Chapter Text
Jeremy Heere had been terrified of death since he was eleven years old.
Every day was a fresh new opportunity to die, every connection a new potential loss, and every action just a small nudge closer to his ever-looming demise. Dramatic certainly, but Jeremy liked to think he was simply being a realist. Surely surviving in fear was better than not surviving at all.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that Heere was a shut-in. Besides school he couldn’t remember the last time he’d left the house, and he was almost entirely certain that given the opportunity he’d pass on that too. It wasn’t that he disliked school in particular (although that was certainly up for consideration given his company), but where could be a more intense hotspot for danger than an enclosed rat den of hormonal teenagers and soul deficient teachers? Take for example his most recent encounter with one Rich Goranski.
It had actually happened around a month or two ago, but ever since it had hovered there at the back of his mind like an irritating tickle. Goranski, who was notorious for his tormenting of, well… everyone on the lower half of the social ladder at Middleborough, had managed to corner him in the washroom after last period. Normally such an event would have ended with a lovely new collection of bruises and crass nicknames for Jeremy to enjoy but this time…
Well, all Jeremy knew for sure was that it was probably some convoluted scam to kill him, or at least rob him of a few hundred bucks. It was bizarre though. Of all the things he could have imagined for Rich to lie about, a quantum supercomputer from Japan in a pill that could make you cool was NOT one of them. How the hell did he even come up with something like that? Jeremy had surmised Goranski was completely nuts, but since the encounter the thug had left him alone for the most part so at least something good had come out of it.
Besides, why would he even need a… what was it? A SQUIG? SQUIB? He’d been more focused on the fact that Rich Goranski was screaming in his face probably about to kill him than on actually listening to what he was saying. Whatever. Why would he even need a micromanaging tictac thing? He had everything he needed, really. He had his dad (pantsless though he might have been), a roof over his head, and all the other basic necessities. He had his computer, video games, and most importantly Jeremy had Michael. He was completely fine the way he was. He was surviving, nay, he was more than surviving!
Jeremy knew that was bullshit, but he chose to ignore it.
Instead his eyes were focused on his alarm clock, watching the neon green numbers document minute by minute his complete inability to sleep.
1:21
1:22
1:23
It was Halloween, one of the most dangerous nights of the year as his unhelpful paranoia would chime in. Halloween meant parties and alcohol and costumes and fireworks and danger. Danger everywhere. He probably shouldn’t even go outside today. It wasn’t like he had school, so he could probably just stay in bed and wait for November and, more importantly, safety.
His heart raced and his head pounded from the mounting pressure. Any minute now the phone was going to ring. It was going to ring and some employee on their fifth cup of coffee was going to tell him that he was dying today and wow isn’t that tragic only a junior in highschool. What have you even done with your life what was the point what’s the point of any of it if we’re all just going to fucking die anyway what if I die and all I’ve ever done is wait for it god Jeremy you’re so
Pathetic.
Jeremy felt a shudder run up his spine and all at once the pressure was too much to bear. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned when the fluorescent numbers were still burned in the back of his eyelids. Blindly he scrounged around for his phone until he found it tucked in the fold of a blanket, waiting eagerly for this seemingly nightly ritual.
Michael. Just call Michael.
He punched in the familiar digits and waited with bated breath, cringing at each dial tone.
After what felt like eons his friend’s voice resounded through the speaker, slurred and sleepy.
“Yahuh?”
“Michael.” He tried to say more, but the words felt like jagged shards of metal clogged in his throat.
“Jer, are you okay?” Michael’s voice seemed more alert now that he recognized his caller.
Jeremy sucked in a shaky breath and nodded, though he knew Michael couldn’t see him. “Mmhmm. Just…”
He trailed off, biting his lip in embarrassment. The truth was, this happened far more often than he’d like to admit. He could even say with certainty that it happened more nights than it didn’t. He didn’t always call Michael, but tonight was bad. Tonight was Halloween. Tonight was dangerous and he needed to hear his friend’s voice to make sure he was okay. To make sure he wasn’t…
“Do you need me to come over?”
Jeremy couldn’t find the will to respond, instead just letting out a wheezing hum. That was enough for Michael though.
“Alright, just let me grab my keys and I’ll be over in five.”
“Wait, don’t!” Jeremy felt a sudden flood of panic at the mention of keys. Keys meant driving and driving meant roads and roads on Halloween at one thirty in the morning meant danger and death.
“Jer I’m gonna be okay,” Michael assured him, having been through this enough times to already know what he was thinking. “There’s not gonna be anyone else on the road at this hour, and I’ll drive really carefully. Besides, if I was going to die on the drive over to your house I would have gotten the call already, yeah?”
Jeremy didn’t reply, so Michael repeated himself, more insistently this time.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah…”
He felt grateful tears pricking the corners of his eyes and tilted the phone away from his mouth so Michael wouldn’t hear the catch in his breath.
***
Richard Goranski hadn’t been happy since freshman year.
