Chapter Text
Steven glanced around blurrily, thoughts confused and body heavy. The sweat on his brow cooled onto his face as he looked at the mess. His hand was tight and shook as he uncurled his rough fist.
The blood on each fingertip was still glistening; fresh.
Littered on the ground were soiled bodies, none of them moving. A low groan came from somewhere behind him as the last one fell to the floor.
Panic set in quickly.
Steven inched forward warily, staring at the hazy horizon of streetlights beyond the alleyway, then tripped over an outstretched leg in the grime. His stomach turned and his breath hitched and his knees almost buckled.
He started down at the body, then his own, checking them both over for signs of injury. Steven rightly assumed that the man on the ground was in worse condition, by the pool of blood at the back of his head.
A stained brick lay beside them, telling the whole story.
Somebody called his name from the street perpendicular, but he didn’t dare turn away from the body.
…27…28…29… Steven recounted what brief training he’d had at the museum. His hands ached as he pressed down into the man’s chest for the last of thirty compressions, then stooped lower toward the scarred face, pinching the nose and blowing a firm breath into the body. Steven could tell he was gone already, but he hoped again that the body would flicker with the light of the man again as he breathed out.
He sat back for a moment to make sure. Dead.
The anguished look on him seemed to further darken the alley. His mouth hung open, bottom lip shaking. Bile built up in the back of his throat and suddenly Steven felt like he was floating; Watching himself.
His name was called once more from behind, and this time he looked. Staring off into the darkness he couldn’t see a figure but felt the presence of two.
Steven’s hands clicked together, looking to relieve the tension gathering in his knuckles. He felt that, but not the movement. He watched himself then turn over his hands. He tried to stretch them out without avail. Watching himself.
Steven!
Jarringly, the voice from the alley was almost upon him, and he snapped back around, staring up at nothing. This time he recognised the feeling: Marc.
Steven shuddered as he felt a pull on his shoulder, then was slammed backward, hitting a bright wall.
The rest was all a blur of white.
It was always this way; Marc getting into trouble but losing grip on the body when he got too weak after a fight. Steven frequently popped up just after Marc’s jostles, but he couldn’t get used to it. Marc was just so… ruthless. Yes, that’s the right word, he thought.
“So much for the fist of Khonshu, huh? My hands are killing me.”, he murmured horsely, turning over his palms and noting every new scrape and scratch. He glanced at Steven in the nearby reflection, checking in on him.
Steven looked over from the mirror in the warm bedroom of their flat. He rolled his eyes as he realised his counterpart was only clad in a towel around his waist, but kept mostly silent.
He hated all this violence and what most annoyed Marc was when Steven wouldn’t cooperate in his chitchat.
Sure, he recognised that any enemy they faced truly deserved it, and that Khonshu, although a thoroughly annoying subconscious, was ultimately just, but Steven struggled to handle that it was all happening in his body. People saw his face and associated him with those violent attacks and gorey missions. He didn’t like that one bit.
Sometimes it all got a bit too real for him. He hadn’t had a chance to save that man tonight after Marc’s brutality. He didn’t even know his name.
“Steve”, Marc prodded, double-taping the chipped glass with his index finger.
“It’s Steven. And I don’t want to talk to you.”
The man on the bed scoffed, but got up and came to sit by the mirror. He stretched out one hand to the glass, praying that Steven was still there, not hiding like he sometimes did.
“Steven, what’s up? What’s different?”
Steven allowed himself to gently come into the reflection again, but only looked on at his own body with a remorseful stare.
“Everything is bloody different, Marc!” His voice cracked with the emotion that he was trying to stop reaching his eyes.
“All this… you! I’ve hardly had any time to myself and I don’t even know what day it is most of the time. And when I’m able to get use of my own damn body, I always end up in some terrible scene from a fucking slasher film! I hate it all so much, and I wish I could go back. I hate that I’m starting to remember all the horrible things you do when you’re out! And in my body! I’m just Steven and you make me into some villain with the way you go about killing all those people!”
Marc stayed very still while he listened, staring at his partner. When he had finished his rushed little speech, Marc began unpeeling a few plasters, and mended himself quickly and confidently like he had so many times before.
“Steven, you know the responsibility that comes with this role? You think I’d ever volunteer for this if I didn’t have to?”
He sucked his teeth and kept his eyes on himself.
“Those people tonight were bad, very bad guys, you know that. Steven, you’ve got to understand that if it is like some movie, then we’re the hero. We’re helping make the world a fairer place.”
“Oh really? And how come you get to decide who deserves to be brutally murdered? That doesn’t seem very fair at all.”
“Come on now, you know that’s not how it works. I just do what I’m told.” Marc sighed deeply and locked hazy eyes with the mirror.
The two stared at eachother for a sickening while. Steven’s eyes had collected tears at the edges but he wiped them away swiftly.
Marc felt queasy seeing his friend like this. He was meant to protect him and was doing a pretty shoddy job at it recently.
