly/mistake. 

What would they gain from it, though? Assumedly the Soul Master is doing it for money/power,,, why would the Soul warriors/twisters allow themselves to potentially die for the sake of something that might not work? For pre-restaurant establishment, I mean- Testing the soul extraction n such Unless there was just some serious gaslighting/manipulation going on behind the scenes, which could also be possible!

also Ghost Hunting follow-up series??? yes PLEASE, absolutely terrifying

As for helping you write for this AU!! 👀 Bro I'd be honored, but I can't help but imagine the. contrast between you making it comedic and me just like "who's ready for some AngSt and GoRE? ?? ?" hdghLKSh

———

These are such good ideas I wish I could write horror too!!! But by no ones alive I meant the Soul Master stopped keeping bugs alive for extra soul because it took too long and there isn’t a hot spring nearby.

I love all these ideas a lot, maybe I could try writing it, idk how it would turn out. It would be in the genre “comedic horror” I suppose. The idea for the confrontation is so good.

To answer about the Soul Warriors, they help because they get money too. And the soul makes them more powerful.

I need to write down all these ideas to keep track! And yeah the whiplash of going from straight comedy to straight horror would be great. I’d probably try to keep my writing to a comedy horror as to not cause TOO much whiplash haha.

[true-blue-megamind]

Daylight and Dark Ch. 2 - Morning

You can find Chapter 1 or read the entire fiction on AO3 HERE.

CHAPTER RATING: Teen; FULL FICTION RATING: Explicit.  WARNINGS FOR ENTIRE WORK: violence, sex, language, references to prior domestic abuse, and rock n’ roll! CHAPTER WARNINGS: Mom Friend Minion is too damn loveable

Roxanne woke with her head pillowed on Megamind's shoulder. She blinked blearily in the bright sunlight filling the room, and stretched delightfully sore muscles. It had been too long since she'd last awoken with the afterglow of good, rough sex warming her body.

"Good morning, Beautiful," said a smooth, pleasant voice.

Roxanne smiled up into Megamind's handsome face. "Good morning," she sighed, sliding against him to kiss his mouth. She settled back beside him, nuzzling the side his neck and idly sliding one finger up and down his opposite ear. "Mmmmm, I should get up, but I'm much too comfortable."

"Then don't get up."

"But I really should."

"The Evil Overlord forbids it."

"You're not an Evil Overlord anymore."

"Well, then the Defender of Metrocity forbids it," he grinned down at her, turning to wrap both arms tightly around her. "Stay with me," he added seriously. "It's Saturday. As long as I'm not called to duty, there is no good reason why we can't spend the whole day here."

An electronic buzzing suddenly disturbed the quiet. It was quickly joined by a metallic rattling at the window. Roxanne bolted up in bed, giving a little yelp and pulling her coverlet over her chest as she realized six or seven brainbots were swarming outside the glass. Megamind's reaction was even more animated. He practically tumbled onto the floor, bringing the rumbled sheet with him and wrapping himself frantically in it. He stumbled to the window and, ignoring Roxanne's stuttering protests, threw it open to let the little flying robots in. They massed around him like worried children, bumping him with rounded glass domes and pawing him with long mechanical arms. Roxanne was sure that if they'd had tails, they would have been wagging.

Chuckling nervously, Megamind patted them. "Okay, okay, Daddy's alright. This is just Daddy's… ah… private time… So we really shouldn't be bothering Daddy. No we shouldn't." He shook a finger at them to emphasize his words, but that caused the sheet to slip a little, and he snatched it back up into place. "Look, Daddy's not leaving you behind. Daddy just needs to spend some alone time with Roxanne, okay? Daddy loves both you and Roxanne, but in very different ways…"

Roxanne nearly choked on her giggle. Of all the absurd things she had seen him do during her semi-professional Damsel-in-Distress career, none were quite as funny as Megamind giving the Daddy Has a Girlfriend speech to a hoard of cyborg drones. Her humor was stolen, however, when one of the brainbots left the happily swirling flock to hover in front of an empty section of wall. Moments later, the top minion— or rather Minion— appeared, his image projected by the brainbot's red camera eye. Roxanne blushed bright scarlet and tugged the blanket higher. She knew enough about Megamind's technological creations to realize that Minion could see them just as well as they could see him.

"Oh, sir! Thank goodness they found you! I've had the brainbots looking everywhere! Where have you been all night?!"

