comicshavefailedme | LL cont’

[Bristling, he snaps back,]

Why don't you actually remember who the @#$& you are, first!!

[They'd all won their own trinket, after all. If 'Aracha' was guilty of anything, it was not being careful enough and touching it before they could come to an agreement on how to proceed together.

(Together-- what a comical thought that was now.)

He equally did not want to be in this room right now! It, it wasn't even the one assigned to him - it had the bed they slept on together, blissful and ignorant. It made him burn inside, hot with some indescribable emotion. Like he'd lose himself if he ever lay on that mattress again.

So with a huff, determined to beat Rafael in leaving this godforsaken bedroom, he shoves past him.]

[ The bed that held them while they held each other, in times of comfort and love. When they laid together after a particularly excruciating performance. When Rafael decided to brave the rapids and tickled Aracha's sides (for many reasons, this will never be attempted again).

Now, as the door shuts on what feels like their entire life together, and Aracha storms off, Rafael leans against the door.

His eyes are burning, and unknown to anyone else, a single hot tear escapes down towards his grit teeth.

Now what? Learn who he is? Out of puny spite, he doesn't want to do that yet. He wants to hold onto this life, he wants to go after his fiance and kiss him until he understands again, and... he doesn't want to look at this room anymore.

Out of Eonia, out of the ship entirely—with his own trinket in pocket, he's gone to the deck of the ship. There are gazebos out for resting in the shade during the day, with beds (made for napping, rather than a restful night's sleep) and throw pillows and blankets.

It'll do. He's not going to sleep, anyway. He's going to contemplate throwing the trinket off the side of the ship all night.

By dawn, however... he's got it in hand, and the memories have started to roll in.

And now he's throwing it overboard with a frustrated yell. ]

[When 'Aracha' slams the door on His And Only His room, there is a feeling of finality to it. End of love, end of argument, end of the story. And yet like most things, he did not fade from existence when the darkness enclosed him. No, instead he was simply a large, sad thing standing in a dim room - still breathing and thinking and feeling - unable to just stop.

Who knows how long he stood there in stillness. But when the dam broke, what surged out of him was the only language he had left: violence.

Furniture was smashed, walls were punched, mirrors shattered and screaming, so much screaming. It continued on until there wasn't a thing left to break anymore, that hadn't already been stomped into ugly bits. Utterly hollowed out, the thing that used to be called 'Aracha' slumped against the wall and collapsed in on himself, hiding his face. From who? God, maybe.

He just wanted to disappear, even from himself.

Sleep didn't come, even as the exhaustion wore on his body so horribly that he thought he might faint - it was a mercy denied to him. There was only remembering. And sitting with the monster that he was.]

[ As the morning draws to a close, and the two spiders left suffering alone, Miguel—he knows, now, and even though Miguel feels as alien to him as Rafael does (what comedian came up with that?) it... sticks—is still at his perch, glaring at anyone who approaches until they beeline elsewhere.

It's only when his stomach growls that he's knocked out of his stupour.

And sighs. ]

I wish you were here, Lyla. You wouldn't give me good advice, but it'd be fun to listen to.

[ What does he do? He's Miguel, a father, swept away from his girlfriend through several layers, and possibly even dead. And he's also Rafael, who's just been heartily dumped by the love of that fake life. Rafael might as well be dead.

Bitterness wells in his mouth. The former life was one he chose, forged, grasped at. The latter was shoved into his head and he was expected to play ball. By nature, he hates everything about it.

...but that's not true. He can't hate one aspect of it.

This is what he muses on for the next day. While pointedly avoiding Eonia, in the off chance he runs into Aracha (real name unknown) before he's ready.

He'll never be ready.

But at some point, a message arrives onto Aracha's phone from a "Miguel". ]

Midnight. The deck. Don't make me hunt for you.

Edited 2024-11-03 05:28 (UTC)

[Things he now regrets: getting Forge to fix his phone. Not much in the way of plausible deniability when it comes to receiving messages anymore.

The day was spent in a near fugue state. Going hungry until the pangs grew too painful to ignore. Discovering he had skin that could stick to walls. Crawling and hiding, like some kind of disgusting bug unfit to be seen by human eyes, on the ceilings to get food. Then locking himself in a private lounge room to get shitface drunk. At some point he passes out.

