Dreaming of her past…

The as-of-yet unnamed girl insulated herself from the cold in a thick hoodie, having no idea what to expect from the game. Silent Hill 3. A fascinating name for a game. There wasn't much she could go off of beyond what the disc looked like in the banged-up plastic sleeve her friend at school packed it in (where was she gonna hide it in her closet of a room?) and what he told her.
"You should play this! It's violent, but that's fine since the main character is a girl. She rules. You'd probably appreciate that," he said. And it was true. She did appreciate that. Somehow, she appreciated it despite it being horror. Violent horror.
At the crack of dawn, long after finishing the game, she still couldn't figure out what had enthralled her about it. Was it that she was playing a game she could hide from her parents? Maybe it was that it was more than just a violent game, in some way. It was surprisingly fun. Perhaps it was the perfect form of escapism; a game where you could fight (religious) monsters and kill (a) god while being a badass teenage lady up against evil adults. That was the main thing she had kept coming back to as she tossed and turned in bed, fidgeting with her secret hair bow.
Heather Mason. Heather Mason. What a gorgeous name. Heather Mason was only three years older than her. It was the first time she could recall playing as a cool female lead character, rather than just a cute one. And she won on her own strength. That was the most important part.
Heather Mason. She was everything she had wanted to be. In a way, if she could manage to be more feminine, they'd probably even look alike. Maybe cosplaying her in the future wouldn't be out of the question. Heather Mason. Heather Mason…
That would make for a nice name, she thought.
From then on, she fully shed her internal identity as a boy. Now she would be, forevermore, Heather Mason.

"Nnnn…" Heather woke up, groggy from a rough night of sleep. It took her a few seconds to realize that the two figures in her room were, in fact, Dahlia and Andressa, mom and mommy. They both held multiple numerous presents for her. "Wh —"
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!"
"Aaah!" She jumped out of bed in shock. She never heard them yell that loud. She never heard anyone yell that loud — not in a positive way. It was disorienting. "O-Oh, right, June 4th. You remembered!"
"Of course we did, Mags!" Dahlia beamed. She was always proud of that nickname. "We obviously weren't gonna forget it for the world. All of us pooled money together to get you some neat shit."
"You didn't have —" Before she could speak anymore, the both of them leaned in to kiss what was approximately her forehead.
"No way we weren't going to get you stuff," Andressa reassured. "Me, Dahlia, all our friends, we wanted to treat you to something special. You can look forward to this every year." They smiled. It was a feeling she still hadn't gotten used to, even after all this time.
"Thank you both!" A radiant, blushing ASCII face popped up. "I'm really thankful and happy, but uh… if you don't mind, I still need a half-hour to get myself out of bed. Even on my birthday." Heather added a heart alongside the face. It was too overwhelming to take in at that moment; she might need a whole hour this time.
"Sure thing. We'll be making breakfast, so feel free to join us whenever you want. Do you want us to leave your presents here?" Andressa asked.
"Oh! Probably just in the living room. I'll open them later, I think?"
"Will do, Mags." With that, the both of them had left the room. It was tempting to fall back asleep right then and there; she already felt a lot of energy gone.
She collapsed and turned towards the window. The sun wasn't as bright today as it usually felt. Did that mean anything in particular? Probably not, though she could probably go outside without needing to turn down her brightness settings. If she had that desire. No clouds was good, though that was more expected. There was humming drifting in from the kitchen, and sizzling; Andressa was most likely making eggs. The sound of guns meant Dahlia was getting mad at first-person shooters, most likely. It seemed like any other day. Nothing to prepare for, or to steel against.
Since Dahlia was actually home from college for however long, on her birthday no less, it was tempting to ask if she could go out somewhere. Two months in, and she still had no idea about even the immediate area and where a nice place to go would be. Surely either mom would have an idea of where to go. The conversation was already playing out in her head:

"Mommy, is there anywhere here we can go to have fun? It's my birthday after all."
"It might be a bit tricky to swing that with your head, Heather…"
"Is there really no way to disguise it?"
"Ah, I'm sure we can think of something, but —"
"If you have any ideas, Dahlia, they better be super inconspicuous. I really don't want to risk anything, especially today."
"But mommy…"

"Ughhh." She rolled around, thinking. They might not have any ideas, or even want to risk any ideas. Was there really nothing? She got up and looked out the window. It was nice that their rooms were entirely on the second floor; the view was pretty good. Birthday views out the window seemed to be more magnificent, but they could only be so pretty each and every day.
Out in the distance was where Heather spotted it. There were a bunch of people at some kind of establishment. An arcade? Pizzeria? Some kind of combination. And all the kids and teenagers, for whatever reason, were dressed up in ridiculous costumes. It took ten seconds for her to burst out of her bedroom door and shout, digital voice cracking at the excitement of it.
"I KNOW WHAT TO DO FOR MY BIRTHDAY!" Andressa and Dahlia blinked, taken aback.

…

Andressa Santos dressed up as Lisa Lisa. Dahlia Price dressed up as Winry Rockbell. Heather Mason dressed up as the Arcade Hare.

Dreaming of hurt…

There was only one person in outside of the internet that Heather entrusted with knowledge of her true self. He seemed trustworthy enough. His name… it was always out of reach. Nothing but garbled unicode characters and corrupted data.
She had told him two weeks after he gifted her Silent Hill 3. That was a scene she could never forget.
"H… Hey, รภ̴ץєгค๔ς͟๏̶เ͝ђ̕?" He turned around to look at her. "I need to tell you something. Can you keep it a secret between us?"
And so he did, and she felt the safest she ever had up to that point. At least around one person, she felt that she could be herself more often. That was all she really needed. They only knew each other since 7th Grade, but they hung out enough and were close enough that she felt she could at least tell him most things. She had even seen him defend social justice stuff before, so he had to be fine.
"Check out this game that кรเє๏гђгภย gave me during lunch today!" It was two months later when she successfully begged her parents to let him spend the night at his house. He held the copy of Grand Theft Auto V triumphantly in the air, like he had pulled off the biggest heist of all time.
"Oh… how did she manage to get it anyway?"
"Well, let's say she knew a guy who knew a gal who doesn't give a shit about GameStop policy. Only took two months but it's here. Apparently this is mine to keep. Sick, huh?"
"Ah…" Heather fidgeted with her hair bow. She couldn't even pretend to be enthused about the game, but so long as her friend was happy, it made her feel happy. "You just can't let your parents find out, or you'll probably be grounded until college." He got panicky at the thought; she couldn't help but laugh.
"Yeah, well! They won't! I'm super good at hiding my M-rated games, so they'll never find — oh, wait! This is for you to play as well." He rolled over to his backpack and started rummaging through it. "She also managed to get the new Mario game. I know how much you wanted that; it should be here somewhere…" She had to resist tearing up in front of him.
"Are you sure? You know I won't be able to take it home."
"Yeah, yeah, I can keep it here. I can also keep it safe from my parents. You can play it however much you want!"
While the rest of the night was hard to fill in from memory, she did stay up almost the whole night on his Wii U playing it, long after he had gone to bed. So this is what safety felt like. It felt like gaming far away from the trappings of regular life. If only รภ̴ץєгค๔ς͟๏̶เ͝ђ̕ was a girl.
A few days later, Heather's friend had gotten in trouble. So that's why he hasn't been at school, she thought. Later, news had spread through the grapevine of every clique in their minuscule class. Someone had their hands on stolen copies of games, and it didn't take long to follow the trail. Around the same time, Heather's life became even more of a trial to endure. It was months later that she had realized that the hair bow she lost might have also been found at his house. Of course that's how the secret got spilled; it's better to confess to being a thief than to be a "sin against God".
The rat bastard modern-day Judas Iscariot had sold her out, never to look her way again even as school became her second Hell.

"I have something I want added to me."
That was how these conversations usually started. Whenever Heather wanted some new ability, she would bug Andressa and Dahlia about it. It didn't happen often, but there was no reason to fight off the temptation.
She cheated death once already, and now had both looks and abilities no other human could achieve, so what would be the trouble with anything new? Usually, both moms were fine with it. She never really gave much consideration to that; if they were both okay with it, then why wouldn't it be fine?
So far, Heather had requested pretty minor things. The ability to make graphics look nicer in games. An icon of her in games that she could control and talk through. The ability to have it automate certain tasks (reminders not to play for too long, for example). Nothing big, certainly nothing that could hurt anyone. There wasn't much else that she could think of. Except for…
"Hmm?" Andressa replied, distracted as she programmed. "What do you want us to add?"
"Something that lets me modify games to —"
"No." They shook their head. "You never seemed like the kind of girl who wants to cheat, so I figure you have another reason for it. My answer will still be no."
"I don't think it'd be a step too far though. I can already make graphics look better, so wouldn't something like removing blood or making skipping forced cutscenes be a natural next step?"
"Would those be the only changes you'd want to make?"
"Even if I said yes, you would still say no…" A frowning face made out of question marks appeared on her screen. It was the first time she got turned down; she had no idea how to proceed from there.
"Doesn't Danganronpa have pink blood anyway?"
"Yeah, but it's… too much for me even then."
"Hah, you must really like dating sims, Miss Mason." Heather couldn't help but laugh a little. "It's just a matter of principle. That could break games, or glitch things out too hard. And it might actually tempt you into wanting to cheat. No go."
"Buuuut…"
"You can learn how to mod and program. Dahlia has a pretty powerful laptop she almost never uses for those purposes that we can give you."
"If that was the only reason, you wouldn't be so immediately firm about it on every level." Andressa paused. They seemed unsure on how to react. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, then thirty. It was the first time Heather experienced an awkward silence with either mom, so she didn't know what to do. The screen was replaced with an exclamation mark and teardrops. "U-Uh, I'm sorry if I touched on a nerve! I didn't mean to, if I did anything wrong I can apologize for that! Um, I-I'm sorry m —"
Andressa reached out a hand to stop her from spiraling into a neverending apology loop. She had gotten better about not doing that, and she was only able to catch herself when someone snapped her out of it. She felt her mother's arms wrapped around her. Warm and secure.
"You're fine. I just don't want anything wonky to happen to you," Andressa quietly spoke. They tried to be as calm as they could for Heather. "I don't know if having something like that can accidentally fuck you up if we're not super careful about it. The more we add, the greater a chance something might go wrong. Maybe it'll be better if I ask Dahlia and we can see what she says, alright?" She looked up at them and nodded, feeling a little more relaxed. There were probably more unspoken reasons, but she had come to understand that they weren't the best at being communicative. Fitting of a friend.