He closed his eyes and felt the familiar bright light pull at him, and allowed Steven control of the body. He’d give him some space.
Steven sighed, relaxing into the body -his body- yet squinting to avoid the sharp pangs of ache that threatened his temples. He leant back on the bed-frame behind him and rubbed his hands over his face. The hair on his chin was getting thicker, and he took advantage of the quiet moment to limp over to the bathroom and dampen a small towel.
Wetting his face and pressing the blade down, Steven stared into the mirror, breathing easier when it was just himself looking back at him, not Marc. He made light work of his shave and draped the flannel over the single radiator in the flat.
“Looks good.” A voice piped in from somewhere behind him.
“Bugger off.” Steven said out-loud, sighing but only playfully. It felt so much better when he could just do any little thing for himself.
Finding some checkered pyjama trousers and a stained tshirt under his pillow, Steven dressed himself, feeling much fresher than he had when he’d arrived home. His legs ached and all the nicks in his skin had started tingling, but he was so tired that he slumped down onto the bed and fell almost instantly asleep.
When morning hit, it was like a car crash. His head hurt as the first dusty rays of light snaked their way through the blinds and clamped down onto his eyes- fangs sharp and punishing. The sudden brightness caused him to reach up and shade his face with a hand, as he sat up and swung an achey leg off the bed.
The scene of pillows by the mirror and plaster backs before him served as an all too real reminder of why his body ached so badly. He always felt supremely stiff in the mornings, he thought as he straightened the duvet on his low bed, but this was hardcore.
For a second he just stood there by the bed, glancing out at the city skyline and admiring the smoke from next doors chimney already starting up.
For a moment it didn’t matter that he didn’t know his name or what day it was.
He was himself and he could enjoy a slow morning, he reckoned.
A hum from the buzzer bell pinged into his thoughts, and he padded over to the door drearily. A crackled voice broke over the intercom… “parcel… Mr Lockey… left it near the door…”
He didn’t get a chance to respond before the button was released on the other end, forcing him to have to retrieve it from downstairs as quick as he could. He didn’t recognise the name the voice had said but perhaps the delivery driver has read it out incorrectly.
Slipping quickly into his dressing gown which he kept by the door for occasions such as this, he unlocked the six bolts on his own door and headed down to the entrance to the building. There was a small parcel waiting just inside the doorway with the same name that had been spluttered over the buzzer. The driver was long gone already, so the man picked up the package and gave it a once-over. Sure enough, his address was on there, all as it should be apart from the name. He stared at the shipping label, ‘Mr. J. Lockey’. He mulled it over in his head until he came to a mental block.
He just couldn’t remember. Everything he thought just seemed numb and colourless. Nothing. He knew that the address on the parcel was his, but who was he?
On autopilot now, the man trudged up the two flights to the door he’d just come out of, mystery parcel in hand.
Once sitting back on the couch, he checked the package again. The box was black and the label handwritten in capitals. There wasn’t a clue who it was from or what was inside, and something was holding him back from opening it.
His eyes flickered between the coffee table with the parcel and his desk, with a large pair of blue scissors. He could open it. After all, it must be addressed to him. He stood up, stepped a single step, and grabbed the scissors, flicking them open to allow a blade to cut the tape with. Now he looked again, there was almost a layer of clear tape engulfing the whole thing. His arms were a little shaky with ache, but he pressed the tip of the blade down to the corner of the box.
Suddenly, he was thrown forward onto the ground. He looked down at himself, then to his right to see another man who looked a lot like him. Steven sighed as he realised it was Marc. Marc sighed when he realised it was Steven.
Sometimes when things got intense they’d slip into this odd way of getting through days, where they couldn’t talk to eachother or remember anything. It was like sleepwalking, Marc thought outloud as he readjusted to his internal body, cracking his sore knuckles. Steven was still rubbing his palms into his eyes; he looked a wreck.
“You okay?” Marc checked in bluntly, while staring straight past his friend, instead his eyes locked on the couch. Steven hummed in response, then noticed that he and Marc seemed to be on the carpet between the coffee table and the door. He felt a little winded, like he couldn’t breathe.
“Marc, I feel funny.” Steven mumbled, attempting to poke himself awake, “Mate?”
“Me too, pal. I can’t think straight.”
“Marc…” he started, trailing off as it dawned on him that his earthy hand was still gripping the scissors, hearing them digging through the tape.
The body reached into the parcel once opened, and a gleam span from a black rim in the package to the man’s eye.
Everything got brighter from there.
Marc and Steven were pushed out of their conscience and into a suffocating place that manifested as a ringing in the ears. It was near disabling, and neither could make out what was happening.
A muffled, low snigger came from the couch, followed by a harsh, metallic clunk, then the unmistakable spin of a barrel. A couple clicks and the rattle of bullets being loaded in to each little hole. Marc knew it too well, but not like this.
With a last attempt of a groan of disagreement, he fully lost awareness, succumbing to the blank whiteness at the back of his mind, and handing over the body to whatever madman he was now.