By the time sobriety trickles back into him, he was lying in a pool of own drool, facedown on a couch, distantly aware that the text message chime had gone off. Reflexively, he reaches for the phone - habit formed from a lifetime of fake memories of being a real human - and regrets it.

First instinct: throw the phone across the room. There was no way he was going to go meet Rafael. Absolutely not. He didn't want to see that man's face, ever again.

Somewhere around an hour later, guilt starts to pool, all sour in his gut.

It'd be dark out, at midnight. Maybe he can go take a look... from a vantage point.

Which... is how he found himself staking out on the roof of the D.V. Dream Drift, freezing cold and hidden from view. This was a terrible idea. Unfathomably bad. He hated himself. But it was this or get drunk again.]

[ He was never going to back out of his own (bad) idea, but he did think about it literally all day. What he would do. Who he'd punch (Aracha, or whatever his name is, is not on the to punch short list, but neither is anyone else since he's not sure who could be on it to begin with).

At midnight, Miguel heads up to the deck, being fashionably late to this—to make up for time, he fwizzes some web to one of the upper levels of the ship once outside, using that to propel himself towards the bow of the ship.

If he happens to swing past wherever Aracha's got himself stationed, he doesn't notice him this time, despite having nightvision. Stay tuned, though.

Annnnd he's going to perch on the very tip of the ship, where both sides of the great vessel connect, and where nobody sane should actually sit. Safety railing ignored, he's going to sit where he can hang his legs off the side of the ship, over the dark waters. ]

[He watches, as Rafael takes a sit on the most precarious possible seat on the ship. The thought scratches in the back of his head, He didn't used to act like this. What if...

Was it his fault? That Rafael was being pushed to some desperate, unhinged edge. It wasn't impossible... 'Aracha' meant so much to him. He loved--

A ripple of pain spreads through him before he can acknowledge the feeling. Just another stone thrown into the well of guilt he'd made for himself.

This was a terrible idea. He could never talk to Rafael again, not like things were normal - not like he hadn't stabbed him in the heart. ...But.

His body moved forward anyway, against all better judgment. Stupid, awful, why. A voice in the dark, that's all he needs to be, right?]

...Don't sit there, idiot.

[ He doesn't turn to look at the voice, but a slight tilt of the head indicates he's listening. ]

It'd hurt my pride more than anything if I managed to actually fall.

[ Besides, the waves are peaceful to watch. Moonlight cuts crisp lines into the rippling water, and the frothing depths look like something he could disappear into.

It'd be cold, brisk, and quiet. Sharply painful on the skin, but that's what he's always wanted. Bristles. An edge. The guy insulting him. ]

Or if I got stood up.

[ thanks for not being a no-show, honey. ex-honey. ]

Edited (but but) 2024-11-04 07:30 (UTC)

Hmph.

[Still deeply contemplating skittering off into the darkness, as though he was never here. But something in Rafael's words...

He seemed confident that he'd be fine. Did he remember something...?

No, stop letting your mind wander. Don't wonder about who he might've been. Stay impersonal.]

Don't sound so surprised.

But I am surprised.

[ He inhales, the cold air tight in his lungs.

It hurts, hearing his voice. It really does, and he resents it. He resents that he has to feel anything for this man, that he has to feel things even though they're fake, and that Aracha has to feel them, too.

He resents that he can't stop the love that still simmers under his skin.

That deep breath boldens him, and he chooses his next words... maybe not carefully, but he sure chooses them. ]

I'm surprised by who you look like, too.

[Who you look like-- the words go off like a bomb in his head. He knows, he knows he knows he knows heknowsheknowsHEKNOWS! EVERYTHING, down to the abhorrent nature of your life, the sickness, the wrongness. The words strip him down to his base parts, and see them for the cheap knockoff that he is.

Of course. Rafael knows the Real One, so why would he have any need is the fake? That realization hurt more than anything else. That last tether to humanity, already cut.

He hisses in shock and pain, grip tightening on the edge of the roof where he's hidden. His fingers leave grooves in the metal.]

Shut up. What do you know?!

