Content Warning:

Detailed descriptions of imaginary violence and gore.

OCTOBER 1, 2022

For a horrible second, Tofflemire thought he’d been pseudo-institutionalized again.

He recognized the first thing he heard. It was West’s favorite: Vladimir Horowitz’s rendition of Danse Macabre, quiet enough that he could pay attention to other small noises in earshot, but still distinct enough for him to make it out. His eyes opened, then closed immediately. Even with the lights dimmed, everything felt bringing and bright. He was no longer with Cecil, there’d be no way in hell he’d even be allowed where he was currently anyway. He was in the Site-87 medical quarters, the first sublevel down. There was a good amount of chatter all around him, mostly from the half dozen medical staff swarming both aorund the room and him, checking his vitals and talking in low tones. His body felt sore, like he’d been stabbed in the gut and the knife was still stuck, but he could at least move himself.

Tofflemire then remembered the fact that he had just tried to blow up a car at point black range with a bazooka, and sat up, looking himself up and down, realizing that against all odds not only did he still have all of his limbs intact, but also the fact he was still alive at all.

He looked at the first nurse to his left-- Nurse Gwendolyn Liao, surprisingly. She acknowledged that much, looking up from where she was jotting notes on a sticky note, putting her pen down, and sliding his circular glasses onto his face smoothly. Her expression didn't budge, putting his glasses on his face as if he'd asked verbally.

Tofflemire liked Liao, even if they weren’t really that close or even conversational. She'd been born with the stunning ability to keep her mouth shut no matter what level of secrecy was at hand. No matter if it was gossip or confidential, nothing seemed to get her to talk in a way that wasn't in her standard monotone. She was tall, thin and lanky, but he knew from experience if he didn’t listen to her he was going to meet her secret strength the hard way. He was almost convinced she could retract her muscles like cat’s claws.

Site-87 medical staff had funny uniforms-- as opposed to scrubs, many of them donned the traditional all-white nurse caps, with a cap that left them identifiable if the standard uniform didn't do a good enough job. Liao, like the staff around her, wore all white tops and bottoms as well- for her it was the button-up and knee-length skirt she always wore. Liao’s dark hair parted from her bangs, and was pulled back and strung into a vertical bun with a light blue hair clip.

“What the hell?” He muttered.

“Good afternoon.” Liao didn’t answer his question. “Because it’s noon.”

Tofflemire blinked. “October 1st?”

“Mhm.” Liao hummed, pulling out his hand and sliding an oximeter onto his pointer fingers. “You want brunch?”

“How am I alive?”

“That’s the working question. Brunch. Yes, no, maybe so?"

Tofflemire wasn’t sure if she was like this with just him, or if she was just a comedic genius. "I'm not hungry."

“So, did Tofflemire just straight up kill himself?” The sound of Hastings’s fretful voice got louder, and then his head popped out from the sea of nurses, on Liao’s right. She didn't even seem to acknowledge him. His expression softened, a feat which Tofflemire didn’t even know was possible considering his resting unhinged face. “Oh shit, I stand corrected.”

“Hey yourself, hellspawn.” He managed.

“Good and bad news, Jon.” Hastings called out somewhere behind him. “He’s not dead, but he knows where he’s gonna go when he actually does!”

“Don’t tell me, Valhalla?” Jonathan West called back, further away, seemingly packing up Horowitz with him, as it got quieter from whatever device it was playing from. Despite their words and the events that had played out, they didn't seem all that concerned for his health. Not like I take any offense. I'm alive. They can tell. He could still move his body, and that's what mattered to him the most.

Tofflemire got a bit of a chuckle out until it turned into a wince from the weight on his chest. “You think I’m going to hell, Gwen?”

Liao shrugged, no real reaction coming from her, pulling off the oximeter from his finger. “It is what you make it."

Yeah, comedic genius.

Liao, regardless, was at work, and could not do what she was second-best at, right after the medical knowledge. Because as the following minutes were spent with nurses exchanging conversation between each other and talking to other doctors, Tofflemire felt the fatigue and emotions of the not so distant past reel back to him.

