INTESTINAL 5.10

VISCERAE, I love you so much. Also, you are much harder to write for some fucking reason, and it's infuriating, and I love you anyways.

Oh hi! Didn't see you there!

...that's a lie. My head's loopy, so I'll excuse myself of it anyways. Enjoy new chapter!

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.thgirla eb ll'uoY .dik ,boj doog a gniod er'uoY .thgirla eb ll'uoY .yaw siht neppah ot gniog syawla saw sihT .ko s'tI

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I feel weird while driving. 

The town feels… kind of fake, somehow. Like I’m driving past empty buildings, populated by mannequins more than people. That sort of dissonance isn’t new, I’ve disassociated before, especially in response to some fuck-shit, but it still hits me unexpectedly, a weird feeling in the back of my mind as I maneuver through Hollow Springs. 

I know, logically, that at least part of that is from failing to take care of myself. For one thing, I can’t remember the last time I showered, so it’s been at least a couple of days. For another, I’m driving in sweatpants and a pajama shirt, no socks in my sneakers, AC blasting as wheezing through my little jalopy. Self-care isn’t really my strong suit at the best of times (which, in part, explains the series of maladjusted coping mechanisms), but considering the fact that, now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last full meal I had?

Oof. 

In my defense, my job has been a distant focus this week, even with the weekend coming closer, and a big chunk of my bank account this month went to groceries. Which did not, in fact, get eaten. Not unless the clinic’s got rats chewing through my little skitter-guy mid-assignment. 

I left it with the mission of gathering information, maybe going through patient files, but the days since have been so busy that I never even considered things like “how much power does it have” or “does it know what files are”. I think intent matters more than being able to program neurology, but it was still a poorly thought out plan at best, ergo my current recovery efforts. I can’t afford to waste resources, and loose threads like that need to be addressed now, before I dig myself in deeper and hopefully turn things around.

Even with the sun bright in the sky, peeking out from behind passing clouds, I still feel watched. Leisha mentioned that the pendant they gave me is limited somehow, and I don’t want to waste that energy, but the simple fact of the matter is that there’s weird shit all over this town. For all I know, there’s something tailing me as we speak, something trying to find me, trying to tell others of my location and my vulnerability. 

I’m out of weapons, unarmored, my home base woefully underdefended, and more aware than ever of all the weird possibilities around the corners. 

So I drive through a town that feels fake, its pre-existing dangers magnified by the possibility of puppet-things and inhuman gargoyles and who the fuck knows what else. 

But in spite of all that, nothing stops me from reaching the clinic. The empty streets of a quiet town in the midst of a work and school day only adds to the feelings of emptiness, of a false surface, but it’s… fine. I know it’s real. Its danger is, at least. That much I can keep hold of, even with the fact that I made a bunch of fungus-pests to guard my house and infest my building. 

I pull into a mostly empty parking lot, recognizing some of the cars from the last time I was here and seeing a few new ones. No army jeep, so that’s nice, and I think the cars I saw before must belong to the employees inside. The others are probably just here for checkups or basic appointments. 

It’s fine. The empty cars having moved while I wasn’t looking, arriving and rearranging while I was gone, is not in any way evidence of reality getting re-arranged. 

I actually manage a little laugh at that thought, gallows humor and my fucked up mental state shaking hands on an excellent bit of humor. It’s a lovely day to be sane.

I park at the far end of the lot, shutting my door with enough force to lock it into place and getting moving. The fact that I left my little critter in the vents means, in theory, that it has exit points, ways to escape out of there without going through the front door or having to sneak under the eyes of the nurses and patients. It only takes me a few minutes to circle the building, hoping no one comes by and wonders at the homeless-looking lady wandering around the clinic.

Or maybe they see me and just assume I’m looking for drugs or something. Worst case scenario,  by the time the cops get here, I’ll be long gone, and that’s if they even call anyone in the first place. I can survive some strangers grumbling at my existence just fine. 

I make my way back to what I think is a vent connected to… the ventilation? The AC? I don’t know- point is, there’s a grate on the back of the building, mostly out of view of any streets or anything. Sighing, wishing I had a better grasp on how my shit works, I reach with the glove to the grate and tap a little rhythm against it.

Focusing, I try to… I don’t know, infuse the sound? I try to picture what I’m doing as some kind of message, keeping the idea of the tapping as a sort of call into the building. Tap tap, taptaptap. Tap tap, taptaptap. Over and over, like a dinner bell, like an insect communicating by tapping on the ground, like a pattern that means “come here”.

I don’t know if it’ll do what I need it to, but I… I keep trying. 

Tap tap, taptaptap. Tap tap, taptaptap.

I pause, waiting to see if I hear something. 

There’s… I’m not sure. Maybe just the echo of my own tapping? I-

“Ilia?”

I startle, jumping almost a foot straight up and feeling my heartbeat immediately accelerate, adrenaline running through me like ice water. I whirl from where I’m standing just in time to see a figure stepping out from around the corner, wearing a pale blue set of…

Scrubs. A set of scrubs. And shoes that I recognize. And, as my brain catches up with itself, a face that I recognize too.