[ Is he shutting up, or is he answering? For a bit, it seems like the former, where he shrugs one shoulder and goes back to contemplating the masses of rolling waves below.

But then, he exhales, a long breath that fogs up the air behind him—trailing behind as the boat surges forward. Then he turns around, hopping onto the boat's railing and balancing there as only a spider could; he's addressing him directly now, eyes piercing the darkness to look right at "Aracha".

What comes out of his mouth is dangerous, it feels... final. Up until this moment, it feels like he's been two people, struggling to feel. He feels like he's bringing a knife to someone's throat. ]

I know your favourite food. I know how you like to be held. I know your favourite movie. I know that you really hate the colour blue, and that you can't hold your alcohol worth a damn. I know you're not really Peter's brother.

But I don't even know your name.

[A risky gambit indeed. Made all the worse by the feeling that Rafael could see him, even hidden in darkness as he is - he was still exposed and vulnerable. Each syllable carved themselves into his skin, tracing the ghost of a hundred kisses, a thousand heartfelt stares. Forget a knife to the throat. He felt like he was being lit on fire.

Every cell in him wants to run away. Every atom wants to be held again.

The conflict is visible, his demeanor like a cornered feral animal. He can't deny the truth that this stranger in front of him... he knows Rafael in return. He knows his rage and his devotion. His contrary nature, his arrogance and dryly dark humour. The kindness underneath it all. He sleeps nude and hates yes-men and loves Aracha more than anything.

But Aracha was a lie, wasn't it? But was it any more of a lie than what he actually was?

Haltingly, he mutters,]

It was supposed to be Peter.

[ What is he trying to get out of this? He's not sure. He just... can't leave things alone. He can't just escape to another country because his heart hurts. Of course, he did actually consider it—but it's impossible, both literally and metaphorically.

He doesn't know how this can end, but there does need to be an end.

...but god, it'd be nice to just hang his head out of a window as he disappears into the sunset. Never to be seen by anyone ever again, where he doesn't have to worry about how this finicky creature makes him feel.

Though the imaginary car's tires are squealing and swerving at that actual response— ]

Nope. Nope! That would have been a nightmare, thanks.

[His lips curl up in a snarl. How did Rafael not get it?]

A nightmare is what I was supposed t'be. A cheap replacement. A hollow mockery of a human being.

[Which is all the more reason he couldn't be part of Rafael's happy ending. Such lofty dreams did not befit his base nature. All he needed was confirmation - to hear it from Rafael's mouth that all this was over, and he could bury it with the rest of his heart. He'd have no ties left.

Mournful, he looks away. Out into the dark sea instead.]

I was never real. Not a single part of me.

[ DON'T GET MAD AT ME FOR THAT!!!! I DON'T WANT TO DATE AU PETER!!! ]

So... you're a clone.

[ It's not a question, or asking for confirmation in any way. He knows. Nothing else would make sense for this kind of... reaction. Unless he's a computer program and they are in a simulation, but Miguel doubts it. This is a flesh and blood (presumably) Pinocchio.

He frowns, considering every scientific abomination he knows (himself included) (himself especially), and then sighs. You probably can't tell a clone they're being stupid about personhood. Clones probably have the right to be dramatic about it personhood, really.

Anyway, time to say something about this. ]

Well, you're real enough to be an asshole, and that's what matters right now. I got a propo...sition for you.

[ He can't say... the other propo word. ]

[He has to fight the urge to flinch at the word 'clone' - and didn't completely succeed. It hung over every waking moment, but... he hadn't said it aloud yet. Or heard it said aloud. Now, it was out in the air. And heavy was the shame that followed.

The clone curls in on himself, braced for what must've been coming. Because surely, Rafael couldn't suggest anything other than, 'go sleep in the subway so I'll never have to run into you in the common quarters and also don't ever speak to me again'. (All this is completely understandable.) So he's extra sullen when he bites out,]

What is it.

[ Miguel—or Rafael, the blend hasn't been smooth—wants so bad to reach out to him. No, to just run there, scale the wall, and crawl into his arms. He hates that tone in his voice, he hates how he knows Aracha is upset by existence, and he wants to console him, in any way possible.

