Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The voice is electrifying- when was the last time he heard something that wasn’t his own thoughts or The Buried?- and for the first time in who-knew-how-long, Mike opened his eyes.

Well. He tried.
His eyelashes were clumped with dried clay, pasted to his equally mudded cheeks, so when he tried to open them, all he got was a tugging sensation, as if the clay wasn’t clay, but glue. That, coupled with his exhaustion, hunger, desperation, and fear made the act near impossible. Each attempted peek drew tired pain, and a weak whine built up around the mud in his throat.

Whoever spoke giggled, but the giggle was wrong. Too echoey. Like it had been played back through television static, amplified by a thousand metal tinsel’s. How...The soil should’ve muffled it, but instead, the giggles rang loud in his ears.

“Oh, sorry!”

Suddenly, the clay was gone. As if it had never existed. If he was in a better state of mind, Mike would be wary. His caution, his ability to give a single shit, had been buried with him, though. Anything was better than this. And that included whoever, whatever, was with him in his hell.

Something had come.

That was all that mattered.

Lifting his eyelids took more effort than he’d like to admit, but he did it. Blinking the blur away, Mike stared up at his savior(?).

Fractals. Multicolored spirals, swirling like a kaleidoscope but more. A pang of his almost-erased childhood terror shot through him, but he shoved it back down. He’d prayed for this. He’d prayed and something had come and that was enough because anything was better than becoming dirt.

The being before him beamed, the corners of their mouth stretching impossibly high. Their eyes glittered rainbow, and Mike knew that if he focused on them too long he’d go mad. Madder. He wasn’t sure he could say he was sane anymore, but again, what did it matter? The rest of the figure was equally hard to process. A pinstriped suit splashed in garish shades ranging from plum purple to neon yellow to a saturated shade of pink that made him nauseous. What might have been heels, or flats, or sandals, equally irritating in color-scheme adorned their feet, which rocked back and forth as they swayed down from a modern-esc door above him, teetering but somehow never falling, ignoring gravity and the weight of earth, defying all physics. And logic, too, considering there’s no conceivable way a door could’ve, should’ve been above him, leaving a small gape of air where'd previously been soil.

Mike opened his mouth, suddenly desperate for oxygen, but instead began to cough. Chunks of thick, wet mud came up, sliding down his chin, warm against his skin. Seeing this, the being above him pursed their lips.

“Well, that won’t do at all.” With a wave of their long, multi-colored nails the weight in his lungs, esophagus, and tongue vanished. Mike continued to cough, the abrupt emptiness jarring and his body unable to cope. An ugly hacking filled the space, accompanied by the musical hum resonating from the open door.

If he wasn’t too busy trying to chuck a lung, Mike might’ve noted the music sounded like Beyoncé.

“My name is Helen, pleasure to finally meet you Michael Crew. I can’t say these are the best circumstances, but better late than never, I suppose!”

Around him, The Buried pulsed, a beating heart...No, a warning drum. It’s laughter stopped, replaced with a threatening rumble as dust began to fall from the...ceiling? Well, the area around the doorway, above him. Seems like it didn’t appreciate The Spiral interrupting its meal.

Helen giggled again, apparently amused by the way their surroundings began to violently shake. “Well, that’s our cue.”

And with inhuman strength, they- she?- pulled Mike up and out of his grave and into her arms.

Clay gone from his eyes, mud gone from his throat, nothing stopped his tears this time around, trailing lines down his pale cheeks.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

Relief? Horror?

Who knew.

Certainly not Mike.

Dirt boiled up from where he’d laid, racing towards them, but Helen hummed, swivelled around, and simply walked away. The door slammed shut behind her.

With surprising gentleness, Helen lay him down. The plush carpet was soft below his palm, his other hand gripping his chest as if it could help his organs relearn function, and the texture, one he’d forgotten, one he never thought he’d feel again, sent him into another fit of silent tears.

He was out.

Something came.

He was fucking out.

“Are you okay, Michael Crew?” Helen was peering down at him, head tilted to the side like a bird, faux concern plastered across her face. Through his tears, he finally noticed how tall she was. Inhumanly so. Her spine stretching at least seven feet high, looming over his crumpled form. Her hands were inhuman, too. Large, her fingers not just spindly as he thought before, but knife-like claws jutting from bone-y hands the size of her torso.
One of the monster-hands reached down to him, then paused, hesitant. “Anything I can do to help?”