…

"Hell yeah."
"You didn't even think about it!"
"Look Andy, it shouldn't be a big deal. We're both smart enough to try and figure out ways it can go wrong and prevent it. It shouldn't hurt Mags at all." Heather shrunk a bit into the couch. She never had the heart to tell Dahlia that it always embarrassed her a little to hear that nickname. "We can spend weeks working on it, and it shouldn't be an issue, alright?"
"I… guess. You sound supremely overconfident, love." Dahlia grinned, and Heather couldn't help but smile seeing her mom beam with pride.

Dreaming of an end…

Heather ran away from home at the age of 16.
She woke up in a panic, body shaking. She didn't like to think about it. She didn't like to dream about it.

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"Can we?"
"Mags… that's so far away from where you and Andy live. Jesus. Why?"
"It's the Switch! It'll be so fun to play, and it's free, and I should be good at whatever game they announce! It's no big deal, right?"
"She has a point though. That's pretty far away. Are you willing to travel and stay at a hotel overnight?" A buffering symbol appeared on her screen. "We can only do so much. We can stay over there for one night, and we'd have to travel by car if you wanted to go, so it'd be pretty difficult."
"That… should be fine. I think." Heather wasn't sure; the journey seemed grueling, and maybe there was someone who'd be better than her. But then again, the prize was so tantalizing… how could she refuse? She felt more bothered by their reactions; she was worried they were annoyed, even if that was less likely than surprise and fatigue. That anxiety always stuck with her now.
"Heather, you'd have to take this seriously if you wanted to go. Once we make the plans, we can't afford to back out, especially since Dahlia will come as well." They sighed. "At least they can afford to miss classes for a bit."
"Yeah. I wouldn't mind, I'd just have to rearrange some stuff and suck up to some professors. My grades are good enough now that it'll be fine. Really, it's whether you two can handle it, especially Mags."
Heather looked down at the floor, twirling around a non-existent object. There was the possibility of being overwhelmed, but they've been better at dealing with sensory overloads at home. Going to the arcade for her birthday went well enough. And it was only a GameStop. There shouldn't be much of an issue. The tournament wouldn't last too long as well if she could be quick enough and good enough to beat everyone. And they seemed to be on-board now, at least.
"I can do it, no problem."
"Then I should be fine as well. Can you come down two days before we head there, dear?"
"Yeah, should be no problem. I'll have to send you all my weed as an extra safety precaution since I just bought some, but that's not gonna be an issue for you I hope."
Heather grinned. Now she was pumped. She never felt so excited in her life.

…

Dreaming of birth…

Heather didn't remember how long she had spent in nothingness. There was no reason to keep track of time at that point. Maybe there was something, but whatever called her from the living world had wiped the memory of it. Maybe it was because she was destined to come back that she spent her time in nothingness.
"…ink this could work?"
"I dunno, Armand said it'd be fine like this."
Her existence pulsated, and the two ladies immediately went on alert.
"Hey, anyone there?" Heather didn't know how to respond in this state. All her thoughts could do was pulsate, with no meaning carried along. "Shit, Andy, do you know what to do?"
"I'm thinking Dahlia… Hey, whoever you are. Keep… keep pulsing your thoughts. Until you can form words with them! It shouldn't be too hard. We have all night anyway."
Night? Right. It was night. The opposite of day. Day was the period of time roughly defined as 'the sun being up'. Night was the period of time roughly defined as 'the sun being down'. And the sun was a giant star that radiated light and heat. Alright. What were they doing talking to her at night? How were they talking to her? What sort of state was she in?
"Don't worry. Take your time to figure it out," the other lady reassured.
She pulsated. Her energy and soul and being pulsated as she worked out universal concepts when she was a human being. There were four seasons. The planet she lived on was Earth. People had ages. She was 16 years and some months old. There were games. Digital games. Video games. People had names. She was a girl. Heather. Heather Mason.
"H.. eat… her…"
"Is that your name?" one of the ladies (Andressa) replied.
"Y… Yes. Heather. Heather. Heather M… ason."
"Oh, like the Silent Hill Chick!" The other lady (Dahlia) seemed excited at that prospect. A warmness ran through the words spoken, and the warmth reached her being, as it were.
"How do you feel right now?"
"Feel?"
"It's hard to explain… what are your feelings right now?"
"That might be too abstract for her, Andy. Let's see. Do you know where you are right now?" Heather thought. They were in night. So they weren't in nothingness, like her. So if they were alive…
"Hell?"
"Fuck no. We just reached out to your soul, that's all." Dahlia sounded like an adult, and swore like one, but she didn't sound… angry. "We're still pretty new to this thing. It's, uh… have you ever seen Fullmetal Alchemist?"
"No…"
"I'm out of ways to explain it already. I might just get some coffee. Do you want some, sugar?" Pause after some, before sugar. Sugar… that goes in coffee. But there was a pause. So she called Andressa "sugar". Were they…?
"I'm good, but you can't be out of the room for too long. Please be back in less than five minutes. Or we may lose Heather." Lose… they didn't want to lose her. Heather couldn't hear anything but words, but the pause in speaking probably meant that Dahlia had left the room that they were in. She tried to catch up on concepts again. Math. History. Alan Turing, Paris Is Burning, Fox News, pool cues, climate —
She experienced what she could only think of as a 'twang' in the area where her thoughts had gathered.
"It's alright, Heather. You can relax. You should be fine. Listen… I don't know what happened to you, but I can't imagine it was anything good."
"No." A pause. "How are you talking to me?"
"We… that's a long story. Um… my girlfriend and I work on this project with friends. And we decided that we wanted to contribute to it. But everyone else's project is like… Hmm." Pause. "For this thing our friend group works on, we bring back lost souls. People that life just screwed over. And we put them into fitting bodies that other souls no longer are able to inhabit. Um, that's a long story. Jeez Dahlia, you'd explain this so much better."
"Am I lost?"
"I don't know. Do you feel lost?" Heather couldn't answer that. Possibly…?
"Did you pick me on purpose?"
"Not really. We just sort of. It's like when you go fishing, and you throw some bait out into a crowded lake, hoping to catch some fish. Like that, but less dangerous. So we do that, and configurate their souls and bodies to do cool shit." Configurate? Oh, configure. Like a computer? Or was it magic? It felt magic. "We want them to feel useful when they didn't feel useful in life. This is only one way to do it, but it's the easiest and most consistent way. But…"
"But?"
"Stuff keeps going wrong, and they get lost all over again. I always feel the worst about it. I think my bitching in chat has finally gotten to them, I hope."
"Huh?"
"Human souls are still human. They don't stop being human because they no longer have a body. It's hard for us to think of it like that while we're alive but it's morally grey. We just didn't realize it until a certain point. But we still wanna help. And Dahlia and I… it wouldn't really be a bad idea to be a mother, right?" Heather didn't know how to respond. She would have disagreed in her lifetime. "So… if you want to come back, we can find a way. It's not alchemy, so I don't think any laws of natures are going to be broken. We just care a lot, I guess. Maybe too much," Andressa's voice cracked. Heather could tell how serious she was.
"I…"
"Hey, I'm back! See? Turbo quick."
"Hey!" Heather could hear a kiss; she pulsated as much as she could without realizing. "Hey, Heather, is everything okay?"
"Huh? Y-Yeah, yeah! Yeah… I think so. Family would uh… would be nice. It just sounds too convenient. I've never really had a family… I want to be cool, and cared for, I just want a family. A real one…"
"Hey, you're talking to us, so we must already be doing something right!" Dahlia giggled. Heather could have sworn she heard Andressa smile. Their radiance warmed her. So that's what safety felt like after all.

She wasn't sure where it started to go wrong.
Maybe it was her fault.
When Heather won, she realized it was partly due to all of the other contenders acting weird. She didn't fully grasp the situation. The employees were suspicious and wanted a picture of her without her "costume". The reasoning still eludes her. Something to do with a photo for the store, whatever that meant. She didn't have a script prepared to head off the situation before it became an issue. She was too bewildered to give a good answer, and awkwardly declined to do so.
If she only prepared for this situation, maybe things wouldn't have been so confusing. All it took was an impatient 12-year old to try take off her head before confusion took place. When she panicked and took it off herself, chaos set in.
Maybe it was bad timing that both of her mothers left early.
Dahlia wanted to get some groceries for the hotel that night as well as snacks for the way back, and Andressa had to check in with the hotel to see if they could check out super early. Plus, their old dealer was right next to the hotel too, so it would be a super quick and lucky break for weed.
If they had left 20 minutes earlier, maybe they would have been back in time to help her. If they had left 20 minutes later, maybe all of them could have left by the end of the tournament. Maybe things would have played out differently. But she said it was okay for her moms to go, so she was to blame there.
Maybe it was her fault.
If she never went in the first place, things wouldn't have turned out to be a mess. If she threw or did poorly on purpose, maybe she would have never been asked to take a picture. If she knew what exactly was affecting everyone, maybe she could help them instead of being so engrossed in the game. If she hadn't experienced massive sensory overload during the tournament, no one would have even been affected in the first place. If she knew beforehand that her anomalies were likely to cause an issue, maybe her mothers could have solved everything beforehand. If she wasn't into games, maybe none of this wouldn't have happened.
And now she's stuck, locked outside of a GameStop waiting for the police to come, no way to contact her mothers. The sign that she made on her own and a reminder of what she is, tucked away in her sweatshirt for the police to find, are all she has now.
It's like sweet sixteen all over again.

…

Dreaming of family…

The first thing Heather had asked for before coming back to life was a TV head. "I think it would be cool" was the only reason she gave, and no real other reason was needed.
Over the course of the next week, there was a lot of information she had to absorb from her new mothers. Not like she didn't expect it; if she could be brought back to life, anything was possible. It just didn't occur to her the scope of the information she had to learn. After many questions and conversations, she learned some important things.

