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It’s strange to think that just a few months ago, Derek was so afraid of everything that he would wordlessly comply with the demands of any low-ranking DMS agent. Now, emboldened either by Avery or Hastur, and certainly in some way by the reemergence of his bored sense of superiority, he does not feel the impulse to sacrifice his pride to anyone in a lab coat. When the DMS agent – whose name-tag he has purposely not glanced at – instructs him to put on a headpiece that will deliver a small electric current at the press of a button, he raises his eyebrow, shakes his head, and simply says, “Why the fuck would I do that?”
Derek hasn’t seen her before; she must be new. Nervously, she glances at her notes, clearly not having expected this much resistance. “Erm,” she says. “It says here it’s to prompt you in the right direction. You’re supposed to be playing Minecraft. That’s fun, right?”
“Right,” Derek rolls his eyes. “Hold on.”
The anxious and clearly underqualified DMS agent begins to load up a game of Minecraft on the computer, but Derek stands up from the desk anyway. He knows that Constance is watching him from a small office at the end of the room, and he crosses the floor with confidence, pushing open the door without even wondering or worrying whether it’s locked.
It isn’t.
Constance is clearly taken off guard, having been looking at the contents of a folder instead of the cameras in front of her. She quickly closes it as Derek gets the briefest glance at the largely redacted contents inside.
“Excuse me?” She says.
“You’re excused. I’ll play Minecraft however much you want, but I’m not letting that intern out there get all trigger-happy on an electric shock button just because you think I might express the slightest amount of free will.”
“Forgive me, but you’re not exactly forthcoming with information when free will is extended to you. I’m starting to suspect that you don’t actually know as much as you’re letting on about my son. Or anything.”
Derek taps the side of his head. “You’ve got an implant in here that lets you do whatever you want. You could send me into a coma and go rooting around, but you don’t.”
“The human brain is a fragile thing.”
“You mean you’re scared of losing the information you hope I have, right?” Derek says. “So you do require a degree of cooperation from me, like I do from you. Which means we have to compromise.”
“Alright,” Constance looks both satisfied and intrigued. “We compromise. No electric shocks.”
“Thank you,” Derek gives a mock bow.
The DMS agent receives a message on her pager – presumably from Constance – at the same time as Derek reaches the desk again. “Just Minecraft, then,” she confirms. “Even more fun, yeah?”
He doesn’t dignify her with a response. Instead, he looks at the screen and sees a near-perfect recreation of Hastur’s world; the world that had come pre-installed on his copy of Minecraft for reasons he has actually never thought to ask.
Go on. Tell me. If Avery was who you really wanted, why get me involved at all?
you have not figured it out? – you take so much pride in sacrifice – you build your identity around having no needs, no wants – Around being so smart that you are above it all – Will you ever understand Him? – In every universe, He would only agree to be My vessel if it would save you – you have always been the sacrifice – But a pitiful one – you are no Knight – you were bait –
“This is wrong,” Derek says, his voice monotone. “It’s slightly off. You’ve not built it right.”
“O-Oh-” the DMS agent says.
“It’s fine. I’ll play along anyway.”
He traverses through the world that has been built almost exactly like the one he found beyond the cave. It’s an impressive recreation, clearly one that Constance has paid a lot for, but it naturally cannot overcome the pitfalls noticed by someone whose brain lives here every time it dreams. A block missing here, a gate too short there. Minor, insignificant details that shouldn’t detract from how technically impressive something like this has always been – and yet, once noticed, they take away from the majesty of it all and serve only to remind him that what happened to him and Avery was beyond the bounds of human cruelty. It was the blisteringly unfair nature of life, the randomness of the universe, the cruelty of complete chance. He cannot forget that Hastur, as petty and bitter as he is inside Derek’s mind and as focused as he is on Avery, is so large that his decisions cannot be considered by human standards.
It does not necessarily make Constance seem benign. But it does highlight that her weak spots are no less emotionally driven than his.
He understands that they are at an impasse. She wants information that he does not have; he wants freedom that she cannot give. The experiments are nothing but a distraction from the potential energy held within their tug-of-war, something to pass the time while they pretend that something bigger than both of them isn’t on the horizon.
Still, he’s glad that it’s easier to play along. These days, he even sometimes has energy left over when he gets home.
When Constance allows him to leave at 5pm, he waits until he’s in the elevator to smile.
Home. That’s his reason for all of this. Beyond even the burning need for some kind of justice, or resolution, or end to the pain. Wanting to get out of here, or at the very least save Avery’s life, keeps him alert and thinking; but wanting to be around Avery gets him up in the morning. He opens the door to the apartment with his arms already reaching for a hug.
And Avery isn’t there.
