comicshavefailedme | LL cont’

[So. Now that that interaction's basically been stomped on, crumpled up, dumped in a trashcan and lit on fire, he's back to (Mope on a roof) or (Be drunk again) as his only options. And the moping was sorely hampered by a pesky thing called daylight - thus, like the putrid vermin he is, the clone crawled back inside to seek out the Booze.

Didn't take long. Neither the finding of booze, nor the getting shitfaced. What a fucking joke all this was. Revenge? Don't make him laugh. At least he never actually said yes to throwing in with that piece of shit. Weird pretender fanboy historical re-enactment LARPer. Two fake Spider-men! Truly, they were God's cosmic joke.

He didn't want to ever see him again. That was the bitter thought doing laps in his head as he downed a truly brazen amount of whiskey - too blasted to even care that he was sitting in free view of everyone trying to eat in peace at the Lounge. Soon: passed out on the floor.

Fuck him. Fuck everything.]

[ Miguel trips over him.

Okay, there's a little more to it than that; after agonizing by himself, his stomach rumbling loudly, he'd crawled his pathetic way over to the lounge. He'll get the stupid shocking mega meatballs plate and suffocate his woes in them, all for the sake of revenge now. He can't just waste away, even if he'd like to.

Killing the one behind everything is getting more and more tempting, though. Maybe he'll forget about the hows and whys. What does it matter, if he's alone in this anyway—STUMBLE. ]

What t—

[ Aracha's arm (still Aracha, as he never got his name) is probably going to be a little sore if he ever comes to, because it's what Miguel stumbled over while trying to get towards the mountain of meat awaiting him.

...ohh he's twisting up inside; every part of him is equal parts "oh my god I have to get him somewhere better than this" and "oh my god what a dumbass" in the fondest and most annoyed way possible. ]

Idiot. [ He lands on, forgetting the idea of meatballs entirely. Wasting away it'll be. Crouching, he slings Aracha's torso over his shoulder and stands up. A weight that would be a huge struggle for Rafael is nothing to Miguel. ] If you puke on me, I'm leaving you here.

[ are you gonna puke, honey. ]

[The puking is a very near thing. He makes a pathetic moan of nausea and regret as he's brought upright and slung across Miguel's shoulder, in weak protest - or perhaps instinctively, a warning. To be in such a vulnerable state, even barely conscious, seems to make him defensive.

But as his head rolls against Miguel's collar, and he breathes in the scent of him - familiar, comforting and beloved, a connection already hardwired in his head - the clone relaxes. Safety - he craved it more than anything else. He wanted it to swallow him up and keep him stable, secure.

So if he suddenly gets much more clingy... well. Miguel will just have to live with it. There's suddenly a mental pressure radiating from the clone, maybe it's just his imagination? But it hangs like a subliminal message in the back of Miguel's head, an incessant command. A miserable plea.

help me... help... me]

[ The hands on Aracha tighten. He's not awake, is he? No... he's just imagining things. That he's needed. It'd be fine for anyone else to do this, he's sure.

But he's glad it is him. You don't go from being so interwoven with someone else, being such a large part of their life, to nothing... or maybe you're supposed to, but Miguel can't. Either way, he's glad he found his... whatever he is. ]

It's okay. I got you.

[ Miguel doesn't know if comforting is needed, wanted, but there it is anyway; he's heading back to Eonia's quarters now. Leaving a sick, unconscious guy anywhere else is... not about to happen. He has to jostle the door open, which is a real measure of his exceptional talents (juggling a big man and a phone!) and then he—ah.

Where... can he leave him. The couch? No, he knows Aracha wouldn't want to be left in public. And the idea of leaving him in Aracha's "new" room doesn't occur to him; he didn't see which one he used, anyway. The only option left to him is...

Their room. It was their room. ]

...shock me.