Going outside with a TV head would be bad unless it was to costume parties, conventions, meetups where cosplay was allowed, or on Halloween. Heather realized this when asking for it, which was fine, but still a problem at times. Neither mom could figure out a workaround for now, but they'd try.

If she goes outside, she had to be careful no one tried to "take off" her head. Nothing good would come of that. They felt very protective on this matter, enough to not even tell her what this was protecting her from.

Homeschooling would be a thing, but the both of them would be lax about it. They understood how stressful high school was.
Dahlia Price used she/her pronouns. Andressa Santos used they/them, though she/her wasn't out of the question for Heather if she ever forgot.
She was anomalous by the very nature of her existence now. That meant if she wanted anything cool, she could ask either of them. They'd just have to approve it.

There were other anomalous things out there, but they wanted to be careful about what she got exposed to. Just in case.

She had to stay with Andressa in New Mexico. Dahlia would be at college most of the time, and aside from any occasional visits to leave Ohio that she could score, she'd talk to the both of them over video calls. In a year, they'd have to see what the living arrangements would look like since Dahlia would be coming back from her year off.
Neither mother would let her smoke weed. The logistics of that were hard to figure out, so really, she just shouldn't get high from any method, period. There was a room in Andressa's apartment where they'd smoke away from her, and outside as well. This was fine with Heather; she had no plans to do so regardless, but she appreciated this rule being there in the first place.
They'd let her know about anything else important.

It felt sturdy. There was stability and a structure of some sort, reliable housing and food and water, and most of all, her two parents loved each other. It felt nice. They were kind and lovely. They were her parents, her mothers, her best friends. New Mexico didn't seem bad. Apparently, heat wasn't an issue because her head could cool herself off. Everything seemed fine.
And yet, she could never get a nagging thought out of the back of her head. She felt guilty every time she felt it. After all, she couldn't really pick her parents. And why should she doubt herself with such a nice family when her last one was, in hindsight, horrible?
Still, it never really left her. Andressa and Dahlia… they felt more like her friends than her parents. They weren't that much older than her. Andressa was only 21. Dahlia was 20. She was still technically 16 (does her body even age? Does she mentally age? How does that work?), but even accounting for a difference in maturity and experience, they almost always felt like older sisters rather than parents. It was disorienting sometimes. She always felt ashamed to see it that way, but it's not like she couldn't.
It didn't quite feel like family.

…

Heather found herself outside on the pavement.
Right. She remembers now. It wasn't some bizarre dream after all… she went through her own punishment time at the jailers' place. (Not too far off from the police, really.) And yet she ended up back here. At this cursed GameStop.
It took a little bit before she realized the full scope of the situation.
"R-Right… shit… it's night. Las Vegas… GameStop… so I'm free. So what do I… do… I guess I just should sleep behind the store. Yeah. I guess…" It was nighttime, and yet this part of the city was surprisingly empty. She always assumed Las Vegas was another one of those Cities That Never Sleep. Thankfully, everyone got some shuteye for her. She got up and walked behind the GameStop, body aching and head spinning, a dizzy face plastering the screen.
As she sat down next to a garbage can to better hide herself, she at least felt thankful nothing actually broke. Her head was intact. Body was okay. No bones broken. Now she had to wait. Wait for… what?
"I don't know. I don't know." What a horrible night to have a curse, huh, she thought to herself, and she giggled even if it was pained laughter, because she could at least find some solace in the situation. "Suffering is a fact of life. You deal with that or you go under, Heather. Don't go under like you did today. Don't go under like you did long ago. Just… stay intact. They'll find you soon enough, right? Soon."

…

The sound of feet running at her snapped her out of dreamless sleep. Two pairs of feet. Four feet. Cleats and flip-flops. In the winter. Someone was wearing cleats to run, but flip-flops in winter. Her mommy told her a joke about how she was fine wearing nothing in even the coldest weather because of her Brazilian blood, so that would mean —
"HEATHER!"
She barely had time to process it before arms linked around her, tears running down her clothes and screen.
"M — M —"
"H-Hey, hey, i-i-it's okay, we found you, y… you're safe, hoooly fuuuck." Dahlia was the closest to losing it. Heather never asked for the ability to cry, if that was even possible. She'd done enough of that. But she almost wanted that back now.
"We got you. We need to take you home. I'm sorry. We're sorry. We shouldn't have been so irresponsible."
Irresponsible.
Irresponsible was the word pinging around in her head as they picked her up and carried her to the car like a queen, as they started to drive home, as Dahlia put on Megadeth to get herself to stop crying, as Andressa played Have a Nice Life to calm themself down, as they switched seats so Dahlia could sleep. Irresponsible.
She wanted to agree. She wanted to tell them that wasn't true. Which of the two was it?
"Heather. I'm sorry. The both of us are." Some hours later, enough that the sun started to breach the landscape, and mommy brought her back down to Earth. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be mad, or disappointed, or relieved. Andressa's tone felt like a kid apologizing to their mother. Her mothers didn't feel that different from her after all.
"It's okay." Maybe half-truths would help. Andressa sighed, and nodded. They probably felt the same. "I think… right now, I just want sleep."
"That's alright, sweetie. Sleep as much as you want."
Heather leaned onto the window and closed her eyes. It was hard to power down with a road so inconsistently bumpy as the one they were traveling on. It was an hour before she got to overhear a brief conversation her mothers had, presumably thinking she had fallen asleep.
"Hey… Andy."
"Hmm?"
"We have no idea what the fuck we're doing."
"Yeah."
"Let's stop fucking acting like kids."
"Right…"
"Yeah…" Dahlia sniffled.
"We're raising a kid. We can't be her friend. We need to be mothers."
"Mmhmm… love you, hun."
"Love you too, darling."
It was the best rest she got in months.

…

For her (technically) 18th birthday, Heather got a Nintendo Switch. She let herself believe that she earned it this time.


Night 0

Night 0

I'm stuck.
That's my first thought as consciousness enters my body.
I've woken up and I can't move.
I try to force a limb to budge. It creaks at my attempt. It's tightly affixed to the wall. I try to swerve my neck, only to feel a horrible pressure keeping it in place.
The wall. I'm in a circular well, the walls around me made of gray stone brickwork and glistening with water. The water glides over my hands and my feet below me. This well is being flooded from up above.
I look around me as much as I can. That is to say, I stare into the abyss below. I don't see anything stirring, since I can't see anything. The light from above is refracted in the water pouring down, but the darkness below is impenetrable.
That's when I start moving. The same pressure that was on my neck is now on my entire body. My limbs are grasping tightly on the stone around me, but they're slipping. I'm sinking into the deep.
Deeper.
I can see the water pool beneath me, but its glimmer is gone, it's a murky black.
Deeper.

My feet are submerged.

Deeper.

My whole body is immersed.

Deeper into the darkness.
I can't breathe. I can't breathe and there's something there. There's something here, with me. There's something and it's staring at me and

Day 1

Day 1

You wake up. It's a laborious task, as always. Sunlight is streaming through your window and onto your face, an unwelcome but useful incentive to get up. You have work today, and the commute is never kind. Your mind is groggy, but free from the terrors of the night before.
You go take your morning shower.
You go eat your breakfast.
You go through your commute.
You go work at your job.
You go back home to watch the news.
You go to sleep.

Night 1

Night 1

I wake up in front of something unfathomable. It's staring at me, like the sun on a cloudless night. In the pitch black, it bleeds in and out of my vision without stirring, glowing without giving off any light. It demands my attention and strains my eyeballs.
It's too big. It doesn't fit in with the suffocating darkness and murk that I've been floating in, the rough stone that encases my extremities. It's bulging out, yet it's blurring in. I'm staring at its maw, and its throat, but I can't tell where the well ends and where it begins.
I think it's a snake. It has two bulbous spots that might just be eyes, staring at me unblinking. Its scales blend with the surrounding brick, shadowy gray melting into vivid green.
I'm snapped out of my trance by a lurching noise. My limbs are scraping against the rim of this pit. I feel them tensing under the pressure.
Pressure.
I'm being squeezed into the mouth of this thing. The numb pain at the back of my eye sockets grows as it takes up more of my vision.
That's when I get close enough to see its teeth.
They're too sharp and too close and too many and they're too much as I'm pulled in as they press against my skin and

Day 2

Day 2

You wake up. It's a laborious task, as always. Sunlight is streaming through your window and onto your face, an unwelcome but useful incentive to get up. You have work today, and the commute is never kind. Your mind is groggy, but free from the terrors of the night before.
You get up from bed and shower. The water flows over you, but you inhale deeply. A nice hot shower is one the few things in life that you wake up for. You linger a bit. Honestly, you wake up a bit early just to savor some extra time in here. You glance toward the window. At first, the idea of having a portal to the outside world next to your naked body seemed a bit silly, but the gentle sunlight streaming through eventually wooed you over. Frankly, as you admire the masonry and stretch out your body, you don't think you'll ever be able to abandon walk-in showers.
You go eat your breakfast.
You go through your commute.
You go work at your job.
You go back home and watch the news.
You go to sleep.

