Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Uh, are you sure this is a good time?"

Scar questioned Doc as the other man led him through his base.

To be quite frank, Scar did not like Doc's base. Or maybe facility was the better word to describe the imposing building Infront of him. The outside was intricate and mechanical, truly a piece of architectural genius, but it wasn't the outside that bothered him -it was the interior.

The walls were polished a stark white, smooth in an unnatural way that makes Scar question how it was even accomplished. He bristled at the unsettling way his cane echoed each time it hit the floor. More disturbing than that, however, were the parts that were decidedly not white; blemished by faint stains that, in spite of the smooth walls, couldn't seem to be scrubbed out.

Knowing Doc, the next time he came here, if he came back at all, there would be no stains to speak of.

"For you, there's no such thing as a bad time, Mr. Mayor Goodtimes." Scar made the executive, mayoral, decision to ignore that mocking tone.

Doc had messaged Scar, requesting that he come over to see his progress on Scar's commission regarding the ever-growing Mycelium issue.

Though honestly, "requesting" was a strong word for Doc. He had this way of telling people what to do instead of asking, the message was more of an announcement with the underlying indication that Scar should show up, like he was an afterthought, which is ironic considering he is the subject of address.

Scar could acknowledge that he was likely biting off more than he could chew when choosing to commission Doc -of all people. Afterall, the man was not very well known for his self-restraint, but rather, his lack thereof.

That on top of his unnatural green-ish skin tone (at first he'd thought it was a passive hybrid feature, as he himself had, but after speaking with the other man, he's concluded it as a result of an experiment gone wrong no doubt), -his intimidating mechanical arm and eye, and his ridiculous height 
-he made for a very intimidating picture. 

In any normal circumstance, Scar would have stayed far away from the scene of the magic -because that's what he was convinced Doc was doing way out here. 

However, Scar was also aware that if anyone could find a solution, it was Doc. 

Not to mention, with the very, very, pretty penny he had to pay the man for taking on this task, even with his connections as mayor? Forgive him if he was a little curious about the ins and outs. 

Doc had been especially quiet about what he's been doing, but Scar wasn't at any point worried the man had undercut him. 

He knows a fellow con-artist when he sees one, and contrary to popular belief, Doc is a very honest and (fairly) straight-forward man. If he didn't want to do this project, he simply would've said no, and Scar highly doubts he needed the money.

However, as he was led further and further into the facility, he was starting to question if this was, perhaps, some kind of elaborate assassination attempt. 

They had gone through, at the minimum, 5 piston doors, down 3 levels, and turned more identical corners than Scar could count -to the point he began to think, well, if Doc didn't kill him, the pain in his legs rearing its ugly head surely would.

Either way, he'd end up dead. Of this, he was sure.

To Scar's slight comfort, they had passed a few people on the way down, but to his disappointment, none of them had the air that they were looking for conversation -quiet things, the lot of them.

Scar had been silently hoping they'd want to speak to him, ask him why he was here, question his allegedly ridiculous mayor outfit -according to Cub, maybe request an autograph or something, anything to get Doc to pause so he could rest his legs.

One man came to Scar's rescue, sort of, it was only a few seconds, but a man with long shaggy brown hair and -were those canines? Had stopped Doc briefly, excitedly, to tell him something Scar didn't catch as he basked in the euphoria at 5 measly seconds of rest, before they got moving again.

'The creepy white walls were the least of my fears, this is a damn labyrinth!'

They stopped again at another room and Scar dejectedly thought this one was just going to lead them down yet another treacherous, winding, hallway. 

Heck, maybe with this door they would uncover the Nether's basement 
-his future tomb, which Doc had been hiding down here this whole time.

'Merciful End-Gods above, let this end, I promise to never swindle another soul again, I'll be honest and-'

"Here we are," Doc announced, pushing open the door and single-handedly bringing life back to Scar's eyes.

He's never rescinded a prayer so quickly in his life.

Doc started talking about the room, informing him of some probably important things: the design, the reinforcements, where his money was going, and probably some Redstone mechanics that Scar doesn't understand,

-that he couldn't even begin to start understanding.

Because inside the wide glass enclosure that took up half the room, stretching from floor to ceiling, with purple vines encroaching on the glass and fog-kissed air -was a person. 

Scar didn't take another step into the room; couldn't. He stood stock still, staring at the supposed sleeping figure.

'They're too still to be breathing.' his mind crowed

That's a person and Scar can't tell if they're breathing

They were squeezed into a corner, lying down, their pale skin -too pale, was fighting the white floors for dominance on which was lighter

- The only thing stopping it from winning being the faint purplish hue to their skin.

Choppy hair, an ashy light brown, which grew past their shoulders, pooled haphazardly on the ground around their head, obscuring their face from view.

Doc hadn't seemed to notice Scar's plight or the person, he instead moved to a filing cabinet pressed into the front corner of the room, his mechanical hand clanking and whirring gently as he filed through some documents, speaking casually, almost excitedly, about something Scar probably should've been paying attention to.

His gaze flickered back to the enclosure, and the person who had still yet to stir since they came in, despite the noise.

The enclosure had a door, but it looked complicated, designed to be difficult to open. 

' To keep what's in it, in, and what's outside it, out'

And what's in it...

'Is that a fucking corpse'

Doc stopped talking. It was only then that Scar saw he had paused on a page of the document he had picked out and was showing it to him.

Doc raised an eyebrow at him, red eye whirring and glinting, before his gaze followed Scar's to the source of his internal panic.

"Oh, it's so quiet, I sometimes forget it's here," Doc muttered under his breath. It was said in a way that suggested Scar wasn't meant to hear, but he caught it anyway.

As he said it, he took a few steps towards the glass, -Scar forced his feet to stay rooted where they were, refusing to show any more fear than he already had.

Doc raised his metal arm and started banging on the glass wall; Scar's not sure what shocked him more

-the fact that the glass didn't break (not even a scratch?) with the sheer power behind his knocks or the fact that the corpse-

'no, not a corpse, very much an alive person, unless dead people just get up and move now -and I know Doc's got a couple screws loose, if he has any at all, but surely he's not as crazy as to start the zombie apocalypse in his own basement, right?'

-the person rose up.

Their movements were staggered, clumsy, as though every muscle was waking up individually instead of unanimously; as a unit. Goosebumps rose on his arms. Their hair came to fall over their face again as they didn't turn to look over at them, still hiding their features from view.

Doc promptly delivered one more, harsh knock on the glass. 

Scar didn't flinch. He didn't.

Finally, the person turned to face them, the movement no more pleasant than it had been the first time.

For what should've been a simple action, it was further laced with hesitation, like they weren't sure if -or how- to move at all.

And if that wasn't bad enough, once the, frankly pitiful, action was complete, the person froze, stiff as a statue, still as they had been when Scar had first come in. Except now, it was looking at him.

-or at least he thought it was.

Where on any normal person there would've been eyes, instead it appeared as though someone had taken a coal stick and scribbled over their iris and cornea, leaving nothing but a black void looking on with no direction. 

On some parts of their skin, or of what Scar could see of it that wasn't otherwise obscured by a white gown, were protrusions that reminded Scar suspiciously of the obtrusive mushrooms he had passed on his way to this Void-forsaken place.

Now, Scar was not the best of men, nor could he claim to have always worked with the best of men. 

As such, he has seen and done things most people would abhor, 
-not all of which he could say he was proud of, 
and it was frankly embarrassing how easily he was motivated by money.

But still...

As a semi-respectable man, he feels he can say that kidnapping, imprisoning, and doing...this...to this man(?) was not an acceptable thing to do, and, much less so, an acceptable thing to show your Mayor.

Unfortunately for Scar, he also knew better than to attempt to threaten or interrogate such an act Void-Knows how many feet underground;
-where it would take 5-7 business days and a very competent messenger pigeon for his screams to reach the surface.

So instead, he asks...

"Well, what's all this for?" allowing a rehearsed tone of ease and intrigue to enter his voice; falling into his business-man persona with a practiced ease as he forces himself to relax and push more of his weight onto his cane. All his senses were working together to put on the best show of casual indifference he's ever done in his life.

He's admittedly a little shocked when Doc takes the bait; he half expected the man to scorn at his display, or do something equally as dismissive.

But instead, he provides a genuine answer.

"This, as I said before, is Spore. It's an O.M.R.V., an Organic Mycelium Resistance Vessel. The first of its kind and specifically created to fix the Mycelium issue, as you requested." Doc's eyes shone with pride as he announced this.
"This is the reason I've called you here today, to see the fruit of our labor over the past 3 months. After much trial and error, Spore here is the first successful M.R.V." 

All of this was going over Scar's head, if whatever was in there was... what? some kind of machine, why did it look like a person?

"Doc, I didn't take you for one that cares for...accuracy to life? Why make this A.T.V look like a person?" he took a step closer to the glass, 'Spore' hasn't moved, eyes open and staring, can it understand them? It's very realistic, uncannily so.

"M.R.V," He corrected, "And its base is a person, a human corpse. I guess you could say it was donated to science-"

Scar's mind blanks again, so Doc had reanimated a corpse and essentially created a mushroom zombie. 

Scar can't even begin to understand how this could help; he was trying so incredibly hard to remain calm and professional. If he were any worse an actor, his face would be pink with confusion.

"-not technically human, we found that the base, Grian, was actually some kind of early generation hybrid, though there were minimal physical indicators, still, we believe it was because of these genes that he was able to successfully-"

"How does this help?" Scar cut him off; it was a little rude, but a morbid curiosity had risen in him. 

The mycelium on the island had begun to grow at a whopping 3 times the rate of standard grass, making it impossible to combat through natural planting, and though it kept hostile mobs away from the mainland, it also kept travelling domestic animals away as well.

The birth rate of imported farm life was incredibly low, and while, yes, the native wildlife and crops were thriving, anything else was tedious and slow-going to grow.

And, equally as important, in Scar's opinion, the sad purple hue of the land was ugly, dreary, and miserable; grass was much preferred. 

So he really wanted to know how this statue of what was once a person, Spore, could combat this issue that even an entire team of H.E.P. members couldn't create a single dent in.

Doc didn't seem to mind his interruption, jumping at the chance to explain his genius.

"So, as you likely noticed, it's not just the mycelium in the areas we've tampered with that have evolved, it's all the mycelium on the mainland." He reopened the file he was trying to show Scar earlier, flipping through it.

"This is because, like its name, mycelium is a complex system of fungi, nerves, and messaging systems which grow deep beneath the soil; they all connect, like a hivemind." he stopped at a page illustrating a diagram of what the mycelium looks like from underground, stringy and all connected. 

Scar thought it looked freaky, like very thin and very dried-out spaghetti that had been further split into even thinner tendrils. 

Gross.

"It's this system that allows them all to evolve at roughly the same rate despite the distance."

"Mhm." Scar nodded along, signaling for Doc to continue.

"That's where Spore here comes in." Doc gestures to Spore, which, to Scar's surprise, had moved in the time they weren't looking at it. 
Scar had settled on calling Spore an it, apart from its face, everything else screamed 'Not a human', so Scar felt it was fitting.

It was huddled back into the corner that it was in when Scar entered, knees to its chest, kind-of awkwardly, still facing them, unmoving. 

'Void, I hope I never have to come down here again, that thing is like a haunted doll.'

He shivered, tuning back in to what Doc was saying.

"The goal is to get Spore to connect to the hivemind and control it. If we can accomplish that, Spore should, theoretically, be able to reduce the growth rate and mycelium spore production, even potentially remove it, so that we can easily replace it with grass."

Scar's eyes lit up at the proclamation. Could it really do all that? It sounds so easy; too good to be true. His feet carried him over to the glass once again, waving his hand in front of it, no reaction, as Scar expected. He thought he may have seen a twitch, but it was probably just his imagination

"So, how far are you with this, can it- Spore, connect to the mind thingy yet?" at Scar's question, Doc seemed to deflate slightly, he flipped through a few more pages in his document before turning it to Scar again.

This page looked more like those nervous system pictures he'd see in his biology textbooks back when he was in high school. He never paid attention to those classes, so he silently hoped Doc wasn't going to ask him to point out the gall bladder or something.

"Well, no, not yet, as you can see here, Spore's biology is a bit different from a regular person."

No, Scar could not see that, but he'll just take Doc's word for it.

"And while that's the main reason we got this far in the first place, it also seems to be affecting its ability to interact with mycelium outside of the kind it creates."

"Creates?" Scar was tired of being lost; surely there must be some simpler explanation.

Doc apparently sensed his frustration as he closed the file and took a deep breath before he summed it all up.

"Long story short, Spore can produce mycelium, but it's different from the natural stuff outside, so we can't connect it yet, but we are working on a solution."  It looked like it pained him to give the simple version instead of the scientific one, but Scar was all the more grateful for it.

He was about ready to leave now. Scar trusted Doc would be able to figure this out on his own, and the longer he was down here, the colder the room felt. He'd never realized how much he disliked it until now - the insistent chill.

Just as he was about to turn and wave his goodbyes to Doc, ready to try his flimsy luck on escaping this place, Doc stopped him.

"Actually, Scar, I have a job for you."

Chapter Text

Scar found himself pacing up and down the ConCorp meeting room, cane clacking in an unsteady rhythm as he arrhythmically sped up and slowed down.

"You're not gonna be able to walk later if you keep that up" Cub called from one of the chairs he was slumped lazily in, his head rested in one hand while the other hand scribbled on some documents, despite this, his gaze followed Scar intently as he moved, filling out the documents with pure muscle memory– he'd been watching Scar's destination-less trek for the better part of thirty minutes. 

The "You'll be in immense pain and then stubbornly refuse assistance" went unsaid, but Cub may as well have said it out loud because Scar heard it clear as day regardless.

Cub had been making little quips like that since Scar had started, piping up and chiming in with that flat tone of his, yet he hadn't made a single move to actually stop him. 

It was a silent agreement between the two; they both knew that not moving about would only make Scar more restless, which would, in turn, only make it harder for him to communicate his thoughts. Something about the protestant ache in his legs kept him grounded and stopped his mind from spiraling as it so easily did when he got like this. It probably wasn't healthy, but it helped.

So no, Cub didn't like when Scar did it, but he ultimately would not stop him.

The quips served more as Cubs' reminder that there would be consequences following his act; a 'Don't say I didn't warn you '. 

Usually, after the fifth or so comment, Scar would finally acknowledge him and determine that stopping was for the best before making his way to a chair on his own terms.

However, Cubs' method didn't work this time, and Scar's activity did not stop as he made his umpteenth lap around the table, 

-though he had considerably slowed since the first 5 or so minutes of his trek.

This went on for quite a while, with each new lap Scar would further grumble something under his breath, and make various gestures--pushing his fingers to his temples to fight off a metaphorical headache or sigh loudly to communicate his frustration to Cub, who, by now, could be considered a captive audience to Scar's drawn out performance. 

If Scar was being honest with himself, he was being rather excessive in his musings. 

He wanted to complain, and he didn't want to disclose what about. Cub will listen either way– and it's not as if his grief wasn’t warranted, he’s a willing accomplice to necromancy, and he hadn't even known that was a legitimate crime that could be committed until today! 

He was so caught up in his overthinking that he didn't even register his powers starting to go a little haywire.

The loose floor board they had neglected fixing for the past several weeks shot up, and Scar just narrowly missed tripping over it. Two rogue books eased their way from the shelf and tipped to the ground just seconds after Scar passed by-- had he still been in their path, they'd have knocked him right over the head. 

During his next lap around the table, seemingly unrelated to this Scar-scented chaos, Cub's pen stopped working, the ink refusing to come out, so he set it aside to fish a new one from his pocket. The pen shifted from its place and rolled its merry way down the table right into Scar's path, and he unknowingly side-stepped that too.

This came to a head when Scar once again verbally lamented his situation.

"It's just- ugh! I'm so worked up right now, I could break something!" he gestured widely as he said it, and a pen from one of the stationery holders on a high shelf tipped over and fell into his hand just as he clenched his fist.

Unsurprisingly, the pen snapped with the unbidden force, and while Scar remained unscathed, ink came flying out of it and hit the back of Cub's white coat, right in the middle as though aimed at the bullseye of a target.

That's what finally got Scar to stop in his tracks, his face colored as he took in Cub, and an odd mix of embarrassment, fear, and amusement fought for dominance in him.

His brother released a sigh and finally stopped filling out whatever he was working on, 

-probably logging profits from their shops; and blinked twice -processing, before he shrugged off his coat, not even attempting to assess the damage before he turned to Scar, which sobered him right up. 

