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Cecil didn't know what rage was until he watched Animal Control switch off the StrexPet. There had never been anything for which to foster rage in his life, or not that he remembered until now. Everything that he felt angry about as a child had been retroactive- anger at his mother for treating him as she did, anger at his sister for her resentment of him despite his having no control over their circumstances. Anger at himself for fighting too often, for fighting too little, for giving too much of himself away, for not giving enough. But none of that was real, in-the-moment blind rage. No, that was simmering and old, festering like an old infection left untreated.
This? This was a brand new cut.
That wretched brown and furry thing lay defenseless on the ground. He'd wanted to hit it with a hammer, but there had been no point. Khoshekh had been taken out to the veterinarian's already and would be out of surgery soon. Lauren had come and gone with a sour, hateful smile and a spiteful declaration that he was meant to be happy with his 'birthday gift'. It wasn't his birthday. This wasn't a gift. How could he be happy with this? With this horrible, revolting not-creature? A robot, made of metal and gears and gnashing teeth? And how it used those gnashing teeth against his beloved cat, who'd seemed so lethargic, lacking so much life before he was rushed to the vet. Tears stirred in his chest, but he found he couldn't release them if he tried; not now, while that machine lay motionless on the ground outside of his studio. He finished his show. He finished it and tried to act as normally as he could- like he wasn't burning up from the inside out. These days, he felt like he was always burning up.
He turned off the broadcast button, sending it over to the next program without even really caring about whether it was playing. He stood from his seat and pushed past the poor intern who was walking to deliver the next day's sponsorships, spitting at them to just leave it on his desk. He didn't stay to see if they completed the task, stalking to the bathroom and throwing open the door.
The scene was no different to how it was when he left. Purple cat's blood on the mirror, on the sink counter, on the floor beneath where Khoshekh normally floated. It was in his litterbox and in his food bowl, only half-emptied before he was attacked. It was drying now, since cats' blood dried much faster than humans', as everyone knew, but it was still there. The entire room stunk of oil and gear grease and cat blood and the looming threat of death. He swallowed thickly. He, too, was still bleeding all over the floor; his leg as well as that metaphorical wound that was pink and new in the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. It glistened, his leg and his cut, but he didn't stop to acknowledge it. He couldn't.
He'd instructed the interns not to enter the room, to not yet touch anything that was inside- no, he wanted to be the one to dispose of this horrible thing. He'd wanted to destroy it earlier, but now he wanted to eviscerate it. Beat it into pieces so small that it had no hope of being fixed. Until nothing remained except the metal powders of its gears and inner workings. In other words, he wanted it gone.
He took a clump of the StrexPet's hair in his fist and dragged it, its metal skin screeching across the tile floor, fur scraping off with each pull. He grit his teeth as he flung open the bathroom door; the StrexPet was heavy. It was almost like it was holding onto something and resisting, though that wasn't possible. It was off, powered down, dead for all intents and purposes. So he pulled that dead weight, feeling his muscles burn and ignoring it. He ignored, too, the stares of his interns and of Daniel, who watched him with a half-glare and pursed lips. Daniel sparked when he was agitated, but he didn't seem to be. Cecil would have once wondered what about this situation wasn't agitating, but he'd come to realize that StrexCorp Synernists Inc cared little for synergy at all- Daniel didn't care about Cecil's pain or for how the StrexPet had hurt Khoshekh. Nobody at this gods-forsaken company cared.
Lauren was still in the lobby when he haled the biomachine through. She stopped talking to the receptionist -- who looked terrified out of her mind, despite her toothy grin -- and turned her sharp gaze to where Cecil hadn't stopped, was dragging this thing to the door.
"Cecil," She called, her sing-song voice strained. "What are you doing with your StrexPet?"
He paused, turning to her, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. His eyes -- all of them -- were open and glaring, and if he weren't so fucking pissed and hurt then he might have felt satisfied at how shaken she became when they met her own. He rarely had all five of his eyes open -- two in the 'normal' place, for regular, every-day vision, two below it for auxiliary sight, and one in the middle of his forehead that, when opened, could allow him to see the happenings of Night Vale in real time -- and he doubted she'd ever really seen them.
(Not many people had. It was a privilege for some, like Carlos, who'd first seen all of his eyes open the night they'd first slept together. Carlos had been over him, looking down with his hair loose and wavy, looking nothing less than angelic. His lips were bitten and bruised, his eyes sparkling, and Cecil had held his biceps, and he had looked at him with all those eyes, and Carlos had been starstruck. He'd reached out and ghosted his fingers beneath the bottom lids of his lower auxiliary eyes, watching as they fluttered before refocusing on the scientist once more. All his pupils had been blown wide, affection written all over his face. If Cecil had mirrors in his house, he would have been able to see this, this unadulterated, bottomless affection. If you asked Carlos, he would tell you that was the moment he fell in love with Cecil Palmer.)
Instead, for Lauren, it was a curse. An omen for horrible times to come and retribution beyond anything she'd ever experienced; he hoped she understood this glare for what it was. He bared his teeth at her, much like the StrexPet had to Khoshekh in the men's bathroom. He hoped she was afraid.
"It's my gift, isn't it?" He growled, his voice low and panting from exertion. Her eyes were wide, lips pursed like Daniel's, seemingly at a loss for what to do or say. "I'll do what I want with it."
And with that he continued, the StrexPet's metal encasing making that horrible chalkboard noise across the floor. He was aware of her eyes on him- he was aware of a lot of things very often, and much of the time chose to ignore these things. He often wished he wasn't aware, and often wished others wouldn't watch him so frequently. Being perceived wasn't always the safest existence in Night Vale, and most of the time, barring his time with Carlos, he preferred to stay unseen, if at all possible. Despite this, Cecil hoped that Lauren witnessed every minute of what he was about to do. He hoped she saw every fucking second.
