Chapter Text
The birdsong is strange.
It rises and falls, repetitive and monotonous—the same phrase repeated over and over. Mike lies flat on his back and stares at the sky above. The cloudless cerulean is framed by the blackened green of spruces closing around the glade. The air is fresh and wet, smelling of moss and pinewood.
It's peaceful.
Mike is not supposed to be here.
He doesn't move for a while. The ground beneath him is soft, the dew from the forest floor soaking slowly through his shirt and into the skin of his back. A leaf floats down from the tree above and lands beside him. He follows it with his eyes.
His hand moves on its own. It finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around it loosely, and he lies there like that for a moment before he understands what he's doing. He pulls his hand away as if his own skin burns him. Looks at the spruces above like he's afraid of their judgment. The forest looks back at him, indifferent.
He sits up slowly. His shirt clings to his back, where it was touching the ground, damp and uncomfortable. His palms are smeared with grime, pine needles, and leaf debris pressing into the creases. He rubs them against his jeans. Then, harsher, at his wrists, until his skin there turns pink and raw.
He stands, legs moving on their own accord.
The air smells of sap and something else beneath it—a faint metallic scent that doesn't belong, and that is gone by the time Mike has a chance to give it a proper thought.
There's no path, nothing to guide him, but the foliage isn't thick—just bright green moss and ferns, with the occasional bare blueberry bush rising above the ground. He picks a direction at random and starts walking.
The first sensation that pierces through is thirst. He notices his mouth is parched, tongue thick against the roof of his mouth. That's what happens when one loses a lot of blood—the thought arrives and leaves again. Mike freezes, listens in hope for the sound of running water. Hears nothing but the strange bird call, faint in the distance. He keeps walking.
He can't say how much longer he wanders—could be a few minutes or several hours. The forest stays unchanged, one tree following another. At some point, he feels his vision going grey around the edges, so he has to stop and put a hand against a tree trunk to steady himself. The bark is rough and damp under his palm. He waits for whatever it is to pass. It does, mostly, so he moves on.
Something shifts in the monotony. He smells turpentine smoke right before he spots a warm orange glow in the distance.
As he approaches, a small campsite emerges from between the trees. Three slightly crooked tents stand in a rough triangle around a fire pit. A few pine saplings are chopped and neatly stacked nearby. A black pot hangs over the flame, leaves bobbing in the simmering water.
Mike stops at the edge of the clearing.
He is not sure how long he’s been standing there. Long enough for the light to shift slightly. The fire pops, sending a curl of orange sparks upward into the dark canopy. The camp looks lived-in—like the people who stay here just stepped away a minute ago. Whoever they are, their presence is still in the air. Thrown over a log, Mike notices a piece of fabric that he first assumes to be a blanket, but by closer inspection, turns out to be a woolen cloak. There's a pair of quirky-looking leather boots with sizable metal buckles propped up next to the fire to dry. A satchel is open near the woodpile, with what looks like the corner of a parchment paper poking out of it.
Somehow, though, he doesn't feel like a trespasser. He tries to tell himself that he should, but the thought discards itself.
Thirst claws at him again, sharpened now by the smell of whatever is simmering in the pot. Saliva feels thick and sticky in the back of his throat. He considers the mystery concoction but doesn't find anything to handle the pot with at the clearing, so he moves toward the nearest tent.
Inside, he finds two sleeping bags and two leather satchels. The tent smells of dust and herbs and faintly of someone's sweat. Something in that smell comforts him rather than unsettles him, in a way Mike can't name. What he first takes for cooking gear tucked into the corner is a set of a knight's armor. Well-worn, judging by the state of the leather straps, but meticulously kept. The dim light reflects off the silver plates. Strange runes are etched across each piece.
Mike crouches. Looks at them for a long time.
He can't explain why he feels that he has seen this armor set before. As if it belonged to someone he once knew. The memory that comes is disembodied, and Mike can't make sense of what he actually remembers: the glossy surface of acrylic paint on the coarse canvas, warm from the desert heat.
He lets it slip away from him and straightens up. Doesn't touch the armor—it's not his to touch.
Outside, a dry branch snaps. He moves toward the sound without thinking. Still no one in sight. There's a feeling of being watched that settles over him—not fear exactly, or if it is, Mike can't find it in himself to actually acknowledge it. Yet the feeling of uneasiness finds its way into his chest, curls next to the other things slumbering in there.
He checks the other two tents—less thoroughly, this time. Empty as well: three more sleeping bags, supplies, a quiver of arrows, and actual cooking gear—pots and wooden dishes stacked neatly along the inner wall of the last tent. He notes each detail in the same distant way he's been registering everything—not making sense of any, his brain catching up on it slowly, as if from far away.
Back at the fire, the pot still simmers, steam curling upward.
Mike finally notices something that somewhat snaps him out of his detached state—the waterskin against the woodpile. His throat closes. He tries again telling himself he should leave.
The waterskin is right there.
He crouches over, lifts it, uncorks it, and sniffs. The water inside is cool and inviting.
