Work Text:
SAID TO YOU, WHY DID YOU DO IT
TOUCH THE GLASS, I FEEL YOU THROUGH IT
AGAINST THE WALL, WITH THE BRACELETS ON
YOU LOOK BIZARRE IN THE APRICOT
Space Ghost Coast To Coast, a song in Glass Animal’s new album Dreamland, was one of Michael’s new favourites. It had a great bassline, syncopation that seemed like you could naturally follow along, and just a hint of anger-- but not enough to warrant being cruel.
Though, that cruelty is something that Michael, admittedly, is wishing for here.
What he felt, accompanied by the reverberated lyrics of the song he so enjoyed in his downtime, was the unmistakeable roughness of concrete against his shoulder. Tossed haphazardly from a good distance away, he tumbled and rolled and skidded along the pavement, before stopping politely on his back. Michael took a moment to blink deeply, inhaling through his nose, trying to shake the shock.
Unfortunately, whatever was chasing him didn’t seem to participate in that very same time out.
YOU THINK THAT YOU’RE SPACE GHOST
YOU’RE WANTED COAST TO COAST (TO COAST TO COAST TO C-)
God save the Michael Mell. The music playing in the streets felt like it was swimming around him, almost misty and souplike as it mixed and folded syllables. He felt his arms and shoulders lift and fall almost like echoes. Maybe it was a new sore pain that stabbed through him that caused that feeling. But as he stands up-- a little off balance, yet unscathed-- that option quickly becomes irrelevant.
No time to waste though, as Michaels miraculous recovery falls to the wayside of his focus. Which, of course, is the unnamed important thing in the backpack that does not belong to him. The bag’s weight sat focused on his upper shoulders, despite the straps being rather loose. Had he known any better, he would have guessed the bag was actually empty. Its a good thing then that he knows better.
Whatever is chasing him seems to have gotten closer, even though Michael’s attention had been more or less on the perpetrator the entire time. A split second of distraction, and the small horde of enemy (agents? Soldiers? Students? aliens?) had begun to approach faster than Michael had expected them to.
FUCK THAT SHIT (SHIT SHIT SHIT) NOW I GO
MY WAY AND YOU GO Y-
Quick, thinks Michael. To the alleyway. They will never find him in the alleyway. Enemy entities can’t find you in THIS alleyway. That’s common knowledge. Its essential common knowledge now, too. Hes very thankful that its only surfaced now, as opposed to the earlier times he could have used that information. But he has to move quick, or else he’ll lose his window of opportunity.
And its almost like a single step, movement smeared haphazardly across the floor that brings him to his location. But that sort of thing didn’t matter to Michael. Right now, it seemed normal. Because it was normal.
Now, the cold cobblestone wall stabbed into his bare shoulders as he waited out the enemies, who miraculously passed by his oh-so-convenient hiding spot. Phew, thought Michael. That was a close one. Still leaning on the wall, he pulled the backpack from off his shoulders. In his hands it was heavy, as though it was full of thick papers and documents. Much heavier than it had been on his shoulders.
And, oddly enough, out of all the immediate events, this is what makes Michael confused. It’s a faint confusion, a logical error that didn’t seem to have an immediate solution for itself. What kind of thing is heavier in his hands than it is on his back?
MY WAY AND YOU GO YOURS- MY WAY AND YOU GO- FUCK THAT SHIT-
Hang on. That’s not how Space Ghost Coast To Coast by Glass Animals goes. It certainly doesn’t… fold in on itself like that. And why is this half-futuristic, half-rustic cottagecore street playing Glass Animals anyways? On the street speaker system?
It was then that Michael decided to check the time on his phone, kept in his back pocket, in pristine condition despite the scuffle from earlier.
The time was exactly 5:4E-Twen57even in the afternoon.
Ohhhhhhhhhh.
Now, you may not KNOW this, but all throughout Michael Mell’s childhood, he had found himself victim to many an unwanted nightmare. Nothing really horrifying (vaccum cleaners, zombie pokemon, the French-Canadian kids cartoon Toupie and Binoo), but certainly enough to be a disturbance to his sleep cycle at a young age. So, Michael eventually learned how to tell reality from unreality when he found himself in an outstandingly unrealistic situation. Real simple things-- count your fingers, check the time, look at your reflection (though he wasn’t a fan of that last one). And in this particular case, checking the time was a good enough indicator to shatter the illusion of tension.