Night 2

Night 2

I don't wake up. That would require a shift in position, an opening of eyelids, a dawning of consciousness.
I just, am, floating down and down.
The darkness has been replaced by an all-consuming gray that isn't light and isn't dark. The pain that was at the back of my eyes has been replaced by a numb coolness. The same cannot be said for the rest of my body.
It's not quite pain. It's a slightly acidic warmth. The feeling is touching every inch of my being, penetrating into my core. It's enough to make my skin crawl, even though I can't feel my skin.
Somehow, I'm still boxed in. At the edge of my awareness, there's a pricking pain. Not a pin prick, but rather a long, drawn out cut, pointed upwards. It isn't in a singular point, but rather, a radius all around me. It feels like I'm being dragged through a tunnel of needles.
I try to exert some force, any. The cutting gets worse, transforming from needles to daggers as I struggle.
I resign myself, and drift.
The cutting slowly fades.
It's smoother over here.
I find myself almost at ease.
The grayness is disturbed. I see something.
I try to focus. A tunnel shape reemerges in my senses. The portion ahead of me is physical, a break from the void. The tunnel is disgusting, some grimy shade of gray, brown, black, and orange.
I'm forced into it. I focus again to see embedded in the walls things that aren't people but have the shape of people and if I try to focus anymore I can see faces that don't have

Day 3

Day 3

You wake up. It's a laborious task, as always. Sunlight is streaming through your window and onto your face, an unwelcome but useful incentive to get up. You have work today, and the commute is never kind. Your mind is groggy, but free from the terrors of the night before.
You get up from bed and shower. The water flows over you, but you inhale deeply. A nice hot shower is one the few things in life that you wake up for. You linger a bit. Honestly, you wake up a bit early just to savor some extra time in here. You glance toward the window. At first, the idea of having a portal to the outside world next to your naked body seemed a bit silly, but the gentle sunlight streaming through eventually wooed you over. Frankly, as you admire the masonry and stretch out your body, you don't think you'll ever be able to abandon walk-in showers.
You stick your utensils into your platter of breakfast. Leftovers. Not glamorous, but quick and filling. Anything is edible if you stick it in the microwave long enough. Downside is that that a takes a decent portion of your willpower to not just skip the ordeal. Your fork goes scritch-scratch as it hits the plate. Unlike most people, you consider it a pleasant sound: it signifies that you've fulfilled the obligations imposed upon you by your body.
You go through your commute.
You go work at your job.
You go back home and watch the news.
You go to sleep.

Night 3

Night 3

I'm alive. My body has reconstituted, my limbs are unbound. In spite of everything I'm alive to think and breathe and move.
I don't want to move, I don't want to breathe.
I'm entombed with the dead. The walls around me are adorned with corpses, the air is putrid.
I shrink back, to avoid brushing their desiccated forms. A few cadavers jut out in awkward positions. I can't avoid being touched as my descent into hell continues.
A few of these carcasses are fresh. Their faces pale and emotionless. Dumb, even. However they died, they didn't understand that it was happening.
I avoid looking too hard or breathing in too deeply as I go deeper and deeper.
The air gets thicker and thicker.
There's a haze and in it figures and before me lies the

Day 4

Day 4

You wake up. It's a laborious task, as always. Sunlight is streaming through your window and onto your face, an unwelcome but useful incentive to get up. You have work today, and the commute is never kind. Your mind is groggy, but free from the terrors of the night before.
You get up from bed and shower. The water flows over you, but you inhale deeply. A nice hot shower is one the few things in life that you wake up for. You linger bit. Honestly, you wake up a bit early just to savor some extra time in here. You glance toward the window. At first, the idea of having a portal to the outside world next to your naked body seemed a bit silly, but the gentle sunlight streaming through eventually wooed you over. Frankly, as you admire the masonry and stretch out your body, you don't think you'll ever be able to abandon walk-in showers.
You stick your utensils into your platter of breakfast. Leftovers. Not glamorous, but quick and filling. Anything is edible if you stick it in the microwave long enough. Downside is that that a takes a decent portion of your willpower to not just skip the ordeal. Your fork goes scritch-scratch as it hits the plate. Unlike most people, you consider it a pleasant sound: it signifies that you've fulfilled the obligations imposed upon you by your body.
You enter your car and traffic. Traffic. You always felt the proverb should have been "Death and Traffic". Gridlocks like the one you've just entered have a special way of getting on the nerves. You just want to turn your brain off, but you know there needs to be some level of attention in order to preserve the flow. In your boredom, you gaze at your fellow prisoners-in-transport. All just as listless as you are, assuming that you can even see their faces through the glass.
You go work at your job.
You go back home and watch the news.
You go to sleep.

Night 4

Night 4

I'm being bombarded. My senses have mixed into a slurry and it's hard to tell what feeling belongs to which stimuli.
The haze has expanded. It's no longer just a fog of grime, it's a light that blinds my eyes, an emotion that perverts my tongue, a note that rings throughout my entire being. It's all mixing together, a taste at the back of my eyes, an intonation that strokes my skin, a smell that makes its way in into my mind through my throat.
It tells a story. Many stories, yet all one. A tapestry of a single thread. A pool of many paints, stirred and mixed unevenly. A multicolored wheel that flashes new images as its revolution waxes and wanes. A Rorschach test where every angle reveals a new inky appendage.
A thought, no, a voice races across my mind:
"This is the story of the world of its people."
Out of this, I see innumerable figures, shapes, dots of being, arise. They move and shudder and live and breath and do and be and die.
Something goes wrong.
I'm not sure what it is. A part of me says a hand. Another, a pencil. Yet another sees a cursor, or a sword, or a flame. It goes in. The quilt twists, the paint mixes into a gray slurry, the wheel's spokes collide onto each other, the ink blot collapses into a single point.
This is wrong. It's too much. It's all too much and I try to block it out, but the voice is incessant:
"You are here to

Day 5

Day 5

You wake up. It's a laborious task, as always. Sunlight is streaming through Your window and onto Your face, an unwelcome but useful incentive to get up. You have work today, and the commute is never kind. Your mind is groggy, but free from the terrors of the night before.
You get up from bed and shower. The water flows over You but You inhale deeply. A nice hot shower is one the few things in life that You wake up for. You linger bit. Honestly, You wake up a bit early just to savor some extra time in here. You glance toward the window. At first, the idea of having a portal to the outside world next to Your naked body seemed a bit silly, but the gentle sunlight streaming through eventually wooed You over. Frankly, as You admire the masonry and stretch out Your body, You don't think You'll ever be able to abandon walk-in showers.
You stick Your utensils into Your platter of breakfast. Leftovers. Not glamorous, but quick and filling. Anything is edible if You stick it in the microwave long enough. Downside is that that a takes a decent portion of Your willpower to not just skip the ordeal. Your fork goes scritch-scratch as it hits the plate. Unlike most people, You consider it a pleasant sound: it signifies that You've fulfilled the obligations imposed upon You by Your body.
You enter Your car and traffic. Traffic. You always felt the proverb should have been "Death and Traffic". Gridlocks like the one You've just entered have a special way of getting on the nerves. You just want to turn Your brain off, but You know there needs to be some level of attention in order to preserve the flow. In Your boredom, You gaze at Your fellow prisoners-in-transport. All just as listless as You are, assuming that You can even see their faces through the glass.
You sit down at Your desk and start working. Your's is the only computer in the building that turns on, but it doesn't matter. Production continues. You sit at Your desk to file numbers and compute names. You're the only who's able to make sense of it. The TV in the breakroom is displaying a pleading emergency broadcast, despite the lack of electricity in the building, or anywhere in the universe. The broadcasters have resorted to more esoteric transmissions. A coworker of Your's mutters a vague prayer to * when they spill their coffee over another coworker. The coworker does not stop being productive. You can't wait to get into Your car.
You go back home and watch the news.
You go to sleep.

Night 5

Night 5

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Day 6

Day 6

"Good morning!"
The booming startles you awake.
You are not in your bed. That would have been acceptable, considering that you fell asleep on your couch last night while watching the news. Problem is, you are not in your house.
You are in a Library, and in front of you is the Head Librarian.
"Oh, did I startle you? Good! Sleeping is poor bibliothetic ettiquete."
The serpent in front of you was so massive that both your mind and the narrative give up on trying to comprehend it, and instead opt to consider it merely planet sized, the length of its body extending endlessly into the pit before you. Its plumage is garish, with a hue of parrot green being the predominant color. Atop the bridge of its snout is a pair of reading glasses.
In between all the curses you spit out, you manage to ask it— rather impolitely— what it is.
"I'm the head librarian of this fine establishment. If you want anything more than that, I expect you to rinse your mouth some before you ask again."
You've run out of breath, on account of the screaming and cursing, so you mumble out the question again, more pleadingly.
"I am the Serpent of Knowledge draped upon the Tree of Life. Suitably cryptic, no?"
You're quickly transitioning from shocked to exasperated.
After taking a moment (several, actually, but the serpent remains patient) to recompose yourself, you ask a deluge of questions.
Where are you?
"A library. The Library. The Wanderer's Library. Before you ask, we are far away from what used to be your home."
You're not sure what to make of that.
Who are they?
"I have many epithets. Nahash, Jörmungandr, Quetzalcoatl, Archon, Satan. Ananteshesha."
It drops that last name on you with a certain weight, as if it expected you to recognize it. The message is lost on you, but it doesn't matter: you're not the intended audience.
How did you get here?
"Think back to your dreams. Therein lies your passage."
A dawning awareness of the past five nights comes upon you. You'd rather not recall your experiences, not for the moment.
Why are you here?
"To be saved from burning Tashkent. I was able to preserve you and your mind, up until the point where I had to pull away and spit you out here."
You don't want to ponder how literal that figure of speech was.
Burning Tashkent?
"Think back to the waking day. Tell me, was there anything out of place?"
Oh. Oh. It occurs to you that something wasn't right. Many things were wrong.
What, what happened?
"Reality as you know it was thrown into a pot and stirred. Subsequently, the divine peas mixed in with the memetic mashed potatoes and the extra-universal gravy. The gods waged war, physics broke down, and the noosphere turned in on itself. We will be at leisure to talk about it later."
Is something wrong?
"Yes. A new shipment of books came in from Universe Branch 9g55-yO8ψ-P. I'll need to sort that out."
What are you supposed to do now?
"Stay here and rest. I have my plans for you, but I'd rather not inundate you any moreso than I already have. Read some books to pass the time, you're in a library after all."
You sleep well that night.


He was born into a cold and empty world. His location was irrelevant, for he only knew of two places; his barren home and the foreign outside world. He didn't know where he was, why he was there, or even who he was. All he knew was that he could hear and see what others said anywhere at anytime. He constantly stood vigilant, looking for more information, hoping someone could help him figure out himself.
That is how he spent his days; listening and watching the whole world, waiting for a new breakthrough in a cold case, for someone who could finally answer his existential questions. He was frequently left disappointed, however. He could see a story in a book, about a tall, dark, monster… but this one had teeth, or scales, or tore out your guts in a haunted forest. He was almost always left just out of frame, only gathering pieces of a lookalikes' life. The last time he met a human, they ran off screaming into the horizon, their orange jumpsuit never to be seen again.
Still, he waited. Eventually, he figured, someone would learn about him and allow him to know his true nature. Eventually, his great mystery would be solved, and his life given a sense of completion.
Eventually, someone would say his name.
… If it wasn't for the tireless work of the Foundation to keep his very existence under lock and key, never to be mentioned again.