"Here."

"No phone call? No message? You just stay out to all hours—"

"Minion," Megamind interjected. "This really isn't the best—"

"Without a single thought of what you might be putting me through—"

"Minion—"

"...worried sick, and—"

"Minion!"

"WHAT? I mean…Ah... What, Sir?"

Megamind took a deep breath and began gathering scattered clothes from the floor with one hand, the other still clutching the sheet tight. "You're right. I should have called. I didn't think about it—"

"Didn't… didn't think about it?" Minion blustered, wide-eyed. "Sir! How could you? After all we've been through! You… You know that my sole purpose is to take care of you, and… and…"

"Oh, Minion! Stop being so dramatic! You know very well I didn't mean it that way!" Megamind threw up his free hand in exasperation, flinging his shirt above his head.

"How did you mean it, then?"

Another deep breath and Megamind collected himself. "I got a little caught up in the moment and… things…"

"Things? What things?! That's no excuse!"

"Things, Minion," Megamind said pointedly, motioning his head toward the bed. "And this seriously is not a good time."

Minion glanced where his master indicated. "Oh good morning, Miss... Ritchi..." his cordial voice grew faint as he finally took in the scene. Large aquatic eyes bulged, flitting between Roxanne and his master.

"Oh, Sir! You didn't!"

Megamind rolled his eyes and snatched one of his boots from the floor. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

"Sir!"

"And I plan to do it again!"

"But Sir!"

"A lot!"

"SIR!"

"As often as possible!"

Minion mouthed wordlessly before shaking himself free of shock. "Well, I just hope you're being safe," he quipped in a tone that sounded entirely too matronly.

Oh, dear… thought Roxanne.

Megamind had paused instantly, mouth open to offer a retort that never came.

"Oh, sir," Minion repeated, groaning in despair. "You didn't…"

"I… didn't think… " He gathered himself visibly. "Look, Minion, it's doubtful our DNA is even similar enough to be compatible!"

"You can't know that without tests!" Minion objected, then asked hopefully: "have you run any tests?"

"It's on my to-do list!" Megamind announced defensively.

Minion clapped a mechanical hand to his fishbowl. "This is a disaster..."

At least here Roxanne could help. "It's okay, Megamind, Minion. I'm… Uh…" she shrugged, fighting the burning heat in her face. "On the pill."

The entire room seemed to sigh with relief.

"Well, thank goodness one of you has some sense!" said Minion pointedly. "Sir, I am very disappointed in you."

Megamind spoke through gritted teeth. "Could we discuss this later?"

"No, we can NOT discuss this later," Minion replied in his best parental tones. "Sir, you have a reputation to uphold now, and—What are you doing?"

Megamind had walked up behind the hovering brain bot, tucking the edges of the sheet tightly under one arm, and started fiddling with something on its back.

"I understand," he sounded bored. "Reputation. Yes."

Minion's eyes narrowed, his tone slow with barely restrained suspicion. "With all due respect, Sir, if you're doing what I think you're—"

"What was that Minion?" Megamind called loudly.

"Sir, leave that audio-visual receptor alone!"

"I can't hear you!"

"Stop that!"

"There seems to be a problem with the receptor!"

"Problem with—That's because you're messing with it!"

"Minion? Ollo? If you can hear me—"

"Of course I can hear you!"

"…I'll talk to you this afternoon when I get home!"

"Sir! Don't you dare turn off that—"

The image went blank.

Megamind heaved a great sigh and idly petted the brainbots. Then he walked to the far side of the room, where he had thrown his collection of clothing, and awkwardly held the sheet with one hand while fumbling with his leather pants. He extracted his wallet and turned back to the brainbots.

"Here," he said, holding out a twenty-dollar bill. "Daddy needs you to take this, go to the bait shop, and buy Uncle Minion something nice. Some juicy worms or maybe some minnows. No, no, no," he admonished as one of them snapped at the money. "Not for chewing. Daddy will bring you a new wrench to play with when he comes home. Now go get Uncle Minion a treat."

The little robots circled him once by way of a goodbye, the lead one obediently taking the money in a dangling claw, and flew out the window. The last one ran into the windowsill, and Megamind sighed, scooped it up, turned back on its electronic eye, and patted it. It sped out the window, chattering irately at its receding fellows. Roxanne could almost imagine a running child shouting for his friends to wait up.