Well okay. That was a lie. He hadn’t exactly been happy freshman year, but at least then he’d wanted to die because he hated himself, not because he wasn’t himself.
Sometimes he couldn’t even remember why he’d gotten the damn thing in the first place. What had he even wanted? Popularity? Friends? To feel better about himself?
Well, that one turned out just fucking superb didn’t it?
Rich liberated his older brother’s Jason Voorhees mask from its spot in his closet and sighed. This was going to be the lamest costume. He didn’t even have one of those dollar store plastic machetes, and those were like two bucks!
Putting too much effort into your costume makes you appear desperate. Take a loaf of bread instead.
Heh. Bread Instead.
He felt a mild shock run up his spine and scowled, stepping out into the hallway. At this point he barely ever asked questions, but he was feeling just irritated enough to try pushing his luck.
Why bread?
It is sufficiently random enough to be seen as humorous by your peers, with the added benefit of reinforcing your lack of interest in wearing a legitimate costume.
So basically it makes me look like a lazy dumbass?
I’m sensing your faith in me is less than optimal.
Oh really? What gave it away?
He felt another shock and winced, noting with dull frustration that his limbs were now moving on their own. Not all that unusual, really. Half the time he just let the SQUIP take over, not having the energy to do anything more than watch. Sort of like Autopilot, except he couldn’t turn it off and it made his head all foggy.
He observed curiously as he crept over to the kitchen cabinet, pulling out a case of beer.
Sensing his confusion, his SQUIP explained.
Despite your current relationship level with Jake, showing up to the party empty handed would be inadequate. Optimal time to take it is now while your father is incapacitated and likely will not recall the exact amount left when he awakens.
As his body reached the door the SQUIP let him take control again, and he slipped outside without a second thought. He plunked down on the front steps outside, twisting and untwisting one of the bottlecaps absently. He peered down at his watch and did a double take. 1:25 AM? Jesus, no wonder his eyelids were drooping. Time to get the fuck to bed. He tucked the mask under the porch and was about to do the same with the case when his cell rang.
He blinked, not fully processing the sound. Who in the hell was calling at this ungodly hour!?
Richard do—
But he’d already hit accept, not bothering to check the caller ID.
“Hello?”
His SQUIP remained eerily silent, and a lump formed in his throat when he realized he’d probably pay for that later.
“Hello, is this Richard Goranski?”
The voice was unfamiliar, and a frigid, sinking feeling of dread pooled in Rich’s stomach.
“It is. Who’s this?”
He knew who it was.
“Hello, my name is Constance and I work for Deathcast. I—”
Before she’d even finished her second sentence Rich had hung up, setting his cell on the marred planks beside him with shaking hands. He continued fiddling with the bottle cap, staring blankly across the street towards the broken tire-swing hanging outside his neighbour’s house.
So he was going to die today, huh? He let that sit for a minute, waiting for the rush of terror to kick in.
He realized with a sort of numb sorrow that it didn’t.
The truth was he wasn’t devastated by this news. As much as it sickened him, it was actually… sort of a relief. Maybe now he could finally stop. Stop with all the lying and the grinning and the pushing people into lockers and pretending he didn’t care. Instead he could… he could…
What did he want to do?
He scrounged his brain for something to do, something that he wanted.
What did the real Rich Goranski want?
A warning shock hit his lower spine but he grit his teeth and refused to lose his train of thought. After a long moment of deliberating and coming up with nothing, he let out a sharp chuckle.
There was only one thing, really.
Richard—
His SQUIP’s voice held a warning tone now, and despite the shudder it sent through him he ignored it. Before it could take control he snatched up the opened bottle and practically shoved the thing to his lips, sloshing the lukewarm beer into his mouth. It hit the back of his throat and he choked, trying to muffle his sputtering coughs with his hand.
riCHaRd yOU wiiii iii iii LL Re—gret—gret—gret tHiii
The SQUIP stuttered and glitched, occasionally slipping into what Rich thought was Japanese before disappearing altogether.
Rich blinked, looking from side to side.
Was… was it really…?
He waited for what felt like hours but was only minutes, reveling in how quiet it was.
The SQUIP was off.
He grinned, lifting the bottle in the air and kissing the side of it gratefully. He let himself fall back onto the porch and stare up through a gaping hole in the overhang. The stars glittered above him as if congratulating him, and he pumped his fists up in the air in a silent victory cry.
Well, not quite victory just yet.
Rich sat up reluctantly, recapping the bottle and slotting it back in place with the others. He slipped back into the house, mind running through a mental checklist.
Soon he re-emerged with his old backpack from Freshman year, some things gathered from his room, and a shit ton of water bottles.
He sat cross legged on the porch once more and slowly transferred the admittedly sub-par alcohol from their glass bottles to whatever ones he could find around the house: less breakable and, more importantly, opaque.
When he was done he shoved his hoard into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, snatching up his cell and heading off down the street.
It was time to do some research.