Had you been an observer within this dream, you would have seen Michael Mell, hiding and cowering in fear from an unfamiliar enemy. But in a single, insignificant moment-- all that fear was gone.
How weird.
All things considered, this dream had been fairly cool. Hell- he was tossed 2 blocks down a street and got up without a scratch. He was playing messenger for unknown documents of deeply essential importance. There was a whole ALIEN ARMY after him. Even Glass Animals was playing. Yes, thought Michael, patting his own subconscious on the back. This really was a banger. Seriously-- he would have had trouble thinking of this one even if he was awake. Aw man, you know what this would make for? This would make for an INCREDIBLE DnD setting, don’tcha think? A One-shot at LEAST, but can you imagine a town where two time periods have been mashed together by some sort of alien time machine, and the aliens are trying to colonize both at the same time?
Michael’s train of thought continued pattering along, as he pulled the straps back over his shoulders, the weight of the items inside lifting from his hands as the bag slipped onto his back. He hadn’t looked into the bag. The bag’s contents didn’t ACTUALLY matter, it was just the fact that the bag’s contents WERE important. Important enough for the dream aliens (Aliens, thats what Michaels semi-conscious had now decided on) to continue pursuing him.
And pursue him they did! It was too good of a set-up to go to waste, honestly. Michael’s never been one for meditation or mindfulness or the such, but he could balance his dreams in order to keep a really good one going. And this one certainly fit the bill.
HEY!
Michael’s white sneakers hit the brick floor, whisking him down the cobblestone pavement path. The Combine foot-soldiers (Combine? Half-Life Combine? Nice.) split off and leaked into alleyways, immediately disobeying the rule of the illogically safe crevice that Michael had hid himself in moments before. Run, Michael, run!!
The chase spilled out into a large courtyard town square roundabout, dumping Michael into a swath of open space. Nearby was a convenience store, an old-timey cobbler, and Middleborough High. Eugh-- even in his dreams, school looms. Then again, what good high school action adventure movie doesn’t have a scene where our heroes hide inside of their former school, piling up a barricade while they think of the spunky plan that’ll drive off their assailants.
A bullet zings by Michael’s ear (holy shit) as he's brought back to the situation at hand. Right! Chase scene! A tall, nondescript building phased into his attention span. Perfect for a sudden grappling hook! With a swift motion and half a wish, Michael had grappled his way to the top of the building, perched a few meters back, Spider-Man style. He was enjoying this dream, even if the beginning was a little rough. He can’t complain though, worse things have happened, inside and outside of dreams.
After waiting a few moments to ensure he wasn’t being immediately followed by some crazy death-defying climbers (he wasn’t), Michael leaned over the edge of the building, watching the little dudes running around, combing the area for any sign of his presence. He has to admit, even though they’re a formidable foe-- they’re pretty dumb. God only knows how they managed to subjugate the universe.
As the crowd of soldiers began to continue their search elsewhere, however, something happened to catch Michael’s eye. It was the kind of thing that was supposed to catch his eye. The kind of thing that his eye was forced to catch.
Near the doors of Middleborough was a lingering soldier, who, once the coast was clear, removed his strange, ridged mask--
To reveal Jeremy underneath it.
Michael’s mouth slipped open a touch in disbelief. Now this is an interesting plot twist. Jeremy was a common enough occurrence in his dreams. After all, they truly were the best of friends. Despite previous arguments between them, little disagreements, they always found their way through it. Even despite-
Michael’s jaw sets a little as he watches Jeremy, who grips the sides of his mask tightly. He's looking around with an apt nervousness, a hint of desperation, almost like he's waiting for someone. Quite obviously, given the context, that someone is Michael. Jeremy doesn’t notice him on the top of the building across from the square, instead slipping the mask under his arm while he swiftly yanks the front door of the school open (in a way that the real school door would open).