"Well," Megamind said, slumping to the bed. "That certainly woke me up. Maybe it would be simpler if you stayed over at the Lair next time." He grinned suddenly, his lightning-quick thoughts leaping to a new subject. "I'm starving! Where's that lasag-na?"

"For breakfast?"

"It's nearly eleven! Besides, it's better than cereal and wine."

Roxanne laughed. "I guess I can't argue with that." She sighed and got up, pretending not to watch Megamind as he dropped the sheet and began pulling on his clothes.

Megamind, thoughtful as ever, had put the food into the refrigerator sometime during the night.  The salad Roxanne had made had wilted, but the lasagna was wonderful once reheated. Sitting on the small balcony outside the glass double doors, they enjoyed the pleasant, invigorating bite of the autumn air. Megamind ate voraciously, but then, Roxanne supposed, he had gotten quite a work out the night before.

That thought made her chuckle.

"And just what do you find so amusing, Miss Ritchi?" he teased in that heart-melting tenor of his.

She looked at him, adorably happy with his favorite food and his favorite girl. It took so little to please Megamind sometimes, and his exuberance, coupled with his persona as a dark superhero, seemed both oxymoronic and oddly fitting. It was… relaxing and somehow comforting to be around someone who was so content.

"Has anyone ever told you you're cute?" Roxanne asked, dishing out another serving of lasagna to him.

He grinned at her. "Yes, actually. An inmate in Metrocity Prison when I was a toddler. His name was Kip Kendall— or at least that's what people called him. I'm not sure if Kip was a nickname, honestly. He'd been convicted of murdering some thugs who got on his bad side, and he was very possibly the toughest, meanest brute on Cell Block A. But he was always nice to me when I was young. Around anyone else he was stern and dangerous… Around me, well, he was the closest thing to a father figure I had. He used to play pattie-cake with me, if you can believe that, and carry me around the Yard on his shoulders. No one dared to mock him for it either— not even the guards— and if anyone thought less of him for it, they were smart enough to keep it to themselves." His eyes grew distant as a sad memory ghosted behind them. "I'll never forget the day Uncle Marlow—one of the other two inmates who took the most interest in my upbringing—took me aside and explained that Uncle Kip had gone. Kip had been given consecutive life sentences by a jury too forward-thinking to give a clearly unbalanced man the death penalty, but Cancer had other ideas. I'd known he was sick— they'd had to take him to the infirmary, and the last time I visited him there he seemed so… so unlike himself— but when he went it still felt… wrong. Sudden. I remember thinking how unfair it was that he left without saying goodbye."

Roxanne reached across the table, laying her hand over his, willing him to open his soul and let the old pain dissipate like dark mist in the sunlight.

"I remember feeling that way when—" Roxanne's voice caught. She'd never actually told anyone else this before. Not even the expensive psychologist her grandparents had taken her to for years. With a deep breath, she continued. "I remember feeling that way when my mom died. I was fifteen, in my senior year of high school, and someone told me I had to go to the principal's office. I kept thinking and thinking, trying to figure out what I'd done wrong, and then I saw Principal Hartwell's face. The school counselor and my granddad were with him. And I knew. Somehow I just knew," she paused, wrapping her arms around herself and staring at the glass tabletop. "I started crying before they could even tell me, and I kept asking how. I remember someone saying something about icy roads, and dozing off at the wheel, and how it was no one's fault. I hated that person for saying that. I wanted it to be someone's fault, to be able to blame somebody. I wanted to blame the car company for not making her sedan stronger, or the hospital for making her work that stupid double shift, or my sperm donor for leaving us so that she had to work so many hours in the first place. But more than anything else," she dared to lift her eyes to his, "for a long time, I wanted to blame her for not saying goodbye."

Megamind stood up and moved beside her chair to wrap one arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his warmth, laying her hand on his.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I had already left Metrocity High School by then. If I had known... I would have been there."

Roxanne laughed a little through her sorrow. "Yeah, that would have gone well... The city's new supervillain showing up to offer a spikey shoulder to cry on." She sighed and squeezed his hand. "You know you couldn't have, no matter how much you might have wanted to."

"I would have. I loved you even then, and I would have done anything for you." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm so sorry you lost your mother that way."

"It's alright. I mean, it's not alright, not really, but… It was a long time ago. I still miss her, but I've kept going. I've built a life for myself, just like she would have wanted." Roxanne sighed, but the sound held more relief than sadness. "You know, it's kind of nice to finally talk about it."

