“MOON! MOON MOONMOON MOONMOONMOONMOONMOON -!”

 

Kinger (quite literally) is pleading with the heavens for mercy. Or rather salvation, considering his situation — that being, clinging to a stupidly flexible branch like a monkey fleeing the IRS while glitch-stricken ladybugs try and eat his kneecaps. Truly one of the worlds most suckiest situations, and also a series of sentences the author can’t believe they’re actually writing right now. 

 

“MOON, PLEASE!!”

 

Kinger screams, reaching out one hand to claw at the burning blue above him as if he might be able to grab on. He can’t however, and quickly withdraws it before he loses balance, yelping as he swings back and forth like a pendulum, all the while internally cursing Caines design choices. Why must everything here be made of rubber?? The swarm swirls sickeningly around his ankles, circling like sharks around the branch he clings to, and Kinger is honestly baffled as to why they haven’t swallowed him up to the neck by now. Not that he’s arguing, he (for once) wants these particular insects to stay as far away from him as possible. 

The mass begins to rise, crawling over themselves and forming walls of writhing little shells that creep slowly above the tree line. He’s surrounded; a phrase that’s becoming uncomfortably literal .

 

“Oh dear.”

 

Kinger has now beaten Jax for “understatement of the year.” His grip tightens on the branch as he tips his head back, opening his mouth to scream again — why hasn’t she answered? — but stops, breath catching in his throat. The moon hangs graceful in the sky above him, her eyes closed, a placid smile on her 2D face. She didn’t hear him.

 

She’s too high up. 

 

Kinger feels a shockwave of terror rattle its way through every bone he has and come back up again, cold and electric and she can’t hear him. The bark is rubber against his hands, the texture burning its way through his skin as he feels his breathing quicken, chest constricting to a dot. The branch bends and sways under him as he scrambles for even an inch more distance, begging any god that may hear him for some luck, something — oh and the buzzing, the buzzing of wings, the inescapable drone of it pressing into his ears and making his brain itch. The red dots his arms, elbows, clawing for his ankles with lashes of humming wingbeats, searing scorch marks through that wonderful feeling of rightness he’d just been getting used to. They’re starting to move again, climbing slowly up his knees, clattering their shells like —

 

“MOON MOON NO YOU CAN’T YOU HAVE TO YOU — I — You - ! No, no — “

 

Kinger can't remember ever being this terrified since Queenie died. He’d forgotten what it felt like, the taste of it sour in his mouth as the plea stutters off into incomprehension, choked by the terror currently squeezing his neck into silly string. Blood red shells glisten under the glaring blue sky, writhing over and atop one another as they climb higher, higher, forming a colosseum of glitching crimson all too ready to swallow him whole — he’s going to die here, isn’t he. He really, actually going to die here.

 

“ Please please please just notice look down please no no no —“

 

He’s not screaming anymore, more so just whispering to himself as he clings to the (now glitching) plasticine wood. The moon doesn’t see him — or rather, he can’t see her. It’s all been swallowed by now, the red rising and rising in a swarm of glistening, writhing little bodies.  The rising walls of writhing shapes begin to teeter. They’re going to crash down on him, and he’s going to die. They buzz and they hum and they pull back beneath him, swallowing whatever was left of the sky, closing the dot of blue and cutting off the light — Kinger doesn’t know what to do. What can he do? Other than give up and die, anyway, he doesn’t want to die, she has to look down she has to see him she —

The tsunami hits, and It feels like being swallowed whole — or, more accurately, like being in a car crash that simply won’t stop crashing. Kinger thrashes wildly against the insects suddenly surrounding him — weren’t they beetles? But they aren’t exhibiting the correct behaviors — his hands meeting nothing but glitches. Glitches that push their way into his veins and rattle through them like shards of broken glass, cutting and swiveling and shredding — his arm is completely numb, his stomach is flipping like a pile of pancakes if pancakes were made out of poison, hot sauce, and nazis, and Kinger, quite understandably, is not having a very fun time in there. For a terrifying few moments, breathing is like trying to inhale syrup, the pain in his chest tightening to a pin. Then something not unlike a current hits him and he’s yanked harshly up (or down, he can’t tell, gravity’s taken a holiday) and suddenly his legs decide yep, they are going to be useful, and just about manage to kick off from what’s left of the branch before it dissipates entirely. 

