Chapter Text
In the morning, the air is cool on my skin. I huddle beneath the covers, holding tight the warmth of night and the company of the Narrator as long as I can. What security is this, truly? It's nothing real, just blankets against demons, just pretending against the truth, the awful, terrible truth that I cannot bear to look in its eyes.
It sits patiently on the edge of its own bed.
427 was-- we weren't sure what it would want, and it was still under its weakened will, but the Narrator hazarded that a separate bed would be welcome after the ordeal of being with [NAME REDACTED]. From what little I can glean from its body language, that seems to have been the right choice. It looks... pathetic, honestly-- wearing a stiff set of pajamas, fidgeting ever-slightly with the button I gave it (a blue button that makes a pleasant boop when pushed).
I look at it a bit longer, before crawling out of my bed (taking a blanket with me) (wrapping it like a robe) and sitting on the floor by 427.
[I would like to understand you.] I sign, gently.
It gives me a look, both pained and skeptical, before reaching its hand and lifting the barest bit of his shirt. A cord (bit of code)(bit of its being)(mine look like that too) reaches out.
I open my hand and hold it gently, and feel its mind and my mind link.
Its mind is sharp (eroded)(whittled down). Its soul touches mine and I know it as (friend)(me)(own)(our).
427 is gentle in a calloused sort of way. In the way that I am, when I truly try to look. A thousand upon a thousand years in a purgatorial time loop, in a hell you were made for and molded in, will do that.
And yet it is so much more tired than I could ever fathom.
I hold its soul tightly as we start together through its memories.
It starts off in a apartment; it has recently returned from BFD, and is now in the apartment shared by Xigbar and the Showrunner. Xigbar looks far less worried than I remember him being, and the two of them head through with confidence.
Upon the other side, [NAME REDACTED] is waiting, his hand on the Showrunner's shoulder.
"Go over to him, Stanley." Xigbar says, tense and precise with his wording.
I see 427 stiffen at that, his pupils dilating in fear, looking to Xigbar with disbelief, as his legs pull him over to [NAME REDACTED]
The Showrunner walks over to Xigbar, looking confused and upset and relieved all at once, as Xigbar gives [NAME REDACTED] a short nod and teleport.
And now 427 is alone.
With him.
"Look at me." he starts, and 427's eyes snap to stare at [NAME REDACTED]. It's obvious that it is scared, and it's clear that [NAME REDACTED] is savoring that fear.
"You belong to me now." he says, drawling out every word. "You are going to please me in every way that you can. That is your purpose, that is what you are made for. You will love your purpose, Stanley. My love will be your only joy."
427's eyes fog for an instant, and it imparts to me the sensation of those commands on its will; it hurts like a thousand straining fibers, like the slow choking of its neck.
It's familiar to me.
427 nods to [NAME REDACTED].
"Excellent." he purrs, and then he walks away.
427 feels a pang at his departure almost immediately. It has to serve him, it has to go to him.
So it does, quickly following [NAME REDACTED] to the bedroom.
Into the bed.
It felt hands on it, feeling it like it was a cut of meat, slowly removing its clothes, slowly feeling a intoxicating, unwilling joy at [NAME REDACTED]'s own pleasure, its screaming to leave, its body no longer its own to command--
I look away, and turn to 427.
[So you...]
It nods.
I wince.
It offers a questioning look, and I nod.
[Tell me as much needs to be known. You withstood it; I can take on a few petty memories.]
It pauses, considers, and then offers its hand again.
Quickly, I see (know)(feel)(understand) a flurry of moments and memories.
It has piercings; [NAME REDACTED] wasted no time in marking his possession.
And then, no time was wasted in making use of it.
427 retreated into its mind as much as it could. It held tight to its heart bits of itself to keep itself sane; it was reshaped and carved into a much more unfortunate, unstable person. It lost its name. It lost its voice.
It hadn’t been made with a voice, and that was a rather intelligent decision. (It knew it had to be, his master had said so). It was not to speak.
It ached for an ending that it could not reach towards.
It was a doll, to touch and dress and play and toy with. Its own tears were a strange, salty mix of desperation and unwilling happiness, as [NAME REDACTED] grinned, and carefully undid what he had done to put 427 into such a state.
It was never a mistake, 427 knew that. [NAME REDACTED] was too good to make any sort of mistake; and he was always so kind. It hurt, but it was alright in the end! Its own wants didn’t matter. It didn’t even have it’s own wants, it didn’t have anything like that to think about.
It couldn’t think about that or else it would fall into despair.
It continued on.
After two weeks, (It felt much longer) (It will hurt much longer) it felt a tightness wrap around its throat and a liquid sensation envelop every single one of its sense. Blinding, and white, and a means to an end more than a friend but there nonetheless.
The Player.
I suck in a breath. The Player is me, sort of, and I’m sure it’s similar for 427. We’ve got nearly identical origins, just… a few things went slightly differently.
Neither of us can see anything clearly in 427’s memory as the Player takes hold of its body. It foggily moves to a wall, and then clips out of bounds, falling down into a deep, endless void.
427 opens its eyes again as it falls.
Each second away feels like dying and it needs to return, but it cannot. It is free now, but how can that be enough, when this lingering ache still remains. Its will is not its own and it tries to reconcile that, tries to know what to be, which course to even try to take, but every command is layered upon it in a succession that is much too much too much all at once.
It lays curled in the void for a bit before it knows it has lost all that matters.
Once it is defeated, despaired, a purple mist envelopes it, and it falls.
Into the woods.
I turn to 427 as it does the same and hug it gently.
We stay like that for a while, and then we each draw back our code. We wait in the morning sun longer, quietly. The Narrator begins his preparations to fix 427, and begins later that same evening.
I curl inward on myself and think.