Megamind bent to lay his cheek on top of her head. She could almost hear the gentle smile in his voice. "It's nice to finally have someone to talk about it with," he said.

[heartslogos]

seas who could sing so deep and strong [136]

Communications offline. Attempting to reestablish connection in 3.

Attempting to reestablish connection in 2.

Attempting to reestablish connection in 1.

Communication grid restored. Initiating patch repair of damaged audio framework.

Recalibrating life sign monitor and reconfiguring Tenno HUD. Adjusting display saturation. Adjusting for noise. Reconnecting to data scanner and synthesis database.

Calibrating and adjusting noise level. Resetting voice modulators and volume input.

Sound test for ambient sensory details initiating. Background calibration running.

Recalculating for selenic interference. Calculating transference static interference.

Adjusting for transference static.

All systems are functional, read outs are stable. Biological read outs are stabilized and transference is steady.

Hades: Did you get thrown through a scrambler?

Punk: My brain hurts. Like. A sore muscle. Persephone do not make the joke.

Persephone: I would never.

Chic: Don’t get thrown through a scrambler.

Punk: I didn’t choose to get thrown through a scrambler. It just happened. It’s not like I saw it and thought I’d love to get thrown through that and get my entire nervous system fried. Did you guys know there was a scrambler there?

Hades: Yes.

Chic: Yes.

Persephone: Yes.

Empress: How did you not see the scrambler’s motion sensor? They aren’t hidden.

Punk: You know that literally everything in a Grineer ship is some shade of brown and orange, right?

Hades: Are you trying to tell us you’re colorblind?

Alpha: Infiltration completed.

Persephone: How the fuck —

Chic: Void and fucking stars —

Hades: Void!

Punk: Seriously?

Empress: Excellent work. Squadron, fan out and start searching for those hidden caches. I think I have eyes on a potential target.

Hades: We’ve been here for ten minutes, how did you hit every single data point so fast?

Persephone: I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore. I should expect it by now.

Chic: I bet he didn’t even have to kill anybody to do it. He just walked right on in there and took the files and left and no one even knew.

Punk: Seriously, Alpha. Seriously. How do you do it?

Alpha: I tried hard.

Chic: It’s been ten minutes, and you hacked all three data points without tripping a single alarm or killing anyone. And the alarms were already on because of a certain blue Tenno.

Hades: Is it me.

Chic: Hades. Please.

Alpha: I tried really hard.

Persephone: I found a cache.

Empress: I appreciate one of you being on task.

Alpha: I was on task.

Empress: I know, love. I know. Thank you.

Persephone: I have it, also this area of the base is cleared. There are some bodies. I attempted to shove them in storage containers but I think any passing patrols will notice. So just kill anyone coming this way, or detain them. Or some — Hold. Squadron leader, I’m getting static interference. No scrambler. No alarms. Something is trying to breech my system.

Empress: Squad sound off.

Chic: Clean. Full health, full shields, half energy, no variance.

Punk: Clean. Most health, full shields. A little under half energy. Some disorientation from the scrambler but otherwise fine.

Hades: Clean and clear. Full health, almost full energy. No variance.

Alpha: Clean and clear. No damage taken, no sights.

Empress: Persephone, hold position and report any changes. I think you have the Gustrag Three hot on you. Any other bounties?

Persephone: Zanuka, but that isn’t new. Stalker. New Lokka. Perrin.

Chic: It isn’t a Zanuka, Alad V would have started talking. He can’t keep his mouth shut even if someone had to wire it that way.

Punk: Word.

Empress: Squad, converge on Persephone’s position and keep an eye out for extra security. Eximus, Bombards, Manics, Executioners.

Hades: Moving out now. Closest ETA?

Alpha: Acknowledged. Farthest out. I was next to our extraction point.

Empress: Noted, check our backs.

Punk: I’m closest. Persephone, keep an eye out, I think I’m only a few halls down from you right now. I’ll be approaching from your left.

Persephone: Noted.

Chic: Empress I’m converging on your signal, I’ll flank. Hades is already with me.

Empress: Understood. Persephone, any changes?

Persephone: I think you’re right. It is the Gustrag Three. No signs of the rooms being sealed yet. Squadron, I’m moving from this room. I’m heading into one of the open areas just in case. I do not want to be stuck fighting those three in a closed hallway.

Empress: Acknowledged.

