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. . .
It's dark.
. . .
And quiet. For once.
No screaming. No heavy breathing and growling. Nothing being shattered against a wall.
Just quiet, the faint sounds of a machine whirring in the background near where the capsule was left, from an earlier group of people that were smart enough not to disturb him — thank God for that — but merely carefully moved his shell — prison? Home? Unknown. — to someplace out of the way so they wouldn't disturb it. More thoughtful than other groups, he could say.
The Twisted relished the quiet. Needed it — the only way to focus on his broken, fractured mind. Being disturbed disrupted his train of thought entirely. He could only tolerate being interrupted by two people. Curious. Curious how his subconscious recognized Them, and yet his actual conscious self could not. Curious. Infuriating. Maddening. They never stuck around long enough for him to see enough inside their minds to remember, or their minds were blocked from him. It was seldom consistent.
Curious. Infuriating. Maddening.
But for now. Peace. Enough to focus.
. . . Or it had been peaceful.
Footsteps vibrated through the floorboards and rattled his ichor. Ever so slightly dragging, drawing closer to the small room he vaguely remembered the capsule being placed in. Plastic, by the hollow sound.
…not Him…
He listens to the footsteps drawing closer, noting their pause for a few brief moments before entering the room and walking next to the capsule. The Twisted braces himself to be picked up and dropped on the ground, or placed on a high shelf. Some annoying happenstance or other.
But it never comes. Rather, what he does feel is a soft thump against the wall beside him, and a scraping sound that lowers down near the floor. Suspicious, he begrudgingly forces himself to bring an eye into formation within the ichor, blinking slowly before swiveling it around to where the vibrations came from.
Beside him, sitting on the ground with his legs drawn up. One of the ones his subconscious remembers ( unfortunately ). The one with the cracked face and ever-present grin that currently isn't grinning — looking rather bored, actually, as the other's red eye looks down at him.
“You can stop staring , you know,” the other grunts, planting the side of his circular head in his palm, “I'm not here to mess with you.”
He doesn't believe that, if only because of this one's… reputation amongst the condemned. But at the moment, he isn't, so that's. It's something.
“Just wanted to be away for a while,” the mirror continues, his cracked mouth pursing its lips, “The rock is fighting the raptor on another floor, very loud and rowdy. While I would normally love to stay and watch, they started knocking over furniture and I do not want to be caught under a bookshelf~”
The other rolls his eye off to the side. Clearly, he doesn't share the same sentiment of the nuisance, he would have preferred if the other had gotten stuck under something, or trapped somewhere, if only for a little while.
The one-sided conversation faded off into silence — not tense silence, not comfortable either. Just silence, the two of them in their thoughts. The mirror was remarkably less infuriating when he wasn't playing the part of a Cheshire Cat and minding his own business, currently picking at a spot on the floorboards with his thumb.
“Last floor I saw you on, the child had you in her grip. She drop you off here, or?”
He jerks his eye from the other to the machine beside them and back a few times, attempting to indicate the latter, unspoken option. The ichor within the glass of the machinery ever so slightly lowers with each passing minute, drip, drip, dripping itself down into the unseen pipes below the floors. It had been a while since that group had been here, and the machine’s nearly drained itself again.
“ Ah . Them ,” he scoffs, “And given that you aren't in a bad mood, they didn’t break you open. Pity, pity, they're getting smarter — pity, pity, makes things harder…”
The mirror emits an overdramatic sigh, leaning over the capsule to the machine and studying his reflection in the glass as he turns his head to the sides, running the edge of his hand over the black cracks in his halfway shattered face. Lamenting over the fact that the past group didn’t annoy the Twisted, or if it’s merely just the fact that they didn’t get hurt in the process, the one in the capsule can’t tell.
“No matter how smart they get, there’s always something that makes them slip, though. One perfect crack in the armor, and… ‘Oops! WhatEVER came over me, there..??’ His face morphs into one of shocked despair — it would be a very convincing act, if not for the fact that the other could read the intentions of that shattered face clear as day, and that their attempts to stifle that annoying smile failed miserably as they broke out into dark giggles.
“Ahh, well, honestly, they may get smarter, but they never learn. You would think that the older ones would give those replacements some tips before they get dragged down here, fresh from the ichor, but hey, more fun for us , hm?”
