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the wandering bird strays from the nest. he is smaller, frail. break him. break him. BREAK HIM.
every fiber of the walking corpse’s being calls for the snapping of his bones. rip his flesh. taste blood. they are hungry and it is corrupting them. this human shell they took, born of a tired mind, a lonely mind, looking for a friend, still has its needs, and they find it far too easy to mix up the signals from the brain.
hunger, thirst, lust. they see him, staggering down the hall of the home they have taken as their own, their nest, and the sight of his pathetic form strikes something in them. they chomp their teeth together, click click click, they must be hungry.
“we do not eat friends,” they say aloud to themselves, taking the camera in hand. silly bird thought he could protect himself using these wretched things. silly, silly bird. they crawl on threes, on one hand and two knees, the other holding the camera. they record his fall to the floor, knees first, then hands, just like them. his head whips around at the sound of their voice, speaking the same words as before: “we do not eat friends.”
blue eyes grow wide, and he looks at them, just looks, does not resist when he is taken by the scruff of his shirt. he slumps against the door they drag him to, pin him by his chest, camera in his face.
“You’re my friend?” he mutters, peering up from under his eyelashes. the viewfinder screen crackles, is grey as his flesh, speckled. they must nod, must touch his face, flesh, beautiful flesh face, no paint or plastic. he sighs, warm air, tastes warm.
they stay close. watch. that is what they do. watch and wait for the order to go forth. watch for answers.
he is like that. watching tape after tape. waiting for the answer to unveil itself. it would be admirable if it were not stupid.
beautiful boy, blue, human, precious, in a pathetic sort of way. they want to protect him, almost. they watch him too, and they see someone that could be saved, if they worked hard enough.
why him?
(Familiarity. The same reason they follow the orders of the hooded one. They smell of a friend that they never had, one that belongs to the shell, not them but they want to have this friend, too. Sharing is caring, is it not?)
touching his cheek. leaning in. pressing their nose to his heat, what little he has in this icy room. he moans, under his breath, barely heard. the microphone won’t pick it up.
the camera won’t pick up much of anything at all. the room is shaking, fit to crash in on itself. implosion, a whirlpool out of water. they lift their head and-- they dart back, hide, do what they do best as they kneel down behind an overturned desk and a pile of papers, circles scratched out onto each and every one.
demon does not see him. demon shuffles, acts as though it is bound to the rules of this planet by walking, /strolling/ even, along the hall. it warped itself, reforming in the hopes of fitting into this hallway and it does, barely. this is no accidental meeting, no chance encounter.
it moves past the broken bird. shuffles, really. seems maintaining this smaller form, so average, is difficult on the demon. there is no possible way for it not to have seen the bird there.
yet it does not care about him, no, it moves toward them, step by step, sucking the oxygen from the air. they shudder, close their eyes. they are strong, they are not human like the coughing, shaking boy across the hall. they can survive, have survived starvation, thirst, water thrust and dumped into their lungs--
the camera squeals in protest, and their eyes shoot open from behind their true face.
a pale moon hovers before them, staring them down, an accusation in their harsh eyeless gaze.
‘you do not belong here, I did not plan for you to be here. you must leave.’
of course they are not going anywhere. they have as much right to be here as it does-- more right, actually, they are not a monstrosity of another dimension, breaking into a place that does not belong to it.
they belong here. they were born in this universe, rose from the dirt screaming and tearing at those that stood in their way, defending the shell they emerged from.
the demon does not care.
it takes them, and, caught in the sidelines as is usual for him, he is taken too.
wink, lights, twinkling before their eyes, ripping the vision from their pained eyes. a scream in their ringing ear, not their own, a boy’s, a scared boy looking for answers. they grope into this dark, pushing aside deep shadows, and find a trembling hand.
it does not stop shaking within their grip. the fingers do loop around theirs, hang on, find a steady source of existence inside this nothingness. they exist, he exists, the two are together for what could be years or a single second.
the world springs back to life before the pair. branches slapping against faces, bats singing to announce the double intrusion to the rest of the forest-- dirt rises to meet fragile human forms and threatens to crush their bones to dust. they cry out, using the voice that is not their own, and he lets out a juddering gasp, his pain visceral. it settles into their bones, has them grit these teeth in sympathy. human shells are troublesome little things.
they move up on their elbows, see the boy on his back, trying to breathe again. he finds where his lungs have fallen to within him and inhales the forest’s life, taking it deep.
sprawled on the forest floor, surrounded by brown brittle grass and dead leaves, he is a lost toy, and a sore thumb. a tired doll that is worn away at the painted on eyes and forgotten at last by a careless owner, and the last person on earth who belongs in the middle of these dark trees, in his fucking /pajamas/.
the masked one takes pity. they inch over, take his head in their lap and pet his burning cheek. blue eyes shine, rebelling against the shadows that surround them, and they blink fast, as though to erase the image of the white face hovering overhead.
“Am I dreaming?” the boy asks the one holding his prone body. they must laugh. does he truly believe if he asks a dream-like figure for answers, he will receive them?
funny little bird. they smile at him, stretching the mask lips.
(at least he is here with you. safety in familiarity.)
(he is so lucky you are fond of him, so lucky.)