Scar noted that some of the ink seeped through the coat, going as far as to stain Cub's blue undershirt. He resolved not to mention it.

"You know I can't help if you don't tell me the problem, right?" Cub prompted before adding, 

"-And you're making me dizzy." 

Cub neglected to mention his coat, or the various office supplies that had found their way on the floor, or the mirror on the far wall, which had, evidently -now that Scar was looking, that is- cracked at some point.  

"You can't help even if I tell you the problem" Scar complained meekly back, choosing to ignore the latter half of his statement, and decidedly, the mess- Cub can just stop looking at him if it's such a problem, plus, Scar knows the man rarely gets dizzy and that the comment was more so another attempt to trick him into standing still...

-and maybe stop his magic, which admittedly sounded like a good idea, but Scar was feeling almost petulant -and embarrassed, at the moment, so he wasn't jumping at the chance to appease.

The interaction closely mimicked the one they'd had when Scar initially came barreling into the conference room after his 'trip' to Doc's, driving home the incredible lack of progress he'd made on the issue since then.  

Scar's initial statement didn't ring entirely true, given that Cub could technically help- he was also a vex hybrid after all. 

Though Cub's powers were even less remarkable than Scar's, Doc had said that didn't matter, right? If that was true, then Cub could easily take his place; heck, Cub may even enjoy working in such an extensive lab and picking Doc’s brain. He could easily see him thrive in that sort of environment.

The problem is, if Scar did ask him, then he'd have to explain first, and Scar really, really, didn't want to have to explain. 

He wanted to tell Cub-- really, he did-- but Scar also knew that Cub wouldn't give him the response he'd want.

Cub was too calm, too direct; he'd provide the simplest, most straight-to-the-point solution while calmly acknowledging how this was most definitely Scar's fault– not harshly, but honestly nonetheless, and that's not what Scar wants to hear right now.

He doesn't need a logical answer!... Alright, maybe he does .

-but he also needs someone to tell him how he should feel; he wants someone to say to him that Doc can figure it out on his own; that it's not his problem; that he shouldn't go at all.

'But it is, and he should '

And Cub will most certainly not say that.

It'd be so much easier to let someone else handle this.

No. 

He definitely couldn't ask Cub to take on the task for him either, because Cub would ; he'd see how distressed Scar is about this, and he'd just shrug it off and do it like it's no big deal - even though all his words and jabs will say otherwise. Just like how he'd simply put the stained coat aside even though Scar knows he loves it-- he practically never takes it off.

It would be easier, but it wouldn't be fair.

After all, this is his responsibility; he's already caused so much trouble, and Cub would be better suited to run Concorp mostly on his own for a while anyway-- he was always better with numbers, and he actually enjoyed the monotonous task of logging profits and scheduling stock deliveries that Scar himself loathed so deeply. Scar himself was more invested in the marketing aspect of it all.

It snapped him back to reality when Cub piped up again.

"Can you at least give me an idea? You're not gonna stop pacing till you get something off your chest." Cub sighed, exasperation peeked through his tone, but Scar could tell he was just concerned.

It showed in the soft look he gave Scar– like when they were kids and Scar would just cry and cry when he got frustrated, unable to communicate the problem but wanting so desperately to be heard, objects flying as he wailed.

It showed in the furrow of his brows and the repetitive scratching motion his finger made in the wood of the desk; his nail slowly working at chipping the polished surface, as his gaze moved from Scar to his coat, no doubt brainstorming on how to clean it, to clean the mess Scar had made of it.  

A feeling of guilt rose in his gut as he took note of the motion.

'Lovely.' Scar thought. Not only had he gotten himself into this huge mess, but he'd come and bothered Cub about it, too, only further stressing the man out with his reluctance to speak and his loss of control.

'Childish. ' His mind hissed; he shouldn't have lost control. He's better than that -he's not a damn kid anymore.

Deliberating, he thought back to a few hours ago in Doc's base.

--

"What!? Hah, Doc, my friend, surely you've mistaken me for some other handsome salesman. Though I may be a man of many talents, I'm no zombie tamer."

Doc wasn't distracted by his words or musical tone; he instead continued his proposition.

"As you can see, Spore has moved multiple times since you arrived; that's usually a rare occurrence around here. It responds well to magically inclined individuals.”

Doc let it hang in the air for a moment, and when Scar did not respond, he followed it up with: 

“You are a vex hybrid, are you not?" 

The question was rhetorical; everyone knew Scar was part vex– it played a major role in his repeated success in deals and shops.

There had even been an ongoing joke that Concorp should be called ConVex instead, due to the vex status of its heads -but it seemed such a ridiculous point in this scenario.

"Yes, but a 4th generation vex-hybrid, I have zero control over my magic, it quite literally does as it pleases– I can't help you." He reasoned, annoyed now.

Most Hermits were human, and the few that were hybrids were 4th-6th generation, bearing little to no significant traits, instincts, or culture from their hybrid sides, with maybe a few exceptions. 

The few with magic either had very, very limited control, no control– like himself, or barely any powers to speak of, like Cub. 

Early generation hybrids were so rare, it was practically unheard of these days, so it hadn't shocked Scar when the only time he'd heard of one in this town, Spore, they were literally dead.

"Your magical skill doesn't matter; it's simply the fact you have magic at all." Doc amended before he pushed on. 

"We currently don't have any magically inclined staff on hand, and, as you saw, it's like pulling teeth to get Spore to so much as sit up, much less run routine checks.” He shook his head as if to emphasize his point.

“As its handler, you wouldn't be doing much, just spending time in this room leading up to the tests and trials, and being present during them so things run smoothly."

Scar mulled over this; in reality, all his problems these past few months came back to the fact that Scar didn't want to be involved. He hadn't wanted to be involved before, and that feeling had only doubled since his encounter with Spore.

Something sharp tickled his stomach and throat when he thought of Spore. They didn't kill him -Scar knew that, but the husk of a person, statue-like and empty-eyed, stuck in this room, made his stomach churn uncomfortably, the only thing keeping it at bay the fact that Spore clearly wasn't much of a human anymore anyways.

He thinks now, if he could do it all again, he'd have actually made himself involved in the process; he'd have told Doc to find another solution, one that wasn't so person-shaped.

But Scar hadn't wanted to be involved; he'd wanted solutions, not equations, and so he hadn't asked, hadn't checked on the operation, hadn't done his job , and this is the direct result of that.

There was something in the way Doc stood that told him he knew this too, that he had figured him out somehow; his easy, straight posture, appraising look, and calm expression cut right through Scars' facade. 

He hated it.

-yet, he did not give in right away.

"How about I think about it and get back to you? This time next week?"

Doc had been less than enthused about the time frame; the man was always on about getting things done as quickly and efficiently as possible, always innovating and optimizing things, so he had instead pushed for tomorrow, three days from now, even.

It's good to know that Scar hadn't lost all his charm despite the earlier crack in his mask because he still came out on top of this particular deal. 

"Fine, Mayor, next week. Don't keep me waiting." 

Scar didn't need a week to make the decision. 

Before they'd even left the room, he already had a heavy feeling in his gut that he'd be back traversing these winding hallways soon enough. 

He had played the situation over and over in his mind on the way out.

-from where this all started up to this point; what, how, or if he could tell Cub. 

What even was there to tell? The longer he thought about it, the more cut and dry it seemed.

Doc did not comment on his uncharacteristic silence.

--

Scar took a deep breath and exhaled before moving to take a seat, much to Cub's apparent relief as he finally stopped picking at the wood of the table. A lighter colored indent was left behind where his nail had broken through. 

"I'm gonna be going to Doc's place in a week. He needs my help with the Mycelium thing I asked him to do."

Cub had definitely already deduced from the timing of his visit that this had something to do with Doc and their project, the project he had only really mentioned to Cub in passing. He was sure that this would be where the barrage of questions would start, that he'd either have to lie through or wiggle his way out of answering.

"Alright." Cubs' answer threw Scar completely off guard, "Do you need anything? How long will you be staying?" 

Scar was still a little taken aback, hence why he didn't answer right away, but Cub just pushed on.

"Just keep in contact while you're away; my communicator is always on."

Scar took the addition for what it was: "Call me if you need help; if something goes wrong, I'll be there" . 

He smiled.

"Yeah...yeah, I will. I don't know yet how long I'll be staying, or if I'll be there long, but I should pack a few things just in case," he replied, already cataloguing the things he might need.

He briefly considered contacting Doc to ask if he would even be staying, but he decided to at least wait a few days. He'd spent a while convincing Doc to give him a week, and after all the stress he's been under, he thinks Doc could stand to wait. 

He also just didn't want to talk to the man; everything about him made Scar uncomfortable.

"As long as you don't bring that god awful orange tie," Cubs' nose wrinkled in disgust at the mere mention of it.

Scars’ jaw dropped in mock offense, and his hand flew to cover his heart. 

"Cub! You told me you liked that tie!"

"I said nothing of the sort." 

Cub rose from his chair with that statement and flicked Scar right in the middle of his forehead before moving to exit the conference room with a small grin on his face.

"Get packing so I can check over your stuff before you leave."

"Aye-aye, Captain." Scar sang back as he rubbed the spot Cub had flicked, already heading to his own base. 

Chapter Text

Scar had only been packing his things for about an hour when he instead found himself lying flat in bed, breathing deeply, sweat dripping down his face, and an arm thrown over his head as he tried to ignore the throbbing pain and stiffness in his legs and lower back. And of course, because life is cruel, his aches had even managed to climb their way up to his neck, too. 

He let out a miserable groan.

The combined efforts of navigating Docs' labyrinth and the second taste of which he'd given himself at ConCorp had done him in, his body taking its due justice.

Ah, yes, the consequences of his own actions.

He reached blindly for the prescribed painkillers he kept at his bedside for times like this, always in reach. After failing to grab them three times, he just forwent the water and swallowed the pills dry; 

They didn’t go down easily, and he cringed at the slight bitter taste and tickle in his throat. He didn’t have to endure the bitter aftertaste for long, as it took no time for him to start fading in and out of consciousness, barely processing the darkening of the sky that greeted him each time he opened his eyes.

Scar wasn’t sure when he finally fell asleep; all he was able to process was that between one blink and the next, he was greeted by sunlight assaulting his retina and feeling notably better than the day before.

Upon sitting up to assess his environment, the first thing he registered was that he was still in pain, more than the usual, that is. 

The next thing he registered was that he was still in his Mayor outfit -bar the jacket and hat, which were clearly shrugged or thrown off at some point during the night. He spied one shoe on the floor whilst the other clung desperately to the edge of his bed.

His tie was wrapped awkwardly around his neck and arm, putting uncomfortable pressure on his throat, and he winced when he thought about how it technically could have choked him.

He quickly unwound the thing from his neck -his body still ached; he hadn't noticed it yesterday, but his shoulder, the one he had used to hold his cane, ached too. He considered himself, then considered his wheelchair. Positioning his arms, he scooched back on the bed, stretching a hand to his already unfolded wheelchair he kept at his bedside for days like these.

'Ah, so that's where my jacket went,' he thought, amused as he picked it up from where it slung over the armrest.

At that moment, Jellie came bounding into the room, tail high and flicking lazily behind her as she hopped up on the bed. By then, Scar had just finished adjusting himself in his chair, only bothering to secure one strap around his waist since he was headed to the shower. 

Jellie wasted no time in jumping onto his lap, purring contentedly as she started kneading biscuits in his dress pants, unbothered by the movement caused by him pushing the wheels and further uncaring of the slight frays her claws left in the fabric of his pants.

It's fine, Scar could always replace them.

"Jellie! Why hello there," he scratched behind her ear, and she pushed up into his touch, purring louder. "Are you following me around town today?"

Despite his current state, he was still determined to go out; if he was going to be aching, then he may as well have some company, plus there's a certain bakery he hadn’t visited in a while.

The prospect of having a sweet treat to munch on made his mouth water. 

He only had a few more days before he was at Doc's mercy, so he'd like to spend his final moments happy, if he could help it. Jellie was good company, yes, but his conversations with her were awfully one-sided— and she can't bake.

In response to his questioning, she hopped off his lap and began circling his chair before she made her way back to the bed, patiently watching him. She stretched out and lay back, tail flicking lazily a few times before she stopped, poised for sleep—if she wasn’t asleep already.

He chuckled, "Alright, I'll take that as a no then."

--

Reaching the market proper was a short affair. Scar had moved since becoming Mayor three years ago, situating himself closer to the center of town, but not so close that his mornings and evenings would be disturbed by the loud hustle and bustle brought by the market rush.

 "Ah, well, if it isn't Mayor Goodtimes, looking as eccentric as ever, I see." The voice came from an older person who waved Scar over to their shop from where they stood, arms crossed, behind the counter. 

He wasted no time in wheeling over.

As he did so, he took the time to observe their face, taking note of any little changes; they were slightly more tanned since the last time he saw them, and familiar, curly, bright red hair flowed loosely past their shoulders. 

She wasn't someone he knew well, despite knowing her for most of his life. 

They'd been here when he first came to Hermit town as a teenager, and had been the only villager at the time who cared to listen to his ramblings and stories—a scrawny kid with big dreams; as such, he always found his way back to them.

It started in little ways -lingering outside the shop at closing hours and poking and prying in the early mornings before opening, next thing he knew, they were sharing bread during downtime, and he had even taken to running the shop for them when they were sick. 

She had let him linger, and after some time, it became a sort of routine. One of the things he missed indulging in since he became Mayor, he was always so busy nowadays. 

She'd never told him her age.

' You never ask someone their age, young man, it's rude.'

But she did give him a name, Cleo.

He doesn't think knowing Cleo's age would change much; she doesn't look a day older than when he'd met her, except for maybe a wrinkle of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes and a stitched-up scar on their left cheek she'd gotten at some point that he'd never learned the origin of. 

Over those years, he'd grown attached to her—he supposed one could liken it to the care a child had for their mother, but neither of them had ever gotten around to putting a name to their relationship. Speaking of which, he thought she had a child, way back then, a boy around his age, always covered in moss and dirt.

It's been a few years, maybe two, since he'd seen him, but Cleo never spoke of it, so he'd never asked. 

Privately, he thought that maybe the man just moved away. There have been days when Scar had managed to carve out the time to come here, only for Cleo to be nowhere to be found -odd for a person so dedicated to her business. The most he could ever get out of the other vendors was a: 

'She's out on family business'

-and he'd never seen her wear the dreary black fabrics associated with mourning.

Sometimes he ached to inquire further, but when he was younger, she hadn't liked it when he pried unnecessarily; she always advised that he never ask anything he could figure out himself, that it would get him in trouble, the older people here were weird like that; cagey.

-Still, it grew on him, just a bit, and he had made a little game out of figuring out details about her (and others) without being told. This courtesy, however, was not extended to his closer friends. It was often easier to pry, and he came to revel in how simple and easy it was to pull answers from others, as opposed to Cleo. 

Though he had complained at the time, he ought to be thanking Cleo -the advice has served him greatly during business deals and bets. Asking unnecessary questions tells your target everything you don't know and leaves what you do know looking rather scarce. It’s much better to encourage them to give up information freely.

"Why, thank you, but I must say your outfit is also rather dashing," he returned their compliment with a wink.

In response, they tilted their chin up, "Well, of course, I sowed it myself." They put their arms on their hips, giving Scar a once-over before a slight narrowing of their eyes indicated they had made up their mind on something  -they waved him off, making a 'shooing motion with both hands,

"Off you go now, you look like you've got somewhere to be, and stop stressing yourself, it ages you." Their face softened, and they looked at Scar with a sort of fondness and exasperation. 

Scar barely prevented his jaw from falling open at the callout; instead, he let his eyes widen before he smiled. Clearly, it's been too long since his last visit if that shocked him.

He isn't exactly sure how they always know when he's been on edge; they're the only person he's met, other than Cub, that could read him like an open book, and he wouldn't mind. 

With Cub, it was obvious—they had been raised together—but even by the time he'd met Cleo, he'd been more than decent at camouflaging his true feelings, if a bit eager. 

The thought of asking crosses his mind, but Scar dismissed the thought with a slight shake of his head; he already knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer.

"You've found me out," he sighed dramatically. "If I could spend the whole evening in your company, I would, alas, duty calls from the far shores." He gave a half-bow from his chair, chuckling, relaxed.

