Work Text:
Dark.
Damp.
Cold.
The only things I do know. Have known. Will know.
Strange images flickering in my mind.
Strangled, distorted, disturbing images.
A room.
I’m in a room?
A small, tight, cramped room.
It’s hard to breathe.
Could. Can I even breathe?
Silent.
Such stifling silence.
And yet, and yet muffled sounds echo into the room.
An outside not there, not here.
How long have I been here?
How long haven’t I?
Did I ever know?
Would I ever know?
c l i c k ~
That. That’s a sound.
A new sound.
A faraway sound. A grating noise.
The room is shaking.
Why was it moving? Why now?
It’s bright. It’s bright now.
Too bright.
A shadow over the bright.
A figure. A person.
Is this it? Is this outside?
Am I free?
Could we… Oh.
You… No. No.
You’re not Him.
____.o°[ ? ]°o.____
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how to feel. What is there to feel?
Was I… even meant to feel?
… Ignoring that thought for now.
Back to— Back to feeling; what can I feel?
Felt. Feel. This—
Physically, my limbs feel nonexistent; like paper and string and static suspended and drowned in water. Chilled and warmed and utterly uncomfortable in every which way. The world seems to always be pulsing in and out; as if depth perception is a mere concept rather than what is preferred. Noises and sounds that are both too soft and too loud all at once and the ring-ring-ring is no-less gut-churning. The edges of my vision blurring and burning into an off-white haze. All not to mention the persistent… itch… at the back of my eye that wriggles around and makes me want to reach in and just—
Oh, and I'm pretty sure a goat tried to eat me earlier.
That was certainly an experience.
Okay, so I know what I'm feeling at this moment. Guess the better thing to ask would be: What is even happening right now?
I blink slowly, trying to banish the haze through sheer force of will. Tilting my head this way and that, jerking in notches and angles as if trying to tune a faulty radio. Bursts and pops and static mingling until, finally, everything cleared. With that clearing, the perception of the room starts to filter in.
The space looked lived in. Various amounts of worn furniture and odd decorations line the walls and surfaces. It was a fuzzy, foreign place, yet it felt familiar in a way. A sense of Déjà vu that was nothing but straight nonsense.
The lulling haze and ringing slowly start to creep back—
No! Focus! Focus…
Just… Focus on the room. Catalog. What's in the room?
There’s…
There’s a worn-out rug, yellowed and patchy.
There's a large skull of something-something-something-
There's a glass box filled with water.
There's an armchair that looks like it’s on its last legs.
There's... A person. Two persons! People. They're rather small, perhaps children? One with long hair, the other short.
The short-haired one — a Boy(?) — is pacing around.
Moving. It’s moving. Focus on the moving.
The haze fizzles away again.
The boy, he's going in circles; muted sounds tumbling from his mouth in rapid succession. Words and sentences strung together. He's talking about something but what is he talking about? The sounds themselves were easy enough to understand, but the cotton in my head made them difficult to click together and follow with any coherence. He seems excited, however, with all his attention focused on whatever information he is spouting to the long-haired child — girl. It’s a girl. She’s a Girl.
I continue following the movement. Trying to keep and hold sight of something that seemed tangible. Something stable. But the longer I try to track the fluttering, the heavier everything started to feel. As if weights were being attached to every fiber of my being one by one.
The world tilts. My head hits something. My… head?
Wait. Stop. Don’t question. Just Focus.
What did it hit? Wood. A frame. A door frame? I'm in a doorframe.
Am I standing? Yes, I'm standing. No wait-wait-wait — I'm sliding? I'm not standing anymore.
I'm on the floor, leaning against the doorframe. Everything feels heavy.
The boy holds up something, showing it to the girl. They look excited. Smiling.
What is He holding, showing? Can I see it? I can.
It’s a rectangle? A box? A book?
Book. It's a book. An old one. Weathered and worn and—
Shiny. Shiny? Something’s shiny on it. What could be so shiny?
A shape? A bird? No no no—
It's a hand. A shiny-shiny hand on the cover. 1 and 2 and 4 and 6—
Title. Does the book have a title? No no no. It doesn’t. There aren’t any words. It doesn’t need any.
Doesn’t— Wait. On the hand, there’s something.
A symbol?
A character.
A number.
What's the number?
Three?
Three is the number.
The book is 3.
The book. Book. Journal —
3 is the Journal?
Three.
I—
Am I…
Three?
Yes, they are.
3 blinks back.
The world is steady. Steady. Steady on.
They shake their head, running a hand through unruly locks. Palm pressing into an eye socket.
Oh, how they felt awful. Truly, awfully, terribly so.
Every inch of their body itched and pricked, brushing against their clothing in a way that was uncomfortable-comfortable and wrong-right-weird. They were keenly aware of the existence of their fingers and hands and limbs and why why did they feel so heavy so aching so so—
Pressure. There is a pressure in their head. It pressed against their ears against their skull against their eyes. Their vision swam and stopped and the colors popped out and layered over each other. But no the colors were wrong and too bright and staring too long made it worse—
They could feel it, the building-swaying-throbbing-popping, but it didn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt? Should it?
Stop stop stop— Stop thinking about it—
They were breathing. In and out. In and out. Lungs inflating, deflating — breathing. Flattening and rising, muscles pull and slack around ribs around their lungs and squishy organs. Ribs, that protective shield and framework and cage cage cage restricting ragged why is it so hard to breathe—
They wanted to cry, to cough, to anything. Anything that would end the churning and uneasiness in their core, their gut. But there was nothing to purge. Just fear and air and bile and ink—
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Focus…
3 let themselves slump against the frame, eyes shut to give the poor things reprieve from the sheer assault on their muddled senses. Arm falling back into their lap, limp and heavy like its string was cut. The weight was welcomed-foreign, familiar-unusual in the way that confused them. The fabric sent stabbing sensations under their fingertips, highly uncomfortable yet not painful? Enough to make their spine prickle and the want to rip away to rise, yet not enough to actually move away.
Slowly, the static and garbage noise filtered away, leaving only the nonsense babble and the faint ring-ring of neurons firing away. Peaking out, the sight they saw wasn’t as nauseating to look at. The carpet was still a garish color and the world was all sharpened and blurred, but at least it looked natural.
Their back was also starting to protest greatly at their posture — they really didn’t end up in the best position, did they?
