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Smokey tendrils lift their way up through the sky. He stands, sighing into his cigarette before sucking in another breath and letting it go in a circular puff of transparent relief and anxiety. His other hand, not preoccupied with the burning, paper cylinder, leans against the wall, supporting him as he looks at the sky laid out above him.
It's that time of night where the sun has just set, casting gaunt shadows over the rolling sands. There's something in the way the land cools: once harsh rays unfurling from the grains of sand as the night sky graces them with its presence. The stars surround him, small blips of existence that wrap around the silence of the town asleep. It's quiet but not dead. Desert Bluffs is never truly dead, only in hibernation before it can make its return in the morning.
If only he could make his return in the morning. He knows he'll be up, back to work once he awakens the next day, but he's unsure for how long. There's not much left to hold onto. The town is still alive, but it may be coming to an early sleep, a curtain close, forever hibernation.
He presses his shoulder against the wall, still savouring his cigarette. He doesn't know if he does it for the taste or to quell something deeper. He runs his hand through his thick dreads. He freezes, worrying for a moment that he's run his hand with the cigarette through his hair but knows he hasn't when his hair doesn't catch alight, when he remembers that he can't make mistakes anymore.
There's a shake in his hands that he hasn't felt since he was young, boarded up in his room when the noises got too loud, when his father shook the house with his icy rage. But now there's no noise. That's what scares him nowadays. Oh, how things change.
He presses the fiery ash against the side of the concrete wall, snuffing it out as buildings' lights begin to flick off one by one. He knows what he needs to do, but there's a difference between knowledge and resolution. He didn't want… He wouldn't die– they would never make it that easy– but he's not sure whether his effort could be enough to ever truly mean anything.
In his last moments– whether they be of this night, his work, his life, his universe– he thinks of Night Vale, of that small sister town that he's only ever met through radio waves. He wonders how they are. He hopes they have done everything they can. He will not remorse if they realize that he is no longer needed. He can save one, not both. He can never have without stipulations. He's fine with that. As long as someone lives.
He lets the crumpled form of the cigarette fall from his hand, down to the balcony beneath him. He takes one last look at the oasis before him, now dark in the desert night. He takes a breath of fresh, clean air, closes his eyes as he revels in the moment that is slowly slipping through his grasp like sand through fingers.
Then he turns around, walking back into his apartment. He might as well get a good night's sleep. No reason to be tired during the end.
—
Maybe once he would have gone on a long-winded tangent about creation and life and death and a complete and utter end, but now that dissatisfies him. It's quite boring, isn't it? Quite useless.
He blinks lazily, eyes heavy, drooping against his effort. There was much different about him now. He was much better for one. He had purpose, a strive, a life. He smiles, and it feels like the warm touch of the sun– of God– has blessed him with its presence. He knows what he's doing, resolute in his actions. He's never wanted anything more than this.
"Kevin, are you listening to me?" A voice grinds against his ears, and he lets everything go for just a moment, frustration clawing at his insides. But it reminds him- reminds him that this is why things had to change.
He looks up through a hazy gaze, hands steepled like business is all he knows. He smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges of his vision. "Yes, of course, Daniel!" There's not much else to say but the truth.
Daniel huffs in response. "Well, then, I'll leave you to it. Get back with me in 3 hours, or we'll have to have a talk with Lauren." Kevin shudders involuntarily. No, right. He needs to do his work, of course. Work comes second in the order of hierarchy of needs. And work simply supports the first: The Smiling God. Yes, do the work he knows with a smile on his face.
He runs outside as soon as Daniel turns his back. He supports himself against the wall, his breath coming in sharp and jagged. He reaches for… something. He knows he can't have it. He knows he doesn't want it. But want can never equally measure up to his perverse need-
If only the world always came so slowly to him as it did after he began to breathe too hard. The world turns sluggish, unbearably slow in its circle around the sun.
Sometimes he feels he is circling the sun. He rapidly approaches the heat, the danger of everything, before he spins right past it, only to come back moments later. He pushes and pulls in equal measure until he's stagnant in his thought, only burned if he pushes too hard.
And he shouldn't push. What's the point in that? He's better than that, much better than that. He loves his town, his work, his God. It is his, and his is it.
He was meant to stay here. He doesn't need all of his superfluous wants. He doesn't-
Something catches his eye at the periphery of his vision: just a white smudge blotting out the right side of his sight. Oh. He hasn't seen them before: a new thing to know, a new thing to see.
The blotch comes closer and- Oh, he's a man, dressed in a white shirt with black pants, brown hair. He has never seen this man before. It's as if he popped into existence at that moment, forgetting to announce his appearance when The Smiling God ran its fingers through the earth, carving bloodied caverns and gnarled roots.
He's tall, not short, cut hair laying neatly across his head. It's as if he's had his outfit perfectly tailored to where he is. He blends into the town, glaring sun off him which blinds Kevin as he tries to stare. He thinks of a halo, an aurora, a radiance uncalled for, before quashing those heretical thoughts. He's just a man, nothing more, nothing less.
Kevin's soon to turn his head, focusing on the granite wall beneath his hand. Splinters graze his skin, the wood old, corrupted. He's tired. He's so… But he's not sick. He can't be sick. Instead his eyes are drooping, his head loopy. It's as if someone has stuffed his insides with pudding instead of meat and bones and meat and bones and meat and-
He wishes for something to do… He turns his head back to across the street– across the desert it sometimes feels like– to see the man still there. He's stopped, seeming to be studying the chapel across the way. He's unbothered even as the sand is whirled around in its own many tornados, crashing harshly against his face.
