Chapter Text
Simon's POV:
(TWs: Brief mentions of suicidal ideation and dysphoria)
**************
Simon knows he has trust issues.
They've been told before. By their friends, by the school counselor, by their parents (which– whose fault did they think that was?)
They’re trying to work on it… trying to believe that the hand that feeds them won’t strangle them too. But it’s so. Goddamn. Hard.
It’s part of why he doesn’t want therapy. He likes to think he’s self-aware– which he’s self-aware enough to realize is a very ironic sentence– and he can’t think of anything a therapist could tell him that he doesn't already know. He knows that he’s a shitty person. That’s better than half the assholes out there. He just… doesn’t want to improve.
All this to say. Simon knows he has trust issues.
But still.
When a wall has the words ‘Welcome! Everything is fine’ plastered on it in blaring green letters? Well, he's pretty sure it’s a sign of the exact opposite.
Not for the first time, he glances down at his body, grimacing in distaste at the sunshine yellow dress he’s wearing. And look. This isn't a dream. (He’s pinched himself so many times his arms are turning blue.) But he can’t think of any other explanation as to why he woke up this morning and decided to dress like a kindergarten teacher… a kindergarten teacher who wanted all their students to die of sensory overload, that was.
Actually, he doesn’t know how he even got here in the first place. In the bland beige room, they stick out like a sore thumb– a headlight against the potted ferns and soothing beach paintings that dot the interior.
After shifting uncomfortably in their seat (an equally boring couch) for a few seconds, they decide fuck it and stand, making a beeline towards the door in the far corner.
He yanks hard. Once. Twice. Three times. The doorknob barely moves. Maybe if he had a bobby pin or something he could jimmy the lock... but whoever put him here must have taken his bag. And, he realizes with dawning horror, his binder.
Shit. Simon is a college dropout with a minimum wage job and a lackluster SoundCloud profile… no fucking way they’ll be able to pay for a new one.
On top of that, his dysphoria must be making him hallucinate, because he swears to God his boobs aren't naturally that big. He runs a hand over his chest, grimacing at the feeling of— is that a bra?! Is it padded?!
Get it the fuck off.
"Tits ahoy," he mumbles, before unclasping the offending article and stuffing it as far underneath the couch as he can.
He plops down, dropping his head into his hands. So that’s marginally better. Still doesn’t change the fact that he's been kidnapped and dressed up like a Barbie doll. Still doesn’t change the sinking "wrong" feeling that crawls under their skin like spiders, tearing at them from the inside like an itch they just can’t scratch.
This has to be hell.
So where's everyone else?
As if in response to his thoughts, the door in the far corner clicks unlocked and swings forward to reveal… a figure. A man. In a sweater vest?
”Well, hey there!”
Simon looks him up and down, carefully scanning for any signs of a threat. He seems normal, at least. He could've worked at Simon's school, even– just another white, middle-aged, middle-parted man with glasses. Awkward, a little nerdy. The kind of guy who says "boy howdy" and shows off his WWW figurines any chance he gets. Harmless.
Or at least he should be.
But at this moment, Simon allows his fears to run rampant. Is this a serial killer? A cult leader? A vegan?
…Oh God, is this one of those Pinterest parents who dresses their children all in beige to match the “aesthetic?” And the wall is some kind of minimalist... statement thing?
He’s just beginning to spiral when the (murderous, vegan, Pinterest cult leading) man speaks again- in a lilting Southern(?) accent.
“Simon? You can come on in now.”
Huh. So they respect chosen names in hell. The one upside in a terrible day.
Still, he muses- obediently following the stranger through the doorway- he can't imagine how it would get any worse.
**************
“You, Simon Pratt, are dead.”
…Yeah, never mind.
“Your life on Earth has ended, and you are now in the next phase of your existence in the universe.”
So there’s an afterlife? He’s screwed.
After a moment, he realizes the man seated across from him is waiting for him to respond. Bobby - he/him, says the placard on his desk– which is carefully situated next to a box of tissues. His hand is twitching towards them. Clearly, he expects Simon to cry or scream or… something.
But they don't. All they say is: “Cool.”
He always knew he’d go early– that part isn't a surprise. What is surprising, however, is his total lack of memory regarding it.
“Cool,” they repeat, louder. “Uh, I have some questions.”
Bobby laughs good-naturedly. If he’s surprised by Simon’s non-reaction, he doesn’t show it. “Thought you might.”
Hmm, maybe Western. Did demons have Western accents?
“How’d I die?” The phrase feels unfamiliar on their tongue– probably because they've never been dead before. So far? 0/10, wouldn’t recommend. “I… don’t remember.”
Pill overdose? Car crash? Good old fashioned knife to the wrist?
...It's probably bad that he's just assuming he bumped himself off. His imaginary therapist would have a field day.
“Well…” Bobby leans forward, expression incredibly serious, and Simon prepares himself for the worst. Did I scar my sisters? If I scarred my sisters I'll never forgive myself. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is: “Björk went mainstream.”
What.
Bobby must have seen their dumbfounded look, because he rushes to clarify. “Ah. How to explain this… have you ever heard of the eldritch deity Azathoth?”