The one within the capsule blinks in reply. The hardened ichor sealing the crack in the middle of their glass melts, and the ichor — where do they begin and the ichor end, if there is a separation, in this state? — oozes out onto the ground before bubbling upwards and slowly forming the body of the other, plastic, fabric, glass, and all. It’s a curious thing, the sensation of their limbs melting into the black substance, being confined within a metal cylinder, and then reforming again later on. Sometimes he feels as if two other appendages attempt to form in his lower body, but they quickly lose all feeling when the ichor thickens from his waist down to the ground and he nearly forgets it crossed his mind at all. Sometimes he has no feeling in his body at all. Nevertheless, he straightens himself and turns his head towards the mirror, not missing that fleeting look of cringing disgust that crosses their face before it’s smothered down to neutrality.
“Decided to join the party, have you, Detective?”
The nickname is annoyingly familiar to both of them. Something that sounds like it’s been said by the mirror and received by the other countless times before, spilling out almost involuntarily in that teasing tone. The ‘detective’ emits a mechanical clicking noise, his distaste for the nickname and its familiarity within the shreds of his mentality obvious to the other.
How ironic. He wants nothing to do with the nuisance that is the cocky piece of work before him, and yet the both of them know how to read each other like children with the picture books he’s seen lying around this place. How annoying. Why couldn’t it have been that one that sometimes picks up his capsule to wander around aimlessly that could be communicated with even half as effectively? Sure, she dropped him hard whenever something even remotely more interesting caught her attention, but she at least wasn’t trying to be the most infuriating thing possible.
“Oh, come on , you have to admit that that nickname just feels right , doesn’t it? You’re more obsessed with fixing yourself than the thief with her treasures, surely that must cause some sort of positive ‘ring-a-ding-ding!’ in that glass head of yours, right? ” the taller Twisted protests as he moves around to the magnifying glass’ side, tapping on the top of his round head before starting to fidget with the little purple ribbon on the handle. He knows the detective hates this, he just enjoys pushing his buttons. “Honestly, you’d think you’d relish any sort of fragment to add to your brain.”
He raises his arm to shove the light yellow hand off of him, tilting his head to the side with a begrudging whirr. It is one of the few things he can consistently recall, and that’s something, he supposes. The mirror snickers as he’s shoved away, flicking the other’s head in response and prompting a hiss-like noise from the detective.
“What, are we hissing now? I see you’re trying something new rather than your usual noises. Come on, use your words, Detective~”
That just prompts an eye roll and a questioning noise from the detective as he folds his arms behind his back.
“ Please , just because I wanted to be away from the big ones doesn't mean I have to leave you alone, Detective!” the nuisance grins devilishly, before adding reluctantly, “Not like the others can actually… you know. Hold a conversation. Or are actually tolerable. Besides maybe the host, but you’re the first one I found.”
He casts his eye off to the side, returning to fidgeting with the ribbon on the detective again, fitting his thumb underneath and tugging at it lightly, ignoring the clicks of protest.
“You ever wonder why we’re the only ones that can think clearly down here?” he asks idly, “Thinking, not immediately being violent like most of those brutes? Sure, some of them are less so than the others, but…” he trails off into silence again. The magnifying glass raises his eyebrow with an inquiring hum.
“Just because I’m asking questions ? You WOUND me!” the mirror exclaims, putting a hand over his chest, “And what does that even mean, ‘am I becoming a philosopher’? For a valid question?”
The detective shrugs, the bottom of his eye curving up in his own sort–of smirk.
“See, that is what makes me think that there's someone under there!” The mirror insists, poking the other in his chest, “You're not normal , going by this place's design. I'm clearly better given that I'm not such an animal . We don't…”
He twirls his hand around, searching for the right words.
“… we’re different . And despite how boring you are, how easy it would be to just ignore you, however infuriating you can be, I SOMEHOW keep finding myself talking to you,” he finally continues, finally tugging the purple ribbon off of the magnifying glass’ handle and twirling it between their hand and thumb idly.
…
The detective could say the same about his reluctant companion. Of course, he was annoying, constantly toying with the residents of these floors, seemingly impossibly self-centered…
…but there was just Something that drew him to the mirror, that made him tolerate his antics to an extent, that made him reserve the tiniest part of his subconscious to just. Wondering about the mirror. There was a far more important thing he could be focusing fully on, but there was always that small part reserved for Him.
Another thing that was just out of reach of his understanding that drove him mad.
The detective speaks a series of sharp clicks, and the other opens his mouth to respond before both freeze, listening to their surroundings.
Click .
Screek.
Bzzzzt.
And with a final flickering of the fluorescent lights above them, the two Twisteds were plunged into darkness.
