Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steven follows Marc because he doesn’t know what else to do.

He doesn’t know what’s going — with this hospital, the sarcophagus Marc just freed him from or the fact that he’s following Marc . That is; he’s following Marc, physically, because Marc is in front of him and Steven is behind him and they have separate bodies. That’s weird. That’s not suppose to happen. Because sure, they’ve only known about eachother for, like, a week (or, Steven has known about Marc, more accurately), but he knows they’re suppose to be … together. In one body. Sharing a head, sharing thoughts.

Steven’s only felt Marc in his head for a week. He doesn’t like not feeling him.

But Marc is in front of him, leading him out of the horrible room he was trapped in and down the hallway filled with identical doors and tiles and swinging lights. And Steven needs to focus on that, instead of how weird this is because otherwise he might faint.

Slowly, he pads after Marc, who is ducking around ahead of him to peer through doors and under trolleys, like there’s monsters hiding just around the corner. Steven supposes there could be, ones he can’t see, so he lets Marc do his sweep and Steven follows, doing a second check as well. This place is weird. He was locked in a bloody sarcophagus for goodness sake. Even excluding the separate bodies things, that’s not good for a mental hospital — medical malpractice, that is. Wait, is this a mental hospital? This has to be a mental hospital, doesn’t it?

Why are they in a mental hospital?

Steven opens his mouth to ask Marc this, tasting the sting of antiseptic on his tongue, when the sound of something shaking makes him jump. He stops walking and looks towards the noise, but Marc keeps going, so he lets out a small gasp when he sees the source of it.

There’s another sarcophagus. Just like the one he had been trapped in, only a few minutes prior, except now in a dark red colour with different markings. Or the same markings, he can’t tell since he’s a few metres away and doesn’t have his reading glasses (does Marc need reading glasses? Does Steven need them anymore? He needs to stop asking these things). And it’s shaking, violently, back-and-forth as the stone churns and grinds.

He takes a step back. It’s almost like the one he was just trapped in, that Marc had to free him from. Steven was trapped in one and now he and Marc are separate. There’s another sarcophagus and that can’t — it can’t mean what he thinks it means, can it? It can’t. They would have noticed.

He recalls the cliff on Cairo. The date he didn’t set up, and Marc didn’t either — because he was married, still is, and Steven can tell he still loves Layla even if he sent the papers first. Blood on his hands. Missing times. A headache pounding in his temples.

“Marc.” Steven says, but Marc still doesn’t stop, so he tries again. “Marc, look.“

Marc finally stops and comes back to his side, still glancing every which way even when he reaches out towards him. “Steven, we gotta go.”

“No, Marc, wait .” Steven repeats, because he can tell when Marc uses those words it means he wants to avoid something and Steven isn’t letting him get away that easy. Not with this. “ Look. ”

He points at the sarcophagus. Marc pales.

As if activated, the sarcophagus — or, really, whoever’s inside — starts shaking more violently. Steven flinches away and Marc puts an arm up instinctively to cover him, but nothing happens. Nobody jumps out, nobody yells dark threats or pleads for them to let them out. Just keeps shaking and shaking, until it finally stills after a few long moments. Steven relaxes a bit, but Marc keeps his arm up and looks even more tense than before.

“It’s, uh …” Steven swallows. He knows what it is. He just doesn’t want to say it. “… that’s gotta be another one of us, yeah? Has to be.”

“Alter.”

“What?”

“Alter. Another alter.”

“Oh.” Well, that’s something he files away for later. He glances back at Marc’s unreadable expression, and he gulps again. “Do you … know about this one?”

Marc doesn’t say anything for a long moment, basically a confirmation in it of itself, before he slowly blinks at the now-still sarcophagus. “No. I didn’t.”

Well, isn’t that just lovely . Got a new mystery alter , hanging around, in a red sarcophagus that keeps shaking ominously. The bloke (or, do they have to a be bloke? He hasn’t had to chance to figure that out yet) who has gotta be the one responsible for the weird blackouts neither he nor Marc can remember. The ones where they wake up, surrounded by dead bodies and covered in blood they’re not responsible for. Steven’s been doing an awful lot of that lately, and it’s not a fun experience at all.

That’s … that’s gotta be a omen or something, yeah? A big bright ‘ DO NOT ENTER ’ written plain as day, a warning to all who cross it. Out of bounds, over here. Danger, keep out.

Though, Steven’s been seeing lotta signs like that lately, and he’s been ignoring every single one of them, so …

“I think we should open it.”

Marc whips his head around to look at him, and is so shocked he forgets about his whole ‘protector’ thing he’s got going on, letting his arm drop to fling it out dramatically. “Steven, are you insane?! I mean — just look at it!”

He points at it, more forcefully than Steven had. It shakes on cue. Steven sighs. The bloody bastard inside isn’t really helping their case now, are they?

“Well, yes, I will admit that is a bit off-putting.” Steven says, straightening himself out a bit to hopefully look more confident in his words. “But I still think it’s a good idea. What else are we suppose do? Just leave it here?”

“Yes?”

“No!” Steven exclaims, indignation rising up inside his chest. “The answer is no, Marc!”

Marc sighs, and rolls his eyes in the way one would when dealing with a petulant child. It makes the indignant feeling all the more forceful, and he resists the urge to scowl. “Steven, let’s just go, okay? We can come back for it later when we’ve found a way out.”

Steven does not like this response one bit, and gives Marc his best disgruntled glare. “Yeah, not happening, mate. I’m not letting — I’m not letting anybody else stay stuck in one of those things.”

It was — crushing, being inside the sarcophagus. Felt like being covered with sand, having it fill his mouth and eyes and nose until he could scarcely breathe, trapped on all sides with only suffocating darkness. It was like the first time he was aware while Marc was in control, limbs filled with so much lead and ice that doing so much as twitching a finger required the upmost concentration. He knows sarcophagus use to be used to hold the mummified dead, and that was almost what it felt like. Wrapped in bandages, preserved for eternity, forced to stay aware while everything moved on around you.

Even if this alter was the one who killed all those people, was responsible for things Steven didn’t even know about, he doesn’t want anybody to feel like that. Ever.

Beside him, Marc must realize something along similar lines, or he just realizes Steven’s not moving on this, because he sighs again and says, “Fine. But I’m opening it.”

Steven snorts. For all his snapping and biting and angry eyebrows at Steven when they first started being both … aware, Marc is so protective it’s almost comical. What’s also comical, however, is that after his grand announcement, neither of them move — Marc just glaring at nothing and Steven waiting patiently. He sighs again.

He purposefully clears his throat to make Marc look at him, and when he does, he inclines his head towards the sarcophagus and raises an eyebrow. Marc rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing it.” He mumbles, before padding into the room. Steven follows, now the one to roll his eyes at the other’s behaviour. Bloody grandpa, is what he is.

When he reaches the sarcophagus, though, the air turns serious once again. Marc glances at him, standing awkwardly behind playing with the edge of his sleeves. He gets a good grip on the top of the thing, warns stay behind me and Steven feels curiosity and anxiety and definitely a bit of fear all mix together in his chest to form an ugly emotion sitting in his throat he tries to swallow down. Then Marc takes a deep breath, and pushes .

The top falls open to the floor. The tiles crack, the concrete rings, and then they both stare with wide eyes at another doppelgänger reflecting their curiosity back at them.

Well, it’s — Steven recognizes it on some level to be his face, but still somewhat disconnected, like looking at old photos of yourself back when you use to have a different haircut or dress sense. Close enough, to himself, that he can identify it as such. If a bit more scruffy. The clothes are different too, grey sweatpants and a tight shirt similar to Marc except without the t-shirt over top, in a pale red colour like the fabric used to be vibrant but suffered from too many cycles in the wash.

For a moment, all three just stare at eachother, taking it in. But then, the new alter gives them grin and greets them in New York voice tinged with a bit of stiffness, “I was wondering when ya’ two would let me outta here.”

“Sorry, we just found you.” Steven feels the need to explain after a moment, mostly because Marc is still staring blankly at him. “You’re — you’re one of us, aren’t you?”

The man nods, and steps out of the sarcophagus, causing him and Marc to take a step back to avoid him. “What else could I be?”

“I don’t know. Shapeshifter.” Marc supplies, eyes narrowed. “You’re not a shapeshifter, are you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.”

Marc glares, and Steven steps between, not wanting a fight to break out. With what he assumes about this alter, him and Marc dukeing it out right now would not end well for any of them. “Ignore him. I’m Steven, and that’s Marc. Who are you?”

The man blinks at them. Then, he grins.

“Jake Lockley.” The man — Jake — says, still grinning widely, but it’s not something positive. It’s more predatory, all filled with teeth and sharp tongue. “Nice to formally meet you.”

Marc mouths “ Jake Lockley? ” to himself like it’s familiar to him, but Steven instead steps forward so they’re side-by-side and narrows his eyes at the scruffy man in front of them. “You’re the one who’s been killing all those people, haven’t you?”

“Guilty as charge.” Jake says flippantly, like they’re not discussing the blood on his — their — hands. “Though, I’m not only one, am I? That chico over there has done his fair share too.”

Steven stiffens. Marc bristles, but recovers first, “But I let that kid go. Harrow’s follower, back in Cairo. You were going to kill him.”

“Cus’ that prick annoyed me, and was also part of a cult.” Jake rolls his eyes. “By the way, asustadizo , wasn’t judging ya’. Just stating a fact.”

Marc looks anxious, but he’s hiding it well. Though, Steven notices the tenseness in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, so Steven takes his cue to step forward, closer to Jake, and ask, “Yeah, but — you didn’t need to kill him. You don’t need to kill anybody!”

“I do, though.” Jake states matter-of-factly, like a teacher explaining to a child how simple a math problem truly is when all you want to do is rip the paper in half. Except in this case, the math problem is murder. “Every time I front we’re either in the middle of a fight or just about to start one. What else  am I suppose to do?”

He presses his lips together. Okay, when he puts it like that — well, Steven kinda gets it. It’s disorienting, waking up somewhere you don’t remember getting to. Terrifying, in most circumstances. He remembers one of the first time he had forcefully blacked out, back in the village when he first met Harrow, when all of Harrow’s followers were crowding around him trying to pry the scarab from his hand. That had to have been Jake, hadn’t it? Marc would have used the suit, so they wouldn’t have been covered in blood afterwards.

So coming to and finding yourself surrounded by people grabbing at you and trying to steal something of yours? Yeah, okay. That was understandable. Though, Steven still didn’t like it, and — oh, days, is he really trying to excuse murder here? ‘Oh, it’s understandable’. Is it, though? He’s going mad. Already gone, probably.

Except, he’s talking to two men who share his face, they’re trapped in a mental hospital and there’s an actual, real life Egyptian god who they talk with regularly, plus a man who wants to end the world with a magic glowy stick and a matching tattoo, so — ah, screw it. He’s far gone at this point, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting out here and stopping Harrow, and he can deal with the ramifications this has in regards of his psyche later .

In front of him, Jake rolls his eyes, and mumbles, “ Malditos idiotas, van a ser la muerte de mi. ”

He tilts his head, Marc looking similarly confused. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

“You speak Spanish?” Steven asks, recognizing the style of the language. It’s close enough to French he can understand a few words or so, but not enough to get the general gist of what he’s trying to say. “Sorry, I don’t — uh, know much. ¿Hola? ”

“I know English, idiota .” Jake rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

“Well, obviously. I’m just — that’s as far as my Spanish goes, speaking wise. Though I can tell that was insult, you plonker.” Steven replies back, frowning. “I know French. And a bit of Arabic and Hebrew, not enough to be fluent. Well, and Ancient Egyptian, obviously. Never really had the motive to learn it. Spanish, I mean.”

He trails off awkwardly. Jake just shrugs. “Okay?”

Should he learn Spanish? He probably should, if they ever get out of here and defeat Harrow so he can have the time for it. Jake might be more comfortable with that, speaking Spanish. He’ll have to ask.

“We’re wasting time.” Marc cuts in, leaning forward to grab Steven’s arm. He glances between the two of them, though his gaze lingers on Steven instead of Jake. “We have to find a way out. Let’s go.”

Marc starts moving towards the door again, somewhat dragging Steven with him, but he manages to weasel out of his grip with a muttered, “ Yeah, yeah, we’re coming. ” When he doesn’t hear another pair of footsteps though, he turns back to where Jake is still standing near the open sarcophagus, watching them walk away. Steven pauses, halfway between Marc at the door peaking out into the hallway and Jake still standing there, and his frown deepens.

“You coming?” He asks.

He tilts his head towards Marc, who turns to both of them and hisses, “ Come on. ”

Jake shakes himself from his stupor, and motions for Steven to start walking. With a huff, he does, and Jake takes up guard behind him. He says nothing, but the intent is clear as they head into the hallway and he finds himself flanked on the either side by two men who look like ghosts are haunting them from the too-white rooms.

Steven snorts. Great, now there’s two of ‘em.

They pad down the hallway the way they had been going before, him and Marc, but now with Jake at their side as well. The new alter is just like Marc, checking under trolleys and peering through foggy glass to rooms beyond, so Steven is the only one who notices the two double doors in front of them. There’s an odd shape he can spy through the glass, looking much larger than any human, and maybe it’s this place or just Marc rubbing off at him, but he stops walking and takes a step back, raising an arm up to cover his chest.

“Er, guys —“ He starts to say, as the other two finish their sweep and come to his side. “— I think there’s something —“

Then, the doors are pushed open to reveal a hippo standing there.

Everybody screams.

Including the hippo.

Steven doesn’t have many thoughts after that that aren’t tied to the hippo and all the fun facts he knows about their jaw strength in accordance to how many people they kill in a year, but if he did have the room for cognitive thought, he would probably have something along the lines of, Bloody hell, why is this my life?

• • •

They’re in the Duat. Of course they are. Seems like being shot won’t stop Marc from getting out of history class — or, well, Steven’s rambling.

His alter is going a mile a minute, ever since they met that hippo lady, explaining to him and Jake both about where they are and why they’re here and what they have to do, when the hippo introduced the scales and steals their hearts. She could have at least asked first before she just went ahead and did it, because it was very frightening to see her suddenly put her hand into his chest and pull his heart out. Then watch her do it to Steven and Jake in turn, who looked like a spooked cat and snarling raccoon, respectively.

He doesn’t trust her, whatever Steven says. He doesn’t know if he trusts Jake, either.

It’s just — he knows about Steven. He’s always known about Steven, even if he didn’t know who he was and just knew him as periods of blackouts and lost memories. Jake, though. Jake’s new. And new means — well, sometimes it means dangerous, and usually Marc can handle dangerous, but right now —

Right now, he has a bit too much on his plate. Balancing working with Steven and reconnecting with Layla and dealing with Harrow, a locked away Khonshu and two bullets lodged in his body and being actually, totally dead and stuck in the afterlife. Adding another alter on top of that? Yeah, that’s great. If there an Egyptian God of misfortune or something out there, he really didn’t mean to piss them off, truly. Whatever he did he’s absolutely sorry.

At his side, Jake watches Steven ramble on as they enter the mental hospital again with a slight quirk to his lips, and Marc resists the urge to scowl. Fucking mental hospitals. Why does everything have to be so complicated all the time?

At least Steven seems to be enjoying himself. Someone should be.

“So, how does this work?” Jake starts off as Steven finally stops babbling, falling into step on Steven’s left side, leaving Marc to take the right so that Steven’s in the middle of them. “These doors, they’re memories, sí?”

“I think so.” Steven says, quickening his pace to peer through the window of the closest door. When he sees what’s inside, however, he lets out an excited ‘ oh!’  and gets close enough his breath fogs up the glass. “Yeah, yeah, see! These are our memories!”

He points at the door he’s looking through, one hand pressed against the window, and both Marc and Jake come to flank him on either side again. When he gets a good look at it, though, he understands why Steven looks so excited; on the other side of the window shows a dizzying sky and Steven, clad in his glowing white suit, controlling it with his hands raised up like he’s beckoning it along. Khonshu is there too, of course, but Marc is more focused on his alter beside him, an elated grin on his face as he watches his past self preform a feat of nature. Marc had been … somewhat present during the whole debacle, but clinging onto awareness with the mental strain and Khonshu’s interference had been hard enough.

It is pretty, though. He’ll give him that.

Jake seems throughly impressed however, saying, “Man, güey, you did that?” with an appreciative point towards it. Steven just nods, looking bashful with his curls falling over his forehead, and Marc tries not to roll his eyes. At some point or another, Steven’s really got to start knowing his own worth. He means — well, Marc could have probably done it, if he had been in control at the time. But Steven — who knows so much more about this shit than him, who is so determined and eager with everything he does — had done it so much better than he ever could have.

He shakes his head. Time to focus. Hippo’s waiting.

“Well, that makes this easier.” Marc comments, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them all as he steps away from the door to look down the seemingly endless hallway. “So, how do you want to do this, we just take turns or —“

But Steven’s already off, excitedly rushing from door to door to see what’s behind them, and Jake follows with a small, but excited, close-lipped smile of his own. Marc just sighs, and jogs after them. Is he going to have to be the adult here? He doesn’t want to be. He just wants to get out.

“Oh, I remember this, this is when Marc destroyed a bathroom beating up a bloody jackal —“ Steven peers into another door, pointing at the window, before moving on as he continues to ramble. “— thanks for saving our life and all that, by the way, but I’m going to be doing payments on that till I’m dead, or, dead-dead, cus’ we’re already — and, ah, here is when —“

“ Oye , the cupcake van, I remember that.” Jake cuts in, coming to stand beside Steven at another door, and Marc stops behind them as well to awkwardly peer over their shoulders. It looks like when they were in the Alps, when Steven first woke up while getting the scarab and they ended up interacting with Harrow for the first time. “Will say, for getaway vehicles, that has to be one of our better ones.”

“Wait, was that you who was driving?” Steven asks, leaning back from the door to peer at Jake curiously. “Were you the one that turned the truck around? Because it certainly wasn’t me, I don’t even have my license!”

“ Sí , it was me.” Jake says with a grin, doing a small bow. Marc isn’t impressed. Steven looks like he is, though.

“Seriously?! I was wondering how we managed to end up like that!” He exclaims, his usual bright smile starting to form. “Impressive. I wasn’t even sure I was hitting the right pedals half the time. Funny how that works, innit?”

Jake looks like he’s going to reply, but Marc rolls his eyes and steps forward. As much as this banter is amusing and lifts his spirits a bit — mostly at seeing Steven enjoying himself, even if he’s still wary of Jake — they don’t have time for this. As much as he doesn’t want to do this, delaying it will just make it worse. He either wants to do it now or not do it at all. Preferably the latter, but it doesn’t seem like he has much choice in it.

“As riveting as this is, we’re wasting time.” He tells them, ignoring the two disgruntled glares he gets in return. “We should probably get going on … whatever that hippo wants us to do.”

“Party pooper.” Steven comments, rolling his own eyes this time. “If you’re so eager, why don’t you choose where we go? I don’t think it matters too much, as long as our scales balance.”

Well, at least they’re getting somewhere.

Marc looks around, trying to find some door to go through, and focuses on a pair of double doors with the windows blurred out. Whatever’s in there, it can’t be a memory — if it was, they would see through the windows. That seems to be how it works.

“Fine, whatever.” He mumbles, heading towards the chosen doors, feeling a bit like stomping but deciding not too because he’s not a toddler, damnnit. “Let’s just go through —“

He pushes open the doors, freezes, and backs out again.

“— on second thought, let’s go somewhere else.” The doors are still partially open, his back to the room as he stares at his alters, who he knows won’t let this go unless he distracts them. “— nothing important in that one. Someone else choose.”

“Nope, you chose it, we’re going in.” Steven says, brushing past Marc before he can stop him, and Marc feels terror squeeze his heart as Steven keeps going, “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can’t be that — oh.”

“ ¿Qué es? ” Jake asks, though he seems more reserved than Steven, tone losing it’s lightness as he heads inside, glancing at Marc once before he takes in the room. “ Ay, jesucristo. ”

Marc sighs, bites the bullet, and turns around.

He was right, though. Blurred out windows means it’s not a memory. It’s something worse.

It looks like some sort of cafeteria, tables with chairs drilled to the ground and a serving counter at the far side, but the lights are off, causing everything to look so much more ominous. That’s excluding the people at the tables, though, some slumped over in their seats and some standing as still as statues, except — they’re all grey. Lifeless, with dead eyes and flaking skin, as if they’re rotting right where they sit. Don’t even have the honour of being buried, before they’re left to decompose.

Marc recognizes every single face, but he would rather focus on them than on Steven’s shocked expression and Jake’s one of realization.

“This is — oh, dear, what’s this?” Steven asks, wringing his hands together in a way Marc knows he does to self-soothe, eyes wide as he looks around. “A creepy cafe filled with dead bodies. No prizes guessing what this is.” He glances at Jake, fingers going white. “Well, I mean —“

“Not mine.” Jake says, voice oddly cold, for how happy he sounded earlier. “I don’t have a guilty conscience.”

Steven turns to Marc, then, lips a thin line. For someone who seemed so eager to get started before, he’s awfully nervous now, and Marc feels a small burst of annoyance at him before it twists into guilt. Steven wanted to learn more about him, and this is what he gets? “Yours, then?”

Instead of replying to him, Marc pushes past his two alters, ignoring Steven’s stare and Jake’s earlier comment, about guilty consciences and lack thereof, to instead focus on the faces around them. They’re all halfway to their skeletons, some even sporting the wounds he gave them, bullets in their skin still bleeding despite having no beating heart and bones sticking out of flesh. Their faces, though, are in tact. Even if he left them unrecognizable, he could always remember who they were. What they did. Why he had to do it.

“Gabon.” He says, pointing at one in a baseball cap. One in a football jersey advertising their favourite team, one in a winter coat costing more than he could ever make in a month. “Dubai. New York.”

Steven sucks in a breath, quiet, and Jake hums before saying, more to Steven than anybody else, “Like I said — guilty conscience.”

“Oh, no.” Steven says, and Marc is sure his hands are raw and bleeding right now, but he still walks away, even as hears footsteps coming his way. “Surely not all of them?”

Marc doesn’t say anything. It’s answer enough.

“You killed all of them?”

He can just imagine Steven’s face right now, stricken and distressed, as he stares around at all the bodies. He’s not sure what Jake is feeling, or what he shows to them, but he’s sure it’s something of mutual understanding or even pity. He wishes either of them would be angry. It would make it easier.

“They were criminals — murderers, thieves, predators. The worst the world had to offer.” He says. He knows it’s not a defence, would crumble under the jury that is the voices in his mind, but he still feels the need to defend himself. Soften the blow, so to speak. He owes them that much. “It's what Khonshu meant by ‘protecting the travelers of the night’. He wanted them punished, so I … punished them.”

