Work Text:
the person--ghost--in front of him is not ranboo.
tommy knows its not.
he says he remembers everything, says he is stress free and he’s living his best life-- or death? but it's wrong. he says it with a tone that sounds so false. a tone that doesn’t show the emotion that the actual ranboo would. he says he’s happy, but he isn’t chirping or humming or swishing his tail like an happy ranboo would. he’s almost like stone, still and doing nothing.
tommy can’t search his face for any truth to the happy statement either.
big green and red glass eyes stare at him, unblinking. the cardboard box is two toned to match the ghosts skin, tommy tries peering through them but all he sees is darkness obscuring what must have been mangled flesh where eyes should be; flesh that was moving and crawling with bugs or ants or something equally disgusting. blood drips from the wound that led from his neck, to across his chest and only reaching at the end of his torso. it slow and it disappears before it hits the ground, tommy can see the stained sweater--torn with the thread sticking out on all ends. under it was about the same as what he saw when peering through that stupid boxes glass eyes.
thats not ranboo.
he wears the clothes, the skin and body of ranboo--but he isn't. everything is different and wrong and somehow any word that comes out his mouth is laced with cold, freezing anger despite how happy he said he was.
the thing could barely be counted as his ghost.