Chapter Text
Emil pokes at his plate. There’s a weight that is much too heavy, on his shoulders. His sister had reassured him that the muscles in his neck will quickly grow strong enough to support his new head, but for the time being, it’s aching with a burden it isn’t supposed to be carrying.
A plate of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and bacon in the shape of a smile stares back at him. He can’t eat it, can’t even smell it, but his parents figured that it’d be best to give up the routine of breakfast more slowly. So, he sits quietly, pushing the eggs around with his fork.
“It’s a hard transition, I know, sweetheart,”
His mother rests a hand on his. It feels too human to come from someone with a prosthetic head. Despite lacking a mouth, he can tell she’s smiling at him, and he truly wishes that it was comforting. However, it isn’t, and his fork clatters against his plate as he stands up in a hurry, grabbing his book bag from next to him, and slinging it over his shoulder.
“I can walk with you, Emil. It’s pretty disorienting, even after-”
“It’s fine.”
He shakes what is supposed to be his head, and almost tips off balance, grabbing onto his chair as he pushes it in, in order to steady himself. The mechanical dog barks at him as he heads out the front door, the same pre-recorded noise he hears each and every time the door is opened.
Dragging himself down the sidewalk, Emil stares at the ground, gripping the straps of his bag with white knuckles. Occasionally, out of habit, his hand raises to instinctively brush where his bangs used to fall across his face, met only with the cold metal of his head.
His hand is cold as well. All of him is cold, actually. In his hurry, he’d forgotten his jacket, and his uniform wasn’t thick enough against the winter air as he trekked forward, stepping over a snow bank. For a moment, he thought about letting himself trip on an icy puddle, and allow his new head to break- not to die, but to get it off of him-, before shuddering upon remembering how it’d felt to wake up with the new head. He’d rather keep this one, than go through that again.
Apparently, it didn’t matter if it was on purpose or not, as while he was lost in thoughts, his foot slipped. With a yelp, he fell forward, bracing up for the inevitable sound of smashing metal.
The back of his collar was grabbed right before he hit the ground, and he would have gagged as he was yanked backwards by it and back to his feet, if he needed air still. Emil wished that the ground would swallow him up, as he turned to see the familiar face of the person who’d caught him.
“You look different, Sinclair.”
Kromer said flatly, eyes raking over him, somehow more critically then he had been when first staring in the mirror. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to pull her hand off the back of his shirt.
“Yeah… I know.”
He mumbled- or well, tried to. His voice came out clear, if not a little lower volume.
“I thought you said that your procedure was post-Christmas.”
“... early present.”
Was all he could respond with. It took another few seconds, before she let go of him, not shifting her gaze. He struggled to tell what her eyes held. There was definitely disdain, but that wasn’t the only thing swirling in it. Eventually, she put a hand on his shoulder, and started to walk again.
“Come on, we’ll be late.”
Nodding, he followed next to her. He had wanted to avoid her, after what had happened in his basement, but, at the moment… she seemed to be the only one who would understand.
“So,”
She hummed, not moving her hand, but letting her voice sound cheery.
“What did they do with your head? Your real one, I mean. Surely it had to go somewhere, right? Considering there wasn’t anything wrong with it, after all.”
What had they done with his head? They’d told him, but that was when he’d first woken up, and everything seemed so distant.
“I think it was buried next to my house. By the garden. Where the rest of my family had their heads buried.”
He gave a half hearted shrug, but Kromer seemed to accept the answer.
“That must be… disconcerting. Walking past where your own head is buried. Tell me, Sinclair, how does it feel?”
Emil would’ve been thrown off by the question, if it wasn’t for the sincerity in her tone.
“Bad. It feels bad.”
Sighing, he nods. Kromer is about to open her mouth again, before stopping. Glancing up, Emil can see that they’ve stepped onto the snowy schoolyard, and Kromer bids a quick goodbye, before walking away, as Demian approaches.
Said boy doesn’t say a word, simply walking next to Emil as they enter the building. He’s glad that Kromer is gone.
“Sinclair! Oh my gosh, Sinclair!”
Stepping into his classroom, he’s quickly surrounded by his classmates, starting to buzz with excitement while looking at his head. One girl reaches out to gently rap her knuckles against the side of his head, and he wishes he could feel it as properly as he used to be able to. The small crowd follows him to his desk, a couple different kids pulling up chairs, all talking over each other.
“Did it hurt?”
“Why is it a hexagon? I would’ve totally gotten a star!”
“Was it hard to get your uniform on? Did you have to shimmy into it, or something?”
He’s never been so thankful for the teacher starting class.
Staring out the window, he finds he can stare straight at the sun, without worry of burning his eyes.