Steven gets close enough that Marc can hear his soft breathing, but Jake doesn’t move. He seems to be lingering. Marc wonders if he has his own room, somewhere, before remembering the coldness in his voice. Guilty conscience. “And you remember each person?”

Guilty conscience. It eats away at you, like a weed. It’ll never, ever stop.

“You try taking a life.” He finally says, voice a bit harder than he wants it to be, and he still can’t look at the man in the mirror. He always wished one of them would get him one day, or Khonshu would be even more of a dick and not heal him, let him bleed out in some foreign, shady alleyway alone. Any way, so that he wouldn’t have to look. “See how quickly you forget.”

Steven doesn’t say anything for a long moment, before Marc hears him shift, and he calls out, “Jake. You don’t …?”

“No, cerebrito.” He replies immediately, no hesitation. “I’m not him over there. He’s never wanted to do things like this.”

“What are you saying? That you do?” Marc snaps, done with them talking like he isn’t there. Finally turns around to see Steven is staring at their third alter in a similar state, curls pushed back from his dark eyes as he narrows them at Jake, who swallows.

“I never said that.” He replies, words slow and deliberate. “Though I do enjoy having less … less demonios in the world, so to speak. But you’re a bleeding heart, primo. You never wanted this life, I know you didn’t. It’s obvious just looking at you.”

“What is that suppose to mean?” Marc bristles, and Steven sucks in air through his teeth when he takes a menacing step towards Jake.

Jake doesn’t flinch. “Exactly what you think. You don’t like it when people get hurt — well, only if they haven’t done anything to you.”

Marc snarls, lips curling back as he bares his teeth, hands clenching into fists. Even Steven looks wary, but at him or Jake, he doesn’t know. “You don’t have any right to say that. How do you even know that?”

“I’ve been around for awhile.” Jake replies, with only a slight hitch in his breathing before he speaks. “You pick things up.”

Marc doesn’t have anything to say to that, knowing the admission is more than enough, confirming his theory — Jake’s been here, he’s always been here. Though, coming to stand between them, Steven looks even more punched. He opens his mouth, tries to say something, before clearing his throat and managing to ask, “How long have — have you’ve been around?”

Jake stares at Steven for a long moment, unblinking, before he shrugs. “Long enough.” He then focuses on Marc, same unyielding look. “Am I wrong, though?”

Marc knows what he’s talking about, what he’s implying. Marc’s never liked killing. Doesn’t like the knowledge there’s less people in the world because of his hands, even if they were horrible. Even if they deserved. They deserved to die, even if he didn’t want it to be because of him, but there was a few — a few, he knows, which he didn’t mind. Almost enjoyed it, even. The ones who — who were really bad, really smart, that knew where to hit him where it hurt.

He’s never told anybody that before, because nobody’s ever questioned him about it, but … Jake knows, somehow. He knows, and Marc can’t lie, can’t ignore. Not anymore. Not today.

“No.” Marc presses his lips together, nails digging into his palm but drawing no blood, and ducks his head. “No, you’re not.”

Steven gasps lightly, and his attention snaps to him, but he finds his gaze is not focused on either them — no, he’s looking behind Marc, and he’s pointing at something, so Marc turns and looks and sees —

A pair of scales. Sitting on an empty table, going up-and-down, up-and-down. Never ever stopping.

“What?” He asks, Jake echoing in Spanish as well, because he’s pretty sure those weren’t there before. Or, if they were, none of them had noticed it — failed a spot check, the three of them.

“Look, at the scales!” Steven says, as if either of them aren’t already looking at it. “They — they were going quicker, before. They’re slowing down.”

Marc didn’t know what they looked like before, but if Steven believes it, it’s probably true. If he tries to remember, they do look a bit slower than the ones on the boat deck, so he’s just going to go with it. “Okay, alright. What now? Is that it?”

“Well, I’m assuming — memories, yeah?” Steven says, as if that makes any sense. Despite having shared a body with him for so long, Marc still can’t follow his thought process, and Jake looks similarly befuddled. “Sharing ‘em. Talking about it. So, I’m guessing —“

Steven cuts himself off suddenly, eyes somehow getting even more wide in surprise, and Marc turns to see what he’s looking at. It takes a moment to spy it, hiding in the corner, but when he does —

He stops breathing. It’s — it’s him.

Looking just as he was, the day he — the last time Marc saw him, all those years ago. Tiny, with a round face and fluffy hair and eyes so wide they could put a deer to shame, but dry. He’s miraculously dry, even if there’s nothing behind his eyes, as he stands in the corner of the room in a doorway to a nearby hallway. He’s tiny. God, he’s so tiny.

He’s just a boy. He’s just a little boy.

“Marc.” The way Steven says his name is both a question and a threat, a desperate hope and a warning at the same time. Marc can recall that Steven’s never lost his temper with anyone, truly, but he knows anger and he knows horror and he knows what to say — even unknowingly — to cut through someone’s defences. “Why is there a child in a room filled with people that you've killed?”

Both Marc and Jake move towards him, Marc because he knows Steven can’t know who that little boy is, though Jake, he doesn’t know. He reaches out, trying to grasp at him, because he can’t know. He can’t know, he can’t know. “Steven, don't go near him.”

But Steven, soft hearted Steven, ignores them both and steps towards the little boy, reaching out and cooing softly, “Hey, little one. How’d you end up here? Are you okay?”

Though, as soon as Steven steps forward the boy is off in a flash, and Steven wastes no time running after him — even when both Marc and Jake cry out for him to stop.

“Wait, Steven!” He calls out, but Steven is already steps ahead, calling out for the little boy as he disappears behind a corner, with no looks of slowing down. “Steven, stop!”

“Steven!” Jake cries, as Marc swears and runs after their alter, with the other man close behind him. “Steven, ¡deténgase!”

Steven chases the boy, Marc and Jake chase him, right into the hallway past doors and doors and doors. Marc can see him, just up ahead, and doesn’t even feel the burn in his lungs over the static in his head. Can’t let him know, he thinks, can’t let him know, can’t let him —

“Steven!” He yells, desperate and voice cracking with it. “Steven, stop!”

Steven doesn’t. Steven follows the boy, turns a corner, and disappears into one of the doors.

“Fuck!” Marc catches up and nearly skids into the door, but he tries the handle and when that doesn’t work, slams his hand on the door, making it rattle. It’s locked shut to keep him out, because he can’t let him know. “Steven, come back! Steven!”

Then he looks who’s on the other side of the door, and recoils.

It’s her. It’s her, standing there, face picture perfect through the foggy glass, eyes dark and scowling, and Marc feels every nerve in his body alight with newfound fear. That’s the door Steven disappeared into, and if she’s on the other side — he hasn’t seen her is so long but he can’t forget her, can’t ever forget her —

“Marc, Marc, primo, you good? Where’s —“ Jake suddenly rushes behind him, nearly barrels right into him as Marc steps back, mumbling to himself. Then his alter sees the door, and swears, “Oh, mierda.”

“It’s just a memory.” Marc mumbles. He doesn’t even realize he’s talking. “Just a memory.”

“Yeah, it is. Just a memory, Marc, estás bien.” Jake says, grabbing onto his elbow to drag him away. Marc resists at first then goes with it, eyes still locked on the image of her on the other side of the glass, the only thought going through his mind being find Steven find Steven he went in there we need to find — “Don’t focus on that, Marc. We need find Steven. Find Steven, sí?”

Right. Find Steven. Need to find Steven.

“Yeah.” He says, quiet. “We need to find Steven.”

Jake nods and starts moving away, hand slipping off his elbow, but Marc stays and his thoughts race. He glances at his alter, sees that he avoids looking at the door, hears the desperation in his voice when he said to find Steven, and he remembers — Steven never knew, Marc knew but forgot the details. Those memories had to go somewhere. As much as he wished they would, they didn’t pop out of existence just because he put a wall up between them. Been around for awhile, long enough.

Marc clears his throat. He shouldn’t ask. He probably should ask.

“You — you know about … her.” He finally says carefully, emphasis on the pronoun to show importance, more of a statement than a question. “Don’t you?”

A few feet away from him, Jake stills, entire body going frozen like someone flipped a switch and turned him off. He can’t see his face, only his back, but he recognizes the tautness in his muscles and the fact how he doesn’t even seem to breathe. Marc just presses his lips together and awaits an answer, which comes a few moments later in the form of a jerky nod and a tight, “ Sí.”

Marc nods back, even if Jake still isn’t looking at him. That’s good enough for him. “We need to find Steven, then.”

There’s a moment of understanding that passes between them when he brings up their third alter’s name, enough to shock Jake (and Marc) back into himself, and the two of them head off without another word exchanged.

• • •

Steven is cold.

He shouldn’t — he shouldn’t be cold. He’s already dead, no physical body in the Duat. But he feels cold. It feels like there’s water, dripping down his face, and as if his clothes are clinging to his frame. His hair falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t push away, instead wiping at his cheek. It comes back dry. There’s no water there.

Because he’s not wet. He got out of the cave, didn’t he?

But … but Randall —

He has a brother. Had one. A brother, he can’t remember, who he never knew, because he couldn’t . He drowned, died, was lead by the hand into a cave and caught in the flash flood. Steven never knew him, because he lead him to his death.

But it wasn’t Steven. It was Marc. They were calling him Marc, not Steven, and how could it —

He blinks, and he realizes he’s standing in the living room of his old home, surrounded by people. Everyone is wearing black and there’s the sound of sniffling, a framed photo of Randall sitting on the coffee table. His gaze focuses on his mum, however, who’s the one crying. Someone — he thinks it’s his aunt, but he doesn’t know , can’t recognize anyone here — is consoling her, rubbing at her shoulders, as she sniffles into a tissue, wrapped in a heavy blanket.

Steven wants to go forward, go comfort her, but something keeps him in place. Freezes his feet to the ground. This … this isn’t right. Something’s wrong about this; he can feel it in the air, the way they whisper. There’s darkness here.

The reason why comes a moment later.

Suddenly, Marc and Jake burst into the room, through a door he just realized was there. Marc takes in the scene with wide eyes, while Jake notices him immediately, and says, “ Oh, gracias a Dios .”

“Jake.” Marc mutters, reaching back behind him to tap Jake on the shoulder, grabbing his attention. His eyes then focus on Steven, not moving. “Steven. Fuck.”

“I want my Roro back.” Their mum whispers, just barley audible and oblivious to the rest of them standing around. “I want him back .”

There’s the sound of footsteps approaching, wooden floors creaking under someone’s light weight, and Steven glances behind him to see it’s his young self, creeping down the stairs. He’s wearing a suit and his hair is done up, messily, like he tried himself but couldn’t get it quite right, but it’s not him. It’s not Steven, isn’t it?

“Steven.” He turns back around again, sees Jake is now beckoning him closer, while Marc’s eyes are fixated behind him at the young boy now standing, gripping the railing. “Steven, we have to go. Come on.”

Steven still can’t move, breath caught in his throat, and his gaze flickers over to their mum. The mummering around him has stopped now, all gazes trained on the young boy on the stairs, especially their mum. Mum, who’s stopped crying. Mum, whose face is shifting from sadness to anger on the dime. Mum, who is looking at them like they’re a monster, like they’re a curse, like they’re nothing more than a weed.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, voice dripping poison. “Hmm?”

“Shut the fuck up, puta madre .” Jake immediately hisses. He grabs onto Marc’s arm, pulls him closer, and beckons again to Steven. “Steven, really, come on .”

“You were supposed to keep him safe!” Mum suddenly shouts, and Steven flinches back. Marc does too, minutely, mumbling to himself. Steven can’t hear him, doesn’t know if he wants to. “You — you let him drown. You saved yourself and left him to die!”

Well that’s … they were — they were just a kid. That’s unfair, isn’t it? She was the one who left them unsupervised. Steven saw that. She let them play in the cave on their own and never came to check. She — she’s the parent here, she was the one suppose to keep them safe. To watch over them. To love them.

“This is all your fault!”

It’s not. It’s not, it’s not, they were just a kid —

Their past self scrambles up the stairs, breathing heavily but otherwise not making a sound, and that is finally enough to shock Steven from his stupor that he stumbles forward a bit himself and turns to follow. Jake and Marc both cry out, so he pauses momentarily, and looks at them.

“Steven, come here.” Jake says, still urging him closer, away away away . “Come here, please.”

“Steven.” Marc breathes, eyes wide, still focused on mum and not him.

Steven presses his lips together, but he’s already made his decision. They can’t stop him.

So, he runs. He runs up the stairs, past floors he’s pretty sure their home didn’t have, sees lonely birthdays and tense dinners and is painfully, unwittingly reminded of sitting alone in his flat, calling his mum on the phone, alone at his job and alone in his flat and alone in his life, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know . Nothing about this is familiar, normal, as mum tells them he did it on purpose, letting Randall drown. Speaks of jealousy and revenge and things parents should never blame their children for, not in a situation like this. Situations like these , more correctly.

“God, no, Mum.” He mumbles, taking the stairs two at a time now, but not feeling a burn in his lungs. “What are you doing?”

Finally the staircase ends, somewhere on the fourth floor he’s pretty sure never existed in their house, and spies the door to his bedroom. He remembers that, of course, days spent doing homework and reading library books in his room. All on his own. He hears their young self slam their door, but it doesn’t close completely, bounces back against the frame so it’s open just a crack. There’s light spilling out of it, and the sound of something darker inside.

He pauses. Reaches for the door.

Then he’s being pulled away.

He yelps, struggles against it as the door closes with a slam and he blinks and he’s on the street, outside of their home with Marc dragging him away. Jake’s there too, and it’s all a scramble of, “Let me go!” and “ Jesucristo , Marc, stop!” until it ends with Steven falling to the ground as Jake pushes Marc away so much he stumbles, and the other two men stare at eachother, all breathing heavily.

Steven doesn’t even entirely know what’s going on, everything blurring together in his vision, sounds and memories overlapping as Marc and Jake seem to be talking, waving their hands about. Those memories, they were Marc’s, of mum and missed birthdays and cold, dark caves —

Those can’t be real. They can’t. Absolutely no way, no bloody way. Mum was nice, he knows. She fixed his hair for him when he was young, fed him soup when he was sick and would never, never dream of missing his birthday or yelling at him like that, when he was cold and drowning.

What the hell is Marc doing?

“Why do you remember her like that?” Steven asks quietly, shakily getting to his feet. Both Marc and Jake stop in their brewing argument to look at him, and he presses his hands close to his chest, frowning. “That's not what she was like, Marc, why do you remember her like that?”

Marc sighs, brows pinched. “Steven —“

“No — no, she was nice, Marc. She was kind .” He stresses, because doesn’t Marc know? Why doesn’t he? Why doesn’t anything match up, with what he knows? “Please, you’ve gotta know that. Let — let’s go back —“

“No!” Marc jumps forward again, expression so dark and angry Steven stumbles back again, nearly falling to the ground. “We can’t go back there.”

“Marc.” Jake says, almost like a warning, though Marc takes it as a challenge.

Marc whirls on him, pointing a finger. “No, you don’t —“

Before he can finish his thought, however, a new voice joins the fray, causing all of them to stop and look towards where it’s coming from. “Marc, son. Please come inside.”

Wait, dad?

Steven gasps, as his dad and what looks to be his — their? — teenage self marching down the street. They have a backpack over their shoulder and a grim, but determined, expression on their face, while their dad looks — pleading. Sad. Close to tears, hand outstretched towards them. Steven can’t remember dad even looking like that, even if the expression suits his face well, like he’s worn it a thousand times before.

“She will get help.” Their dad goes on, tone borderline begging. “We will fix this.”

“ You're supposed to fix this!” Their young self snaps back, and by the accent Steven thinks it’s Marc, but he can see bits of Jake in his eyes, the way he goes dark. He pauses then, turns to stare at their dad, eyes a burning flame. “I mean … why haven't you?”

Their dad frowns, conflicted, and steps forward slowly to grab their shoulder with one hand and press his other against their chest, eyes wide and begging. The same spot Steven always places his own, when he grips them together. Their past self tenses, but doesn’t pull away, even if it seems like he wants too. “I cannot lose another son. Please.”

They look as conflicted as he does, waging a war inside their head, but before Steven can hear what they reply with Marc of the present goes, “That's enough, Steven.” and tries to grab him again.

Steven whips around as soon as he feels the brush of Marc’s hand on his shoulder, knowing the other man is going to try and rip him away from this again, stop him from getting answers. On why none of his memories seem to line up with anything else he already knows. On why everything here is so … is so … “Get off me!”

Though, him trying to push Marc away ends up off-balancing both of them. Jake moves to help, Steven tips back while Marc tips forward, and with a cry from all of them, they all go tumbling to the ground in a big heap of limbs.

Except, they don’t land on tarmac. They land on sand.

“Oh, bloody hell.” He mumbles, ending up pinned under the two of them, and he pushes at the nearest bit of body he can find — Marc’s head, if he guesses correctly by the groan. “Ger’off.”

Jake, stuck on top, rolls away and gets to his feet. Marc does as well, rubbing at his head, before Steven finally stands up as well and looks around. The suburban neighbourhood street has disappeared now, replaced with rolling dunes covered by darkness, and what looks like to be the sight of a massacre.

“Oh, Jesus.” He mumbles, as he hears the other two let out similar exclamations. “Where the hell are we now?”

He peers through the darkness, looking at where they’ve ended up. A desert, right, with open sand stretching on for miles. Closer by, however, are a few tents and abandoned jeeps, the tents half collapsed into the sand and jeeps covered in bullet holes. There’s some tire tracks leading away, deeper into the dunes, that are slowly being blown away by the wind.  What’s most startling is the bodies, however, that makes Steven curl back with a gasp.

There’s — there’s not as many as the caf’, for sure, but still a lot . He can’t see their faces in the dark, but he notices the blood staining their clothes and sand, the rope tied around their wrists. Some are facedown with wounds in the back of their skulls, and some are laying facing the sky, blood pooling from their necks. It makes him a little sick, swallowing back bile, as another unbidden memory floods to the service. The fake cops, leading him to Harrow’s village, telling him the story of Marc Spector the mercenary.

Who killed all his charges at an Egyptian digsite.

Oh, god, Marc .

“You — Marc, please don’t tell me —“ That they were telling the truth. That you actually did all this, with our hands. “— were they innocent?”

“Of fucking course they were.” Marc snaps back immediately, which doesn’t do anything to ease his nerves. He’s seen so many dead bodies, today. More than he would ever want to see for a lifetime. “They were all just — archeologists. Digsite crew. None of them deserved to die.”

He looks around, more closely, and notices a man laying on his side with his wrists bound like the others. What Steven notices, however, is a brilliant red scarf tied around his throat. The man even looks familiar, like someone he knows. Someone who was yelling at Marc, asking about her father killed at a digsite.

“Doctor El-Faouly?” He mumbles quietly, glancing at Marc. “Layla's dad?”

Marc stares at the body for a long, hard moment, so Steven risks a glance over at Jake. The other man sharing his face doesn’t seem as shocked about this entire scene, but he’s still guarded. Like he expects at any moment for one of the bodies to come alive and try to kill them again. With how this day has been going, it’s more than likely.

“My partner, Bushman, he was my old CO before I got discharged.” Marc explains after a moment, starting with a sigh. “I was work-for-hire for him. This job seemed — simple. Different, from the others we typically took. All it was was to guard a group of archeologists excavating an old Egyptian tomb, so I took it. Like I said, it was better than the other jobs he had offered me in the past.”

Marc looks around again, sighing. Steven follows his gaze to the tire tracks, now nearly fully gone by the wind. “It was fine, at first. Even enjoyable. The archeologists were all nice, and were apparently all finding great stuff. The dig was so good, in fact, that Bushman, one night, got … greedy.”

Steven freezes. He’s seen enough movies, enough books, to know where this is going. When someone gets too greedy with ancient artifacts, there’s always someone trying to stop them. And it never ends well. “He wanted more than what they offered to pay him, didn’t he?“

Marc nods, sighs again. “Yeah. He wanted it all for himself. So, he … I tried to get them all away. But we didn't make it.”

Steven doesn’t comment on the switch in the sentence, and just looks around the site again. Jake is also silent, watching, taking in, and he swallows. An entire team, lost to the desert, all due to one man’s greed. Marc, who had been — well, enjoying himself, before it all fell down.

But — Marc’s still standing. He didn’t fall. Not like the rest of them.

“What happened to you?” Steven asks quietly, dreading and anticipating the answer in equal regard. “Marc?”

“Come on.” Is all Marc says, and then he leads them up, up and away, to where there’s something waiting.

• • •

Jake doesn’t know if he’s enjoying this or not.

On one hand, he doesn’t get to co-conscious that often, let alone front when they’re not in the middle of some life-or-death situation — so seeing all these memories, the things he knows about but can’t quite remember, like peering through a looking glass and only getting half a picture, is … not nice, necessarily. Not bad, either. Interesting. Almost fulfilling, in a way, if he was curious enough to want to know about it in the first place.

On the other hand, he’s seeing the things he doesn’t remember. The things Marc remembers, the things Jake has tried to spare him from. The hurt, the pain. The angry, complicated emotions that come with it, the type that Jake doesn’t have to deal with because he knows exactly how he feels about everything.

But he does remember this. It would be hard not to.

“Oh my days.” Steven breathes out, when they finally reach the temple — the temple, the one and only — after Marc led them up the sandy hill to where it sat. “This — this is —“

His little nerd brain must be having an aneurysm right now, so Jake takes pity on him and asks, “Khonshu’s temple, is it not?”

Marc nods, and pauses in the entrance, as if he’s psyching himself up into going inside. Jake can’t blame him; this is one of the few times he was aware — without the others realizing, of course — that he can actually remember. He fronted during the fight with Bushman, back at the digsite (if it really can be called a ‘fight’, not just being shot down like a dog), and between him and Marc someone had managed to drag them to the temple in hopes of .. of …

Of something. Of anything, really.

However, stopping at his side, Steven looks around the temple in awe like they had actually found something magnificent and not the start of the next chapter in the hellscape that is their life. Jake glances at him, sees his alters eyes are fixated on the statue of their resident God that towers in the middle of the grand room just visible through the doorway, and sighs. Steven then glances at him, eyebrows furrowed, and Jake knows the gears in his brain are turning a mile a minute as he tries to figure something out.

“Does Khonshu … know about you?” Steven finally asks, directed towards him , eyes wide and curious with his hands close to his chest, wringing out the nervous energy. “I mean, you were … in control during that trip to the Alps.”

Jake only shrugs in response. Of course Khonshu knows about him, because Khonshu is a cabrón .

Khonshu knew the moment he saw them.

What a waste.

