Chapter Text
Dante finds that his life has rapidly changed in the last couple of days. So much so that Dante hasn’t had time to reach out to his doctor. No matter, though, he’ll find time later. And besides, the buzzing isn’t bad, necessarily, he only feels it come back when he speaks with Greeves (it’s only subtle, though) and when he spends too long looking at Better Living’s smiley faces or lingers at the television. In fact, it’s mostly just resigned to a very dull ache in his head that he can’t do anything about. When he closes his eyes, Dante faces a throbbing sharpness that hollows out behind his eyes; Dante doesn’t sleep.
It’s better like that, though—he finds himself terrible busy. He watches Mickey Vore’s face fall when an assistant packs Dante’s things and follows him to the Elevator. Dante didn’t smile, but the triumph was clear. He did nod, politely .
And Dante’s new office screams victory, too. It’s huge, barely even a cubicle anymore, with a view of the city—the huge, perfect city that Dante is going to save, with his team. It’s only been a couple of days; Dante doesn’t even know the plan, yet, but whatever it’s going to be, it’ll be huge. Dante’s completely sure.
“Gallo! How are you settling in?” Greeves asks, appearing behind Dante. He rests his hand on the edge of Dante’s chair, like they’re already close friends—they probably were, back when Ghoul still knew what his past was. Greeves tone is completely friendly, and Dante’s immediately put at ease; he almost can’t feel the subtle buzzing.
“Good, good,” Dante replies. All his things have already been set up and organized, Dante sips on some coffee.
“Splendid—tell you what, I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Greeves leans closer to Dante, running a hand through his own hair before speaking, “They want you on the big screen tomorrow,”
Dante turns his head slowly, exhaling a sharp breath. It feels like he and Greeves are back in Kindergarten again, trading rumours that are harmless to no one except for them. He lowers his voice. “An interview? Already?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there with you,” Greeves reassures, “With you and me as the faces of this project, I’d say we’ve got a definite chance at succeeding,”
“I suppose so,”
“I know so. How about you and I go get some coffee after work? Catch up as colleagues, hm?”
“That sounds great,” Dante replies, and Greeves leaves after giving him a pat on the back. It almost feels odd and stiff, like Greeves can’t believe that Dante is real in the flesh. But that’s rather ridiculous, Dante knows he’s not thinking clearly, what, with his headache and all. It’s evolved into a pounding sort of pain, something that spreads across his eyes, only for him to find that covering his eyes does nothing to help his cause. It’s almost distracting him from what actually matters—the interview.
Dante’s seen television shows and black and white-chequered interviews, he’s found himself sitting in front of the television for several days, when he isn’t working, as most citizens do. The television is always on—can’t switch it off—and now Dante’s going to be on it.
Interesting.
The coffee with Greeves is a big nothing, in fact, it’s rather relaxing (save the pounding ache in his brain that he tries to desperately drink away with the coffee offered to him. His desperation comes in the form of long, mechanical sips, like everyone else in here, to the beat of an invisible rhythm. Greeves mentions his wife and two children, which makes Dante wonder if he’s compatible for someone yet—it’s not unusual for men in his age to remain without a partner, but in a couple of years, it’s going to be mandatory for him. However, most of Greeves’ conversation is mostly just the standard, until he leans in— like he did this morning, Dante thinks—and begins to speak in a more hushed tone.
“Y’know, Gallo, I myself am quite pleased we’re on the same side here,” He begins.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Before you had your… accident, I wasn’t sure what the deal between the two of us was. We weren’t always good colleagues, if you understand what I mean,”
Dante doesn’t understand, but he nods anyway.
“I’m just glad you weren’t injured too bad—that scar, on your face, though, couldn’t they have fixed that? Do you know what it’s from?”
Dante shakes his head, throat dry all of a sudden. He’s not sure if he could manage to force anything out through between his teeth, instead, he watches Greeves, waiting for him to say something more. Something feels awfully wrong, underneath this cellophane haze, like someone is watching him, waiting for him to slip up and fall—and even worse, the buzzing has paused, like something terrible is on the verge of happening; that, or he can’t feel it anymore. He doesn’t know what’s worse.
“Shame,” Greeves says, with a relaxed air, as if he doesn’t notice (or is indifferent to) Dante’s suffering—probably for the better, though. “And you can’t remember because-?”
He’s waiting for an answer, Dante realizes, as he finally forces something out, through gritted teeth. “Accident,” He says, trying not to groan. He’s sweating now, deeply uncomfortable, unable to look Greeves in the eyes anymore.
