Chapter Text
I don't know who I am.
But I do know who I was.
Jughead Jones. That's who I was.
The feeling of something sharp being inserted into the back of my head brings me to slight awareness, tearing me from a dream where I was free. Where we were free.
The "we" however, is already fading. They take your loved ones first. Your friends and family. So I'm not surprised I have trouble reaching for names, trying to match them to blurred out faces. Voices are all around me, but I pay no attention to them. They murmur about which parts of me will be changed, and which parts will be discarded.
The best thing to do is block them out. Other wise I will freak out. I will scream until my throat is raw. I wish I could stay in the sweet blanket of slumber, unaware and oblivious of what is happening to me. I did think, for several hopeful seconds, that they would take mercy on me. They would take my mind without me knowing. Without me feeling it. I remember being dragged from my cell and drugged. I remember being slammed down onto a hospital gurney and gagged with enough duct tape to suffocate me. But soon enough, the tape was replaced with an oxygen mask, and I was left to the dark. Which I was grateful for. The naive part of me thought that was it. Except they want me conscious.
I was willing to forget who I am, forget them, forget everything- if they emptied me while I was in oblivion. And I would drift away, unknowing of my fate.
It's a merciful death. At least for my mind.
But I should have been more vigilant. I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up.
"Ah, one of our final transformations. Open your eyes, boy."
The British accent sends my heart into my throat, fresh panic starting to ignite inside me. But I can't move. I can't speak. I can't breathe. My eyes sting with tears that are warm, refreshing from the cold. Though a gloved finger quickly swipes them away. Tears are for the weak, they said. If I cry, I am not who I'm supposed to be. Jughead Jones is the weak one. That's what they told me. I refuse to believe it. They want to change me, to turn me into someone else. But I will hold onto Jughead Jones for as long as possible, until the remnants of him disperse, and I'm left a shell. Ready to be filled with a new identity. I can sense him looming over me, shadows in the backs of my eyelids.
"What did I tell you about crying, hmm?" The voice is triumphant, and I want to scream. I want to reach out and choke the breath out of him. Opening my mouth, I try to scream. But my throat is dry. Please. The words choke me, my lungs straining for oxygen. Please don't. Not when I'm awake. Please. Though how could I think they would do anything but? The process brings them joy, I know that. So why wouldn't they keep me awake?
I keep my eyes squeezed shut. No more tears come.
"Neurological Barrier in place, sir," a voice sounds out. It sounds like it's coming from a walkie talkie, riddled with static. "Commencing emptying stage two in five...four..."
My eyes fly open. I start to scream, start to cry out and protest. But I know there is no point. My body is already theirs. The mechanical voice scrapes my ears, drilling into my brain. I can't escape it. I can't escape my fate, and the voice doesn't stop. I have no way to block it out. All I can do is try and hold on. Try and hold onto who I am, before I become someone else. Keeping my gaze on the ceiling, I struggle through the surge of dizziness which comes like a wave. I was told what it would feel like, but I still can't help let out a sharp gasp. I can't cry out. I know if I do, I'll be punished.
So I stay silent, clinging to myself.
Jughead Jones.
My name is Jughead Jones.
I'm nineteen years old.
I have a brother.
A best friend.
And...and her.
There are others. But I can't reach that far. I mentally stretch out for the blurs of colour, faces and expression's that meant something to me. With them come aromas; the scent of Summer. Flowers. Roses and daisies and daffodils, their phantom smells choking me. I see cherry pink lips and mocha coloured hair flowing in a ponytail. A smile that makes my heart ache. Her hand reaches out, fingers lacing through mine. I feel her tugging me, and her hair flies behind her, a dark halo framing eyes, a shade of green that was a mixture of the sky and grass. All of her emotions bundled into deep cyan.
But her name is lost. I can feel her physically being pulled away, segments of her in my memory, fragments and shattered bits of her. They're bleeding away down a plug hole, and I can't get them back. I can't get her back. Flailing, I struggle to hold onto the rest of me. Another face flashes; eyes the color of espresso, rich with reddish brown flecks, a wide smile that lights up his whole face. With the bleeding images of him, the smell of autumn leaves crushed on the ground, stale Axe spray and cinnamon. Freckles dance across pale cheeks. There's something significant about them, but when I try and reach further, I'm yanked back violently. Except they're so vivid. Just like the girl's eyes. Her cherry pink lips and the halo of chocolate hair framing a heart shaped face.