Kevin stares… and stares. He can feel the black of his eyes smoldering in the summer sun, his cavities begging for relief from the relentless glare, from this man's overwhelming presence. Kevin continues to stare, unbothered.
Kevin's leaning against the wall now, hand reaching for his pocket, for something it knows isn't there. It grasps at a ghost, twitching in anticipation for something it'll never touch. The wall is soft, squishy against his shoulder blades. Kevin freezes, tensing in that way he does when he knows they were coming back to give- to get-
He turns slowly, cautiously, hands held slightly out in front of him– whether they're to placate or keep something back, he doesn't know. The sound of rushing, pattering water reaches his ears, and he sees a man-made waterfall coursing down the side of the building. He breathes, chest collapsing in a puff of relief. Right, he should have remembered…
His ear catches something, a clack against gravel, and he snaps his head back around to look at the man. He's moving now, facing the radio station as he walks towards Kevin, the wall behind him, the radio station, the people in the radio station, the- He suddenly feels defensive, angered that someone would try and disrupt a very busy day (they, of course, always have many things planned). Then the fire in his gut cools, and he breathes slowly, lets his eyelids close and finally block out the burning sun.
He opens his eyes, raises his hand up and waves at the man, smiling his biggest smile of the day. This catches the man's attention, and he stops his persistent effort of walking through the sand mounds. He tilts his head, seems to consider Kevin for a moment. He looks confused almost, like he wasn't expecting to see someone out on the edge of town, like he didn't expect for people to be allowed in such a beautiful building that was the radio station. The man squints, raises his hand up to his forehead as if he was trying to block out the sun. Kevin knows he can't.
Before the man can make any more embarrassing decisions, Kevin begins to walk towards him, pushing himself off the smooth granite of the wall behind him. His feet are heavy as he walks, though not unlike what they have always been. The sand engulfs the soles of his shoes, but he pays it no mind as he studies the man.
Now that he's closer– only a mere 20 strides away– Kevin can see he holds a journal in his hand, a pen in his other. He seems to be making notes, and Kevin is all the more interested. He wonders if the man is here for an impromptu inspection. The screams from those were always exciting! Though… he doesn't seem to bear the Mark that all inspectors wore. Another time, then.
He has a scar that runs parallel to his left eye, nestled in the soft skin right beneath his eyelid where the skin pools into a slight pouch. He must be tired. Kevin hasn't been tired in years. He sleeps, of course, but his waking hours have never been wasted on such a trivial thing as fatigue.
Before he knows it, Kevin is only a few more steps from the man. The man has not moved closer nor further away during Kevin's walk. Kevin takes that as a good sign for a pleasant conversation to come. He raises his hand once more in greeting, and the other man, now snapped from his inquisitive staring, raises his hand in reply.
“Hello, sir! Are you interested in our town's humble radio station?” Kevin's smile quirks just slightly larger. He thinks his head would split in half if StrexCorp had thought of such a wonderful idea.
The man takes his words in slow succession, nodding then pausing. He squints, squints hard against the glare of the sun. His mouth parts slightly, and Kevin would think it was shock if not for everyone's inability to express such an emotion.
“Ah, hello. I was looking for… Um…” He looks at his journal as if its cover could help him before continuing, “Someone in charge here?” He says it like a question, like he isn't totally sure there is someone in charge in Desert Bluffs. It's such an absurd thought that Kevin can't help but giggle slightly before a glimmer of pain arching from above his eye stops him.
“We have many managers!” Kevin says, enthusiastically, though the man seems all the more confused. Kevin simply shakes his head, smiling once more. “I can bring you to the owner of the radio station, Lauren, if that would help you!” The man looks off behind Kevin as if he were trying to stare through a mirage, but he stops soon after, as if all he could see was a building and endless sand.
“Ah, sure. Yes. Thank you.”
Kevin motions for the man to follow him, beginning his path back to his work. He frets for a moment, worried that he'd been gone for too long, that they'd notice he was missing. His fingers begin to brush over the pocket of his pants, over and over and over again as he thinks about what Lauren would say if she had found him missing when he was supposed to be rehearsing his lines, drinking his coffee, writing his notes on why StrexCorp has been so generous as to give him rebirth, and staring at the wall that oozes viscous, black blood from a crack in the foundation-
It was a good thing that he was bringing back a guest! Lauren loved guests and considered outreach a valid form of work in Kevin's case. He was safe as always in the loving compounds of StrexCorp's buildings.
His thumb has found its way to the hem of his white, work casual button-up when the man beside him speaks up. Kevin looks up from where his eyes have trailed down to see that they've only walked a few feet from where they'd been standing. Right.
“My name is Charles, by the way. I came here to study a few obscure… topics that I thought would be most prevalent in this town.” Kevin nods like he knows why Charles would want to study instead of settling down and working at a well-paying job with free health insurance and guaranteed no spine take-backs.
“That is wonderful, Charles. I hope your studies are going… well!” Kevin hopes that is what a scholar would like to hear about their interests. Though, Kevin does hope that they might not go so well soon, so Charles may acquire a position that pays well before it becomes too late to absolve him of his laziness. “I'm Kevin! I'm the Host-To-Be at Desert Bluff's radio station!”