Trying to pull themselves back up was most certainly a herculean task, or it felt like that at least. It was difficult enough to lift and move their arms in the desired direction, let alone make their shaky fingers grip the frame. They swore they could feel the small joints grind and pop, tendons stretching and muscles tensing—
No no no—
NO!
Stop. Just stop. Literally. Focus on anything else.
Biting their tongue, 3 was actively ignoring how the wood grain felt against their bare palms. It wasn’t easy to pull back and stop focusing on every little detail that was so acutely aware to them, but they persevered.
In the end, they managed to get a good grip and heaved themselves up.
… That was a horrible idea why did they do that everything is awful—
The pressure against their temples returned as 3 tried very hard not to actually throw up like their body seemed so keen to do. What should’ve been a simple act had drained their energy entirely. Their legs were sore and aching as if they had just outrun a giant. Knees wobbling and holding themselves with all the grace of a newborn fawn.
They nearly slipped on their own coat for goodness sake!
Despite their body’s very clear protest, they dragged themselves upright, using the wood framing as a crutch. The thought of standing on their own two feet suddenly felt like a daunting task.
As steady as they’ll get, 3 looks across the room before them. Details once lost to leaking memory retention and milky haze were now clear.
To their right was a young child, a girl with long hair and eye-catching colorful clothing. She sat atop the patched-up armchair, bobbing back and forth animatedly. She appeared to be completely immersed in whatever was being said, making exaggerated gestures and responses.
Directly ahead, pacing a path into the already patchy carpet, was a boy with fluffy hair that peeked out from beneath a hard-brimmed cap. He looked to be the main speaker of the conversation. Sadly, everything being said was lost to 3's still addled mind; noisy babble that meant nothing at all. However, his excited and energetic movements certainly were attention-grabbing enough for it not to matter much.
And yet, despite that, it was the object in his hands that drew 3's full attention.
It shouldn’t have been surprising, given how the boy was waving the item around. The simple act of movement would’ve drawn anyone’s eyes. But for 3, it was like a moth to a flame. A beacon of thought and idea that stuffed their mind to the brim, leaving nothing else.
No, it wasn’t a pretty thing to look at. A heavy-looking book, its deep red cover rough and weathered from age, metal accents dulled from exposure. A scrappy, ruined-looking thing that had certainly seen better days. And yet, the yellowed pages were being flipped through such care, such enthusiasm. It made their gut flip.
The journal.
Journal 3.
Them.
Their steps felt muted as 3 gracelessly tottered towards the boy child. Their tunneling gaze unwavering from the golden insignia.
Hey.
That’s.
That’s No Yours—
They hit the ground in an instant. Palms pressing flat against their ears in some vain attempt at protection. The sharp, piercing noise made their ears ring-ring-ring all over again; shooting down their spine like a lightning strike. It rattled in their head, looping over and over, and please please please make it stop stop make it stop maKE IT STOP—
It stopped.
They stopped.
It was so silent they stopped breathing, even with the false echoes. When they did start breathing again, it came in stuttered puffs pushed through bared teeth. Belatedly, some distant part of their mind recognize the noise, but they couldn’t bring themselves to care; let alone be embarrassed. They just felt… heavy.
Eventually, they unfurled themselves from the tangle of limbs and fabric they had collapsed into. Pulling their head out from between their knees, they look around the room numbly.
At some point, the girl child had left the room, leaving no trace of her presence. The boy child had moved to the armchair, comfortably nestled against the cushions. He had his knees pulled up, the Journal propped open. His eyes scanned the pages eagerly, wide with what could be described as awe; as hunger.
Why is he..?
At a loss, 3 attempted to stand, only to resort to crawling the way over when they couldn’t even get their feet under them. Taking a handful of the skirt, they hauled themselves onto the armrest. They then maneuvered and climbed until their top half was draped over the chair back; knees and ankles awkwardly bent to fit in the narrow space.
They leaned more forward to peer over the boy child’s head; careful to not overtip the chair. Naturally, their eyes land on the spread-open pages of the Journal. Something twisted in their core, taking in the pitiful state the book was in. Pages torn, yellowed, and stained; a pale comparison to the once pristine, crisp pages it should’ve been.
Is this what hurt felt like, to see what has become of the Journal?
3 decided they heavily disliked Hurt.
And yet the more they looked on, an idle audience to the boy’s silent readings, the hurt dulled. The words, illustrations, diagrams — every fleck of ink brought ease to their mind. It gave them a strange passive numbness, each turn of the page eliciting a bubbling of something in their chest.
Familiar.
This was familiar. This scene, this ambling, this idling — all of it familiar. Soothing-soothing it felt in the familiarity. But…
Why was this familiar?
Familiar, yet not? More deja vu but there was nothing nonsensical to this. Everything was as it was, as it should be.
So why did it feel so wrong ?
They could— They could recall the feeling. They could recall the picture, right? Couldn’t they?
… Couldn’t they?
It—
Is it.
Is it because you’re not him?
Him…?
Who's him?
Him is him.
He's not him. He’s not you.
Who— Who is he not?
Creator. Not creator.
Author. You’re not him the Author Author—
They shudder involuntarily, teeth clenching. The knowledge brands itself into gray matter like punishment for daring to forget such an important detail. Such absolute truth.
Oh. Of course. How dare they.
3 pressed their face into the cushions, begging the scratchy fabric to distract them from the Hurt they now knew as Shame. Truly one of the worst things one could feel.
They push down the bubbling feeling in their throat, looking back up. They continued to watch as the boy read, but everything was different now. The scene was still familiar-warm, yet that sense of wrongness was much more apparent. The way his eyes searched the pages made their skin crawl. Every touch, tap, and flip made pressure build behind their eyes. Even the simple fact the Journal was being held made them uneasy.
It was uncomfortable — it was awful.
Why?
Why do you have it?
It’s not yours.
So just.
Give it back—
3 stopped. Stilled.
They were intending to reach out and pluck the Journal from the boy’s lap — perhaps scold the child before maybe scrambling out a window like a feral raccoon. They intended to shut the covers closed, away from the prying-searching-hungry eyes of anyone watching. To pull it close to their chest and never let go.
But that's not what happened. Why oh why couldn’t that be what happened?
Instead, the world kept going while they stopped. Froze.