Historically speaking, communicable infohazards were among the most difficult anomalies for the Foundation to contain. Even the very documentation meant to protect readers could be used to inoculate victims and spread the virus. Containment often amounted to clearance-level locks and copious usage of amnesetics - what you don't know can't hurt you.
Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.
Fortunately for the Foundation and everyone it protects, by the late 2020's, all communicable infohazards were effectively neutralized, simplifying some of the organization's most complicated containment procedures. No one could spread their dangerous ideas to anyone else ever again. Unfortunately, this was a byproduct of the world's inability to communicate anything at all.

He noticed that slowly, he was hearing fewer voices mention something relevant, and seeing fewer tales that aroused his attention. His flow of information was running dry, and with it, any chance for his epiphany moment.
He didn't know of the impending demise of communication, or of the desperate attempts to save it. He didn't feel horror as people struggled to say "I love you", "What's for lunch?", or to even use a turn signal.
What he did feel was the deafening silence and numbing blindness.
He no longer listens for his name to be called - there is no one to call it. He no longer tries to read about himself, or find an expert on his own history, for all that he will ever know has already been written.
He had always been lonely, but he was never alone. The voices gave him company, the texts gave him something to live for.
Now?
He is abandoned in an empty world. He has no one to talk to, and no one to suffer with.
And he assumed there was no escape from this life of torture. If he had outlived humanity, he reckoned he'd outlive just about everything else in the universe.
His life means nothing.
Without anyone to describe him, he is nothing.
And he always will be.


Wednesday afternoon was best; it was the only day that week that one could reserve the Cordelia Royale Hotel's conference room, another could fly into and out of the country without missing work, and another didn't have cheer practice.
The afternoon was crisp and the clouds were peeled off the blue sky. The hotel's design was a rigid performance of professional colors and sharp geometry. Violet Mesmur stood in the executive conference room. Grey crept up the roots of her hair and age was beginning to crack through the layers of makeup. Dark brown eyes looked down to where a car pulled in. The agents beat the valets to the door and let two people out. A voice in her earpiece said: "Michaels and Young have arrived."
They were in the conference room soon. The wiry Young walked in first. Blonde hair was suffocated into a bun, and nature accomplished the job of makeup. Sleepless nights provided the eyeshadow, and exhaustion was already at work sculpting the face. She took her seat. Michaels followed, the soldier with a buzz-cut. He wore a jacket in Spring, and he folded his aviators up, slipping them into his pocket, as he took his seat besides Young. Another voice in the earpiece: "Lee is here. Kim is a no-show."
Soo-Yun Lee appeared to be already occupied with another meeting — as she entered, she came with a phone to her ear, arguing vehemently with someone in Korean. She was short, long-haired, bespectacled and growing more upset by the second as the argument continued. Another voice over the radio, more uncertain: "Greene has arrived."
The girl who stood at the conference room's open door wore a pleated skirt, jacket and tie colored to match the colors of Dawes Prepratory School. She had red hair tied into a ponytail and glistening green eyes. She flashed a white smile to every uneasy gaze as she walked in, carrying with her a wispy, noxious look. Greene, although the name-tag read Cassandra, and Mesmur's file had no less than 5 other names, took their seat and slid her backpack under the table. She set a water bottle and two pink tablets on the tabletop before sitting back and looking at the others, grinning.
Lee's phone call ended, security locked the doors and took their positions, and Mesmur took her seat at the head of the table. The recording device sat before her. She reached over and pressed 'record.'