Days pass. The routine slowly dwindles into sitting at the dining table with only a glass of orange juice, never being drunk. The cool glass is nice against his hands, even as it gets colder and colder outside. Christmas is approaching. After a couple weeks, even that is gone. The juice carton had expired, having not been used past pouring a cupful, and later returning it to the same container, and his parents said that there wasn’t any point in buying a new jug.
Eventually, the discomfort of the new adjustment fades into the discomfort of remembering he had yet to tell his family about the key he had taken. Christmas Eve, he decides. I’ll tell them then. Then, I can go back to being a good son.
With a touch of dread, he reminded himself each day, leading up to then. Finally, the day arrives.
Kromer isn’t at school that day, and he can’t help but wonder why. She had confessed to him months ago that she never really got sick, only ever faking it rarely in order to stay home when tests that she didn’t study for came up. Maybe there was a pop quiz she’d heard about, in one of her other classes. He brushed it off.
After school ended, he wandered around the town. It was nice that the school term was off, and that he got a break. On any other Christmas Eve, he’d be hurrying home, wanting to dig into the feast his mother and sister liked to prepare together, talking at the table at whatever came to his, or his family's, minds. Now, the idea just feels hollow. He had caught his father wrapping up one of his presents, a sort of magnet that was apparently popular to have as an accessory among people with prosthetics, and now he can’t help but just be apprehensive about his gifts.
The streets are quiet as he walks home, save for muffled Christmas music coming from some of the houses. Eventually, his own home comes into view, decorated in lights. Staring at the ground, he misses the pile of dirt that could have been seen on the side of his home, by the garden.
The door isn’t locked, and as it’s pushed open, he can’t help but notice the lack of mechanical barking. The house is quiet, save for what sounds like talking, further into the home. A sense of dread overtakes him, like it had been his heart that had been replaced, fitted with iron tight straps around it. Scrambling forward, Emil follows the voices, and stumbles into a room with his family, Kromer, and a man in armor that he hasn’t met.
His mind reels, taking in the situation.
Nails are hammered through his parents, sparks flying, and blood dripping from where their actual flesh had been pierced. His sister is able to get out a jumbled warning, telling him to run, before another nail is jammed into her prosthetic head, cutting her short.
His gaze darts around the room. He seems to hyperventilate, but that description doesn’t seem to fit, not when he hardly has a mouth. His hands twitch, and there is an overwhelming urge to want to tear off his metal face, and cry normally once again.
Eventually, his gaze raises to look at Kromer, who is grinning ear to ear.
“Merry Christmas, Sinclair! I’ve held up my end of the bargain. Even gone above and beyond, for your present.”
Something bumps against his ankles as she motions for the armored man to roll something towards him. Looking down, the head of his sister, before her surgery, looks back up. There’s dirt caked in her hair, and he hates how clean the cut on her neck is, where it’d been taken off, and been replaced.
The man rolls his parents' heads to him as well, and he feels frozen.
“Despicable, isn’t it? Perfectly good heads, replaced for no good reason. Be grateful I got rid of these filthy heretics for you.”
She sighs. He forces his gaze to Kromer once again, body trembling.
“You’re wondering if I’m going to kill you.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Her smile fades as she crouches down to the duffel bag that the heads had been pulled out of, grabbing something, before straightening up again.
Emil feels his stomach churn as something is shoved close to his mechanical face.
She’s holding this head by the hair, fingers gripping the yellow strands tightly. Lifeless golden eyes meet his own. The once pale skin is discolored into a purplish blue.
“See what you used to be, Sinclair? Before those heretics corrupted you?”
He stares at what used to be his head. It looks so light in her grip, in comparison to the ever heavy weight of his prosthetic.
She presses her cheek against his… what used to be his, and curls her lips into a frown.
“I had hoped to save you from this awful transformation. But it seems I was too late.”
With a sigh, Kromer loosens her grip on the head, until it slips to the ground, and the heel of her shoe rams down onto it. There’s a squelch, and his stomach begs to expel the contents that it hasn’t had in weeks. He doesn’t look down.
He can feel her hand reach into his pocket, taking out one of the coins she had gifted him.
“I wish I could see the terror on your face. It’s agonizing, only being able to imagine it. I’d say that I’m the one who's worse off, right now!”
With a laugh, she steps backwards, giving him some space. Her eyes go over him once more, before she hums.
“I suppose I should kill you, seeing as you’re a heretic. But, still…”
Wringing her hands out, she smiles wider.
“I wonder how human you still are. It’s only been… What, a month? So, go on. Prove it.”
Emil can only bring himself to take a step backwards, gripping onto the doorframe to support himself, before turning and running faster than he ever had before. Out of the house, down the path, barely keeping his balance as he skids across the ice. He doesn’t look behind him, and ignores the cold creeping into him.
Hours later, Demian finds him.