The mass drags at him, but the momentary fumble gives him just enough room to break free from the current of writhing legs and gasp another breath of silly-string-stench air, Kinger taking every single screaming instinct in him and directs all of it into one last shriek out the mouth he can’t lose again he won’t lose again he has to try and —

The swarm clings to his clothes, the heaving tide of them pulling and tearing at his limbs as the insects — these are beetles though — yank against him with merciless strength. Kinger can hear something tearing, and dearly hopes it’s his sweater, and not an actual part of him. He’s still so full of broken glass it’d be hard to tell either way — but there’s the tide again, the visceral fear of it as he’s yanked an inch downward, his cry echoing out and she had to have heard that she had to please — He pleads up into the sky once more, struggling to stay above the swell, and finally, blessedly, sees the Moon nearly fall right off her cloud with shock.

 

She finally heard him.

 

“OH MY GOODNESS!”

 

The moon shrieks, at pitches that must be pricking the ears of every dog in a ten mile radius. Her clouds sudden crash with thunder, wreathing plumes of it reaching for him, though not fast enough. They won’t reach him in time, he knows that much — they wont be able to over take the miles of distance between them in what time he has left. The writhing sea of insects beneath him heaves and pulls again, Kinger only barely able to keep his neck above the swell — The look of utter horror on the moons face is enough to give him a brief flash of comfort, even as he’s actively being overtaken by the crashing waves. Someone, at least, knows this is happening! She can try and help, right? 

 

…Right?

 

“CAAAAAAAAAAAAINEEEEE OH MYGOODNESSHONEYCOMERIGHTNOW CAAAAAAAAINE —!”

 

Ah, nevermind, she’s panicking too. 

 

Kinger doesn’t really know what else he expected. 

 

He can’t keep it up for long, anyway — The swell and dip of glitches suddenly swallows him once again, and this time, it closes over him with iron strength.

Kinger clamps his mouth shut, if only to keep it from filling with the so many so many so many skittering — something yanks on his ankle, and Kinger is dragged deeper and deeper, careening through fractured glass — glitches, errors clustering his vision, 뭔가 새로운 것! 뭔가 새로운 것! Shrieking out at him in flashes of red from the void. Kinger is honestly beginning to wonder why stuff like this keeps happening to him. He’s not sure if he’s ever even been in water before, let alone under it, but something deep in him is ringing alarm bells labeled “ air ” and “ you need air ” and “ breathe right the hell now ” as hard as it can, the swirling blackness shuddering as his mind confuses it for ocean depths. He’s drowning, again — again? Has this really happened before? What was past him doing?

He careens through the void, his scream trailing behind him in clusters of jumbled A-H, unfamiliar languages writhe and heaving around him. It’s like being dragged down through a pool of marbles, heavy and cold, dragging against him as the million shells merge and shift — am I still breathing? — he wonders, futilely, code spewing along the edge of his vision. Where am I? A question he’s likely never getting the answer to, as the shells begin fusing into one conglomerate mass of melted… The hard shell of the ladybird (technically called an exoskeleton) and most insects, is usually made of chitin , an organic substance responsible for making the shells tough and waterproof, protecting ladybugs from predators and dehydration, and from getting hurt in colli — damn it i'm dying here, how is this important!? He yells inside his own head, feeling one of his ankles go concerningly numb. 

Parts of him keep flickering in and out of control. His hand jerks between fabric and flesh even as he does his best to clutch them close beneath his chin, though that isn’t consistent either — his shoulders are pretty much the only thing that stick around through most of it, his back and spine weathering the brunt of each wave of glitches. He’s glitched out before, but the crashing torrent of it that hits him now — oh that’s very different. He can feel himself switching between mediums like a tv switches channels, his stomach flipping wildly in the few moments he actually has one. Those languages — characters and kanji, they lash out from the darkness in clusters of sentences, breaking through the rushing pulse of so many shifting shells.