Ethics Committee Negotiations with Groups of Interest on ΩK Scenario Solutions

<Begin Log>
Dr. Violet Mesmur clears her throat and speaks.
Mesmur: I appreciate you all coming to this meeting. You especially, Dr. Young, as you've apparently been taking on a fair few projects involving ΩK.
Young: Many thanks, Dr. Mesmur.
Michaels: Happy to be invited.
Dr. Mesmur adjusts herself in her seat and brings out a briefcase. As she opens it, she continues to speak.
Mesmur: For those of you who are unfamiliar with everyone at the table, my name is Dr. Violet Mesmur, and I am a member of the Ethics Committee.
Dr. Mesmur gestures to Dr. Emily Young.
Mesmur: This is Dr. Emily Young, a prominent doctor in the ΩK scenario with which I'm sure we're all intimately familiar.
Young: Thank you. I've worked extensively with ΩK, including researching under the title SCP-3984, and want nothing more than to contribute to a long-lasting solution.
Dr. Mesmur nods. She removes a few pieces of paper from the briefcase and continues to speak.
Mesmur: Right, yes. The man on the end with the cybernetic enhancements is Captain Eric Michaels, a decorated war veteran and one of the first to… experience ΩK's effects, at least by our records.
Michaels: I'm not all that important. Just here for securi—
Greene: —I like greek letters as much as anyone but could you please familiarize us outsiders with that fancy term you've been throwing at us?
Dr. Mesmur sighs to herself as she continues to remove the final few papers from the briefcase. She turns to Greene.
Mesmur: Well, as you should have remembered from the Societal Census Program surveys you got, ΩK is what we call the scenario that we're all forced to live with. The immortality one? I'm sure you know what I mean.
Dr. Mesmur turns to everyone else.
Mesmur: The person who just interrupted everything is Gregory Greene, though I'm sure they go by a different name now. They are the spokesperson for Full Body Transplants from Prometheus Labs.
Greene: I haven't heard 'Greene' in years. Cassie's fine; new nickname I'm trying to break in.
Greene smiles and waits for a response. No one replies.
Greene: Anyways, many of you are already on our customer lists, so I'm sure you're all familiar with the service I oversee.
Young: Yes, I've… undergone the procedure.
Dr. Mesmur doesn't let Greene continue their comments as she continues her introductions.
Mesmur: And finally, we have a representative from Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ms. Soo-Yun Lee. Though we were expecting Mr. Ji-Su Kim to arrive.
Soo-Yun Lee pulls out a note card and begins to read.
Soo-Yun: Ms. Soo-Yun Lee is unable to make any binding agreements associated with the product Hypnotraline. She is unable to make any statements on Marshall, Carter and Dark's behalf and anything that is spoken by Ms. Soo-Yun Lee is to be considered an opinion.
Soo-Yun puts away the notecard.
Soo-Yun: Mr. Ji-Su will not be coming as he does not speak English.
Michaels: Not surprised they'd send us the diplomatic equivalent of a middle finger. (aside, to Soo-Yun) No offense.
Young: I don't think that's quite appropriate?
Mesmur: No need to be crude, Captain.
Greene: This is actually good. We can tear apart Marshy Carty and Dicky's newest product right here.
Young: Please, I was of the understanding that this was going to be a serious discussion.
Michaels: My bad. Was just hoping we'd actually make something come of this. Not just complain to the underlings.
Michaels is silenced by a glare from Dr. Mesmur.
Michaels: I'll drop it.
Dr. Mesmur straightens the papers in her hand and begins to read the first page.
Mesmur: The meeting here today is to actually address both Prometheus Labs' and Marshall, Carter and Dark's arguably immoral practices regarding their… long term solutions to involuntary immortality.
Mesmur: Dr. Young and Captain Michaels are present to provide alternative solutions from both a professional and a civilian point of view.
Soo-Yun: 'Arguably immoral?' That— that thing is a human trafficker and butcher.
Ms. Soo-Yun points towards Greene.
Greene: Please, apart from Mr. Michaels we're all decent women here.
Michaels: Yes. He's wearing another person. Your people give people inescapable nightmares. We'd like to figure out a way to put an end to both of those things. And since our… usual methods haven't exactly worked, we were hoping to make a deal.
Soo-Yun: And I have to reiterate. I am no longer responsible for, nor capable of, affecting Hypnotraline marketing and distribution.
Young: Then with all due respect, Ms. Soo-Yun, why are you here?
Dr. Mesmur passes along a pair of pages to each of the members present, detailing the potential fallacies in Marshall, Carter and Dark's business plan.
Mesmur: I would like to show everyone some information regarding Hypnotraline and its bootlegged competitors. It's quite obvious that MC&D benefits when their competitors fail, and while that may mean that more people have access to a safe alternative to eternal life and the closest equivalent of death, this does leave millions trapped in their bodies in some form of torture after having been exposed to faulty products. This not only leaves large portions of elderly and unhealthy populations unable to recover in any form, but it also causes them to become a further burden than they were in "life".
Dr. Young briefly reviews the article.
Young: Oh, fuck. I was not aware of this.
Soo-Yun: Well, I am aware of this. I will also state that until Hypnotraline was moved to Mr. Ji-Su Kim's control, there were no manufactured competitors.
Young: What's the prognosis for these people? Do they wake up?
Soo-Yun: I cannot disclose that information.
Mesmur: If you take a look at the files I just handed to each of you, they detail the various ways these competitors torture their customers in the long term. Of course, the most famous defect is permanent sleep apnea; however, other issues include sleepwalking, which as you might guess is far more dangerous when you're unable to awaken from it; and of course, permanent vegetative states rather than comatose ones.
Mesmur: While defects in medicine is something common enough in the pharmaceutical industry, the rate and extent of these defects is detrimental to both people who purchase and use these drugs as well as society as a whole for needing to simply adjust to their new burdens as their family becomes much more difficult to care for.
Young: This… this is awful.
Soo-Yun: It's economics.
Young: Ms. Soo-Yun, you mentioned something about there being no competitors until ownership was transferred? Is that related at all?
Soo-Yun: This is a recorded conversation. I cannot disclose marketing strategies while an active competitor who may have necessitated management changes is sitting at this table.
Young: I think we're a bit beyond that.
Greene: If Pyongyang wants, I can put my fingers in my ears.
Michaels: See? Diplomatic middle finger.
Young: I can't tell which one is the finger.
Soo-Yun: This isn't a sound-byte, or a pre-recorded message. Any actions that affect the marketability of Prometheus Labs' services will affect Hypnotraline's. The product is extremely vulnerable to any and all external changes.
Dr. Mesmur prepares another stapled section of papers to pass out to the people at the table.
Mesmur: Whatever the case may be, Ms. Soo-Yun, your company still arguably has the more moral solution, despite the immoral actions that you may commit in the name of sales.
Dr. Mesmur once again passes out copies of the documents describing the various processes that Prometheus Labs entails regarding Full Body Transplants.
Mesmur: I'd like to draw your attention to the kidnapping and preparing of subjects, the disposal of brains, and the distribution of false information to certain customers about the body source. I believe the rest of the document will speak for itself.
Greene: It's not really kidnapping.
A moment of silence passes as those present read.
Michaels: (under his breath) I still can't believe Joyce is ok with this.
Young: With due respect, Captain Michaels, you're the only person at this table who has the… "enhancements" necessary to avoid this stuff. I was born in 1989, and it's, what, 2130? Raise your hand if you've not undergone the surgery?
Only Captain Michaels raises his hand.
Michaels: Not surprised. Still disappointed.
Young: If FBT didn't exist most of us would be dead. Well, not dead, but worse. Asleep, perhaps.
Mesmur: I myself am ashamed of what I've had to do to continue my research, but I'm proud to say I've only had the one transplant.
Greene: Oh what is this? Are we putting the bottled water industry on trial next?
Dr. Mesmur turns to Greene, glaring.
Mesmur: Are you comparing bottled water to human lives?
Greene: No, I'm comparing bottled water to disposable lives. Look, what do you think happens to the people we use for the procedure? The answer is nothing. Thousands of people are snapped up off the planet every month for organ harvesting, slavery and so on. They're screwed from the get-go, and their future is screwed as well. Is it really fair, then, to just let them go to waste when those of us with the will to live get turned into rotting mummies?
Michaels: Sometimes, it's not their choice. I know, hard to imagine when you grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth.
Greene: Look, what's your name, Young is it? Let me pull up your file, I can tell you exactly where your current… outfit came from. Give me a moment.
Young: That's a bit rich coming from a grown man wearing the skin of an 18-year old girl.
Greene: La vida loca.
Young: At least I had a reason to change beyond getting bored of my own genitalia.
Greene: Ah, here it is. Young, you were fetched off the streets of Lithuania. Your body grew up in a theater, and got its showers in bathroom stalls. You clicked your heels and danced for change in a hat and your parents were… oh, what a surprise… gone. Now, that body is doing jolly good work for the illustrious Foundation, is healthy, vigorous and blah, blah, blah. If we hadn't gotten it, it'd just be another maggot hive, sooner or later. Living fertilizer scraped off the street and dumped into the mud. I don't know about you, but I like to view this industry as a recycling one.
Dr. Young audibly gags.
Greene: I've got your other files too, if you're curious.
Mesmur: Please. This is not what we came here to do.
Greene: You're absolutely right, we should do something. And Prometheus Labs would like some money for it.
Soo-Yun: What?
Michaels: Of course you would.
Mesmur: You really don't expect us to hand resources over, do you? Unless you are able to find a way to humanely deal with the problem at large, the Foundation will not contribute to your company.
Dr. Mesmur turns to Ms. Soo-Yun.
Mesmur: Or yours, for that matter. If you'd like to tell your higher-ups that.
Soo-Yun: Fine.
Ms. Soo-Yun takes out her phone and sends a text.
Soo-Yun: I'll tell you if they get back to me.
Greene: I mean, I couldn't help but notice that one of your issues against this service we all use is disposal. Sure, we could say, launch all the spare brains into space. That was on the table during inception, but that's expensive.
Young: And just have living people floating around in space? What's the benefit of that?
Michaels: You realize that's— It's not like the problem is solved because you've hidden it a couple hundred thousand feet above sea level. Same goes for your landfills. They're still there. They're still suffering.
Soo-Yun: Marshall, Carter and Dark is willing to take actions against certain competitors in exchange for a subsidy.
Young: Is that what they've texted you?
Soo-Yun: Yes. I would be less vague otherwise.
Greene: I'll take bullshit for 400, Jim. Come on, the McDonalds people aren't going to dismantle every drug network in the world just because you lined their pockets. And as for the disposal, I didn't say launch the brains into the stratosphere to create a big jelly ring. I meant far. Into the Sun.
Young: The fucking sun? You're seriously proposing throwing people into the sun?
Greene: I mean, Mars is also free real estate if you want to be picky.
Michaels: Did you hear a word I said about them still being alive?
Young: You know, once I got my credentials back I checked on what Dr. Michaels did with 3984 after I… left.
Dr. Mesmur slams a fist on the table, causing her briefcase to clatter closed.
Mesmur: Is everyone here going to continue to argue about ridiculous ideas or will you allow me to present an ACTUAL idea?
Young: Sorry, Dr Mesmur, I just want to drill into Greene how idiotic he… she is.
Mesmur sighs, and motions for Young to continue.
Young: Dr. Michaels tried to incinerate the brain to see what would happen — nothing. The brain breaks up. Except all the cells are still alive and we had no way of knowing if those animals were still conscious or not. The sun won't fix anything.
Dr. Mesmur glares at everyone. She pinches the bridge of her nose.
Mesmur: Christ almighty, you're all hundreds of years old and you still act like children…
Dr. Mesmur places her hand back down.
Young: Apologies.
Greene: Well, technically—
Michaels: No one cares Greene. You're not a kid.
Mesmur: Dr. Young, I personally am aware of your findings in regards to incineration of the brain. In fact, a secondary reason that I have brought Captain Michaels along to this meeting is because he is the solution we are looking for.
Dr. Mesmur gestures towards Eric Michaels.
Michaels: I actually have to show them, don't I?
Dr. Mesmur nods.
Eric takes off his shirt to reveal his cybernetic replacements.
Mesmur: Captain Michaels' cybernetic implants have been able to not only keep him healthy, but keep him healthy by pre-ΩK standards for the last century. With proper funding and research aid from both Prometheus Labs and Marshall, Carter and Dark, this could be expanded to more complex organs or body parts, or even to android carapaces that can be used to house brains and can be shut off at will. A combination of both of your products, if you will.
Soo-Yun gets up and makes a phone call in the corner of the room.
Young: Captain Michaels, what's, the uh, long-term outlook for your condition?
Young: And by long-term I do mean long-term.
Michaels: I mean, parts degrade, but they can be replaced. Any more than that, I don't know. I just do what the docs tell me.
Greene: What sorts of androids are we talking about? The sort that are just robots that think good or the fleshy ones indistinguishable from normal humans?
Mesmur: Entirely depends on the funding. Ideally, the bare minimum is a carapace that does not require oxygen to operate. This would also greatly help the over-population process, as that would mean that humans could live in areas that were not previously habitable, such as the ocean.
Young: Do we even have enough metal in the planet to do that for everyone? We don't have enough food or water as it is.
Soo-Yun Lee returns to the table, and places her phone face-up upon it.
Soo-Yun: Mr. Ji-Su is listening in. Please continue.
Michaels: Oh. I see we're finally worth your time.
Mesmur: (in broken Korean) Pleasure, Mr. Ji-Su. Glad you could join us.
Ji-Su: (in English) Continue with the speech, Foundation.
Mesmur: I was told there was a language barrier that prevented you from arriving.
Dr. Mesmur looks at Ms. Soo-Yun disdainfully.
Mesmur: In any case, the proposition was simply combining the aspects of both Prometheus Labs' and your own. Creating androids capable of housing brains for the human population. The market isn't necessarily about the product, but about the upgrades and replacements that would need to be made as it decays. Much like a phone, actually. I know you are very focused on market, and I figure this would be a good mid-point for both of our needs. And to address your concern, Dr. Young…
Dr. Mesmur takes out her phone and begins tapping.
Mesmur: I'm sending you an e-mail regarding potential resource usage should this plan go through. This is currently for Foundation eyes only until we receive further funding from other sources.
Young: Understood.
Greene: I can't speak for our friends in Korea, but I can tell you that I am, honestly, not focused on the market. I'm focused on quality of experience. If you can assure me full customization and accuracy with your little android project then I'll pitch it. But that's all.
Young: "Accuracy" being the key word, right, Cassie?
Greene: "Customization" is of equal weight.
Michaels: (to Young) I can't believe he's still hung up about being able to fuck a hundred years down the road.
Young: (in response) Simple things for simple minds.
Greene: And I will add that we have far more repeat customers than first-timers, in case anyone thinks I'm an exception rather than the rule.
Mesmur: Customization is currently higher on the projection table. Being able to look human is less important currently than being able to do certain actions, such as walk and eat and such. Most of those actions are unnecessary, obviously, but considering people still like eating despite their tongues rotting away and their stomach exploding, having those as additional features seems appropriate.
Dr. Mesmur pauses, looking at Greene. She sighs before continuing.
Mesmur: However… accuracy may be something we can commit to should we get substantial funding beyond initial projections.
Young: Even I have to admit that we do have to retain some humanity for this to be marketable.
Greene: "Some?" I don't want to see Terminators bonking — thank you for that mental image, by the way, you weirdos. I'll pitch this, hell, I'll even support it, if you agree to put Prometheus Labs in charge of the aesthetic side of this endeavor.
Young: Define "aesthetic side"? What exactly does that entail?
Greene: Skin, hair, eyes, tongues, fingernails, the works.
Young: So long as you don't get those fingernails from eastern Europeans.
Greene: Very funny. Is that the Lithuanian speaking or the humanitarian?
Young: Oh, fuck off—
Greene: —and no, they'd be synthetic but lifelike. Ideally.
Mesmur: How much do you project that to cost? The majority of the funding we need is gathering resources. Testing and construction is minimal in comparison.
Greene: Hang on, hang on. Before we do that, I'd like to hear what the Thing With Two Heads But Doesn't Talk has to say.
Soo-Yun: (in Korean; into the phone) That question's for you, not me.
Ji-Su: (in Korean) Do not want. (hangs up)
Soo-Yun: He says yes.
Mesmur: You do realize that I just spoke some Korean to you, yes? Would that not make you immediately think that I could understand basic Korean phrases like "I don't want this?"
Soo-Yun: Kim is only in charge of Hypnotraline because the product is so easily pushed to the ropes. I'm smarter, more qualified and far more stable than he is. I'll pitch your idea above his pay-grade, just as he did to me. We will get back to you on this.
Michaels: Huh. Never thought I'd see the middle finger turn itself around. You're pointin' right back at your boss.
Mesmur: Well, that's definitely a pleasant surprise. You're sure you have the credentials to do this, Ms. Soo-Yun?
Soo-Yun: I don't like Mr. Ji-Su. I don't like what he's done to approximately 8 million people, if that number is still holding. I'll be happy to make the sales pitch.
Soo-Yun: I don't need credentials. I have a more stable product to offer, with hopefully decreased expenditures, and excellent powerpoint making skills.
Greene slowly claps.
Mesmur: Dr. Young, Captain Michaels, do you two have any opinions on the matter or are you in agreement?
Michaels: I'm willing to let the kid help with the science project, but she'd need some supervision. Our supervision.
Young: It's the only solution proposed so far that isn't completely abhorrent. Are we taking a vote?
Mesmur: Unless anyone else happened to bring a solution they believe would appeal to us as well?
Young: So far as I can tell, it's robots or the Sun.
Greene: I've already stated that I don't much care either way. This life we all have is actually rather fun, so let's stick to ensuring that.
Soo-Yun: It won't be for much longer. I hope no sudden revelations appear if we do this.
Mesmur: If there are no more questions, shall we put it to a vote?
Young: Aye.
Mesmur: I also vote aye. Captain Michaels? Ms. Soo-Yun? Cassie?
Michaels: Aye.
Soo-Yun: I can't act on behalf for Marshall Carter and Dark. I'll send my aye in the mail once I'm back at the wheel.
Greene: It's a school night and I'm beat. Aye. Just remember who you'll be trusting the design choices to once you get our money.
Michaels: It's like you're trying to make me regret this.
Mesmur: Perfect. This meeting ended sooner than expected, which I'm sure is convenient for those of us who had plans for the night. Shall we adjourn or does anyone have any final words?
Young: Greene, you're not… actually going to school, right?
Greene: Hey, la vida loca.
Michaels: Let's just fix la vida for now.
<End Log>