His hacking cough had turned to wheezing gasps, as he finally tasted air that wasn’t tinged with silt and grit and must. Wait. Had he even been breathing while buried? There’s no way he’d enough oxygen, the dirt was packed...fuck, he can’t believe he’s out. He can’t believe he’d been saved. It was unreal. And to be saved by The Spiral- well, Helen, but they were definitely affiliated with the entity- of all things.
Of course, saved was relative, as Mike was sure he’d merely traded out one death for another, but. He wasn’t buried. And death in these...corridors was assuredly better than the press of The Buried.

At least he’d die free.

“Michael?” Oh. Yeah. Helen. He should...he should probably respond…

“...I-It’s,” He wheezed. Jesus, his voice is rough. Guess that’s what happens when you don’t use it for however long. It becomes sandpaper. “It’s Mike.”

“Oh! Sorry then, Mike! ...Are you okay?”

Was he okay? He wasn’t...he really didn’t know. He’d been shot, buried alive, almost eaten by the ground, and then rescued by his childhood monster- cousin of his childhood monster? Fuck. It was, quite frankly, a whole fucking lot. He’s having a hard time processing the simple feeling of something that wasn’t dirt. Let alone process his own emotions. He’s exhausted, drained in a bone-deep way, and though he’s thankful she’d removed the dirt, he felt unsettlingly hollow. Like someone had taken a spoon and scooped him empty. But. He’s crying, breathing, feeling; he’s doing things he’d given up on ever doing again. Helen’s the first voice he’d heard in ages. The first touch he’d felt in ages.

Was he okay?

No.

But he wasn’t buried, so it would have to do.

“Where...are we?”

Mike, tears slowing, looked around at his new surroundings. Like Helen, the corridors were difficult to focus on, impossible in architecture and garishly decorated. They had a modern appeal, though. Similar to the flats and houses he saw in magazines, if said flats and houses had been distorted through a fun-house mirror then colored by an artist high on LSD. They were both nothing & completely alike to the corridors in his teenaged dreams; the dreams he’d have when the Lichtenburg figure got too close. Music still echoed through the hall, coming from who-knows-where, and the perfume permeated the air. Helen’s? Or simply the corridor itself?

Who cared?

“We’re in my corridors- they used to be Michael’s-not you Michael, different Michael- But they’re mine now that I am Helen.”

Right. Sure. He’d heard weirder explanations before, and as mentioned, he wasn’t in a place to question it.

Silence settled between the two, music and wheezing aside, and Mike’s eyes drifted shut. As wonderful as it was to see something other than dirt or darkness, the eclectic nature of the hall and Helen, herself, was overstimulating.

Slumped against the wall of The Spiral, Helen hovering above, that Mike finally succumbed to his exhaustion, fast asleep.

The Distortion
, now known as Helen, frowned down at her guest.

But she did not know him.

Not really~

So, she went where she knew

It wasn’t polite to ignore a caller, after all!

Who turned out to be in some trouble,

lodged in dirt as he was.

So many places

to put doors where there should not be doors

The part of her that was still reluctant to let
go of Helen Richardson was concerned.
Her guest did not

In fact.

Covered head-to-toe in dirt.

Relief is good!

So’s fear!

Guilty
&
Helen didn’t like

It made her feel like a monster.
But!

& that was fun!!!

Helen was a fun monster, even if she still sometimes felt human.

ever
closer

Mike was like her
A little.
He wasn’t as her as she was,
but,
he wasn’t not.
He was changing, too.

Whether that was because of her connection to him,

But he was.

& giddy~
Jon didn’t want

which flooded the Helen in her with

Talking to Jon made Helen feel better.
Even if
She was more than Helen

She had hoped he would still want to talk.

Helen was also worried.
For Mike.

Helen’s parents had comforted her
when Helen cried!

The Distortion liked Helen’s parents more.

she wondered if they missed
her

&

to comfort him...

He was like them
Marked by the whole-r part of them

Mike a fingerprint!
Swirling &

She could see
his Scar

It was wonderful!

on

& on

& on!!!

Never-ending like the one she could tell he belonged to.
Though, that connection was fractured

faded like an old Polaroid picture

She should get one!
She’d love to see

But that’s the point,

Isn’t it?

Maybe it’d cheer him up!

Of course he wouldn’t, he was buried alive-

So, Maybe Later Then.

Helen was

her

How would she help Mike be Mike?