“Nice to meet you, Kevin.” He pauses for a moment, brows furrowing.
Kevin meets his gaze for the first time, and he realizes that he's not… He's not seen someone show an expression of confusion in so long he hardly recognizes it at first. He's beginning to understand why he doesn't recognize this Charles. He isn't from Desert Bluffs. He knows that. He's glad he's taking him to the station.
“I have to ask; what is a… ‘Host-To-Be’?” Kevin can't help the way his mouth falls open, jaw hitting his chest. A laugh comes out, but he quickly stifles it.
He asks about his job like it's a question, as if he can't comprehend the concept. He didn't realize academics could stoop so low as to be both confused and stupid. It's not as if his entire life has been broadcasted to everyone for the past- the past 4 months- 5 years- 20 decades- however long he's been here. It's not as if his life's construction and downfall and every little action he performs hasn't been perfectly scripted for the past-
A slice of pain emits from his forehead as if the sun was emitting a ray right from his brain. He clutches his head and looks up to Charles, his sudden discomfort obscured by the smile he gives the man. He will never grow tired of the pain they have lovingly referred to as an icepick through the space between brow and eye. Charles does not notice how his teeth grind and his brow sweats. Neither does Kevin.
“It simply means that I am studying to become the host of Desert Bluffs’ radio station. You have heard of it, yes?” It would be good to test how far their reach has gotten. Obviously, everybody in Desert Bluffs knows about him, but he is unsure if their reach has gotten much further. Lauren is hopeful, but he knows how lacking connections out of their sweet, little town can be… He doesn't want…
“Ah, that makes… sense. Why do you have to study to become a host, though? Are there certain… regulations?” Kevin elects to ignore his last, murmured statement of “Desert Bluffs…”. Charles tenses as his gaze shifts over Kevin, brown skin turning ashen. Shock is just as despised as confusion, but Kevin finds his own little joy in how people react when they truly see him.
His questions, however, sour his mood. He doesn't like his mood being ruined. He stars at him back, smile dipping slightly, unyielding neutrality entering his sockets. This man had no right to question the- the training he has undergone to reach this position. He had spent countless nights awake and breathing hard and flipping through books of meat and unable to close his eyes for the response would be immediate- for this man who does not understand this town to question him- to question the- his radio station.
Rage bubbles underneath his skin; he can feel it like blisters sprouting from a burn. Yet, it dissipates soon after. He is always thankful for the device attached to his brain stem. It knew how to calm him.
“It is a special position in this town that I have been training for most of my life, and I prefer that be aknowledged.” His smile does not waver.
“Ah. That makes sense. I am sorry if my question came off as… rude.” He replies hesitantly. At least he knew how to apologize.
“It is okay, of course! I understand that you are not from around here, and that your customs may differ from ours.” Kevin knew that acknowledging other cultures was very important. His mandatory, week-long courses had told him so.
“They… are.” Charles responds. There's an edge to his voice that would send off alarms in his brain if he was concerned with the man's opinion of him. He is not. “Desert Bluffs… is that where we are?” He really is much stupider than he looks.
“Yes! I would think you'd know where you are, but the desert is expansive, and it can be easy to find yourself lost! We're on the edge of Desert Bluffs out by the radio station, but that way-” He points in the opposite direction of where they're walking, off towards the sand dunes and glaring sun, “-you'll find the town center. I'm sure there are many people there who would enjoy answering your many questions later.”
Charles simply nods his head in response but continues to follow Kevin.
Kevin looks back to the radio station to find it right in front of them. Tension in his shoulders he had yet to notice ceases, and he sighs, an easy smile coming to his mouth. “I will lead you to Lauren. She'll be able to fill you in on all the facts about our town.”
He stops in front of the oak door entrance, reaching his hand out to touch the doorknob. An electric spark dances up his arm, a sense of foreboding coming over him. He tilts his head but opens the door nonetheless.
He lets Charles pass him as he keeps the door propped. He's about to let go of it before realizing Charles has stopped in the middle of the doorway. “Charles? I have to close the door or else we will have our own little desert in the station.” He giggles at the thought of miniature sand dunes building from the whirling wind outside. But Charles doesn't respond.
A sigh catches in his lungs and burns. He angles himself out of the way of the door so he can close it without disturbing Charles’ rêverie. He then comes around to stand in front of Charles. His mouth is parted open slightly, jaw set hard. His eyes stare forward as if they could bore a hole into the wall across from him (he knows only Desert Bluff residents are able to do that, though). Kevin's smile loosens just slightly. Thankfully, there is no one in the lobby to see him.
“Charles, I do hope your reaction does not indicate that you have never been inside a building before.” Kevin can feel a restlessness beginning to form at where his foot meets the ground. He begins to slowly move his hand to his back pocket but aborts the movement to bring it up to Charles’ face in a small wave. Charles blinks suddenly, and Kevin is reminded of the fact that most humans do as such.
“Why- is there…?” He doesn't finish his question so Kevin simply nods his head and pats his arm lightly on the shoulder. Charles doesn't even try to hide his flinch; Kevin would feel disgust if he could.