Steven startles as the God’s booming voice, then quickly rushes by both Marc and Jake to head inside the temple. Jake sighs again and follows, as does Marc after a moment, when Jake forcibly brushes by him to get in. The poor niño is getting lost in his own head again, which isn’t a good thing right now, when they’ve got Steven still here.

When he gets inside the temple, Jake can almost forget that this is just a memory, because it’s so familiar. The statue, in all it’s glory, the arcs and pillars long since forgotten to time. The sand covering the floor, unmarked even as they step through it. No footsteps left behind.

And then their bleeding body, leaning against the base of the statue, with a gun pressed to their chin.

Steven makes a pained noise and flinches back at bit, as soon as he notices, and Jake also can’t help but grimace. That wasn’t him, then, fronting with his finger on the trigger. That was all Marc — stupid, idiotic Marc, who was so guilty and pained and afraid that he thought, just for a moment, that maybe the world would be better off without him. Who only wanted the pain to stop.

His scowl deepens. It makes him — it makes him angry . Self-sacrificing bullshit, it is. Guilty conscience. Marc’s not allowed to die, and so is Steven. Neither can die, not in his watch, not even to themselves.

That’s why, when Khonshu speaks up again, Jake steps forward to block both of them from the sight. Khonshu might be a God, but he’s also a bastardo . Jake can appreciate the healing he gives them and the magic suit and the opportunity to punish those who deserve it, but he can also resent him for — for everything he’s ever done to them. To Marc. To Steven. It’s mutually exclusive.

I feel the pain inside of you. Khonshu says thoughtfully, almost as if he’s actually  thinking about what he says, and not just reading their souls and leaving them bare. I can feel it; the suffering, the hurt. The rage.

At the statue’s feet, Marc finally puts the gun down, and gasps, “What the hell are you?”

There’s a bullet lodged in his gut, one in the left side of his ribcage, and he’s bleeding out all over the sand. Steven and Marc are both silent behind him, watching it in both horror and curiosity — at least for Steven, he can’t even begin to guess what Marc’s thinking. Jake just finds himself flexing his jaw and clenching his fists, unable to do anything about.

I am the god Khonshu, in search of a warrior. He says, and it all plays out, exactly like before.

Marc goes to shoot himself. Khonshu keeps going on his spiel, talking about vengeance and evildoers and offering his ultimatum; work for me and live, or die at my feet. It’s not much of a choice, so Marc says yes, and Jake feels like screaming.

He can appreciate Khonshu. He can hate him. He can want to protect Marc, care for him, and hate aspects of him as well. Selling his soul, all their souls, over to a God just because he thinks he deserves it. That he doesn’t deserve anything but. And Steven, little Steven, who wasn’t suppose to see any of this. Who he cares for as well, and hates aspects of in equal regards, because he’s just so good but curious and bright and wanting to know. It’s all mutually exclusive, ultimatums, a collective guilty conscience.

Marc comes back to life with Khonshu’s help, slipping away just as he says ‘ yes ’ and coming back just as quick, bandages like a mummy wrapping around him to heal the body and signify the new change. Steven finally steps forward, mouth a thin line, and says, “He was manipulating you from the start. That — that sneaky old vulture .”

Jake can’t help but snort at that, because trust Steven to insult someone without even using a curse word. Marc is the one who replies, however, dripping with ice, “Yeah, well, he kept us alive.”

“He was taking advantage of you.” Steven says, looking at Marc and then at Jake, eyes narrowed. “Of all of us, wasn’t he?”

Jake feels like shrinking back a bit but doesn’t, stands his ground. Khonshu’s deal applied to all of them, to the body, so in a way — he’s right. The stupid God got a three-for-one-deal when it came to avatars; got two passengers, on the back of whoever he choose.

Jake’s scowl deepens. Steven frowns. Marc looks displeased.

“He healed us. Let us live.” Marc explains, and Steven’s shoulders fall, because he knows he’s right. Jake does too, and he hates it. “It was the only way.”

“I know.” Steven mumbles. “I know that, but … that’s the thing, isn’t it? It was the only way. We didn’t have a choice in the matter. You didn’t have a choice.”

Marc’s eyes widen, looking conflicted, as if he hadn’t ever realized that before. Jake feels like laughing suddenly, because trust Steven to say something so simply — to realize it, to have the courage to say it aloud instead of just ignoring it or pushing it deep, deep down until it boils over. He doesn’t even do it on purpose. It’s just how he is, and Jake can realize now why Khonshu doesn’t like him so much. If he ever had a full conversation with Steven, he’d rip him to verbal shreds .

(Jake doesn’t like to think about what would happen if he talked with Khonshu, one-on-one without the others around, because he can appreciate and hate the God in equal regard, and he knows that can be dangerous. That if Khonshu gave him the opportunity, he could be really, really dangerous.)

“I …” Marc starts to say, before he’s cut off but something clicking, almost like a clock hitting an hour.

They all turn to see that on a platform, a little ways away, there’s a familiar pair of clicking scales. They’re slower now, even slower then they were in the caf’, but still going. Jake wants to grab them and smash them on a rock, but he restrains himself.

“Look, the scales.” Steven whispers, as if they aren’t all already looking at them. “We’re getting closer.”

“What else could there be ?” Marc asks, almost a whine, as if he wasn’t a full-grown man. “There’s not much else I can think to show.”

Steven hums and opens his mouth, a glint in his eye that Jake recognizes means he’s going to ask about something stupid — like maybe, whatever was in their bedroom, hiding behind the door. Jake knows they can’t do that. Not yet. Marc can’t, he can’t, Steven can’t. It’s too painful, he thinks. It’s too much. And it’s his job to make they don’t have to experience that, not ever again.

So instead, Jake clears his throat, and says, “Why don’t we just go outside?”

• • •

When they step outside the temple, they’re still in the desert.

Except, it’s no longer nighttime out; for how much he’s lived under the moon, Marc’s a bit surprised he’s even ever seen the sun. The sky is bright in the light of a setting sun, but still cloudless and hot, so much so the air seems to be moving with it. It makes his eyes water just looking at it, and he wishes he wasn’t still wearing his hospital clothes, so similar to — to things he’s worn before. Though, he doesn’t feel hot. Just a stifling, unrelenting pressure, building up behind his eyelids.

Steven and Jake both seem equally annoyed with the sudden change in environment. Jake groans and covers his eyes with both hands, like a kid who just came across an embarrassing part in a movie they were watching with their parents, while Steven lifts a hand up to block the sun and glares aimlessly in the sun’s general direction. However, he focuses on something in the distance a moment later and says, “Oi, who’s that over there?”

Marc squints, and spies what looks like to be a campsite, a little ways off and blocked by the sun’s shadows. He does recognize the trucks parked near them, though, and the tents popped up around. Even the people, sitting in a circle around a dead campfire eating rations, he can recall. Names, faces, of people he hasn’t seen in years.

Oh. Oh, he remembers this.

“That’s — that’s my old troop.” He replies, stepping forward to feel sand crunch under his slip-ons. He’s sure that if this was a real memory, if he was actually here, he would be covered in the stuff by now. “When I was in the Marines.”

Steven snorts, and his glare increases. “Right, mentioned that. Why would you ever want to join the army?”

Marc presses his lips together, shrugs. He hadn’t planned on it, necessarily, but at the time he joined — it was the only option. And overall, he hadn’t enjoyed it very much. Made some … he wouldn’t call them friends, but comrades, maybe. Had a few good times, sitting around campfires and shooting the shit. But nothing could have been as bad as where he came from, so he stuck with it.

Surprisingly, Jake also scoffs a bit, and says, “ ¿Por que crees? Come on.” before walking towards the group, leaving Marc wondering what the hell he just said and coming to the conclusion that he probably doesn’t want to know.

The three of them then march over to the group — Jake, at the helm with his unreadable eyes, Steven, stuck in the middle dragging his feet, and Marc, taking up the rear so he can avoid looking at the soldiers for as long as possible — and reach it after only a few short minutes. As he looks around, Marc can spy the faces more clearly. It’s a shock, honestly, to see them all again. He hasn’t seen any of them since he was discharged. Not a single one.

He wonders if their fault for not reaching out, or his.

In the middle of the group, however, is himself. He’s older than he was when he first joined, shaved off the baby face and gangly limbs for more refined features and muscle, but he still looks out of place among the others. Maybe it’s because of his hunched over posture, his dark eyes, quiet mouth, but he sticks out like a sore thumb right now. He eats his meal alone, without looking at anybody else, as if he’s got something to hide.

Marc knows this, or he doesn’t. He can’t remember this, or he can.

“Jake?” Steven pipes up, looking between the man at their side and the man sitting next to the soldiers. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Jake, after a moment, shrugs. Marc looks at their young self more, and wonders how Steven knew that so fast. One glance, and he could tell. It’s — impressive, almost. Marc doesn’t know why it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“Ey, rookie.” One of the other soldiers — Caleb, that was his name — elbows their young self a bit harshly, causing them to nearly drop their food. They — he, Jake — glares back. “Got a fever or something? Sun get to you?”

Jake takes a bit to reply, swallows a few times, before saying, “No. I’m fine.”

The words come out stilted, like he’s not use to speaking — and maybe he isn’t. He still sounds like that a bit, when he speaks English. Not yet fluent, a second language.  Someone trying to hide.

“He’s not a rookie anymore, Cal.” One of the others, Issac, pops up. His next words are directed at Jake. “How long has it been, now? Six? Seven years?”

It was a bit more then that, Marc knows. But Jake just shrugs, like he doesn’t know the answer. He probably doesn’t, if what he said before was true, about not being control very often. Marc feels a bit guilty, but it’s irrational. He didn’t know. About Jake, about his own mind. It’s not his fault, he knows, but it still feels like it.

“See? Not a rookie.” Issac repeats, taking the shrug as an answer, lucky enough. “Quit treating him like one.”

Caleb rolls his eyes. “I’m just checking in on him, man. He hasn’t been talking ever since that last ops.”

“It was a hard ops, Caleb. Lay off him.” Another soldier, Max, pipes in with. She gives Caleb a light glare, but nothing more. “We’re all recovering. And not looking forward to explaining it Officer Bushman when we get back to base, that’s for sure.”

“I’m fine.” Jake butts in, causing everyone to look at him, but he stands his ground. Sits up, straightens his shoulders. “You don’t have to treat me like — I’m a kid, I’m in my twenties. Not a kid.”

The rest of the soldiers go quiet, so Steven takes the opportunity to step closer to Jake. Marc kinda wants to grab him and stand in front of him, but restrains himself. Jake isn’t dangerous, he doesn’t think. He’s wary, yes, but not afraid, and neither is Steven.

“What … what ops was it?” Steven asks carefully, looking so out of place among the sand and soldiers. “You were in control during it. That’s why you still are.”

Marc realizes much at the same time, but stays quiet, the guilt returning tenfold. He — he knew, vaguely, about at least one other alter living with him when he joined the marines, but didn’t care all too much to think about the fact he was signing over not only himself, but others as well. Just like had with Khonshu, even if that had been to save his life and not just get him away from home.

Still, the guilt gnaws on him. Eating away at his heart, his ribs, getting stuck in his throat. The only thing that stops it from travelling further is Jake giving him a pointed look, as if he knows what he’s thinking, and saying, “It wasn’t that bad. It just got messy. Lots of … shouting. Banging.”

Steven doesn’t seem to know what that means, but Marc does. He wants to shrink back, curl into himself, but doesn’t simply because he’s still standing here, with his alters and past comrades, wondering why nobody calls him.

“Well, I think I’m turning in now.” From the circle, Caleb suddenly gets up, stretches, and cuts off their conversation. Marc watches as the man packs away his stuff, before clapping their young self on the shoulder. “Got a long trip back to base camp tomorrow. Best to turn in early.”

“Good idea.” Max agrees, also getting up to put her things away. Everyone else follows suit, except for Jake — who stays sitting, hunched over his food he’s barely eaten. “You coming, kid?“

Jake opens his mouth like he wants to retort, and Marc does too — this isn’t a new occurrence, the other soldiers treating him like it was his first deployment, despite the fact he served for almost ten whole years. He was in the marines from age eighteen to twenty-six, and was still always seen as the rookie, the kid, because he got assigned with people who were always a decade older than him. It was annoying, because he hadn’t been a kid. Not for a long, long time. Jake seems to think the same way, with how he glares, and Marc kinda wants to laugh but doesn’t because he doesn’t know if the current Jake would punch him for it.

However, Jake just ends up closing his mouth, shaking his head, and opening it again to say, “Going to finish. Then I’ll come.”

Max just shrugs, and heads off to one of the tents, and before long the only ones left are them and Issac, who nudges them gently and asks, “Hey, are you … actually okay?”

Jake looks up at the older man, and nods. “Yeah. Fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, and Marc wouldn’t be too if he didn’t know their stilted language was because they were literally speaking in that language for probably close to the first time. “Well, it’s fine if you aren’t, too. And I’m always here if you need to chat, kid.”

“Not a kid.”

“I know, Spector.” Issac laughs, and pats them on the shoulder as he leaves. “Try to get some sleep.”

Finally, it’s just them three of them and their young self, who watches Issac leave under the last open tent flap, then waits for it to be fastened shut. He stares for a moment longer than he probably needs, before he straightens up and looks around. The sun is almost fully set now, the sky a mix of navy blue and golden orange, with a few stars just becoming visible. There’s a waning crescent moon in the distance, hanging solemnly against the backdrop, and a young Jake sighs.

“ Lo siento, Marc. ” He mutters to himself. “ Nosotros tenemos que salir de aqui. ”

Then, Jake starts packing, and Marc — even if he can’t understand the words, he understands the tone. Understands Jake, putting his uneaten food back to the packaging, shoving it in his bag at his feet. The bag, filled with spare clothes and things that should be in the tent right now, but were hidden from view to the others.

And Marc realizes.

“You got me discharged.” He says, whipping around to look at Jake. “You were the one who left. A fugue state.”

“Well, we weren’t staying here.” Jake replies, almost coldly as he glares, before Steven steps between them.

“Fugue state? What are you talking about?” He looks between the two of them, slightly disgruntled, and huffs. “Look, you better explain this to me right now, or I swear I will go marching back to the hospital right now and go through every single door until I find answers.”

He could be bluffing, he could be not, but Marc can’t deal with his offended look directed at him, so he explains without taking his eyes off Jake, “I said I got discharged, yeah? Well, it was because I went AWOL in a fugue state. Returned a few days later, sunburnt and delirious, and got a dishonourable discharge for my efforts. Work was hard after that, so I went work for hire. Then my old CO, Bushman — you heard them mention him, right? — contacted me, and … you saw what happened.”

Steven’s face falls as he remembers the digsite, but it’s Jake who speaks up, with and eye roll and scoff, “Look, chico , this wasn’t healthy for us, alright? For you, or me, or god forbid Steven.” — “ Hey! ” — “If he even ever fronted. So I got us out. I needed to get us out, understand?”

Marc doesn’t. He does. He doesn’t know what to think, he knows exactly what he thinks, and it’s only Steven’s hand on his chest that stops him from doing something stupid.

“Marc, calm down.” His alter says, glaring at him like he’s on the other side of the mirror. “We all need to chill out. Fighting isn’t going to balance the scales, yeah?”

Speaking of, on what he can only assume is a crate of supples next to one of the tents, is the pair of golden scales, still ticking away. Just as he focuses on them, however, their young self passes by. Starts walking, right into the desert and away from camp, not even looking back. Marc feels himself deflate.

Steven’s right. Steven’s always right.

“Right.” He agrees, glancing at Jake again. The other man doesn’t look too off-put by the display, so he doesn’t think he took it personally. Marc doesn’t know how to feel about that. “Sorry. Let’s just — let’s just keep going.”

Steven furrows his eyebrows like he’s displeased, and opens his mouth to voice it, but the sudden shaking cuts him off. It’s almost like an earthquake, with how much everything trembles, and Marc grabs onto Steven to steady him, who grabs onto Jake to steady him , and when it finally subsides Marc thinks his head is about to explode. There was no way that was an earthquake. There isn’t earthquakes like that in the desert, and he would’ve known that.

“What the fuck was that?!” Jake asks what they’re all thinking, and Steven frowns.

“Not an earthquake, it couldn’t be.” He mumbles, before saying louder, “The ship. Something must be wrong with the ship! In the Duat!”

He takes off running for one of the tent flaps that has suddenly popped open, even as the corner of his vision starts to get blurry, and Jake moves to go after him. Except, Marc grabs onto his arm as he rushes by, and makes him stop. When Jake looks him with a tilted head and questioning look in his eyes, Marc sighs.

“I’m not angry, you know. About this.” He gestures around with his free hand at the camp, their now-cold seats around the fire pit. “I’m just —“

He doesn’t know, actually. Not angry, not upset, because he can understand why he did it. Not grateful or thankful, either, because getting discharged was what led to basically everything else going wrong in his life. But he does know, he does know …

“Steven wouldn’t have survived.” He finally settles on saying, because he knows that. If Steven ever fronted while he was in the army, at camp or God forbid during an ops, they all would have died. Literally, or metaphorically. That he can understand. That he can recognize.

It’s like when they had been looking for Steven before when he first ran off, back in the hospital, the ship, when a moment of understanding came between them. Jake stares at him for a long moment, before finally nodding in agreement.

Then he breaks out of Marc’s hold, follows Steven away, and Marc gives a short sigh before following too.

• • •

Thank God for Steven, and his untimely ability to charm just about anyone who isn’t a massive bitch (looking at you, old-boss-from-work, because yeah, Marc knows who you are). He manages to somehow get Taweret to agree to sail them to the ‘Gates to the Overworld’ — whatever the fuck that means — to hopefully give them a chance to return to life. And get a message across to Layla.

Even if their body was still riddled with bullets, probably rotting in that stupid tomb, they have a better chance to stop Harrow up there than they do down here. And he can see it — all the purple lights, falling down to the sands, not even given a chance before being condemned. He doesn’t need to be a nerd like Steven or paranoid guard like Jake to figure out what’s going on with that. He’s still worried about Layla, of course, and how exactly Taweret will get their message across to her — if she even does hold up her end of the bargain — but right now, he’s got bigger things to think about.

Like Steven, trailing behind him like a lost puppy, and talking just as much.

“Okay, I don’t think — well, we’re going to have to be quick, at least. Showing eachother things. I can’t — it’s not like I have much important things to show you. Unless you both just want to see me staffing the counter and eating alone in my flat, I don’t think I have anything to show you.” Steven huffs slightly, glancing around. His gaze lingers for a moment longer on Marc, and he speeds up to avoid it. Jake huffs a laugh. “Look, I hate to say this —“

“Then don’t.” He snaps.

“Haha, but … there was that bedroom that you didn't want me to go into.” Steven speaks up. He sounds hesitant and pushy at the same time, like a child who wants to ask for a new toy for Christmas but is afraid their parents will say no, so they phrase it as if they’re indifferent. “I think that’s where we need to go.”

Marc freezes, right there in the middle of the hallway, causing Steven to skid to a halt and Jake to take a few steps forward before realizing and stopping too. He looks between the two of them, guarded Jake and open Steven, and feels his hands shaking.

No. He can’t let — he can’t let Steven in there, or Jake. Both of them can’t go in. Because for Jake, he has a suspicion of where he came from, from the things he said about never being in control but still somehow knowing about mom. Because for Steven, he can’t know. He just can’t. It’ll destroy him, emotionally, and Steven is so — is so —

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve to have his views tainted like that. That’s why Marc had to hide in the first place.

“Just — just wait a second. Just give me a second here.” He sighs through his nose, and tries to figure out how to phrase this without sounding like a total jackass. He knows the world’s at stake here, Layla’s life is at stake, but he still can’t — it’s for Steven’s sake. That’s the point. “Look, we don't — we don’t have to go back through it all again. We can just talk.”

“Talk?” Steven gives a small laugh. “That’s new, you suggesting that.”

A small bit of annoyance lights up inside him, and he shakes his head. “There’s time for anything, I guess. Let’s just … talk, instead. Please. I'll tell you — I'll tell you everything. Okay?”

His hands are shaking, head pounding as distant memories dance in the corner of his vision, of fists and banging on doors and screams coming from the other side of the wall. Steven still doesn’t look convinced, so he adds, feeling more open than he has in a long time, “I'm just begging you, don't make us go there again. It's not worth it.”

“Not worth it?” Steven exclaims, and Marc can practically see the offended look on his face despite not looking at him, hear it in his voice and balled-up fists. “Not worth it? Marc, if — if Harrow succeeds, if we don’t stop him, millions of people are going to die! How can you say it’s not worth it?”

The annoyance inside of him flares again, and he snaps, “Because you don’t know what’s in there!”

“But I’m trying!” Steven snaps back, planting his feet firmly and tightening his shoulders, like he’s about to go to war. “And I know it’s hard, I can tell that, but —“

“But nothing!” He yells back, clenching his own fists open-shut, to hide the shaking. Hide the bruises, hide the pain, that he can’t let anybody know. Hide from the banging, on the other side of the door. “We don’t, you don’t —“

Jake finally steps up from where he was watching with surprised eyes, trying to step between them, but he’s not as good as Steven when it comes to conflict deescalation. “ Oye , I think you both need to calm down —“

“We are about to lose everything! You are about to lose everything, don’t you understand!?” Steven immediately shoots back, as if he didn’t even hear Jake. He’s not yelling, but his voice is loud, louder than his usual speaking tone and just as angry. “If we don't get back, people are going to die — Layla  is going to die, and it’ll be on your head. It'll be all your fault!”

It’s all your fault!

It’s all — it’s all it’s all it’s all your —

Marc flinches back like he was struck, and Steven’s eyes widen at the same time, because he puts his hands over his mouth and gasps, “Oh, shit, Marc, I didn’t mean — I’m so —“

“No, no no no no.” He mumbled, blood rushing to his ears as his head pounds, everything is shaking and his vision wobbles, and he grabs at his hair and pulls it, harder, just to feel anything. All he can focus on is her, screaming and screaming, it’s all your fault it’s all your fault everything is your. fault. “You can’t make me, I won’t I won’t I won’t —“

“Marc, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry —“

“I won't do it! You can't make me!” He screams, screams and screams even as Steven flinches back and Jake moves forward, and he doesn’t feel anything, can’t remember anything — “You can't make me! You can’t —“

“ Marc !”

• • •

“Marc, hey, can you hear me right now? Marc, you need to stop it.”

He snaps back into himself at the unfamiliar voice, and someone tugging at his arms. He flinches back, words stuttering to a halt as he gulps in frantic breathes, trying to clear the sudden fuzziness in his head. It feels like someone stuffed cotton in his ears, along his nerves endings; someone’s touching him, but he can barley feel them. Register them. Steven. Is it Steven? Jake? Who —

“There you go, take deep breaths now. Just like that now.”