For, in a desyncing from their mind, their arm fell far too short; hand brushing against the boy child’s shoulder. A simple faux pas, that’s all it was — all it should’ve been. Yet in that instance, they were struck with a sudden oddness.
How odd was it, that they didn’t feel the soft-scratchiness of the child’s clothing? How odd, was the warmth from another living creature being absent? How odd, that the weight of their body seemed to just, disappear?
How odd.
It took a moment to … click, for 3. A single moment before they ripped their arm back, reeling.
Shaking, they lay their hand against their chest, under their chin, pressed by their neck. Anything and everything just to shake off the feeling of not feeling. Trying to will away the experience of going numb and fleeting absence. Trying to forget forget forget—
Forget how the body of another fell away under their fingertips, disappearing into a sensation of fuzziness. Of being met with a thin veil of chicken wire and static, instead of the solidity of flesh and bone. Forget how the world fell out from under them leaving them floating — suspended from strings, invisible coils the only thing keeping them from falling through.
As if they were disconnected from reality.
Fingers tangled in their hair as 3 tried to pull back. To focus-focus-FOCUS. Focus on the uncomfortable bends in their limbs, the stiffness of the upholstery, the fluttering-stabbing sensation in their chest. On literally anything else.
A trick of the light — 3 tries to reason — a simple illusion.
But it's not. Their mind betrays them, using their cursed sight as evidence, even as their body protests.
Oh, and how does the boy child react to this reality-shattering event?
The boy, blissfully unaware of the barely contained mess unfolding behind him, simply pauses in his reading. Rolling his shoulders, he brings the Journal closer as he looks around the room. Roaming, searching, curious. He shifts in his seat before looking behind and above him. The boy searches for a moment, eyes flicking this way and that. In the end, he simply frowns before settling back in his seat with a shrug.
…
He looked at them.
He was looking at them.
Why… why did he say anything?! Where—
He was looking straight at them! How could he not—
Or was it straight through them?
A breath catches in their throat; mind suddenly empty.
He didn’t see 3.
Didn’t see them, despite being right in front of him.
Knees dug weakly into the knitted framework.
His eyes.
No recognition was held in them, only momentary confusion.
Their chest starts to burn.
He didn't see 3.
He didn't see them.
He didn’t— There was no acknowledgment.
Nothing.
The world hazes over.
… Why.
Why.
Why?
Why?!
Why didn’t he see?!
Why didn’t he notice?!
They were right there!
Why didn’t he— Why??
Why?
Why?
Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why—
3 blinks.
The world was suddenly dim. The only illumination coming from the window, in which a gentle, warm light streamed through it.
They stared blankly ahead, not quite comprehending the change in scenery. A hand runs itself across the floorboards, marking a path through the grit and dust. The grain was old and splintering, bathed auburn in the light.
They slowly brought it up, examining the appendage. They noted how the dirt coated their fingertips in a fine black. At how the shadows fell and painted themselves against the digits, disappearing into their sleeve. It made their face itch.
3 let it fall onto their lap, absently wiping the dust away as they looked around. Darkness seeped into the corners that the light couldn’t reach, contrasting the room in blurs and soft angles. The ceiling pitched in causing the space to seem smaller than it was; stacked boxes only adding to the cramped-open feeling. At their side, a large stained glass window stood boldly; bars casting its stylistic shadow onto them. Almost as if it was watching.
Their eyes fell on the hunched-over shape that sat on the inner sill. It was the boy child, head down, the Journal held in his small hands.
3 stared — blinking slowly.
In the end, they just exhaled and got up.
Shambling over to the window, they plopped down onto the stiff cushion with a soundless Poff! Mirroring the boy, 3 rested their head against their knees as they watched the boy read — as they were before. Except now they could see his face, see just how expressive it was.
The child’s brow was furrowed, a small frown on his lips. He turned through the Journal’s hallowed pages as if searching for a meaning, an answer. Fingers twitching and moving with indiscernible emotion. His expression was a troubled one, but his eyes held a fire of determination in them. A combination of features; or was it a worrying one?
What are you looking for…?
He skimmed through the pages, page after page flicked through with a purpose. Each shift and brush against the paper elicited the same prickling feeling as before. But — they tilted their head — from this angle… it wasn’t that bad.
Still uncomfortable. Just not as bad.
Eventually, the boy paused before flipping back through Journal’s contents.
3 perked up at this action, watching as he reread the words with more purpose. They tried to ignore the itch when the boy traced the ink, the curiosity at what caught the other’s attention much more appealing.
The entry the boy child was reading wasn’t a particularly short one, spanning two pages at the least just by the way the book was held. He mumbled the information under his breath, tracing the cursive as he did. Soon his eyes locked onto the illustration, the look in them sharpening.
They find themselves leaning closer. What did you find?
It was an odd look. One that held the purpose from earlier, but also something more. It made something uneven spread inside their chest. What could he be reading that would elicit such a feeling? Though in the end, they didn’t have the time to ponder.
Because the comfortable — yet subtly tense — silence was broken when the boy let out a sudden, loud exclamation.
3 reeled back, shrugging their shoulders up to their ears. The pitch sent sharp pangs that pinged back and forth inside their head. Thankfully, the sound left as soon as it came, but that didn’t stop them from narrowing their eyes at the child. They couldn’t hold it, however, look at the child’s response. The boy had a hand clamped over his mouth, color spreading across pale cheeks. He held his body stiffly, glancing over to the side.
Then he dropped the Journal.
Why.
3 felt something in their face twitch as they sent an uneasy look at the boy that was now banging and shouting at the pane of glass. Tuning out the noise became easier when they looked down at the open pages. They felt a little bit better, having a visual assurance that the Journal was okay.
They still didn’t care for the boy treating the Journal so carelessly though. Sure, better the cushions than the floor, but what was stopping him from just. Setting it down? Gently??
The Journal wasn’t on fire — thank goodness — and it- and it isn’t some wet, mossy rock from the side of the riverbank either. It’s more important than that!
Shouldn’t he know that?
3 rested their head against the wall, a shaky breath leaving their chest. It was near impossible to read the Journal’s pages from where they sat. The small, compact cursive being too difficult to even attempt to understand. But they didn’t need to read the script to understand its content, its meaning. They just looked at the inked parchment and it just… clicked.