“It's for decoration, Charles. I'm sure you don't keep your workspace so sterile and boring.” Kevin feels as if he's talking to a small child. Like he did when he'd sign an autograph when a kid who'd heard him on the air went up to him and asked him to sign their notebook, and he'd have to tell them he couldn't give those out for free but he wished he could- when he was still host- when-
“Kevin!”
Kevin's back immediately goes rigid and his hand falls from where it'd been circled around Charles’ bicep. Kevin spins on his foot to find Lauren's face a smiling mask with a twinge of anger. His hands shake as she stares him down, beginning to walk towards him. He stops himself from taking a step back; he knows what she would do if he did.
He hadn't meant- He hadn't done anything wrong. He's been keeping to his schedule. He's been doing everything they've asked of him. He's been so good. He's been pulling molars when they grow back in. He's been eating what they tell him to even as it sends his stomach roiling. He stays here. He stays here every day and every night even though he knows he still owns that flat- the flat he once had. He knows, but he follows what they tell him. He studies every day, and he lets their firm hand guide him with a smile on his face. He's a perfect pupil. They haven't ever had anyone better than him. He doesn't deserve this when he's been so good. All he's done is feel a few feelings other than elation. He can't be blamed for that; they can't numb everything he feels no matter how hard they try. The drugs only do so much. He can't go through conditioning again. Last time they took his- his- This time he doesn't know what they'll do, and that scares him. He can't do this. He can't. He can't. He can't-
An arm wraps around his shoulders, and he freezes. “Kevin.” His breath stops.
He'll know no peace for a long time to come.
“Oh! Hello there. I don't believe we have met before. Who is this guest of yours, Kevin?” The hand loosens, and her voice has returned to its awful, merry cheer. He-
It's a brush against his spine before he feels normal once more. Like a cool ocean wave, his worries wash over and past him. He settles, shoulder pressing into Lauren's own. His smile returns to his face as he looks up to meet Lauren's carved face, smile matching his own. “Hello, Lauren! It's so good to see you. This is Charles. He was near the Church of the Smiling God when I saw him. I wanted to show him around the station.” He gives Lauren and Charles, both, a big smile in quick succession. Then, quickly, he stage whispers to Lauren, “He's not from around here.”
Lauren claps her hands together joyously and exclaims, “That's wonderful! It's always great to show someone who knows nothing about us around.”
For his part, Charles’ attention has moved from staring at the wall with shock written all over his face to a pleasant neutrality as he listens to Lauren. At least he knows how to shut his mouth.
Lauren moves away from Kevin, and he stumbles slightly, having not expected the change in balance. She's still talking to Charles, beckoning him to follow her. Kevin knows it is now time for him to get back to his work. He walks slowly back to his studio, dazed and delighted as feelings of soothing comfort and undulating reprieve soak his mind.
Today has been a fun little adventure.
—
“Is he… okay?”
His eyes stare at the wall as he lackadaisically drifts through the sea of his mind.
“Of course! All of our workers are treated very well, especially him. He is our face after all!”
He registers the words but does not know who is speaking them; he doesn't care.
“...Really? He- Why does he look like that?”
He's sitting in his studio, head resting on the table in a warm, comforting pool of blood; his head is swimming, and his eyes are drooping once more.
“What do you mean? He looks just as normal as the rest of us.”
He smiles; he loves this new normalcy he has found himself in.
“What- I… I'm sorry, I don't- I think I need to go.”
He's happy to be back in the comfort of his own room even if he loves the scorch of the summer sun.
“Aww, we'll miss you. I hope you decide to visit us again soon.”
Kevin's head perks up as he hears soft thumps of running steps turn into loud pounding and heavy breaths. He can only see the outline of a person through the viscera smeared on the windows. As soon as they come, the sounds are gone.
He makes no move to get up as he overhears a commotion outside. His foot is still pinned to the desk, and the still falling, sluggish blood makes it hard to see. They like him better in here, anyway. They say he's always docile and calm. He likes it this way, too.
He rests his head against his desk once again, letting the warmth of it lull him into a soft sense of security. He soon falls asleep.
—
He does not see Charles again.
Not for a very long time.
—
The morning of the siege on Night Vale, Kevin is sitting on his bed, staring blankly at his bedroom wall. Usually he'd already be at work by now, but Lauren had told him they wouldn't need him until the afternoon, so here he is, sitting, waiting. He has so little free time that he barely knows what to do with it.
He had been given an apartment long ago, after his training was complete and he had acquired his job as radio host. He liked it; it was a nice apartment. It reminded him of something vague and far away, but he didn't let that seep into his thoughts nor dampen his constant, lovely smile. Though he couldn't stop the mirage of a trembling house and a quivering boy.
The bed was comfortable, more comfortable than the one he had when he had been staying at the station. He had stayed because it was required, yes, but he knew it was important for him to truly know the place he was soon to embody. He wanted to understand it in depth, feel it in his very bones. The days he stayed locked in his studio were some of the best, taking and retaking and retaking and retaking his lines over and over. It was good for him to practice; Lauren said so.
Though, of course, he wasn't all that worried about the bed in the first place. A strict regimen of 6 hours of sleep a day let him get fairly comfortable with his bed, though he held no attachments to it. Once he may have felt a sort of loathing towards the idea of his body's own limitations in needing sleep and the bed's facilitation of it, but now he was much better and never felt such a way.