"Yes, yes," she fanned away his words. "That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble one of these days, Mayor." 

The eye roll was communicated clearly in her tone, but he still caught the edge of pride at his title, then she tossed something at him.

An undignified choking noise escaped him as the object came flying in his direction, his arms flailed as he fumbled to catch it, and he swore he damn near tipped his chair over. 

The sound of giggling reached his ears, and he felt his face heat with embarrassment as passing villagers made their amusement at his display known.

Stilling his beating heart, he turned his attention to the bundle in his hands. He pulled back the paper to reveal it was bread, still warm to the touch. 

He hadn't seen them grab this either, damn, maybe he was just losing his touch.

"You're looking a little thin. I know you're headed to that Bakery already, but you ought to eat more than just those sweets. When you pass by again, that bread better be gone, you hear?" 

They smiled fondly at him before reaching under the counter of their stand and tossing another bundle at him. This time, he was prepared to catch it, redeeming himself.

"And that one's for Cub; he's just as bad as you."

He thanked her with a grin and a wave, "You got it!"

--

Navigating his way to the bakery wasn't hard. By now, the path there had been memorized; in fact, it wouldn't surprise him if there were footsteps engraved in the ground from his past visits.

Since he wasn't in any rush, he took the time to return a smile to those who smiled at him and freely offered a wave to the kids who pointed at him and his wheelchair - loudly commenting before being shushed and scolded by their parents.

One mother in particular flushed a deep scarlet color as her daughter scurried up to him. 

"Mister, why are you in a cart? Those are for carrots and stuff."

She then followed it up with a "Oh no! Where's the horse? Did it run away?"

The girl looked young, maybe around 4 or 5, if Scar had to hazard a guess. 

She took to looking around his chair as she said it, as though looking for the aforementioned "carrots and stuff". She then squinted into the distance, clearly trying to identify the direction the supposed horse ran off in. A look of determination settled on her face as she deigned to find it. 

Usually, he would respond calmly to any odd comments, especially those made by children, but he couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat. 

He'd never had his wheelchair called a cart before--much less had someone suggested he ought to be pulled around by a horse all day. 

The mother of the child rushed over, scooping her up, embarrassment clear on her features, and she stammered out an apology. 

"Mayor Scar, I'm so, so, sorry! She's but a child; she has no idea what she's talking about. I-"

Struggling to calm his laughter, he quickly raised a hand to stop her,

"It's fine, really. I just wasn't expecting to be likened to crops in a cart. Though a horse doesn't sound like such a bad idea." 

He made sure his statement was said in a joking, lighthearted manner so as not to send this mother into further shock.

He turned to the girl, who now just looked confused, looking back and forth between Scar and her mother as though trying to identify what she had done wrong. He may as well use the opportunity as a teaching moment.

"Hello, little one! What I'm in isn't a cart, it's a type of chair, to help me move."

She looked down at his legs, then back at the chair, nodding slowly.

"So, no horse?"

He let out another chuckle at that.

"Haha, nope, no horses. I move using my arms, see?" he said before demonstrating, pushing himself forwards, then backwards.

The girl nodded again, understanding crossing over her face.

"Okay, well, I like your chair, mister."

Admittedly, he preened at the compliment. Cub had designed and manufactured the chair for him. It matched his measurements perfectly, and along the lengths of the arms were engravings of vex runes and sunflowers filled with blue resin. He was happy it was being appreciated, though he knew the girl didn't know the significance. 

"Why, thank you." He gave a little bow of his head and leaned forward, like he was bowing to royalty, and the girl giggled in her mother's arms.

The mother whose face had now returned to a healthy flush

"Thank you, Mayor, we'll let you get on with your day."

He offered her a smile, waving away her thanks to let her know it was no real trouble, and continued his way to Gemini Bakery, which by now was just around the corner. 

The closer he got, the more he could see smoke coming from the chimney and smell the lovely aroma of freshly baked goods in the air. 

A bell chimed above his head as he entered the best--read: his favourite--bakery in all of town.

"Hey, Scar! long time no see, I hope being mayor isn't more important than supporting us locals nowadays." A light female voice called from behind the counter. Scar searched the room for the source, coming up empty until a head of ginger hair popped up from behind the counter.

"Why hello there, Gem! How'd you know it was me?" he inquired as he rolled further in, pausing at the counter.

Cleo likely would've told him to guess before divulging the truth, but Gem was much more giving.

She gestured to his chair before saying, "The sound your wheels make when they catch on the threshold. Speaking of, I actually have some people coming to put a railing there next week."

She quickly fiddled with the coffee maker, fluttering about here and there before she placed a drink on the counter.

"Your favourite," She winked, and before Scar could add anything, "-And I'll have your special pastry along with it soon."

Briefly, he considered telling her there was no need to rush, because there really wasn't; he had all day to wait if need be. However, he already knew that no human or hybrid in this world was capable of telling Gem what or how to do something. 

So, he just smiled and resigned himself to watching her work her magic as he took his drink around to one of the booths, relishing in the sweet, rich flavor and how the cup warmed his hands.

A few other customers came in here and there, and Gem referred to them all by name, preparing orders without skipping a single beat and making light conversation as she went. She was clearly in her element.

He settled further into the booth, having transferred himself from the wheelchair before setting it off to the side since he figured he'd be here for a while, and he didn’t like the idea of his back facing the walkway.

He allowed the low murmur of idle chatter and Gem calling out orders to act as his soundtrack.

"Thanks so much, Gem, honestly, you're a lifesaver."

"Don't even mention it." She waved goodbye to the last customer in line. 

Scar was really grateful for this place. 

Aside from the fact that one of his close friends owned and worked here, the scenery was one of a kind, as Gem had opted to use a unique mix of mycelium and grass-based plants to decorate the cafe. He’d found, through his conversations with her, that it was no easy task, something about a delicate balance to be had when mixing certain plants, but she’d clearly pulled it off as no other shop in town could live up to her own.

Green and purple vines intertwined along the walls, and now and again, green spores would flit lazily around the air, a trick from the azalea flowers that lined the path above the walkway.

While Scar normally wasn't a fan of mycelium and its accompanying purple flora, nor would he ever have the patience for this kind of display, even he could admit that the mix of purple and green was brilliant and added a layer of life and interest to the shop.

Each table was decorated with a different flowerpot arrangement using a mix of the two types of flowers--each handpicked and assembled by Gem, no doubt. On Scars' table, he noted, was an arrangement of poppies and lilacs with the addition of 2 other mycelium plants he didn’t know the names of. 

He fiddled with the leaves of a poppy and frowned when he noticed the discoloration in the petals and stem. Now that he’d taken notice of it, the lilacs also looked worse for wear; each one had a noticeable dulling of the stems, and the petals felt notably dry and stiff.

How odd, this shop was Gems' pride and joy. She always made sure to keep the flora in her shop in the best quality; she probably could've been a florist if she hadn't chosen the pastry industry. By all means, the flowers should be fresh, even if the spores were harming them; he could understand some discoloration, but they shouldn't be so...wilted?

"Oh, sorry about the flowers, kinda hard to get fresh ones in these times," Gem said as she plopped down in the seat in front of his, sliding over a pastry bag as she did so. She had removed her apron and set it on the chair next to her, and, save for some icing stains on her shirt, could pass as any other customer.

"Huh?" Scar responded articulately. 

Gem chuckled, "The flowers, you were pouting at them. This set is pretty old, most vendors don't sell them as much anymore -prioritizing crops- and those who do...well...it's a slow-going process to grow 'em." 

She played with the leaves of a lilac as she explained, huffing when it easily snapped off the stem.

"They are still deader than they should be. I was so sure they'd last at least another week." 

A brief silence fell over them. Scar hadn't noticed or considered that the mycelium had also affected the flowers, too focused on the crops and farm animals.

Now that it's been mentioned, he hasn't seen many flower vendors around lately, or flowers for that matter. Then again, it had been a while since he went into town, so he supposed he just hadn't noticed the difference. 

He schooled the sour expression he'd made when he observed the flowers before looking back up at Gem with a personable smile on his face. 

"Hmm... seems like I might have to pull some strings to get those flowers imported for you then."

Gem lit up instantly, "Really!? Hah! I knew it was a good idea to befriend you, 'Mayor'." She leaned back in her seat, a cocky look on her face like this had been part of some kind of long-term evil plan to swindle free flowers out of him. 

"Yeah, yeah, well, you can get as many flowers as you want so long as you keep making these for me." He quipped back as he reached toward the pastry bag she'd brought. Inside the bag was one of her normal creme puffs, but unlike the standard creme mix, this one used chorus fruit as its base.

Scar took a bite, humming happily at the sweet taste.

"Seriously," he said between bites, "-why'd you ever stop selling these, they're easily the best thing ever made."

"Yeah, for you, if I--or any other human, for that matter, tried to eat that, we'd feel sick for hours- you literally know this, Scar, this is your recipe."

"Nuh uh, you make it with cinnamon and love." Scar insists.

This particular recipe had been one Gem and Scar had whipped up years ago, when Scar had gotten his hands on some chorus fruit and insisted they try something with them. The result had been, in Scar’s opinion, the best pastry ever conceived, and as such, it--and some other experimental recipes--had made it into some of the first renditions of the Bakery menu.

While it was fairly popular among the few hybrids at the time, it became clear that chorus fruit did not get along well with human stomachs.

In high doses, it caused random teleportation and often gave human customers stomach aches, dizzy spells, and headaches. Funnily enough, Gem had a very high tolerance for chorus, despite her lack of a hybrid status.

Even after placing a warning on the pastry, humans continued to purchase it. After one too many complaints and accidents from reckless customers, Gem decided it was better to remove it from the menu entirely. Despite this, she still made it special for Scar every week he managed to drop by, adding little twists to it each time, and Scar will remain forever indebted to her for it.

“So, what brings you by? It's been a while since I’ve seen you around.” She seemed genuinely curious; he supposed that made sense, it had been a while. Honestly, he was just stretched thin between manning his own shops and addressing complaints.

Several things had led him here, each coming with its kind of itching in his soul, but he instead settled on-

“Doc’s gonna have me under his thumb for a while, so I thought I’d enjoy the sun while I can still see it.” He said it lightheartedly, casually, but that didn't stop Gem’s smile from dropping.

For a moment, he panicked. Had he said something wrong? Had his expression wavered? But then Gem rolled her eyes and huffed.

“I still don't think working with him is a good idea, but I guess I trust you to handle yourself.”

It was then he remembered Gem and Doc’s rocky history; he didn't know the details, and despite his never-ending curiosity, he got the feeling he shouldn't ask. Still, he got the idea they were friends a long time ago.

“I’ll be safe as ever, cross my heart.” Scar did the accompanying gesture as he said it, and Gem smiled back at him.

He indeed lingered in the cafe for a long time, and when he finally passed through the shops again, the sun setting behind him, Cleo was nowhere to be seen.

He did note, however, with a frown, that no flowers bloomed on the path.

Chapter Text

Scar dreamt that night.

The world shifted and warped around in that nonsensical way that dreams do, and as he walked through it, it felt more as though he was being dragged along by his core as a force outside his control beckoned him to move. 

The sensation reminded him of a child's balloon, bobbing up and down, his feet never fully able to touch the ground, no matter how much he tried to gain his footing.

As far as he could recall, nothing remarkable happened in the dream, which wasn't unusual for him; his dreams were often blank or illogical, flitting by in a million shapes and colors he wasn't sure even existed. 

Noises and light would layer over each other to form vague plotlines he would forget easily come morning.

He rarely remembered his dreams -or nightmares, for that matter. They were inconsequential to him. 

Temporary, unbinding, and forgettable -unable to follow him into the waking world.

It didn't unfold like that this time.

Despite not remembering the dream, it didn’t stop the sweat on his brow and the shivers that wracked his body when he woke up. 

He'd soaked through his shirt. His body and pillow; warm, while vertigo gripped him in its vice and kept him shivering in his bed until well past 9 in the morning.

Any attempts to move were met by resistance from the usual stiffness in his joints; each twitch made his body feel like it was on fire, and his head ached in protest.

He was stuck like that for long, too long. Only half present the entire time, but if he got any more rest, it didn't feel like it. 

He didn't feel like he’d slept at all.

When he finally had the wherewithal, he glanced at the clock on his nightstand.

‘2 damn hours.’ That was how long he spent reeling in his bed, clutching his head and hoping against hope his heart would stop pounding so loud in his ears. For a moment, he’d hoped it would stop beating altogether.

Once he was finally able to sit up, he tried to recall the contents of his dream, sifting through his memories and searching for anything that may have elicited such a severe reaction, but he came up empty.

It's strange; the way the dream lingered in his bones but left his mind so quickly.

‘Maybe those pills had gone off,’ he thought as he eyed the dresser, only to remember that he hadn't taken any pills last night, as he specifically hadn't wanted to wake up late.

“So much for that,” he grumbled under his breath.

He let a silence fall over the room, the only sound being his tired breaths and the tick-tock ticking of the clock.

…

“Okay, Scar, wake up.” He said aloud to himself, patting his face and shaking his head before swatting his hand out for his cane. 

The town wouldn't be seeing him today; he just didn't think he’d have the energy. While he stretched, he made a mental note to apologize to Gem and Cleo as he had promised to visit them, but he was sure they’d understand.

Instead, he elected to finish packing the things that exhaustion and procrastination had prevented him from packing the previous day. 

Spare clothes, hygiene products, two stylish hats, that orange tie; he didn't need it, but he was bringing it solely for the gratification of seeing Cub’s scowl when he sees him in it;

-a picture of Jellie, spare communicator, spare collapsible cane -though he doubted he’d find any purpose for it. 

Instinctively, he reached towards his medicine drawer, but the unmade bed and lingering exhaustion in his bones warded him off it.

‘Maybe I’ll just replace those entirely instead…’

He shot a quick message to Cub to ask him to pick up some more for him.

The time flew by rather quickly, and by the time he had finished packing and Cub had stopped by to check on him and hand him the fresh meds, he had run out of things to do.

The sky wasn't even dark when he waved Cub off with a cheeky smile and a promise to remove the orange tie from his suitcase; a bold-faced lie.

With all that done, he moved to sit on the couch, and Jellie pranced up to join him on his lap. He took up a book he’d started some weeks before, never getting the chance to look back at it, and picked up where he left off.

–

The next night, Scar dreamt again.

At least, he thought he did. 

He hadn’t noticed when the sky went dark, nor did he recall getting into bed, though they both must have happened at some point. 

The details of the dream eluded him, just as they did the night previous. The only thing the dream had left him with was the sensation of soft moss under his feet and a violent ejection of his dinner.

Scar heaved, hacked, and choked violently on his spit, then choked himself further as he tried to swallow a breath, only to swallow back more bile instead. In his haze, he hadn’t had time to rush to the bathroom, and so the sight and smell of his own sick on the sheets in front of him, mixed with the chunky, fleshy texture of half-digested food in his mouth, only invited a second round of retching.

At the commotion, Jellie had jumped, startled, and rushed out into the hallway. A displeased sound followed her leave.

It barely fazed him as tears pricked at his eyes, and his stomach churned as he scrambled off the bed, making it just past his bathroom door before his legs gave out and he hacked again.

Nothing came out this time, aside from more bile and spit. He doubted he had anything left in him at all after that, but it didn't stop his stomach and throat from jumping and twisting, trying their best to eject something that wasn't even there– protesting violently at the mere concept of food or reprieve.

He’s not sure how long he spent hovering over the toilet bowl. His entire body fussed at any attempt at movement, keeping him limp and unmoving for fear that the next thing to come out of his throat would be his stomach itself. 

He wasn't fully present; he could tell as much because each time he opened his eyes, he felt an increasing stiffness in his back and neck that spoke of a prolonged time spent in this awkward position.

At some point, he had fully passed out like that, exhaustion dragging him back under. 

When he next opened his eyes, the ends of his hair were wet where they had fallen into the bowl, and Scar deigned right there to cut it as soon as he was able.

It was only then that he looked at the window and came to the realization that he hadn't even slept through the night. The sky was a void-like deep blue, and when he dared to glance at his watch, he found it was barely 2 am.

It didn't take anything for him to decide he wouldn’t call Cub; it was late, and he would rather he not see him like this at all— if he could help it. So he picked himself up and let shaky legs drag him through the motions of cleaning.

No matter how desperately his mind wanted to check out, the sour scent kept him alert as he plugged his nose while he ripped the sheets off the bed, before hurriedly throwing them in the washroom’s sink. 