The Undead. Specifically ones of the corporal variety. Colloquially referred to as “Zombies,” they are known to roam in small to mid-range packs and consume living flesh. While more commonly observed to be from the 1800s and earlier, a combination of turnings and supernatural-adjacent accidents have caused a rise in newer-age undead. Known for their pale skin and bad attitudes, these creatures are often mistaken for teenagers or sleep-deprived young adults. They often run in groups and are susceptible to bright lights and peer pressure—
Bonk!
3 shook their head, rubbing at the spot where it hit the wall. The knowledge trickled into their mind with all the calm of a broken dam. Filling their skull till it was fit to burst — lines and information spewing off their tongue in an attempt to relieve the pressure that just kept building and building. By the time the torrent subsided, their head throbbed after the onslaught.
What just, happened?
Why. Why did that happen?
They sigh, shoulders slumping. Why did everything have to be so confusing-familiar? It was starting to become a little bit frustrating.
Noticing a shift in the seat, they glanced up to see that the boy had calmed down from his outburst. Tuning back in, 3 watched as the boy slumped against the opposite wall with a shuddering breath. He kept looking out the window, his face scrunched up. Small hands reached out and shut the Journal’s cover, before pulling the hardbound close to his chest. He looked down pensively, seeming to mull over something in his mind. When he spoke again, it came out jumbled and questioning.
“Is ██ ██████ really ██████ a zombie, ██ ██ █ ████ █████ ████?”
“████ █ ███████, ██ ██ ████.”
3 pressed themselves into the corner, muffling a shriek with their sleeves. Something pounding in their chest as they took in the foreign presence that seemed to just appear from nowhere. It was a tall, stocky male with sporadic facial hair on his face. He was perched atop a ladder, looking down at them from the draping shadows; something metallic glittering in his hand.
A glance to the side showed that the boy child was reacting in a similar, albeit tamer, way. A strange, fuzzy feeling swelled in them.
“Oh, sorry ████ ████ ████.” The man apologized, his voice light and young-sounding. “I ████████ ████ ███ overhear you ██ ████████ to yourself █████ █████ empty room.”
Well… They decided to firmly ignore that last part in favor of not having an existential crisis.
Instead, they tried to focus on the conversation the two males were now engaged in. Tried to piece together the garbled sounds the words filled their head with. To make sense of what little understanding is afforded to them; grasping at context like trying to catch the sun in a crystal glass.
Difficult. Why does this have to be so difficult—
“████, ██████ seen ███████ █████████. ████ █████ be a zombie, █████?”
3 stilled.
Wait. Is— A Zombie?
What about zombies?
Wait wait wait—
What day is it, is it that time of the month already?
Is someone— Oh.
Oh.
Well. At least they knew why the boy reacted so violently earlier at least. Much more understandable now. The Undead were no laughing matter after all.
3 uncurled from the corner, shifting in their seat. They watched as the two conversed, the older giving off an aura of calm in comparison to the boy’s hesitant tone. They followed along as best they could, parsing out information as accurately as they could manage. They knew they couldn’t get the whole context from these slips of understanding, but by the Author’s good fortune, they would try their best to do so!
“— weird █████ ██ ████ town. ████ ███ mailman? ██████ ████ ████ ██████ a werewolf.”
… Okay they were lost again.
They cocked their head as the boy child sighed, appearing defeated. Curiously, the older only nodded at this reaction — adding to their confusion. After a few more words exchanged, the man left into the darkness; called away by a muffled voice that rumbled through the floorboards.
The boy stared after him, turning away only when the creaking wooden steps could be heard no more. His shoulders slumped, hunching in on himself. He looked through the window, eyes unfocused, not quite seeing. Thumbing the corner of the Journal, the blanket of silence returned to the room.
It was an uncomfortable silence. One that settled wrinkled and wrong — made from a coarse and itchy canvas that scratched and itched at their skin.
He looked… small.
And wasn’t that an odd thing to notice at this moment? But, what else could they think, as the conflicted emotions played out on the child’s face? As this hot-cold, twisting feeling writhed in their chest.
They watched as his chest heaved and shuddered, tension slowly draining away. His eyes fell to the Journal’s cover searching the gold and ink for something. 3 thinks he found it when the boy’s expression resolves into something that could be called bravery — determined. The Journal disappears into his vest as the boy slips off the seat, all but running out of the room.
3 stared after the boy.
Then scrambled to follow.
Something nipped at their ankles and there was buzzing in between their ears. Everything was strange, new, and uncomfortable. They knew nothing and that alone was terrifying. But, as they caught a glimpse of orange and blue ducking around a corner, there was a pounding in their chest.
3 might not know what was going on, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t learn. For better or worse —
This was certainly going to be an interesting day.
____.o°[ 3 ]°o.____
The past few days have been certainly… interesting. That was certainly one word for it.
It was like reading a story, a fantastical adventure with japes, suspense, and a compelling narrative. Except imagine that the book is written in two different languages. And half the pages were missing — seemingly at random. And you’re not even holding the book but instead reading it over the shoulder of someone else. With that someone being a person who reads so fast there are papercuts on their fingers. And the book is now on fire because of course it is.
That is basically what this entire situation felt like to them at the moment.
It wasn’t all bad of course! They’re pretty sure they understand what is happening; the gist of it, at least.
…
That was a bald-faced lie they knew absolutely nothing for certain. Context is water and their comprehension was a bucket with a hole in it.
But they were trying! It wasn’t their fault everything was just so, so, overwhelming.
Realistically, they knew the world was bigger than the two rooms they’d been in. That there was more than four walls and stifling darkness. That there was a sky that stretched high above their head and buildings and people—
It was just so, much.
3 trailed behind the boy like a duckling as the child traveled around the town. Everything seemed to catch their attention, drawing and turning their head in every direction.
People of all shapes and sizes. Lights and colors that left you seeing double long after. The sheer amount of noise that seemed to echo and bounce and carry on and on.
It was new. It was incredible. It was terrifying.
It was an experience; one they weren’t quite sure how to feel about just yet.
But, that was just the trend of the days so far, wasn’t it?
A confusing-familiar, nonsensical trend.
Yet despite that— Despite the incessant self-tugging at their sleeves and collar when a passersby came far too close. Despite the overwhelming sights and sounds assaulting them. Despite the fact they nearly tripped over the raggedy hem of their own coat multiple times.
Despite all that, they had a hard time finding a reason to care about it all.
Well, they could list the numerous reasons and why. It would be neatly bullet-pointed and detailed, citing revenant sources with character witnesses and all! But yet, none of them stuck.