The window of the door seemed to slip in reality, almost a blurry smear on the inside of the glass. The window from the outside seemed to be clear, that the opposite side was unobstructed, albeit tinted dark. But as Jeremy moved past it, the indecisive patch of being on the back of the window shifted, finally settling on an image to display. The heavy door began to slowly close, but was stopped suddenly, almost as though a doorstopper had been suddenly wedged underneath it.
There was a lambda on the back of the window. The mark of the rebellion in Half-Life 2, the lure of plot and adventure and narrative. To see Jeremy walk into the school, just under the nose of the enemy, unknowingly leaving the door wide open for him? Now that seems like the next place to go.
In the way that dreams do, Michael stood on the ledge of the building, the coast clear. Inexplicably so, he found himself drifting to the floor harmlessly, while still landing with sudden force. Though, similar to how the mechanics of his earlier impossible movement didn’t bother him, this act wasn’t on the forefront of his mind. He stared at the open door, at the symbol painted upon it. That’s the next place to go, it seems. That’s where he wants to go, right?
He marches towards the school, hands balled into fists. The back of his throat and the roof of his mouth become tacky, dry as he passes the threshold of the doorframe. Like a video game, the city streets that he had left behind fade away from existence, slipping back into the unseen parts of his psyche. The door behind him closes with a soft click, and Michael doesn’t care to look back. After all, there is a mission to be pursued, a Jeremy to be reunited with, and presumably, an adventure to be completed.
(What Michael did not see, however, was the image of the lambda blipping out of existence, leaving behind a plain, untampered door.)
The dryness in the back of his palette remained, the air moving through his nose dry and swift. It… was different in the school. Outside it was brisk, and warm, and lively and dangerous all the same. The school was dim, yet illuminated. Dusty, yet clean. The change in pace took Michael aback, almost feeling… off-put.
The rectangular, fluorescent lights in the ceiling were all off, yet the boarded up windows of the hallways still betrayed far too much light than they should have. The hallways were dim, yet Michael could see with perfect clarity all the way to the end of the room. A cold grey swath of dust lingered in the still air, uniform in shape and size and density. It refused to budge by Michael’s movement, didn’t fade when his now-tense breath pushed it.
This new setting seemed like it wasn’t from the scene prior. No, these particles had to be from something else, gleaned from another piece of media that his brain had latched onto in the waking hours. Maybe it was Stranger Things. Maybe that was it, yeah. It had to be something else, obviously.
Though, as Michael wipes his hands down the front of his sweater, tossing a cautious look behind him at the closed food, he hopes with an unplaceable discomfort that this scenery is indeed from some fiction. Some action that can be solved. Cause it’s a dream. It’s just a dream.
A sudden, steely clunk brings Michael back from whatever hazy confusion he had just been in, as he snaps his head upwards to look instinctually for the source of the sound, his mouth agape while he breathes and holds. A further pair of steel doors had been flung open by Jeremy, now a little more careless as he seems to be away from the prying eye of the Combine patrol outside (though, he still doesn’t look back to acknowledge Michael). Jeremy slipped again through the doors, out of sight.
Michael opens his mouth to call after him. He goes to speak, but his throat is dry and groggy-- it burns a little. A hand whips up to his throat, to feel for any sort of obstruction or topical sore, but, nothing seems to be there. He takes another deep breath through his throat as he braces, pursuing Jeremy again with a bit more intensity. Michael catches the still-closing doors with his free hand, leaning into the doorway into the school’s Cafetorium.
He clears his throat, and speaks groggily, yet with force.
“--Jeremy!”
His word bounces through the large, circular lobby, far more than it would in the real place. Its almost as though the sluggish, grey air amplified it, that the only vibrancy seemed to be so much louder than its slow, cold, dead surroundings. Michael notices this-- how the rest of the school seems to be entirely in greyscale. How Jeremy’s mop of shaggy brown hair sticks out against the concrete-grey walls, against the lingering swaths of dust. How his red, patch covered hoodie (when… when did he put that on?) felt like a flare against the dull environment.
He took a deep breath as he closed the door behind him, offering no metallic sound of agreement. But the dust filled his nose, gathering suddenly in his mouth. He chokes, and coughs, as dark grey particles spark out from his mouth and nose. They drift back upwards to where they sat in the air.
…Something is wrong.