His body ached, sure, but it was an odd feeling, having to deal with the absence of anger not being able to fuel any pent-up adrenaline or anger or misery. He felt better than he did earlier, but that wasn’t really an achievement, and it drew more questions, considering that he should have been in pieces.

Although he assumed the Nexus just had a moment of divine intervention. He had a hunch as to why.

⠀

⠀

He felt that thought bubble inside of him as a familiar shape was guided into the fray, and nurses quietly piled out of the room to give them solitude and better privacy, now that he was concious and in a good condition. He felt himself frown and averted his eyes. Liv seemed to sidestep a bit while doing so, but she didn’t seem to get the message, as the nurses situated him and checked him for immediate emergencies.

“Toffee.” Her voice was tender. “Hey.”

Once the nurses had cleared him of immediate hazards that couldn’t wait for, the doors were closed, and the only other person there was Liv.

“What the fuck was that, man?” She said in the same tender tone, a little stutter of laughter in her voice.

Tofflemire hated Sloth’s Pit.

“I fucking hate Sloth’s Pit.”

Oh, it felt good to get that out of his system.

Not a single hint in his voice indicated humor. It felt good to not fuck around and say that in a joking tone for once. What rolled off of his tongue was bitter, hungry for some form of retribution or solace from the damn portal to hell he was in.

For as much as he loved the town, for all the good memories it brought him, the irreplicable feeling in his chest when he woke up in the Site hospital during October 2018 against all odds, the energy the many of the odd adventures he’d gone on with the coworkers he adored and cared for so much, some with triumphant reprises, some with stupid chuckles, learning to live in the odd, narratively-charged environment...

When it finally hit him, deep in his chest, in the most tender parts of his heart, his arteries somehow linked to his tear ducts, he really could not shake the feeling that, deep inside, a part of this place really, really hated him. That it wanted to tear him limb from limb, sear him on a pan of oil and watch it burn his skin until he couldn’t feel it anymore. Devein him while he was still alive and breathing and put him on a Cajun dish at retail price. Tie him up to a highway during rush hour in the excruciating heat of a Californian summer and feel what remains of his skeletal structure shatter like fine china and what of his organs become nothing but biohazardous sludge. Split his head open with a sickening crunch and let his brain fall out like a fresh yolk primed to be a pink clot of gore in a grotesque homage to a sunny-side up.

The Nexus saved him, because it wanted him to suffer more. Killing him defeated the point.

He wondered what in the hell he’d done for it to hate him so much. He didn’t know how much of it was his own life, and how much of it was just the narrative charge of Sloth’s Pit. How long did he have until it tried incorporating a midlife crisis? He wondered if he’d have any hope asking his superiors.

Tofflemire turned. Looking back at him were those excruciating, puffy, dark brown eyes, so dark they may as well have been black, belonging to a faux-blonde woman with her hair scuffed together with a bandana, hiding her dark roots.

Liv hadn’t laughed when she asked him what the hell he was doing. Or maybe she did. She wasn't anymore. She was crying. Presumably had been, for a while.

He sighed quietly.

“Robert.” She said, “I need to talk to you. Seriously this time.”

He looked at her.

Come, let me clutch thee:

I have thee not,

and yet I see thee still.

“It... hurts.” Her tone was sheepish, like she could see what was going on inside his mind. “I know that you’ve had lots of issues in the past couple of years. A lot that I still don’t really understand. But, this... the distrust. I don-- didn't really know what to say earlier and I’m.. still frazzled, after, you know...”

“...Yeah.”

“But...” She sniffled again. She was an ugly crier, the kind where her face managed to redden harshly despite the fact she wasn’t pale, where her eyes squinted and tears seemed to just free-flow out of it, missing or overestimating their cues. The kind of crying that knew exactly where to hurt Tofflemire, on physical, mental, spiritual and foundational levels. “...I’m-- I’m tryin' to keep it together. I know you are, too. And I know it’s scary, living in this world, knowing we’re lucky to be alive, and live here, but. I just. Jesus fucking christ, Robert--” her voice cracked. “--I thought you had just thrown your life down the drain there. And I... I kept thinking...”

Tofflemire closed his eyes. They were dry. His jaw hurt. He physically could not unclench it.