All five exited the conference room in a calm quiet. Lee and Cassie took the first elevator to the lobby, both smiling to themselves. One was much more brazen and smug than the other, but then again teenagers aren't exactly the subtle types. The other three took a second elevator. Eric and Emily bid Violet farewell in the parking lot as they walked to their car.
"Back to the airport I, suppose?" Eric asked as he slid into the driver's seat.
"Not yet. We need to head out west a little ways first."
"Really? Why? Our flight back is in a few hours."
"I know. We have plenty of time. I promised I'd show your sister something, thought you'd want to come along. I mean, I might be breaking a few rules doing this, but the place has been abandoned for some time now."
"Wait, Joyce flew out here?"
Young nodded slowly. "It's important enough for the airfare."
"Well, I guess we do have time."
"Great." Emily started punching in the address. Eric pulled out of the parking lot and made a left onto a one-way street.
"Where are we going anyways?"
"To see your brother."
Eric shot Emily a confused look as he pulled up to a stop light, “You know his grave is like two states over, right?”
"I'm not talking about the grave, Eric. I'm talking about the body."
Eric froze. He let the words sink in for a few moments. Then the questions came flooding in: Why is the body here? What's there to see? What happened to Tony?
He decided that maybe, he didn't want to know. But Young wasn't giving him a choice.
"You know, the light's green."
"Oh, right." Eric pressed the pedal to the floor, and the car raced towards Site-2718.

With The Reaper On Retirement

End of Death

SCP-3448


Release of D-Class Form AE-2600

Name: Samuel Allen Dierks
Serial: D-5150
Incarceration Date: 03/23/2004
Induction Date: 02/12/2019
Record: [EXPUNGED]
Release Date: 08/05/19
Notes: As agreed to upon acquiring D-Class status, D-5150 has been hereby pardoned by the Governor of the State of [REDACTED] and is to be released into the custody of his family, with the following stipulations:

A 10-year mandatory period of rehabilitative parole, as mandated by the laws and regulations of the state of [REDACTED];
A yearly examination by Foundation Medical staff, and;
Upon death, the cadaver of D-5150 is to be donated to the Foundation for post-mortem examination.

THEREFORE, in agreeance with the terms laid out herein, and with the agreeance of all parties involved, D-5150 is hereby freed, effective as above.

Congratulations, Mr. Dierks, and good luck in your future endeavors.
Signed,
██████████████
Site Administrator

Blake was waiting for me in the parking lot.
"Sam? SAM!"
He ran towards me, tears in his eyes. He stopped within two steps of me, and looked at me. How different I looked. The last time he saw me was at a visitation in Supermax, almost 13 years ago. I'm sure my balding head, the growing middle-aged paunch, and the extra wrinkles made me look quite different than what he was expecting.
He looked different too. A decade and a half will do that to a kid. My little brother was all grown up now. He was 15 when I went in, just a chubby kid who talked a lot and always got on my nerves. Now… Jesus, look at him. He'd turned into a handsome man. He looked a lot like Pops.
Pops.
I wrapped my arms around him, and we cried.

"And that's the last thing you remember?"
"Yup."
"Did it leave a scar?"
"Oh yeah."
Pulling up my shirt, I showed him the scar from the transplant surgery, and knocked my knuckles against my breastbone. "Brand new ticker in there. Top of the line, the best that medicine had to offer."
"Holy shit." He looked at me for a second, as if to ask Can I touch it? He ran a finger over the incision site, eyes full of wonder.
I smiled at him, he smiled at me. "Hard to believe." Nodding, I pulled my shirt back down and looked away. "Yeah. Hard to believe."
A beat. We both stared into our coffee cups.
"Sam… you were in for life. No parole."
"I know."
Tears were welling in his eyes, something that would be kind of a common occurrence for those I talked to in the immediate future. "You got a second chance."
"Two of them. In a row."
"Yeah. How's that work?" He chuckled softly, and wiped his eyes.
"I don't know, brother. I don't know."
Our eyes met our coffee cups again. What do you say in a moment like this? When there's so many questions you need to ask, but the words are impossible.
In this case, you say nothing, and you flag the waitress down for the check.

Readjusting to life is hard. 15 years of routine changes you.
Every morning, I wake up at 6:00 am without an alarm. I cradle a cup of black coffee and wait for the sun to come up. At 7, usually, I go out for a jog. By 8, I have a couple of fresh eggs over-easy and some toast.
I head out to Paul's farm in an old Dodge Ram that runs for a few dozen miles at a time. He pays me to work on whatever needs to be worked on- sometimes it's fixing up one of the tractors, or a hay baler. In the summer, it's hauling hay. Sometimes I'm feeding the cows, looking over the herd, keeping count. They're not quite tame. The younger ones are curious, they approach carefully and might sniff your hand. The older ones keep their distance.
Come lunchtime, I read the paper, and eat the sandwich I packed that morning. If it was a good week, I might get the nice turkey from the deli counter at the grocery store. Most of the time, it's budget bologna.
I keep to myself. The other farmhands are young, and full of wild ideas and crazy dreams. They talk about last weekend's party, or this girl and that girl. Never really engaging, I keep my head down and my mouth shut.
The afternoon drags on, but there's always work to be done. Clearing and repairing the fences, getting rid of the old fallen trees, keeping the barn cleaned up. On Fridays, Paul gives me a few hundred dollars in cash and a case of beer. He always says I do good work. I always thank him for the money and the job, and he always just shrugs and says something like It's hard to keep good help nowadays or Keep up the good work.
I go back to my little shack right before dark. Sometimes I'll text Blake, and talk for a little bit. Lights out at 9, just like the last 15 years.
It's funny that way. Every night I spent in lockdown, I swore I would do things so much differently if I had the opportunity. When it comes down to it, I guess we're all creatures of habit. The setting might be different, but the routine is the same.
Maybe I need a change.

Hey bro.

Hey man, what's up?

NM. Paul's out of town for a week, just running the farm.

Cool

I gotta blow off some steam. Anyplace around here I can go?

The old Wagon Wheel is just across the state line.

That place is still around?

Yeah, IKR :D

IKR?

IKR= I know, right?

Oh

you should go have some fun. You never go do anything anymore

You think?

yeah just don't get hammered and drive

Maybe.
It's been a while.

bro. trust me. Just go.

Alright.

Promise you'll call me or Jane if you have too much to drink

I promise.

The Wagon Wheel is vacant, except for the waitress, Susan, and one old boozehound, slumped over on his barstool.
Susan is pretty. She's probably about 37, kind eyes, and long red hair. There's happy crow's feet at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. She keeps me in cold beer and listens. She talks sometimes too. A single mom of two girls, Susan is also a trauma nurse at the hospital when she's not tending bar.
She curls her hair around her fingertip when we talk.
The Wagon Wheel becomes a regular spot for me, two or three times a week, just to talk to her. I ask her for her number after a month of working up the courage. She smiles and asks me, "What took you so long?"
I barely slept that night for feeling so good about it.

Laying in bed together, she traces her finger along my scar.
"So, when you die, these scientists get your body?"
"Yep. That was the deal."
"That's… unbelievable."
"Believe it." I smile and kiss her forehead. "It's a small price to pay to be able to be here, with you."
She smiles up at me. I feel like the luckiest man on earth.
I want to feel like this forever.
It's a whole year before I propose. Saving for a ring on an ex-con farmhand wage takes some time. I asked her daughters if it was okay first. They laughed and gave me a hug, and called me dad.
We got married in October. It was uncommonly cold that day. The orange of the leaves made for a stark contrast against the thin white blanket of snow. In the south, it's so unusual to get snow at all. To see it on our wedding day seemed like a blessing from above.
Her white gown and red locks perfectly matched the landscape.
She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Hey bro.

Hey old man

I have a question. Kind of a weird one.
I mean, I guess it's weird.

What is it?

I didn't get to go to pops funeral.

Yeah. I know.

I don't know where he's buried. I don't want to bother mom with it.

Understandable.

Can you tell me where he is?

Yeah.