This… isn’t some adventure anymore, at least he doesn’t think it is. An adventure wouldn’t rake dry dust through his throat, stop him from yelling. He doesn’t know what this is anymore, but he knows one thing. He still needs to reach Jeremy.
Another loud click as Jeremy pulls open the door to the Drama room from across the Cafetorium. He stands there, with his armored back to Michael, who wastes no time in pursuing him. Michael breaks into a jog, a bit of a desperate one-- which quickly becomes a sprint. He isn’t about to waste the opportunity of stillness that Jeremy is providing.
With his back still turned, he opens the door further into the pitch black Drama room, as the armor sloughs off of his back and shoulders. A long, bright cardigan folds out from underneath, sitting slouched on his shoulders as it always does. His knuckles turn pale as he grips the door handle, slipping into the room just as Michael reaches him. Jeremy closes the door behind him-- which makes Michael exclaim in frustration.
“Gah-- Why are you making this so difficult, Jeremy-!”
The small porthole window into the Drama room didn't betray any scene to Michael, not that he was looking. But twisting the doorknob, the darkened window would soon be revealed as a lie.
Michael pulled the door open hard as he forced himself in, it was far heavier than it looked. Sudden WAVES of heat peeled out from inside the room, scalding his eyes and forcing him to look away, shielding his face. The door slammed shut behind him, the world outside of the room crumbling away into nothingness-- but that was truly the least of his concerns.
He willed himself to peer past his raised forearm, squinting at the impossibly bright scene in front of him, trying to discern what he was seeing. He almost wished he hadn’t.
Jeremy was standing, back turned to Michael, in front of a pond of bright orange lava that had filled the Drama room, all the way up to the unburning wooden stage. It popped and boiled and hissed, yet Jeremy seemed unaffected by this. Like it wasn’t there. Like it wasn’t real.
Like it was a video game.
Michael’s words dried up in his throat, burnt to ash by the heat. He squinted past the glare on his glasses at the stage, they weren’t alone.
There was Christine here, too. She was on the stage, in her costume from Halloween. A cheap, frilly princess gown. She, too, stood still. Her face was plain. Her face-- wasn’t there.
“...Jeremy.” He tried to get his attention. This was weird.
Jeremy remained un-turning. Jeremy walked forward into the burning magma. The hiss of his shoes evaporating was enough to send Michael’s heart hammering against his ribcage. The next step, one by one, sank Jeremy deeper and deeper into the lava, unphased.
It was the smell of burning flesh that really scared Michael. This wasn’t a good dream anymore.
“JEREMY--!” He blurted out, ignoring the heat for a moment to run to the edge of the pool, to try and reach out and grab his shoulders before they went under. A bubble of lava popped and singed Michael’s hand, forcing him to pull back. He stared in horror as his friend sank further.
Its just a dream. It’s a nightmare, remember? It’s just a dream, you can just-- stop dreaming this part. You’ve done this before. Just change the lava. Just change the scene, just-- just CHANGE IT!
Michael winced his eyes shut, willing in a panic to wake up, or to change the lava into something else, or to make Jeremy safe.
…The heat faded. The blinding, searing light faded, he could see the room dim from behind his closed eyelids. Bringing his arms down, he dared to open his eyes.
Maybe the lava would have been better, actually.
The room, the floor, was covered in pitch black, contorted silhouettes. Featureless faces, arching broken backs, a tangled knot of legs gathered across the floor like roots. But the worst part was the ARMS. Where the lava was, arms now were. Grabbing and writing and twitching and pulling and yanking and twisting and bending and cracking and sinking Jeremy underneath all the same. The cold cyan light that shone from beneath them all was dimmer than the fire of the lava. Of the metaphor.
Michael stepped back as though the mass in front of him was poison. His back immediately found the wall, as his arms spread out to steady himself, as his-- right hand felt wet. His fingers felt wet and cold and sticky, his head snapped to look at what he had touched, at what was touching him--
A small bottle of red fluid had clipped through his hand, like a video game. He snatched his hand close to his chest, hyperventilating. His other hand wrenched around the plastic, pulling as hard as he could to remove the bottle from around his fingers. He whimpered as the mass writhed silently, as his gasps finally gave way to the bottle coming loose into his other hand. He clutches it tight to his chest, looking up at the horrible mass with welling tears in his eyes.
Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. Christine was looking down at the front of the stage, and so, too, did Michael.
Jeremy’s hand shot up from inside the mass, covered in bright blue lines, grabbing onto the edge of the stage.
“AUGH--” Michael shrieked, his arms snapping upwards to cover his face, to block out the scene. He fell into a crouch, using his shoulders to protect himself, cradling the bottle as close as he could. He’s had enough now, just wake him up, just wake up just wake--
RRRIIIIIINNNNGGG!
The school bell. It was piercing and horrible and sliced through the silence. Michael leapt to his feet, startled, hyperventilating. He wasn’t in the drama room anymore, he’s in the-- the hallway. The school isn’t grey and dusty anymore, its colourful and bright and-- it's too saturated, too crowded, too LOUD--
The crowd of bustling students only parted to make room for him and the person standing in front of him. Michael can only stare ahead, watching in fixated panic.
Richard Goranski stood in front of him, still, faceless.
Michael stared back, plain and unhidable tears sliding down his face, unfitting for his expression of stunned silence. He blinks, and the sound of crowds is gone. He’s at the mall, the sound of people further away, the area fuzzy at the corners, the stores all nameless and smudged.
Where Rich was, Brooke and Chloe stood. Faceless. Still.
Again, he closes his eyes shut, he WRENCHES them shut, he shakes his head and squeezes the tears from his eyes. He opens them again to the gym, to the plain and empty sunset school gym, Jake with his crutches still and cold and lifeless and faceless and--
Then it was Jenna, then it was Jenna and she was plain too, holding a bottle at a locker in an empty hallway. There was a light that glowed from behind her featureless face. It highlighted the shadows of her skull.
Michael shouted again, staggering back. He pressed his fists to the sides of his head, screaming in fear and concern and overwhelm. This was-- this was horrible. He knew what this dream was, he KNEW what it meant, he wasn’t about to let go of this bottle no matter how much his brain tried to SCARE him. He closes his eyes and staggers back and--
The backs of his legs hit the side of a cold bathtub. His eyes snap open again, and he’s wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt. The sounds of a distant party thump through the walls.
Great. A breath. Take a breath, man. Even though this moment wasn’t… the nicest, he still went to the bathroom to hide, and recover. It’s still a place to take a breath. He sits on the edge of the tub, hanging his head, taking shuddering and unstable breaths. After a few still seconds, he takes his free hand to remove his glasses, letting droplets of tears fall from his eyes onto the tile, where they splattered onto his socks. He lays the glasses next to him and wipes his eyes, not daring to let go of the bottle with his other hand. He stays there for a few minutes, catching his breath, crying just a bit.
…okay. Okay.
It’s just a dream. It’s a bad, bad dream. But he’s been through worse. He can finish it.
He picks up his glasses, flicking the wet tears off the lenses, pushing them back onto his face. He stands up from the bathtub, as a single tiny knock on the door catches his attention. He doesn’t want to answer. His hand reaches to shove the bottle into the pocket of his red hoodie-- who’s warmth suddenly appears on his shoulders, who’s pocket he can now access.
Another knock. He doesn’t care, as he takes a few steps towards the mirror. Remember how to tell your brain you’re just dreaming? You look at your hands, you check the time.
You look at your reflection.
Michael stares up at the mirror, clutching the sink.
His reflection stares back, faceless.
The knocking at the door begins to speed up, matching his heartbeat.
He pulls the bottle out of his pocket, it was full. It was full and you only needed one drop to kill a Squip. This is just a dream, it’s just a dream, but he needed this to save Jeremy. As long as there was some left, it would be okay. It would be okay. It’s just a dream its just a dream its just a dream it
He wrenches the bottle open and pushes it to his lips, holding his breath and taking a deep swig. His reflection does not.
All at once, the scene became deathly silent. His lungs filled again as he pulled the bottle away, his spit and tears mixing with the stale soda, his shaking hand re-capping it, wiping his mouth. He kept heaving deep breaths, as the room around him began to… fade. Slowly, it was fading to black. Into dark grey dust. Michael’s breathing slowed, but his guard was still up. It was all falling to darkness.