“ Oh.. ” the mirror says, squinting behind the detective at the machine, clearing his throat, “The, ah– ahem– I suppose all of the ichor is drained…” He stands up, moving over to the machine and halfheartedly tugging at the red wheel, his face morphing into a frown when it doesn’t budge. They both know that machines don’t unlock until an elevator arrives, but it was more of a vain attempt in any case.
Believing that their conversation is now over, given the new predicament that’s caught his companion’s attention, the detective begins to melt back down into the ichor beneath him, their handle dripping black into the puddle, something that the other catches out of the corner of his good eye.
“W– wait, wait– !!”
The detective sees the mirror suddenly whip around and grip onto his shoulder, his hand sinking into the soft and half-liquid body, the other feeling confused as he turns his glass head to look at him in the darkness. The red light of their eyes cast a dim glow onto each other's faces, letting him see that brief flash of… something in the mirror's eye. Something akin to how others look at him when they disturb his capsule. He tilts his head to the side with a questioning, high-pitched whirring.
“I don't–” the other begins, clearing his throat before blinking away that look in his eye, “… don't go back into that capsule so soon. You always leave at any sign that the ones from the elevator are showing up; it's just– it’s just a blackout, they're not coming, no need to leave so soon.”
Their reflective face then moves into a small smirk. “I mean… you're not afraid of the dark, are you, Detective?”
…
The detective contemplates for a few moments, not quite understanding why he's being asked to stay, before his ichor solidifies again. He almost detects a quiet sigh of relief from the other as the smirk melts
Curious.
“ Than – … hmph. Can't get away from me that easily~” the mirror smiles. The magnifying glass gives him a deadpan stare before intensifying his gaze briefly, watching as the other let out a startled yelp with something like amusement in his eye.
“OW— Oh, ha-ha , I'm sure this is hilarious for you, isn't it?” The mirror snaps sarcastically, rubbing the side of his pale head until the sting of the mental attack dissipates. He then sighs, sitting down on the ground and making a motion with his hand as if he wants the detective to lower himself down to his level.
“...I'm just gonna put your ribbon back on,” he groans when he sees the confused look in the detective's eye, “Just sit down before I drag you down here myself.”
…
He determines that he isn't going to be tricked — for the moment, at least — and lowers himself down to the mirror's level on the ground, sinking partially into the ichor puddle beneath him with his back to the wall.
The other props himself onto his knees and grabs the detective's handle, tying the purple cloth around it surprisingly carefully. Once he's finished, the mirror pats him on the head vaguely condescendingly before sitting down next to him.
They both sit in silence for a little bit, the mirror humming to himself quietly — despite the somewhat strained nature of the notes, it's a familiar, quiet song that the both of them remember, but can't quite place. The detective closes his eye for a moment, listening to the sounds emanating from his companion. He feels something idly set itself on top of his hand but ignores it.
A rare moment where the both of them don't have their guards up.
Ruined by the distant sound of metal thuds and the creaks of an elevator door opening.
The mirror and the detective instantly perk up, their pupils narrowing to slits at the sounds — while the mirror's shoulders hunch up, their hand jerking off of the other's, the detective's form starts to melt again into the ichor, the capsule sucking up the puddle into its confines and resealing itself, putting him into the inky abyss again.
To his surprise, when he opens his eye within the ichor, he sees the mirror still sitting next to him, tensed with his head cocked to the side — normally by this point he'd have been expected to be stalking off somewhere. To an even greater surprise, the detective watches as his companion stands up, picking up his capsule carefully and slinking out of the room with the detective clutched to his chest.
The mirror walks close to the walls, one hand held out to the side to brush along it, before finding the edge of one of the Staff Only doors and pulling it open to dart inside. The mirror breathes a sigh of relief, looking down at the capsule within his hands and meeting the detective’s gaze. The emergency lights in the narrow halls behind the door lit the area in an eerie and dim red, bathing the both of their forms in crimson.
“I didn't want to deal with those fools from the elevator right now…” The mirror mumbles halfway to himself, halfway to the detective, “Just wanted some quiet . Really, is even THAT too much to ask for down here? It seems that way.”
…
“Don't look at me like that — I said you're not getting rid of me that easily, now, didn't I?”
The detective could've sworn the mirror clutched the capsule tighter to his chest as the mirror started walking down the hallway, looking to the left and right for a set of stairs to… well, wherever another floor resides.
He's not entirely sure why he wasn't more bothered by this.
The duo passed underneath an old poster on the wall — one side scratched out with heavy blobs of ichor and halfway ripped from the other side of the paper, folding over itself. Some of the text was still readable, if either of them had cared to look or understand the words anymore.
“
‘Backstage B–wilderm–nts,’ star–ing Gl–sten & Rodg–!
”