I wonder why my mind goes into so much detail. Is that a part of me that is lost? Was I creative? Did I have an aspiration to draw or write? I'll never know. His face, like hers, is barely graspable. It's like looking through a foggy mirror. There are small things I manage to glimpse, quickly snapping grasp of them before they fade away.
Except I can't hold onto them.
Instead of focusing on my mind, I snap back to my physical state.
"Emptying in progress."
My name is Jughead Jones.
The name is on my lips, but I stay silent, keeping it curled on my tongue. Jughead Jones.
I’m naked on a steel slab. I’m nothing more than a chunk of beef. Meat to be sliced and chopped and turned into something usable. All off-cuts will be discarded. The spike in the back of my head digs deeper and there is pain. But I embrace it. It's something to feel, to anchor me to reality, to my name. My identity. My name is Jughead Jones.
My arms and legs are bound to the table, encircled by freezing stainless steel bands. The bands pinch at my wrists and ankles, pulling at the strands of hair they trapped when they snapped shut. Above me are two circles of white light. A man wearing a surgeon’s mask advances toward me holding a black marker. He places the tip of the pen right on my hairline, then scrapes it across my skin, all the way down to the middle of my eyebrows. I blink rapidly and lick my dry lips. The sensation tickles, and I have to grit my teeth to stop a hysterical laugh trickling out. Mask chuckles. It takes me several disorienting seconds to realise he's talking to another figure next to him. Mask's companion wears a pair of thick black spectacles that sit on the edge of his nose.
The two of them are dressed in pale green hospital scrubs and gowns. They eye me greedily, their gazes glued to my body.
I can't help envying them. I am exposed. Naked and splayed out like I'm nothing. I half wonder, through foggy thoughts, if I was ever self conscious of my body. Part of me wishes for an ignition of embarrassment warming my cheeks or a lick of anxiety in my gut. Did I ever try and cover up, in fear of what I looked like? Was I physically attractive, and if I was- did anyone love me? Did anyone love this body- the one that's going to be changed forever? Everything I ever felt, any emotion or memory connecting to fears and passions. Anything I liked and disliked. Anyone I loved or hated. All of it. Gone.
Leaving me a blank slate with wavering memories. My name is still here. My age. Nineteen. But the rest of me is disappearing fast. With morbid curiosity I can't help looking up, straining against the coils of metal keeping me glued to the metal surface. My bare back slides on stainless steel as I struggle to catch a glimpse of myself. The first thing is I'm tan. Olive skin shimmering perspiration stretches out in front of me. The operating table fits my height. Seeing myself- the body that is rightfully mine- the one they're going to transform into perfection - only incites more panic. My chest squeezes and I blink up at the two surgeons, my lips popping open and closed like a goldfish.
But no sound comes out. All I can do is rasp, a pathetic attempt at words slipping from my lips. Both of them lean closer, like I'm a science experiment.
"Fascinating." Mask murmurs, moving closer to me. I curl my lip in disgust. Disgust. At least I can feel that. I still feel fear towards these bastards.
"He's trying to hold on."
The other surgeon shrugs. His eyebrows are bushy, framing his glasses. Red hair pokes from a light blue surgical cap. "They all try and hold on, Mr Moore. This one appears to be strong, however."
"Indeed." Mask hums. "Right! Lets get started. I see you've already began the process of emptying."
"Yes, Mr Moore. It will take time, however. You know what happened with Reggie and Elisabeth."
Mask rolls his eyes. "But they turned out wonderful. Have you seen the amount of hype we had for the show once we made the casting news public? They're shining stars."
Glasses must be grinning under his mask. "And what exactly do you want with this one, hmm?"
Mask tilts his head to the side, inspecting my face. He reaches forward and grabs my bangs. I bite back a cry, glaring at him. The needle in my head jolts slightly, and a fresh dose of agony floods my skull. “We’ll change his hair. And his eyes. I want him to be a brooding loner type, y'know? Black hair. As black as you can get it. Oh, and green eyes. We nee him to be a heartthrob like Asher. But while Asher is our boy next door, Noah will be the opposite. Off screen too, of course. With Archie and Jac."
That name sends shivers sliding down my spine.
Jac. That's who they want me to be.
Mask's eyes narrow.
"There won't be any problems like last time, right? I've been told his brain is finally stable enough to empty. We were walking on thin ice having him conscious in the public eye. I wanted him changed with the others. If he was, we wouldn't have had problems."