None of them could stick against the airy feeling 3 got when they watched the boy sneak around the town — crouching under bushes and ducking behind walls with all the stealth of an overzealous kitten. The Journal pressed close to his chest, eyes gleaming, and seriousness tracing every edge of his body posture. How he would pounce at every new tidbit of information, pencil flying across the pad paper.
It was familiar. It was foreign.
It made something in their chest clench and their gut flutter.
Uneasy, but not dissuasive.
The feeling itched at their head, their eyes, their hands. And yet they made no move to run, to make any sort of haste. They lingered, not too close but not too far. Enough to see the top of the boy’s hat, to peek at his scrawled notes. But enough that a single stride measured three of his; and still always a step behind.
They watched and observed, close enough to participate but never daring. An unseen audience. A voyeur in plain sight.
And 3 found… they were okay with that. Okay with hanging back, with simply observing the scene unfolding before them. The unfolding story that they found themselves drawn into. They didn’t know its setting or its beginning; nor did they know the characters’ names. But that was all right, that was fine with them.
It was fine.
At least, that's what they’re going to tell themselves.
3 thought, as they lingered in the doorway, tracing idle lines along the grain of the wood. The boy was next to them, thumbing at his notes with a nervous fervor. Through the half-opened door, they could see the girl from earlier brushing her hair in front of a mirror. It seemed all those hours of meticulous observation had led up to this one moment.
They think.
Hopefully, they’re able to get some idea of whatever is going on now.
They shake their head. Focus.
Taking a deep breath, the boy tucked away the notepad and entered.
“█████, we need to talk about ██████.”
The girl spun around, expression flicking from surprise to a grinning smile seamlessly. She clasped her hands together, pressing them under her chin. “█████ he the best? Check out this giant ██████ mark he gave me!”
At that, she turns her head around to show off a large— Sweet Author how w-what why?!
It seemed the boy had the same reaction, jumping back with an exclamation — a response that the girl only laughed at.
“Hah! ████████. It was just an accident with the ████ ██████.” She said, waving off the event. “It was █████ fun.”
Fun. Fun??? How was whatever happened fun? Sh-Shouldn’t she get that looked at? Won’t that lead to complications, contusions at least?
While 3 was trying to rationalize the logic of it all, the conversation continued. The only thing that brings them back to the matter at hand was the boy pulling out the Journal. Though they're pretty sure it's mostly because seeing it out on display like that put a bobbing in their throat.
“█████ think he might be a vampire?” The girl gasps, a sparkle in her eyes. “That would be awesome!”
Nn. No? No. No no no it would not be— awesome? On what plane of existence is that awesome?
Who is this girl??
“Guess again, ██████.” The boy flips the Journal open with a flourish, eliciting a response of deep disgust and… confusion.
3’s head tilted, and tilted, and tilted until their cheek was smushed between the door frame and their shoulder. There was a static under their fingernails, an itch that scattered itself across their back. The confusion from earlier and present mixing into a mess that made them squint. And squint.
No — They couldn’t see the journal’s contents from where they stood, but something made it feel like there was something wrong. Luckily the feeling went away when the boy flipped to a different page.
How curious-odd-unsettling—
Strange.
Very strange.
But no more stranger than the girl’s reaction to the correction. Instead of expressing concern or even a level of neutrality, she looked… disappointed?
“A zombie?” She crossed her arms, behavior unexpected. “██████ not funny, ██████.”
“███ not joking!” The boy protested. “It all adds up! The bleeding, the limp— He never blinks! How have you not noticed that?!”
“Maybe ████ blinking when ██████ blinking.”
That… does not make any logical sense?
The boy looked exasperated, holding up the journal as if it would further his point. “█████, remember what the book said about ███████ █████? Trust. No one.”
“Well, what about me, ███?” The girl asked, turning back to the mirror and putting on a pair of earrings. “█████ you trust me?”
“█████,” He sounded frustrated. He grabbed at her arms and spun her around to face him, voice rising an octave. “████ █████ eat your brain!”
The girl shoved him away, and for a moment 3 felt a sense of fear for the young boy. The anger on her face… was almost enough to make them move; it made them want to run.
“██████, listen to me.” Her voice was low, hands balled into fists at her sides. “██████ and I are going on a ████ at five ███████. And ███ █████ be adorable.”
She takes a step forward.
“And ███ █████ be dreamy.”
He takes the same step back.
He’s stuttering over his words, his feet, but the girl doesn’t let up.
“And ███ not █████ you ruin it with one of your crazy conspiracies!”
She shoves the boy out of the room and slams the door. He ends up on the floor. 3 ends up halfway off the banister.
Silence echoes after the slam, blanketing the air like thick, settling dust.
Their chest refused to expand and their foot was hooked between the balusters. The boy wasn’t faring any better, staring at the solid wooden door, still as a field mouse.
His body soon sagged with a sigh, forehead pressed to knees.
“What am I going to do?” He asks in a whisper.
They were asking that same question.
____.o°[ 3 ]°o.____
3 found themselves wedged between the wall and the armchair for the second time that week. Though, a small part of them hopes it will be the last time. They weren’t sure joints are meant to be bent like this for long periods of time.
Nor did they like the memories associated with it.
It was almost like a repeat of the first day. The girl had left with a ragged-looking teenager wearing a sparkly sweater; bright-smiled and practically skipping out the door. It was a total behavioral shift from earlier.
They shivered at the memory.
Except this time, the boy was slumped in the seat, energy all but gone. They felt twisted up at the sight, and that wasn’t just because of their position. It was like watching a spring flower wilt in slow motion. Sad, and maybe a little preventable.
But what was there to even prevent?
3 didn’t know. They didn’t know a number of things if they thought about it. Maybe that was okay, for now. Later, who knows, but for now, they’ll stay here with the boy that made them feel twisted-weird-conflicted inside.
Stay with the boy that had all but sunken into the upholstery at this point, mumbling to himself. In his hands was his oddly shaped moving-pictures camera, the images moving across the tiny screen like a miniature movie. They had wondered before why the boy only ever clicked the button once or twice on the little device. Now they knew, impressed by the small piece of technology.
Scenes of the days passed as the boy went through the tape, a film of static covering the screen every so often. All the scenes contained the girl and the bedraggled teenager partaking in various activities. Some of the acts tugged at their mind, while others left them wanting to question.