Avery isn’t there.
The lights are off and Avery isn’t waiting for him like he usually is. Derek fumbles, almost falling as he doesn’t process which foot he wants to move first and stumbles over the threshold. His hand slams loudly into the wall. The sound ricochets through the apartment, causing something to thud into the ground from the living room.
Derek shouts, “Avery?” at the same time as Avery, his voice disoriented and muffled, shouts, “Derek!”
“I’m coming,” Derek says, bracing himself against the wall and walking down the hallway as fast as he can.
“Slow down!”
There’s a shuffling sound and then loud, fast footsteps as Avery runs down the hallway towards Derek.
“You’re okay?” Derek asks, hands grasping onto Avery’s shirt, making their way up to hold his face and confirm that he’s real.
“I’m fine. Sorry, I was just asleep. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise what time it was.”
Derek’s eyes adjust to the darkness of the apartment and he sees that Avery doesn’t look well at all. His face is swollen and he’s shivering. Blinking looks like a heavy, exhausting task – one that requires him to squeeze his eyes shut each time and then fight to open them again. He’s still smiling at Derek, but it’s obviously taking effort, and he’s leaning against the wall to stay standing.
“’S just food poisoning,” Avery mumbles. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Don’t be silly,” Derek takes Avery’s arm and lifts it around his shoulder, steadying him around the waist and helping him walk back to the living room. He sees that the blankets are on the floor and deduces that the thud from earlier must have been Avery falling off the sofa in surprise. Gently lowering Avery back onto the couch, Derek picks up one of the blankets to cover him.
Kneeling down, he presses his lips against Avery’s forehead. He’s warm – fever warm.
“Don’t want you to get sick too,” Avery says.
“I won’t if it’s food poisoning. And if I do, we can stay home together. Win-win.”
With a deep sigh, Avery attempts to sit up. Derek halts him with a gentle hand on his chest, cocking his head to the side – a wordless why?
“I should be looking after you. You just spent eight hours with the DMS.”
“Playing Minecraft,” Derek laughs. “Genuinely.”
He brushes Avery’s hair out of his face and wraps his arms around him. When they’re close like this, they’re connected – Derek can feel Avery’s exhaustion. Is it really just food poisoning? Or has he been overworking himself, doing everything he can to appear cheerful and optimistic for Derek’s benefit? It’s not a secret that Avery feels like he has to compensate for the fact that Derek is the one with Hastur in his head.
“You chose the best day to get sick, seriously,” Derek says, rubbing Avery’s back. Avery slumps into him. “I have so much energy. I’m so glad I get to look after you for once.”
“’S not how things should be.”
“It’s how they are,” Derek pulls back, looking him in the eye. “And we make the best of it.”
For a moment, Avery looks like he’s about to accept the comfort. Then his eyes quickly widen and one of his hands flies to his mouth as the other points desperately at the trash can. Derek just about holds it underneath his chin in time before Avery vomits mainly bile and water. He takes the trash can and cradles it, his head bowed, as Derek pulls his hair away from his face.
After a few more shoulder-jerk close-call heaves, Avery looks up and gives a thumbs up. He moves as though he’s going to stand, but does not protest when Derek’s hand on his shoulder keeps him down.
“You need to rest,” Derek insists. This isn’t sustainable. This isn’t a life for either of them. Derek can recognise that it isn’t fair that he is observed and experimented on without having any real say, but that doesn’t make it fair that Avery is taking on every other burden they could face. If this were the real world, they could share. They could take turns helping each other out and maybe there’d be some kind of equity in balance, but right now they are tending to each other’s wounds whilst the ceiling keeps lowering on them. There are bigger fish to fry, yes, but that doesn’t stop sickness, doesn’t stop pain. Not everything has to be quantified. Bad things happen while worse things are happening.
Derek takes the trash can once he’s sure that Avery has nothing left to vomit. He suspects that this isn’t the first time today he has done so. Fluffing and adjusting the pillows, he guides Avery back down before tucking the blanket around him.
“I’m sorry,” Avery says.
Derek rests his hand on Avery’s cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he soothes. “You’re sick. Thank you for letting me look after you.”
“You really just played Minecraft?”
“Yeah. And they didn’t even recreate our world properly.”
“Is it wrong that I kind of miss playing Minecraft?”
Derek smiles. “Me too, actually. When we get out of here, I swear.”
“You promise no more self-sacrifice stuff?”
I don’t need you anymore – The fish is hooked –
“You promise the same?” Derek holds Avery’s hand.
“We want the same thing,” Avery smiles. “Let’s just… live.”
“To live is to rest, Aves. You think you can do that?”