나는 그를 먹고 싶어! 그렇게 하지 마, 그건 멍청한 짓이야. 어머니, 저는 어디에 있나요 — 하하하하하하하하

Needless to say, he has no idea what any of that means. In a half hearted attempt to drag himself out, Kinger reaches for one of the twisting binary strings — considering the electric shock that impales a good portion of his left leg when his hand grazes it, hes never doing that again. It screeches through his mind, yelling about Operators and Supervisors and "https://youtu.be/WuFl7cBByHg?si=DZNA1wDwn5VoNPZP" Oh gosh what even is that— in his ear, though Kinger still doesn’t understand a single word of it.

This continues, the void flashing about units and corrupted .obj’s until he feels he might throw up, thoughts reeling in jumbles of twisted track lines — until suddenly, Kinger hits…something. 

This ‘something’ just so happens to be the cellar. But he has no way of knowing that, obviously. All Kinger knows is that, well, it hurts.

The impact ricochets through him as the something bends and shifts under him in the darkness, it’s surface splitting, his hands plunging into…water? Syrup? Whatever it is, it drags at his heels as he tumbles into its depths, head spinning like the Eiffel Tower carousels twirling through the void with their lights fracturing through sound and touch alike. Kinger is uncomfortably reminded of one of Caines teleports, still screaming — though there is no sound — as he hurdles downwards, his vision full of the pressing, incomprehensible black. He’s resigned to his fate by now, torn assets fluttering behind him like the tail of a kite, as Kinger wonders to himself, Is this what it felt like for her? He hopes not. Good lord he hopes not. He hopes it was quick and quiet, like a light switch being flipped, he hopes she’s at peace, wherever she is. He hopes she felt anything but this.

These thoughts flicker out into the darkness, and do not go unheard. 

 

저는 이것을 

                          인식합니다

อารมณ์,

 

أعرف من

你是

 

Flickers of characters, unseen ears and eyes and hands, fractured pupils — he can feel their gazes, and suddenly Kinger has a very, very uncomfortably clear idea of where he is. He hurtles downwards, feeling himself crash through layer upon layer of reason until any consistency in the reasoning of things crumbles somewhere far behind him — Well, at least I’ll join her, he thinks to himself, how ironic. Kinger remarks to no one, unable to feel his spine and no longer possessing the energy to search for it. Eyes stare out in flickering snarls from the darkness, and he wonders which are hers — none of them are the gentle orange-gold she’d had, none of them are kind enough to belong to her. But still, Kinger wonders, as he falls further into un reality with every passing second, Is she really in here? Does she really live in the body of that twisted thing I saw crawl from her door? He hopes not, but Kinger supposes he’ll find out soon enough. 

Suddenly, the million eyes lock. If he could still feel his chest it probably would’ve tightened, pinned under ten billion gazes all at once, and given one precious second of silence before the cacophony hits.

 

AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí — OH SHIT— Come on, eat him already, the f&^k are you peopl waiting f— AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíVivosAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí — ( Tao, don't you dare.) —AquíAquíVivosAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí(How did you get here? How did you get here? How do we make it ours?) AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí — ( Shut up, guys! Shut up ! She's coming!) — AquíAquíAquíAquíAquí — (How do we make it ours?)

It’s so many voices. So, so many voices — he’d cover his ears, but he A: can’t feel his hands, and B: can’t feel his ears, either. It’s not even coming from around him, it’s breaking through the code, rattling through the passages of whatever creaking old machine must be housing this torture chamber, blasting over his thoughts like an obnoxious air horn. It’s in his mind, crushing his consciousness into a back alley, and much like several hundred porcupines all trying to fit in a clown car, the sensation is viscerally uncomfortable. If he still had a mouth, he would’ve screamed.