The floor was relatively untouched, but he still mopped it with floor cleaner and vinegar, if only to give himself something to do, before he set to setting up a lavender incense to kill the harsh smell of the disinfectant. He struggled with the match for several tries before it finally caught, and he let out a breath of relief as the scent began to fill the room.

Scar did not go back to sleep; he instead found himself reviewing the stock levels of their shops. He flipped through the documents for an hour and a half, and when he had no more stock to review, he wandered into the kitchen. 

Despite his lack of a carpet, a soft mossy feeling tickled his feet as he did so. 

Scar had never before in his life organized his fridge; he knew what was where, and it genuinely wasn't that much of a mess– but he sat there anyway, removing and replacing things as he saw fit, and closing the fridge each time the annoying beeping sound alarmed to signal it was open for too long.

A disturbing feeling tickled his neck, and he whipped to face his window. He paused like that for a moment, gazing into the darkness as if he would see something gazing back.

There was nothing there— he knew. The moonlight and street lights from outside vaguely illuminated his garden, and he could see no figure standing there, no  eyes watching him.

He closed the window anyway.

The hairs on his neck stayed up anyway, too.

The rest of the night went on like that, as Scar flitted from each corner of his house, keeping himself busy, distracted, awake. (waiting for that feeling to fade).

He fluffed the couch pillows, finished his book— though he couldn't tell you a thing about how it ended; cleaned Jellie’s litter, and pointlessly pushed around random decor until he deemed it right— ‘right’ was usually back to how they had originally been placed before he messed with them in the first place.

It was only when the sky was bright and the sun was stationed high in the sky that he let himself truly sit down. By then, he had rearranged his entire house, yet changed nothing, and his hair sat a few inches shorter, just barely tickling the nape of his neck.

Still, he ensured to keep his eyes open.

—

The next time he slept, it came for him; he was not given a choice.

To his credit, he had managed to stay awake for a good while, or at least he thought it was. Checking his watch suggested two days had passed, but he found he wasn't quite sure of the day he had stopped sleeping.

Each time he looked at the watch, something was different; the minutes, the hours, and by then he had lost track of what it had said before.

Had it been 4 pm on the 20th? Or the 19th, last he had checked?
Was it 5:30, 30 minutes ago? Or had he checked just now?  

At some point, he’d begun to question if the watch was even working correctly, and he would’ve convinced himself it wasn’t, too— had his bedside clock not said the same thing.

Unless they were both broken…no, that was unlikely.

The blinds had been closed for…a while. He wasn't sure why he closed them; it made no difference, the feeling never stopped.

That realization was what prompted him to reopen them; at least then, he could convince himself the watched feeling originated from outside.

It must’ve been after he opened the blinds that he went to sleep, no, that sleep came for him. It was the only thing he was sure of. It made sense.

The dream, like all the other times, left no visual mark on his mind, but this time, when he reopened his eyes and time had passed, he felt no headache, nor did he feel rested. He rose at once with the only positive thing he felt, being the lack of stiffness in his joints; an unheard-of occurrence.

Something had settled low in his stomach and was slowly crawling its way up to his chest, scraping along his insides as it went. At first, he mistook what he felt as fear or paranoia, but he was wrong. What he felt was assuredness. 

He knew.  

He knew someone was here.

He could sense it in the shift of the air around him. While he was asleep, someone had slipped in; they were watching, waiting.

Waiting for him to mess up.

Waiting for him to let his guard down.

Waiting for him to walk into their waiting arms.

It was a bit of a frenzy— what happened next. He closed the blinds of the living room again, just in case others were lingering outside. He found Jellie, unbothered as she was, and stowed her away in his room.

‘Safe’ his mind soothed. His room was safe. They couldn't hurt her in there.

It was only after her safety was assured that he started his search. He stalked around the house, a kitchen knife in hand, though he wasn't sure when he picked it up. 

He had to find them.

The bathroom, the closet, the kitchen; all yielded nothing. He had opened every cupboard, every drawer, and had even moved the knife block to a higher shelf.

‘To confuse them,’ he justified to himself, and once he had overturned every pillow, moved every couch, and checked over his shoulder more times than he could count, he instead found himself taken over by a smothering wave of fear and helplessness. 

They were coming for him now. He hadn't been able to find them, and they were coming. Hunting.

Had he had the mind to be embarrassed, he would’ve blushed at the childish way he scampered to his bedroom door, his safe door, like a child running to their parents' room after a nightmare; scared of their own shadow.

Once inside, he fumbled with the bolt lock behind him and pressed his ear to the door. He hadn't heard them chasing him, but they were, and he heard no breathing, but he knew something was there. 

He could practically feel their heat radiating through the door, as they pressed their ear right up to where Scar pressed his; mirroring him; listening for him as much as he did for them.

He stepped away from the door, lest they somehow reach through it and grab him.

He wasn't completely sure what happened after that. For brief moments, he would be overcome with a warm sense of calm, his heart would stop pounding, and the ache in his legs he had pushed aside in favor of adrenaline would seep back in.

‘What am I doing?’ would be the thought that would cross his mind before his heart rate picked up again, lungs constricting in warning. Then, his mind would remind him of his position.

“They’re here, they’re here, they’re here, theyreheretheyreheretheyrehere” 

He thought he was moving, maybe pacing or shaking his hands, maybe both, but he was too out of it to tell. 

Sometimes, the sound of his voice would hit his ears, but it was so fleeting; he wasn't sure if he had imagined that, too.

There were moments in between those, when his gaze would shift to his bedroom window, the only one he’d forgotten to close. But no matter how much he willed it, his feet wouldn’t carry him across the room to do so.

The street seemed so much darker from here; the lightposts had disappeared, making it blend into the sky the same way deep blue bleeds into black. He couldn't tell where one started and the other began, or if it was foolish to think a distinction could even be made at all. 

In those moments, when he gazed at the sky for so long that his room had faded into the background and the image of the moon in a pit of black had burned itself into his retinas, he wondered…

If something was watching him from out there, would he be able to distinguish them from the night sky? 

Maybe it was the sky itself that was keeping tabs on everything below. 

Maybe it was watching only him.

When he next blinked, it was the sun that greeted him; the light warmed his skin.

He was sitting, propped against his bed, facing his window. The ache in his back and neck told him he’d slept there, actually slept this time, it seemed. 

He felt awake, not better per se, but aware; present.

             
A beeping sound rang throughout the room, and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from his pocket. He reached in and fished out his phone, looking at the screen.

It was Doc.

DocM77: I do hope our arrangement is still in effect, Mayor.

His fingers moved across the screen before he could consider it.

GTWScar: I’ll be there in an hour. 

His head fell back onto the bedframe.

—

Doc was excited to see Scar again. He could tell as much from the rambling way in which he talked, something more indicative of Scar himself. Scar, on the other hand, remained quiet next to him, a look of neutral interest plastered on his face.

The facility looked much the same as it did the last time he had seen it, that is to say, unsettling.

Smooth, white walls; plain floors; a severe lack of landmarks and direction. Was he expected to automatically know where everything is?

He hadn’t been making note of where he was walking last time, and the burning behind his eyes and exhaustion in his bones weren't making it any easier to do so this time, but he still tried to keep alert.

“-quite pleased you decided to aid us with this.”

‘Two lefts.’ The prickly feeling of being watched hadn’t stopped, but it had lessened since his arrival, and truly, he was starting to get used to it.

“-a lot easier with you here. We plan to have a brief observation period where-”

‘Down a flight of stairs.’ Last night's episode was uncharacteristic of him. He had cursed himself when he finally got up after sending Doc the message; An hour? What on earth was he thinking? He doesn't think he was thinking at all!

“-haven’t properly met him yet, but Ren will be guiding you on what to do here.”

‘Green piston door, then a right.’ An hour wasn't nearly enough time to fix the mess he’d made of his house, so he settled for cleaning his room and shoving some of the more obvious mess into empty drawers and closets, then hoped no one would pay his base an unannounced visit while he was gone; and if they did? Hopefully, they wouldn't judge him too harshly.

“Spore has exhibited some…interesting behavioral changes since your visit last week. It was ve-”

‘Iron door and— was the corner they just turned a right, or a left?’ He had to fix his hair in that short time, too. He’d made a downright mess of it with scissors at some point, and it took him literal days to realize he had nicked his hand, which was now bandaged. 

At least he was pretty sure that’s where he got the cut from.

Gods, He felt like he was going insane.

He hadn’t spoken to Cub in a few days now, which wasn’t unusual for them— they were both busy people, but with the events of the past week, he longed to hear that calm tone of his.

More than that, he wanted a full night's rest; he was running on fumes, chronic pain, and pride, which had somehow proved to be a formidable recipe for consciousness thus far. 

To keep from thinking about how much he missed his bed, he wondered how Cleo was doing; he also hadn't gotten in touch with her, but that, too, was hardly unusual; he’s not the scrappy boy outside her stall anymore. He doubted she was worried. It wouldn't surprise him if she were away right now, actually, ‘visiting family’ or the like.

Doc put a hand on his shoulder, which drew Scar out of his head. Damn it, he had lost track of the route here.

“Ren will be down soon to show you the ropes.” He then tossed a card at Scar, which he caught instinctively with his free hand. 

Doc smiled; it was all teeth.

“Good reflexes. That's your keycard and ID, don't lose it or you won't be able to get in.” He gestured to the room they had paused at— the room they kept Spore in.

Scar just nodded, “Right.”   

Doc patted him on the shoulder again, twice. “Pleasure to be working with you, Mayor.”

‘Patronizing.’ He resisted the urge to shrug him off.

Then Doc stalked down the hallway and turned a corner, out of sight.

Scar hadn't fully caught who Ren was, but he supposed that didn’t matter since he would meet the man soon enough anyway. He then turned to the door.

It was…a normal door, well, aside from the keycard access that is. He hesitated for a moment in front of it, but then decided he might as well rip the bandage off. He wasn't scared of Spore, not really; he was just put off by it, unsettled. 

Steeling himself, he scanned the keycard and admired the sleek redstone work as the door slid open smoothly with a light hiss.

When Scar entered the room again, he fully expected Spore to be in the same position he had been in the last time he saw it— crouched and curled up in the center of the room. Perhaps splayed out on the floor like a corpse, like in their first encounter. 

Ideally, Spore wouldn't be there at all, gone from this room and his life, a figment of his imagination, so he could go home to Cub and tell him all about the crazy dream he had.

Scar wasn't sure if he was happy or upset at the position he found Spore in, or rather that he didn't find Spore in.

The room was distinctly more crowded than the first time. It seemed several scientific and technological equipment were moved in all inched to the front to not obscure the glass. That didn't stop their wires from being strewn about the room. 

Aside from that, he noted the additions of a loveseat, a desk, and a chair -all pushed to the wall and facing the glass, along with standard additions like a trash bin, a lamp, and what could be a cooler by the cabinets. 

It reminded him of a typical office setup, but what really caught his attention was the enclosure itself.

Overgrown. 

That was the best way to describe what he was seeing. 

While before there had been a few vines and mushrooms along the back corners of the wall, now, the better half of the space was covered in purple growths, fungi, and vines which swayed with a breeze from a source Scar couldn't identify. 

‘Maybe the vents?’ His mind supplied, but if there were any, he couldn’t see them.

Trunks similar to birch in their eyelike patterning grew in the enclosure, but a trained eye can tell at a glance that they were not birch; the bark is too smooth, and they grow in a twisting way that birch trees don't, not to mention the lack of leaves. It seemed to him a poor imitation of the real thing. It took him a minute to realize exactly what it was: mushroom stems.

There weren’t many stems, but they were big, thick, and twisting, creating alcoves and corners that Scar could only barely peek into.

The ground was carpeted by what looked like a purple moss, and a light fog settled on the floor of the room, while spores flitted across what remained of the open air.

Nature had fought and won in this room, if any of this could be considered natural.

It took Scar much longer than he would've liked to locate Spore, because while a part of his mind had initially, foolishly, hoped it wouldn't be there,

How could It not be there? There's nowhere to go, to run. Of course, It's here.

-This was different.

This was different because he knew it was there, he could feel It, sense it in the barely there hum that resonated throughout the entire base. In that damn chill in the air despite the undeniable humidity of the room. It was scarily similar to the feeling he had felt the night before.

Spore was there, he knew, he just couldn't see It. 

Could It see him?

He clenched his fist and continued scanning the space. An odd sense of relief filled him when he finally located it.

It was the white gown that gave it away -the garment not being able to blend in with the mossy environment as easily.

Spore was sitting this time, a first, curled forward and hidden amongst the moss and vines. It soured him to admit it, but Spore looked…right, crouched beneath the branches like that, gazing out towards the glass. If Scar didn't know any better, he'd have thought it was curiously peering at him.

But, no, it couldn't be that. It was peering at him, yes, but the gaze must've been stalking, judging, calculating —if Spore was capable of any of those things at all, or if the look was anything more than that— a look. 

Could Spore even see with eyes inked in black?

Its gaze didn't waver as he slipped further into the room, using his cane to feel out the ground before he stepped as not to take his eyes off of it. 

He determined, if it could see him, it didn't need to move its head to do so. The room, while it wasn't necessarily small, wasn't huge either. If Spore was tracking with him with whatever pupils it may have, he couldn't tell, and there wasn't really anywhere Scar could go to hide among the equipment and wires strewn about.

Not that he wanted to hide, of course. He couldn’t be afraid, he was just unsettled.

They stayed like that for a while. 

Truly, it couldn't have been that long, no more than fifteen minutes -but to Scar, it felt like an eternal staring battle, one that he couldn't win, since it didn't seem like Spore held any need for blinking.

Scar wasn’t really sure where his mind ended up in those minutes. He had partially checked out of the situation and had resigned himself to that losing game until Ren or some other staff came for him.

The only indicator that he, too, did not become a statue was the methodic 'scritch' sound of his nails as they picked at the threading of the sofa. At some point Spore had faded into the scenery of the surrounding nature, and a static had filled the edges of his vision, Spore hadn't left -he knew this, but with how still everything had become— even the swaying of the vines having stopped— it seemed almost as if Spore had disappeared, had slowly etched its way out of the still image that was this room. 

A soft knocking was what brought him back, and he knew without needing to check that it wasn't Doc who had come to save him.

Doc doesn't knock, and even if he did, the footsteps which entered the room were too soft and were not accompanied by the low whirring and clicking which came from Doc's arm and eye. He was proven correct when he turned to look and instead saw a man in a lab coat similar to Cubs, with long, shaggy brown hair. He vaguely recalled seeing him before, on his first visit.

"Hey, Scar, right? The name's Ren, I'll be your humble tourguide and the one giving you the rundown of this place and your role."

‘Oh so this is Ren.’

He wore an ID around his neck, similar to the one he had gotten, with a professional photo and his name and job title printed on it. 

Scar let himself be whisked away from the room, anxious and eager, and he blinked away the last dregs of static in his vision as Ren led him through the facility.

They passed many rooms, most looking the same as the outside, a set of single or double doors, but revealing something much more impressive on the inside, automated storage, lounge rooms, laboratories, -even a damn library.

While the place seemed haphazard on first glance, it was actually rather well organized; hallways that once seemed indistinguishable to Scar began to make sense. Little details like signs, colored paint lines, and lights actually held some meaning.

Ren was... an interesting character, the kind of person Scar liked, forthcoming, energetic, with clear but not boring explanations of the mechanics of the place. His smile was wide and sharp, courtesy of his pointed canines, which stood out from the rest of his teeth. 

Scar wondered if the man was a hybrid of some kind, but he didn't have any other notable features. 

He also walked at a good pace, not rushing ahead but also not ridiculously slow. It made it easy for Scar to walk next to him while using his cane, rather than trailing behind. Not to say that Scar was slow, but he certainly didn't enjoy having to chase after fast walkers.

"There are other levels and such, but you don't have to worry about those for now, if at all, but this entire floor is pretty much your playground for the next while." He added cheerily.

“Doc wouldn’t like me calling his ‘baby’ a playground, though, so don’t tell him I said that. It can be our secret.” He winked, and Scar laughed with him. Ren didn’t seem to take Doc nearly as seriously as the other staff here; he wondered if that was just a Ren thing or if they were close. 

When Scar took note that they were heading back in the direction they'd come, he rushed to find something to say, sue him if he preferred the company of an actual human being to Spore.