If she still hadn’t

as

Well, she’d find a way!

Humming, Helen gently scooped Mike from the floor.

Her carpets were fluffy.

Helen never sold dirty houses.

Her sandals slapping
the carpet in tune to

What? If she was going to
Be a mass of halls
&

She was going to at least have
a decent music selection.

so

in that regard.

They were never meant to be Michael Shelley…

Helen

Even if she hurt Sometimes Not like Michael

Ducking through a classy, empty window frame, Helen placed Mike down on a bed.
The bed was soft

But definitely more comfortable.

She hoped it
could comfort him

She took out her camera, smiling,
& left

There was a garden near Helen’s old flat
Overflowing with gorgeous
multicolored flowers

Helen would talk to Mike when he was awake.

She’d comfort him then.

Mike didn’t expect to wake up.

Really, he was surprised to find himself rubbing sleep from his eyes, as opposed to finally meeting The End. He’d expected The Spiral- or whatever Helen was- to stab him the minute he’d conked out. He had offered it his life, after all.

But here he was, very much alive as far as he could tell, unstabbed and blinking groggy up at a bubblegum pink ceiling fan. Watching as it spun counterclockwise, before turning around to spin back the opposite faster, then somehow sinking up into the ceiling itself, never slowing.

At least he hadn’t woken to dirt.

With a soft groan, he pushed himself up and into a sitting position in the...bed? When had he...why was he in a bed? A sparkling, rainbow quilt sat heavy over his legs. A pressure not dissimilar to the weight of the dirt.
Abruptly, Mike felt too crowded, cloyed by the blankets draped over him; he was quick to throw them off, letting them pool on the carpet, sucking air in frantic gulps, as if it’d be gone any second and he’d be back to suffocating.

His mouth tasted like iron and clay.

Quilt banished to the floor, Mike settled back down into the bed. His limbs were heavy, like they’d been strapped to metal weights while he was asleep. Or perhaps that was atrophy, claiming him while he was crushed. Too immobile to do a damn thing as his body resorted to eating itself to keep him alive, when he should’ve died long before it could.

If he wasn’t an avatar, he knows he wouldn’t have survived that gunshot. It was smack in the middle of his chest, a hair's width from his heart. That should’ve killed him. It hadn’t. And he’d been buried. And he’d choked.

A muted throb resonated through his chest. As if thinking about his old injury summoned it back. And all at once, Mike needed to see it. He needed proof it had happened. That it hadn’t just been The Buried, digging a hole into his heart. Giving itself better access to his insides, more room to pack its dirt.

Pulling his shirt off was a struggle, he’ll admit, positioned as he was and in no state to push himself back up again. But he managed. And all too soon he was staring down at his chest. At his scar, the one he’d spent his whole life hiding under layers of fabric, as if, if no one could see it, it didn’t exist. It thrummed now. Pulsing faint white light. Alive. Like lightning.

Mike felt sick.

It wasn’t the only new addition to his chest though. The healed bullet hole was there, too. But it didn’t look like a mere bullet wound. No, it dipped down, a tiny sinkhole in his skin, scar-tissue a deep, ugly purple. Too close to the color of the earth for him to be comfortable. He touched his new scar faintly, fingertips barely brushing the rough skin. It was warm to the touch. Warm as mud.

This time, Mike was sick.

Agonized heaving filled the room as he leaned over the side of the bed, his empty stomach producing nothing but bile tinged brown.

Once his sick fit died down, leaving him shaking and shuddering and coated in a thin layer of sweat, Mike curled into himself, squeezing his eyes shut. His shirt had fallen, joining the blankets on the floor, and he lacked the energy to reach it. He doubted he had the energy to wrestle it back on his back, anyways. So, he squeezed his eyes tight and brought his knees towards his head, as he tried to forget what he saw.

What he was, now.

Something new.

In the dirt, he’d sunk into denial. Told himself he couldn’t feel the transformation he was going through, disconnected from his god. Told himself the shock he’d gotten when The Spiral answered was nothing more than metaphorical.

He knew it was a lie.

Knew whatever change he was going through, he wasn’t done yet. He could feel it clawing its way through his bones, twirling pirouettes around his muscles, boiling his blood. His connection to The Vast was still weak, but…but it was still there. Whatever was happening to him, it hadn’t let him snap completely. In fact, it’s probably what was holding him together.

That didn’t make him less afraid.