Punk: Noted.

Hades: Recalculating closest path to you, Chic turn here. Look like a short cut and we should bypass any security patrols already out.

Chic: Got it.

Alpha: Incoming. Security personnel on their way from my side. Fresh. Unaware, most likely.

Empress: Good. They won’t know what they’re going into. Ranks?

Alpha: Several heavy Eximus. At least two arson teams. No manics on radar.

Empress: Good. Persephone, eyes on the Gustrag Three?

Persephone: Not yet. Squad, I am in position. Punk, ETA?

Punk: I see you.

Persephone: When I have eyes on the three I’m going to use Nidus’ link up on you, Punk. So don’t go too far from me.

Punk: Does it have to be me? Why not Empress or Hades?

Persephone: You’re going to need it the most. Especially if you enter close combat with one of the three.

Punk: But it’s so gross. It’s all wiggly and makes these weird sounds and it feels all crawly. Like worms or some other nasty stuff.

Persephone: Go cry about it.

Punk: Maybe I will.

Chic: Cry about it after we deal with the Grineer assassins. We’ve met up with Empress and we’re on ur way.

Alpha: I’ve taken care of the back up headed your way.

Empress: Thank you. Keep an eye out.

Alpha: I found the caches.

Punk: Why are you so ridiculously good at everything?

Alpha: I —

Punk: Tried. Hard. I know, buddy. I know. It’s starting. ETA?

Empress: We’re here, fan out. I would like it if we could get a sniper, but since Persephone is the target and Alpha’s ETA is unknown we’ll make do. Punk, stay close to Persephone. Chic and Hades engage from the back. Chic, switch to day form. Hades, hit with sandstorm as soon as you get in range.

Chic: Done.

Hades: Got it.

[zombified-queer]

P.E.T. Unit

He liked you. He was fond of you. You could be sure of it. You were the only one he pets (though, with gloves on, a safety measure for both of you) and he smiles at you (or you think he did, the mask made it hard to tell) and you were the only one he kept (technically the only one to survive, but that made you better than all the others).

"I brought you tea."

"Thank you." He tilts his head toward you, acknowledging as you set the mug within his grasp but not close enough for him to knock it over by accident or contaminate his tea with the sample. “How are your new limbs treating you?”

You gave them an experimental flex, just to show them off to him. He'd given them to you as a gift, citing that time he's let disease-ridden voles chew your original arms off. "I like them. They're so pretty."

"Pretty," he muses. He raises a brow ridge.

"Mhm. And they're lighter than the old ones." He'd taken the old ones to see how you'd adapt to a week without any arms, the heavy metal prosthetics melted down in the incinerator while you watched. You didn't cry, not that time.

"You're a curious one, 42."

You flash him a wide grin. "You wouldn't keep me if I wasn't a case study."

"I suppose you're right."

He goes back to his dissecting, ignoring you again. You're not upset about it, not really. Crell's a good man doing good work and sometimes he needs you to be very quiet while he concentrates.

You wish, sometimes, you could help him but your prosthetics aren't able to handle the delicate cuts he can make. Instead, you watch sometimes, like you're doing now, or you'll bring food down to the lab, or drag off old samples to the incinerator and clean up after him.

"Something on your mind 42?"

You watch the precision of his scalpel, the tumour extracted for a slide study. "No."

"You're spacing out."

"I wanna help," you mumble, looking away as though you've said something embarrassing.

"There's some samples I need disposed of," he points out. It's the answer he always gives you.

"Yes sir." You try not to sound sullen. He doesn't like sullen.

He's sleeping soundly and you can't help yourself. You reach out to touch him, but stop, hand resting in mid-air. You're always afraid to touch him. The prosthetics are always strong, too strong, and you're scared if you pet him, even gently, that he'll shatter into a million small pieces.

"42, what are you doing?"

"Nothing." You let your hand fall into your lap, where it belongs. "Go back to sleep, please, sir."

He gives you a look before humming, turning over. You wait until he's deeply asleep and raise your hand again, staring at your white-plastic digits. Your hand shakes. It's not supposed to do that. Your fingers curl into a fist.

Gently, carefully, tenderly, you card your fingers through his hair. You assume it's soft. You can't really feel anything.

When you pull your hand away, there's no bruises on him.

You breathe a sigh of relief and tuck him in.