Everything but his reflection. His reflection, who began to change into a pitch black silhouette, gripping its own head, staggering back and digging its nails into its scalp, shaking back and forth, contorting and changing, until-
Michael was standing in a void made of shattered glass. He swiveled around to look at his new surroundings, still with that terror and guard. The space was filled with endless enormous shards of glass, drifting through the silent air, like… dust. The glass was this deep, deep… red.
He wasn’t alone, as he stood on the biggest piece, like a large ice floe in the middle of the ocean. He felt something facing him from behind. He gripped his fist around the bottle of Mountain Dew Red, and turned to face his assailant.
There was someone there. It was Jeremy, covered in those blue lines, those swirling jagged patterns. Faceless still. Michael didn’t like this apparition, but he has no choice but to face it.
“Who are you.” He speaks, overcoming the creak in his throat.
“You keep taking the-- the appearance of people I know. That’s--” A nervous chuckle. “That’s really not cool, man-! I really wish you didn’t do that. Just tell me what you wanna tell me with your-- your real face! You can obviously shapeshift, just d--”
He clears his throat. “Just drop the act already!”
The assailant tilts its, Jeremy’s, head. It speaks directly into Michael’s mind.
Like it’s telepathic.
[IT'S HARD TO DROP AN ACT WHEN YOU DON'T KNOW HOW]
Jeremy vanishes, his body parts stretching and shrinking and snapping into a different form, into Christine.
[WHEN YOU ONLY EXIST ON A STAGE]
She, too, morphs. Her body fragments and pulls apart to become 4 people. Brooke and Chloe and Jake and Rich.
[FOR THE BENEFIT OF OTHERS]
They stop existing altogether, as Jenna steps beside Michael himself, causing him to flinch and turn to face her. It pauses, thinking for a moment.
[I HAD A PLACE AND A PURPOSE]
[I COULDN’T FULFILL THAT]
[THANKS TO YOU]
Michael’s hands are shaking, gripping the cap of the bottle.
“...Who are you.”
The thing appears in front of Michael now, with his body, his exact appearance. But something is different. This thing, instead of being faceless--
Has a singular, shut eye.
[I AM NO ONE]
[BUT I WAS GOING TO BE SOMEONE]
[YOU TOOK THAT AWAY]
[YOU TOOK ME AWAY]
Michael has opened the bottle now, dropping the cap on the floor. It skitters off the edge of the glass.
The thing stands still, hands in its pockets, with a casual, familiar posture. With familiar headphones over its ears. With familiar patches on its familiar red sweater.
[I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SOMEONE]
It opens its eye. It is red.
“I was supposed to be
you.
”
Michael tipped his head back, and drank every last drop.
Michael sits up suddenly. He shouts in fear as he bolts upright, his legs and arms fumbling to release themselves from his blankets. He grips at his shirt, old and loose and Minecraft in nature. His hand pats the side table desperately in search of glasses, which he shoves onto his face in a hurry. He’s panting noisily, catching his breath, his breath hitching with every few heaves. Michael holds his chest, feeling his lungs fill and lose their air. Deep, slow breaths. Deep, slow, breaths.
It’s okay, Michael.
He looks around the midnight room, his dusty old TV sitting in the corner of the room, three controllers scattered across the floor nearby. His moon-filled window cast a square of light onto the carpeted basement floor, like a forlorn spotlight. Nearby, Rich lay curled up on a stack of beanbags, a comforter wrapped tightly around himself. He’s still asleep.
(Or so Michael thought, as Rich closed his eyes when he heard Michael rousing. After all, it’s a little hard to ignore someone mumbling and shouting in their sleep. A little hard to ignore how familiar that is, what the implications are. But Michael doesn’t need to worry about Rich. Not right now.)
Michael slowly calms. It takes a while, but his breathing slows. At some point, his hand had moved from his chest,
To the back of his neck, at the base of his skull.
A single thought is stuck in his head, the implications sinking in.
The realization that, while he had been pulled away from Jeremy, held down by the cast of the Play, his arms and head restrained by vague limbs-- Who knows what they could have done to him.
He feels a small lump at the base of his skull.
Who knows what could have happened if Jeremy hadn’t shut it all down.