He stood up and walked slowly to his bathroom. His head swam as it always did after waking up– as it always did. He had been told the medicines he took would lead to such side effects. He knew this when he signed the many papers allowing his treatment to begin (nevermind the fact he hasn't been able to read in years nor that they had to hold his hand to maneuver it into a looping scrawl). It made him healthier, much more ready to do his work. And if the dizziness ever got bad enough, he'd be given something to clear his mind. (He liked that pill. It tasted sweet going down, like a hot summer morning and sticky, melting popsicles. It soothed his mind, spread warmth through his nerves until he was sluggish with delight and able to say words into the mike until the break of dawn.)
He moves to his sink, eyes trailing up to the mirror. He usually doesn't look, ignores it like he knows will be the most productive, but he can't help it today. He wants to see if he looks good for the end of Night Vale.
He is sitting on the edge of the bath behind him, legs crossed lazily, boots dirtying the pristine, white floor. His eyes are staring at his. He usually never looks at himself.
He doesn't say anything, just stares at him with large, brown eyes. Kevin looks at him, face blank except for the smile. His eyes are clear but sunken, deep purple bruising the underside. Kevin's own have no such discoloration, taught and perfect. His hair is long and reaches far below his shoulders– in stark contrast to the close shave of Kevin's own. His clothes are casual, fitting but not tight, not restricting. Kevin's are-
His… other stares at him and smiles, something sad in his eyes, but the quirk of his lips is genuine. He nods as if answering a question Kevin is wondering, as if Kevin wonders about anything.
Kevin tears his gaze away from the mirror, and he vanishes. He briskly walks to his kitchen to make food: eggs and toast– simple and constant, an easy need to acquiesce.
The food is soon steaming in front of him as he begins to slowly eat, savoring the way it burns his mouth. He chews and swallows without rush, taking in every last flavor and texture. Something in the back of his mind knows he will not be back for a long time. He is fine with that. They told him he would be.
He cleans his plate and sets it to dry. He grabs what he'll need for the day and ignores the many things he won't see for a long time. He grabs his briefcase, clothes having been changed long ago. It was another day of business as always. He was sure to delight Strexcorp and The Smiling God. He was happy.
He walks towards the exit, finding that he won't miss this apartment. Grief has long since been eradicated from his neurons that fire, so he is not shocked. But he does find a simulacra of something just out of reach. Another end. Another beginning.
He turns back for a moment and finds himself staring back at him, mirror over his couch catching him just right.
He stands straight with his head held high. His eyes are just as black as normal and his smile perfectly poised. His suit is clean (though, not for long). A feeling in the back of his brain wiggles for something else- but everything else in him eliminates it before he can feel it. He would not parse out what it could mean.
This was his last day of work yet a beginning for work that meant something. For everyone. For all those he cares about and for all those that cared about him. (Even if they were still to see it.)
He smiles and walks out the door.
—
When he is taken to the Desert Otherworld, he is scared for the first time in months- years- decades- (centuries-) though he does not feel that all-consuming sense of wrong that he does in his studio. He feels as if something has broken, snapped and pulled far away from him, slinged out far from his reach. He breathes, and the air tastes sweet, and he knows this home will be much better than his last.
—
His head is pressed into his desk. There is neither blood nor viscera, and he sighs deeply. The action is freeing in a way that makes his chest ache.
His hands are splayed against the tabletop, bent fingers spread wide open, but he doesn't mind. He's never minded.
He dozes not unlike he once did. This one is much more listless, though. He found that in the past his thoughts followed a structured order that came and went however it pleased. Now, his thoughts scramble up and bleed into one another. He does not… like it.
It is odd- to feel anything but delirious happiness. His training and many medicines were never perfect, no, but they always made sure any of those emotions were nullified long before they could lead to him spiraling into absurd thoughts. He misses (and simply that pains him which pains him which pains him-) the cool plunges of a sharp needle, the trickle of blood down his spine, the taste of flesh in his mouth. He misses much these days as he sits and waits for the world to come rushing back to him, as he waits for anything to come knocking on the castle gates of his open, empty mind.
He believes they deliberately sought and took things from his mind which they did not like. He was cored and laid empty, and they replaced his brain with a shiny, metallic ball that they programmed to do what was right. Yet, even that they had ripped from him, leaving him with the squashed remains of a brian pulverized and picked through from the many labs they sent it around to study and learn from, searching for all the hidden knowledge his brain held.
He does not want this empty space in his head. He wants them back. He… misses them.
He opens his mouth and bares his teeth against the soft wood of his desk. He is leaving teeth marks. He can feel the sharp point of his canines, and all he wants is to meticulously rip each and every one out, but he knows they won't grow back anymore. They're gone. They can no longer help him.
He has not cried yet. He has not cried in a long while. Not since the last time he saw him with his many arms and legs and shaking voice and scarring, vicious hands- He is thankful for this. He remembers it hurt to cry. He does not want to hurt.
His tongue falls uselessly out of his mouth. He knows, somewhere deep down, that the appendage should not- look the way it does. The others always look at him horror-stricken, disgust and contempt and pity– they're all the same in the end– written on their faces. It does not feel right to him.