"Is this also the floor you work on?" He partially asked just for the sake of saying something, but he was also genuinely curious. On the first day, when he'd seen Ren, he wasn't on this floor, but a part of him still hoped he'd say yes. He's the first person he's met here with an actual personality.

"Ah, nope. I actually man one of the floors on the higher levels, normally I don't come down here these days, -but Doc asked me to show you around."

He said his name with a fondness that told Scar that if they weren’t good friends, then Ren was at least fond of him, though Scar isn't sure how one comes to be fond of someone as stiff as Doc -or how to gain Doc's favor, for that matter.

"I'll probably be seeing you more, though. Spore's been pretty energetic since your visit."

Scar just nodded, but the statement tickled the back of his mind. Energetic is not the term he would use to describe Spore at all. In fact, he would say it's the exact opposite, and it makes him wonder if Ren is joking.

Was he referring to the overgrowth in the room? Is that not normal?

He had to ask.

“Energetic? It hardly moves at all.”

“Hm? Oh, did Doc not tell you?” Ren mutters something under his breath before he continues, “Spore is like, super happy right now.”

…what.

“Happy?” Now Scar is sure Ren is joking.

“Well, maybe happy isn't the right word, sorry. I work in the animal department and I tend to project. What I meant is, Spore has been more active and responsive lately.”

“And I guess that’s why the room is so…full.”

“Yes! Doc has been trying to get Spore to produce that much mycelium for like, ever!”

They reached the room again, and Ren quickly swiped his keycard and ushered Scar in.

“Hi, Spore.” Scar bristled for a moment, but Spore did not respond to Ren’s enthusiastic greeting. Ren didn’t seem to expect any less and moved to the desk and cabinet.

“Pretty much everything you need is in here. There should be a” he opened one of the drawers and pulled out a clipboard, “ah, perfect, Doc didn’t leave you completely helpless.”

He felt the urge to deny the claim that he was ‘helpless’ at all, but ignored it in favor of watching Spore, who had once again moved in his absence, it was further back this time, more obscured, but still facing them.

Ren drew his attention back to him. “This is basically an instruction manual, it tells you all the do’s and don’ts, and ‘in case of's’ and such. Read it and you should be fine. I’ll be back in like a couple of hours to show you where you’ll be staying.”

He tossed the clipboard at him (seriously, what is with people and throwing things at him recently?) and rushed towards the door.

“Oh, and there’s like a pamphlet in the drawer too, read it!”

And like that, he was gone.

Scar sighed.

‘This is going to be a long day.’

——-

Scar spent the rest of that evening curled on the couch, flipping through the sheets on the clipboard that Ren gave him. It featured simultaneously detailed and vague instructions.

What does “Release and Observe, 5.6.1” even mean? Surely they didn't plan to let that thing out? It looked sick, and Scar knew it wasn't really ill, but he wouldn't dream of touching it; he could barely conceptualize a world in which they stood on the same side of the glass.

The idea sends ice into his bones, and he curls further into the couch, wishing- not for the first time- that he brought a proper coat.

Well, he did, but at some point between his arrival and his getting here, his bags had been taken, and no one had told him exactly where they were, or where he would be sleeping for his extended stay.

He turned the next page, fighting the yawn that reminded him of his sleepless nights. He’d been feeling tired the whole time, but usually that was paired with this adrenaline and image to keep up that he had almost forgotten. Now, surrounded by—technically—no one in this silent room, he felt almost comfortable.

That didn't stop him from occasionally glancing over at the cage. Spore was much like it was the first day he’d seen it, strewn prone out on the floor, almost looking peaceful as the moss and vines waved gently around it with their mysterious wind source.

For the first time in a long time, Scar felt truly alone in the crowded room.

Scanning the rest of the details, he didn’t understand what most of this had to do with what Doc had described to him.

Why did Spore need to learn to speak or run? What did that have to do with dispelling the Mycellium?  

Other things on the list made his stomach churn, vague talks of autopsies and dissections (vivisections?). He hoped he would not have to be present for that; it sounded like the sort of thing they’d want it to be still for anyway.

He reached for the extra pamphlet Ren directed him to and began to hurriedly skip past a few pages, just eager to reach the end, when a loose leaf fell out.

“Ah- damn,” he muttered under his breath, readjusting himself to reach for it where it fell under the couch. He noted the lack of dust, as, after some rummaging, he finally felt the paper and lifted it to his face.

It didn't look like the others. Is it a note for him? 

But no, that couldn't be right; it was a poorly printed sheet, lightly yellowing from age, with a few lines he could only just make out from the faded ink.

“Well, that’s disturbing.” He turned it over, and it seemed there were once notes written on the back in pencil, but they had long since faded over time, and the swirling cursive didn't make it any easier to make out.

More words idly slipped from his lips, attempting to fill the silence.

“Maybe an old employee sheet? Ah, no, it says date of death…alright, that’s normal, this is a research facility.”

Something about that filled his chest with melancholy. He reread the name, ‘Grian-something’, a first-generation hybrid too; this paper must be older than he thought.

Is this what had happened to many of them after death? Donated or sold for money to facilities like this, reduced to tools for advancement? It left a sour taste on his tongue.

It occurred to him that though those were likely times long passed, the being in the glass room had had a life once, a family, friends. Was a hybrid like him once, too.

Though he supposed he had no room to talk, he, a hybrid, no matter how far removed, was reaping the benefits of their suffering after all. 

Hadn't Doc said something about Spore being an early-generation hybrid, too? Which generation had it been again? Surely not first, he had severe doubts that a body could be preserved that long.   

“Are you that old?” he whispered to himself, chancing a look at Spore. Spore wasn't looking at him, but it had shifted, now facing away from him entirely. He hadn't even heard it move. 

Like this, in the soft light, Scar could almost pretend he was human.

He shook his head to dispel the thought. Whatever Spore was, it wasn't human. Not anymore. 

He could tell so in the lack of rise and fall of his chest. The way, even when it was facing him, there was no soft cloud of air escaping its lips.

“Don't be dumb, Scar.” He scolded himself.

He suddenly felt uncomfortable, sick.

It wasn't like the kind he had felt this morning, and numerous mornings before that. 

It was an old kind of discomfort, the kind that pushed him forward when he was young, the kind that brought him to this Mayoral position, the kind that, on bad days, lay next to him and whispered he deserved none of it. 

The one where—in quiet moments like this—rang so loud. 

The comfort that solitude had provided him only moments ago suddenly felt crushing and dense.

Cub probably would've handled this better than him. He doesn't need company in the way Scar does, so he could handle the loneliness; he could take those 2 interactions with Ren, and this quiet, crowded room, and be satisfied. 

He wouldn't question the humanity of something so obviously long gone.

Truly, he wouldn’t even be in this situation in the first place if he were mayor, and he most definitely wouldn't be talking to a living rock like he’s doing right now.

Maybe Cub would’ve even enjoyed this and conducted a few experiments of his own.

Yes, there's no way he'd leave this place without learning something he could use for himself.

Scar wanted to leave, so, so badly.

He was so, so tired, and scared, it was cold, and his joints were beginning to ache, he wanted to go home.

A second weight settled over him, and he realized he was being watched again. Opening his eyes (when had he shut them?) led him to see Spore gazing right at him.

He braced himself, but he found that, while it still chilled him, it didn't bother him as much as it previously had. He certainly felt less alone.

They stayed like that for a while.

A sound came from his left, and he broke eye contact to see Ren. He looked frazzled, like he’d just run a marathon with no water.

“H-Hey,” he paused to take a breath, “Dude I’m so, so, sorry I left you down here for so long, got distracted.” he looked apologetically at Scar.

Glancing at his watch showed that he had been here for at least 4 hours; it was well after 5 pm.

Culling his shock, he called forth a smile and said honestly, “It’s okay, I didn't even notice.”

“Oh- Good, come with me, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.” 

Scar nodded. “Lead the way.”

———-

The room was nothing special; spacious, sterile, and empty, with too much room for his items that even after he had packed away everything, it still seemed bare. Wherever Doc was using his funding, it evidently wasn't on room decor.

It reminded him dimly of the hospital rooms in the cities, except even this was missing the cursory potted plant.

Still, when he crawled into bed and settled in for an early night, he, for the first time in a while, slept the whole night through.

As was customary, he recalled no details from his dream, save a beautiful bird with scarlet red feathers.   

Chapter Text

“Are you going to eat that?”

The only response was the light scraping of a fork against a plate of what had once been rice and beans, but it had been pushed, squished, and stabbed so many times that it now resembled a light brown pile of unappealing mush.

“Let me rephrase, Xelqua. Don't make Us force Our hand. You need to eat.”

A final shrill scrape against the plate rang out, adding another scratch to what was no doubt just one of many accumulated over the last 30 minutes. 

The food was undoubtedly cold and chalky now, but Xelqua had no intention to eat it, so it didn't really matter. Still, somewhere in his mind, he noted that the food would not be replaced even if he had requested it.

The Elders' hand twitched, seemingly itching to snatch the food and utensil from Xelqua’s hands.

Good, get angry, see how he feels.

“I’ve already told you what I want.”

“And We’ve already said no.”

“Hm, then it seems we’re at an impasse,” he said shortly, taking a forkful of his beans turned mush, and taking it to his mouth before pausing, mouth slightly parted.

He and the Elder stared at each other for a long moment, a silent bet, a battle of Eyes. Xelqua could feel the pressure weighing down on his mind, chipping at his will, trying to See. Not looking for anything of note, not a pinpoint of pressure, but a smothering weight— a warning.


He stood strong.

Slowly, he moved the fork from his mouth before flipping it, dropping the contents on the floor between them. A few splashes got on the Elder's tunic.

The response was immediate and expected, but that didn't make Xelqua’s flesh heart beat any slower.

The Elder lunged for him, and an invisible hand wrapped around his throat, choking him, squeezing into his jugular. Again, his rabbit heart betrayed him; it beat so loud he had no doubts the Elder could hear, still, he didn't splutter or beg, just stared and Stared.

Something, probably cruel, was snarled at him in Galactic, some words he didn't recognize, likely mixed with some other dialect he had yet to learn— and if he had any say, he’d never have to.

For a second, the room became unbearably cold, and Xelqua felt all his limbs lock up in preparation.

No hit came. Between one blink and the next, the Elder was gone, as though they’d never been there to begin with. The food on the table remained, next to the several other plates of uneaten food that had piled up over the weeks; the smell was rancid, though slightly dulled in the strange atmosphere of the void.

He could note the exact moment they realized they couldn't tempt him with End-Void meals, and switched instead to various plain, unseasoned, human foods.

Suspiciously, the chorus fruit from the first day, which he had roughly thrown at the far wall of his room cage, remained pristine and ripe as ever, but still, he would never dare try to eat it. 

His mouth watered at the sight of the spoiled food, stomach protesting against his protest.

He turned away and plugged his nose. 

No matter how many days it took, no matter the starvation, even if it killed him— if death was even possible for him anymore— he would escape. Something had to give; they couldn’t keep him here forever.

Grian had people waiting for him after all.   

----

In the brief periods of time when the tides rolled in, and Spore could manage to hold on to its, his thoughts, he found himself drawn to a light, his light.

He’s not sure when he started cataloguing the light as his, probably when he realized the light made it so much easier for him to stay in his head.

It kept him grounded, for the most part; his thoughts were still fleeting most days, but he recalled enough.

Enough to know his light had a name: Scar, the name of the human with a bright light in his chest. The light that had woken him up and coaxed him back to the surface of his mind after so long. 

He thought the name peculiar at first; it rang wrong. A jagged, violent thing, from which he ought to grow wary. But ever since that first day, he couldn't look away.

He thought at one point —a time long before now— he’d have thought it silly to be so attached to a concept, now though, he let the feelings settle as they were.

Now and again, his hand would itch —reaching for something long passed— and what was left of his heart would drum in his head, ‘excitement’, he thought. Finally, something to look forward to, an expansion to this tiny world he’d found himself accustomed to.

Somehow, though the hours his light had spent with him had been brief, he hadn't actually anticipated it could leave.  Anticipated even less that there would be nothing he could do to stop it, stop him. 

So, when his light went away, he did something he hadn't done in a long time, something he thought he’d forgotten how to do.

He Watched.

He watched for several tides, patient at first, waiting for his light to return.

It didn't feel right; the Watching.

A part of him protested against the act, screamed: ‘wrong, wrong, wrong, like Them.’
But Spore couldn't pinpoint why, and the need to see his light far outweighed any senseless aching.

The world through Scar’s eyes was so interesting that Spore could hardly look away, except when dragged by that exhaustion he could never fully break free from. 

His home was so domestic, lived in, clothes strewn about, photographs, half-finished meals, projects, and papers spread over desks, soft carpet lining the bedroom floor.

He’d tried to mimic the soft, crowded nature of it in his own ‘room’. It wasn't the same.

He wanted to stay there— behind Scars' eyes— forever; it felt like reclaiming something he’d lost, something that should've been his.

He didn't notice when his gaze turned nigh voyeuristic, or when it began to hurt.
But he did notice when his mind began to slip back to that dark place below the tide. 

‘No,’ he thought, the colours and scenes he’d seen through Scars eyes had been so beautiful, soft, he wasn't ready to part with them, with him.

He wasn't ready. Not yet, not yet, not yet.

He needed Scar to come back, and he was never good at letting things go.



---

Scar fell into routine quite quickly: wake up, question where he was, remember where he was, get dressed, grab a damn coat so he wouldn’t freeze, only get a little lost, and sit with Spore for 3 hours before lunch.

He had taken to speaking aloud to himself more and more often, even sometimes having full conversations. Spore did not respond, and he otherwise remained uninterrupted save for the occasional nameless assistant who would poke their head in and jot something down before hurrying away.

The assistants did not speak much, if at all, and Scar had long since given up on trying to start conversations with them.

Maybe once a day, except for days when he just didn’t show, Ren would spend the first 30 minutes of his lunch talking to Scar.

“Don't want you to go crazy here,”  he said, and Scar appreciated it greatly. Especially on the days when he would find Spore staring at him and realize he had lost 2 hours.

It was only on the fourth day that it occurred to him he had free will, and he had never been instructed to stay in only Spore’s room and the cafeteria.

That was how he found himself in the library, which was…about as interesting as your average library, he supposed.   

Shelves, carts, books, carts with books to be shelved; all very standard.

What could be said about the library was that it was one of the few places filled with color. 

Scar had begun to feel very out of place amongst the sterile white walls and steel-greys, and he once found himself smiling at and appreciating the varying shades of rust of a copper pipe.

So yes, he needed this.

Reading wasn't his favorite pastime. Sometimes, the words got all jumbled in his head, or he would read a few pages only to realize he hadn't truly understood any of it, and had to start over.

Still, he found a few short novels to try and usually ended up reading a bit from each before wandering to another section. The library was truly ridiculously big.

Something that did, however-unusually, pique his interest was a worn leather book about birds and Avians. 

It was more of a study than a novel, and probably older than him, but he had barely realized he had checked it out before he was already back in Spore’s room with it open on the desk in front of him.  

He checked his watch and realized belatedly that his lunch hour break had ended, well, an hour ago.

“Void, I’m awful at this.” He cursed before reaching for his designated ‘work notebook’. 

He actually had an actual job to do after all.

It seemed this first week (which, oh god, didn't that mean there would be more?) was only an observation period. Scar’s job in all of this was to note any changes or advancements Spore made while he was there.

He supposed he understood why he had to do this, but he also doubted that Doc didn't have other, far more reliable and efficient means of doing so. He hadn't seen any cameras, but he made the healthy assumption that Doc wasn’t irresponsible enough to leave this thing totally unsupervised, so they must be around there somewhere.  

According to Doc’s rather expansive list, ‘Changes and Advancements’ included: Movements: big and small (he had to distinguish which), twitches (which were not to be confused with small movements), vocalizations (of which there have been none), the intensity of the fog, if Scar thought the flora in the room had increased or decreased each day (answer? He had no clue), and even where or how long Spore looked at something.

The last was simple enough. Scar was now sure Spore could see, as it had begun a rather stubborn streak of looking directly at him at every opportunity.

It did not pay Ren any mind during his visits, and it did not shift when an assistant came through the door. It looked at him, just him, always.

He once jokingly asked, trying to ease the pressure on his own chest, “Am I that irresistible?”

To his shock, in that slow jerky way it always does, Spore had tilted its head every so slightly to the left, like a curious animal.

As it was his job, he had noted the movement in his ever-growing list of small movements Spore did, and if he neglected to cite any potential cause? Well, it was between him and Spore.