“An accident,” The latter repeats, “But shouldn’t they be able to fix that?”
“I don’t know,”
“Aren’t you tired of not knowing? Of asking questions? You can’t remember your accident, sure, but you can’t even remember your childhood. Doesn’t that baffle you?”
“No,” He hates that it comes out more as a question than anything. Greeves is getting under is skin, he can’t even think straight anymore. And then a terrible thought—what if he knows Dante’s dosage isn’t high enough? Surely he doesn’t, and if he does, Dante will be fixed again. But the division! What happens if he’s taken away for reconditioning? It’s getting to him though—those words—of course, he wonders, of course it bewilders him, but he isn’t supposed to think that, at least not consciously. And now he’s squirming under Greeves’ cool gaze, trying to keep control of his breathing, of his thoughts, because Greeves could never find out.
“But your childhood. Shouldn’t everyone know about their own childhood? The city should be able to fix you, my friend, such accidents shouldn’t affect you much,”
“Doesn’t matter, I’m happier without them anyway,”
“Are you really? I’ve seen you, you know, I’ve seen the pain you’re in,”
“I’ve scheduled an appointment,” (Another lie.)
“Don’t you want more than that? You’re suffering, and all you get is an appointment?”
“I am content, Mitchell,” (Liar.)
Greeves pauses for a moment, shrugging. Dante almost thinks he’s done whispering daggers and cruelties (things impossible for him to understand he’s doing—Greeves is a good citizen) and that he can finally catch his breath, but Greeves has one final thing to say.
“Doesn’t this make you upset?” He makes clear what this is by bringing two fingers up to Dante’s scar. The nerve endings were severed a long time ago, he can’t feel Greeves’ touch, but he still jerks away, standing up with a shocked ah. The buzzing comes back full force, like Dante’s an explosion. It stings, worsening the already growing pounding in his brain, making him keel over and gasp, because everything’s grown twice as loud with the ugly cicada buzzing and Dante can’t think, and it stings and burns, and he wants to tear his eyes out of his head, if only it would just stop. Stop, stop, stop. He would rather go out into the Desert than feel the buzz, he just needs to get out now, the light hurts and Dante can’t breathe and everything sounds like too many computer keys pressed at once, like wings flapping together in rapid succession, like-
“I’m sorry, I do not feel well,” Is the excuse Dante manages to come up with and fumble over when the buzzing relents, taking a much softer sound, like a swarm of honey bees that Dante has only read about.
As he walks away, he can’t help but ask, why can’t mom and dad fix him?
- 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐓-
Poison fixes themself time and time again, alone, under the blue haze of fluorescent lights. They don’t ask for help, they don’t need help, they can do it themself. Sometimes fixing comes in the form of needles and floss, threading it through their skin without making a sound, pulling the wound together and remembering to breathe. Other times it comes in the form of forgetting. Forgetting that they’ve got no reason to exist, forgetting that their purpose has been snatched from their grip, right when they thought they had it, forgetting that their face is on saint cards.
It disturbs Poison. Before their death, Poison wanted to be on Saint cards, Poison wanted to be a prayer for lost and dying ‘joys. But now? Now they see something that reminds them that they should be dead. That if they’re recognized and word spreads, people will expect something of them.
They can’t even look in the mirror most days, they’ve become so unrecognizable. It’s not their face that has changed, necessarily, but their freckles are faded, and their eyes are dull and muted, because they’re just not the same. What’s happened to them? This fire, this burning passion that bled through them and devoured every single piece they still had, has been replaced by a tired resignation—a certain kind of fatigue that won’t disappear.
Today, though, Poison fixes themself with bandages and antiseptic. They’ve pulled glass shards out of their skin many times; the wounds on their hand and back from the blunt force of the impact aren’t deep enough for them to worry. Most of the pieces can just be pulled out, cleaned, and bandaged—the rest will probably fall out eventually. And if not, Poison can’t really bring themself to care.
Maybe it’s time they go out again, check out Hyperthrust - no one will recognize them there with the technicolour lighting and pounding music, which is, coincidentally, exactly what they need. And maybe Kobra will come along, if they ask him.
The car’s trashed anyway (Poison’s fault, but they’re sure they can get someone to fix it. They miss Jet.). Getting to Hyperthrust would be terribly tricky to get to alone, and they suppose it’s about time they actually get the guts to actually talk to Kobra again. It’s been lonely.