He is not used to things feeling… wrong. It is an odd and unique experience that he does not want. One of his twisted, bending, angular hands slides off of the table and reaches towards his pocket. He freezes. He encloses his tongue in his mouth, head shooting up, back ramrod straight. He settles his hands in his lap and smiles, staring intently at the wall in front of him. He would be back soon. He had made a mistake. It was only customary.
He does not let his thoughts reel, wondering how he can dare to worry about such things when his punishment was duly needed. His worry only bolstered the need.
A knock reverberated through the oak door, and Kevin finds himself stuck between 3 separate worlds, floating and pulled apart in every direction, unable to tether himself to-
“Kevin, are you in here?” His head snaps to the crack between door and wall where Carlos’ head pokes through. His shoulders relax, and he smiles (he notes- he does not note that it is his first of the day).
“Hello, Carlos! Please come in!” He motions towards the seat across from him. It's sat before the table in the room- the table which takes up most of the space. Kevin has taken it upon himself to declare this room his impromptu station even if no one else has told him so (even if it has no materials a station needs).
Carlos looks at him with a smile, though something else is etched into the hard line of his jaw, the small wisps between furrowing dark brown brows, the hint of something soft around his eyes. Kevin's gut clenches.
He walks in slowly, making sure the door doesn't hit the wall. He moves slow and measured, and Kevin can't tell if that's how he is or if it's for Kevin's sake. Kevin's smile strains.
He takes a seat across from Kevin, letting his white lab coat (he doesn't go anywhere without it. Kevin thinks it should scare him. It's so reminiscent of… every nightmare in his sleep, but it doesn't. He finds it comforting. He likes how the white sears his eye when it shines just right in the light. He likes how he can imagine the cuffs stained with blood, guts clumping around the lapels. In his mind, he feels soft and embraced when he can imagine himself laid bare on the operating table with someone looming over him, their hand entwined with his guts. It's like he's found home after wandering for so long) furl out beneath him. Kevin stares Carlos straight in the eyes; Carlos busies himself with rubbing his fingers against his coat. Kevin doesn't mind. He understands he is hard to look at.
“Did you need something, Carlos?” He is always ready to serve, even if he doesn't know exactly what for. It is not an absurd thought to believe the kindness he has received here should be returned in kind. He was not given care such as this during StrexCorp yet still expected to lavish his superiors with reverence. It was much easier to do so when the respect was more readily reciprocated.
Carlos’ head rises slightly to stare at his chin, and that odd-strange-befuddling emotion (though, he is unsure if it is the same as the one before- or if it is only one) crosses his face once more. “Oh, no, Kevin. I don't need anything from you. I just thought I should check up on you.”
A checkup! Now, that was something Kevin knew how to do. He'd been having those his whole life. He thinks more than half of his life has been checkups (including the continuous monitoring of all of his bodily functions). Kevin moves to stand, though stops when he notices Carlos hasn't yet. “May I ask why we are having this checkup in my- this room? I am obligated to anything you ask, of course, but I thought you would prefer for my blood to liven up the rest of the buildings.” He giggles, feeling excitement for the first time in far too long. He was very good at checkups. He was sure to make Carlos happy and wipe any of those other confusing emotions off Carlos’ face.
However, something explodes on Carlos’ face, and Kevin can see so many emotions– too many emotions– but there is only one he can parse out, and it is anger. A livid, righteous anger that Kevin can feel deep in his bones, pulling his muscles tight, preparing him to run (as if “his” “brain” was allowed the responses of fight, flight, or freeze). He must have made a mistake. He didn't realize his mistakes could cause such an adverse response. Usually- Usually, Lauren's response was short, shallow and immediate- simply a job she had to do, no emotional ties to it. However, Carlos…
“I- I am sorry. I do not know what I have done to anger you, but I will rectify it.” The words spill quickly– automatically– from his mouth. They come so fast he lets his tongue slip out and his teeth come down hard on it. He does not wince in response. He doesn't believe he can.
He is awaiting a swift execution of anything Carlos deems necessary (he is happy that he knows Carlos is someone who not only takes swift action but also appreciates efficiency. He had grown… tired of the many long and drawn out responses of Daniel. There was a reason Lauren was in charge, after all). However, Carlos’ face drops into a feeling Kevin can recognize but dares not name. Something licks at his lacrimal glands.
“What- What… Kevin, you have not upset me. I wasn't mad. I just…” Kevin's head tilts imperceptibly, but Carlos still seems to notice. Kevin would cringe if he still could (if he could ever? He is not clear on what he was once able to do- be). “My checking up on you doesn't constitute any amounts of blood, Kevin.”
“It doesn't?” Kevin cannot help the way his voice falls. He has miss- He would prefer some blood to liven up his surroundings. It always calmed him; it was normal.
His response only makes the emotion on Carlos’ face stronger. Kevin would sigh if it did not burn his lungs so badly. “No- No, it doesn't.” Finally, Carlos’ eyes reach his own. He calms despite himself. It was easy to float in his eyes, feel himself being pulled to the rhythm of his ocean. He just had to have Carlos meet him in the middle to feel this way. Carlos continues, but he only hears it distantly, like a whisper in his head, his own inner-monologue.