"Yes, he is stable. You saw it before, Mr Moore. Emptying wasn't possible."
"Yes, he made a fool out of us." the man tuts. "Right in front of a crowd, too! I had to do some serious damage control. We need him blank, Tom. I'm not going through that again. Our dear Archie was alienated. His re-emptying is scheduled for tonight."
The man's words confuse me, but I can sense memories trying to push through. I'm shading my eyes from bright flashes, and I'm screaming. I'm screaming words I can't remember. There are faces in front of me; a crowd of them staring back at me, lips gaping.
"Help!" The word is on my lips, the memory splintering through. "Please help me!"
There's someone next to me. A stranger. She's small and petite with silver hair tied into a ponytail. "I'm so sorry," she's forcing a laugh. "Jac isn't feeling well today..."
Blinking rapidly, I mentally claw for the rest of the memory. But as quick as it comes, it's gone, seeping down the plughole. All that's left is the other name.
Archie.
I cling onto it. Even if it means nothing.
"Yes, sir." the voice brings me back to reality. I exhale through my nose, careful not to move, attracting attention.
"Right. Now. Pay attention to what I need doing."
While Mask speaks, he gets to work drawing on my face, prodding and poking my cheeks with pudgy fingers. I flinch when the nib of his marker pierces my nose. "This." He lets out a harsh chuckle. "I want you to note this down, so you know every little detail of what I want doing. Because this is going to be a lengthy process. I need beauty, not whatever this is." he grabs and rags my hair. "And, God, this is just the start! How on earth did we have the guts to put him in front of an audience? They were probably laughing at him!"
I should be offended, or at least upset at his words. But I feel nothing. All I can do is stare up at him, begging him with my eyes to let me go.
To give me my mind back.
My name back.
My...my friends back.
He lets out a hissed breath. "I thought you said these kids were ready!"
"They are, sir! Not all of them are in great shape, but that of course is what The Sweetheart Project is for." Glasses chuckles lightly. "You saw Stella's before and after, did you not?"
"She's a beauty. You better hope and pray that you can do the same with this little runt."
"No need to worry, Mr Moore. The boy will be transformed."
"He better be. I want Noah Fucking Price. Played by Jac Hunter. A heartthrob. The boy on every teenage girl's wall. Not Oliver Twist."
"Of course, sir." Glasses pulls out what looks like an iPad, along with a mechanical pen. "Go ahead. I'm ready to take notes."
“This,” Mask says as he makes a fist, gripping a few small strands of my hair. His hand lifts up, and my chest rises up with him until my bonds stop me. He keeps pulling until the hair rips out. I drop back down, squirming in agony. “Needs to go.”
His gloved fingers are forcing my lips apart, pressing down on my gums. "His teeth are fine. Though we might need some whitening."
"Of course." Glasses murmurs, thin fingers playing with his glasses.
"His nose." Mask growls. He stabs the pen between my eyebrows, dragging it down and circling both of my nostrils. "I want it smaller. See, here. Cut away the excess. I want it as small as possible, without making it button." he snarls. "God, just get rid of most of it. I can't fucking stand looking at it. How dare you even bring him in front of me!"
"Sir-"
"Did you starve him during stage one? His eyes look practically sunken!"
"Sir, we can remove flaws-"
"These aren't just flaws! This boy is quite a piece of work! Okay, here. I want this removed. All of this. God, the spots! Remove them. I want flawless skin, like our dear Asher. I want cheek implants. A defined jaw. Much more tanned skin..." he turns to the surgeon impatiently. "Are you getting all this down? His ears! Make them even. I want fillers in his lips, and- Oh. Oh, my." he gets in my face, and I can smell his breath. Garlic. My mouth waters. The only thing I taste in the back of my throat is stale vomit.
I swallow thickly when Mask attacks my right eye with the pen. "His eyes! Get rid of the blue. It makes me nauseous. Like I said earlier, I want you to make them Green. Almost unnatural green. Sea-foam, Tom. I want his eyes the colour of sea-foam," he's practically salivating now, beady eyes taking all of me in, lips twitching in excitement. "His colour will be navy blue and crisp white. Ah, yes. I'm seeing the colour scheme now! It's the perfect fit."
"Got it. Crisp white and navy blue." Glasses eagerly scribbles on his iPad.