WHAT.
He fights to keep his voice level. “Vaguely? I guess. He was made up by that Nazi guy, right? Lovecast or something?”
They'd read some of his stories in AP English. Simon had gotten into several arguments with the teacher (named Ms. White, ironically enough) who didn't realize that you couldn't separate art from the artist if the art was a thinly veiled argument for literally every form of prejudice in the world. Or if you weren't willing to teach about the artist being a piece of shit, because how were you supposed to analyze text if you didn't even take into account the author's-
He clenches his fists. It’s happening again. He’s getting all worked up about something that doesn’t even matter.
After all, nobody else in their cracker-ass class had seemed to care. So why had they?
It wasn't like they could make a difference on their own. The people with the real power to change things never would. Like… like with plastic straws. You could boycott them all you wanted, but billionaires were still gonna dump them into the ocean. Life was pointless, and so, it seemed was death.
“H.P. Lovecraft… and not exactly.” Simon notices he didn’t deny the Nazi part. “The Earthern Azathoth was the one who created him, just as it created all humanity. In a dream. And– I’m sorry to say– just as it was your ultimate undoing. You see, you all existed in its subconscious! And when Björk's lullabies stopped working and it awakened... well, you fell into eternal slumber."
He gazes at Simon, painfully earnest. He must be one hell of a good actor, because this– although familiar-sounding– is bullshit.
And the 5 stages of grief are bullshit too, because they can feel their acceptance quickly hardening into cold, hard anger.
“So you’re saying,” he mumbles slowly, “that everyone I know is dead because an ancient eldritch creature forgot to hit snooze. Great. Amazing. This is a prank show, right? I’m being Punk’d right now. Bring out the cameras.”
He jumps to his feet, shoving his chair back with a satisfying screech, and glances around... but nobody moves. There’s no one hiding behind the walls. No one jumps out to yell "gotcha!" And Bobby just keeps staring with those deep brown eyes.
He starts laughing. He probably looks insane. “Wow. Okay. Either this is real, or you think it is, and I can’t tell which option is worse. So if you could kindly direct me to the nearest exit–”
His tirade breaks off suddenly as he notices a black-and-white photo on the wall… out of place amongst the homey décor. The man in it was long faced: picture Mark Zuckerberg, but emo. “Who’s that?”
He already knows, of course. But he needs to hear the man say it.
“Oh!" Bobby sounds relieved by the sudden 180. "That’s him. He’s actually kind of infamous around here. You see, every religion guessed about 5% percent of the afterlife correctly. Hindus, Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists… but Lovecraft. Hoo boy!” His voice drops, becomes almost robotic, as if reciting a Wikipedia article. “Born in Providence in the late 1800s, Lovecraft experienced severe anxiety and agoraphobia– partially due to his father’s mental collapse. Syphilis was nasty back then, am I right? Anyways. Afterwards, he poured himself into reading and studying horror fiction and astronomy. And then he started to write. And y’know what? He got like 80% right!”
He beams at Simon, nodding like a bobblehead, as if this is some kind of great news.
Spoiler alert: It isn’t.
“Weren’t all of his stories about like… the dangers of race mixing and shit?" Yet another question he already knows the answer to. "Dude, I’m half-Korean, I won’t survive here.” Survive. Bad choice of words. He runs a shaking hand through his messy black hair. “Is this racist heaven? Wait, is he HERE right now? Because if that’s the case, sign me up for hell.”
So the cowboy worships a Nazi sympathizer. Way to be a stereotype.
“No, no! Simon… I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” Bobby stands and makes his way across the room. He places a comforting hand on Simon’s arm, who resists the urge to shy away. “While Lovecraft’s beliefs may be utter garbage, the entities he talked about were very real. He looked into the fabric of the universe and saw something. Understand?”
"Not... really."
“I'll take that as a yes! Y’see, the afterlife is not the heaven-or-hell idea you were raised on. In the afterlife, there’s a Good Realm and a Bad Realm. Each exists in the universe of a different slumbering Azathoth. As the architect, it's my job to keep everything running smoothly, so as not to wake ours. Lovecraft is VERY MUCH in the Bad Realm. He’s being tormented by anus spiders as we speak! But you, my friend…” Bobby trails off.
“I’m in the Good Realm,” they finish, disbelievingly. Anus spiders?
“Yup!" Two thumbs up.
"You're telling me you're some kind of angel?"
"Not an angel." Bobby hmphs, looking slightly put-off. Good to know it’s possible, at least. "An architect. I built this here neighborhood from the ground up!"
"Doesn't matter. I'm not supposed to be here. I mean." He flounders for words. "For one, I'm gay.”
“Coolio! Y'know, by human standards I’m aroace.”
“I’m... trans?”
“And I support that.”
“Transmasc. He/they.”
“He/they? More like he/okay!”
“One time I put a guy in the hospital for calling me short.”
...
"Welp. Everyone’s entitled to an outburst every now and again.”
Simon starts to protest, before realizing he’s literally trying to barter his way out of heaven. He shuts up.