“I know that you yourself are plenty hurt. I’m not going to sit here n' ask you to get back up and tell me everything. A lot of it you’ve never really told me about because you find it easier to just... keep going. And not dwell on it. An' I wish I was like you. Things upset me. And then they never get off my mind. I try to let it go, but I can't when you can't. I know I betrayed your trust by calling Palmer on you. I know I’ve been pretty awful in trying to confront a lot of the-- your stress even before that. An' I thought I could help you. An' I clearly couldn’t. I don’t know why you’re treating me like a stranger.” Liv slid her palms into his hands, rubbing her thumb on him rhythmically, back and forth. “I don’t.”

Tofflemire’s eyes stayed shut, the blanket of darkness unwelcoming compared to Liv. Her hands were rough and calloused. He could feel some fresh scars that were nearly done healing. Her hands were nice and muscular, hot and clammy from clutching her fists. He could feel an old fissure in her right thumb, barely even noticeable if not for the fact this was the first time he could remember getting his hand held by her.

“I remember the story of how you got here.” He could hear the fond smile in her tone, and he felt her raise his hand slightly, like she was trying to position him. “If this place is bringin' you a lot of distress, if you’re going to pull something like that again the next time you get on the field, I don’t think you should stay here. I want you to do what’s good for you.” Liv lowered her voice any more than she already had. “I don’t know how you’re still alive, Toff. I didn’t know you could pull anything bigger than a machete. For some terrifying minutes of my life I thought that the last way I’d ever remember you was you hating me.”

“You never saw me when I was still in Site-19.” Tofflemire responded softly, feeling like if he raised his voice any more his throat would split open, even though it didn't hurt.

She brought something soft and damp to his hand, like a tissue or a cloth. “I don’ have to. All I need to know is that you’re in pain, and we’re already starting the month off poorly. I wanna change that. I’m sorry. I just... I didn’t want you to be so scared-- anxious and worried, and, y’know, you always know when to get serious, but I figured...”

And you'll be right there by my side

To beam my message into space as I die

Tofflemire wondered what kind of alien brain worms went through his head and transplanted his thoughts into her. How they sculpted such a complicated brain to such a perfect human form. What kind of mind reader and Oscar-worthy actor she was to sneak her way into his life and fit into it so snugly, snapping into place with an unnaturally satsifying click, to the point her presence terrified him. How nice it felt to meet someone uncannily new, yet so intricately familiar and knowing. So scary, yet so comfortable.

He found himself wondering how many of his old jokes he hadn’t used on her yet, how many memories she had with him that he remembered differently. He missed the feeling of a hug after a long day, of not running in without a friend, of just going into spaces alone, of resting in bed and turning his head to the side to look at the bunk next to him before he fell asleep. Sure, he didn’t need to have his hand held everywhere. He didn’t need someone else to make himself feel complete. He could do it, if he tried. But god, he hadn’t felt this empty, so alone and isolated, in years. He didn’t want to think about that empty casket every second he stood waking and breathing, the unmistakable smell of rot, the white and grey tile of Site-19, he didn’t want to get excited every single time he saw someone walking around wearing a dark fedora, the shadow just out of his line of sight, the familiar clicking of a chunky keyboard, or the really specific custom chime for a phone call that he never learned the name of. The shared memories of scars that he no longer had anybody to share with.

He opened his eyes just in time for her to continue speaking.

“I just.” Olivia’s eyes were really puffy. “I don’t want you to hate me, if that’s not too much to ask.”

And if he could trace his fingertips across her face, he’d swore he could’ve felt the texture of his old childhood blankets, illuminated by the dark glimmer of night light in the corner of his room. Like the old stations in 19 where the AC was angled so perfectly in one specific part of the room that he’d sit in during the hot summer days. Like the autumn breeze of Sloth’s Pit, the first year he’d gotten to experience it, the last year they’d get before a regular onslaught of Octobers from hell.

The cloth she’d help up to his hand-- she was cleaning off some of the excess dried blood as a parting gift from a piece of shrapnel.

For the first time since October 31st, 2020, Robert found himself crying in someone else’s arms.

⠀