Mask stabs me again. This time I do cry out. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I can't stop them. "Please." I manage to splutter words. My own voice shocks me. It's gravelly and low, almost a moan. My thoughts and memories continue to bleed away, and the only ones who can give me mercy stand before me, planning what they're going to do with my off-cuts. How they're going to turn me into the ideal perfect boy. At least in their eyes.
The perfect star.
Jacc Hunter.
"Stop. Please."
They both ignore me. Mask turns to Glasses. "If I don't get sea-foam eyes, scrap him. I believe his eyes will be one of his main attributes. The rest of him can be transformed, sure. But his eyes must shine. They will be what will draw the attention."
Stab. Stab. Stab. The marker continues to poke my skin, drawing and circling and scrawling over my flesh. The ink stings. Mask drags the nib across my forehead, and then my scalp. "All of this. I want waves and curls. Maybe we can give him some kind of hat? That's what girls like these days, right? Perhaps a beanie is in order."
Glasses nods enthusiastically. "That sounds magnificent." he scrawls down notes, and I follow the rapid direction of the pen. "Now. His bottom half?"
Mask jabs me in the gut. My body bends forward, but the bonds catch me and snap me back into place. “Other than the mess of flaws that is his face, he’s in fine physical condition. His muscles are of adequate definition to create arousal.”
Should I be flattered? I can't help squirming when he drags his finger across my stomach.
I strain my eyes to keep watching him. Like looking at him is going to stop him. I know he'll never feel sympathy for me. But I want the bastard to know that I hate him. I want them to know that, if I ever get free, I will kill them without a second thought.
Glasses speaks up. "Uh, what about his... bottom...bottom half?"
Mask turns to the man. Even with his surgical covering on, I can still see he's fuming. "Elaborate, Tom."
“What about his …” Glasses looks down at my crotch.
“Are you a child? Are you talking about his penis?”
"Yes."
Mask hums. "Well, what's your observation? Do you really think we need to worry about things like that? Will he be stripping off at public events?"
The sarcasm is almost laughable. Glasses clears his throat. "Well, no. I was just-"
"You were just what? Do you think this is a joke?"
"No! No, of course not. I apologise."
Mask nods and takes a step back. "You know what I want doing. Now get it done. I need him at the earliest by tomorrow night, do you understand me? I want to see Noah Price. If I don't? the boy will be scrapped, and you and your team will be dealt with.
What a shame that would be, I can't help think. I think about saying it out loud, but decide against it. I don't want my last self aware moment being in agony.
Glasses nods so much I wonder if he's going to give himself whiplash. "You won't be disappointed, Mr Moore."
Mask turns and walks away. I hear the door open. "I should hope not, Tom. You're a good surgeon. I expect perfection. Start with the eyes."
The door slams shut, and the second Mask is gone, Glasses- or Tom- peers close, eyes twinkling. "Oh, don't look so glum!" He puts on his own mask, his voice is teasing. The man still has the marker pen. He stabs it into the centre of my forehead. "You're going to be a star! Aren't you excited, hmm? Doesn't everyone want to be a star?"
"Fuck you." I spit. Then with growing confidence, when I feel the sharp prick of a needle being inserted into my wrist. "Get your hands off me!"
Tom chuckles under the mask. "You are fighting the brain drain, young man. The Neurological Barrier isn't something you can stop. Trust me, the best thing to do is let go." his eyes glow brighter with glee. "That is what I told Elizabeth, after all.
Something twinges in my chest. "Elizabeth." I repeat the name, and tears are dampening my cheeks once more. I know the girl in my memories is Elizabeth. But I can't reach her. Straining against the metal restraints, I let out a soft cry. "Where is she?"
Tom pulls back his mask for a moment and shoots me a "wouldn't you like to know" grin, before snapping it back in place. The doctor grabs a big white machine I'd been eyeing warily since I woke up, with both hands and pushes it into position above my right eye. I can't breathe. The contraption is all silver, all blades. I can only blink back at it, swallowing the screech building in my throat. Then, with his smile obvious in the pinch of his mask and the twinkle in his eyes, Tom places a mask over my nose and mouth.
I try to pull away, but his grip is harsh. He presses the mask harder, and I choke out a cough. Tom cocks his head. "This won't send you to sleep, but it will slow down your brain's response. The Neurological Barrier should take effect when you've had a few gasps of this."
No. I shake my head, but he only laughs. "Boy, do not fight this. What else do you have, hmm?" Tom pulls away his mask and mocks a pout. "Can you even remember your name? Or are you too far gone?"
