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his claws scrape against the floor under him, his legs pulled close to him in an uneven sitting position. even though the skin of his fingers had all been rubbed away, he kept at the repetitive motion, lines of blood coming in the wake of each, ruddy drag. it was the only thing he had done in what seemed like eons; his muscles burning his exhuastion and his breath shallow and cut.
but still, he continued.
the masked man wasn’t emotional. he wasn’t capable of anything except apathy- it was something he told himself, despite the frequent cracks in his breath, despite the nearly constant pang of something deep within his gut. he wasn’t emotional. he couldn’t feel. he wasn’t allowed to feel. he was porky’s, porky’s one and only, and would only ever be. no feeling, no feeling, no feeling-
the scraping momentarily halted, before going at a pace that was faster than before.
the prison of a cave that surrounded him was suffocating. huddled on a broken island of rock, the deep crevices around him sparked and shuddered with subdued, but headache-inducing light. the uneven, broken walls around the masked man seemed to point at him accusingly, and the ceiling threatened to brush against him if he tried to straighten himself. he didn’t know how long he had been here. days, weeks, months? it went by with no proper passage- a blurry, hazing mess, all while the masked man’s mind drifted in and out of sentience or consciousness.
he was always close to porky. some would say obsessed, even if the masked man himself didn’t know it. perhaps even desperate. an undying loyalty the commander had to his king was unmatched; and even after he had spent so long within the depths of this rotting cave, he was still unwavering. he loved him, he had to, or else.
or else.
his leg twitched involuntarily, his mouth hung open, watching a trail of sticky saliva drip from the edge of his chin. the masked man did not move to clean it. he instead kept at the scraping, kept at the clawing, even when his arms continued to scream for relaxation.
“claus.”
his sight did not waver. as his eyelid fluttered and the hazy visual of the cave disappeared, the masked man would be greeted with the dark blackness of void. in front of him, standing amongst the blackness- a young boy. his hair was soft, a youthful gold to its color. though the sweater he wore was worn, it was clean and soft. instead of the musky smell of the cave, a light breeze would overtake the both of them.
there was a frown on his face. though his eyes were simply white, the commander knew he was staring down at him.
“you don’t have to be sorry.”
the masked man spoke. “i don’t feel sorry.” more saliva spilled down his chin.
the boy began to approach him. his steps were light, ever so silent as the blonde came to a halt in front of the masked man. he didn’t need to look up- he could still see the boy’s face, youthful and sorrowful, a lack of judgement across his expression.
“the blood you spilled has dried. the strings holding you have been broken.” the masked man feels a surge of something within him. he feels the pang of something sharp rake across his chest like a rabid lion’s claws. still, he does not move.
“and yet,” the boy finally crouches down, now sitting on his knees neatly. the masked man feels his hand upon his knee, and with great hesitation, he feels himself pulling away. he pulls away from the blonde, swinging his head to face the other direction. but he can still see him- see his face, see his mournful frown, see his flat chest with calm fridgidness. “you keep yourself here.”
the masked man waits. one, two, three seconds. “porky. he’s here. i know he is. he’s here. i can sense him.”
the boy’s shoulders slump, and for some odd reason, the commander feels that claw of something deep within him. “porky has no bearing on you, claus-”
“that’s not my name.”
“-you’re free of him.” the blonde shifts, moving to where he would he facing the masked man. his eyes are wide, a blank whiteness filling the commander’s gaze. the commander responds with a soft hiss, the tips of his fingers burning.
“i was always free.”
the boy was silent.
“i chose to be the commander.”
the boy blinks.
“i love porky.”
the boy’s fists clench.
something in his posture changes. shoulders tensing, eyes softly narrowing. “do you really?” his voice was soft, and though there was no malice in his tone, the softest hint of annoyance was present. the masked man feels nothing in response, surely- the persistent pang was nothing. nothing at all.
“the bodies that line his trail is long. longer than the winding rivers of the old world, longer than the height of the tallest mountain. the oldest body lining that trail, the first murder he has fully committed…” a pause. the boy’s jaw tightens the smallest bit.
the commander speaks. he doesn’t know why, he can’t place it- but something instictual, something nearly animalistic brings him to shudder and speak in a panicked slur. “it wasn’t his fault.”
it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t his fault, it was mine, it was mine.
the claws go back to scraping.
“he doesn’t need to apologize. i do. i do. i did it- i chose it. i chose to be the commander, i chose because i love him. i love him so much.” i love him so much, the commander thinks, as something in his chest tightens and squeezes until his heart nearly bursts. “he saved me. he saved me, made me perfect. i’m perfect. just like him.”
he doesn’t realize the mania in his voice, doesn’t realize the slack-jawed grin he forces on himself. the haziness in his mind doesn’t allow him to think anything other than apathy, apathy, apathy.
the boy doesn’t speak. not for a long while. he stares- eyes boring into the shuddering form of the commander, watching the slight rock back and forth, watching as he huddled into himself. it was judgement, the masked man was sure of it.
“you’re punishing yourself.” though it was blunt, the voice behind it was still soft. sorrow laced the boy’s gaze, his frown powerful enough to rip the masked man’s chest in two. “you are exactly in his image, just like you say. you were made exactly in his likeness.” he stops, thinking to himself. “and just like him, you are unwilling to accept what has been done.
“claus, please.” the boy’s voice finally wavers, and the smallest pricks of tears shine at the edges of those white, white eyes. “you’ve paid your dues. you’ve long lived the punishment you’ve given yourself. you’re free. please be willing to accept that what you’ve done has happened. that you’re willing to live beyond what you’ve been made to do.”
the commander doesn’t speak. he stays shriveled within his own pocket, scraping at the ground, shoulders tensed, rocking himself in some mockery of a mother’s hug. but, as the seconds drag by like a broken clock, the masked man eventually reaches forward, and a broken, nearly useless voice utters words.
“i’m not claus.”
i love porky, i love porky. i’m his. i’m his. it’s my fault, i did this, i did everything. i deserve this. i deserve this.
tears fall down the boy’s face. he finally moves to stand, giving the masked man one last, final stare. judgement is placed upon him, tightening his throat, weighing his chest down, making his breath hitch.
the boy leaves.
the cave tightens around him. as he rocks back and forth, claws scraping across the rock, the masked man finally lets the pangs of emotion rip into him. memories flood, the visual of a young boy with white eyes forming into a young boy with blue eyes, and an older man with a funny looking hat, a woman with a red dress, and finally, finally-
a boy with orange hair.
claus feels the judgement crawl in his body like bugs, and in a fleeting attempt to call back to the blonde haired boy, he attempts to scream. he attempts to follow after him, but he is unable to move. he attempts to escape the prison he had set himself in, but all he can do is watch blurred as saliva drips down his sunken, rotting jawline.
the end of the world send everything asunder. all aspects of the old world- of tazmily, of new pork city, of the nowhere islands itself, were all sent underground as a new world was formed in its wake.
deeper than the deepest caves, where the once deep underground of the old world lived, is a singular cave system. beneath the jutting islands of rock breathes static and lighting; subdued reminders of the old world’s rampant psi. in the center of these systems sits a singular metal machine. rotund and stainless, it rests as a beacon of resilience. of persistence. of the refusal of repentance and death. near this machine lays the remains of what was once a hero. a tattered, broken red and yellow sweater, with bones criss-crossing this way and that. similar tattered clothes lay near.
and in the middle sits a husk of what was once human. skin rotting and old, all use of limbs shriveled away after eons upon eons. kept alive by forceful machinery and unwanted reincarnation, the loyal commander to king porky waits, as always, in his master’s image.