Half of him wants to tend to his fiancee. But that half is a whole person, shoved into a body that already had an occupant. He doesn't have the right to reach out to him anymore, and he probably... shouldn't. He has a life. Aracha probably does, too.

But... there's a fire in him that wants to see some sort of proper end to this. He won't just let this hang. And... he's full of spite, disgust, anger—and he needs to expel it. If he even can. ]

Get revenge with me.

[The clone's eyebrows shot up. Somehow, he hadn't expected this - but also, he really, really should've. Rafael was a spiteful man, and that much had definitely not changed. He had to shove down a spark of appreciation, born from his own mutually angry nature (and tried not to think about how that was something they loved about each other).

But reality sunk in a second later. Revenge? How? What could they possibly do against the forces that twisted their lives - maybe even the world - into being puppets on a stage? It was bad enough when they only suspected this power of creating a worldwide cover-up. But changing their minds and bodies on such a scale, that was unthinkable.

An incredulous bark wells up inside him:]

Are you insane? What the hell could the two of us do against-- whatever the @#$% did this??

[...That said, there was an air to the clone that was hoping, expectant. Rafael always had plans, even if they were bad ones. What if there was a way? Give me answers. Light the darkness.]

[ Yes, he is one-hundred percent insane. And stupid, and a genius, and all things one could attribute to a guy in tights. But he's also resourceful and mean and full of vengeance enough to span a continent.

Miguel looks off the side of the ship, into the navy horizon, picking through his memories and thoughts, sewing them together into some sort of plan. ]

The ship is going to make landfall soon. I overheard some of the staff whispering about it—their superiors would know better, but these guys didn't catch on that I have really good hearing now. It's going to be chaos. That's our chance.

[ Raising a hand, as if to stave off any incoming arguments. ] And I remember who... what I am. And if you're even a sixteenth of Peter, then... we'll do it. We can get them.

[He still can’t help but wince a little at being described as a fraction (however large or small) of Peter - just because it’s true doesn’t mean you have to say it. Was he even a sixteenth? Who could even say. He felt like less. A mere shadow, lacking any substance of the original, unable to ever experience true wholeness.

One percent of Peter, maybe. If he was being generous.

Self deprecation aside, he frowns at this description of a “plan”. Granted, it was more than literally nothing, but not by much. The clone keeps his voice low, even incredulous as he is.]

‘Get them’? What, you mean— kill the Showmaster?

Killing... maybe.

[ At the moment, he wants to kill her. There's no doubt about that. But he doesn't particularly enjoy the part of him that wants that to happen, so he pauses, then shakes his head as if to clear it, rather than to say 'no'. ]

First, I want to know why the shock they did this to us. Why you and me? How did they pick out their social experiments like they did? What's their damn end goal with this? [ A pause as he inhales sharply. ] Those are what I'm going to rip out of her first.

[ Why... did they make us hurt each other in so many ways? This goes unsaid, but he's feeling it in his soul. Why did they craft a loving story starring the two of them, only to burn the pages? Why did they choose Miguel to be placed in the position of hurting this man? ]

[Yeah let's be real killing would be extremely satisfying. His fingers itch with the sudden urge, the knowledge that he could crush life out in his bare grip. That urge wells in his brain in dark pools, and it takes all his willpower not to stare too deeply at them. Turns again to the safety of cynicism.]

Yeah, and I'm sure they're gonna spill their guts just 'cause you asked.

This revenge is sounding a lot less like payback and a lot more like coping.

[ It feels a little bit like he just got nailed. Seen, perceived, even. His knuckles tighten, and when he breathes out, the chilly air reveals it by puffing up. ]

Then they die and we get to make up our own shocking answers. Simple as that.

[ He's not addressing the coping part. Is there anything wrong with coping? No. Smart people cope. Wait, he's smart.

...well, whatever. ]

Yeah, real simple.

[Snorts. Assuming it doesn't all go to shit like it always does. But he's already wasted his breath pointing out how stupid it all was - but it's not like any better ideas have dawned on him. His own plans haven't been any more complex than (Mope on a roof) or (Be drunk again).

Trying to muster up an aura of unapproachability and menace, he perches onto the edge of the roof and looms over his former fiance. Addressing him by Rafael now just felt wrong.]

...So. What do I call you?

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