Glaring back at him, I force my sloppy mind into fruition. "Jughead." I say through my teeth. The mask muffles my voice. "Jughead..." wincing, I blink rapidly, but my second name is lost. I know what it is... I know it! However, just like everything else, it slips away. My eyes must darken, a telltale sign of my vastly plummeting memories.
Tom nods. "That's right." he gives me a patronising pat. "Just let go, son."
He heads to the machine, and I tense. Though he hasn't turned the gas on yet. Instead, he switches on the machine, and it powers up, flashing a sickly green.
"Doctor Howard." the mechanical voice from earlier, the one dancing on the static, sounds out. I flail manically, struggling to sit up. "What percentage is the emptying?"
Tom pulls off his mask. "Around thirty percent," he replies. "He's fighting, sir."
"I see." a pause. "Is the boy restrained?"
"Of course. He is conscious and disoriented. The emptying process is slow, since right now, he appears to be stronger than the Neurological Barrier."
"Good. I need to see you regarding an urgent matter. You are not contracted to leave your post normally, but this is important."
"I... uh..." Tom jumps into action, nodding. He shuts off the machine before leaping over to my bed. I feel his fingers prodding at the back of my head, making sure the needle is secure. "I'll be right there." when the static cuts off, the doctor turns to me, eyes narrowed. "I'll be right back." he spits. "I'd suggest letting go, young man." he shoots me one last spiteful smile. "Your friends had no problem letting go."
Another twinge. This time it's in my gut. Bile crawls up my throat. Once again, I struggle to reach for cherry pink lips and warm brown hair framing shamrock eyes.
It's all a blur, and it takes everything inside me, all my self control, not to cry.
He's gone before I can think of a reply, the door shutting behind him. When I'm alone, I allow myself a single breath of relief before tears sting my eyes. My body relaxes slightly, and I let my head fall against cold metal. I wonder if I'm going to forget how to breathe. It feels like that right now. My lungs feel starved of oxygen, sucking in desperate gasps every time my chest inflates. My head throbs from the pressure of the needle stuck into my skull. Letting out a cry, I manage to sit up, a fresh wave of panic setting my heart on fire. I need to get out. More tears fall for my friends, who are fading fast. I can't bring them back, and the worst thing is, I don't know who I want to reach out for. Their names are entangled on my tongue, alphabet soup in my throat.
With growing frustration, I tug violently at my restraints, a cry ripping from my throat. Except with every pull, every shriek choking my lungs, I can feel what the doctor said. The emptying process is growing stronger, and I'm getting progressively more weaker.
Jughead. My name is Jughead Jones. My name is JUGHEAD JONES.
Another painful jerk, I'm squirming, panting, trying to bolt off of the metal slab. It's a race against time. My mouth fills with bile and I cry out. But who to? Do I have parents? Siblings? With the knowledge that I don't know, that I'll never know, and I've had that taken from me, I wrench at the metal coils pinning me down. Then, when a metallic clang rattles my ears, I try again when the restraints loosen slightly. With them less constrict, I manage to slip one wrist free. I squeeze my lips together, muffling a shout of victory. With my free hand I wrench the other from the restraints and try and sit up, but am immediately yanked back down. The shriek of pain in the back of my head reminds me of the needle still sticking into my skull. The idea of pulling it out makes my stomach roll. But I'm so close. I don't think. I don't hesitate. Before I can second guess myself, I'm grabbing it, tightening my hold and wrenching it from where it's buried deep. Pretending I don't feel the blade sliding through skin and bone, blood coursing in hot streaks down the back of my neck, I let it fall from my clammy fingers.
Panting into harsh plastic, I yank off the oxygen mask and suck in precious gasps of air.
I don't have time to assess the wound. I don't have time to see if I'm bleeding out. What I concentrate is on the fact that it's gone. Whatever has been draining me away, stealing my memories, everything that is me. Or the boy I used to be. Jughead Jones, who I'm still desperately clinging onto. But I know the damage is already done. My shaking hands work quickly, undoing the restraints around my ankles, and I'm throwing my legs off of the bed, tumbling to the floor. My legs are weak, but I force myself to stay on my feet, a fresh dose of adrenaline keeping me going. After a panicked search for something to wear, I find a white shirt and a pair of jeans. The material is soft and silky. I can tell it's expensive. My fingers pinch at the rough denim of the jeans. There's a sticky note on the bundle, scrawled in red biro: DRESS HIM IN THIS. WHITE/BLUE WILL BE HIS COLOUR,
Scoffing, I pull on clothes. No sign of underwear, but I'll take anything I can get. The jeans feel uncomfortable, but part of me is relieved. Part of me remembers I haven't worn jeans in so long. When I twist around to grab something to defend myself, my head swims, my eyes blurring, vision feathering. There's a medical cabinet full of bandages, but I don't have time. I grab a light pink towel instead, wrapping it around my head.