He pushes away, away from the searching hands and quiet voice, and blinks open his eyes. It’s still startling white, he can see that much, even with his blurry vision. Someone is in front of him, smiling kindly, and they step back. Away. Everything focuses.

And Marc flinches.

Because it’s … it’s …

“There you are. Back with us.” Harrow says. There’s a smile on his face, in his words, and Marc just stares. “You worried me for a second there. I thought we would have to end our little session here a bit early!”

Marc blinks at him, processing. The room he’s in is different from the hallway, as is Harrow. He’s got a bit of a makeover. Recognizable, but still different. More refined, somehow, and Marc hates it. Hates that Harrow’s here, hates that he’s here . Here, in some sort of office — therapist, by the looks — as Harrow loops around the desk now separating them and sits down. He still has his cane, but no crunching as he walks. It’s odd. He can’t think fully. The cottony static is still there, clogging his senses, and it takes a few moments to get his mouth to work.

“Did you … did you sedate me?” He rubs at his neck, feeling prickly, and glares.

Harrow laughs quietly, as if this whole situation is amusing to him. It probably is, sick bastard. “You watch too much television. We don’t involuntarily sedate anyone, unless they’re danger to themselves or others.”

Marc glowers. From what he’s seen, Harrow speaks in half-truths and white lies, so he could be lying, or he could be truthful. Probably both. “Then why do I feel like shit?”

“Well, what you have been doing is very … emotionally taxing. It might be moving onto physical symptoms as well.” Harrow replies smartly, giving him a smile that could almost be described as proud . “But that means that we’re making progress. It’s a good thing.”

“A good thing?” Progress? On what? The static is clearing now, and he almost feels normal. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Harrow tilts his head. “Do you not remember what we’ve been doing for the past few hours, Marc?”

Right. What had they been doing?

He tries to remember, but it’s like trying to catch butterflies without a net, everything fluttering away from just as his fingertips brushes their wings. But he does recall the sound of two voices, unlike his own, and two faces, too alike to his own. He recalls the desert, a bedroom, a boat. He recalls what they were doing, what lead him here.

Oh. Oh, yes, that’s why.

“Of course I do.” He replies to Harrow. “But I haven’t been doing it with you .”

He was with Steven and Jake. Separate bodies, somehow, because they were dead, but he was with them . And now he’s not. Steven had been yelling, Jake had been watching, and he — Steven wanted to know. Wanted to know what happened, in their bedroom. And Marc couldn’t let him know, so he yelled back and ended up — here.

How the fuck was he here ?

On the other side of the desk, Harrow nods in understanding. “Right, yes. You’ve been with your alters, correct? Showing them, reliving your memories?”

Still trying to figure out the craziness of this all, he just nods back and mumbles, “Yeah.”

“You and Steven, then?” Harrow asks curiously.

He might be a bit distracted, but he still knows that’s wrong. “No. All of us.”

“ All of you?”

Harrow sounds curious, and Marc freezes, realizing what he just said. Harrow knew about Steven already, but not Jake, and if this is the real Harrow, the one who shot them — he just gained an advantage.

“Nothing.” He says quickly, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Just forget it.”

“I am simply curious, Marc. I am trying to help you.” Harrow replies curtly, and Marc scoffs. As if he’s going to believe that.

“Yeah, sure you are.” He rolls his eyes and looks around, glancing behind him at the door, the only viable exit. Knowing Harrow, though, there’s probably lackeys on the other side just in case he tries to make a break for it. “Can’t I just go? Gotta — gotta continue reliving those memories, and all that.”

He stands up quickly and goes to move towards the door, but Harrow puts a hand out. He doesn’t look ready to jump out of his seat and give chase, but something in his expression makes Marc pause. “Just wait a minute. I wish to speak with you, Marc, one-on-one. Then after that, I promise you can go.” He plasters on a smile, and gestures to the chair across from him, the one Marc had just been sitting in. “Come on. Sit.”

His smile is friendly, but it still puts Marc on edge. Something about it, on the face on the man who shot him, tried to kill him, who was trying to end the world — it was wrong. His voice too, especially, which spoke to him like he was a wild animal that needed taming. Marc is fine. He doesn’t need to ‘talk’, but … well, he can play nice. Just for a bit.

Even if he tries anything, Marc is sure he could take him on in a one-v-one fight. He’s frailer, and Marc might still feel a bit dizzy, but he can take him.

“Fine.” He slowly sinks back into the chair, and once he’s comfortable, he asks, “What do you want to talk about?”

Harrow looks satisfied, and Marc wants to wipe the stupid look off his face, but ... play nice . “Well, first I want to know about this … mysterious other alter you mentioned. You implied it wasn’t just you and Steven.”

“Yeah. There’s a third.” He answers carefully.

“Do they have a name?”

He pauses, debating. Harrow already knows, so at this point, a name wouldn’t do much harm. If Jake has anything to say to it, he can take it up with him later. “Jake.”

“Ah, Jake.” Harrow smiles again, but it’s much smaller this time. “What’s he like?”

Marc squints at him, suspicious. Giving a name is one thing, telling him ‘what he’s like’ is another. “Why do you care?”

“Again, I’m curious.” Harrow shrugs, leaning back, and repeats, “What’s Jake like?”

Yeah, not telling him that. A name is more than enough. More than what he needs to know, already. Bastard. “Dunno. Go find him and see for yourself.”

“Ha. Funny.” Harrow snorts and rolls his eyes, but it’s humourless. “Okay then, what do you think about Jake? About Steven?” He gets softer then, blinking a few times. “I’m sure it’s been a lot to process, looking at all your memories with those two at your side.”

“It’s been …” He doesn’t need to tell him. He doesn’t need to tell him anything. He’s not a real therapist, he knows. He doesn’t need to tell him. “Well, I don’t really need to tell you, do I? That’s between me and them. Not you.”

“And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been telling them?” Harrow elaborates. He stops tapping on the handle of his cane, and Marc doesn’t know if he prefers the silence or the rhythm. “Been sharing with them?”

Okay, that’s a stupid question. But to be fair, Harrow did seem to have a few screws loose. “I just said we’ve been looking at memories together.”

“Well, it depends on if you’ve actually been sharing those memories, or hiding from them.” Harrow continues tapping and, yeah, actually, Marc prefers it when he didn’t. Too annoying, otherwise.

“Hiding?” He narrows his eyes, hoping his rightful confusion shows on his face. “The fuck you mean?”

“You said that you’ve been showing your memories to Steven and Jake.” Harrow replies, with all the patience of a man who’s had to have this conversation a dozen times before. “But, have you been opening up to them? Have you been sharing your feelings?”

He sounded like an elementary school teacher trying to teach their class not to bully eachother. “‘Sharing your feelings’? We’re not nine-years-old.”

“No, you’re not. You’re a person who’s been through an untold amount of trauma, and is trying to move on.” Harrow answers immediately, face falling into frowning. “And you cannot do that without opening up to your alters.”

God, he knows what he was getting into when he sat down for this ‘conversation’, but he didn’t think it’d be this painful. Or condescending, for that matter. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

“Then take it as a suggestion, then. Not an order.” Harrow says. He leans forward then, eyes focused intently. “But Marc, do listen to me. I know revisiting these kind of traumatic moments can be painful, and I am proud of you for all you’ve done so far, but ignoring and hiding these types of things can be just as deadly. It lets them fester, rot away, until it poisons you. Like a weed, in a garden.”

Okay, that’s a lot to take in, but he knows it’s mostly bullshit. Half-truths and white lies. “I’ve been fine.”

Harrow stares at him. “Have you, really?”

The simple three words give him a shock then, as he thinks. It’s not something he’s ever considered before, between jumping from one place to the next, one job to the next, one mission to the next. He’s never actually stopped and thought about.

Is he fine?

He remembers Layla, who he hid everything from, and how both of them and their relationship suffered. He remembers the few friendly comrades he made in the army, and how none of them ever call and how he doesn’t call them. He remembers Khonshu, jeering over him in a forgotten temple as he laid dying, speaking only it ultimatums. He remembers Steven, yelling at him from across the tiled hall, through the mirror and shattered glass at his feet.

He remembers Jake, watching and guarded. Leading him away. Diverting the conversation. A guilty conscience.

“I think Jake already knows. He … he seems …” He mumbles. It’s not the answer to the question Harrow asks, or maybe it is. He doesn’t know, but he does know Jake. At least, now he thinks he does. “Protective.”

Harrow takes that as answer, nods, and asks, “What about Steven?”

“I can’t — he can’t know.” He knows that is definitely not what Harrow wants, but fuck him. Marc may not know much, but he knows he hates him, so he doesn’t care. “That’s — Steven should be happy. He shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. I need to keep him safe. So he can’t know.”

“There it is again, the hiding.” Harrow sighs, but it doesn’t sound angry. More exasperated, like someone who’s tired . “Marc, I do not blame you for this. All this … hiding your true feelings and running away from tough topics is a very common response for people in your situation. But, it’s time now to confront it. It’s time to remember.”

He doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to answer, he doesn’t want to know. Steven’s still screaming, Jake still watching. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. Are you? Are you fine?

“I think Steven is stronger than you realize. And while I do not know much about Jake, he seems strong as well.” Harrow keeps going, either oblivious to his racing thoughts or noticing and not caring. “None of you break easy, Marc. But if you keep all this hidden, you will reach your breaking point. And all of you will suffer for it.”

It’ll be all your fault. It’s already your fault.

Are you okay, Marc?

“So you’re going to have open up. You’re going to have to quit hiding.”

He wants to know the answer. He needs to know the answer.

“Can you do that, Marc?”

He can. He can he can he will he will he will because he can prove Harrow wrong, he can protect Steven and protect Jake and he is going to be fine and he will, he will he will he will and nobody is going to stop him.

He shuts his eyes, breathes and breathes and breathes, and —

• • •

— he opens his eyes, and he’s back in his room.

His room, his bedroom, as a child. Just as he remembers it, covered in posters with trinkets on every shelf and complete with a young version of himself, curled up in the corner against his cabinet. He’s shaking like leaf, wide-eyed and teary, and from behind him Marc hears Steven and Jake step forward to they all stand side-by-side in a row. A quick glance at his alters reveals just as he thought; Jake, mouth a thin line and guarded, and Steven, wide-eyed as he steps deeper into the room, looking around in something akin to awe.

He deserves better. He doesn’t deserve this.

“Is — is this my room? Our room, I’m guessing?” Steven asks aloud, as he pads deeper into what he assumes to be their childhood bedroom. He recognizes himself, obviously, shaking against the bookshelf, and he purposefully looks anywhere but there as he takes in the assortment of objects all around. “I - I remember most things, but I don’t remember this.”

“Yep, this was ours.” Jake says. Steven glances over at him and a too-tense Marc, frowning. “Too bad one of us couldn’t have kept it neat, eh?”

Steven glances at the ground, spying a whole bunch of pencils and markers rolling around, and his frown deepens. There’s even a container on the desk, tipped over in its side, like someone knocked it over in a flurry. Theres a tension in the air, heavy and palpable, and Steven doesn’t know what to think. Like at the shiva, creeping down the stairs. He doesn’t want to know what he thinks. His hands are shaking.

“Marc?” He asks, glancing at other man, who still hasn’t spoken a word. “What’s …?”

He’s startled by mumbling from his (their?) younger self on the ground, and his attention snaps to him. He seems to be shaking even more badly than Steven of the present, and he wants to comfort the boy — who might be him, who might not be, he doesn’t know he doesn’t want to know — but doesn’t, because this is a memory he doesn’t remember and his own hands are shaking so bad he doesn’t think he could focus if he tried.

“It’s not my mom.” He says, over and over again, chanting like a prayer. “It’s not her. It’s not my mom. It’s not —“

They all jump when a round of violent knocking starts at the door, and mum’s voice comes through, loud and raw, “Marc, open up this door, right now! ” The handle jiggles, more knocking, except it sounds more like she’s trying to break the door down. “I’m not joking about this, you brat! Open this fucking door!”

“It’s not my mom.” Little-them repeats, rocking back and forth, and Steven feels like he wants to collapse on the floor beside him, but manages to stay standing. “It’s not my mom.”

“Open the fucking door!”

“It’s not my mom.”

“Marc, open the door, or I swear to God I will fucking kick it down!”

“It’s not my mom —“

Then his eyes roll back, and Steven breathes.

He almost does fall to his knees now, when he sees the features of his young face soften. Lose their roughness and the fear in their eyes, as he looks around their bedroom as if he’s never seen it before. He takes a few shaky steps forward, hands feeling numb even as they shake, can’t get any words through his throat even as he swallows and his mum bangs on the door, shakes and rattles and hits. Behind him, Marc and Jake are silent, but he barely registers that they’re here right now — because in this moment, they’re not. It’s just him, in their little body. Marc’s gone, somewhere else. The door keeps shaking.

Keep it locked. Don’t let her in. Don’t let anything in.

“Bloody hell, look at the state of this place!” He exclaims to himself like a character on the telly, the accent sounding fake and grating. The roughness bleeding through, just a bit. “Better sort it out before mum sees it.”

He doesn’t notice their mum, on the other side of the door. He doesn’t notice Marc or Jake, watching silently behind him.

Steven leans down, closer to his young self as he starts picking up pencils and markers to put them back in the container, and he recalls his flat — messy, yes, but not unorganized. Their bedroom is overall pretty tidy, everything in it’s place where he can find it, and he wonders if he’s always done this; when the door starts shaking, starts trying to make it stop.

Mum yells, causing cracks in the walls, plaster dripping down. Steven looks up, startled, and his gaze drifts up to see a poster, neatly placed on the wall, of a man in a stereotypical archeologist outfit with spectacles and a cheesy colour filter. A movie poster, a bad one, advertising Tomb Buster . Steven’s done that, before. Even stuck his hand down the throat of the mummy. Why is that? Why’s that here?

The tagline sticks out, font and colour bold against the backdrop, like a different manner of speaking —

“ When danger is near, Steven Grant has no fear. ” He reads. It hits him then, all at once. He breathes out, going still, and doesn’t blink. “You — you made me up.”

The door breaks, and everything comes flooding in.

Mum — mum, she’s there, grabbing for a belt hanging off the side of their dresser, saying things about, “ You're gonna learn to listen. Why do you have to make me do this? Why do you make me hurt you, like this? ” and that’s — that’s textbook victim blaming right there, manipulating you into think you deserve it, and, and oh, god, Marc —

He’s right there, grabbing at his arms and forcibly dragging him from the room, as mum’s insults and the sound of leather against skin echoes back, but all Steven can focus on is the poster, when danger is near, danger is near, Steven Grant —

“I wanna see what she did.” He mumbles, before louder, firmer, “I wanna see what she did, Marc, Jake —“

But the other men have already dragged him away, the door shutting once again, and even when he dislodges Marc’s arm from around him Jake is there to block him again, stopping him from moving forward. “Let me go, I — who was in there —“

“Don’t focus on it.” Jake says, voice cutting through as he moves Steven back, steadies him on his feet. “Steven, hermano , don’t focus on it.”

Marc moves in front of him, side-by-side with Jake, blocking his way. It had been him, before, before Steven started breathing. Steven doesn’t remember. Who remembers? Who doesn’t? “You don’t need to see that, Steven.”

“Like bloody hell I do!” He exclaims back, hands balling into fists at his chest, fingers lost past normal circulation. “What did she do to us, Marc? What did she do to you ?”

He knows, but doesn’t want to know. He knows, but he wishes he didn’t. He heard her words, heard the pain, but he still can’t — mum wasn’t like that. She was kind. She was good. She use to brush his hair. She use to sing him to sleep. She use to kiss his cuts, carefully place bandaids over the worse of it. She wouldn’t cause the pain. She wouldn’t, but —

Does he know? Does he really know?

What doesn’t he?

“She never did anything to you.” Marc says, voice going thin like he’s running out of air. “She never did  anything to you. That's — that’s the whole point.”

Jake sucks in a breath through his teeth, almost whistling, and the noise grates on his ears. He glares, at Jake or Marc or both of them, and bares his teeth in turn.

“The — the point of what? Of me? ” He asks, voice spitting poison he doesn’t feel. He doesn’t know why he’s angry, only knows that everything inside of him, all the emotions swirling in his heart, are just a big giant mess he can’t control. He knows everything. He doesn’t know anything. “To — to what, be a stress ball? All this time I thought — I didn’t know what I thought, but not this. That I’m just something that you made up.”

That’s the truth, because he doesn’t really know; hasn’t had time to think about it, between discovering Khonshu and meeting Harrow and being shot. A few weeks ago, or maybe more or maybe less, he thought he was just a normal if a bit lonely bloke who worked at a gift shop and had a sleeping disorder. Now he doesn’t know what to think, and it’s his fault — he wanted to know, hadn’t he? His fault, isn’t it.

“Are both of us, then?” He gestures to Jake, keeps his gaze pinned on Marc, who isn’t moving. “Just figments of your imagination? What are we, Marc?”

Marc clenches his jaw, teeth probably cracking together, and says, “You’re real. We’re all real, and that’s — that’s good enough.”

He glances at Jake, who nods in agreement, but otherwise stays silent, and Steven wonders how he can be so bloody calm about this. Steven feels like there’s something clawing at his chest, pounding against his ribcage, and he feels like crying. “That’s not — that’s not bloody good enough! I — I thought — it was all just a lie! A big bloody lie!”

Marc seems confused, even Jake does too. Steven doesn’t even know what he’s saying. People alway says he talks too much. He can’t keep track. His head is hurting. “What was?”

“Everything!” He exclaims, words coming forth before he can think them, Steven Grant has no fear, when danger is near, when danger is near. “Everything in my life, because everything I remember doesn’t match up, and, and —“

“And what? Does it even matter?! ” Marc suddenly yells back, and Steven only saw him this angry once, when talking to him in the mirror that ended with shattered glass at their feet. “I — I blocked out the memories from you on purpose, Steven. I didn’t let you remember so you could live a happy, simple, normal life.”

Finally, Jake steps forward from where he had been watching silently, a hand outstretched towards either of them. “ Oye, vamos, ten cuidado — “

“ Why? ” Steven cuts him off, unable to look at anybody but Marc. Blocking the memories, he can do that? Why would he do that? He should have remembered. Nobody should have remember. “Why would you ever —“

“Would you have rather remembered the truth?!” Now it’s Marc turn to cut him off, growing angrier by the second, and Steven doesn’t know where it’s coming from just like he doesn’t know where his is coming from, either. “That you had a mother that beat you, that hated you? That made your life a living hell?”

Steven doesn’t know what to say, frozen and shaking and real and not, babbling like a drowned child, have no fear, no fear no fear no fear . “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry —“

“But you've gotten to live thinking that she loved you. That she was kind .” With every word he spits Marc steps forward, and Steven back, when danger is near.

Jake grabs onto Marc, forcibly, shakes his shoulder. “ ¡Detente, Marc! ”

“That she's still alive! ”

Everybody freezes.

Marc looks shocked, eyes wide like he can’t believe what just came out of his mouth, and even Jake looks surprised, hand falling off Marc’s shoulder as he steps back. Steven, though, stays still. That can’t be true, that can’t be true — he knows, he doesn’t, this is the truth and he hears a clock ticking somewhere, far off. That can’t be true, except he doesn’t have the memories to prove it.

“What? What are you talking about?” He asks quietly, finally stopped shaking only to be still in confusion. “She's alive. I — I know that much, I know she’s alive, Marc, what are you talking about?”

“She —“ Marc stops, tries again, not looking angry now. Only tired. So, so tired. “Two months ago, I got the call. From dad. A stroke, he said.” A pause, swallowing. Almost sorry. “It was quick.”

“And you didn’t let me know that, either?” Steven replies, as the words settle in his mind. The door’s broken now, broken by her , still as a rotting corpse in a caf’, turning to bones in the desert.

Marc’s face turns sour again, anger returning full force. “It was for your own good . I couldn’t let you get hurt .”

He scoffs. He feels bad for it. “Just like you couldn’t let me know what she did to us.”

“Steven —“

“So you — you took the pain for me?” He asks, the ugly feeling from before now caught in his throat, threatening to choke, a mix between anger and pain and — and guilt. Please, don’t let it be true. Don’t let it be true that Marc got hurt because of him. Please, please please please —

“ No , I —“ Marc starts off strong before tapering off, and his eyes widen. “I — I know she hurt us but I don’t really — I don’t really remember whenever she came. Blocked that out too, I guess.”

Steven blinks. He knows what’s going on. He knows. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know. He wishes he didn’t, he knows he knows he knows. “Then — then who …?”

Jake clears his throat, and both their heads snap towards him. It hits them both at the same time, the realization; Marc sucking in a breath and Steven feeling his heart break, barley registering the somewhat guarded, somewhat sorry look on Jake’s face. He shouldn’t look sorry. It’s not his fault. He knows, now, Steven does. It’s not his fault. It’s not — it’s not his fault, or Marc’s, he knows that.

“You.” He mumbles, voice monotone in shock, shaking in the wind. “You were the one in the room when we left. You — you hid the pain from both of us, too.”

Jake does an odd half-shrug, half-nod thing, not looking either of them in the eye as he focuses his gaze on the floor. He looks tense, still as a statue, and all Steven wants to do is to stop the man who shares his face from looking like that. “ Sí .”

One word. One word, that’s all it is. Just one word.

Steven shakes his head, curls falling across his forehead, with how apologetic he sounds. It’s not Jake’s fault, it’s not. It’s Steven’s.

Marc said it himself; Steven wasn’t suppose to know. He wasn’t suppose to remember. Marc took over when mum yelled at them, Jake took over when she came into their room, all to hide Steven away. To hide Steven from her, and hide her from him. Her true self, the one who they tried to shield him from. The one that hated them. The one who blamed them. The one who hurt them. She — she hurt Marc and Jake because they couldn’t let Steven be hurt and — and —

Oh, god, their mum had hurt them.

“No — no, no no no no no —“ He’s muttering, not even aware he’s doing so, the only thought in his head being they can’t they couldn’t have why would they how could they — “Why would you — why would you ever, you can’t —“

“Steven —“

“Let me go. I want to go. I want to — let me go. Let me out of here, please, let me out!” He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, he can’t bloody breathe . “Let me out, let me out —!”

“Steven!”

• • •

“Let me out, let me out!”

He’s holding something in his hands that he flings out on instinct, and he hears the splash of liquid and someone gasping. His eyes flies open and he finds he’s still in a room that’s just as white, just as plain, but it’s a room — not a hallway, not a hallway, and there’s someone sitting in front of him and an empty cup in his hand.

Oh, gods, he just splashed them with water, didn’t he? Good going, Steven, great first impression. No wonder nobody likes to talk with you.