He doubted it had actually understood him anyway, likely just a reaction to the noise. That had happened before.

The list of big movements was painfully bare, even after four days. Anything of actual note only seemed to occur during his lunch or the hours he lost to thoughtless staring; he just noted them instead as “position changes he did not witness.”  

Scar wondered if he could get fired for a job he wasn’t even being paid for; it would be embarrassing, but each day it seemed more and more likely.

After making his jottings for the day, he grabbed his cane and moved to the couch to return to the book he’d taken from the library.

“Did you know Avians could have a wingspan of up to 10 ft?” 

He could hardly imagine it, with the mass hunting and later breeding out of hybrids, more notable features like wings and tails had either ceased to exist or decreased significantly in grandeur.

He recalled a pair of ocelot twins with stumpy ears and tails; he was pretty sure the extra limbs weren't meant to be so short.

Even Vexes had wings once.

Neither he nor Cub gained that trait, which was unsurprising, but Scar couldn’t remember if their parents had wings either; it was such a long time since their passing, and he could hardly remember their faces. Often when he tried to imagine his mother, Cleo's soft expression came to mind instead.

He kept scanning the pages.

“Oh wow, I probably should've realized that Avian types were based on actual birds.”

In the book were drawings and diagrams of avians, all with magnificent wings and feather patterns. Next to each was a diagram of the corresponding bird species.

His mind returned to the paper from his first day. He had meant to return it to Ren, for him to properly file or throw away, but he had shoved it in his pocket and promptly forgotten about it. After that, he just kept forgetting to give it back to him.

Right now, it was probably in his room, somewhere amongst the mess he’d made of it this morning when looking for something to wear. 

“I wonder which one he was…” He was sure the paper said it, but he couldn’t recall.

It was a pointless thing, to be curious about a dead man, but he found his mind drifting back to this ‘Grian’ character more often than he thought it would, which is to say: at all.

He couldn't shake off the name and chalked it up to idle curiosity born from boredom, solitude, and his sudden introduction to this new world.

To top it all off, he kept having dreams, or well, fragments of dreams, most of which were a blur.

They often held bits of pieces of simple things, laughter, an endless blue sky, brightly colored wings flapping in the wind, the view of lakes, and a thick canopy from high in the treetops. 

Something about it made him itch to build; it had been so long since he’d designed something of his own.

But sometimes the dreams were…odd. He saw the night sky, but it was different; pitch black and endless, with a smattering of stars that—if he focused too closely—looked like eyes. 

Occasionally, there would be a voice, but whatever language it spoke, it wasn't English. Likely just some nonsense dream language.

He got less sleep on those nights.

He flipped the page of his book, huh, parrot avians, interesting.

He didn’t notice his mouth was moving until he was halfway through the page.

“-native to jungle and rainforest biomes. The Scarlet Macaw is just one of three macaw-type avians; they are known for their Scarlet red, yellow, and blue feather patterns. Like other macaws, they are partic-” he stumbled over the word before continuing.

“--particularly, good at mimicry of voices, natural sounds, and even man-made sounds like machinery, minecarts, doors, and-”

“Sorry, I’m late.”

“It’s okay.” he turned to the door, but Ren wasn’t there. 

Ren hadn’t shown up today to spend lunch with him, which was uncommon but not unusual.

He sat quietly for a moment, waiting to see if he heard anything else, but all that met him was silence, and the slight chill that refused to let up.

Lord, now he was hearing things? Or maybe he just got used to hearing Ren's voice. He checked his watch and realized the time; it was late. Again.

He looked back up at Spore, and of course, it had moved again, damn.

This time, it was unusually close to the glass, sitting in a sad approximation of criss-cross. It reminded him of a child sitting for reading time. His face scrunched in distaste; he really ought to stop humanizing it. 

He sighed and noted the change before packing his things and grabbing water from the small cooler.

As he turned to leave, the word ‘bye’ lingered on his tongue, but he swallowed it back, greeting Spore like that was a step too far, even for him.

He really should return that sheet to Ren.    

——

“Are there any cameras in the room?” It was the next day at lunch, and Scar and Ren had found their usual spot in the cafeteria.

“Huh?” Ren looked up from his chart. He brought his work to lunch. It was usually something simple, but he seemed especially focused on it today. “Sorry, dude, can you repeat?”

Scar repeated while subtly trying to peek at Ren's papers. It was all jargon to him, but he saw a few words he recognized, animal names mostly. “Does Doc keep, like, cameras —in the room I’m in?”

Ren looked shocked at the question, “No! Doc's a hardass, and a bit of a control freak, but he won’t watch you sleep.”

Scar paused before he burst out laughing. He got a few stares, but no one told him to be quiet; the mood lightened.

“No! No, I mean the- the lab room, the one with Spore in it.”

“Ohh,” Ren put a hand over his heart, looking relieved, charting forgotten, “He used to, I think, but the rooms in a weird spot, or bad wiring, or something; cameras don’t work in there.” He waved a hand as if to say, ‘You know how it is.’

That piqued Scars' interest, “-like all cameras or just surveillance?”

Ren thought it over for a moment, “Mmm, I think just surveillance? I dunno, I’ve never taken a selfie in there.” He chuckled, “But I know the security footage always gets corrupted. ‘Twas a waste of a good camera.” He announced with a flourish.

Ren followed with a bite of his food that reminded Scar to take a bite of his own. They ate in silence for a while before a question hit Scar's mind.

“So, why not just change the room?”

“What?”

“If cameras don’t work in there, why not just change the room, or fix the wiring?” 

Leaving faulty wires in his building didn’t seem like something Doc would do, and if it really was just the one room, Scar couldn’t see what was so hard about moving Spore somewhere else; it was just glass and a door, nothing Doc couldn’t easily replicate.

Ren shrugged, “I never asked. Maybe he just doesn’t care about the room being surveyed, not like Spores trying to break the glass on the regular.”

Scar didn't argue with that— it still felt wrong, but he chose to let it go.

Scar fiddled with his communicator under the desk; the signal was still awful, especially for the base of a guy who was so tech-savvy. His messages took hours or even days to go through; most were to Cub, just reassurances he was doing alright and taking care of himself. 

A few went to Cleo and Gem, letting them know he was still at G.O.A.T. and wouldn’t be in town. They had both eventually gone through, but he hadn't received a response, at least not one he could see.

He remembered something then.

“Did you stop by yesterday? After lunch?”

Ren tilted his head in a dog-like fashion. “No? Prettyyy sure I got off early yesterday.” He said it wistfully, like it was a childhood memory. Would it be vain for Scar to say he shared the sentiment despite only being here for the better half of a week, and his ‘job’ could be done by a 5-year-old?

He nodded in agreement anyway.

Scar had inquired about Ren’s job before; it really was mostly animal testing and training. There was apparently more out-of-town funding being put into animal research lately, people trying to get more meat from their cattle, and such. Ren ran the more scientific side of that. It was interesting, but also made Scar squeamish at times.

He moved to put his communicator back in his pocket and felt the edge of worn paper brush his fingertips. Oh, right, that.

Ren had already begun to pack up his things, the half hour of lunch they shared coming to an end. Scar might as well spit it out.

“I found a loose paper by the way, in the little pamphlet you gave me. Thought it might have gotten misplaced or something.”

Ren looked like it took a minute for him to remember what Scar was talking about, then he snapped his fingers in recognition. 

“Ah, that! What did it look like?”

“Like uh, I think it said cada- cadaver, yes, cadaver sheet, with like information about a corpse.”

Ren didn’t immediately respond, so Scar let his mouth get ahead of him.

“It was for some guy named Grian, I think,” —he didn’t ‘think’, he knew. The name had crossed his mind so many times since he had first read it that it had gotten to the embarrassing point of him wondering what his life had been like in the many, many, quiet hours he spent in his office. What had it felt like to fly?

“—An avian fellow, it got me into reading about them, actually.”

Ren had gone quite pale, oh dear.

“It was practically illegible, I couldn’t read a thing— aside from what I said…”

“Oh my goodness, Doc-” Ren exhaled, letting out a mirthless laugh, “just- please tell me you still have that. You didn’t lose it, right?”

Scar almost handed him the paper right then, but the way Ren looked at him was off; there was that healthy fear, the kind you get when you make a big mistake, but it’s not too late to fix it. But there was something else, something darker. He had never seen Ren say, or react, to Doc's name with such genuine fear; he usually spoke so casually of the man. 

He liked Ren, he really did, but…

“No, I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in my room; my bedroom,” he clarified, “-but uh that place is kinda a mess, might take me a bit to find it.”

Ren fidgeted in his spot, eyes occasionally darting to the rest of the people; no one was paying them any mind, but it didn’t seem to put him any less on edge. What the hell?

“Um, alright, good, just— let me know when you find it, or better yet, throw it away, or—“ he grabbed the last of his things “I’ll send someone to pick it up from you later, alright?”

Ren didn’t wait for a response before he was already halfway out of the cafeteria.

The little piece of paper now sat like lead in the small of Scar’s pocket; a part of him felt bad for lying to Ren; this was something that could get him in trouble. But hey, if the paper was trash anyway, hanging onto it for a little longer couldn’t hurt.

The remainder of lunch passed by in relative silence, save for the low muttering of the other workers in the cafeteria.

When Scars ‘shift’ finally ended hours later and he returned to his room, he found it had already been cleaned. The clothes were neatly folded and placed on the bed— further inspection showed they were organized by type. Shoes lined by the door, coats hung neatly in the closet; organized by length, his pens had been placed in a stationery holder on a desk— which had not been there before, the bed was spread, sheets changed, floor noticeably vacuumed, even the fridge had been restocked.

What the hell? There had never been a cleaning service of any kind mentioned to him; he hadn’t requested anything like it either. 

He checked the room, all his valuables were still there, and a search of his pockets showed the key was still in its rightful place. Did…did they have a key to his room? Well, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense, of course they’d have a key to a room in their own facility. What if they needed to get in?

But still, this felt like a huge invasion of privacy.

He snatched his communicator to message Ren, a contact that had gone unused since he’d first received it.

To Ren: did you send someone to clean my room?
(sent, 6:09 pm)

Shockingly, the message went through instantly. 

From Ren: Oh yeah, I did, hope you don’t mind, you just mentioned it was a mess :p
(sent, 6:10 pm)

Scar frowned; he didn’t know how to feel about that.

To Ren: oh! thanks for that
To Ren: kinda scared me though, lmk next time before u do that
(sent, 6:10 pm)

From Ren: Haha, sorry abt that! Will do man 👍🏻
(sent; 6:10 pm)

From Ren: Did you find the paper btw?
(sent; 6:12 pm)

Scar typed out a careful response.

To Ren: nope, couldnt find it, probably got thrown out with the rest of the trash
To Ren: they even redecorated! never been cleaner
(sent, 6:14 pm)

From Ren: Alright, that's good
From Ren: Enjoy the room man, wish I had one XD
(sent, 6:14 pm)

He closed the chat and opened Cub’s.

--Sent 2 days ago--
To Cub: can you believe docs place has the worst wifi??? LOL
(seen 8:21 pm, Monday)

--Now--
To Cub: Everyone down here is so strange, it feels so off
(Message not sent…check connection and try again)

He sighed and closed his communicator.

—

The temperature in the office was inconsistent. 

After the first 2 days, Scar had wrongly assumed there was always a biting chill and had begun dressing accordingly: high socks, a coat, long pants, and even a scarf. The biting chill froze his muscles and made everything ache. He had to keep on the move the entire time he was in the room just to chase away the stiffness, and had come to accept that he would be spending the rest of his days like that.

He was proven oh so very wrong one day when he entered the room, which he had begun to dub his office, and it was hot and humid. At first, it was better than the chill by miles, but still, he could only take so much of either extreme. Much more of either, and he would be stuck in bed for who knows how long.

After about three separate occasions of this random heat, Scar had, begrudgingly, requested a fan from Doc. He had gotten a fan, that's for sure, but maybe he should've emphasized that he wanted a good fan, preferably something built in this century.

The thing was ridiculous. When cranked to anything above 3, it made an awful noise, part electrical and part the knocking together of loose, bent metal. The only way to get it to go beyond that without the nasty feedback was to turn it up gradually and pray to your god of choice. Honestly, it was a miracle it turned on at all, and that's not accounting for the faint smell of burning rubber it emitted after an hour of use.

Doc did it on purpose, of course. He saw the amusement in his eyes when he handed Scar the busted-up thing. He was daring him to complain or question him. If Scar had, Doc likely would've changed the fan, but pride was a stubborn mule and Scar its loyal rider. He would not give in.

He did scold himself when Ren had entered the room one day and took a noticeable inhale when he saw the scrap metal pretending to be a fan. He pointedly did not try to touch it. “Goodness, dude, are you sure you don't want me to say something?”

“Yes, I'm sure. This is fine.” 

A part of him wished he had just taken the offer; it was a perfect workaround to lowering himself to seeking out Doc on his own— and getting unavoidably lost doing so— with the man being as elusive as he is. Alas, he did not take the opportunity, so there he was, counting down the minutes before he could attempt to raise the fan speed.

He wasn’t sure who took pity on him, if it was Doc, or Ren, or one of the soft-stepped assistants that popped in a few times a week, but someone had, because now, on the 6th day,  there was a tall man with black hair and a cartoonish mustache looking at the fan in comic despair. He introduced himself as ‘Mumbo’.

“Not that I’m doubting you, Mayor, but are you sure this thing…works?”

“Works is definitely a word that could be used, yeah.”

“R-right,” he stepped around the table to get a better look, but his gaze kept flicking to Scar every few seconds.

“Um, not to pry, Mayor-”

“Oh! Just call me Scar.” The man looked as though he would topple over from stress, and Scar wasn’t confident there was much else he could say to soothe him.

“Oh- yes, yes, um, Scar, not to pry, but, but should I be concerned about that?”

He shuffled his body in the direction of the glass where Spore now stood, relaxed, by Spore standards, and looking intently at the newcomer in a way that was pointedly out of character.

Scar and the redstoner stood in silence for a few brief moments as Mumbo awaited a response and Scar puzzled out a gentler way to say: “Well, I don't know. I definitely am, but I'm the only one legally required to play 8 hours in hell with it, so,  probably not”.

“Ah, don’t worry about that, just forget it's here.” A non-answer delivered with confidence and a dismissive smile. It seemed to work because Mumbo eventually turned his attention away from Spore and returned to studying the fan.

The man made some exasperated comments under his breath that eventually reduced to a constant mutter as he made a home of his desk, spreading tarmac on the table and setting out a bag of tools which he didn't even have to look at to select what he needed. It seemed he wasn't just fixing the fan but was taking it apart and putting it back together again.

All Scar could think was ’What a ridiculous amount of effort for something we could just replace,’ and then scolded himself because the reason it wasn’t simply replaced in the first place was his own stubbornness. He still didn’t regret it, though, not even as he took a seat on the couch to take the pressure off his legs and shoulder.

While Mumbo was fully immersed in his work, Scar instead preoccupied himself with watching Spore— who was watching him watch Mumbo…

’ Creepy’ was getting to be an overused word in his Spore-sanctioned vocabulary. 

Spore pressed its face up to the glass, peering curiously at Scar before making a subtle yet sharp shift of its head to the desk where Mumbo worked. Mumbo was gloriously unaffected by Spore’s gaze and didn't even twitch, unlike Scar, who had never fully gotten used to the prickles down his neck.

Spore’s hand twitched once, then again, and again, as its gaze focused primarily on Mumbo, though Scar got the feeling that he was not forgotten. The movement reminded him of when a song would play on the radio and his fingers would drum absently to the beat. 

Or when he was waiting for his turn to speak in a conversation and had to hold himself back from blurting it out.

It made Spore seem almost excited about Mumbo’s work, and something in his heart ached at that.

He dutifully shoved it to the back of his mind. All that mattered was that he noted it in his chart later.

After Mumbo had finished his work, the fan looked…well, it looked quite the same, still rusty and old and of an ancient model, but the main blades had been straightened out, the worst of the dust wiped away to the best of Mumbo’s ability, and by the Void, the damn thing worked! It smelt blissfully of nothing, and the loudest noise it made was the sweet purr of tunneling air.

If Scar weren’t sure word would somehow get back to Doc about it, he would have grovelled at Mumbo’s feet, and as it was, it was a near thing, as he rose to hold the man in a bruising hug of thanks while Mumbo awkwardly patted him on the back with a chuckle.