They were so invested in the little pictures that they almost missed how the boy choked on his words. Fingers pressed at the buttons with more force than might’ve been necessary, but soon the images were moving in reverse. When the pictures were moving normally again they felt as if they had been doused in ice.
There, on the little screen, was a hand. On the ground. A hand that the teenager was missing. That was currently being reattached without a second glance. But this was just an afterimage. This was before. This happened in the past.
How. How did they miss this? How did either of them miss this?!
Wait… Was this boy hunting a zombie this entire time— ?!
3 felt a cough get strangled in their throat and somewhere in their abdomen, something was getting squished flat to the wall. It appeared the revelation was enough to send the boy bolting from the chair and out the door, shouting at the top of his lungs. It also resulted in said chair knocking the air from their lungs.
They doubled over the backrest, wheezing with every breath. The movement rocked the armchair back into place, but at this point, their trust in its stability was dubious at best. Slowly, ever so slowly, they extracted themselves from behind the construct of wood and polyester. Shuffling far far away from it.
Pressing against their torso elicited a dense-cottony-uncomfortable sensation. A very, very uncomfortable sensation. Combine that with the static dancing between the joints of their ankles and knees, and they would really like to lay on the ground for an unforeseen amount of time please and thank you.
But then their thoughts drifted to the boy, the one that had just run out the door; the most frantic they had seen from him since the dusty attic room. The boy that showed so much concern for the sake of the girl you could spin a spool of yarn out of it. The same, young boy who was most likely on his way to confront a flesh-eater.
… It was the disparaging mortality rate against Undeads that made up their mind.
With a shuddering breath, they hobbled out the front door.
Hopefully, he hadn’t wandered off too far yet.
Good news, they caught up to the boy.
Bad news, they kind of wished they hadn’t.
Not really, of course. But when you’re hanging on for dear life at the back of a golfing cart, it should be fair to think so, right? Right?
Another tree root caused the vehicle to jolt. Metal groaning, rubber burning. Shoulder blades pressing through the thin seat cushions. Knees anchored firmly against the passenger seatback. A foot jammed somewhere in the corner for some sense, any sense of stability.
Author have mercy.
At some point, 3 had closed their eyes. It was when a ramp over — what they hope is — a shallow gap did they snap open and noticed the change in scenery; at how deep into the forest they were traveling.
At how the canopies grew denser and denser until the only light was the faerie glow of luminescent mushrooms. How the fungus-dotted ground was carpeted with moss that scaled the olden pines like lichen. How spores flew through the air like flies, smelled like must, and tasted like what television snow looked like.
At how all the foliage failed to dampen the sounds of screaming.
At how every inch of them was screaming danger danger danger turn back turn back—
There was a burning. It pulsed from the tips of their fingers through the crook in their arm. In their chest, it sludged around, a low burning flame. Seared under their collarbone as if to brand. The smoke cloyed their throat and smothered their lungs. It coated their tongue in static. It filled their head full of cotton, wicked and ready to burn burn burn—
They felt light-headed. They felt frozen.
They wanted to get away get away get away run—
The cart skidded to a stop.
They were on the floor, legs bent over their head, and half the world a blurred mess. There was a commotion, shouting, scuffling. There was a confrontation happening and all they could think about was the swirling in their head and trying to keep their insides inside.
Pulling themselves up, they look ahead and saw—
…
They stare.
And stare.
The eyeglass is placed back on their face. And wiped. And adjusted.
And—
No, they weren’t suddenly transported to an alternate plane of reality; those are indeed gnomes.
Gnomes.
Little bearded men of the forest who were currently pinning the girl to the ground with an exorbitant amount of ropes. Though — if one were inclined to come to their defense — they were very short and the girl was being very wiggly. Still, the tallest of the group couldn’t come up as high as their knee; and that was being generous in estimations.
And it appeared the, presumably, tallest of the group was the one the boy was in confrontation with.
The gnome, whose only other distinction being the lack of gray in his hair and beard, was staring up at the boy with a shaky expression fixed on his face.
The boy, who was currently brandishing a shovel in his hands, towering over the small creature.
The two appeared to be in an argument. The gnome’s cheery but stammered words met with the boy’s open hostility. Even they could see that the conversation was clearly falling out of the gnome’s favor. Still, 3 couldn’t help but shift on their knees, squeezing at the seat back.
They knew — don’t think about it don’t think about it — … Knew in that not so little corner of their mind they weren’t ready to acknowledge just yet. Knew that Gnomes weren’t all that dangerous. That they could move through the earth as easily as a human would move through the air. That they had strange customs and a stranger turn of speech. That they weren’t a threat.
Not alone.
3 glanced around the clearing, shoulders slowly hiking up to their ears. They could see the gleaming eyes in the shadows. The flashes of red darting between the trees. The scuffing and barking of a language that sunk into the moss but rattled their senses all the same.
And that wasn’t counting the ones that were already in the clearing.
They were surrounded.
But… none have come close to the cart. All eyes were on the commotion in the clearing, but none else have made a move toward it.
They glance down. A couple of pedals and a wheel, nothing complicated. Surely, they could operate it easily. Their chest rattled at the thought. Their lungs still.
They had long legs, and a longer reach. Could… Surely they could make a grab for the two children and—
Whatever train of thought tried to form in their head was derailed, quickly, by the boy tossing the gnome away with the shovel. Casually. Without a care in the world.
It’s surprisingly effective.
Just as effective as using the shovel’s blade to cut the girl free from her bindings and smack any gnomes that dared retaliate.
Resourceful, they thought as the pair ran the length back to the cart. The girl all but punting one of the little folk into the shrubbery. It was an unexpected turn of events, that was for sure.
Though the mix of what they could only assume to be pointed words in English and Gnomish was something their ears could’ve done without.
They flinched as a particularly sharp sound was screeched as they made a hasty retreat— Wait there were seatbelts on this trap of a vehicle?
The trees began to thin out the farther they drove, the late afternoon sun lighting their path. Shadows didn’t seep into the tree bark and the fungi only grew as big as your palm. The bird song sounded like birds and, if they listened closely enough, they could hear the faint voices of people on the wind.
The boy was slouched forward, but his knuckles weren’t white from gripping the wheel anymore. The girl had smoothed all the tangles from her hair but kept glancing over her shoulder every long stretch of path.