I let out a breath, my heart still in my throat as my body recovers from the sudden terror. “Shit, Sarah. Fuck. That scared the shit out of me.”

My roommate cocks an eyebrow as she tilts her head, blonde hair bobbing with the movement. “Really? I scared the shit out of you? I’m not the one standing behind your job, tapping on the fucking vents.”

“Wha- I just- how did you know I was here?”

She shrugs, still not taking her eyes off of me. “I saw your car when you pulled up. There’s glass doors at the front of the clinic, duh. Plus, your car is… hard not to recognize. Or hear.”

I wince internally, even as I snort, trying to keep my reaction casual. Should’ve parked nearby, rather than in their lot. No cameras or windows on the side I parked on, but there’s only one entrance I could drive from. Stupid. Sloppy. Still relying on luck, it feels like. 

“Yeah… sorry about that. I just… I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come back in,” I say, making up a story on the spot. “I’ve still been feeling pretty… off? But the last time I was here, the doc and I…”

Almost immediately her eyes soften a bit, though she still stays a ways away, arms crossed. “Is it for… whatever you needed an appointment for? If you needed to come back, I could always have scheduled you something. Feel like you’ve been extra weird lately.”

She seems to regret the choice of words, but I don’t call her on it, grabbing hold of the story she’s helping me weave with both hands. “Yeah, I- kinda. Just… real messy. Kind of struggling with some stuff.” I wave my non-Glove hand at myself, vaguely, indicating my… everything. The too-thin frame, the bags under my eyes, my unwashed hair, my haphazard outfit, my- fuck. This really isn’t much of a stretch to believe, is it?

She seems to have the same thought, because her arms uncross as she leans against the wall, some of her remaining doubt fading. I can see in her eyes the moment I go from being a potential risk to someone who actively needs help, a problem to be solved more than a danger to be hyperaware of. I don’t even blame her for it- a few weeks ago, if I’d seen one of my roommates behind the bar tapping on the pipes, I’d be reacting much the same, especially with how hidden we are from the street and the lack of security cameras out here. I hate myself and feel tremendous relief as her empathy kicks in, leaning her towards believing me more than not. 

“What happened? I mean… you don’t have to tell me, but if it’s something about the clinic or the last time you were here…?”

“Yeah, just… you remember those military guys? They came in with the doc and it… it made me really uncomfortable. I-”

Think. Think fast. I’ve barely ever talked to Sarah, treated her more as “someone in my house” than someone I might be friends with, but there’s layers to that, too- she’s never reached back, or reached out first, and that fact holds in my head. White girl, small town, standoffish with me, specifically- she doesn’t give me the impression of someone who’s had to struggle with a lot of ideas about the country or her place in it. Presumptuous? Sure. A solid assumption anyways? Solid enough, and not something I’d want to gamble against here. 

So. No anti-imperialist talk right off the bat. Need her on my side, not having to ignore what I’m saying or my beliefs to get around to listening to me. 

“I dated someone in the military a while back. He was a good guy, but the stuff that happened while he was in the service left him… kind of messed up, honestly. He talked about how he had friends who killed themselves, about how his CO treated people, and it left an impression. I kind of freaked out when I saw them, and… I mean, I’m not even sure I should be here, I probably just need more sleep, I-”

“Oh hun, that’s so fair. I totally get that. My uncle was in the military and I mean, the way the family would talk about him sometimes? I totally get that. But… they’re not here now, right?”

I sigh, feeling some more of the anxiety compressing my chest dissipate. She bought it. 

Well. It wasn’t really a lie- I did date someone in the military for a while, and it did leave a hell of an impression. Still, as far as deflections go, one with a bit of honesty is usually the most secure. 

“Yeah, I know, I know. It’s just… well, I don’t love doctors at the best of times, you know? And I don’t even think this is anything major. I guess I was just… kinda psyching myself up? So I was taking some time back here, just thinking it through. I’m probably fine.”

To my surprise, she doesn’t take the out. She actually takes a few steps forward, approaching me carefully. To my further surprise, she’s not approaching me like I’m a potential issue or some kind of risk- the ways she hesitates, keeps her hands visible, keeps her expression calm and kind… she’s treating me like an animal that might skitter away at the first opportunity. 

Shit. Is she even wrong, really? I definitely would rather be anywhere but here, having this conversation.

Well, that’s not true. I’d rather be heading back home than be here for sure, though.

“Do you want to talk about it? I’ve got my lunch break in like ten minutes, and Jane is watching the front while I’m out here. Maybe you can tell me about it, and then I can recommend if you should come in or not?”

I laugh, very lightly. That’s… deeply unhelpful and also deeply kind. I feel a bit of shame running through me- maybe I missed this before, blinded by superficial awkwardness. Maybe she’s just different when she thinks someone is hurting rather than, like, an asshole she doesn’t want to live with. 

I hear the faintest skitter from inside the vent, echoing down the metal to my ear. 

Fuck. Terrible timing. 