He was upset to see Mumbo go. While the man was no conversationalist, he brought with him the calming presence of an old friend. And Spore had, however briefly, seemed more interested in looking at him than it had Scar, which was a welcome relief. 

In normal circumstances, Scar would have felt guilt for passing off the burden of Spore’s gaze on someone else, but Mumbo seemed unbothered, so he wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

Doc had stopped by later that same day, which was less of a relief.

“You look well. Something different lately?” He inquired lazily as he scanned the enclosure for Spore, which had once again retreated behind the complex vines and stems, out of sight but never out of mind.

His lips itched to turn downwards, “Nope, same as usual. Why do you ask?” They sized each other up in silence before Doc cracked a smile and stepped out as casually as he had stepped in, like he’d had an enlightening conversation and not a staring contest. Scar wondered if he should feel irritated or confused, or both at that.

Scar wasn't sure why, but he got the feeling Doc lingered at the door for a few moments before walking away, even though the door wasn’t glass, and the room was practically soundproof from the inside— like he could feel him just…standing there.

It didn’t make sense, not really, but he just…had a hunch.

---

Xelqua's feet ached as he bounded through the thick forests. His feet bled from splinters and rocks tearing into them as he ran barefoot, barely avoiding trees and logs as his breath echoed into his ears. He choked back his tears and kept moving.

He didnt need to look or hear to know they were still chasing him. They’d never given up yet, and he'd run for far longer than this last time. 

His once vibrant wings— now a dull purple— were useless behind him; they were battered and broken from ramming into every tree he squeezed past, besides, even if they hadn’t, the air in the overworld was too different from the void, and he had never been able to get the stupid things to lift him more than a few centimeters from the ground. 

He’d landed on a different server this time, somewhere new. He could tell as much from the unfamiliar buzz of the code beneath his feet.

Maybe if he could get to a cave, or a village, just somewhere, he could blend in or properly hide— he could get away. 

The light that peeped through the trees was a rich gold, which meant the sun was setting, right? Or was it rising? If it were setting, it would be dark soon; he just had to keep moving.


To keep breathing.

Keep-

His foot landed wrong, and he released a guttural cry as he felt his foot twist and his flesh tear. His head banged into the ground, and pain exploded behind his eyes as his vision abandoned him for a few precious seconds.

‘No, no.’ 

He just had to get up. He could still walk, he could still run, he could do it.

‘I just have to—’

Several pairs of hands lifted him by his shoulders, keeping his arms pressed to his body with no chance of escape.

“Let- fuck. No!” He thrashed.

“Let me go! Let go of me!” He tried to bite at the hand, but all that earned him was a large hand pressed tightly against his mouth, and another at his throat, cutting off his words.

It was no use.

He had been caught. Again. 

This time, when the tears came, he didn’t bother blinking them back.   
 

Chapter Text

“Xelqua.”

Xelqua opened his eyes and raised his head. He had been sleeping, but it was the kind of rest that was light and fitful. He wasn't even sure if he had truly been asleep or just simply zoning in and out with his eyes closed. Either way, it wouldn't have made a difference; he hadn't slept deeply in a long time, and even if he did, he was more than certain that the mere voice of an elder would have snapped him wide awake.

He pushed himself off the mini cot They called a bed and stepped towards the elder Watcher; they had yet to actually face him, which let him know that this was not one of Those that held any sort of fondness for him. He knew he ought to remember their name, but it always slipped his mind; so many of them dressed the same, spoke the same, and carried themselves the same, so it wasn't a shock he failed to remember.

A few years ago, he would've called the expectation to differentiate them ridiculous; now, he just spoke when spoken to, answered when called, and hoped they didn't notice his mild confusion.

“Dress, then come.” The Elder stated, nodding almost imperceptibly towards his closet.

He nodded, moved in that direction, and began to undress; he didn't bother to check whether the elder had left. Most did not care for human concepts of modesty or privacy. Their presence would make no difference.

His heart didn't settle when he buttoned his hood and turned to see the room empty. It didn't. Because that would be a foolish thing to be relieved over, and Xelqua was not foolish.

He stepped out of the room and saw the initial Elder— at least he was fairly sure it was the same one, as they were the only one who still angled themself away from his person, an action he quickly came to understand as disgust. Alongside them were 2 others.

The tallest of the three made their way over to him. Ah, he actually remembered this one, Exeiri. He stood out from the others with an intricate golden clasp on his hood; he was one of the few watchers who actually smiled— always smiled in fact. He couldn't think of a time he saw Exeiri frown.

“Ah, Xelqua. You are aware of why We have called you, yes?”

Despite himself, he felt his heart start to flutter. Yes, if Exeiri was here, it meant he would be accompanying them to a world. It had been so long, he had begun to think he had done something wrong, even though he knew he hadn't. He had been good, careful, and obedient.

You can only fight your fate for so long after all.

He nodded at them.
“Good.” Exeiri paused to look at him before striding over and pulling Xelqua’s hood over his head. His hand brushed his hair ever so gently as he did so, and Xelqua forced himself not to lean into the contact; it would be unbecoming of a watcher, as much as he was still a fledgling, there was no guarantee such behaviour would be tolerated.

—

Xelqua distantly felt blood bubble and seep into the cracks in his nails; the warm, thick substance dripped and pooled into his clenched fist. Oh, he was shaking.

An avian cowered in front of them, begging.

Aside from the fact that they were both avians, they didn't look anything like Xelqua, even before he had been changed. Their wings were a dark brown and much smaller than his own; the patterning reminded him of a sparrow’s. Their eyes were a striking green, far from Xelquas' deep-brown eyes, practically black, which had gotten him compliments and scorn in equal parts. Even their voice was different from his own, the accent vaguely southern, though he couldn’t pinpoint from where.

Even as they sat and wept in the same position he once had before, begging the same faceless being for a mercy they couldn’t comprehend. Even though when he closed his eyes, all of them, he couldn’t tell their choked splutters apart from his own. He stood firm. They were nothing alike at all.

He was getting distracted— the avian was begging.

“I-I don’t under- understand, just why? Why—“ they broke off into sobs.

Xelqua had begun to float long before they had reached this point, his awareness coming and going in phases, but he knew what had happened. Where the slowly drying blood stains in the avian's clothes came from, why they clutched a broken necklace so harshly, and why they were all alone. He’d been in the same position once.

He hated missions like this, when They finally got bored with simply toying with a world and brought it to a sickening, cruel end. Never the type to pass up a dramatic conclusion, like this was a stage play and not real life.

His stomach churned, and he clenched his fist further to ground himself and prevent any blood from seeping out, ignoring the way it only drove his nails further into his palm.

He could handle this; it was far from the first time. He would float through it like he always did, nod at the right times, and hold his tongue.

He had never forgotten the sound of tearing flesh, and throaty screams the first and last time he had spoken up, the slap of a dense, spongy muscle as it hit the floor.

‘That's what happens when you speak out of turn, Xelqua.’

It took a long time for it to grow back; sometimes it still sat numb and useless in his mouth, denying him the right to speak. He could get around it of course— sure it hurt, but it changed nothing in the end. Parrot avians had different vocal organs; he didn’t need it to speak, not really.

He didn’t want it gone either.

Discussion carried on above him in Galactic, the Others had always been uncomfortably taller than he was, even considering his below-average height. They used to insist he’d grow as time went on, but he never did. Just like how his wings had never shed the slight undertones of his once colourful feathers. It was just another way in which he was defective— another reminder of the humanity he would never be able to return to.

His ears switched between focusing on the pleas of the avian before him, the debate, and the peaceful static that was the back of his mind.

Then something pulled him out of it.

“Xelqua.”

Void, he hated that name.

He turned to the voice, tilting his head as an indicator he was listening, tongue still too heavy in his mouth to move.

“What shall we do with this one? They were particularly difficult throughout Our games.”

‘Was killing everyone in front of them not enough?’

“We should…” he trailed off. By now, the avian had stopped wailing, instead staring at the locket clenched between their fists, none the wiser to the conversation occurring above them. Their lips moved without sound, perhaps a prayer or senseless mutterings about whoever the necklace had belonged to. Neither would save them. He couldn’t save them.

“Perhaps they’d make a good Watcher, don’t you agree, Xelqua?” Prompted Exeiri, smile still perfectly intact.

Xelqua felt his blood run cold. They hadn't taken another watcher in all the time he’d been with them, but they had gone on and on about all the things that made him a good candidate. The fact that he’d been an admin, an ‘overseer’ as they called it. His strong will. The fact that he’d been a hybrid was not ideal, but not a deal breaker.

Just from looking at the person in front of him, he could tell they were nothing special, as cruel as it may sound. This was just a regular old hybrid; by the small size of their wings, they probably weren't even first generation. They would never survive the transformation, much less the ‘training’. As he said before, they were nothing like him; he had fought, pushed, bartered. This avian was so— so weak. So young. They had already given up.

They wouldn’t survive, it would just be torture with no end, and They knew it.

Then there was the other possibility, the chance he would be tasked with their training should they survive. ‘Breaking him in,’ they had called it once, endlessly amused by the human expression. He couldn’t do that to another person; he wouldn’t.

Another elder hummed above him to his left, “You’ve been so lonely. Isn’t that right, Xelqua?” It wasn’t a question. “If not a Watcher, perhaps they’d make a good pet for Us.”

This seemed to amuse the other watchers, who let out a headache-inducing laughter that somehow still managed to run off his mind like oil. He swallowed. If they had suggested such a thing, even if it was a ploy to scare him, then that meant they wouldn’t accept a light punishment. Even suggesting one would get him in trouble.

He knew what had to be done. ‘Forgive me.’ (they wouldn’t, and neither would he).

“Cut off their wings.”

He said it in plain English; they ought to know what will happen to them.

‘It’s better than the not-knowing,’ he justified himself, but maybe that was just his time with the Watchers rubbing off on him. The thought only soured him further.

‘It’s better to live free. To live at all.’

He amended, even as the avian (he had never learned their name) began their crying once again, cursing them with a hoarse voice as the others held them down.

‘It’s better. It’s a mercy.’

He repeated like a mantra, as his hands involuntarily moved to his ears to block out the screams and the tearing of flesh.

A watcher clasped its hands around each of his, prying them away from his ears. He struggled, but it was no use. The watcher was much bigger than him, able to restrain both his hands with just one of its own

"No one is going to hold your hand through this, Xelqua. You must learn, you must embrace Us."

He distracted himself with the irony of that statement, as, in a way, both his hands were held in that moment.

Xelqua continued to shuffle and occasionally tug at his restraints. Not because he had hope of escape, but because a tiny, sick part of him did not want to be let go; being held like this was better than not at all.

——

It was approaching 2 weeks on the job, and Scar was finally sure he had gotten into a rhythm of things. Mumbo had come around a few more times to make minor repairs, and he had promised to meet him outside of ‘work’ sometime.

He wished he had a better grasp on when said sometime might be. Still, Doc’s experiment outlines very clearly that he ought to stay within however many feet of the facility at all times; it hardly made sense to do more than walk the perimeter, which, mind, is a pain to even access.

But yes, Scar felt he was fitting in as well as he could hope; he’d even begun to relax more around Spore, being able to complete his task with mechanical precision, and spent his free time anywhere else. He found little things to entertain himself with— like the endless library.

He even started remembering his dreams more; gone were the nightmares, replaced with the weightless feeling of flight and orange sunsets.

Of course, this could never last.

“Not that I doubt you, Doc,” he lied. He absolutely did, and he absolutely did not want to do this. “, but I was under the impression that Spore shouldn't leave its containment, and that I shouldn't enter.”

“It's perfectly safe, I assure you, Spore itself isn't really harmful,” Scar noted the use of the word “harmful” instead of “dangerous”, because he highly doubted anything that looked like Spore could be entirely benign, “We just need to do a more…practical…progression test.”

Scar waited for Doc to elaborate, but of course, he didn't. Cryptic as always. In the next several moments, when Scar was given a gas mask, changed into nothing but a plain white shirt and long pants, and had his cane taken briefly to be sanitized, he simply allowed himself to be shoved this way and that, in hopes that the less he struggled, the sooner this (whatever ‘this’ was) would end.

He was directed to enter Spore’s chamber through that intimidating and complex door, which led to a smaller chamber, where he was blasted with disinfectant, and then opened back into Spore's space.

It wasn't until he was standing on the threshold that he truly realised what was happening, and he was paralyzed with fear, unable to take the next step forward.

His grip tightened on his cane, and he was suddenly all too aware of the ache in his legs, back, and hips, which he’d been ignoring for the past few days.

He didn't know what he was waiting for, really. For Doc to call him back and say he was only joking? That he wouldn't really send Scar in here all on his own with little to no instruction and thin fabric as clothes?

The callback did not come, the doors behind him did not re-open, and he realised that the only way to get out would be to do what was asked of him.

Stealing what little resolve he had, readjusting his gas mask twice— then thrice— just making sure it was secure (shut up, he was not stalling) and trying to calm the fluttering motion of his chest as his lungs expanded in a frantic staccato— he stepped through.

The first thing he noticed was that it was warm and humid, matching the temperature of his section of the space on some days, if not warmer.

The second thing he noticed was that it looked much, much larger from the inside. Maybe it was the large expanse of twirling and hanging growth that had accumulated since his arrival, but the room seemed to have almost no ending, but that couldn't be right, of course. Scar had seen it from the outside. It couldn't be more than a few metres long.

Turning around, he saw that the glass was actually tinted from this end, though it looked clear from the outside. It was tinted so much, in fact, that he could just barely make out the silhouettes of the assistants on the other side.

Actually, the more he looked, the less he was sure he could see anyone at all.

Was that a shape on the other side or just the reflection of the mushroom stems? He couldn't be sure, and it made his mouth feel dry.

He could very well be alone. But, Doc wouldn't do that, right? right?

A different, more pressing question tickled the back of his mind. If the glass was tinted, how did Spore always see him?

That brought him to the last thing he noticed, which, really, should have been the first.

He couldn't see Spore.

Which was okay— he reasoned, he also hadn't seen Spore before he entered, it was likely just beneath a stem somewhere, or lying on the ground in that half-twisted, uncomfortable-looking way it sometimes did. Lying so still that it blended in.

He became aware that he probably had to do something first to be let out.

How long did they plan to keep him here? How long had it already been?

He should've insisted that he at least keep his watch, but he had been far too eager to get it over with.

He began to wander the space, and the soft moss of the ground tickled his bare feet. It reminded him of summers spent outside, playing with teens his age before his chronic pain had worsened and limited how much aimless running he could get up to. It was a nice memory.

He kept moving, maneuvering under the vines and the thick stems that had branched out, almost treelike. Everything was smooth, or soft, much like the natural mycelium plants outside. Scar didn't know enough about them to say how exactly they differed, save for the size, of course. To him, this and the stuff outside were practically indistinguishable.

Really, if he ignored everything else about this situation, it was impressive, maybe even beautiful.

He tried to stay in view of the glass, he really did, but his wandering quickly drew him away from it, deeper into the grove. He hardly noticed he still hadn't hit the back wall yet, even though, logically, it shouldn't take him more than a minute to cross the expanse of the room. And still no sign of Spore.

He spluttered a few times as vines smacked him in the face when he wasn't paying attention, spitting at the taste of leaf in his mouth and wiping his face with his free hand— the moss wasn't as annoying to navigate with a cane as he’d thought it’d be.

Scar was stopped in his tracks by a large growth in a more bare part of the grove, a clearing?

The intricate mushroom had grown far larger than his head. Looking up, he would need a ladder to even dream of touching the underside of the cap, and Scar was by no means a short man. Surely the ceiling hadn't been so high, had it? It didn't seem so back when the room was empty.
The mushroom's edge was pitch black, and an ink-like substance dripped from it. He didn't know what possessed him to touch it, but he reached out to one of the leaky edges. As some dripped onto his palm, it seemed to melt away into nothing, briefly staining his hand before that too faded, leaving no residue.

Bringing his hand to his nose to smell, he found it smelled of…nothing, not even ink.

“Doc!? Doc!” He called out. This was getting a bit ridiculous now. But there was no indication Doc could hear or see him.

No cameras, only Eyes.

Right, cameras didn’t work in here, so then, how did Doc monitor this stuff? How would he keep track of Scar?

He stepped past the dripping ring, careful not to get any on his clothes, though he somehow knew it wouldn't stain even the fabric. He reached out towards the main stem, curious to feel it beneath his fingertips.