As for 3, they were all but slumped in their seat. Limbs too gangly and in positions that couldn’t have been comfortable. But who cared about that? Who cared that the lap belt dug uncomfortably into their hips or that the seat fabric needled at the back of their neck?
They didn't, that’s for sure!
Being in that forest made their skin itch like ants were crawling under the thin layer. Made them think of how their head would throb and their spine go crackle-pop. To think of the hot-cold feeling that clung to their existence. To acknowledge the knowledge that trickled into their head like a leaking faucet.
No no no no!
They shook their head, hiding their face under their sleeves.
That’s it. That’s enough!
No more thinking. No more thinking for today!
The second they get off this cart they're going to make sure the two children weren’t in danger of being targets of the undead, then proceed to not exist for an unknown amount of time. Maybe lay face down on the garish scratchy-itchy-worn carpet of questionable cleanliness. There would be no complaints from them even if that cursed armchair was in the same room.
No. More. Thinking.
…
What… Was that sound…?
3 pushed themselves up, twisting in their seat. The cart has stopped. Overhead, the birdsong ceased. The tops of the trees trembled. Below the ground tremored. A bone-rattling thump, thump, thump.
THUMP!
The world seemed to slow. Crawling to the pace of sap as they looked up, and up, and up. Staring up at the creature of jagged pinkish spikes. It’s sharp narrowed eyes. It maw of needle-like teeth. The encompassing stench of earth and wood rot that rolled off it with every shuddering breath.
“████.”
The beast roars.
Move move MOVE!
The wheels squeal as the cart jolts back into motion. Narrowly missing the massive fist the beast had slammed into the ground. An instant too late and they would’ve been— would’ve—
3 clawed at their throat, nearly choking themselves with their collar whenever the cart would buck up. Their gut was twisting-pulling into knots. An uncomfortable heat soaked into their back and dribbled down their spine like a waterfall. Yet despite that, they felt frozen in place as they watched the beast’s arm break apart into—
A bunch of gnomes?!
They could almost feel their mind stuttering like a jammed copier machine. Failing, refusing to accept the fact that the massive beast currently chasing after them was made up of a bunch of gnomes.
An indecipherable roar shook the forest and snapped them back into the present. That, and the sudden swooping feeling in their gut as the boy managed to drive them off a cliff—
They covered their head as wood chips flew past them; a few they swore managed to cut them but couldn’t steady their shaking enough to check. This was crazy. The children were crazy. Everything about this situation was pure nonsense!
3 was seriously considering the children’s sense of safety at this point when an exclamation from the girl brought them back to focus.
Just in time to duck as a swarm of gnomes was thrown at them. The little folk hung off the cart, clawed at the awning, and chewed at the metal and seats. It was like flies to honey, the way they were swarming the frame.
The children were screaming. They think they’re screaming. The gnomes were certainly screaming.
The cart swerving left and right wasn’t helping the sheer chaos that was happening either.
The boy’s main method of shaking them off seems to be reckless driving and hitting every single hole and bump on the road. The girl was finding success in simply punching the gnomes in their bearded faces. They couldn’t help but wince as they watched one tumble and roll away in the dust. The girl appeared to have a very strong arm.
PHINK!
And 3 had a bat.
For any sympathy they might have had for the gnomes had just gone up flames the moment one of them tried to claw out the boy’s neck.
Honestly, as crazy as it sounded in their own head, fighting an undead might be less stressful than this.
A sharp turn has them getting thrown back into the backs of the front seats. Their clothes were all twisted and tangled around their torso, courtesy of the seatbelt still fastened around their waist. Retrospect says that it would have been easier to remove it, but self-preservation deems it more important to stay in the vehicle.
Now if only they could kick the creatures away without static shooting up their leg and their breathing tightening at the sight.
Wood on gnome would have to suffice.
“Look out!”
They didn’t know where to look, but frankly, at this point, they’ve given up on all sense of coherency. Because in one moment a large shadow flies overhead. In another, the earth is trembling and shaking with the ferocity of thunder itself.
Someone is screaming.
They’re weightless.
The world tilts, tilts, tilts over and over itself.
The world goes black.
The first thing they see is orange. Orange and pink and clouds that stretch up and up and up. They see torn canvas and bent metal. They see a world half doused in clarity.
They smell dust and earth. They taste ink and rot.
They hear silence.
They feel, static. Static. Tingling-pinching-stabbing static all over their body. Static in their joints, in the lengths of their limbs. Fuzzy, needling static. They felt heavy. They felt light.
They reach out out get out get out get up up up—
They grab a metal bar. It felt hot under their palm. It felt cold. They couldn’t recognize what it is, what it was.
They pulled themselves up, feeling heavy like bricks. Like water, like what was sloshing around in their head with every movement and sending static into their teeth. They could feel it, the numbness, the throbbing. Feel the way their skin stretched across the back of their ribs. The popping in their spine, the cracking-snapping in their neck.
Focus focus focus—
They were shaking, their hands were shaking. Fingers stiff and curled into claws, gripping the bar like a tether. Something wavers in the blurred half of the world.
They hear the far-off rattling of their breathing. They hear something crunch underfoot — it sounded like leaves, like metal. They hear the thump thump thump—
The world sways, the world blurs. They’re standing up, they’re one movement from collapsing. They could see, hear, and feel, but their mind was still swirling around.
Steady. Steady. Steady on.
They could see the towering pines and the orange sky behind them. But a something loomed over them, casting everything into shadow. Sharp eyes, sharp teeth, sharp everything. It was moving, or were they the ones moving? Swaying, cotton on the tongue, and needles in their marrow.
There is noise. Strings of sounds with consonants and vowels. Gibberish and nonsense and and and—
Shapes and colors bob into the edge of their sight. They turn and rub their eyes. The sleeve comes back warm, wet, darker. Noise and static, like a television with a faulty antenna. The shapes are moved into the side of the world with clarity. One shape becomes two and the colors sharpen and—
Two heads of brown hair, a blue vest, a glittery sweater, twin expressions of fear—
Reality snaps back like a rubber band.
3 gasps, air slamming into their lungs. They pitch backward, forwards; their knees are shaking and knuckles were bleeding to white.
Zombie. Forest. Gnomes. Cliff. Kids—
Kid.
Kids.