It happens as soon as Mike's lips touch the rim. There's the sound of footsteps behind him, and before Mike can ever acknowledge them, he is thrown onto the ground with the weight of a body crushing on top of him, pinning him to the forest floor. Something cold, hard, and sharp bites at his throat. A blade. At the corner of his eye, Mike sees the waterskin tumble over, water seeping out of it like blood from a vein ("Don't look at it, just stay awake, Mike, please."). A long moment passes before Mike looks up at his attacker.
The face that stares back at him is his own.
For a moment, Mike's mind simply does not process it. He looks, and he looks, and the information arrives in pieces—same jaw, same nose, same eyes—and still it doesn't connect until confusion creeps over his attacker's face, and he pushes his eyebrows together in such a way, Mike thinks he's looking into a mirror.
"A changeling," he spits, and the blade presses deeper into Mike's throat—not enough to break skin, only because Mike recoils as far as the soft, rotting leaves beneath him allow. "Give me one reason not to kill you right here and now."
His voice is Mike's voice, just lower. Steadier. Confident in a way Mike doesn't remember ever being.
"I'm not a changeling!" Mike manages, gasping for air, windpipe vibrating against steel. He wants it gone. His whole body protests against the edge of the blade—loudly, suddenly, in a way that cuts right through the numbness. "You're the one wearing my face!" he chokes out.
It appears to be the wrong thing to say. The pressure increases.
His pulse stutters violently against the steel, and he hates the sound that tears out of him—a small, helpless whine, humiliatingly dog-like.
The one straddling him studies his face. The confusion is still there, but it hardens into something stern—Mike's own mouth set hard.
"Why is he dressed so strangely?" someone else asks from out of sight.
The question catches somewhere in Mike's mind. His clothes are normal clothes: an old faded T-shirt, jeans, and black Converse. He'd had a hoodie on earlier. He'd taken it off before stepping into the shower, otherwise fully dressed, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin while he turned the water hot, hotter than usual—
A figure steps into view. Mike notices plump cheeks, an upturned nose, and brown curls framing a round face. His brain files it the same way as it does with everything else—wrongly familiar, close but not quite landing.
"Dustin?!" he croaks.
Dustin's eyebrows lift. He glances between Mike and not-Mike with undisguised interest. "Close enough," he says, sounding amused.
"Are there more of you?" not-Mike demands, his knee digs harder into Mike's chest. And then, not waiting for an answer to the first question: "Where are you hiding?"
He pushes against Mike's sternum. His free hand grips both of Mike's wrists, pins them above his head with a force Mike's own body would not be capable of. The pressure is too much. Mike squirms in his grasp ("I know it hurts, Mike, just don't move and stay with us, okay?"). He feels like he can't breathe.
"I think you might want to go one question at a time," a girl says dryly from somewhere to Mike's left. He recognizes Max's voice.
Not-Mike's jaw tightens. He doesn't look up. "And you're the expert on interrogating prisoners, how?"
"More proficient than you are," someone parries. Lucas.
"Thank you, Lucan," Max says, already talking over him, "I can answer for myself. And if you must know, you pick up a thing or two growing up in the Lower City." Then, what seems to be aimed squarely at not-Mike: "Not like you have ever set foot there."
Not-Mike opens his mouth, prepared to argue.
"Michael."
Will's voice, from somewhere behind the others. Not loud. Not-Mike goes still anyway.
"He can't breathe."
The pressure lifts.
Air crashes into Mike's lungs, painful and dizzying. His hands are released, pins and needles stab down his arms, and Mike feels sick at the rush of blood to his wrists. The blade lingers a second longer at his throat—then pulls away at the unmistakable sound of a bowstring drawn tight.
Mike's eyes track the sound.
An arrowhead points steadily at him.
Lucas stands at the other end—posture well-practiced, hands steady.
Mike pushes himself up on shaking elbows.
Lucas looks like he's dressed for a Renaissance fair: a burgundy tunic falling to mid-thigh, black wool leggings, and a matching beret. Max stands beside him, eyes boring into Mike with far more discomfort than the pointed end of the arrow does. Brown leather jacket and fitted pants, worn soft with use. Her red hair braided back, metal hoops threaded in no particular order through the base of tight cornrows.
To his left, Dustin wears something similar to Lucas's, but somewhat more lush. A deep blue tunic, nearly black, velvet catching the light. Gold embroidery of intricate vines and leaves curling along the band collar.
Not-Mike towers above, shadow falling across his face, sword in hand. Dark leggings and plain linen shirt—underdressed compared to the others. His hair is long, cascading all the way to his shoulders. His build appears broader and stronger than Mike's own narrow frame, although Mike can't point out which part of his body is different—he just somehow knows that he is. And now, looking at him properly, it clicks: this is the person the armor from the first tent belongs to. Of course it is. Mike looks away.
Behind them all, at the edge of the campsite, stands Will.
He watches Mike with careful curiosity. A ray of sunlight slips through the canopy overhead and catches in his brown hair, turning it amber. It finds the rich purple of his cloak, silver stars scattered across his shoulders and lapels in shiny constellations. In the light, Will glimmers.