When he first took you in, you cried constantly. You cried because it hurt. You cried because you threw up. You cried because you were lonely. You cried because you were scared. You cried because you wanted to die.

He'd made careful incisions across your calves, all the way up, with his scalpel. He ground dirt and glass and bugs into each gash, simply studying.

Crying was forbidden because he didn't like body fluids. Ironic.

Eventually your calves got too infected so he took your legs off at the knee. He moved onto your thighs. This time, instead of earth and worms, it was diseases and bacteria. Epidemiology.

He liked you because you had such a "robust" immune system. He liked you because you didn't react typically. Instead of breaking down under the pain, under the strain of bile corroding your throat, you simply complied, let him do what was necessary. He liked that.

When he took your legs—without anaesthetics, since it would be a waste because you were supposed to die at some point or another—you reached out, clinging to him. When he left you alone, you used your arms, not to crawl away from him, like a worm in the sun, vermin fro light, but you crawled toward him.

You crawled toward him, used your manners and your words.

Please.

And he scratched at your scalp, like someone would a pet.

So polite for a subject.

Please.

You weren't supposed to live. You were supposed to drown in your own blood and vomit like an animal. But you were persistent for a pest. He smiled in his cynical way, tossed a rag at you.

Get cleaned up. I've got a surprise for you.

You accepted the rag (and still have it today) and dragged your limp, heavy body across the cool tiles, clutching at him, worship on your lips.

Come, now. That's no way to behave.

Your new legs were supposed to be a joke between the two of you. He'd had them made out of titanium and shaped like cattle legs. To him, you were livestock and replaceable and, with the right amount of adjusting, anyone could wear those legs.

But you were the only one who did.

He's got a stuck shed again from stress due to his work. Frustrated, he calibrated your arms only to be delicate and gentle. You miss lugging around decomposing samples without effort, but this requires more attention.

You massage the oil over his scales, taking care with Crell—Sir, you scold yourself—and ease the discomfort.

He's nude, but clothes catch on his skin and scales and it becomes painful for him. It doesn't arouse you in he slightest except, perhaps, to want to lay your head in his lap and be his pet again like those early days.

"You're awfully quiet, 42."

"Thinking," you answer.

"What about?"

"How much your work needs you."

He hums. Your hands move over his broad shoulders, easing he old skin from new. He falls asleep under your hands, his breaths slow and even.

"Sleep well sir," you say, almost unconsciously as your hands move down his back.

Every time you drag another sample down to the incinerator, you get so dirty. Your hands are always stained with red, with brown and black, with green. You don't understand why he made your hands out of plastic. You have to wash them thirty times before you're satisfied that you're clean.

And you always end up burning your aprons with the samples. Those get too stained to be saved.

Sometimes, you think he appreciates the way you're so thorough in sterilizing yourself.

Sometimes, you're still a sample to him.

Sometimes you open the incinerator door and watch the flames. They're nice, warm.

You have to clean it out at least once a week. Now, with him working so diligently on another cure (and something to be branded as a cosmetic, which he's trying out on you), you have to clean it out every two days. Lots of samples get disposed of. Lots of aprons turn to ash.

You load the samples in, swallowing back your revulsion at being dirty again, and shut the door, adjust the controls until the whole room feels warm and it smells like burning meat.

You wonder if he'd like a roast for dinner since you've been waiting for a special occasion.

"No, I'm sorry," you say to the two men at the door. "He's out right now."

A lie. He's in the basement. But these men put you on edge. Something about the ridges on their noses instills fear in you.

"When can we expect him back?" one asks.

"It's important," clarifies the other.

"I don't know. Sometimes his errands take weeks," you answer. That's not an entire lie.

"Weeks," ponders the one.

"Weeks," repeats the other.

"Can you tell him we'd like an appointment with Doctor Moset?" they ask in unison.

"I'll let him know you stopped by." The words are mechanical out of your mouth and taste like metal. You close the door manually, locking it.

In the reflection of the metal door, you watch blood pour over your lip. You bit the inside of your cheek.

"Who was that?" he asks you.

"No one at all," you assure him, smiling.

"42," he sighs and your heart freezes in your chest, "you've injured yourself."

"Have I?" You keep smiling until you think your face is going to shatter. "I didn't notice."

You stole a scalpel like you weren't supposed to.