He believes his inner-monologue has taken the shape of many voices throughout the years. Growing up, it was always booming and loud, echoing in the caverns of his mind, seething and writhing out words that stung. Later, it would be commanding and enveloping. After, he'd soon succumb to a voice that was soft and cool and pressed wet kisses to his temples as stainless steel slipped in and his fingers grew numb. It was that voice for a long time. It'd periodically atrophy into a voice that clawed at his skull and ripped and shred as it bit into his brain and wouldn't leave until it was plucked out by that calm, soothing voice that was a warm bath and water streaming down his head, a dull knife to his hands and rough, hard edges. It was only recently that that voice faded into the background and something cold, calculating- precise, seeped in. This is the voice that is currently connected with his mind in unison. He could see the voice as a looming figure on a chair in the corner of his mind, wreathed in shadow, but he could still see the sharp smile. He knew it. He wouldn't mind if Carlos replaced that voice with his own.
(He wonders minutely why his inner voice has never sounded like himself. He thinks he either doesn't have one or doesn't deserve one. He does not control his actions. Why would he need himself to be telling him what to do? That made no sense.)
“Kevin?” Carlos asks his name like a question, and Kevin wishes he could give him an answer about why his responses do not line up with Carlos’ desired outcome.
He nods in acknowledgement, smiling as always (as- well, it is not always anymore despite his best efforts). He lets his sight slide down and off of Carlos’ eyes, slipping to the table where his hands have come to rest (steepled- always). Carlos’ eyes do not stray from him.
“Kevin, by checking up on you, I just meant I wanted to talk with you.” He speaks hesitantly, softly. He can relax into that tone of voice. Kevin did not realize Carlos fit so well into that which once trailed fingers through his hair, massaged ripples out of his shoulders, and stared at him like he was the key to the universe. Kevin thinks he now understands why someone would stare at another in such a way.
“Of course, Carlos. That is what we are doing now, right?” He hopes he's been good at it. (He knows he commonly fumbles and messes up, stumbling over his words or staring off into space and zoning every word that his ears pick up out, but he couldn't blame Kevin for that. That is how they liked him. He should like him like this.) The way that Carlos smiles at him tells him he has (he ignores the emotion that has settled into the creases of his face that he knows far too well but will never name. It was not an emotion Kevin could have. It did not apply to him).
“Yes. Of course.” He stops, seemingly contemplating something before continuing. “Kevin… how are you?” This was a question he knew the answer to!
“Quite great!” Kevin replies, dazzling Carlos with his smile. He's been “quite great” for as long as he can remember (and that's quite a long time). Any other answer has never flickered past his mind. Their checkups always started with that question, and even though Carlos said that wasn't what he was doing, he can feel himself relaxing into the easy routine.
It was always very simple when they did it (though Kevin understands that it's harder for Carlos because he does not find Kevin simple. Kevin believes that is a compliment). They'd take him somewhere (he never knew where and only thought they brought him to the same place a few times) that wasn't his studio, and then it would commence. He believes they didn't do it at his studio because they needed a separation between his medical procedures and his training. It all made sense to him.
They ran the normal diagnostics: his heart rate, his blood pressure, the amount of void which seeped from him, the many wounds he carried like a parent carrying a child, his reflexes, how many teeth he pulled, the scar tissue that built up in the cavities where his eyes had been (and subsequently removed it, admonishing him for letting it get so bad). They checked all kinds of things, and it always left him shaking, trembling, crumpled on the ground with weak pleas streaming from his mouth that were soon met with a gentle reprieve that left everything gooey around the edges. That part made it all worth it. He always enjoyed his checkups. He hoped it was just as nice with Carlos.
“What does that mean to you?” Kevin freezes. That was not a question normally a part of this routine. Why would Carlos ask that? He understood what both words meant. Why did he need an explanation? “What does that feel like?” Kevin's jaw falls. He picks it up and shuts it closed before he can let a confused, high-pitched sound out.
He laughs, scoots his chair closer towards the table, towards Carlos. He ignores the way Carlos shrinks slightly back. “It means that I feel good. I feel nice and happy and very much willing to do whatever you could possibly need!” His voice raises slightly, and he continues to ignore the expressions passing over Carlos’ face.
“Why do you need to do something for me?” Kevin finds his old theory about scholars being too stupid for a real job to be apt here. His hands shake slightly. At least it seems Carlos knows how to execute a proper checkup.
“I am used to and- quite fond of providing help to anyone who allows me shelter, food, and any other substance I may need. It is customary. It is human decency.” The word human sounds wrong slipping from his broken teeth and off of his tongue that is far too short yet so long it seems to wrap around itself and gag him as he lies and sleeps. He doesn't care that it may sound wrong. It is true; they told him.
Carlos looks at him, and Kevin knows there is pity on his face. He knows pity no matter how hard he tries to wipe it from his memory. The look of it– the way it pushes lips down and let's brows relax and how it marrs the face with bright red blood and viscera– cannot be removed from his mind because he has seen it always and will forever continue to see it so long as he lives. He lives with pity as if pity is him because everyone has always given him pity (mocking or not) and what others make of him is and will always be what he is. He is nothing but pity wrapped in flesh and called something less than human by the will of men and women masked in shadows. He is pity, and he cannot stand Carlos- Carlos giving him any more. He cannot fit it into the seams between his skin nor the holes in his teeth nor the sockets where his eyes should be. He will not have any more pity.
His smile contorts into something hideous and deformed, bending into a low frown that raises a small snarl from out of the back of his throat. Carlos pushes his chair backwards slowly and his face twists into something that responds equally to the hideous thing Kevin feels.