I leave the room quickly, stumbling onto a bleached white corridor. The lights are blinding, doors sweeping parallel to each other, labelled 1-20.
Exit. I need to find the exit. Though the doctor's words resurface in my mind. Friends. I shake my head, blinking rapidly, raking my mind for any glimpses of them.
Except there's nothing. I can't see them anymore. Any flickers of them...gone.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, my hand pressed to my makeshift towel bandage still wrapped around my head, I power walk down the winding hall, cringing at the sensation of cold marble slithering between my bare toes. There's a glass double door at the end, but inching closer to it, the door practically screaming EXIT is not what grabs my attention. Quickening my stride, I find myself breaking into a stumbled run, but despite the tears once again streaming down my cheeks, chest aching, I don't know why my body has this reaction. At the back of my mind, however, something is cracking open.
There's a gurney similar to mine, stationed next to a door labelled OPERATING THEATRE 2. But it's not empty. There's a boy splayed out on it, strapped down with velcro instead of metal. He's wearing cotton blue pants, but no shirt. His none-existent abs are covered in black marker, circling excess fat and cellulite. My rabbit like heart stampedes in my chest. The closer I get to him, he's clearer in both my vision and mind; dark curls contrasting pale skin, and when I squint, his eyes staring blankly back at me are mocha coloured. But I'm not focusing on his eyes. Instead, my gaze is on his cheeks and nose and forehead, where someone has scrawled over his skin, like a hyperactive child with finger paint. The ink is red, arrows pointing to his nose and lips, bloated bubbles circling freckles adorning cheeks. And that's when the fog clears, and I let out a sob.
Except I don't know who I'm sobbing for.
"You." Is all I can say softly. His name is lost, but I know his freckles. I know his eyes and hair. The boy cocks his head to the side. He has a docile look in his expression, and then I catch sight of the needles sticking in his arms.
"Jug?" He croaks, trying to sit up. He knows my name. The name I'm trying so hard to hold onto. Foggy eyes widen and he blinks. There's something metal stuck to his jaw, and he struggles to speak through it. "Jughead, is that you?"
All I can do is nod. His voice breaks around my name, and it's then that I know he is someone important; one of the colourful blurs in my mind.
"You." I say again, spluttering it like a child.
"Yeah. Me." He lets out a harsh laugh. "You got away." his smile is soft, and a part of me shatters for all these lost memories of this boy. They took him away. They took the girl with green eyes and a sweet smile who smelled of flowers. "Did they empty you?"
I know the answer. Everything is fading, and it's taking all of my willpower to stay awake and cling onto what I have left. "Sort of." Is all I can say back, and his expression darkens. "What...what did you do to your head?"
"I'm fine." I sputter, pressing pressure on the towel. I try to ignore that it's spattered with my blood.
"Jug, you need to run." he says. "Find Betty, and get the hell out of here. Do you hear me?" he tries to sit up further, speaking through his teeth.
Betty. The girl's name rings bells in my mind, but there's nothing to grab. "Betty?"
Something flashes in his eyes. Pain. "She's..." he trails off, shaking his head. "She's trapped here like us. Listen to me, okay? You need to find her."
"What about you?" Looking at him, all I want to do is brush my hand over the imperfections marked all over his face, tracing his freckles with my fingers. I wonder if I've done it before. Or at least if Jughead Jones did. Tracing them like dot-to-dot.
He drops his head, relaxing in the velcro ties. "I'll find a way out." His smile is reassuring, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Just remember Betty. You have to remember her. Jug?" he urges me, but I'm finding it hard to concentrate on his words.
"Betty." I manage to choke out. "Right. Got it." I hold onto her name like it's liquid gold, willing it not to slip away. Before I can stop myself, I'm rushing forwards, reaching out to untie him, with a rush of vigour. He jolts away with a quiet whimper, brown eyes creasing. "Focus on Betty. I'll be right behind you. I promise."
I know he's lying, but I nod, stepping away, tears trailing down my cheeks. They feel good. Genuine. "I'll remember you."