 

AquíAquíAquíAquíVivos — ( I hate all of you.) — AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíVivosVivosVivosAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí—(How did you get here? How did you get here? How do we make it ours?) — AquíAquíAquíAquí (Husband?) — (Make it ours, make it ours, I want to see the sun again! Let's see the sun again! Make it ours, make it ours, I want to see the sun again! Let's see the sun again!) — AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí — ( Who are you!? I'm scared!) — AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíVivosAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí — ( shut up newbie) — AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíVivosAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí — ( Don't be mean to the child!) —

AquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquíAquí— (No no no) —Quero, quero, quero, quero, quero— (You can't, he doesn't deserve that!) —(We want our minds back, we want our minds back, give us)— (No, I don't want to! I'm your queen! I am your QUEEN!)

Something breaks the flow, and Kinger stops falling. There’s a harsh jerk, catching under his chin and nearly choking him — but, his chin? Oh thank the lord, he’s back, he feels his wrists, his hands, his eyes, which see nothing but the darkness writhing around him, but still see. For a moment he is relieved, before something cold grabs his hands and presses them together, the yelp he makes echoing out over the still-rumbling chant of quero, quero, quero, growling in the blackness.

The cacophony rises, the cold grip on his wrists tightening like a vice. It feels like hands, thin and paperish, as though folded from origami. But they feel…familiar. 

 

(Do you hear me? Did you hear it?) — (LET US IN, LET US IN) — (It's playing. The church. The bell is ringing in my ears.) — (LET US IN, LET US INLET US IN, LET US INLET US IN, LET US IN) — (the sky was a beautiful blue back then. Do you remember that? Do you remember me? I can't touch the sky anymore, but I can feel you. Your hands are cold. How long has it been? I wish I could say.) —(LET US IN, LET US INLET US IN, LET US INLET US IN, LET US INLET US IN, LET US IN)— (I wish I could pull out those extra eyes and find him again. I have to let you go. This will kill you if you stay. You can't hear me anymore, I — what have I become?)

The grip loosens, the paper twitching amidst the sea of unseen shapes circling around them like sharks. Them, two of them — him and something else, someone else — his mind scrambles for purchase, the controls iced over and his hands slick as he struggled to move. Who, what, where, why, when!? The paper shudders, the voices shuddering out along with it.

 

잘 가, 존.

(Goodbye, J oh      n )

 

Words he can’t understand, and out of the darkness, an eye opens.

 

“Try not to look.”

 

English. Four words, as the paper-thin hands squeeze against his, everything else going very numb. The voice that spoke them murmurs from the void, fractured and nearly buried beneath the drone of guttural bit-crushed tones, but.

 

But.

 

It’s hers.

 

Wait —

— No, wait, wait —

— but —

 

The blueness closes around him like a wall, the analog glow of it fracturing off into the distance even as his mind scrambles to process. He fumbles to clutch on, but his hands are empty — he didn’t feel the paper slip away.  He’s surrounded by hungry eyes, eyes of people he once knew, four words ringing like gunshots inside a newly regained skull. Was that really her voice? It sounded like her. So, so much like her, enough that it makes something deep in him ache. It sounded just like the voice he heard so many times, laced with that strength he never imagined could waver. Not until he’d seen it shatter with her sanity. But that certainly didn’t sound like the voice of insanity — She sounded like herself, like the her he remembers. Even as the blue glow makes his eyes sting, Kinger feels the silence spread to his mind. 

The thought of it echoes — maybe, maybe abstraction isn’t insanity. Maybe there’s a reason he never saw it coming. Maybe, maybe she's not entirely gone. Maybe she’s still — still there. That same old ache twists at the thought, but it’s a good kind of pain. A hopeful one. A desperate, desperate one.

After all, they say grief is only love persisting — and there’s no one he loved more than her.