“Oh, god, I'm so sorry!” He exclaims, immediately jumping up towards the person sitting in front of him, droplets clinging to his glasses and hair, though the features around his face are kinda fuzzy. “Sorry, you gave me a real start there. Gave you a bit of a wash, didn't I?”

He lifts the hem of his shirt up to help wipe the water away, but he pauses when the fuzzy features of the person solidified and he realizes exactly who’s in front of him. The other man seems to realize at the exact same time, because he slowly asks, “Steven?” even as Steven drops his shirt and takes a step back, pressing his lips together.

The static clears. It’s — it’s Harrow.

His hair is changed, shorter and closer-clipped, and he has a very odd-looking moustache and funny little glasses, but it’s definitely him. It’s him, the man who shot them, who hunted him down to his job and admitted he’d be okay killing kids — but he’s here . In this place, in the Duat, as Steven looks around and realizes that while there’s a bit more Egyptian memorabilia in here than the rest of the place, it still matched the general aesthetic of the rest of the mental hospital.

How’s Harrow here? Why is he here, more importantly?

“Hold on a minute. What's this …?” He mumbles, mostly to himself, and takes a few more steps back from Harrow now staring at him with an open mouth, still covered in water droplets.

“It's good to see you again.” Harrow finally says, not getting out of his chair, but looking like he wants too. Steven frowns.

“What is this? Is this some kind of test?” He looks around a bit more, up at the ceiling and over the walls, realizes how familiar it seems especially with the statues and carvings everywhere. Everything’s close but not at the same, similar but different just enough that you wonder if you’re seeing patterns were there aren’t. “I recognize this place. What's this?”

“Steven, I'm your doctor.” Harrow asks, raising a hand as if to placate him, and Steven moves farther away. Harrow doesn’t move to stop him. “Remember?”

“ You're my doctor?” Steven feels like laughing. Or crying. Or both. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home.

“I'm here to help you.” Harrow keeps going, conviction in his voice. “I promise I’m here to help you, Steven. All of you.”

Steven turns to him from where he had been examining a picture frame on the wall, holding a diploma. Steven wonders if he has his own, somewhere. Maybe it’s real. Or forged. “All of us?”

“Yes, all of you.” Harrow says. He’s moved back to his side of the desk at some point while Steven had been occupied, before he adds, “I was beginning to worry we might never speak again.”

Steven looks at him, really looks at him, eyes his new look up and down as he clutches his hands together in front of his chest, tugging at his fingers. Something about this is wrong. Something about this is very wrong, but he can’t put his finger on it. Finding patterns in things that aren’t there.

“It's so strange.” He mutters, trying to distract himself, as he brings one hand up to brush up against his lip. “The little haircut. Little silly 'tache there. It's very … Ned Flanders.”

Harrow’s gaze harden. Does he not like that? Is he going to shoot them again —or, just Steven? Where’s Marc and Jake? Where are they —? “ Steven .”

“What’s going on?” He asks. Someone needs to tell him. He needs to tell him what’s happening. “What’s going on? ”

“This is my fault, I asked Marc to open up to you.” Harrow sighs, sounding tired, and even a bit guilty. The man looks solemn behind his desk, gripping his cane with both hands. “Did he get a chance to speak with you?

Steven thinks. He thinks about Marc, because he can remember — he thinks, and he can remember their conversation now. He remembers the hallway, the room, but not how he got here. Why he’s alone now. Why is he alone now?

Does it matter, though?

“Yeah, well, he — he lied to me, that's what he did.” Steven says, a weird feeling rising up in his chest as he recalls Marc’s angry words. Except, that’s not really true. “Well, not really. More … more lying through omission, then.”

Harrow hums, and drums his fingers against his cane. “What did he lie-through-omission about, then?”

Steven narrows his eyes at him. “Nosy, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Or I’m just curious.” Harrow corrects with a smile. “Why don’t you have a seat? It might make you more comfortable.”

He gestures to the plastic chair across from him, that Steven had jumped out of a few moments prior, and he bites his lip before moving back over and sliding back into it. It wouldn’t hurt, just to talk for a bit, he reckons. This Harrow seems a bit different from he one he talked to over soup, and if there’s one thing Steven’s learned from this little adventure, it’s not to judge people by their cover. After all, if he’d done that, Jake would still be locked up in his sarcophagus.

Steven probably would be, too.

“Ah, thank you.” Harrow says with a smile that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Now, Steven, I’m wondering how you’re feeling. I was speaking with Marc earlier, and he mentioned you guys had been on some … adventures.” He pauses. “A little trip down memory lane, so to speak.”

Steven shrugs, wondering when Marc had talked with him before — had it been when he started panicking? He didn’t know. “A bit, yeah. More so just … Marc’s memories, than mine. But yeah.”

Harrow seems interested in that, leaning forward and uncrossing his legs so both feet are set on the ground. “Oh, so he’s been opening up to you?”

“Sort of. Mostly just … showing me his memories. Sorta unwilling.” Steven purses his lips. “Well, showing me and Jake.”

Harrow takes real interest with that, leaning forward even more, though his face stays impassive. “Jake?”

“Yeah. Do you know him?” Steven asks as an afterthought, tensing up again. He recalls the conversation he had with Harrow before, back when he had his lackeys take him from his flat, and how Marc kept hissing at him not to reveal anything. He doesn’t want to implicate anyone, accidentally. He might’ve already.

“Marc mentioned him.” Luckily, Harrow backs off a bit, shifting to sit back in his chair. Steven relaxes automatically. He doesn’t like being close to the man, not after — not after what happened last time, with the gun. “He’s another one of your alters, correct?”

Steven nods. “Yeah. Nice bloke. Bit … violent, it seems, but nice.”

Harrow snorts at the description. Steven wonders if he’s talked to Jake already too and both of them just decided not to mention it. He doesn’t think that would be far reached, at all. “That’s good. How are you feeling, though? About all of this?”

Steven doesn’t like his tone. He doesn’t like how he’s talking.

“What do you mean ‘all of this’?” He asks, narrowing his eyes. Something about his voice puts him on edge again, worried about what he’s implying. Hidden meanings, and all that.

Harrow tilts his head. “Well, meeting Marc and Jake. From what I can tell, you didn’t know about them, right?”

“Not really. That was on purpose though, they said. Wanted to keep me … hidden.” He doesn’t like that word, but he has no alternative. That was what they had been doing, though. Both of them. “Or keep themselves hidden from me.”

Then, Harrow asks, “What did they want to hide you from?”

That makes him pause. What did they want to hide him from?

He tries to think about how he got here, to Harrow’s office, and remembers their argument. What Marc and Jake showed him, what they revealed — everything that had happened to them in that room, and everything leading up to it. He knows what they wanted to hide him from, as soon as he learned, but he doesn’t want to admit it. It would make it more … real, somehow. Speaking the truth aloud instead of just keeping it in his head.

But wasn’t that what Marc had been doing? What him and Jake both had been doing?

“I — I don’t …” He stammers, clutching his hands together in his lap as the faintest bit of concern leaks into Harrow’s expression. It’s not real, just manufactured, because this was the man who shot them. Who had hurt them. Hurt them, just like their —

“Steven?”

“Marc showed me something. Technically Jake did too.” He blurts out, unable to stop it. His boss had always said he talked to much, like he lost the filter between his brain and his mouth and never got a new one, and Steven always knew she was right even if she was an ass about it. “I … I don’t know what to feel about it.”

Harrow’s shoulders go down, and he says, “That’s okay, that’s what I’m here for — to help you work through this. What did they show you, Steven?”

He swallows. He needs to say it. He needs to confront it. “Mum.”

“Your mum?”

“Our … our true mum. Wendy Spector.” He corrects, pressing his hands more tightly together to stop them was shaking suddenly. “Not Wendy Grant.”

And that’s what it comes down too, doesn’t it? The mum he knew, that he remembered, the one sending him postcards and never returning his calls — she wasn’t his true mother. Just a patchwork of carefully curated memories, put on display so he could enjoy them and fill in the gaps when in actuality she was just an empty inbox on a dead-end phone number. Wendy Grant, his mother, wasn’t his true mum.

But Wendy Spector had been theirs.

“And what is your true mum like?” Harrow asks, making his head snap to attention towards him. He worries at his lip again, thinking how to phrase it.

“Bad. Horrible. She — she hurt us.” He stutters over it, a broken record player, a message caught on loop. The words are tumbling out of him now, before he can stop them. “She hurt Marc and Jake, because she blamed Marc for our brother’s death — but they let me not remember. I got the good memories, Marc said. I got to believe she was a good mother.”

Harrow taps his cane. It’s not alligator-shaped. It’s odd. “Is that what they were hiding you from, then?”

“Yeah.” He mumbles, staring at the desk in front of him instead of Harrow’s face. “I don’t want them to. I still don’t.”

That’s true, that’s the truth — he wasn’t angry about them lying, not really, because they didn’t lie. They kept things from him, let him only remember the things they wanted — or, Marc wanted, he wasn’t sure if Jake had much say in it at all — but he isn’t angry. No, he’s not angry.

He’s sorry. He’s so, so sorry. Not for himself. Not for poor Steven Grant, who was living a lie. He’s sorry for Marc, and for Jake, who had to keep it up.

“They took her abuse for — for me. Because they didn’t want me to know, Marc said.” He explains, more talking to himself at this point. “But I don’t — I feel bad. I shouldn’t, because they were protecting me, but Marc said —“

They didn’t deserve it. They didn’t deserve to only remember the pain, the yelling and the beatings, and Steven didn’t deserve to only have the good ones.

When he stops talking, Harrow prompts on. “What did he say?”

He said a lot. He said so much, but there’s only a bit he can focus on right now.

“He said our mum was dead.” He says. He can’t keep going. He has to keep going. He has to delete the voice mail. “But that can’t be true, can it? I talk to her everyday. She sends me postcards. She can’t be dead, just like she can’t — she can’t really have hurt us, right?”

Because even if he knows the facts, even if he’s seen the memories, he can’t help but hold on to the last little bit he can remember. All the good things, all the kind things. Mum, cheering him on as he played football in the backyard. Mum, cleaning and brushing his hair for him whenever he asked. Mum, heading to the store late at night to get him different tasting medicine when he was sick because he couldn’t stand the stuff they had in the house. Mum, who loved him. Mum, who would never, ever hurt him.

And that’s the bit he’s angry about, because — because he can remember her kindness, and it couldn’t have come from nowhere. Marc said he let him keep the good memories, which meant there had been good memories. But then there hadn’t been, which meant that at some point she decided Marc didn’t deserve anything good anymore. That’s what he’s angry at. That’s who he’s angry with.

In front of him, Harrow sighs through his nose, eyes going soft. “I’m sorry to break it to you Steven, but …”

“Don’t you say it.” He snaps. Harrow doesn’t have a right to say anything. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know . “My — our mum is alive. It’s not true. It’s not true. You having a laugh as well? I don't wanna hear it.”

“Maybe your mum, Steven.” Harrow says gently, and Steven hates that tone. Like he’s something fragile. Something broken. “But … Wendy Spector is dead.”

And that’s the kicker.

His real mum, the true one, is dead. And in her wake, she leaves pain. Pain, on their body. Pain, in their mind. Pain pain pain and hurt , so much hurt, that she leaves a trail of it even in places she isn’t. Steven knows how that is — remembers how he use to feel his boss’ mood radiating off her, sucking up all good in the air like a leech — even when she wasn’t around. Their mum caused so much pain, it’s almost as if she’s still alive.

And the mum in his mind, the one born of the spaces in between the pain, isn’t dead either. She can’t be dead, because she never existed. She can’t be dead, because she was only there to fill into the gaps. The empty spaces between displays.

She was only there to protect him.

He hates her.

He’s angry.

“Then my mum is dead too, then.” Steven says, a mix between bitter and determined, before he adds softly, “Same lady, ain’t it?”

“Well, the mother in your head wasn’t, was she?” Harrow asks, voice curious but not unkind.

They were separate people, his mum and their true mum, but now they’re not. He can see that now. He’s not angry about it. He’s angry that he can’t be angry. They didn’t deserve it. None of them did.

“She’s just a lie. A lie they made up to protect me.” He says, not bitter anymore. Only sad. Only angry. “I don’t want them to protect me.”

Harrow blinks. “You don’t?”

“Not if it means they get hurt. Got hurt, because of me.” Because Marc and Jake don’t deserve that. They deserve the mum he got, even if she wasn’t real. They didn’t deserve what they got. “If they … if they got a dead mum too.”

Harrow looks deep in thought, glasses on the edge of his nose as he swivels back-and-forth in his chair. “Well, Steven, I am not Marc or Jake, so I cannot speak for them, but … I believe that where they’re coming from is a place of love. They want to protect you, because they care for you. Even if it means they get hurt as well.”

He frowns. “I don’t want to be the reason they got hurt.”

“Well, are you the one hurting them?”

“No?“ Of course not. Maybe at the beginning, when he was yelling at Marc in the mirror, but now he doesn’t. He doesn’t ever want to do that.

“Then don’t blame yourself too much. You can’t control the actions of others, only your reaction to them.” Harrow stated plainly, before he adds, “And how you act around them afterwards.”

Steven pauses, thinking. Everything in his chest feels torn and visible, an open wound stapled back together. But, as he thinks about Marc and Jake — he feels it seal. His mum, the one in his head, never existed because they wanted him to have a good life. His true mum he can’t remember, because they wanted him to never know the pain she caused. He knows the truth, now, about what was real and what wasn’t. He’s not angry at that, because he knows why they did it. He’s angry that they had to do it in the first place. That they felt like they had to.

“I just want them to be okay.” He admits, voice quiet and small, and that’s all, really. That’s the truth.

“Well, think about it this way; all actions have an opposite reaction.“ Harrow says. Steven’s pretty sure that’s not a real coping strategy, more scientific, but it’s okay. “They protected you, didn’t they? You can only control how you react to that protection that they gave. You can be angry, you can be upset. You can be thankful. And what you do, in response to those emotions and those actions, is what you can control.”

That … that makes sense. That somehow makes sense, even a little bit.

“Somehow, I’m getting it.” Steven says. He knows now. He knows what to do, now. He shakes his head to clear it, feeling oddly lighter in a way he can’t pinpoint. “So thanks, Doctor.”

Harrow snorts. “Ah, so you believe I’m a real doctor now?”

“Not really. But thanks where thanks is due.” Steven says, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a shy smile. “But please don’t shoot us again. Rather not end up here again.”

Harrow blinks in surprise. Steven feels the odd urge to laugh, but —

• • •

He doesn’t, because he’s back here.

When Steven blinks, he finds he suddenly standing in the middle of a residential street, cars parked along the curb and looking awfully familiar. At his side, Marc immediately grabs onto his shoulder and spins him around so they face eachother, fingers digging into his shirt. “Jesus, Steven, are you okay? What happened?”

“Yeah - yeah, I’m fine.” He tells Marc, glancing to see Jake is similarly hovering over his shoulder, looking worried. “I was just talking with … well, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Harrow?” Marc asks, as if he already knows.

Steven nods. Harrow said he talked to Marc before, right? “Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

Steven presses his lips together, thinking, and tries to figure out how to phrase this without starting an argument or making someone yell at him. He decides to just go simple, and says, “Mum. We talked about mum.” He barks out a laugh. “Almost like a real therapist.”

Marc’s eyebrows furrow in both concern and confusion, but the sound of a flask unscrewing startles all of them. Steven manages to twist around to see they’re not alone here — at least, not more alone than they had been already.

Their past self is standing on the sidewalk beside them, drinking from a metal flask, and staring towards the middle distance on the other side.

Steven clears his throat and steps out of Marc’s worried grip, closer to their past self. He can’t remember this, and so it’s either Marc or Jake; from what he can see, it seems like Marc. Especially when the man behind him sucks in a breath and tenses, and Jake makes an inquisitive noise.

“What is this?” Steven asks, not even had a clue on where to guess for this one, unlike all the others.

“I — Marc, is this when —?” Jake starts, before Marc cuts him off.

“Yes.” Marc says, voice tight. “Just — just wait.”

Steven doesn’t know who it’s directed at, but he decides to listen, especially when their past self glares across the street before starting to stumble away. Steven looks to where they had been staring, and sees that across the street, there is a very familiar house — their house. Not a home, not really, but it was where they grew up. And in the window, looking out at them through the curtains, is a familiar face.

Their father. Older and more grey, than from the few memories Steven can recall right now, but their father all the same.

The curtains fall. They keep moving.

All three of them follow their past self down the street, as they move from the sidewalk to the middle of road (no regards for traffic, thank god the street is bare of anyone ). Steven follows at a slow pace, Marc and Jake trailing him — Jake seems just as curious as Steven, though Marc looks serious, face guarded. Steven keeps his gaze trained on their past self, though, as he stumbles more and makes odd noises, almost like sobs if Marc was able to cry. If he allowed himself to.

Though, they don’t get very far away from the house before they suddenly stop and collapse to their knees. It’s definitely Marc, then, because he starts rocking back-and-forth, but still doesn’t cry. His eyes water, as Steven moves around to crouch down in front of him, but he doesn’t cry. Doesn’t make any noise, except to mutter to himself. Words spilling out of him as if he’s Steven, unable to stop talking, in fear of the silence it would leave.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Marc mumbles, rocking back-and-forth, clutching his kippah as the wetness in his eyes finally bubbles over, but still — no noises. No sobbing. “I was just a little boy. I was just a boy —“

And as Marc’s mumbling gets more and more incoherent, tainted by pain and tears, he suddenly pauses in his rocking, hands becoming lax around his kippah. Steven stays frozen in shock as he watches his eyes roll back into his head, leaning back. He takes a breath, and —

He sits up straighter, and blinks.

“What?” His past self says, looking around, not even noticing the tear marks on his cheeks, the shaking in his hands. “Where am I? Oh, bloody hell, what — bollocks. Not again.”

He grabs for his phone, not even opening the right app before he starts pattering on, saying, “ Heya, Mum. ” and “ I am totally lost again! ” as he gets up, smiley and happy, eyes still wet. Steven of the present bows his head, unable to look at himself. Not out of shame, no, but more — more guilt, that he doesn’t even notice , that Marc felt the need to hide again, to avoid it, and Steven got to be unaware.

And as he watches his past self stumble off, filling in the missing gaps with only a blink and blissful smile, Steven stands up and breathes . Tries to remember how. This is what Marc and Jake had been protecting him from, hadn’t it? The heartache, the pain she caused, even when she wasn’t really there — only haunting their lives like a ghost, the same way Marc haunted his own, before the wall broke between them because of her.

“This is it — mom's death and shiva two months ago.” Marc explains quietly, from somewhere behind him, as Steven watches his past self nearly stumble right into traffic while still talking nonsense on the phone. “This was the moment all our lives started bleeding into one another.”

When the door broke down. When she broke it down.

“I couldn't — I just couldn't —“ As Marc keeps talking, Steven whips around to see the heartbroken expression in his face, not much unlike how he had been moments before, kneeling in the street. Even Jake seems to notice, in the way he shifts back and forth on his feet, frowning slightly. “I couldn't face that again. All the things I'd done …”

The way Marc’s voice breaks , matching his crumbled expression, sad eyes, makes Steven shuffle forward so they face eachother. As much as his own heart aches, as much as he wants to cry and run and scream at the world for dealing them this card, for making them all this way, he tries to stay calm. For Jake, who looks like he wants to jump in but doesn’t know how. For Marc, who’s breaking in front of him.

None of them are broken, only their hearts.

“Marc, all those horrible things that she said to you, she was wrong .” Steven says, stressing each word for importance, so that he knows . “It wasn't your fault.”

Marc looks the closest to crying Steven has ever seen, voice breaking halfway through his sentence, “I — I shouldn't have brought him in the cave —“

“You were just a child .” Steven whispers. He looks at Marc, then Jake, between the both of them. “Both of you were, all of us, just — just children .”

He reaches forward, and grabs Marc’s hand, squeezing it tight in a way he hopes is comforting. He remembers the scene he saw before, young Marc leading Randall to the cave by his hand, and wonders how many times Marc has thought about it. The exact same memory, caught on loop like an answering machine. Steven knows it’s too many to count, and he hates it. He — he hates this. He hates that Marc believes himself so unworthy of love that he won’t even let himself move on, he hates that Jake had to take the brunt of it for both of them and it still didn’t entirely work, because he’s still shaking and cold like he’s drenched in floodwater.

But Steven has always tried to look on the bright side of things, and now he thinks he can see the waters receding from around their feet.

“It wasn't your fault.” He tells Marc, the utmost truth in his eyes. “It wasn’t any of ours. Only — only hers .”

Marc snaps his gaze up towards him, as does Jake, who takes a step forward so he’s standing only about a meter away, shoulders tight. Steven looks between them, hoping his eyes show just how much he believes this, how much he knows this is true, and that neither of them can argue it.

“She was the one who hurt us, who blamed us, when no one else did. We were just kids who made a mistake. We didn’t deserve to be hurt for it.” He swallows, another thought rising to his mind, and he adds quietly, “And I’m sorry if that meant you got hurt because of me, for me, instead of letting me take it. Gods, I’m sorry that you — you felt like you had too.”

Marc opens his mouth to say something, but Steven cuts him off with another squeeze to his hand, and keeps going, “It wasn’t either of your jobs to — to hide the truth from me, to protect me, I know, but you did it anyways. And I’m sorry you had too, but — thank you, too. Both of you. And I’m sorry if it seems I’m ungrateful, if I’m angry, with all the things I said, because I’m not . I’m sorry for everything I said before, too, about it being your faults. But …”

He takes a deep breath, to get his thoughts in order, and luckily both his alters stay silent. Marc, still looking like he wants to interject, and Jake, standing on the outskirts, peering in through the window. Steven wants to help both of them. He wants to help himself. He wants to fix this.

“But … no matter what, you didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t your fault or your duty to take the blame for it.” He doesn’t know what ‘it’ is, exactly, anymore — Randall’s death, their mom’s hurt or the digsite, everything in their whole life — but he just wants them to be okay. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He directs the last bit at Marc more then Jake, because the man he’s still holding onto looks closer to tears. Especially when Jake breaks free from his stupor to clap him on the shoulder lightly and say, “He’s right, chico , you know.”

“I was talking to both of you.” Steven reminds gently, just so that they both know.

Marc nods shakily, and Jake’s smile matches when he sends it his way, even if he grip on Marc’s shoulder tightens. “I know, niño . I know.”

Steven smiles back at him, then at Marc, who he has no idea what’s going on in his head — but whatever it is, he must put it aside, because he returns Steven’s smile with his own wobbly one with his eyes still glassy. Steven feels like a laughing a bit, just like back in Harrow’s office, so overwhelmed and even a bit happy, in this crazy place. He’s here, he knows, he knows he knows he knows —

But then the ground shakes, and the moment is over.