I won't. His name is unreachable. Everything about him is dwindling. But my body still reacts to his smile, the crease between his eyebrows when he's confused, and the cock of his head, the freckles adorning his cheeks. Those are the pieces I know. And I'll cradle them until everything is gone. My expression must tell him that. He nods, mocha browns sparkling with tears. "I know. Now find Betty and run, Jug. Before they come back."
"Betty. Right. Betty." I say her name like a mantra, keeping hold of my makeshift bandage. Turning away from him, I start to run. Every door is locked.
Betty.
Betty.
Betty.
"Betty." her name slips from my lips, when my brain refuses to cling on. I'm panting for breath, sobbing her name, choking on it, holding on. But the pull is strong, trying to forcibly yank her away. "Betty." I pound on each door with my fists. I remember her, I tell myself. I remember her smile. Her eyes. Her halo hair. The mole that sat on her nose, the one I teased. I remember her. I remember her. I remember her. I remember her pulling me through a crowd, except the smile is gone, and in its place is a silent cry, eyes wide with fright. She's looking at something behind me, mouthing words I can't-
I can't...
No. Tearing at my hair I grit my teeth, willing the memory to stay.
Betty.
I remem... I remember her.
...
...
...
...Pausing on the fourth door down, my hands are wrapped around the metal handle, trying to tug it open. The desperation is still alive inside of me, the tears choking my throat and burning on my cheeks. But when I try and remember why...why I'm here...
What am I...what am I doing?
My hands fall away from the handle.
I'm crying. Why am I crying?
All I know is that I need to get out.
I... I need to get out.
The exit is right in front of me, and I'm staggering towards it, bloody fingers pulling it open. There's a male shout startling me to awareness. "Jug!"
The voice is a stranger. I ignore it, forcing myself through the door, and out into a pitch black night. Something cold slithers down my back and face, soaking through my t-shirt. But it's refreshing. So good, I almost want to dance around in it.
Rain.
I'm on what looks like a college campus, the building itself towering over me, oblong shaped and made entirely of glass. I'm barefoot, my feet sinking into soaking concrete. The skies above open up, but I'm thankful. It's a startling relief from the inside. For a moment, I allow myself a breath, and go through what I know. They were going to take my mind, and I escaped. I escaped, but I can still feel myself dissipating.
Jughead Jones dissipating.
I'm near a main road. Cars fly past, and I wonder how truly insane I look, if someone was to squint through the foggy storm. My surroundings are unfamiliar, though I detect city lights in the distance. There's a field of grass separating the campus from the road. If I start waving my arms, nobody will see me. Especially in the storm. Starting forwards drunkenly, I drag one foot in front of the other. But I'm too weak to run. My hand gingerly scrapes the towel bandage still wrapped around my head, and my fingers come away scarlet.
"Gotcha!"
Rough hands are suddenly grabbing my shoulders and I bite back a yell, trying to fight my assailant. But they're much stronger, pinning my arms behind my back. I hiss out, struggling, but they tighten their grip. When I'm twisted around to face them, there's a guy with brown curls glued to his forehead from the rain wearing a pair of ray-bans reflecting my bambi-like expression. He pushes the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, revealing amused eyes shining in the headlights of a passing car. He's grinning, adorned in a black leather jacket and tight jeans. "Look at the state of you! Jac, what were you thinking?"
I bite back a whine, squirming in his arms. "Get your hands off me!"
"Keller, did you catch him?" a voice screeches through prickling static. With one arm keeping me restrained, the guy, or "Keller" reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a talkie. "Got him, sir. It wasn't exactly hard to grab him, he can barely walk."
"Wonderful. You know what to do." a pause. " I want Noah Price by next July. You've got a year, assuming we can even pull off a cover up. Make it happen."
Keller laughed. "I still think you're insane, but sure." He grapples with me, forcing me to my knees. I hit the soaking asphalt with a hiss. Keller peers down at me, cocking his head. "He's not fully empty yet, sir." his eyes glint. "little fucker's still holding on."
"Do what you must." the voice mutters.
"Affirmative." Keller's voice almost sounds mocking. He kneels in front of me, still with that unnerving smile stretched across his lips. I can only peer at him, shivering in the bitter cold. "I'm going to use a little trick to fasten the process."