However, Carlos does not run away screaming. Not like the many warriors he has met nor the doctors that soon followed a gun to the back of his head nor him who knew there was something wrong with him and freed himself before it was too late. He just continues to sit there, pondering something. Kevin is breathing hard; it strains his lungs. They feel like they're being irreversibly compressed. His heart skips beats, but it already does that. He does not care.
“Kevin… I do not own any of what you currently have. I am not allotting you anything because it is not mine to give. Everything you have is yours, and you are able to do whatever you want with it. I do not control you, Kevin.” His voice is placating but stern. It is not soft and fluff and warmth and gentle with a nail pressed into the back of his skull, leaking blood. Nor is it the voice which sends him to his knees, curled in a ball, head crushed between his knees. It's as if he actually means the words he says.
Which makes it all the funnier that they're such stupid words. ‘He does not control him.’ Sure, yes, just as every other person before him did not own him, did not dictate what he did, gave, was. He speaks as if he does not control him even as his being there molds him to his will. Anyone who interacts with Kevin makes him what he is. Carlos cannot revoke his ownership when he is right there, an arm's length away.
He is tired of riddles. He is tired of the way he speaks to him as if he knows nothing, as if he is nothing. He knows that he is nothing but what others make him, so he could at least try to give him some sort of meaning, dictate him in some way, shape him into something- anything. He just wants to- to be. Does he want for too much?
“I am what you make of me. I am that of what anyone makes of me. I have been crafted- devised into this being to be what anyone could ever want. I am not my own. You cannot nullify a singular truth because it does not fit your wants. All I want is to be what you want. Is that too much to ask?”
Carlos pauses. Kevin breathes; he has not breathed this much in a long, long time. He looks at Carlos and finds he looks… sad. Kevin feels vindicated even as it twists his stomach into something that makes him s- He wishes they were here to claw his hair out for him, so he wouldn't have to explain the future bloody clumps to anyone (especially not himself).
He is still sitting in his chair (he'd collapse if he wasn't), but he feels as tall as a mountain and as tiny as the speck of blood he has on his fingernail from a stitch he ripped out a day ago. He would throw up if his body had any facilities that weren't the voice of everything, knowledge of all, and filled with as much perfect poise a body can hold (that last one has long since escaped him).
Carlos opens his mouth, closes his eyes, and breathes through his nose. Then, he speaks. “I want you to be you, Kevin. Yes, you have been influenced by the many people around you– we all are. That does not mean there are no bits and pieces of you that are untouched. All of those combine to form you. It is fine if you are dissatisfied with this response or if you do not like what you currently are. Most people do not. That does not mean, however, that you are nothing.” He speaks calmly, and Kevin has no single comparison to that which the conviction in his voice conveys. He is honest, and he believes what he says.
He doesn't… There was never anything substantial that came from their mouths. There was never something spoken that was truly believed, simply a fact known to all (all but Kevin who was always a step behind). He had grown used to that constant of life. Everyone said what they needed to and went on with their own lives. He said what they told him to say, and he waited patiently to be given his next words, his next actions, his next thoughts.
Now, there is this man who sits in front of him as he seethes that tells him he is his own being. One man who hits a wall that has encased his brain so perfectly that it comes crumbling down. He does not understand how he isn't knocked out by the aftermath.
He misunderstood what Carlos wanted from him. He gravely misunderstood Carlos. He wanted him as a replacement to his past, long list of keepers, yet he will not be such. Not because he does not care for Kevin but because he does care for Kevin. He gives kindness freely without expecting any in return. He has given Kevin enlightenment and all he will want from it is the acknowledgement that Kevin understands and feels better.
Kindness for kindness’ sake.
He was… wonderful.
Kevin deflates like a balloon let go, splattering and coughing, shoulders shaking as dry sobs wrack his throat. He does not cry– he cannot cry– but that does not stop him from trying. He leans his head against the table that is his own and shakes it with his ricocheting breath. Apologies escape his throat, though he understands that's not what is wanted from- He understands that it is not something that Charles needs.
He sees, now, that those vague, unknown emotions that crossed Carlos’ face were worry and concern bloomed out of a sincere place of care. He must acknowledge it all, at least. “Thank you. I did not know. I did not… I couldn't understand. I appreciate your words. Your…” Care.
Carlos nods, a resigned sort of smile on his face, a sympathy that he once misconstrued as pity. He will not do so again.
He receives Kevin's words with understanding and supplies him with affirmation and comfort. He does not come to the other side of the table. Kevin knows he wouldn't want him near him, couldn't stand the idea of Carlos’ hands being soiled by his skin which reeks, but a shallow hole forms where his brain has been stuffed back into his head, rebuilt. He doesn't mind. Carlos has done enough for him already.
Time moves slowly, though not slowly enough. Before long, Kevin is calm and collected and Carlos must attend to his other duties as de facto leader, and Kevin understands because he understands Carlos just as much as Carlos understands him. He cares for him just as much as he cares for him. He has received kindness, and he will dutifully spread it out around himself.
When he has left and his voice is just a distant memory that whispers against his skull and echoes in his mind, Kevin is back to sitting with his head against the table. But the wood is cool and soft, and he could lie here forever in this solace.
But he won't because he is in a place that wants him, a place where he is more than a waiting object.
He has found a home that wants him for him and only him.