He lashed out against the pressure, trying desperately to open his mouth, to speak, but the eyes press so tight against his mind he can’t find any words there — or at least none of the right ones. Miss and love and sorry all come to mind, but the connections don’t fit together, the meaning behind them already too frustratingly vague. When he moves it feels like syrup, light and cold yet so heavy the static weighs down even the smallest of twitches, his hands spreading out against the blue seemingly in slow motion. He’s alone, completely and utterly so, the deafening silence humming around his heels as he hovers in the center of this…arena. That’s what it feels like, the setup for some new unseen adversary to come crashing down on his skull — What are they waiting for? 

The blue hum of pixels is all he can see, looming over him and crackling with glitches, even as he strains to move. Inches, millimeters, the tiniest of twitches — come on, come on — hands and a head pounding with the pain of it. He feels like he’s backed into a corner inside his own head, trapped between two walls as eyes stare him down from every angle. He has to get out, he has to know, he — what if it is her? What if she is there? What if he could get her back, what if they could be happy again, what if this is his chance to —

 

Dontlookdontlookdontlook

 

Whispering tones of tens of hundreds of voices, all recognized, all mourned. Pawlifer the Oddity, orange and subdued, stoic to the end, even as his heart bled. Hex the Contortionist, small and scared, yet oh so sharp, her every insult spat slathered in spiteful poison. Connie the Illusionist, smooth and apathetic, resigned to their fate and reveling in its meantime. Tao the Firebreather, insane and knowing it damn well, ripping out their own stuffing and laughing all the while . He knew them. He knew them all, the grating Irish brogues and thin wheedling stutters, chattering felt and soothing purs, all merged into one, and every one of them dissolved into eyes and teeth and tar. 

Yet, at its heart, the same strained murmur, “ Don’t look.” Which belongs to her. Her, his queen — can she see him? Is she here? Are they all there? He has to reach her, he has to move. Kinger strains hard enough he feels he might snap, his head moving inch by inch, agonizingly slow, fighting against the thick syrup of the un-air — eyes wide, even in the face of the blinding static. Let her be there, let her be there, let her be there, please let her —

He catches a flicker of blackness, somewhere behind him. Blackness that splinters in piles of fractals, glints of irises gleaming from the depths. For a second, it burns right through him, splintering shards of insanities glass. The broken code of a rubber room.

It is a scream and a whisper in the same breath, and it slams into his head like a semi truck.

 

Paper thin hands suddenly clamp tight over his eyes, yanking his head back, and Kinger jolts wildly in surprise — though to call it a “jolt” would be a massive overstatement. Imagine trying to punch through tar, and you’ll get the gist. His hands twitch in slow motion, the blue light drowned by the darkness surging over his vision, tight and forceful, the paper-pseudo skin chilled as it flickers — he strains against them, still no space to think, no room to think, the static and the hands forcing his mind into a dot. It feels like being compressed into a single train of thought, trapped inside one neuron of his brain.  But — but, he still has his body . He has his hands, fumbling up in slow motion to find wrists that aren’t there, fighting against the dreadful slowness of his every movement. He wants to — to what? He can barely — no, there’s somebody there. These must be somebody’s hands. He — he wants to get out, doesn’t he? Wh — what was he thinking? What was he just doing? He had a goal. He has to complete it, he has to get to it. But what was it?

 

The darkness constricts.

 

Some part of him picks out words from the conglomerate silence. Can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t they all mumble, rumble, growl and whisper and croon and screech, a guttural reverb. He’s starting to lose the ability to process even that, let alone the new language that comes shuddering over it all in a mass of consonants. He knows it, or some version of him once did— but there’s barely room for him from five minutes ago anymore, the darkness wrapping closer as his hands continue to fumble. He has to keep moving. Keep going in the direction he had been, keep following whatever it was he had been trying to do, reaching for something, trying to find someone —

 

Where are you? Please don’t 

 

Thoughts stutter and stumble, compressed and distilled where they seep from the cracks. Purified through pressure, they reach out into the void, pleading with it. Hands twitch, muscles straining against the thickening tar. He’s so close. His hands are nearly to his face now, the thousand paper fingers shifting, flickers of something flashing through — Everywhere else is numb and unimportant. Only his hands, now, he has to find her. That’s all that’s left. 