Poison pulls themself from the Diner sink, putting the commitment band in their pocket. It’s stupid, really, they’ve been mourning for several years now, they should be able to put it back on, and in fact, they’re ashamed they took it off in the first place, but it’s been in the same stupid compartment that everything else they ever cared about was hidden in the car, along with some photographs that they clutch onto and hide in a different pocket, like they actually care.
Kobra’s reading by the door when they finally find him, limping towards his figure. When he notices them there, he furrows his eyebrows, like he’s concerned for them, but doesn’t say anything. They don’t say anything.
“Hyperthrust?” They ask, almost tentatively. A peace offering.
Kobra nods slowly, reaching for the keys in his pocket. He must’ve seen the ‘Am. They pretend not to notice a new bruise forming around his eye. He doesn’t say anything about the blood streaked on their jacket and their arms. That’s just principle now, Poison supposes.
“Give me five?” They ask after a second. If they can’t be their old self, at least they can try to look a little more normal.
They don’t look quite right by the time they’re done (not like they used to), but the glitter makes them feel more normal—like the smudged and blended blotches of glitter around their face makes them a little more like what they should be. It’s almost a daunting feeling.
By the time they’re done, Kobra’s already got the bike started. He doesn’t notice them there until they’re right next to him, holding their jacket close, as if the heat isn’t killing them. They’re on fire.
They’re on fire the entire way there, and when the heat begins to make them light-headed and disoriented, they revel in the feeling, because at least it’s something, right? It’s better than nothing. And the desert goes by like a metro Poison prefers not to think about, like it’s not even there in the first place.
Until it doesn’t move past them at all.
They hear Kobra curse, voice all cracked and near-silent, as if he doesn’t want them to hear it — or maybe they’re just not listening well enough. And they hear his voice, but they don’t understand a single word he’s saying, so they just smile and nod, watching him speak like he’s only just seeing them now. Maybe they’re seeing him now for the first time in years. He’s their brother, he looks the same as he always has, with faint freckles (like theirs) and the same bright eyes beneath his sunglasses (when did he take those off?). And he’s remained a constant, with the same features since they first got out here — the only thing that really changed was the darker expression and the scars that he wears now — but they haven’t really noticed, not since he first went down all those years ago. They don’t even know what half of the scars plastered across his face come from, or which of his piercings is the newest.
It’s pathetic, really, the one time they actually pay attention to their brother is when they feel like they’re dying.
They feel absolutely nauseous by the time they tear their eyes off of him, looking around to see a smaller shack a couple metres in the distance. They could walk it. It reads something, and the lights flash on and on and on against the cold backdrop of the setting sky.
When did it get so late?
They don’t say anything when they feel the sand beneath them, or when Kobra’s holding onto their jacket, trying to speak to them. The lights are beautiful , Poison thinks, blinking slowly. They want to go to the lights, please, take them to the lights. It’s an omen, it’s the future, it’s a vision just for Poison. A beautiful, perfect, neon-lit sign for them to follow, because it’s going to save them all, it’s going to bring the heavens down for Poison to grasp and use. They can already hear the voices out there, telling them to just see what’s waiting there for them.
They try to gesture in the way of the shack, but Poison barely manages to lull their head in the direction of it. Kobra seems to get the message, looking behind him after a desperate look of concern. He says something again, but it gets lost in the translation of their own ears.
They sigh and close their eyes—when they open them again, they’re propped up against the wall, and there’s a plastic bottle of water beside them. They drink, pretending not to see Kobra looking at them. Instead, they look around.
The bar is crammed with odd pieces of junk, broken figurines with missing limbs, dead and wilted plants in cracked pots, forgotten CDs with unpopular bands. Empty bottles line the shelves, like they would in a proper bar, except they’re so filthy and crusted with sand that it’s more off-putting than anything, alongside the eerie emptiness and quiet music playing in the background. But what catches Poison’s eye the most is the small TV sitting at the bar.
It plays something straight from the City, and Poison feels their stomach drop, not because they recognize the first guest speaker in the interview as a chief member of the Industry, but because they recognize the man sitting beside him.
“Kobra-” Their voice comes out as a surprise to them, hoarse and cracked- “Is that-?”
Kobra nods.
For a moment, Poison keeps watching, listening to the conversation. Some kind of interview that fills Poison with the worst kind of dread, because it’s been nearly 15 years since they’ve last seen him, and he’s still wearing that dingy bracelet around his wrist, and his scar on his cheek, but it’s all been put together wrong. Everything about him is wrong as he exchanges pleasantries, in a perfect city accent. It fills them with guilt and shame.
“Fun Ghoul,”