When everything rumbles like the beginning of an earthquake, they all shout in surprise and step away from eachother, Steven flinging his arms out to balance himself and Jake crouching low to the ground and Marc planting his heels, ready to attack. When it settles after a few seconds, though, they look around in confusion at eachother and at the street around them, which doesn’t seemed to have changed much. Except for the scales in the window above them, that is.

They’re still going, still in the up-and-down motion, but they’re — they’re close. They’re almost there. Almost there.

“Hey, look.” He points up, drawing Marc and Jake’s attention to them. He hears an intake of breath from someone, and he clutches his hand back to his chest, wringing them together. “They’re almost balanced.”

“What else could we have left to show?” Marc asks, sounding like he’s talking through gritted teeth. “I — we’ve seen everything I remember. What else could there be?”

Steven hums, thinking. He could tell Marc wasn’t lying; all the gaps in their life make sense now. The army, the digsite, the shiva. Their brother. Their mother.

But all those memories, painful as they are, were Marc’s. Looking at them, talking about it and facing it head on — that was what allowed the scales to tip. It was all about acceptance. Marc’s acceptance. Making the scales balance, making your soul at peace. And Steven … Steven just had his acceptance, didn’t he? He didn’t have any memories to show (which … well, still stings to think about, knowing he’s only gotta about half a life’s worth of his own memories to live with, but he can’t focus on that right now). So his process didn’t involve that, but he had his reckoning all the same.

And it got them close, but not quite.

But it’s not just him and Marc here, is there?

“Well —“ He swallows, and turns to look at the other men, Jake and Marc standing side-by-side. He doesn’t know how well this will be received, and he doesn’t want to risk upsetting them. “— I’ve come to terms with my … with everything, involving me. Marc’s gone through his, yeah?”

The other two don’t seem to understand where he’s going with this, Marc slowly asking, “Yeah …?”

“The scales are all about balancing your soul. Becoming at peace. You’ve gotta do that through … acceptance.” He wrings his hands tighter, feeling like he’s on the edge of a cliff, worried about who’s gonna make him walk off the edge. “Me and you have accepted our issues. But Jake … hasn’t.”

Jake stiffens, and Steven swallows again. Marc looks between them, understanding dawning on him. He seems like he wants to say something before Jake beats him too it with a low growl, “That’s just bullshit.”

“It’s all I can think of!” Steven exclaims, hoping it doesn’t come off as unkind but not able to keep his voice down. “I mean, what else could it be? I don’t have anything to show you and I don’t think Marc’s lying either, so that just leaves you.”

Jake grinds his jaw, looking throughly unimpressed with the idea, and it’s Marc that speaks up, sounding a bit more confident. “That might be it.”

“No.” Jake says. “No, absolutely not.”

“Look, I don’t like —“ Steven sighs, trying to clear his thoughts. “— any of this, as much as you guys. But I also want to get out of here, and this might be the only way to do it.”

Jake growls again, a bit less angry than before but still aggressive. “No, you don’t get it — you don’t have any … malos recuerdos — bad memories, to show us. And Marc’s are tame compared to mine. You won’t —“

He cuts himself off, and Steven wonders what he was going to say. The words do sting a bit, reminding him of before — he has no bad memories because they didn’t let him have any — but Marc cuts in before he can ask, “Look, man —“

He moves forward like he wants to place a hand on Jake’s shoulder, but when the man backs away, he stops awkwardly with his hand still raised. He ends up letting it fall back to his side, expression unreadable as Steven hesitantly stays back, not quite sure if he’s welcomed here. Or would even be any help at all.

“I know it’s — it’s fucking scary, is what it is.” Marc says, staring directly at Jake, who stares back unblinking. “But we need to get out of here.” He glances at Steven, who frowns, and looks back at Jake. “All of us need to get out of here. And we can’t do it without balancing those damn scales, so if to do that it means you have to bite the bullet and face — face it, then you have to do it. We have to do it.”

Jake looks away at Marc to look at Steven, and he doesn’t really know why the other two keep looking at him like that. But, something between him and Marc must convince Jake, because the man grinds his jaw again, clenches his fists, and nods.

“Fine.” He snaps out, but he’s not happy about it, that’s for sure. Steven isn’t either, really, but it’s — it’s necessary. To balance the scales. To move on. “But I’m not going to enjoy it.”

“I’d be worried if you did.” Marc replies dryly.

That gets a snort from Jake, but it’s more bitter than amusing, and he suddenly goes marching off down the street and away from them. Steven quickly follows, catching up with Marc at his heels — all in a line, the three of them, like schoolchildren off to play — and it’s not long till they pass by under some trees, and his vision wobbles.

Steven blinks, and the entire scene shifts. 

• • •

For a moment, Marc thinks they ended up back on the boat.

Except, when he focuses on it, the walls are less white, sterile; more yellowed with age, with hints of faded blue and green, like they had once been painted a vibrant colour that had been washed one too many times. While some of the tiles are cracked and the yellow-tinted lights are burning down on them, it still seems clean, respectable. Just old. Really old.

Old to Marc, too.

He recognizes it.

“Oh, are we — back on the boat, again?” Steven asks, and Marc steps up to his side, in case anything decides to come from in front of them. “Why’s it all different?”

“Because we’re not on the boat.” He doesn’t know if Steven is genuinely confused or being obtuse to make them talk, but he answers anyways. “This is —“

He cuts himself off, and looks at Jake. He still doesn’t know, entirely, if he trusts the guy, but he’s getting close. At least he knows they’re in the same boat now, having to show their memories, inmost pains, just to get out of this crazy place. He knows they stand in a similar place when it comes to Steven, too, now that he knows Jake was — was the one who took it the most, instead of him.

They’ve gotta protect him, and this place is the worse for that.

“Putnam Medical Facility. Chicago.” Jake answers easily enough, turning around to look at the two of them. “Don’t you remember, chico ?”

He presses his lips together. “Of course I do.”

Steven turns to him, wide-eyed, because of course he catches the unspoken hidden meaning his words. “Marc, when were — when were we at a mental hospital? ”

He sounds so horrified at the prospect, so scared, that Marc feels himself shrink back momentarily. “I was … in and out, as a teenager. Started showing ‘behavioural problems’, so I would go in occasionally. It was only ever for a few days at a time, though. A week at most, I think. But it was always … it wasn’t that bad. They were okay, all things considered.”

Steven wrings his hands together, then glances over at Jake, whose expression has gone back to unreadable. Marc can’t blame him. The time he spent in the mental hospital was … well, he doesn’t like to remember it. It was mostly filled with never-ending therapy sessions from doctors who seemed to view him more as a problem than a patient, and otherwise just sulking around his room, trying to appear on his ‘best behaviour’ so they would let him go home. Or, at least, stop monitoring him all the damn time.

Because who was he kidding — he didn’t want to go home. His parents were the ones who decided he needed to go there in the first place. Mom had been screaming for years to, “ Lock that fucking monster up — in jail, in a psych ward, I don’t care, just get him out of my house! ” and as soon as a councillor at his high school suggested it, his dad had done so. They claimed it was because Marc started too many fights, showed symptoms of bipolar disorders with how often it seemed he, “ Jumps between moods. It’s like one minute, he’s excited to participate in class, then the next he’s yelling at his seatmate! ” and it was getting to the point it was disrupting the other students and teachers. He needed professional help, they said, so they sent him here.

He didn’t find any help here, though. Just a brief respite from his home, which he always had to go back to, only for the cycle to restart a month or two later.

And God , did he almost start to believe it. His teenage years were the worst — the mental hospital, mom going even further down the drain (“ My baby would have been thirteen today, we should be celebrating —! ”) and the sinking realization that he wasn’t alone in his head. That occasionally, sometimes, other people would live his life, share his body. He had gaps in his memory, people he didn’t know calling him by a name different or asking why he couldn’t remember their last conversation. And at first, he thought, he thought —

He thought he was crazy. Insane, losing his mind.

That he was broken.

He knows, now, that he isn’t. At least, not in the way people think. He has PTSD coming out of his ass and a fucked up marriage and is currently, literally, trying to stop the end of the world, but —

Steven — and Jake, it seems — aren’t the broken bits. The shattered bits, that came from his fractured mind. They’re their own people, he knows that now, and the fact that they all … share a body, to put it lightly, is not the most fucked up thing about any of them. Marc knows that now.

But he didn’t know that then, when mom and dad kept putting him in mental hospitals, and it makes him … ashamed, almost. Guilty, for thinking that way, over Steven — thinking he’s just some part , some half-person, made to serve others. He’s not. Maybe, he felt the same way over Jake, as well, even if Marc thought there was only ever Steven he had to deal with at the time.

He knows better now. He knows way better now.

However, the sound of a door clicking open distracts him from his thoughts, and all three of them whirl around to see a door at the end of the hall slowly creak open, and their own head pop out. He thinks they’re about sixteen or seventeen, maybe less — hard to tell, with the bags around their eyes and sweaty hair curling around their ears, long in need of a cut. They’re wearing a soft grey sweatshirt and yoga pants, not entirely unlike what they’re all wearing now, and their gaze is tired as it darts around, searching the hallways for monsters lurking in the corners.

“That you, Jake?” Steven asks, stepping forward and leaning in curiously, still holding his hands close to his chest.

“ Sí .” Jake says curtly, lips thin. He adds nothing else, so Marc doesn’t either, just waits and watches.

Their past self — small, skinny, before he had to get stronger to keep up with the other soldiers — checks the hallway once more, before slipping out of the door. It clicks shut softly behind them, but they’re already shuffling down the hallway, socked feet barley making a sound. Marc can’t help up wonder what the hell Jake’s doing — they’re not suppose to leave their room, at least unsupervised. It’s going to get them in trouble.

Though, Marc has a feeling he doesn’t care about that. Jake doesn’t, at least. He knows the fights at school, that led them here, weren’t always entirely himself. At first he thought it was Steven, maybe, but he knows better now. He knew better even as he grew older, that Steven could never do something like that. He apologizes when he punches people and nearly cried one time he stepped on a cat’s tail. He knows better now, knew better even earlier, but when it came to the fights at school … he just never thought about it again, after it happened.

He frowns. Seems like Steven wasn’t the only blissfully filing over memory gaps with a shrug and smile.

Young Jake reaches the end of the hallway, and stops in front of the door Marc remembers leads to the ‘sitting area’ — where they used to play bingo, watch the fishes in the tank swirl about, and if they were lucky they could watch the ball game on the television. From there is a quick hallway trip down to the front doors, past the receptionist desk, then free game.

Marc realizes what Jake is planning as soon as he puts his hand on the door knob.

“Fuck.” He mumbles to himself, feeling the urge to reach out and grab their young self, as if he could stop them from making this mistake. “Jake, come on, tell me you didn’t.”

“What? Try to commit prison break?” Jake snarks, tone a mix between offended and disbelieving. “I needed to get us out of here. You didn’t know —“

“We’re trying.” Steven mumbles to himself, caught in his own racing thoughts and leaving them on the sidelines again. Marc wants to grab him by the shoulder, step in front to guard him, but ends up staying frozen in his place when he spies an orderly appear at the end of the hallway.

The orderly and young Jake notice each other at the same time, Jake still posed to push the door open and the orderly’s mouth falling open like a fish, before it shifts into a glare. Marc doesn’t like that glare. He remembers this orderly, vaguely, as the one that would play bingo with them and give them the best prizes — ‘best’ for a mental hospital, that is, tiny stuffed animals and little hand-held games, ball mazes and rubix cubes, but still. He was nice, so he doesn’t get — get this .

I needed to get us out of here.

Wait — wait, shit. Please don’t say —

“Hey, you’re not suppose to be out here!” The orderly shouts, but Jake doesn’t flinch back. Keeps that shifty gaze, focused on the orderly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Jake doesn’t say anything. After what seems like only a brief moment of hesitation, he pushes the door open and bolts.

The orderly yells something, as does Steven, but his is more in surprise and he immediately runs after their past self as he passes into the lounge. Marc follows as well, then Jake, but they luckily don’t have to go far. The sitting room is empty this time of day — except for the orderlies, called by other’s shouts.

For all his bite, they’re still tiny. Still scrawny, skinny, looking dead on their feet like they haven’t slept well in days. When the orderlies come, Jake doesn’t really stand a chance.

They grab at them. Try to stop them from leaving. Jake throws a punch, is held down, shouts, “ ¡Vete a la mierda! ” and “ ¡No nos toques! ”, but the orderlies don’t listen. Marc feels his heart sink deeper and deeper into his chest as he watches, trying desperately to match this up to the memories he has of this place. The ball mazes and rubix cubes, crowding around the tv with the other patients to watch the ball game. It doesn’t match up. Not at all.

You didn’t know —

Shit. Shit .

“We weren’t in the hospital for ‘a few days or so’.” Jake says slowly, never taking his eyes off the scene in front of him. “It was for weeks at a time. Months, occasionally. And they weren’t always as nice as you remembered.”

Marc sucks in a breathe, almost a gasp, as more orderlies join the fray. One is holding syringe, and the others go to try and hold them down. Young Jake, snarling and spitting, makes it much harder for them. He’s pretty sure he goes to bite one of them, at one point.

“Like I said, your memories — oh, how does the saying go?” Jake mumbles to himself, then waves his hand around. “‘Walk in the park’? At least, compared to mine.”

Steven flinches again as one of the orderlies gives Jake a particularly hard shove to keep his leg in place, and Marc puts a hand on his elbow to steady him.

“Hmm.” Jake hums. “See why I didn’t want you to know?”

Steven’s head whips around from the fight to Jake, eyes getting impossibly wide. “Why wouldn’t we want to know?”

Jake tilts his head, gestures to the fight going on. The orderlies have pinned them, now, holding them down to the ground as the one injects the syringe into their neck. Marc rubs at his own unconsciously. This can’t be legal, can it? They can’t involuntary sedate patients, especially underaged ones. That’s not legal, this can’t be.

“This what I do. What I deal with.” Jake replies, simple as can be. “You don’t need to see this. Any of this.”

God, none of this is right. None of this good.

Why would — mom he gets, but why would dad ever allow for them to come here —

“That — that doesn’t mean anything .” Steven says. He’s wringing his hands together, biting at his lip, trying to vocalize what his mind is racing up. “Jake —“

“Whatever.” Jake snaps, and he starts walking away.

“Jake, wait!” Marc calls out, shaking himself free from his stupor and rushing after the other man. Steven lets out a surprised noise and follows quickly, also calling out for their third alter, who just keeps marching away towards another door at the end of the hallway Marc has a feeling isn’t leading to another part of this hospital. Not at all. “Jake, fuck, just wait for a sec’!”

He still doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop .

Marc suddenly knows how Steven must have felt, wanting answers from him and only being met with cold eyes and non-replies. Knowing that memories have been blocked from him, on purpose, to protect him and keep him away from the truth. It’s somewhat infuriating, somewhat depressing, knowing that he was on the opposite end of it not too long ago. Jesus Christ, how are they going through this again —

“Jake.” It’s Steven who finally gets the other man to stop, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument, the threat of if you don’t stop know I’ll make you . Not that scary, when they shared a body, but now that they’re separate he knows Steven will probably try to physically stop them, if he gets fed up enough. “Jake, please .”

Jake, frozen in front of them, sighs through his nose. “Let’s just — move on, sí ?”

He strides forward, towards the door which he opens and steps through, and Steven and Marc exchange glances before following.

He knows what it feels like, unfortunately, but he doesn’t know if that makes him better or worse at this.

• • •

When Steven passes through the door after Jake, the first thing he notices is how dark it is out.

It takes a moment for his vision to adjust, blinking a few times, and he looks around at where they’ve found themselves. It’s dark because it’s nighttime, the moon a waxing crescent in the sky with only a few stars visible against the inky backdrop that is the sky. Though, the street is dark as well — the streetlights far apart, many bulbs burned out and those that aren’t dim enough he has to squint to see. Brick buildings on either side, reaching up towards the sky, no cars on the street and no sound except the distant wind.

At his side, both Marc and Jake look around like they recognize the place, but to Steven it’s wholly unfamiliar and worrying.

“Where … are we?” He asks slowly, stepping closer to his alters, side-by-side as they take in the area. “I don’t recognize this place.”

“It’s Chicago still.” Marc replies easily, twisting around to look behind him and doing a full circle. “At least, I think it is. I think I can … remember being here.”

“Really?” Steven asks, not that he’s shocked Marc can remember — but more that this is Jake’s memory. Or, at least, it’s suppose to be.

Jake, beside him, doesn’t say anything. Steven remembers what he said, before back when they first found him, I only front when we’re in the middle of a fight or about to start one and presses his lips together. However, he’s stopped from saying anything more — to Marc, or to Jake, who still isn’t saying anything — by the sound of footsteps, and he turns to see their younger, teenage self walk right past him.

They look the same they did in the first memory, when Marc ran away from home, his backpack on and grim expression on his face. He can recognize the tenseness of Marc, the way his eyes shift back and forth and how he prowls, ever on a mission, never settling. Steven watches, head tilted, and wonders aloud, “Was this … just after you left the house?”

At his side, Marc hums. “Yeah. I think. It’s — kinda blurry.”

Steven nods, understanding. Trying to recall certain memories feels like blindly sticking his hand into the ocean and hoping what comes up isn’t just crumbling sand in his palm. Especially, now that he realizes, memories involving pain .

He doesn’t remember this at all.

“After I left, I just wandered for a bit, trying to figure out what to do.” Marc says, keeps going. “Eventually I walked past an army recruitment site, and … you know the rest.”

“Yeah.” Steven breaths out. “Yeah, I do.”

He risks a glance over at Jake, sees their other alter is silent but not watching their young self — no, he’s looking somewhere else, peering down a dark alley. Steven follows his gaze, Marc does too when he notices, and he has to squint to find what Jake is looking at. It takes a moment for it to appear, to spy what Jake is searching for, but when he does, Steven gasps lightly.

There’s a flash of movement. Rustling of cloth, boots on gravel. Someone’s in there. Someone’s waiting.

So of course, it’s just their luck their young self decides to take a shortcut, and turns into the alley.

“Bollocks.” Steven curses, squeezing his fingers together before rushing after their self, a nauseating feeling settling in his gut. “Marc, Jake, what’s in there?”

“I don’t know.” Marc replies immediately, and Steven can hear him grinding his teeth, clenching his fists. “I didn’t realize there was anyone in there. I was just taking a shortcut.”

He glances at Jake again. The man’s grown dark.

Steven doesn’t like this.

They all follow their young self into the alley, and Steven grows more and more nervous as he looks around. It’s dark, darker than the street, filled with garbage cans and loose trash. Easy for someone hide, then, or to be left there. Up on a window sill, way above that it’s barely visible, there’s the steady ticking of a scale.

He spies the man the same time Marc beside him does.

He jumps out from behind a big metal garbage bin just as they pass by, grabs onto their arm with a growl. At once, they try to pull away, throw a punch that never lands, because he grabs their wrist with his other hand and slams them against the wall. Their head knocks back, no doubt bruising, and the man pins them there with his body, even as they try and kick and punch and throw out curses, Steven shrinks back, feeling his breath leave his lungs all at once.

It happens all so fast he feels like he can’t even breathe, and he rubs at his chest, tight. At his side, Marc puts a hand on his elbow, and he focuses on that instead of how the man leans heavy against them and pulls out a knife to press at their throat. “Quit squirming.”

Growling, they — Jake, he can tell, the look in his eyes, the way he bares his teeth like fangs, nails digging into palms, the switch must have happened only a few moments before he must be so lost — spits back, “ Vete a la mierda. Fuck you. Let me go.”

“That’s no way to talk.” The man replies, voice void of humour. “Are you alone, then?”

“Fuck you.”

“I asked you a question.”

“Fuck you.”

“Play nice.”

“Fuck you.”

“I don’t want much, just whatever you have in that pack of yours.” The man says. He presses the knife further, drawing a few pinpricks of blood, ignoring how Jake continues to throw curses. Steven feels much the same way. “I can tell you’ve got a lot in there, been following you since you passed by some blocks back. Taking a vacation, I presume?”

Young Jake snarls. “I do not have anything.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” The man grins, but it’s not happy — predatory, sly. The knife at their throat loosens by a fraction. “You’re quite pretty, aren’t you?”

Steven sucks in a breath, moves back, and Marc keeps a hand on his elbow, grasping so tight it almost hurts, “Jake, don’t say he —“

“He didn’t.” Jake immediately says, the first thing he’s said since they got here, and Steven can’t help but turn to look at him. He seems sad almost, not quite looking at either of them or the scene in front of them, but he says the words with such conviction Steven knows he’s telling the truth. “Just … watch .”

He doesn’t want too, but he does anyways, turning back to the scene just as the man gets in close to them and whispers something in their ear he can’t pick up. But whatever it is, and makes their young face — Jake’s face — go all angry and dark and —

Jake breaks free from where he’s pinned, and knees the guy in the dick.

Steven and Marc both have to jump back, because as the man groans in pain and crumbles, Jake pushes him away and goes to kick him in the head one more time, a backpack strap tearing and sending it clattering to the pavement. Except the man reaches up, grabs their foot and pulls them back, causing them to fall to the ground on their back. Steven watches in horror, not breathing or blinking just staring as the man recovers, crawls over and climbs on top of them as they groan in pain.

“Jake.” He says, high-pitched and distressed. “Jake —!”

The young Jake can’t hear him, but he listens anyways.

He reaches around blindly, for anything to use, anything to get him away away away from them, and his hand finds a brick, hard and heavy and red in colour, covered in grime that stains his fingers.

Steven still can’t breath. Marc still doesn’t move.

“ ¡Suéltame, hijo de puta! ” The young Jake yells, so so so angry , and he swings at the man with the brick with all his strength, and then —

The man collapses on top of them with the sickening crunch of brick against bone.

Steven reels back, and even Marc flinches away when the man falls right over them, body nothing but a heap of muscle and dead weight. Beside them, Jake is as tense as a trained soldier, except he doesn’t know his mission. Instead he just stares, breathing tight through his nose with clenched fists, and stares and stares and stares.

Steven wants to reach out towards him. He doesn’t.

In front of them, the young Jake pushes the man off before getting to his knees. Takes a shaky breath. He drops the brick matted with blood and something else, more fleshy and firm, breathing hard as he looks down at the man now laying on his side on the dirty pavement beside him. It looks like a crime scene from some cop drama, eyes wide open and bloodshot, jaw slanted like he broke it on the way down. He’s bleeding all over the alley, the red red red staining the ground and his stupid clothes and the young Jake turns so he’s facing him. Reaches out towards him.

He touches the wound, bleeding red. His hand comes back stained.