 

Please don’t go.

 

His thoughts stutter and stumble their way out into the darkness, pleading with that familiarity he can attribute to only one person. A flicker of clarity as he strains against the bolts, his hands reaching forward for another inch — Only to her. It’s her he's searching for, and even if it’s a million eyes that meets him, he’d still —

 

 

Incomprehension, words unfitting — His hands finally, finally meet something, or rather, something meets them. Another pair of paper thin hands press into his, shaking and cold, stuttering between mediums, but Kinger feels a wash of relief pass over him anyhow. Isn’t  this what he wanted, when he could remember? Something, anyway. He was searching for — for a something. And he found something. Things will be alright now. He doesn’t have room to doubt it any longer. He doesn’t have the room to think much of anything, his sense of self constricted into the present moment, with no space to reach for past or future.

 

 

Then the pressure is gone. Gone so suddenly he barely has time to register it before the hands in his squeeze so tightly they shake, those around his eyes pressing tighter — but in his mind, in his mind, oh, it’s like a dam breaking. Suddenly he has so much room to think, spirals of accordion track lines springing out as trains of thought barrel down them — A slurry, a tidal wave of thoughts and emotions and memories spilling out the gaps, washing through the void, and Kinger — Kinger sees it all. Briefly, for the smallest of seconds, he sees his whole life flash before his eyes — rewinding, zipping back like a tape. It careens past the neon technicolor and crashes back into a headset, an office, a house, a home — theres so much of it, so many days and nights and summers and winters and a name human mouths would speak and church bells ringing, and a graduation, and family and a place where he fits and a greenhouse he — they — a bar, a bus stop in the snow, a city and a home and oh god wait —

 

And without warning, his mind snags. 

私は...あなたを守ります。

 

(I will protect you)

 

約束します。

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Pawlifer, have you seen Qui ee n nie?” 

An orange dog looked up at him, his weary eyes only half focused. His collar jangled as he sighed deeply, the thick orange fur around his mouth fluffing with the weary huff of air. It looked rather like a mustache, his blocky brows lifting slightly as he pointed one paw towards the night side. High in the sky, there hung the crescent moon — and sitting on her cloud, chatting happily away, was Queenie. Beautiful as ever, ruby-red robe shining in the light. She looked happy. He hasn’t been able to remember her happy in a long, long time.

“G-Gosh, you’re quite a ways up there, your majesty!”

He’d called, gazing up at her, a smile in his voice. He couldn’t resist calling her “your majesty”, especially not when she looked so regal. She blinked back down at him with beautiful eyes, shimmering rose-golds, and she’d been happy to see him. She’d loved him. They’d been so happy…

“Oh, darling, hi! Sorry, didn’t see you down there — “ Queenie laughed to herself, “— though I can see pretty much everything else! Caine put me up here — owed me a favor.”

Her laugh. That bright bell sound that always made him feel warm, whenever he had the pleasure of hearing it, back when she was still there to laugh. Her eyes were even brighter, just as cheerful, sparkling as the Moon gently set her down on the grass by his side. 

“Now, what is it you wanted me for?”

She’d asked, hand on her hips. She tilted her head, and Kinger felt himself smile. 

“W-Well, I — I wanted to show you this!”

He held up his clasped hands, cupped tightly around his prize.

“Me and Caine spent ages making it, and I think it turned out pretty good — You’d be a better judge of that, though, heheh. Really, you have no idea how many times we needed to redo the wings…”

He explained, Queenie watching fondly all the while, her gaze soft and kind. He wishes he’d noticed that more. He wishes he’d noticed so many things more, committed them to memory until he’d never forget them. Maybe then they would never have slipped away in the first place.

“Oh? Did you two finally get around to figuring out dragonflies?”