They all look good. Older. Healthier. More fully themselves.
To Mike, they are strangers. In his memory, his friends are pale, quiet, stretched thin—always on the verge of something breaking.
Somewhere behind where Will is standing, the strange bird continues to sing. Its voice rises until it pitches, then falls all the way down. It repeats, over and over again. Mike's mind latches onto the sound like it's the only other thing in this entire forest that belongs with him.
Will steps closer, reaching out a hand, and the spell is broken. Then Will's hand lands on Mike's forehead—warm and dry against Mike's clammy skin—his eyes begin to glow: hazel of his irises morphing into olive, into true green, and back to hazel almost as fast as it started. After that, the hand is gone, and so is the warmth.
Will sits back on his heels. Looks at not-Mike.
"Not a changeling," he says. "A human."
Lucas lowers the bow slightly, though not all the way. "Then why does he look like Michael if Michael has spent his entire life in the Underdark?"
Nobody answers that immediately. Not-Mike is looking at Mike with an expression that is not quite as hostile anymore, but the mix of suspicion and doubt is still there.
"Yeah," Max says, mostly to herself, "it's as if this one wasn't already awful enough." She gestures vaguely in not-Mike's direction. He catches it and narrows his eyes at her. She doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't seem to care.
"Aw, he's not too bad." Dustin drops into a crouch beside Will, looking at Mike with a frank, open expression. "Can we keep him?"
Something surfaces in Mike's mind—little Dustin, a slimy creature from the trash, a full-fledged monster in a matter of days. Mike feels a little like that slimy creature now anyway, so—appropriate, he supposes.
Not-Mike says nothing. He and Will lock eyes, and something passes between them that Mike can't follow—a silent conversation.
Will turns back to Mike.
"What do we call you?" he asks.
Another memory flashes. The warm metal chain of the swing, a plastic seat. The dust below catches on his sneakers as he plants his feet to push himself backwards. A new friend he just made.
"It's Mike," Mike says.
Will lets out a short, amused laugh—surprised by it, almost. "Mike, it is." He points at himself. "I'm Wyllan." His hand moves around the circle. "Lucan. Maxina—"
"Max," she says, flat and immediate, like she's said it a thousand times.
"Max," Wyllan agrees, without missing a beat. "Dusteen." Dusteen gives a small, theatrical bow from his crouch. "And, as you've probably already figured out, Michael."
Not-Mike doesn't acknowledge the introduction. He's still watching Mike from under his brows, and the weight of his gaze makes Mike shiver.
The names land oddly—close but not quite right. Mike feels wrong. The bird continues to sing. He supposes none of this is real. He doesn't say anything.
"How did you end up out here all alone?" Wyllan asks. "We're a three-day walk from any village. Where are your supplies?"
Mike doesn't want to answer the first question. Doesn't want to think about the slippery tiles of his parents' bathroom, and the pain turning out to be so much worse than he'd expected. He starts with the second one.
"No supplies," he says. And as they continue to watch him expectantly, he sighs. "I just… woke up here."
Silence lingers.
"Woke up," Dusteen repeats.
"Yes."
Dusteen looks at the others. Wyllan makes a face, scrunches his nose a bit, and it's so much like Will that something stirs beneath Mike's sternum—faint, and gone almost before it arrives.
"And where were you before that?" not-Mike asks, same unresolved look on his face.
Mike sits upright, staring down at his hands, flexing and unflexing his fingers.
"Somewhere else."
Max lets out a frustrated growl.
Mike looks at Wyllan, hoping that if all this is some kind of his imagination's last hurrah, this version of Will would also have the ability to understand him well enough without having to explain anything. The expression on Wyllan's face is gentle and patient, but there's no hint of recognition in his eyes.
That's fair, Mike thinks bitterly. He hasn't really given anyone much reason to recognize him lately—especially not Will. The thought settles somewhere uncomfortable, and Mike finds he doesn't have the energy to move it along. He closes his eyes.
He had thought that it would be quiet, after. That whatever had been a dead weight in his chest would finally stop, because he had given it what it wanted, or because there would simply be no more of him left for it to sink its teeth into. That was the logic that got him cornered in the first place. A resolution that was supposed to shut the door on that thing once and for all.
But the door is not shut.
Instead, Mike is sitting on the ground in a place that shouldn't exist, feeling the crunchy leaves under his body, smelling the earth and the forest air, and seeing the people who can't be here. And to his worn, familiar horror, he realizes that the thing in his chest is still there, quiet the way it would get sometimes—not gone, just waiting. It does not seem to care, particularly, about what Mike did. He had thought fear might have replaced it entirely, at the end, and it had—but fear runs out. And what's underneath is the same as it always was.
He opens his eyes. Thinks of all the people he has hurt. Thinks of what he has done to them now.
In this moment, all that has been asleep starts to wake, and the bile rising to his throat feels well deserved.
So Mike lifts his head to where not-Mike is standing, looks himself in the eye, and says:
"I think I might have died."