“ Mierda .” He says. Voice barley above a whisper, then firmer. “ ¡Mierda, mierda! ”

His skull must be broken, shattered to pieces, sinew and bone crushed together and when he touches it again it all shifts and there’s blood everywhere and oh, god, Jake, what have you done —

“Jake.” Steven says, not even sure who he’s talking too — the scruffy man beside him or the lost boy, still kneeling on the pavement with blood on his young hands. “Jake?”

“Don’t say anything.” The man snaps, whirling on Steven like a live wire about to explode, an animal backed into a corner. “You can’t judge me. You don’t know, you don’t fucking know everything I’ve —“

Marc comes to Steven’s side, one step in front of him. “Nobody here is —“

“You can’t fucking judge me!” Jake yells, as if he doesn’t even hear them. Like he doesn’t even know who he’s talking to, where he is, so caught up in his own thoughts and the blood on his hands. “I do what I have to! Because my first time fronting when she wasn’t around, when we weren’t trapped in that stupid hospital was — was this .”

He gestures to their young self, who looks resigned in himself, suddenly. Face battle hardened, not unlike a soldier’s, hands clenched and causing the blood to cover his palms. Much too old for a boy. Much too old for someone so young. The Jake of the present growls, turns back to them, face much the same.

“The first time I ever fronted without pain I was forced to cause it.” He says, voice still as angry as before but with an undercurrent of pain as well, caused by his own creation. “To protect us. To protect you two. So you don’t — you don’t get to say anything. You don’t, you don’t —“

Steven swallows, wanting to reach out, but knowing he shouldn’t. “Jake, please —“

“No — no, you can’t - you can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t let them I can’t let her —“

“Jake!”

“— she’s gonna, she’s gonna — I can’t — no puedo dejarla —“

“ Jake! ”

• • •

“Excuse me, can you hear me? Can you understand me right now?”

Jake startles, words cutting off in a violent gasp.

Steven and Marc are gone. There’s nobody calling his name. He’s in an office, clean and stark white, not a spec of colour or dirt to be found anywhere. But he can’t even be grateful, because Steven and Marc are gone, and his mouth is still mumbling, and there’s someone staring at him. No Steven and Marc. No Marc and Steven.

Now, there’s only — only him.

“ Oye , cabrón !” Jake comes back to himself, immediately jumps up and grabs for a weapon. He only finds a pen that’s not even uncapped, and he points it at the man sitting across the desk from him. “ Quedarse, quedarse — stay the fuck back!”

Harrow — because it’s definitely him, even with the fancy haircut and new glasses and stupid fucking moustache — flinches a bit, but doesn’t buckle. In fact, his resolve seems to harden, because he keeps his voice decidedly calm when he says, “And you must be Jake, I presume.”

He steps back, still brandishing his pen like a knife. Fuck this guy. Jake fucking hates this guy.

“Don’t get any closer.” He warns, even though Harrow isn’t moving — he’s definitely on high-alert, sitting up in his chair, but not moving. “Don’t get any closer, or I’ll fucking — te mataré - I’ll kill - I’ll fucking kill you.”

“I just want to talk, Jake.” Harrow says, still in that stupidly calm tone that makes Jake want to stab him or even himself. “I’ve already spoken to Marc and Steven today, so I’m glad we have this opportunity together.”

Jake narrows his eyes at him. Last time they ‘talked’, their body ended up with two bullets in it, so sue him for not believing this guy. “You talked to Marc and Steven?”

“Yes. Just a few minutes ago, actually.” Harrow answers, nodding.

His anger turns to confusion, and his mouth falls into a frown. The other two — they mentioned Harrow, or ‘Doctor Harrow’, or whatever. This man isn’t a doctor. This is unethical. Everything he says are just lies, but if Marc and Steven said they know him, maybe he’s not lying about this. “They mentioned you.”

“Oh, good.” Harrow says, chuckling a bit, before he turns serious again. He gestures to the chair opposite him, which Jake had just jumped out of. “Please take a seat. I promise, I only want to do what I did with Marc and Steven — talk.”

Jake assesses the situation. Harrow doesn’t seem to have a weapon on him, no knives hidden in canes or guns in jackets, and there’s only one door in-and-out of the room which Jake is closer to. There’s lots of sharp objects he can grab, including the pen he’s still brandishing, and he can beat Harrow in a fight with no problems, weapons or no. The bastardo just got lucky last time, because Marc was an idiot. Which is also why he needs to get them as far away from his man as possible. Or, get Harrow as far away from them as possible.

Except, with everything else going on … he has a feeling he’s not going to be getting out of this room until Harrow (or, whoever the fuck this is suppose to be — because this isn’t the exact Harrow they know, stupid glasses and stupid moustache and stupid haircut) lets them out.

And that means they’re going to have talk, doesn’t it?

“Please sit down, Jake.” Harrow must notice the indecisiveness in his face. He glances between Jake and his brandished pen. “And I would appreciate it if you stop using my pen as a sword, as well.”

Jake doesn’t take his eyes off him. “It’s not even open.”

“Just sit.”

He huffs, but does slowly slip back into the chair, keeping one eye on Harrow the entire time even when he sits straight-back against the uncomfortable plastic. As a show of goodwill, he places the pen on the desk, parallel to the edge, and eyes all the other trinkets Harrow has on it. Some books. A statue. An odd sort of glass pyramid. That looks sharp. He could use that.

“Please stop eyeing up my desk.” Harrow says, exasperated. “Do you think I can’t tell what you’re doing?”

Jake’s attention snaps to him, and he gives him his most withering glare that often means people are about to be stabbed. “No. I think you’re an idiota .”

“I don’t need to speak Spanish to know what you just called me.” Harrow sighs. Jake has a feeling he’s going to be doing a lot of that during … whatever the hell this conversation turns out to be. “Look, I promise you I’m not here to hurt you —“

“Bullshit.”

“Please mind your language while in my office.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oookay.” Harrow looks like he wants to roll his eyes but is stomping down the urge. Jake doesn’t, and makes a big show of it, just to piss him off. “Well, I didn’t hurt Marc and Steven, so why would I hurt you?”

“Because you’re an gilipollas .”

Harrow’s brows pinches together. “If that’s what you believe, but today I want to talk about you .”

“Bad idea.”

“No, it’s a good idea. I already spoke to Marc and Steven about this … situation. About all of you finally meeting.” Harrow says, each word sounded carefully picked, like he’s riffling through a dictionary to hide his true meaning. “That’s a good place to start; how are you feeling about finally meeting your alters?”

Jake shrugs. From his perspective, he’s known about them since around their preteens, so this whole meeting thing was a bit one-sided. “Fine, I guess.”

“Is that all?” Harrow asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because Marc and Steven both had quite the feelings about it.”

“Well, I already knew about them.” Jake replies, raising an eyebrow back. “They’re meeting me for the first time. It’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“How — what the fuck is that suppose to mean? It’s obvious.”

“How’s it obvious?”

“What the fuck are you asking me?”

“I’m asking how it’s different meeting your alters than it is for them meeting you.”

These questions are making his head spin, vision cloudy, and he grabs the armrest so tight the plastic digs into the palm of his hand. It stings. The pain focuses him. “Cus’ I knew about them before. They didn’t know about me. I didn’t want them to know about me. That’s how it’s different, because I know them and I — and they don’t, and it makes them —“

Steven, wide-eyed. Marc, narrow and suspicious. Harrow hums, and taps his cane. “And it makes them … what?”

Jake swallows. He knows what it does, but he doesn’t want to say it. It clogs his throat, builds up an annoying pressure behind his eyes. It’s something he’s never said aloud, because he doesn’t want to and doesn’t know how, doesn’t know how to deal with the consequences that saying it aloud would entail. For Steven. For Marc. For his place beside them.

“What does it make them, Jake?”

But this asshole won’t quit fucking asking.

“Scared.” He finally says, voice a lot quieter than he wants it be. “It makes them scared of me.”

That’s the truth. That’s always the truth. They’re scared of him, because they don’t know him, because — he needs to hide himself. He needs to, or they’ll be scared. He needs to hide, or they’ll be hurt. Hurt by the fear. Hurt by everything.

Harrow shifts in his chair, and starts to say, “I’m sure they aren’t —“

“They are. They fucking are, because they saw when —“ Jake cuts himself off. He’s not telling him that. He can’t tell him that. Outrage simmers low in his chest, at both Harrow indignation and his stupid questions. “They saw all the bad shit I had to do to keep them safe and I never wanted them to fucking see that.”

“You didn’t want them to see it?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why?”

“Because — because they’ll hate me. They’ll be scared of me. Because they won’t let me protect them anymore, and I can’t let that happen.” He recalls all the memories, the ones locked behind hospital doors and the few that were open, and swallows. He doesn’t know why he’s telling him this. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop. “I can’t let anything else happen to them.”

They’ve already been through so much. All of them. Randall’s death. Mom’s anger. Dad’s inaction. The mental hospital, the army, bleeding out on the steps to Khonshu’s temple. Dealing with the ultimatums life has given them, the bad hand they were dealt. Jake tries his damned hardest but for some reason bad luck seems drawn to them and he can never do enough. But he tries.

Oh, he fucking tries. He’ll keep trying, as long as it takes, for them to be safe. That’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

Across from at the desk, Harrow hums in thought. “It’s sound like you care for them.”

“Of course I do.” Jake snaps. Unlike Marc, he’s not allergic to admitting his emotions, even though he’s never really had to before. “That’s why I protect them. Why I can’t let them see what they want to see.”

“Is that why you also kept yourself hidden for so long? You said you knew about them before, but they didn’t know about you.” Harrow asks, and Jake bristles. He has no right to ask that. That is — that is Jake’s business. Jake’s decision. Harrow doesn’t need to know why.

“I want to leave.” He growls. “Is leaving an option?”

“I would like you to answer the question, Jake.”

“Fuck you.”

Harrow glares. “Fine, let me rephrase this. Why do you not interact with Marc and Steven?”

This man is unrelenting, and usually Jake can admire that in a person, but right now he really just wants to punch him in the face. “Because I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t.”

“ Why? ”

“I — what I do. I deal with the pain they can’t handle. I dish it out, too, so they don’t have to.” He admits, Harrow’s relentless questions making his head hurt and mouth feel loose. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to be here. “I need to protect them by causing pain but I can’t — I need to protect them.”

Harrow tilts his head, inquisitive, and rocks back and forth in his chair. “And you think, because of that, you can’t reveal yourself to them? You can’t talk to them, interact with them?”

“You don’t know anything.” He snaps back.

Harrow sighs again. That seems to be a common reaction from him. “I’m just trying to understand and help you, Jake.”

“As if.” Yeah, the fucker that shot them? He’s here to help , surely. Fuckface.

“Just answer my question.” Harrow stops moving, uncrosses his legs and leans forward on his cane, peering over his stupid glasses at Jake who just wants to take those stupid things off and hit him with them. “Do you think, that because you hurt people and were born of hurt yourself, you can’t interact with Steven and Marc?”

“I — I don’t know. They have their lives, I guess.” He says, just to get the man to stop looking at him like that. He grips the chair tight, feels the plastic break the skin of his palms. “Their own things going on. They don’t need me for that. They don’t need me to hurt them by getting involved.”

Harrow leans back, but tilts his head again. “But does it hurt you? Doing that?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it hurt you?”

“You need to shut the fuck up.” He needs to shut the fuck up. Jake needs to make him shut the fuck up.

“Does it hurt you, Jake?”

“Yes, of fucking course it does!” He finally blows, jumping up to slam his hands on the table, making everything clatter and shake and Harrow still doesn’t bat a fucking eye. “But it’s what I have to do, and it’s all I’ve ever done, and I fucking deserve it — I can’t mess them up with what I do.” He breathes out. There’s a spec of blood on the once-clean desk, coming from his palms. “I can’t hurt them.”

He can’t hurt them. He can’t hurt them. He only causes pain and he can’t hurt them, he has to protect them from the pain but if he’s the one who causes it —

“So you think you only deserve pain.” Harrow says, calm as can be, and causing Jake to glare more heavily at him. “Is that it?”

“No, no, I —“ Jake doesn’t know what to say to that. This guy isn’t a real therapist. He can’t say things like this. “— I don’t. Only people who hurt others for the fun of it ‘deserve’ pain. I don’t do that. I don’t think that.”

“Then what do you think?”

“I need to protect them. Marc and Steven.” Slowly, he slips back into his seat, if only so that Harrow doesn’t try to shoot them again or something. He wants to shoot him back. Two for two. “I can’t hurt them. That’s my role here, and nothing more.”

“Well, see, the thing is — people are not easily defined into ‘roles’. They are complex, multifaceted. To define them to one specific trait is a disservice to them.” Harrow leans back, holds his cane with one hand and gestures towards Jake with the other. “Take you three, for example. You are all different people, with many aspects to yourselves. Do you believe that?”

Jake leans back too, crosses his arms instead. “Believe what?”

“That you, Marc and Steven are different people?”

What the fuck kinda question is that? “Of course I do.”

That’s one thing he’s never doubted, because he knows it’s true. Jake likes doing the daily crosswords in magazines when he’s bored and has the time. His favourite snack is chocolate covered raisins and he knows more Spanish then the other two combined. Steven’s a vegan because he’s a soft-heart and prefers grapes to raisins because he can’t stand them, and Marc has no opinion on the matter because he doesn’t like sweet stuff, he likes salt, while Jake finds it burns his mouth and whenever Steven eats anything that is even remotely sour his face scrunches up like he’s having a seizure.

The point being; Jake knows he’s different from Marc and Steven, if for reasons other than just their snack preferences. That’s the whole point — he can’t protect them if he wasn’t.

“Good.” The corner of Harrow’s lip twitches, like he’s in on a joke Jake doesn’t know about, but it disappears as quick as it came. “But see, that’s the point. You and Marc and Steven are all different people, which means you all have your own quirks. Your own fears, interests.”

“I already know that, Doc’.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t need ya’ preaching it to me.”

“Well, here’s my question, then.” Harrow leans forward again, and Jake sinks further into his chair, and feels his hand twitch for — for anything. Anything he could use as a weapon. “Who are you, Jake Lockley, outside of a protector?”

His hand stops. His thoughts do, too.

Nobody’s ever asked him that before.

Nobody’s ever asked him much of anything, before, given not many know of his existence — nobody does, actually. He’s never fronted for long periods of time before, and in those times he’s usually beating someone up or getting beat up. Occasionally, he’ll be around Layla or that French guy or one of Marc’s other ‘work friends’, even rarer be around someone who knows Steven, but he’s good enough at replicating their accents and if he can’t, it’s common for people to speak in their native language when under stress.

Though, pretending to be Marc or Steven, never explaining who he actually is — that means nobody knows him. Who he is, what he does. But that’s okay. That’s what he does, and what he’ll continue to do. It keeps Marc and Steven safe, away from the pain he causes, and if they’re safe then Jake is happy. He’s not lonely, he isn’t. He can’t feel lonely because he’s never been not-alone.

Except …

That’s all he’s ever done. He doesn’t know anything different, besides the not-alone feeling. He doesn’t know anything outside of what he does for Marc and Steven. He doesn’t know anything outside of being their protector.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know .

After a few moments of what he’s sure is just blank staring on Harrow’s end, Jake tries to answer. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows. Start again. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” Harrow asks, but in that tone people use when they do actually know something but are pretending not too to make him say it aloud.

“I don’t — I just said I don’t know. I just protect them.” He grits his teeth together, so hard a tooth probably cracks. Has he even been to the dentist? Have any of them? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He wants to get out of here. “Quit drilling me.”

“Okay, alright. Let’s step back for a moment and examine this.” Harrow puts his hands up, placating, before clasping them together to lean on his elbows. “You agree you’re all separate people. People are seldom defined by one trait, and yet you keep defining yourself by one trait, and letting that one trait hurt you over the belief that you’ll hurt the ones you’re protecting.”

Jake sneers. “I hate you.”

“I appreciate the honesty.” Harrow doesn’t miss a beat. “Why do you keep defining yourself by one trait?”

“Because I don’t mind it.” That’s the truth. That’s the truth. Because even with his crossword puzzles and raisins and ability to speak two tongues, he knows deep down, he doesn’t care for any of that as long as he knows the other two are safe. That he can keep them safe. “I protect them. I want to do that. And I don’t — it hurts, that I can’t interact with them, but I don’t care if it keeps them safe.”

He knows that. He doesn’t know who he is outside of that, but he does know that — he wants to protect them. And he’s okay with that.

“You want to protect Marc and Steven?” Harrow clarifies, sounding a bit baffled for the first time this conversation. Good, be confused, fucker.

Jake rolls his eyes. As if he could be talking about anything else. “Yes, of course I do.”

“And I’m sure they appreciate your protection.” Harrow says, recovering quickly from his momentary lapse in judgment, and jumping straight back into his stupid therapists persona. Jake could play a better therapist than him. “But if I know those two, they wouldn’t like the fact that you think your whole identity is based around that. And I don’t think they would enjoy the fact you think you would hurt them just by existing.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Jake asks, before clarifying, “I mean, that’s all I do — protect them. And I’m okay with it, I like doing it. But it is all I do.”

Harrow hums again, leaning on his cane. “Maybe at the beginning, before you settling into your own identity outside of just taking your mother’s abuse. But you’re a real person, we agreed on that, did we not?”

Jake glares at him. He hates that woman. He hates her so much, almost as much as Harrow and Bushman and all the others who have hurt them all so much in the past, and Harrow has no right or reason to bring her up right now. Jake wants to kill him. He’s going to kill him, stupid getup or not. “I don’t think you’re a real therapist.”

Harrow frowns. “Then think of me as a friend who wants to help you.”

“I’m kinda thinking of stabbing you right now.” He shot them. He’s the one who shot them and the one he couldn’t protect them from and he fucking shot them —

“Many do.” Harrow chuckles at his own joke, but when he notices it only makes Jake’s glare infest, he stops immediately and turns serious again. “All I am saying, Jake, is that you might be a protector, but you can also be more than that, too. And having your whole identity revolving on a lynchpin like that — it is unhealthy, and it is harming you.”

“What if I don’t want to be anything beside being a protector?” He asks, voice a lot more quiet than he meant for it to be. “Even if the other two don’t appreciate it?”

“That’s your choice, but I suggest you explore yourself a bit more before deciding.” Harrow pauses, drumming his fingers of his cane, then adds, “I also suggest you try to communicate with Marc and Steven a bit more.”

Jake scoffs. Yeah. As fucking if.

He saw their reactions, when they watched him kill that man in the alley. He saw their fear, their anxiety, when they opened the sarcophagus. How Marc kept standing between him and Steven, rightfully paranoid of the new stranger that shared their face. Steven’s worry-filled glances his way, his shakiness when he asked if he was the one who killed those people. The blood on their hands. The danger in their mind. Caution, keep out.

They’re afraid of him. And fear leads to hatred, and hatred leads to pain. Jake was created of pain and he causes it. They have a right to hate him.

“We just met.” He finally settles on saying, because there’s no way he’ll tell Harrow all of that. The stupid bastard probably already knows, anyways. “They hate me. They’re scared of me.”

“I don’t think that. I think they’re wary of you, but all people are when meeting someone new.” Harrow replies, still tapping out a rhythm on the head of his cane. It doesn’t look like an alligator. Jake almost wishes it did, so he’d be more like himself. “Besides, give more credit to your protectees. They’re smart, and stronger than you know.”

Jake huffs. “What’s that suppose to mean?”

Harrow leans back, seeming pleased as a clam, and finally stops tapping to instead swivel back and forth in his chair again. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I still don’t think you’re a real therapist. I still think you shot us, and when we get out of this hospital, I’m going to kill you for that.” That is one thing Jake knows. Harrow is a dead man when he gets out of here, and even if this version of him is just a figment of their mind — he needs to let him know his days are numbered. “But thanks for the advice I didn’t ask for, I guess.”

Harrow smiles ruefully. “Hope it helped.”

“Fuck off.” Jake says, before he blinks, and he’s —

• • •

— back here again.

“Oh — oh, thank the bloody stars. There you are, mate!”

Steven’s kneeling in front of him, worried face all he can see, and Jake feels two warm hands on his shoulders. It’s Steven’s, of course, who smiles shakily when Jake blinks at him, with Marc hovering anxiously behind him. It takes a few moments, for Jake to adjust to the darkness around them, and he looks around at wherever they’ve ended up instead of at his alters to avoid their respectively worried-and-confused gazes.

It — it’s not the alley way from before, that’s for sure. They’re in a room. Their bedroom, he thinks, with the only light coming from the full moon pouring in through the open window and the small lamp at their desk. It’s quiet outside, no one banging at the door, which is why he can spy their younger self sitting at their desk, hunched over a school binder scribbling down notes. They’re around eleven maybe, grown up but still skinny and scrawny. The sound of their writing is the only thing filling the room.

Jake doesn’t remember this. Or, he does, but it’s faint. Like breath on a mirror, dissipating as soon as he tries to focus on it.

“Where are we?” He asks, voice somewhat hoarse, as Steven looks up and around like he’s only just noticed their new location as well.

His alter hums, and stands up, warm hands slipping from his shoulders to wring together. “I dunno. Can’t remember exactly. It seems vaguely familiar, though. Marc?”

“Kinda of.” Marc replies. “It’s, uh — I think this was when … when she started leaving. For a few years or so she would head out at night to drink at bars instead of wallowing around the house. Dad said she needed to ‘get out more’, so she did. For a bit it was … okay, then. At least a night.”

Steven shuffles closer to their young self, who’s humming quietly and tapping their foot as they do so. There’s a soft smile on their face as they write, and when he leans over their shoulder, it looks like maths homework. No wonder they seem happy, then. She was gone, and left them free. Or — Marc free. If she’s gone, Steven and Jake shouldn’t be here, right?

Though, as Steven draws nearer, he finds he honestly can’t tell who it is, controlling the body right now. It’s — well, maybe it’s him, looking at how their hands move. Maybe it’s Marc, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Maybe it’s Jake, judging by the faint mumblings that sound vaguely Spanish. They’re young. They’re so young, so it can’t be all of them, right now. Can it?

“Do you … know, who it is?” He asks lightly, trying to start a conversation as they all watch themselves walk past. He hears Jake get to his feet, and is reminded of his alter that had just seemed to … disappeared, right in front of him. He’ll have to ask about that. “I can’t really tell.”

Which is odd, because just standing side-by-side with them now, Steven can tell the difference between him and the others — it’s easy, night-and-day, different as anybody. Except, staring at themselves at the desk, working on maths, he can’t figure it out.

“I — look, I don’t know … exactly, how most of this works.” Marc sighs, gesturing around at — them, maybe. Their past self, blissfully unaware. “But this is … early. Maybe we’re not all … formed, yet.”

Steven presses his lips together, wringing his hands. As soon as he gets the chance, he has to start looking into this more. Except, after a few brief moments of silence accented only by the sound of moving pencils and ticking clocks, Jake breaks it.