You began baiting voles with some stolen samples. Cages were easy to make. You kept them outside, in the backyard where he never went, with water and just enough food to keep them alive in their tiny prisons. You noted the symptoms, wrote it in a physical journal, and nodded sagely at their festering little bodies. They couldn't bite your hands or your legs and you could hold them down so easily.

The first one, you held too tight and cut it open only to find the ribs had broken into splinters, piercing the heart and lungs of your tiny subject. It didn't even have time to squeal in fright.

The second one was better. You broke its ribs but didn't kill it. When you cut it open (clumsily because you didn't have the training he had), you simply plucked those broken ribs out, tossed them aside, and pulled it's organs out with curiosity.

Your hands were stained up to the elbows and you vomited into the shrubs.

But you got better, cleaner with your careful cuts, gentler in the way you held them down. You learned to identify all it's internal parts, the different portions of the voles' tiny brains. So unsophisticated. So primal. So basic.

You never burned the bodies the way Crell did with his samples. Sometimes you fed them to each other, just to see what would happen. Sometimes you buried them. Sometimes you simply held the mangled bodies in your hands and threw them as far as you could, watching them sail with their innards streaming red and purple in the sun.

You were glad he had no neighbours to tattle on you.

"I've been thinking," he said, not looking up from the slides he was studying.

"Yes, Sir?"

"I want you to carry on my work."

"Sir?"

"42, just listen," he said gently.

You shut up and nodded, not sure if he'd see the gesture.

"I'm not going to live forever," he admitted. "And I'd prefer if someone could do something with my research, take it to Prime or continue the lab here."

Your chest constricts almost painfully at the thought of him dying. You can't imagine a life without him. The tears spill over before you can stop them.

"You're a good enough candidate to continue my work here, 42."

You hug him from behind, face pressing into his back as if you can merge into one person, give him your life instead.

"I've got contacts who can provide you with everything you need," he continues, almost idly now. "You'll need training to use some of the equipment, but—"

"I stole a scalpel from you."

"Really?" He sounds amused. "What did you use it on?"

"Voles."

"Then that's one less thing I need to train you with."

"Sir?"

"Yes, 42?"

"I don't want you to leave. Ever."

"It won't be right away, 42," he says, almost comforting. "But you're a third my age and I won't live for—"

"You can't," you insist and you have to stop hugging him or you'll break him. "Please, I don't want to be alone."

"You could always make one like yourself," he points out. "No one but another of you could handle all this, I think."

"Sir?"

"It'll be alright, 42. You'll have so much fun learning you won't have time to be sad."

Eventually, you do forget. You spent months learning the more precise ways to make cuts for the slides. You learned how to operate the old-fashioned microscope.

Each new accomplishment gains you approval. He'll smile over your shoulder when he no longer has to guide your hand or remind you to bring the lenses into focus.

He starts acquiring parts—prosthetic parts—and sets them up in he lab. But you're uncertain about making something like you. You're worried the one you make won't like you, will hate you, will look at you and start screaming.

Screaming makes your head hurt.

So you turn to sabotage, burning those limbs in the furnace like he used to do with yours. Crell seems amused by this little game and starts hiding the limbs.

You don't want another like you around. You don't want to lose him. You don't want any of this.

You see those men with the ridges on their noses again. They watch the house like predators, never straying from their posts, waiting for a weakness.

"42?"

"Sir."

"Handle them, will you?"

"Of course."

You step out of the house.

Bones breaking under your hands sends vibrations up the sturdy plastic that feels good. You continue until they're pulp and you keep going.

You return to the house without a word and go sanitize yourself.

The one he selects for you isn't unattractive. But you don't want it.

"What do I do with it?" you ask, nudging the specimen with your foot.

"Oh, anything," he tells you. "Hurt it. Mangle it. Dissect it."

"I'm really ready for one of my own?"

He rests a hand on your shoulder, where plastic meets skin. "But of course. Now make of i what I've made of you."

You consider the creature in front of you. It's got nose ridges. Those make you want to vomit and before you can blink you've hacked off the ridged-skin leaving a bloody swath of smoothness.

He raises a brow ridge but says nothing.

This project is entirely your own.

You make them hurt. You break their bones until they vomit from the pain, crying for you to stop hurting them. But they never beg for death. If they begged for death, you rationalize, then you wouldn't be disobeying him by killing this worm.

"Why are you doing this?"

You blink. You don't say a word.

"You're like me."

"I'm not," you say.

"You're the same as me, why are you doing this?"

"We're not the same." Just to prove a point, you twist their left arm off.