[ His curse is breathed out more than anything, then he's steeling himself, opening the door and trying to lay Aracha down on the bed as quickly as possible. As if spending too much time in there will hurt (because it will, it does already). He refuses to look at the furniture they moved around, the various things they won from performances, the clothes he hadn't come back to get. He puts Aracha down on his usual side of the bed and... the idea was to vanish.

But he doesn't.

Instead, Miguel sits next to him, reaching out a hand to feel Aracha's forehead, running a thumb along his brow. He murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like a "sorry" when he draws his hand back.

God, he's tired. He's so tired. Exhaustion lines every part of his body like fleece; it's been days since he's had a restful sleep, and with a lifetime of extra memories rolling around like marbles in his mind, he's not going to be surprised if he never relaxes again. How can he? Half of him is doubled and yet, missing such an important component.

He hates this. He still loves him. His vision sways, and... shit, the pillow looks so comfortable. He knows it's comfortable. He's slept on them for months, when he wasn't using Aracha as one.

That's his last thought as his head hits the pillow and he's out like a light. Whoops. ]

[Sleep comes. But there would be no rest.

These are not the dreams of a man. Men are not born like this: dripping from a chemical pod, powerful and muscled, but with the searching eyes of an infant, lost and scared. Choked by the fumes and reaching out to the only father he'd ever know for comfort, only to be met by loathing. The retribution he beats into the newborn is meant for another - not a man, but a vessel for hate.

Men are not kept in sterile, empty rooms, where the lights are always on and always too, too bright, making it impossible to track the days. There is no bed to sleep on, no clothes, no blankets. Only visitation marked by bland slop and needles, strange medicine that makes him sick and sweat and convulse with pain. He curls up in a fetal position in the far corner every time he hears footsteps grow near. Every time his father grow more disappointed in him. He doesn't know why - he's only a lab animal.

Men are not disposed of like trash. They don't have to claw their way out of a pit of bodies, all identical to his - all deteriorated with the same failure of the flesh. Their corpses crumble like chalk, a mirror of his own fate. He was meant to die. Just one more failure among hundreds. No one ever hears his plea to be saved - he escapes into the sewer alone, unwanted and incomplete. Garbage.

The world of man was never meant for him. He was never a man.]

[ He feels like he needs to find someone. Who, he's not sure—he never got a name, and their face is blurred out, sometimes familiar, sometimes a stranger. But in this dream, he knows—he's here for someone important to him.

In this... facility? Where pain has infected every inch? When he reaches out to any figure, to save them, the dream slips through his fingers. When the pile of corpses looms in front of him, he starts to dig—but it's endless. A loop of identical deaths, each face not the person he's looking for, while also somehow being familiar.

An eternity passes, and finally the bodies break away into a dark tunnel, water sloshing around his feet.

Finally, the only name he has left in him to call for rises out of his throat, escaping into the darkness as one last attempt to find him: ]

Aracha...?

[A face turns, not in recognition of the name, but towards the sound of a voice breaking the lonely silence - staring at Miguel with haunted, fearful eyes. This truly was Peter's clone... with his hair shorn short like this, it was unmistakable. The only difference was the diseased flesh sprawled across his face like a nasty scar, tendrils of failed tissue. A mirror of the decay that surely killed all the rest.

Like a cornered, feral animal, 'Aracha' pulls his rags around himself and bristles, unsure whether to fight or flee. His voice is hoarse, but grieving.]

Stay away! I'm warning you--!

[ His hands lift up on instinct. Not here to hurt, not on purpose, anyway. Here to care for. Miguel was never the softest partner one could have—Dana, for sure, deserved better than the cold shoulder she received when he was going through something they could have tackled together.

But half of him is burning away to reach out for this one. His love is hurting, so he has to get angry and tear apart whoever did it.

Including himself. Especially himself. ]

Hey. It's okay. I'm just here to get you out of... hell.

[ If hell exists, it has to be this. Rotting, existentially destructive, and your heart in shreds. ]

[His expression tenses with an uncertainty for how to respond. Mistrust is chief among them, but so is desperation. Did a world outside of hell even exist? It felt impossible to fathom.