As his hand made contact with the stem, another, smaller hand, with ink-black fingertips flattened against the stem in time with his own.

The world seemed to freeze.

Scar knew those hands. He had seen them twitch unsteadily each time Mumbo entered the room, had watched them lie still and stiff against the ground in long periods of silence, and had even seen them wrapped so humanlike around pale knees.

These were Spore’s hands.

He noted with an ache that cut briefly through his fear that, if not for the sickly pallor and inktips, the hands weren't that dissimilar from his own.

Scar suddenly noticed how dim the space had gotten the further he went into the grove. It was far from pitch black, but the poor lighting combined with the fact that he definitely hadn't been able to see this enormous mushroom from outside meant he certainly wasn't within Doc's or the assistants' sight.

He still hadn't bumped into another wall. He wasn't keeping track of his steps; there are no markers.

He was lost.

How can you be lost in a 5x5 metre room at the largest? Had he been going in an awkward circle? But he had never passed the same thing twice. What should he do?

His breath, though shallow, suddenly sounded so loud that he could swear that even the vines had stopped their gentle, aimless swaying. The hand had not moved.

The feeling of being watched was bearing down on him stronger than it ever had before, and this time he couldn't even write it off as nerves or lack of sleep, because the culprit was undoubtedly staring down his fucking neck— though he felt no breath. A simple but sickening assurance of what Spore was: dead.

He tried to calm down, aside from placing its hand, Spore hadn't done anything to harm him. Doc said it was ‘wasn't harmful’. Maybe, maybe it was just curious, like when Mumbo had fixed the fan, as ridiculous as he felt suggesting such a thing.

Maybe Spore hadn't moved because it had frozen again, like it so often did. Scar could probably just walk away, and it would stay as it was.

It was easier said than done; his other hand gripped his cane so tightly that he feared the wood would splinter in two and he'd have to limp out of here.

It must have been all in his mind, because he swore he could feel warmth emanating on his back, but it couldn't be coming from Spore, so he must just be going mad with stress.

Sending up what may be his final prayer, he shifted his hand down the stem.

Relief flowed through him as the other hand did not so much as twitch, until, a second later, it followed his motion, once again landing next to his hand.

Scar has never hated his inability to run more than in this moment; he was genuinely going to cry tears of frustration.

He contemplated what to do; he couldn't just stay here. Well, he could. Surely Doc would realise something had gone wrong and come get him; he wouldn't let him die in here, that was for sure. Even if the man did want him dead for whatever reason, it would raise too much suspicion if he just disappeared.

So he had two options: Wait and put his faith that Doc would come rescue him eventually, or trust that Spore really meant no harm and just start moving in a direction that hopefully led towards the glass and not further away…

He’d always heard that if a child gets lost, they are supposed to stay exactly where they are and wait for their parent. Logically, the same should apply here, even though Scar was not a child and Doc was certainly not his parent.

It should work the same. He should pick the former option. It’s even smarter, probably— but Scar would also be a sitting duck in that time; his legs were aching, he was sweating, he was scared, and he was never known for his stellar patience.

He launched to the side away from the hand and turned to look at his other jailer.

Spore remained in the same position Scar had just been in previously, its gaze still fixed on where Scar’s neck had been. Scar didn't hold any hope it was over— and he was right not to. In the following seconds, Spore seemed to twitch; it didn't copy Scar exactly as it had the first time. Instead of launching away, it skipped that step and mirrored Scar's stance, its left hand stuck out at its side at an awkward angle, grasping at nothing.

It took him a moment to realise it was mimicking the way he kept adjusting his hand on his cane, only it had no cane to grip.

Scar tried to recall if Spore had ever done this specific thing before, this mirroring.

He came up empty, but he did recall other moments that had made minor movements he could see. The few times he'd elected to sit on the floor rather than the loveseat, only to see it, too, curled up near the glass. The way its hands would twitch when Mumbo fiddled with his tools or when Scar would draw.

Had— had it been attempting to do that this whole time? But why?

His throat worked to swallow, but his mouth was still painfully dry. Spore’s gaze was giving him a headache, making him dizzy; it hurt to think too hard. Why did it hurt so much? His thoughts kept slipping.

Scar will just start walking, yeah. If Spore wanted to be weird and follow him, whatever, he just…

—Just what?

Oh, yes, he just had to get moving. Get out. Get back to the glass, back to Cub, and Cleo, and Gem.

He can do that.

He began to move towards Spore, which was the direction he had come from after all, and he passed with no problem. It wasn't until he had been walking for a while that he kept hearing the rustling of vines behind him as he moved. He didn’t stop, and he didn’t look back.

He almost tripped several times on his walk back, and he had to use increasingly more force to lift his cane from the damp moss. Was it just him, or was the path so much denser than it had been before, there hadn't been this much…everything. Maybe he was going the wrong way?

It didn't matter; he would hit a wall eventually, and then he could just follow the wall back to the glass.

Leaves and vines continued to rustle behind him.

When his back and arm began to ache, he would take breaks to stop, and a few seconds after, the faint footsteps would stop too.

This loop repeated on,

                                         and on,

                                                              and on,

                                                                                     and on.

Scar had not found a wall; he was getting hungry, and he was growing sick with the idea that he would never escape this hell.

It was after his legs had finally given out and he sank to the ground against another stem which had not been there before that he turned his gaze on where he knew Spore would be.

It had, at some point, become smoother in its movements, less mechanical. It too sank against a stem, though much more puppet-like. It did not use its arms to brace itself, and so it hit the ground much less gracefully than Scar with a dull thud against the moss. Scar let out a humourless huff, as, in a way, that listless movement described perfectly how Scar felt.

‘I've done it before, may as well do it again.’

“So…” He began, not really knowing where to go from there. He huffed, turning away from Spore, whose expression did not change at the word. He muttered to himself. “Guess I know what it's like to be stuck in here now.”

No response, figures.

He closed his eyes because he wanted to rest them, of course, and certainly not to withhold the tears prickling at his eyelids.

“Am I really gonna die in here?” He chuckled, “Void, of course I’d go out in such an obscure, stupid way.”

…

“Not gonna say anything? All this mimicking, and magic, and— and endless rooms! And the one thing you don't do is talk?”

“k..lk?” Came a chittering sound from startlingly close.

His eyes shot open, and in front of him was Spore, head on its knees, staring directly at Scar. He'd never been this close before— at least not while facing it. At this distance, he could see that Spore's eyes weren't all pitch black; there were the barest hints of whites at the edges. In fact, Spore's eyes weren't black at all but rather an incredibly muted deep brown. It was a silly thing to focus on.

“Tk.” came again; it was Spore, its lips moving minutely to form the sound.

“Are—” He licked his lips; they remained dry. “Are you trying to—”

“—Talk,” says Spore, and Scar was shocked it didn't come from his own mouth as the voice sounded exactly like his.

“-talk.” Scar finished lamely, effectively stunned.

“Talk.” Spore echoed in Scars' voice. It's uncanny.

He said that out loud, he realized too late, as Spore seemed to recalibrate.

“Uncanny.” Scar wondered how many times he would feel sick around Spore before he actually just threw up.

“Uncanny, unnn-canny.” Something about the way it said the words was changing, like a radio flipping through stations; the voice would get higher, then lower, sometimes even melodic. He swore a few of them sounded exactly like Ren. It was driving Scar mad, he was sure.

It continued to flip through the channels of its voice.

“Uncanny.” Finally, it seemed to settle on a voice that was not Scars' own. This one was higher, almost nasally and with a distinct accent, though he couldn't immediately place it; it seemed the least important detail.

Spore did not say anything after that,

Scar was almost scared to talk, but he was so in shock, and his mind was rushing so much he couldn't help but voice his loudest thought, though it came out weak and defeated.

“I just wanna get out.” Pathetic even to his own ears, but it's not like Cub was there to tease him for it.

He (and Spore) sat in silence for a while before Scar felt movement at his side and the rustling of fabric. He looked up, and Spore was standing with an awkward sort of hunched posture. It was the most he’d seen it actually move without instruction or example.

It took some uneven steps forward, and when it was almost out of sight, it turned around to face him, face blank but eyes wide.

Scar was made to know it wanted him to follow.

He didn’t want to.

His legs moved him anyway.

He was hardly present as he dragged and hobbled behind the once-a-man. Staring at its back as his guide to wherever— maybe back to that large mushroom, maybe somewhere new— walked ahead.

Spore never once looked back to check if Scar was still there; he considered several times just falling behind or changing directions. But he somehow knew it would know, there was no point, and he didn't want to find out what else it could do.

Scar didn't know how long he followed for; the walk felt simultaneously long and short, and he was sure he zoned out several times. He was grateful when they stopped, though.

He looked up to see Spore, who had finally turned to look at him.

“Out,” it said in that nasally voice, not Scars.
Scar blinked owlishly at it, having stopped caring long ago. He responded, “What?”

“You said,” That was undoubtedly Ren’s voice, Scar still managed to shiver through his exhaustion, “-out.” It finished, back to ‘normal.’

It turned from Scar and looked in the direction they had been going.

Scar took a few steps forward, coming up next to it, and there he saw what Spore meant.

He could see the tinted glass.

A burst of energy came through him as he moved, scared that if he looked away, it would disappear and he would be stuck in that maze forevermore.

The doors opened as he approached. He didn't believe it. Not when he stepped onto the cool tile, not when the decontamination steam blasted him. Not until the very second that the second set of doors opened and he saw Doc and Ren standing there.

Doc didn't look at him, only checking his watch and writing a few things down on his clipboard.

Ren visibly perked up when he saw him, canines on full display, though he looked a little paler than usual.

Scar didn't care; his cane clattered to the ground as he practically barreled into the man, who caught him, somehow not toppling under his weight.

“He— woah!” He let out a huff of air as Scar made contact.

Scar wasn't sure if he was crying, but the question was soon answered when he felt cool wetness on his face from where his cheek pressed into Ren’s white coat.

He would be embarrassed later; he didn't even think he and Ren were close enough for this, but he really didn't care in that moment.

“Hey man, you okay?”

Scar squeezed him tighter.

“Right, right, of course.” Ren didn't move away, just ran a hand down Scar's back.

After a few moments, Doc piped up.

“There seems to be a lot of progress, I'm pleased. We will definitely be able to move ahead with this project.”

Scar felt anger rise bitter in his throat, “What is wrong with you!? Do you have any idea how long I was in there? You didn't think to get me?” He gripped Ren’s arm for support in standing, his nails definitely dug in harder than he intended.

His stomach growled as if to remind him of exactly how long it'd been.

“I do actually,” replied Doc smoothly, “Just under an hour.”

What?

“We’d have gone longer normally, but we learned everything we needed to know at this time.”

That couldn't be right. He was in there for ages. It—it felt like several hours at least, a day or two at worst. There's no way.

“You're lying.” The accusation felt foreign on his tongue; he and Doc were not friends, the man owed him nothing, but Doc always had a reputation for honesty and transparency with his clients.

“See for yourself,” Doc stated, holding out his arm to show Scar the watch on his wrist. It was intricate and clearly handmade— analogue— which made it a bit difficult for Scar to read, but when he did, the time showed just a few minutes past eleven, and Doc had indeed come to him somewhere around 10 with his fussing and clothing.

Scar still couldn't believe it. He rounded on Ren. His eyes latched onto the simple watch he wore. Grabbing his wrist and pulling it to his face, he ignored the yelp of surprise from the man.

It read the same time.

No way, he just didn’t believe he was only in there for less than an hour; it's not possible.

He scanned the room, eyes landing on a box on his desk. He half-limped towards it, ignoring the protest from his legs and his abandoned cane on the floor in favour of rummaging through the neatly folded clothes. In the bottom corner of the box was his watch, which they had removed before. He stared at it in disbelief, clicking the side button a few times to see the numbers glow in case his vision had deteriorated in that time too.

-The same time, plus the 2-minutes it had taken for that interaction to occur.

His hands fell to his sides, “But, that doesn't make any sense…”

“It does actually. You think you’d remember your own ridiculous behaviour.” Doc commented, a humour lacing his tone.

Scar didn't bother to hide his annoyed scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Doc began, clinical and slow, “That you removed your gas mask.” Doc raised a sickly green finger to tap at the lower half of his own face to punctuate his words.

“No, I didn't—” Scar began, lifting his hands to his face to show so, but paused when his fingers met bare skin. He- when had he removed his mask?

Doc responded to his unasked question, “You took it off almost immediately after entering, before you went wandering into the flora. We did try to signal to you to put it back on, but you were...distracted.”

Scar spluttered, “How was I meant to see you? The glass is tinted, it's practically one-way.”

Doc and Ren both looked at one another at that; their expressions barely shifted, but something was said with their eyes that Scar couldn't decipher.

“Right.” Doc assuaged. “My mistake.”

“Nevertheless, inhalation of Spores’ unique spores may have had some unforeseen side effects on your perception of time, or other things. Who’s to say you're even speaking to me right now?” He joked. It wasn't funny.

Scar couldn't believe his ears. Everything had felt so real; he knew he didn't take off his mask, in fact, he distinctly remembered tightening it. But, how else did he end up with it off?

…Did Spore trick him, and he just didn't remember? But how would that have even happened, and why? Why would it trick him, then help him esc—

Spore helped him escape!

He whipped around to face the glass, expecting to see Spore loitering near the glass as always, gaze already set on him, but it wasn't there. He couldn't even see the hem of the tattered gown it wore. Had it retreated into that deep grove…was that even real?

Ren toyed with the cuff of his coat before he spoke, “You should get some rest, Scar.” He didn't meet Scar's eyes.

“Indeed,” Doc agreed, “In fact, I think it's time we sent you home— temporarily, of course.”

It spoke to how deeply put off Scar was, or maybe it was indeed the unforeseen side effects, because he didn't even perk up at the mention of home. He simply allowed himself to be directed towards the door with his box of clothes— which Ren had added a bottle of water to— and his cane pressed into his hands. Just barely catching the tail-end of instructions to pack so he could be out by the next day.

When he made it to his little room, lacking as much personality as it had the day he moved in, minus his own mess, he couldn't help but glance towards the clock he had on his desk. Cub had made it for him; it had a more antique look and was connected to a sensor to show a visual of just how late/early in the day it was.

It wasn't there, however. He assumed it had probably fallen to the side, but didn't have the energy to even check. He simply collapsed into his bed and fell asleep.

He woke up no more rested and sore all over, contemplating existence for several minutes before getting up to pack.

He did find the clock, in the end. It had fallen between the bed, the desk, and the wall, and when he checked, it showed he had slept for at least 10 or so hours— though it didn't feel like it. It was now way past midnight.

He finished packing and went back to the bed to lie down, trying to muster some excitement about going home and being away from all of this.

Still, no matter how much he tried to think about anything else, when he closed his eyes, he saw Spore’s own deep brown, the awkward shuffle of its feet— not unlike Scar without his cane on a bad day— as it led him to freedom, the nasally but sweet-sounding voice it had switched to for seemingly no reason.

It wasn’t a voice Scar had heard before from anyone in the facility; assistants who worked on this floor never spoke, but it also hadn’t matched any others. Perhaps it was just someone he missed.

His hand tickled for a moment, and he went to scratch it, only to see that something was wrong. Curling around his palm was a slightly discoloured patch, a stain really— like poorly washed out ink, distinctly hand-shaped. He rummaged through his mind to see when this would have happened, and he vaguely recalled a moment where he had tripped, legs aiming to give out. Someone had caught him by his clothed shoulders, and he remembered a comforting warmth on his hand for a portion of the journey as he was led along.

Was that real, too, or was he just making up memories?

It was real.

Yes, it must’ve been real. Scar was many things, but he was not delusional; he knew that, at least, held some truth.

As he lay in bed, a part of him ached over not seeing Spore again. The fear and exhaustion had worn off, leaving questions and curiosity in their wake. How ridiculous, finally given a chance to leave, and he’s already thinking about coming back.

He closed his eyes and dreamt once more, this time of a large jungle grove with a magnificent tree centered in the clearing. The aftereffects of the rain caused the outermost leaves to drip water in a ring, which soaked easily into the ground. He couldn't recall much more, but when he peeked through his hands at the leaves, he swore he saw that bird again, with bright feathers reflecting the morning sun.

He swore he even heard his name, a playful “Scar!” from the canopy, but the voice was so distant he couldn’t be sure.

After all, it could've just as easily been the hum of leaves and wind.