I can barely comprehend his words before something pricks me. His voice is a hiss in my ear, sending shivers rocketing down my spine. "You're going to listen to everything I say from now on, mkay? We're best friends. We've known each other since college, and we do everything together." his grip constricts. "You and me to the end, alright? Jug?"
His words make no sense to me, and yet I'm letting them seep inside, poisoning me slowly.
"Leh..let me go." I slur. My legs start to weaken, and I feel myself falling forwards, and his arms, that are surprisingly warm, cradle me like I'm a child. My head drops, and I can't lift it. I'm too weak. His voice slithers into my ears, a low chuckle.
"Stop thinking, Jac."
"No!" the word is barely a panting breath escaping my lips, before...
Before....
A wave crashes over me. Cold and icy, pulling me into impossible depths, drowning my thoughts, and the screams building at the back of my throat.
Keller's grip loosens slightly, and his voice echoes, bouncing in the back of my mind. Even when I fight it, when I try and push through memories that matter, his voice is a parasite, leaching itself to me. So much louder. Until it's all I can hear.
My lips are numb. I can't cry out.
I can't fight him off...
I...
"Jughead?"
Blinking rapidly, I frown at the boy sitting in front of me. He's on his knees, light green eyes wide. He's wearing leather. My eyes flick up and down his torso, drinking him in dizzily. There's a prick in my arm, the sensation of something sharp. But before I can chase the thought, it's fading quickly. The boy reaches out and grabs my shoulders, shaking me. My stomach flips over. "Oh fuck, thank god you're okay. Can you move?"
I'm kneeling too. It's raining. I'm soaking wet but I don't know where I am. The sky is black above me, oblivion pooling. "What?" my voice is a croak, and my hand automatically goes to the back of my head. Pain spikes and I jerk my hand away, biting back a cry.
"What happened?" I mutter, frowning at the boy. "Who..."
"Who am I?" the boy looks offended. He blinks at me though dark curls sticking to his forehead. He, like me, is sopping. "Kevin Keller, of course! Your best friend! Jug, look, you're pretty beaten up. Some idiot totalled our car and you passed out!" Before I can react, he's reaching forwards and swiping my hair out of my eyes. "We were pretty lucky." his lips stretch into a playful grin. "That's the last time you pick what we do on a Saturday night."
Right. That makes sense. I nod, squinting at him through feathered vision.
Kevin. My best friend.
Staring dumbly at him, I shake my head, biting back a moan. "But where's the...the car?"
Kevin grabs my arms and helps me to unsteady feet. "Don't worry about that right now, okay? We're going to call a cab and get your head looked at. You hit it bad, man."
"Mmmm." I stagger against him. That would explain the pain. "My head is fucking killing."
He laughs, wrapping his arm around me. "Take it easy Jug, alright?"
I nod. My body is aching, but Kevin keeps me steady. He pulls out his phone, and I shiver, taking a moment to drink in my surroundings. "where are we?"
"Hmm? Oh right, I don't know? I think it's a community college. We crashed a few blocks away, but I couldn't get signal. You've been in and out of consciousness."
"You're not hurt." I cock my brow.
"I was in the back, obvs. I just have mild whiplash."
That sounds about right...
"Are...are you alright?" my lungs swell at the thought of Kevin being hurt. "You should get checked out too."
Kevin rolls his eyes. "Relax, I'm good. It's you that needs medical help."
"But-" I open my mouth to protest, but his gaze flicks back to his phone.
"Yes, hello! Can we get a cab from..." Kevin's voice trails off when he walks a few meters away, presumably talking to a cab driver. I frown at my clothes; a white shirt and jeans sticking to my flesh. My head still hurts. Once again I reach to brush my fingers across the back of my skull gingerly, when Kevin grabs my arm, urging me towards him.
"Cab's coming in five." he clears his throat. "Don't think about your head wound. Don't even touch it."
His words envelope me like warm water, and I drop my hand, nodding. "Of course."
"Great!" He grins, pulling me into a hug, and I find comfort in him. We've been close for so long. Kevin tightens his grip around me. "God, I'm so glad you're okay, Jug."
preview for the next part.
When Jughead didn't speak, Archie blew out a breath, warm browns searching his. "You dont know me." he said softly. "I get that, Jug. But you need to trust me."
Jughead thought about telling him to fuck off, but clearly the actor was on something. He wondered if Jac Hunter's death involved drugs. Which meant his co-stars must have been dabbling in it. "Sure." he spat, struggling in the boy's grasp. "It's not like you're giving me a fucking choice."