...He seemed angry, but Miguel didn't look at him with hate in his eyes. He wasn't forcing himself on him. Maybe it was possible - he could be safe now. The clone's heart still beat with the longing of a child, to be protected and warm. It was new to the world.

Faltering, scared to hope, he ventures,]

You're here to... save me?

Yeah.

[ There's no hesitation; he'd save him if it cost him his life. Anyone would deserve saving, if this happened to them.

He swallows, then reaches out a hand to the guy. The guy who looks like Peter, but isn't. The guy who kind of looks like his... sort-of ex, but sort-of isn't. ]

I'm... Miguel. [ The hesitation, where he's not sure what his name is anymore. ] Let's get up to the surface. Figure out where we are.

[When not-Peter sorta-not-Aracha takes his hand, he pulls out in close, right up against his body - like he's scared that if he holds it too carelessly, it'll be pulled away from him. And then his only lifeline would be gone... he'll be lost.]

Okay... Miguel.

[There is SO much trust in his eyes.]

Edited 2024-11-28 06:31 (UTC)

[ This guy. This guy needs him. It's going to be hard to walk like this, but he squeezes ?Aracha's? hand and turns to look around...

Please let there be a manhole cover somewhere... with a ladder... please... actually maybe he should ask his name. ]

Do you have a name?

[In this, the clone hesitates. Shame colours his face, and he bows his head, unable to meet Miguel's eyes. He wasn't fit to be called Peter. That name was revoked from him.]

My father... [He struggles to say that, too] said I was 'Kaine.'

[There are no ladders. The sewer pipe only goes deeper, opening up into a massive underground cavern(?)]

[ Caverns are never good but guess we're going this way now.

"Father"... was that the guy? The asshole? For some unknown reason, Miguel wants to kill him! ]

That's a cool name.

[It's impressively haunting, dripping and damp from whatever runoffs flow from the city to this dark, forgotten cave. The mouths of pipes leading in every direction draw holes in jagged rock, made unwelcoming by stalagtites jutting down from the ceiling like knives.

Kaine is quiet, unable to acknowledge the compliment for what it is.]

It's a curse.

[ It's so nice to have the power of seeing in the dark. So that he can see all of these horribly creepy looking things.

Sighing, he's going to start picking his way around the edge, looking for a doorway. A light source. A ladder. Anything. ]

You can pick a different one if you want.

[ Aracha is a nice name. ]

[Maybe you'll have luck going down one of these big random pipes

Kaine frowns, like this is a thought that never occurred to him before. Kaine is who he is. Who he's doomed to be. And he can just-- change it?]

...Like what?

[ Oh shock he didn't expect him to turn it around on him.

Busying himself peering into a pipe... is it attached to someone's toilet though... surely it's too big for that.

Anyway he has to suggest a cool name... ]

Uh... Bob?

[ that wasn't it... ]

...

Bob?

[Even as a baby, the clone sounds incredulous.]

It's better than Mike.

[ the bar is so low. ]

Is it?...

[An honest question. They're both kinda... 🤷‍♂️]

Without question. So stop questioning it.

[ children... ]

You have time to think about it anyway.

[This answer doesn't satisfy him. How could it, when he had no idea what he wanted to be? The prospect of a blank slate was too much for a newborn to contemplate.

He just wanted to be whatever would keep Miguel close, so he could keep being protected.

With a tug on his hand, he peers at him with anxious brown eyes. Desperate to please.]

What do you want to call me...?

Aracha.

[ It comes out of him completely unbidden, an indulgence he can only bear in a dream.. In the morning, he might be horrified to remember. Right now... this is the answer. ]

Okay.

[A little too quickly, a little too obedient. Not very much like Aracha's bullheaded obstinance at all. This Aracha was pliable and quick to please.

Underneath his words could clearly be felt: just don't leave me.]

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