“Ah, I should’ve known you’d be humble. You didn’t get to be the youngest neurosurgeon in history by bragging!” Bobby’s hand is still on Simon’s arm, burning into his bare skin. He normally wears a lot more layers than this. He tries to think of a polite way to remove it.
Wait, what? Bobby’s words sink in. Neurosurgeon? He opens his mouth, but the man is still going.
“I mean, all the good you’ve done in your life much outweighs the bad. Think of all the money you raised for Syrian refugees, the houses you built for Habitat for Humanity! No, Simon, you are 104% percent meant to be here.”
“But I–”
I didn’t.
What's going on here?
Simon’s life on Earth was… pretty pathetic, actually. The most influential thing they'd made was a semi-viral cover of Creep by Radiohead.
Neurosurgeon? Sure, he’d gone to school for a medicinal degree, but dropped out after the first year to pursue music… like every other family disappointment. (And he couldn't even do that right- after his record label screwed him over, he'd pretty much given up on songwriting entirely.)
Syrian refugees? If the proceeds from their 5th grade lemonade stand had gone to that, maybe.
And Habitat for Humanity? They couldn’t even build a birdhouse without getting tetanus.
So. As he stares down at Bobby, he comes to terms with two key things.
1) This man clearly believes he’s someone else.
2) Fuck fuck shit shit fuck cock balls shit.
"You what?" Bobby prompts.
Okay. Think.
They don’t know what error in the system is allowing them to be here, but this “Bad Realm?” Reaaally doesn’t sound so hot.
So he smooths out his dress (ugh), stands up straighter, and prepares himself to do what he did at every family gathering on Earth.
Lie his ass off.
“Nothing.”
…Wow. Good one, Simon, super convincing.
“Just– uh, 104?”
The man nods knowingly. “Everyone and everything can be up to 104% perfect. That’s why Björk exists! Although she dropped down to 100 after her lullabies stopped working on Earth Azathoth. Turns out inadvertently blowing up the entire universe isn’t great for street cred.” He whispers that last part, tacking on an affable wink at the end. Finally, thank God, his hand drops from Simon’s arm. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? Yog-Sothoth will explain everything on the way.”
“Yog-Soth…oth?”
As soon as the strange name leaves their lips, a monotone chime plays behind them (A4? Maybe? They can't tell.) He spins around and fully chest-bumps someone– a tall, lanky surfer dude in an eye-melting Hawaiian shirt. He stumbles back into the desk, knocking over a pencil cup, wondering how the hell they'd gotten behind him without making a sound.
It grins lazily and shoots him finger guns. “Hey brochacho!”
Simon does what any rational person would do upon being called brochacho by a teleporting white guy. They scream.
Yog-Sothoth seems entirely unperturbed. "Whoaaa dude, you've got some pipes on you! Ever thought about starting a band?"
They shake their head. "I don't- uh– no. No, I haven’t."
The answer was far more complicated than that, but they really didn’t feel like discussing it with... whoever the hell this was.
It frowns. “Whaaat? Dude, you totally have. You just feel like you pour your heart and soul into your lyrics, so if anyone criticizes them, you’ll have a breakdown. Like that one time in college-”
Bobby cuts it off before it can say any more. “Meet Yog-Sothoth, our all-knowing neighborhood helper. You can ask it for anything you want, from information to clown posters!”
“...I'm sorry, what posters?”
Bobby chuckles, apparently mistaking his horror for excitement. “I knew that’d getcha. But don’t worry; your house is already filled with the finest clown memorabilia we could find! Considering, y'know, you loved them so much on Earth.”
"I did? I mean. I did!" He attempts a cheery tone, and ends up sounding like a manic Chuck-E-Cheese employee angling for tips.
The architect starts walking backwards towards the exit, still talking: “Yog-Sothoth will show you around, okay? Just make sure you’re at the town square in time for the welcome presentation. It's gonna be liiit!”
He tries to raise the roof, but it looks more like a jerky version of the chicken dance. So their angel dresses like a Starbucks barista and acts like a substitute teacher. Nothing can surprise them at this point.
"Wait! Where’s the-"
Click.
Aaand he's gone. Leaving Simon alone with the robot... thing. The (allegedly) omnipotent robot thing.
They decide to devise a test.
“Hey, uh... dude. I’m kinda thirsty. Summon my favorite alcoholic beverage. Please,” he tacks on as an afterthought.
Nothing appears.
Maybe it was like an Alexa? You had to say the name?
“Yog-Sothoth. Summon my favorite alcoholic beverage.”
Still nothing.
"Please?"
It giggles. “Dude, what are you talking about? In 2019 you said all alcohol tasted like piss water— you don’t drink, remember?”
“Yeah, well. Maybe I should start,” he mumbles.
Yikes. That was embarrassing. Time for a subject change.
“So… you're all-knowing, huh? Got any wisdom for me?”
Yog-Sothoth thinks for a long second, before turning to him with a wide grin. “Omnipotence is a prison. Love is a lie! Also, Drake hooked up with Ruth Bader Ginsburg."
And yup, it’s official.
This is 100% the worst day of his death.