They can't even manage to scream. You drop the arm with a wet thump in front of them. There's so much blood and you want them to just stop crying and bleeding just stop it.

You, reluctantly, stitch the skin together. You press at the stitches to make them squirm.

"Just say you want to die," you hiss.

"No," they say softly. "I'd rather suffer and live."

"I'll make you hurt so bad you'll wish you were dead."

They laugh, loud and bitter. You kick them in their broken ribs before letting them curl up to rest.

You burn their arm with a sort of delight. Slowly, piece by piece, you'll break them apart. You'll break them inside and out, until they're a hollow, empty shell begging for death.

You leave the meat burning and go hose yourself off.

The voles are all dead.

You hadn't had time to tend to them with your new project. They ate the ones who died first, tearing into their bellies with their teeth. They drank each other's blood until there was nothing left but husks. And then there were a few, fighting for space, fighting to be the last left alive in the hopes you would feed them, water them.

You cradle one, the last one, in your hands. It rustles as you touch it, withered like a dead plant, mummified in the sun.

You can't feel it's scant fur against your hands.

You show your project some affection. Variability will make them mistrust everything. This you know.

You pet their head, like an animal, and they lean into your touch. Their hair looks soft, but you can't feel it. You stop petting them to check their stitches. It's healing nicely considering the cruelty you've shown them.

"I'll be giving you a new arm soon."

"How kind." They're mocking you.

You consider tearing out their vocal chords right now. You could do it and keep them alive. But it's not time. Not yet.

"I didn't want you. He did."

"He brought me here for you," they say. "That's love, I think."

You shove them, roughly, and hear a soft snapping. Not bothering with your project, you set a spool of thread and needle down for them to use.

"42?"

"Yes?"

His head is in your lap. He trusts you to be gentle as you card your fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his face.

"Be kind to them. You need a friend."

"I have you."

He shakes his head. "Stubborn."

"I learned it from you."

The prosthetics are clunky. You love attaching them to your project, ruining their beauty. They function, though. You've done the arms first but left your project legless, enjoying watching them crawl.

You want them to beg.

They never do.

So you leave them crawling like an insect and relish in their misery hidden behind cheerful greetings and wide smiles.

Kneeling in the burnt remains of the house, you clutch Crell close. He won't live. He's burnt so terribly that every action seems to bring him pain. His skin breaks under your touch, oozing along the cracks. It rustles and you're reminded, for a sharp moment, of the voles in the garden.

"42." Even saying your name brings him pain.

"I'm here."

He gropes blindly for you, cupping your face. "You've made me proud."

"You'll be okay, I just have to—"

"No, 42." Even breathing brings him pain, but he gasps for air. "Carry on my . . . my research."

His hand drops from your face, the burnt skin cracking as the back of his hand hits the floor hard.

You curl into yourself, into him, as if trying to curls into yourself hard enough to implode and take just the two of you. You cry, shaking in a way that should shake you apart.

But you hold together.

Unfortunately, you hold together and need to continue.

You pick him up and take him to the garden. He, at least, deserves a burial and a proper marker for his shallow grave.

P.E.T., you've decided on for your project. Pathetic. Empty. Trash.

You've decided it's better they don't speak, carefully severing their vocal chords. You don't need a friend. You only need someone to continue his work.

P.E.T. gives a few unsteady steps on their new prosthetic legs, their steps heavy on the concrete basement floor. They turn and offer you a wide smile, as if everything you've done has never hurt them.

You shove them over and let them figure out their legs on their own.

Crell left you cosmetics to produce and samples to look over. You'll need to finish the work if you're going to restore the house to its former glory.

While cleaning, P.E.T. finds something in the ashes, grinning widely as they bring it over to you. Whatever it is catches the light, nearly blinding you. You've half a mind to trip them and shatter whatever it is P.E.T. has found.

You decide against it.

P.E.T. smiles, eyes closed, head tilted, as they offer you the object in their hands.

It's reflective and part of you is scared to take it. But you reach out, gingerly accepting the shard of glass.

Looking into it, you tense up. Bile rises in your throat, your mouth falling open to expel it unconsciously.

Across your nose are the ridges that make you so sick...

You shatter the glass in your fist, scoring the plastic of your palm. You grind it to dust, letting the shimmering particles slip through your fingers.

P.E.T. simply continues smiling at you before hurrying off to get back to tidying up.