“I… honestly, I might just need some space. Time out of the house, you know? I might just take a seat on the grass for a minute and breathe, calm myself down.”

She frowns, and doesn’t step back. Not doubt- concern. The skitter comes through again, the tiniest bit louder, and I step back from the wall, trying to keep her eyes on me as I circle the wide way around towards the little hill behind the clinic. 

She doesn’t turn away immediately, though. She doesn’t even step back, which surprises me. I’m… shit, maybe I really am letting this shit get to me. It’s one thing to be aware of the potential dangers of a town like this, of the way people might see me, but maybe I’ve been assuming the worst out of people a bit too much. Better safe than sorry, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like shit at the degree by which I’m surprised at Sarah’s decency. 

“If you want to talk about it, that’s… I mean, kind of what I do,” she says, giving me a sheepish smile. “I know we don’t really talk much, but even I could tell you’ve seemed kind of off lately. You’re not the only one, either. I don’t know if it’s the full moon or if something’s in retrograde right now, but we’ve got way more appointments lately. Plenty of people feeling kind of off nowadays.”

 Go to scoff- and stop. 

That’s…

Dani and Leisha mentioned how things were picking up. How much more intensely everything seems to be happening the last few months as compared to their experiences. I… the thought was there before, but I guess I just assumed things were like the Mill, always there, just hidden because I hadn’t noticed yet. But if more people are coming in…

No evidence, no confirmation, no idea how relevant it is. Focus. Something to look into later.

“It’s nothing. Just feeling a bit off, like you said. I’ll make an appointment, come back proper sometime this week, alright? Don’t worry about me.”

To my continued surprise, she still doesn’t leave. Instead, she bites her lip, turning off to one side and looking at nothing. 

Or maybe not nothing.

Something in me notices the ways her pupils contract for a moment. The way she glances away from looking over her shoulder a little too fast. 

“If… Have you been having weird dreams?”

I blink. “...What do you mean?”

She sighs, shrugging in frustration. “I don’t know, it’s just… I feel like I’ve been sleeping weird lately. Like maybe there’s something going on. I don’t know, maybe there’s, like, a tiny little leak or something in the house? I checked all the fire alarms and carbon monoxide detectors, they’re all fine, and I checked the kitchen, and the pipes and the attic, but I can’t find anything. I just keep… sleeping weird. Like, way too vivid in my dreams. I usually never remember my dreams at all.”

I feel like I can’t breathe.

Is it me? Am I doing this to her? My presence? My powers?

“...What are the dreams about?”

She opens her mouth as if to respond- but after a moment of trapped breath, just clicks her teeth together. “It’s nothing. Just… if you notice something specific, let me know? Or come in for real next time. I want to make sure it’s just in my head, and it would help a lot if you helped me make sure.”

That last part comes with a fresh dose of eye contact, which makes me almost snort at it. Well done. Sincerity and an active attempt at gaining sympathy and a request for my help that just-so-happens to double up with me coming in to get myself checked out.

Yeah. Maybe I have been a little unfair to her.

Especially if I’m infecting her.

“I promise,” I say, meaning it. Not in the way she thinks, but nevertheless. 

She nods, giving me a soft smile. “Ok. Take your time, ok? Just… don’t mess with the vents, and we’ll be fine.” 

I smile back, nodding as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Alright. I’ll… I’ll see you at home later. Take care.”

And finally, she leaves. Back the way around the building. 

I wait another few seconds, then almost a full minute, still hearing faint scratching from in the vent, loud enough now that I can pick it up from where I sit. 

Only when I’m absolutely certain that she’s gone do I let out the breath I was holding, getting up and heading back to the wall.

I look in the vent, keeping an eye and an ear out for the corner Sarah walked around earlier, checking to see-

I almost step back at the sight.

The skitterbug thing I made does not look good. It seems half-decayed, parts of it gone well and truly grey. Less than half of its limbs are still functioning, dragging its body forward, the roadkill-skull I planted as a face for it hanging partially off its frame. 

Fuck. I don’t know if this thing feels pain, if it’s hurting- but it’s still active. Maybe it’s just some hyper-empathy, my funky headspace, something pushing me to care more than I should, but the sight of something I made so visibly dragging itself and barely functional hits me someplace behind my gut with cold. 

The Glove and its tools make short work of the grating, unscrewing it almost silently, and I open it to the smell of rotting meat and half-preserved meat. The poor construct is leaking pale fluid from itself, half-ruined, and-

And clutched in one of its only functional rib-limbs is a manilla folder, stained with grease and biological mess. Parts of it look unsalvageable, but not all of it- and I recognize the name at the top. 

Brian Johnson. 

The kid. 

I laugh softly, even though my heart hurts as I look at my barely-functional creation. Not caring about the disgusting mess it’ll make, I scoop the thing up in my arms, hiding it in my hoodie as best I can and working not to wince at the feel of cold meat-juice on my shirt and leaking against me. 

“It’s ok,” I tell it, trying not to feel like I’m talking to myself. “You’re ok. You’ll be alright. Good job. You’ll be alright. Everything will be fine.”