“Look, are we almost done here?” He asks, moving towards the door that will no doubt lead them away from here, onto the next memory. “We should get going.”

“Wait, Jake —“ Steven jumps forward, grabs onto his arm before he can get away. He’s proud of the fact he’s not punched immediately, even if Jake does tense up beneath his hand. “— where did you go?”

“ ¿Perdóname? ”

“Just now.” He lets go of his arm and gestures around a bit, not really at anything, but just in general. “You — you went all distant, like I did before. And that Marc did, before we ended up in … here, the first time. Like you weren’t even with us anymore.”

It’s not so much a question more then a confirmation, an inquiry, but when Jake doesn’t answer Marc just bites the bullet instead. “You spoke with Harrow, didn’t you?”

Jake immediately snaps around to glare at him, and says, “How do you know?”

“Because we all talked with him, dumbass.” Marc rolls his eyes. It’s a dumb question, but Steven thinks Jake wasn’t actually confused. More just … delaying. Starting a fight. Though, Marc does soften after a moment. Gets quieter. “What did he say to you?”

Now Jake rolls his eyes, crossing his arms defensively. “Just a bunch of bullshit, not a big deal.”

“Like what?” This time Steven asks, stepping up, because he feels like he might have more luck than Marc who gives off ever-present ‘talking about anything in a healthy manner is a weakness’ vibes.

Jake’s glare gets deeper. “Why do you care?”

“Cus’ I do.” Steven states simply. “We’re suppose to be opening to up to eachother, yeah? What did he say?”

“Just bullshit, I told you.” Jake says, words much more tight than they had been before. “You know, asking … que es la palabra — invasive questions. Staying stupidly calm as he psychoanalysis us. The usual.”

Jake seems to be done wanting to talk about this, but Steven won’t let him — after everything they’ve been through here, everything they’ve shown eachother, he needs to know. If Jake is okay. If he isn’t. “What kinda questions?”

His alter snorts, humourlessly. “You sound like him.”

“Sorry, I’m just …” He apologizes, knowing how much they all hate Harrow — well, maybe not hate-hate, but vehemently dislike — but still, unable to finish his sentence.

Jake takes pity on him, luckily. “Wondering?”

“Yeah.” He mumbles back.

“Look, it wasn’t anything serious, alright?” Jake sighs, arms flying out to gesture around widely, as if he’s having a conversation with himself. “Just — things like ‘oh, what do you want to do with your life, Jake!’ and ‘oh, you should communicate with Marc and Steven more, Jake!’” He snorts again. “And also some bullshit about pain, but whatever.”

That catches his attention. “Pain?”

“Yeah?”

“Like …” He tries to find the right words, unable to settle. “What pain?”

“Well, asking me if I think I deserve it, and shit — and I don’t! I don’t think that.” Jake says and corrects, before Steven can even comprehend the words and react to them. “And, uh, other things. About what I do.”

Steven doesn’t know what he means by that, but Marc does, because he steps up to Steven’s side and gives Jake a hard stare. “He said you cause pain, didn’t he?”

“No, he didn’t.” Jake snaps immediately. When neither of them say anything else, the silence seems to get to him, because he admits, quieter. “I did.”

Steven’s heart, already feeling shattered, seems to crumble even more. So much so there’s a pain , deep in his chest, right where Marc and Jake sit when they share a body. “Jake …”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Jake snaps, crossing his arms again and taking a few steps back, eyes darting nervously around the room at everything except them. “I mean — Harrow tried to say it wasn’t, but we all know we can’t trust that bastardo. I was made from pain and I cause it. That’s why I can’t —“

He cuts himself off, and Marc picks up where he left off. “Can’t what?”

“Be here. With you guys.” Jake answers, simply. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s a truth . “I’ll just hurt you, eventually.”

Steven — Steven sucks in a breath, heart hurting so much he has to squeeze his hands tight to ignore it, because — because there’s no way Jake can believe that, can believe that he’s dangerous, that he’s hurtful, that he only —

What did Marc believe, again? A cruel voice whispers in his head, unlike the rest he shares it with. Unworthy of love? Deserving of heartache?

Oh, bloody hell. He can’t — he has to deal with this. He has to fix this.

“Of course you — you’re not just made for pain, Jake.” He finally says, voice trembling even as he tries to make the words as firm as he can, as truthful as he can to dispel any other notions. “You’re a real person, just like the rest of us and — and I don’t think you would hurt us.”

Jake curls his lip back, bares his teeth, but it’s not menacing. More defensive, like someone faced with a new, scary unknown, and it breaks his heart. “How do you know , then?”

“Because …” Steven thinks. He thinks about the memories, about Jake flanking him, watching his six at every opportunity. The way he hovers, around him and Marc both, the way he growls at Taweret and swears at anyone trying to harm them.

He thinks of their bedroom. He thinks of mum.

“Because I do.” Steven says, voice less shaky now, less trembly. “I’ve seen your memories, Jake. We both have. That’s how I — we — know.”

Jake doesn’t say anything, just hangs his head, and Steven presses his lips together. He doesn’t wring his hands, though. He doesn’t know what to do.

He knows exactly what to do.

“You protect us, both of us, any chance you get. No matter what it costs to you. That’s how I know.” He states. “You would never do anything to hurt us, purposely. Because you’re good .”

And then, Steven hugs him.

He doesn’t know exactly why he does it. Maybe because he knows what it’s like, to know you were created because of pain. Maybe because he can see Jake is hurt, shaped by the pain he’s felt and the pain he’s caused in his snippet life. Maybe because he knows what it’s like, to be trapped in a sarcophagus, stifled by the darkness.

He does know what he expects, though. To be pushed away. To be yelled at, snapped at with sharp teeth. Maybe punched, if he’s unlucky enough.

Except, Jake doesn’t do any of that. He only stiffens under his arms, and Steven doesn’t let go, and for a moment he thinks that maybe he broke him — the hardened face and toughened fists, killed with a single hug.

Then Jake lets out a shaky breath and asks in a tight voice, “What are you doing?”

“Hugging ya’. Pretty obvious?” Steven mumbles, head resting against his shoulder, not much unlike his hug with Marc earlier, when they first met in this hellish place. “Is it okay?”

Jake doesn’t answer, and instead asks another question. “Why?”

Steven hums. “Cus’ you deserve a life with us as much as anyone, Jake.”

Jake freezes under him again, and this is where it happens. All the pushing, the screaming — before, suddenly, Jake trembles .

And wraps his arms around him too.

He says nothing, but the way he’s shaking in Steven’s arms is enough. He holds on tightly enough it hurts, arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer, forehead resting on his shoulder. He’s not crying, but trembling like he is, and Steven holds him back just as tightly. In his arms is a man who’s been through hell for them, and nobody’s ever thanked him for it.

“Thank you.” Steven says, wanting to rectify that immediately. “I — I might not agree, morally, with what you do, but … but I get it. And I’m grateful for what you’ve done. So … thank you. For everything.”

Jake doesn’t say anything, but the way he clings to Steven answers enough. For a few moments, they stand there swaying, until he hears a pointed clearing of a throat and looks up to see Marc is standing only a bit away, looking awkward as he waits for them to — to finish, or pull apart, or something. He stands stiffly, feet planted firmly to the ground and fists clenched, like he doesn’t know what’s going on and thus is angry with it.

Steven just smiles, not even thinking, and reaches out to grab his arm and drag Marc into them as well.

He isn’t strong enough to fully pull him over, but Marc still yelps and stumbles forward, knocking into Jake enough to dislodge Steven’s other arm from where it’s still wrapped around his neck. However, Jake recovers the quickest of all of them and repositions himself so he has one arm around both their shoulders, and pulls them closer to his sides. Steven snorts, but allows it to happen and wraps his arms around Jake again and Marc in turn. Under his arm, Marc tenses.

“Guys, we don’t —“ Marc tried, squirming, but they both tighten their grip on him automatically. “We really don’t have —“

“Shush, Marc.” Steven replies, closing his eyes and leaning his head in, so it bumps against Jake’s chin and the scruff along his cheeks scratches his forehead. “Just enjoy it.”

Jake barks a laugh. Marc grumbles. Steven just smiles, and takes his own advice to enjoy the moment.

Except, they only get about five seconds of peace before Taweret interrupts them with the next major kerfuffle they’ll have to deal with.

“Boys, you’re going to wanna come see this!”

• • •

When they all pull away from each other and run back to the deck of the boat, they find there’s things crawling  up the sides.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Steven mumbles at his side, and Marc has to agree with him. He raises his voice and asks, “Taweret, what's happening?”

The hippo is currently at the helm of the boat, staring over the sea of sand dunes at the large, overbearing gates they’re slowly making their way towards. Marc feels his breath catch in his throat when he sees them, tall pillars that seem to be shining blindingly against the purple-gold backdrop of the sky. However, at Steven’s question, the goddess turns and lets out a tiny belt that could be out of worry or sympathy, he doesn’t know.

“I’m so sorry, but your scales never balanced! You — you were close, but something’s still missing!” She shouts, over the sound of growling at the sides of the boat. Marc wants to focus on that, what could possibly be missing, they’ve shown eachother everything — but doesn’t have the time before she adds, “I’ll try to get you as close as I can to the Gates, but — our journey's come to an end. I cannot stop the inevitable.”

“What does that mean?!” It’s surprisingly Jake who spits out the question, stepping closer to his side and turning to face the starboard side of the boat. Marc presses back as well, as does Steven, and they all end up back-to-back. “And why are there  … there zombies coming up the sides?”

Taweret shakes her head sadly, and Marc is kinda regretting not attacking her when they had the chance, because he hates it when people do shit like that. “Your scales aren’t balanced, so now the other unbalanced souls of the Duat must claim yours.”

One of the things finally manages to get over the side of the boat, and Marc sucks in a breath through his teeth when he realizes he recognizes them. While crumbling to sand with gaping wound, bloody cuts and broken bones, he can recognize them. He always recognizes them.

“Oh, they don't look very friendly.” Steven says. Him and Jake have ended up manoeuvring themselves to they each stand facing a side of the boat, with Steven caught between them. More things — Jake called them zombies, that’s a good descriptor — are crawling up the sides, snarling and spitting and out for blood, and Steven shrinks back. “Guys, what are we suppose to do now?”

“ Hide .” Marc and Jake both say at the same time, before jumping into action.

It’s been awhile since he’s fought like this, without the Moon Knight suit and no weapons at his disposal. He will admit he’s a bit underprepared, since even before he’s never been much of a fist fighter, but Jake seems in his element — his alter fights side-by-side with him, punching heads into dust and laughing while he does so, as Steven scurries off somewhere to hide. Steven can’t fight for shit, he knows. Better if he hides. Can’t get hurt that way.

Jake stays near the edges of the boat, cutting down those who try to climb up, while Marc picks up the stragglers. He doesn’t know where Taweret is, where she disappeared to, but what he does know is the familiar faces he’s fighting against.

“Gabon.” He notes, noticing the baseball cap of one shuffling towards him. Then a football jersey, number displayed proudly, an expensive winter coat. “Dubai. New York.”

“Guilty conscience!” Jake cries from somewhere behind him, grin in his words.

He scoffs. “Not anymore.”

They’re just sand, after all. Sand and dust, because when he hits one it crumbles to a pile at his feet, lifeless and never more. He wonders how many of these people actually believed in the Duat, were actually unbalanced enough to be cursed to it (he killed them on Khonshu’s orders, after all, so they weren’t good , not by a long shot). Or, if they’re just what shape the sands have taken, picked from the recess of his mind to torture all of them.

His thoughts catch up to him, and something grabs his ankle.

He cries out when the thing grabbing him pulls, sending him falling to the deck and banging his chin on the wood. His teeth rattle and he bites his tongue, but doesn’t feel any pain, even when the thing starts dragging him by his ankle towards the side of the boat. He can’t break out of it’s grip, nails digging into his skin even as he twists and turns and shouts, tries kicking at it with it’s other leg only to have that one grabbed as well. He can’t see, angle too awkward and movement too shaky to try and look up, and he blindly tries to break free but they just keep dragging him —

He hears Jake yell something, footsteps coming closer, before cursing at another one of the things — “ ¡Fuera de mi camino, pedazo de mierda! ” — and stopping abruptly with a crash. Fear grips his heart, overwhelming and painful, and Marc tries desperately to dig his nails into the deck, anything to stop them from dragging him away. So the unbalanced souls of the Duat must claim yours.

He can’t, not now, not when they’re so close, not after he’s met Jake and talked with Steven, not now after everything —

“ Stay the bloody hell away from him! ”

Sand comes raining down on top of him, and Marc coughs.

But the hands on his ankles are gone, and he immediately scrambles away, gets to his feet and whips around. He’s close to the side, just about to be pulled over, but what really makes him pause is the fact that Steven — Steven , with his soft curls and blue pyjamas and stupid, stupid kind eyes — is holding a baseball bat, and beating the everloving shit out of a group of zombies.

Well, fuck me. Marc thinks. He can fight. When did Steven learn to fight?

He knocks the head off one, swings around to do the same to another, and when a third approaches beats that one too. Marc stays standing and watching, gasping for breath as his alter beats the one zombie into a pile of dust and keeps going even after that. But, when he notices Marc staring, he just grins.

“ SIX !” Steven shouts, throwing his hands up into the arm with an elated grin on his face, as if Marc would ever know what that means, still holding the baseball bat like a child showing off at their first game. When he notices their blank stares, he adds, almost sheepish, “I prefer cricket.”

Marc can’t help but laugh. It’s Steven, of course he’s — of course he’s like this.

However, his momentary lapse into amusement stops abruptly when he hears a deep voice cry out in Spanish curse words, and he whips around to see Jake wrestling with another one of the zombies. It’s big — Marc can remember that one, Berlin, that was strong enough to break his nose even through the suit when he nailed him in the face — and has Jake caught in a headlock, leading him towards the side of the boat. It was probably the one that stopped him before, from getting to Marc, and both him and Steven immediately run towards their alter to help him out.

“Jake!” Steven cries, holding the baseball bat tightly in two hands. “Let go of him, arsehole!”

Steven swings and nails the zombie in the head, causing it drop Jake, who collapses against the side of the boat, breathing heavily. The hit had taken out about half its head, and when it turns towards Steven with a growl, he hits it again and takes off the rest of it. Marc, close enough to kick at it, does so and takes its arm off before it dissolves into dust, revealing Jake standing behind it, still leaning against the side of the boat, but now grinning a grin that’s all teeth.

“ Jesucristo, Stevie, when did you learn to fight?” Jake asks, laughter leaking in between his pants.

“Same body, innit?” Steven asks rhetorically, as if that explains it, before he glares lightly. “And don’t call me Stevie. I just saved your life, didn’t I?”

“Group effort.” Marc quips, ignoring the fact Steven was the one who saved his ass before, too.

Jake laughs again. “Keep telling yourself that, hermano. ”

Unfortunately, they’re so distracted none of them notice the things still crawling up the sides.

They all exclaim various words of surprise when a dusty grey hand suddenly grabs Jake around the throat and pulls him back over the side of the boat, but luckily Steven — only a few steps closer than Marc — drops the baseball bat and immediately lunges forward to grab their alter before he falls of the boat completely. Marc grabs around his middle on instinct, going back into battle mode, and risks a peak at the side over Steven’s shoulder. Jake is dangling over the side, with only thing stopping him from being lost to the sands is Steven holding tightly onto his hand in a vice-like grip, pulling him back with all his might.

They can’t let him fall. They can’t let him fall. They can’t —

“Fuck, let me go!” Jake exclaims, even as he scrambles to try and get back up, feet desperately trying to find a foothold against the smooth wooden side of the boat. “You gotta let —“

“No, you bloody twat!” Steven exclaims, the same time Marc says, “Fuck that, absolutely not —“

The gates are close, they can make it. But they’re still trapped, and there’s still zombies crawling up the sides that he’s forgotten about.

Something grabs onto his shoulder, yanking him back and away from Steven and Jake, rips him away from his alters with a growl in his ear that makes him so, so angry. He yells, tells the mindless thing let me go and don’t fucking touch me as it drags him back, away away away . But with the combined weight of holding Jake up and the sudden loss of Marc unbalancing him, it sends Steven pitching dangerously close over the ledge, Jake crying out as well as Marc tried to break free from the zombie still pulling him back.

“Oh, shit!” Steven exclaims, Jake yells something about letting go, Steven tightens his grips and tries to regain his footing but can’t find a foothold and Marc, dusty nails digging into his skin and pulling him back, watches —

Marc watches both of them disappear over the edge.

“ NO !” He yells, probably the loudest he’s screamed in his entire life, and wrenches himself out of the zombie’s grip. He elbows blindly behind him, feeling the crumbling sand wash over his shirt before he’s running to the side of the boat. He can reach them. He can reach them, he can still —

He gets to the edge, and they’re just figures in the sea of sand.

“Fuck — Steven! Jake! ” He yells, hitting the side of the boat to get it to stop but it doesn’t, it doesn’t and they just keep receding over the horizon. “Fucking — stop the boat! Stop the fucking boat!”

But Taweret, the hippo lady, whatever her name — she’s not there, and the boat keeps going, and even as Marc sees the two figures trying to move forward, it’s like watching ants from twenty feet above; they can’t make it.

They can’t make it. They’re too far, and — and they stop.

One collapses. The other follows. And Marc —

Marc screams .

• • •

Steven is falling.

He’s not suppose to be falling.

He only has a moment to think about the logistics of this fact, however, before he hits the ground. It takes the non-existence breath out of his lungs, knocks his head back and sends his teeth clacking together. He bites his tongue on the way down. He doesn’t taste blood, though. Just sand.

Why’s there sand in his mouth? Why was he falling?

“Jake? Jake!” He sits up, calling for his alter, and notices the boat drifting away from him in the sand. Marc’s still on top, screaming his — their — names. Steven blinks. He’s suppose to be up there. They’re both suppose to be up there. “ Jake! ”

“ Steven, niño! ” A New York voice called, and Steven whips around to see Jake is only a few feet away, but running towards him through the sand crawling at his trainers. “Steven, fuck, we gotta go.”

“What?” Steven blinks as Jake reaches him, scrabbling to grab his arm before pulling him to his feet, and he stumbles a bit. Everything feels heavy and slow in his head, like his slowly sinking into quicksand in a bad adventure movie. “Jake, we fell off!”

“That’s why we gotta go, we gotta go .” He pulls Steven along, not faltering when he stumbles, keeping a vice like grip on his arm. “Come on —“

Steven shakes his head, clearing the static filling his brain, and comes to his sense.

The boat. The bloody — they fell off the bloody boat!

“Marc!” He cries out, hearing Jake echo the name as well, still half-dragging, half-pushing Steven alongside him. “Marc! Taweret! Stop!”

The boat keeps going, and it’s obvious they’re not going to make it. They move at a quarter of it’s speed and it pushes through the dunes easily, like it really is sailing on water, while he can feel the sand pulling at his ankles. It’s gritty and dirty and he hates the feeling, but he ignores it as Jake’s grip on his arm loosens and he’s able to keep running. They have to get back. They have to get back on the boat. He knows what happens when you fall into the Duat — it means your scales aren’t balanced, and their’s almost were. They were close. They were so close.

The boat keeps getting farther away. They’re not close at all.

“Marc, Marc! Wait, please!” He yells, throat raw like he hasn’t drank in days, and his knees buckle. “Please, wait, wait, you need to wait — wait, Jake?”

There’s no one beside him anymore.

He stops and turns, looking for his alter, and finds him a few metres behind him. He’s kneeling into the sand, like he found something interesting among the grains and is inspecting it more closely, but even through the smoky haze that seems to permeate this place Steven can tell something is wrong. He’s too grey. He’s too still. The boat is leaving. The boat is gone.

“Jake?” He asks again, then, more frantic. “Jake!”

He starts rushing back towards his alter, and Jake finally looks up at him. His face is ashen and shocked when he spies Steven coming towards him, eyes widening. “Steven, keep going!”

“Jake, what —“ Steven gets close enough to see, and sucks in a breathe. From the knees down, his body has almost sunken into the sand, and the rest of the exposed skin is turning grey and crumbly like a statue at the beach. Steven recalls all the quicksand pits in adventure movies, how all the kids watching them think they’re gonna be a bigger problem in the real world than they turn out to be. Maybe they might be real. He is, after all. “ Jake. ”

“I don’t know what’s happening.” Jake admits, as Steven gets close to reach out and touch him. Steven knows what’s happening, but he can’t say it. His mouth is still full of sand. “You have to go, Steven, you have to fucking go —“

Steven snaps. “I’m not leaving you!“

“Steven — !“

A memory arises, unbidden. A girl at a museum, back when there was a lonely man who’s reflection didn’t talk back. And did it suck for you, getting rejected from the Field of Reeds?

“I’m not leaving you!” Steven snaps more forcefully, falling to his knees in front of him. The scruffy man who shares his face — not to be confused with the sad one, who yells at the mirror. “I’m not effing leaving you, you bloody plonker —“

Jake leans forward, or more pitches , as his waist turns frozen and he grabs his arm, fingers a death grip. “Steven, please .”

“No.” Steven says, as firmly as he can manage. He feels cold. Everything is cold. Why is everything cold? There’s no flood here. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

That doesn’t make any sense. The lonely man replies, laughing quietly, as the glass ripples into sand. Because I’m not dead, am I?

Jake blinks, eyes still as wide as the moon they serve and skin just as grey, but then — he smiles. It’s a soft thing. Bittersweet, almost sorry. Definitely apologetic. It shouldn’t be, Steven was the one who toppled them overboard, but Steven just — just stares, because Jake is smiling. Jake is smiling, but it’s stained with grey, and something’s wrong.

“Okay, hermanito .” He says, voice cracking, mouth turning sour.

Then he’s just sand.

“Jake?” Steven blinks, trying to reach forward to him, but finds he can’t complete the motion because his arm goes grey about halfway there. Ah. Is that why is everything’s cold? He doesn’t want to be cold. He wants to be home. “Oh.”

His tongue feels like sand. Everything is sand, sand sand sand and — nothing else.

In only a moment, there’s nothing else for Steven Grant and Jake Lockley.

• • •

And back on the ship of dead, sailing in the Duat, the man named Marc Spector is judged.

The scales clink. A whisper of a feather, the steady beating of a heart.

As soon as it does, however, Marc Spector ends up in a field of golden reeds. There’s a warm sun washing over his face, with a cold, cold, cold heart clasped gently in his hands, tucked at his chest. Gone is the sand and dust, gone is the dark sky and unfeeling moon. There is only warmth here, now. Only peace and eternal rest, after a lifetime of pain and hurt.

And Marc Spector, the man who didn’t want any of this in his life, falls to his knees and sobs.