Hey pops. Long time no see.
I… I'm not sure what to say right now… Never even thought about it before. The possibility of you being dead. That's really stupid, I know. They wouldn't let me come say goodbye before, the warden wouldn't. Obviously. I mean… I don't even know if you would have wanted me to.
The last time I saw you, you were so disappointed in me. And I deserved that. I did something horrible. The people I hurt, the lives I took… I can't ever take that back. And it's something I deal with, every goddamn day. I still see them when I go to sleep sometimes. It upsets Susan so much that I've just taken to sitting in the living room for a while until I get it together.
What I would give to go back in time. I was about as old as Blake is now, but really, I was just a kid inside. I wish I could stop myself, show myself what pain would come of it. How I'd hurt others, hurt myself… hurt you, and mom, and Blake. Those poor people, and their families. I think… I might do anything to be able to change that.
But… I wasn't defined by that one moment. I'm not that.
Pops. I'm sorry. I know you probably left the world hating me, and I'm sorry for that. I let you down, and I deserve it. For my part, I always loved you. I always just wanted to make you proud. The thing that broke my heart the most was seeing you and mom in that courtroom. Your faces when they read the guilty verdict. That was the last time I saw you.
…
I wonder if I've become someone you could be proud of.
Those doctors and scientists, they gave a second chance to a murderer who didn't deserve it. But here I am now, forever changed. I have Susan now, and the girls, and they look at me the way I used to look at you. My greatest desire is to be a good father and husband, just like you were. You should see them. Belle got second place in the elementary beauty pageant this year. And Shyanne, well, she was the star of their dance recital. I know they're not my kids, but… I'm their dad. And if you could see them, you'd fall in love with them, just like I did.
And Susan, my god. Never did I dream of meeting, much less being with, someone like her.
I wonder what you think of me now. I hope you'll forgive me. Wherever you are.
I miss you, pops.
…
Is it okay if I sit down here? I'm just not feeling so good. Age, I guess. What's the old saying? "Time and tide wait for no man." It's just catching up to me, I suppose.
Just need to catch my breath.
I just… need to…
I…
Oh god.
O̖̾̈́̃̎ͧͦ͞H͕̗̻͇ͬͧͪ̾ͪͅ ̘̰̬̯̠̖̬͗͗ͣ̿̀Ǵ̢̦̈́̒Ȍͮ̉ͦ̔ͦ̚D̫̤͉ͥ̓̓̔͒̚.͚͙̠̙̦ͦͩ͐̅̀ ̖̰̣͙̲̝̬̒̔́̾̚Ḥ͈̮̈͑̃̈́̔̌͜E̱̫̹ͨͨͣͤ̈́L̷̲̱ͨͦ͐̇P̥̂̓ͪ̏̐ͦͥ ͍̲̘̲̹ͥͭM̺͇̫̼͘E̙̺̩̙̲͓̓ͭ͌͘ͅ.̊ͣ̆̽̎̎͢


Gabriel was not exactly a novice when it came to Kit's suicide attempts.
He tried to believe that this change in behaviour couldn't possibly be due to the over-exposure to amnestics, because then guilt gnawed away in his gut. Instead, he found himself staring at the back of pill packets as he brushed his teeth – ‘If you, or your houseguest, down the whole bottle, call emergency services.'
Something like that, anyway.
At some point in time, cuddling in the dim moonlight, Kit's tone had gone from a sultry but satisfied one to something very quiet, and very grim.
‘Pills are so unreliable. Next time I try, it'll be a sure thing.'
Gabriel thought maybe Kit thought he was asleep, but the assumption was wrong. He heard the words, and felt his heart tense up, beating empty, then beating hard; panicked. He hid all the medication in the house, though that didn't seem to faze Kit, who had often turned up at his place high on something that he could never identify.
Regardless, their relationship ended the next week.
But thinking of that time reminded Gabriel of the scant amount of Kit's stuff he had left behind. One of his more well-worn sketchbooks, which contained embarrassing sketches of them both, naked and exposed. The ‘Free Tibet' t-shirt he used to sleep in sometimes, even though Gabriel doubted Kit cared at all for Tibet in any sort of meaningful way. A half-crushed pack of cigarettes that had littered the coffee table for a while, until Gabriel summoned up the strength to put it all into a bag.
A bag, of course, that he was holding now.
What was he doing with his life? It seemed so desperate, to want any chance to see Kit, that he would collect up such meagre belongings and prepare to take them over. Instead, Gabriel schooled his face into a neutral position as he walked down the street.
He wasn't going there for him, not for a hope of catching Kit just out of the shower, draped in a towel and nothing else. He wasn't going there hoping Kit would invite him in for coffee and maybe, just maybe, it would all end up okay.
He was going there for Kit. He worried about Kit constantly – all he had to do was remind himself of the times Kit had scared him before, and it was easy to change his outlook from a selfish one of need, to a more concerned ex-boyfriend outlook.
The locking mechanism outside the block of flats had been broken for some time, so Gabriel let himself in and tried to control himself into a casual stride up the stairs to Kit's flat.
He knocked, three times, a pause, then two more. A code, so Kit wouldn't hide away and pretend he wasn't home, scared of who was on the other side of the door. When the door didn't open after that, Gabriel pretended not to be bothered. He had come all the way here, so he may as well try the door, and dump the stuff, and then go home, and try to forget all over again.
Gabriel wasn't alarmed when the door was unlocked. Most of the time, it would be, because Kit would forget his own name if… well, he forgot his name on a regular basis, and that's why the door was rarely locked.
He stepped in, nose rankling at the smell of stale cigarette smoke and a cat who he never saw but had been assured was somewhere in the flat. After all, having a cat was like having a poltergeist – Kit would shrug and say she was around there, somewhere, and later they would hear mysterious crashes and see mysterious messes, like a little kitty crime scene, with the perpetrator nowhere to be seen.
Gabriel kept his shoes on, acutely aware of the filthy floors beneath his soles, and headed into the combined living room/kitchen.
He saw the chair laying spilled on the floor before he saw the bare feet, suspended in mid-air. He felt the bag drop from his hand, felt like he left his own body for a moment.
'He's done it. This time, he's really done it.'
The thought echoed in his head as he momentarily disassociated, his mind trying to protect itself from the sight of Kit hanging like a puppet on a string. It occupied him for maybe a few seconds, but it felt like minutes before he leapt into action.
He grabbed the same chair and picked it up, pulling himself up to nearly where Kit swung, having to stand on his tiptoes to cut the rope with the handy folding knife he always kept in his back pocket. Gabriel's arms grasped around Kit's body before he could fall to the ground, and, just for a second, it was like they were dancing.
It was a New Year's Eve party, something oddly formal that Gabriel had been invited to.
It was in-between amnestic administration number three and number four. Kit wasn't that crazy, not yet. But Gabriel knew he was only there for a job (I don't want to want him)
It was Kit who had grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the dance floor during a slow song. It was nearly midnight, and Gabriel felt acutely aware he had no-one to kiss. It never normally bothered him, but, with Kit's head on his shoulder, his breathing soft, it felt like maybe (I don't deserve this) he was missing out.
It was Gabriel who took the lead that night, after the dancing, leading him outside where the fireworks had been exploding all night. He led him gently into a kiss, which Kit greedily accepted. They were both tipsy but not drunk; Kit was quirky, but not crazy; and Gabriel was breaking who knew how many rules.
Afterwards, Gabriel held Kit's hand, gave it a squeeze and let go, allowing it to fall between them again.
Ignoring how much he wanted to keep holding it.
To hold it forever.
Kit's head was lolling on his shoulder again, but that soft breathing was absent. His face was dark, purple almost, and his neck was covered in scratches – the body had known nothing but to fight in its last moments, even if Kit had truly wanted to die. The silence in the room was tense and oppressive.
And then, it was broken.
Something slammed into the front door, and there was yelling, a garble of words that didn't reach his grief-stricken ears. Gabriel barely noticed he was now kneeling on the floor with Kit held close until someone grabbed his shoulder and spoke, softer this time.
“Let go of it, Romero.”
Gabriel recognised the voice as Neil Hull, one of his teammates. That meant the Alpha team he was regularly on was here, but why? Gabriel couldn't arrange his thoughts properly, could only hoarsely whisper.
“Him. Kit. Not it. Never it.”
Agent Hull knelt next to him.
“It's not him. It was never him.”
Gabriel looked back to the body in his arms, and it wasn't Kit. It really wasn't Kit. It was a being that looked more mannequin than human, with a blank face, stiff plastic limbs. He still didn't want to let go. That image was still burnt into his memory.
Later, Gabriel would learn that this uncontained threat had a twisted version of playing with people. It could manipulate its voice, so someone would believe a phone call about a loved one dying in an accident; it could become a scent of the cigarettes a grandmother used to smoke; and it could transform into a person and hang hopelessly from a rope. It prayed on people with rocky relationships, and the Foundation had been tracking it for some time.
But that would be later. That would be after they pried him away from the ‘body', after they attempted to debrief him, after they argued amongst themselves what to do with him. All Gabriel could see the entire time was Kit's face, cold and dark, and all he could hear was muffled. Eventually, they decided to send him home, on leave for ‘possible memetic contamination'.
Gabriel stood in the shower for an hour, trying to wash the memory away. He found he had, on automatic pilot, taken the bag of Kit's belongings back home with him, and he slipped into the ‘Free Tibet' t-shirt even though it was too big on him and stunk of smoke and something undefinable; the smell of Kit.
When his hands stopped shaking so much, he typed in Kit's number, despite knowing how rarely the flaky young man checked his phone.
“Hey, Kit, it's me.” He let the awkward silence fill the air, just glad that it wasn't as heavy as the air in that terrible kitchen scene. “I, uh. I just wanted to check you were okay. And uh… to say I miss you. A lot. I was just… I wanted you to know someone cares for you because I know that's… that's easy for you to forget. Uh. You don't have to call me back, just… I'm here, if you need me. I'm not a million miles away.” Gabriel hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands, breathing hard.
Back at Kit's flat, and the man himself stumbled in, two days gone on a Bloom high. He was more than a little confused about the state of his kitchen – immaculately clean, as if someone had gone through and disinfected everything, cleaned up every little thing. Someone had even replaced the lightbulb, which was nice.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, surprised he even had it on him, and fished it out to look at it.
‘One new message.'

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