But he could do nothing but wait. Wait and see his suffering through. Wait and see if Helen would kill him. Wait and see what he’d become.

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Mike waited.

Skip in her step, Helen
hopped
through her door.

she didn’t want to scrat
ch
them!-

Way too large to have come from her camera.

As soon as she’d shut the door behind her, she knew.

Mike was awake!

Helen was all at once again
worried &
excited.

in

& this guest was sad & hurt
still

She’d go talk to
him now.

Maybe he’d like a picture?
Helen had always liked Polaroid pictures
& she was
cheerful now
holding them!

Opening the door

Helen giggles.

Then she sees Mike

His scar is

different since she last saw it

lighting flashes under his flesh

& he is wrapped up into himself
smaller
,somehow, then he was in the dirt.
Small like a

He isn’t really all that old

It would be rude to ask, & Helen prides herself on
having impeccable customer service.

He

is looking at her!

“...”

“...”

“...Wha-“ A cough, “What?”

“At what?”

“...”

“...Are you going to kill me?”

“I,” Biting his lip, looking away,
“I offered my life to The Spiral.
You came.”

“Why?”

“...”

Oh.

He knew, didn’t want to acknowledge, but…

It’s different having it confirmed by Helen, one of The Spiral’s own.

Vertigo hadn’t returned to him.

Something else ran through him, instead.

He was afraid to see what his domain looked like now, assuming he still had one. Was he even still an avatar? Or something else? What was he?

“Mike?”

He hunched back into himself, fingernails marking crescent moons into his elbows. He’d have to just...deal with it. He’d prayed. He’d offered. He was out. Anything was better than the dirt, than becoming dirt, he’d told himself that and it was true. So why was he still afraid? Was it because The Spiral had haunted him first, driven him to near-suicidal risks? Was it the uncertainty of what came next, what his future held, or was it the fact that he now had a future in the first place?

Michael Crew expected to die. He hadn’t. He hadn’t died. So why was he afraid?

“Would you like a picture?”

Huh?

Sure enough, Helen held a picture out to him, carefully balanced between two of her fingers. Confused, anxious, overwhelmed as he was, Mike slid it from her silently.

The comically oversized Polaroid depicted what could’ve been either an aggressively up-close rose, the petals spiraling down into themselves- what did he expect?- or a zoomed out picture of a blood-red bedsheets, arranged artfully. It hurt to look at, but again, what did he expect???

If he ignored the ache behind his eyes, it was quite a lovely picture.

But that may just be his sudden proclivity to anything that wasn’t dirt, soil, or mud.

Why had she given this to him?

Because he was, apparently, like her?

Mike looked up from the photo, nervous bafflement clear on his face. Helen beamed back at him- which is when he saw the camera swinging around her neck.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s...yeah, it’s nice.”

“Wonderful! They’re for my heart, Michael- the one who isn’t you- kept the place dreadfully drab, but if you like it, you can keep that one?”

Helen held the same hesitation he’d seen in her earlier. Before he thought she was trying to trick him, and maybe she was, but after talking to her proper, he felt, if possible, more confused. That was The Spiral’s point, though. Still. Something in the curve of her form made Mike tentative to refuse her...gift.

Mike could do nothing here but wait. What was there to lose when you were little more than a hollowed shell of a person...an avatar? When you’d lost yourself long ago?

“Thank you.”

The corners of Helen’s mouth twist upwards again, like they had when she’d freed him, and she claps her hands, ringing like a jostled bag of bones. The other pictures in her grasp somehow avoid being sliced, which is honestly impressive.

Unsure of what else to do, to say, Mike looked back down at the Polaroid. Trailed it’s curves with his eyes, let himself become lost in it. Sunk back into the mattress and tried to ignore how it hugged him.

He was out.

He heard Helen begin to flit about the room, humming again her discordant tune. Thank god she didn’t question his silence. Their conversation, brief as it was, drained him of what vigor he regained while conscious- not like he’d gained much in his mute panic.

But.

It was nice, not being alone.

The room she left Mike in was a mess.

It wouldn’t be polite to leave it
like this! So, with a flick of her wrist, Helen began to remodel. Banishing the bile

from the floor & piling the neatly folded quilt into a drawer which
had always been there


of course

She thinks he is feeling better

Chartreuse frames would
look stunning > here!
Straight from a magazine!

It is instinct.

He still needed rest,
she could tell.

Eventually

talk

To the best of her
abil
ity

Reality was funny!
Lying to itself