The kids are in danger—
Their foot kept missing the floor as they scrambled to get out of the cart. Knocking into framing and slipping on tattered canvas. Bumps and nicks left muffled to the pins and needles that lingered in their limbs.
Misjudging the distance, they tumble out of the wrecked contraption. Dirt and gravel stabbing into their front. A rumbling growl rattled inside their head and made them snap up.
The gnomish monstrosity was shambling forwards. Eyes nothing but empty hollows as it loomed over them. Pointed teeth and sharp claws and jagged joints and—
A small, blurry blob of purple and pink steps toward the beast.
No. No no no.
No!
Child. Child.
Girl child, please. Please run away from the very dangerous construct of gnomes! Please.
They frantically slap the ground around them as the earth shook around them. Smacking themselves in the face once they felt the familiar round shape slip into their hand. Blinking away the burning feeling they can see. See the world in full clarity. See the fading light of day dust the treetops and the stark shadows it creates. See—
See the beast slumped over and listing to the side, still as a statue and just as rigged. See the — relatively — tall gnome conversing with the young girl; a large rock held out in his hands. The boy child hanging back and to the side, an unsteady expression holding him.
Why was he just standing there? Wasn’t this whole mess of an excursion meant to keep the girl safe? This was the opposite of safe! This—
Wait.
Wait wait wait— What is she doing?
No. No, get away from that. You don’t where he’s been.
Child—!?
3 jolted as their mental panic was interrupted by the girl pulling out an orange vacuum(?), machine… thingy from out of seemingly nowhere. She was pointing the nozzle at the gnome in a menacing fashion. Her mouth was moving, but they couldn’t make out the words over the roaring din of the motor.
They watched as the earth fae attempted to back away, scramble away, but it was no use. Dull claws dragged fruitlessly through the dirt as it was drawn into the machine’s maw.
The boy child moved closer to the girl as the gnome got trapped further into the barrel. Words and glances are exchanged before he reached over to the machine. Determined smirks on their faces, the pair take aim at the construct of gnomes and—
They jerk towards the two as the children as sent flying back from the force of the vacuum’s repulsion. Luckily they land in a very large leaf pile, impact cushioned by the fallen litter. Tripping on their coat, they look back just in time to see the construct ripped apart and explode into its gnome-shaped pieces.
Small bearded men raining from the sky. A strange, unexpected forecast for sure.
The gnomes appear disoriented — grumbling and barking to themselves or each other in confusing tones. There’s a sense of unorganized chaos to them; not too unsurprising considering the gnomes of this forest were more donsy-oriented after all. Some of them, however, seem to be recovering quicker than others. Hissing and spitting and where is that bat—
The machine sounds up again causing them to startle. Oh, it appears the children have taken to threatening the local fauna. That, that’s nice. Yes. Mhm.
Watching as the little men skitter and scatter away, the feeling in their core only uncoils when the last gnome is carried away screaming by a nearby goat. Their body sags and they feel floaty, yet heavy. Weights in their joints and a lightness in their chest. It was as if all their energy was slowly being sapped away. A terrifying thought, truly.
They list toward the kids and. And they look a mess. Clothes rumpled and dirtied. Heads of hair like bird nests complete with leaves and twigs. There was a stiffness to their bodies, a wobbly-jelliness to their movements. They looked tired.
Is… Is that what they looked like as well?
… They certainly felt like the comparison.
A sigh slips past their lips as they trudged up the porch steps after the retreating pair.
What a day.
____.o°[ 3 ]°o.____
3 shuffled in place, hugging their knees closer as they slumped against the wooden post. Idly watching as the girl child jumped up and down, up and down, grappling hook waving excitedly around.
This was probably weird. Is probably weird. They felt weird about this.
But! It was better than being in the same room as that thrice-cursed chair.
And it was most certainly cursed; no two ways about it. They tried — they honest to the Author tried — to follow through with their earlier proclamation. But the longer they laid on the scratchy-worn-rough carpet, the more uncomfortable they felt. There was cotton in their head, stuffed full and clinging like burrs. They felt pins dancing down their spine and something-something plucking at the strings and fibers under their skin. Every inch of them thrumming and thrumming and aching and and—
And they felt terrible. Terrible terrible.
So here they were. Folded into a corner, the edge of a crate digging into their lower back, in a room with two children.
This is fine. This is completely okay. All good here! Yup.
So what if they were trying not to glance over to where the boy child was reclining? It’s just— It’s just much easier to be in here if they didn’t focus on him. Much easier to ignore the crawling under their skin as the boy scritch-scratched-carved into the Journal’s pages.
Just for now! The forest was so close, after all, who knows what else will come out of it and prove a danger to these children. They— Someone has to keep an eye on them, right?
Right!
They shivered, rubbing down their arm as a twisty-turning feeling churned in their core. Emptiness bobbing up and down in their throat like creeping ivy. Strangling yet still breathing. A confusing dichotomy of sensation and thoughts that sent their head spinning off its axis.
They… They can help, next time for sure, right? They won’t just lay there useless again…?
3 shook their head, rubbing at their face. No, they were just caught off guard earlier — everything happened so fast after all! No one was at fault, no one to blame! Except maybe the gnomes, of course, but that’s a separate flowchart for later.
Sighing, they let themselves be swallowed by their bulky coat. Their heavy-tattered-familiar coat. Unfamiliarly familiar. Dust-leaves-moss-ink-ink-ink—
A muffled screech tore out of them as the piercing sound of shattering glass slammed into them, the room blinking into smothering darkness.
H-Huh?!
What happened where’s the danger where where where—
Oh. The children just turned the light off. Using the grappling hook. And broke the, broke multiple glass objects.
That’s.
Ah.
The pounding in their ears was steady as a fast-paced drum but, slowly, they unfold and settle back against the wood. They rubbed at the spot in their palm where they accidentally bit into. Glancing up they could see the children begin to settle as well. A gentle breeze whispering in through the now broken window. Shadowy pines and an endless blanket of stars far beyond them.
Everything was fine, for now.
For now…
For now, they’ll settle. Settle and — try — try and figure this out. Figure all… this out.
For now, they’ll settle and watch as this story unfolds, however it chooses to do so.
The children bid each other sweet dreams. Sleep claiming their minds in gentle caresses and stardust lullabies.
Pieces drifting, shifting, clicking into place like they have always been there.
Good night Dipper . Good night Mabel . Till the next story.