Avery nods. Hesitantly, he closes his eyes. Derek leaves his side briefly to put one of Avery’s favourite CDs on quietly in the background, and when he returns, Avery is already asleep again.
This must have been building for a while.
Holding his hand, Derek sits on the floor next to the sofa. He leans against Avery’s arm, feeling the heat radiating from his body despite the shivering. As though attempting some kind of transference of wellness, Derek presses his forehead against him.
No – that’s no good. It’s not enough to ping-pong the unnatural burden between them both until exhaustion takes one of them before the other. He has to do something more. Hastur may hate him, but he is leashed inside Derek’s mind and there must be some way to command him.
Making sure that Avery is asleep, Derek leaves his side and sits at the table. He takes a pen and a blank piece of paper.
Think. Think. What was Constance reading? What did the document say?
Are you begging me for help? – Begging for access to your own mind? –
Derek takes a deep breath. Hastur is right. This is his mind. He will always know it best. He’s endured living with himself for almost twenty-seven years; he knows which buttons he can push and how he can live through pushing them. Calmly, he walks into the kitchen and takes a pair of socks from the laundry basket, soaking them under the tap and wincing in discomfort as he puts them on. He takes multiple shirts from the same basket, layering them over his arms until the fabric itches in multiple dimensions, each trapped layer of heat prickling against his skin and making him aware of every inch of his own flesh. Taking the glasses off his face, he turns on the lamp and looks over the shade, burning the light of the bulb directly into his eyes. He takes a pair of headphones from the drawer of the media wall and plugs them in, directing the sound of Avery’s music from the speakers straight into his ears. He turns the music up as loud as it will go.
Inducing sensory overload is already enough to drown Hastur out, but Derek needs more. He needs to show him how unpleasant he can make his containment.
So he thinks about his father.
None of his memories are off-limits, but even Hastur tends to stay away from the topic of family beyond a few low blows. Inhabiting a brain that’s actively having a panic attack isn’t pleasant for either of them, but Derek has years of experience in gritting his teeth and remaining silent throughout it. The combination of his body being on high sensory alert and his mind ruminating on the memory of his disappointed father, coaching his pathetic teenage son to keep quiet about his recent hospital stay and the reason for his long sleeves, turns Derek’s body into a meltdown reactor. There is nowhere for Hastur to hide. He stutters through the blood in Derek’s veins but finds no shelter from the vibration, the urge, the itch. Derek can’t help but smile even though he, too, can hardly bear it. He digs his nails into the side of his neck, feeling the sweat beading up and fighting the desperation to rip the uncomfortable clothes from his body, to sit in silence and darkness and not think about his family ever again. He feels disgusting, parasitic, fraudulent. A perpetual child begging for his father to love him and his mother to stand beside him. Rotting beneath the sheen of self-sacrifice there has always been this: a desperation to be seen.
But it’s Hastur who gives in first. He slams the brakes, halting everything in Derek’s mind and replacing it all with a wave of dizziness. His voice is incomprehensible, garbled through the music like pained static.
Derek turns the volume down and takes the headphones out of his ears.
Ready to talk?
you have shown Me nothing new –
I made you feel it. Ready to talk?
Against his will, Derek’s hand points to the table. He follows Hastur’s command, though he makes a conscious effort to keep control of his limbs whilst doing so. When he sits down, pulls the piece of paper towards himself and stares at it.
An image ripples into focus.
As he remembered, most of the document is redacted.
His hand flies across the page anyway, perfectly replicating the little black boxes obscuring what was once written beneath. But something was once written beneath there, and he has infinite knowledge – not just of the present, or the future possibilities, but of the concrete past. If he concentrates, he can watch the pigment-based ink being made, powdered carbon combined with oil, designed to hold up over time. He can watch it being packed and shipped to the DMS. He can see it – feel it – taste it – wet and fresh against the page.
And what is underneath it? What was written there?
██████████ █████████████ █ ██████████ ██ ████████████ ████████ ██████████
RKCREVZRAG QBPHZRAGNGVBA – Qrcnegzrag bs Zrgnculfvpny Fpvraprf
08/05/2006
██████████ ██████████ ████████████ ████ █████ █████████
RKCREVZRAG GREZVANGRQ CERZNGHERYL.
PT1n (QT1) QRPRNFRQ.
█████████ ██████████ ████ ██████████ ████████ ███████ ██████████ ██████ █████████ ██████ ███████ ██████████ ███ ███████ ████ ████ █████████
Ertneqvat ERFRNEPURE PT1, [ERQNPGRQ] erdhverf shegure ersvarzrag orsber pbagvahrq hfntr. Batbvat rzcyblzrag naq ubhfvat unir orra neenatrq.
How interesting.