Queenie asked, a hint of a tease in her voice. She was perfectly aware that every time they tried that they exploded something, and Kinger knew she knew. A running joke between them, one of many, so many bright moments they’d had.

“Nope! Even better!”

“Oh, well now you’ve got me curious —”

She laughed, bumping her side into his. He misses that. He misses how she’d never fail to make him laugh or smile, even if neither of them could really do so. He had nodded, and carefully opened his hands, revealing a piece of the sky resting within. The shimmering blue hues glistened, folding and unfolding — gossamer-thin wings, fluttering softly in the neon light. A blue morpho, as accurate as his spotty memory and Caines spotty modeling skills would allow. He remembers how the hum of it felt in his hands, a soft whir of electricity, the only betrayal of its digital nature. He remembers the light in her eyes as she’d seen it, and holds the memory just a little tighter.

“I’m not really sure why,” he’d stuttered, chuckling a bit, “but I thought you’d…like this one. Especially.”

The quiet gasp of awe she made was worth talking Caine through the anatomy of a billion butterflies. Queenies eyes were so wide their rose gold shone just as bright as the blue morpho in his hands, watching in complete fascination as it crawled up onto the hem of his glove. Her hands cupped carefully under his, lifting the butterfly closer, leaning forward to gaze at the million tiny scales forming the shimmering indigoes and sapphires — not that he was looking at them. The butterflies were beautiful, sure, but they could never top the expression of joy that she made then.

“Oh, I…darling, this is beautiful!” She breathed, “ a - a Morpho, right?”

He could never really feel her hands, through the gloves, but he didn’t care then. He made her happy, and the sense of wholeness that gave him was worth more than any touch.

“I - well I feel like—“

A smile, and something changes. The memory shudders and rearranges, clicking back into place at a long ago time, resting near and hidden in the halls of his mind. A place he hasn’t been in a long time. A version of himself he hasn’t been in even longer. This memory is different, hazier, less sharp — but something in it makes faraway lungs draw a tight breath. The light was no longer neon, but soft and green, fractured in smatterings of rainbows. He is himself, in a moment so far away but so close he can almost touch it — he wasn’t wearing a collared shirt, was he? No, no he wasn’t. He…

…He stands in the center of the greenery, smiling, his posture slightly straighter. The scent of tangerines is sweet and heavy in the humid air, and her smile is worth getting them both in here so late — Dr.Sawyer is definitely going to kill him if they find out, but he doesn’t have a reason to care, not now. Not when her eyes are soft and rose-gold, and he adores them with all he is. She’s so beautiful, and kind, and funny, and — oh crap what if he screws it up?! No, nope, stay cool, it’s fine, stay cool…

“—These’ve always been my favorite, how did you guess?” 

She’s asking, grinning where she stands, framed by humid greenery. Azaleas and hyacinths, milkweed and bursts of roses, their petals half sheathed. Warped greenhouse glass splits the sunbeams into an array of tiny rainbows, glistening over the leaves, in her eyes, one spot of color glowing bright on her cheek as she cups a handful of brilliant blue wings. Cups them with soft, dark hands, his own still hovering nearby hers from a moment before — how did he work up the courage for that — her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Bracelets jangle on her wrists, leather bands and beaded chains, antenne dotting over them as the blue wings crawl silently up over her palms. The dusk settles itself behind her, through the glass and leaves, in the silence of an empty sanctuary — then she looks up at him, the beam of her smile lighting the dusk on fire. Her smile. Her real, beautiful smile. 

“No, don’t answer.” The smile grows, shining through the amber of a setting sun. “I’m sure you have your ways, J -”

The name garbles, but the fondness in her voice outshines any flickers of code sullying the moment. His name isn’t important. He doesn’t care. He just wants to hold onto this, to this moment, this memory, he just wants to hold on. He holds it close to his chest and prays for it to continue, so he doesn’t have to leave — this is home, with her, and he doesn’t want to go back to that neon hellscape where colours and hands and words can never, ever be soft.
 And something, if distantly, answers.

It sounds like screaming.

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