He lugged the machine through the glass door of the station and, approaching his car, he threw it as far as he could- the carcass bounced and skidded across the sidewalk and dented as it fell off onto the asphalt next to Cecil's sedan, and Cecil panted as he moved to his trunk, opening it and pulling out his municipally required ax. It was an often overlooked statute added to the town's very long, very convoluted legislature quite some time ago, and while it wasn't typically enforced unless the Secret Police had reason to run spontaneous traffic stops, it was Cecil's job to know about all of these things. As such, when the law had been put into effect, Cecil had immediately gone to the Ralph's and stored it in the back of his vehicle. It made sense- Night Vale wasn't exactly the safest place on the map, and as normalized as everything was to the townspeople at this point, there had to be some way by which to defend oneself. It was one of the few laws City Council passed that wasn't in their best interest- this was most likely why it wasn't strictly adhered to.
He hadn't held it in years, in any case. It was heavy in his hand and the old, age-softened wood was nearly splintering in his vice grip. He grit his teeth and approached the StrexPet, flipping the switch and watching it purr back to life. It looked up at him with those big, beady, dead eyes and made that squeaking noise he'd thought was so cute not hours ago. Then, it squealed and lunged at him, and he roared back and brought the ax down onto its brown, furry body.
The ax lodged itself between the StrexPet's two front eyes and it made a noise that could almost pass for pain. He brought the ax down again, the machine sticking to the blade so that it rose and fell with the motion. It sliced through the metal fully this time, hitting the asphalt with a clang, and as Cecil raised the ax again, all he could think about was Khoshekh.
Could this thing feel pain? If so, was it feeling the pain it inflicted on Khoshekh, Cecil's most precious companion? Could it feel Khoshekh's pain, and could it now feel regret at its actions? Did it feel remorse? Could it hear Cecil's yelling, his grief, his anger? He hoped it could. He hoped it felt everything Khoshekh did tenfold. He hoped it died here, in a puddle of motor oil blood and sparking metal. He brought the ax down again. He hoped it felt every swing.
Cecil saw red as he continued to chop at the machine. His swings became less precise, more erratic and heavy as time went on- adrenaline coursed through his body; he saw red. Distantly, he heard a coarse, animalistic screaming. Could it be the wolf packs that live in the used car lot at night? Possibly, though it sounded less like a howl and more like a wail. A great keening to a god unsung. He wondered why his throat hurt.
"Cecil!"
He heard his name, muffled as if his head was wrapped in cotton. Everything felt muffled, actually. He wondered why. He felt so detached from the world, from his own body, from his arms, swinging down over and over again on a machine that had hurt his Khoshekh so badly.
"Cecil, stop!"
Who was that? He didn't think it really mattered. Did it? His head was a mess. All he knew was that he had to keep at these motions- this up and down, back and forward swing. He had to keep at them or he would stop and he would remember these things that made him so angry instead of just the anger. He had to stay angry or he would break down. He knew this. He knew this, and he knew these motions were keeping him standing, and he heard that wailing so very far away.
He felt a hand on his upper left arm and the screams stopped as he staggered to the side, tearing himself out of the grip. He met brown eyes, so brown, behind glasses too thick to belong to anyone but a scientist. Anyone but his scientist. There, with his face twisted into a mask of fear -- no, concern -- was Carlos, staring at him like he was volatile, like he was a bomb, like he was a grieving man with an ax in his hands.
Cecil exhaled with force, only just then noticing the moisture on his cheeks and realizing, without lifting his fingers to assess, that he was crying. His throat was ragged and overused, and he realized also just then that he'd been the one producing that animalistic keen. He coughed, his voice ruined, and Carlos seemed to falter in his hesitation.
"Cecil," Carlos repeated. Cecil gasped and sobbed, giving up whatever decorum he wanted to uphold in front of Carlos. He wondered if that decorum had ever mattered- Carlos certainly didn't seem to care about Cecil's wherewithal now, as he stood there, watching Cecil with so much concern and love that it made his heart ache.
Cecil's arms fell, the rage and the wrath and the wretched anger flooding from him and being replaced with such a sadness that it weighed him down entirely. His muscles burned and his hands shook as they gave out, dropping the ax and sending it clattering to the pavement. He was sent there, too, as his mauled leg buckled underneath him and he fell to the ground, the blow only softened by Carlos' quick embrace.
He sobbed into Carlos' shoulder, letting the scientist shush him and rub his back soothingly. He felt metal under his knees and cringed in on himself, trying to ignore it as Carlos comforted him.
"Cecil, oh, my honey," Carlos cooed as Cecil buried his face into Carlos' shirt. His sobbing had tapered, too exhausted to continue his heaving wails, but the tears wouldn't stop no matter how much he wanted them to, no matter how tired he was. Cecil, full-bodily trembling now, tried to bring his arms up to reciprocate the hug but found they were too heavy, too painful, exerted beyond their limits. He turned his head where it was leaned against Carlos' shoulder with a sniff and saw the remains of the StrexPet- bits of shrapnel and clumps of fur, now. He wanted to feel satisfied at what he'd done, but he just felt empty. He felt hollow and wrong. Khoshekh could die, and Cecil felt like he, himself, already had.
What had StrexCorp done to him? Made him this poor excuse for a man, mindlessly following the orders of a company that had never been here before and yet saw fit to tell him and the rest of the town what to do. It used to be that the only people who could give him orders were Station Management and City Council and the Secret Police and the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency and the Mayor and whoever else presided over them all. But now, this new StrexCorp came in and presumed to ruin all of their lives, then expected him to thank them. He hated this. This would not go unanswered.
"Let me drive you to the vet," Carlos murmured, pulling Cecil from his thoughts.
"I- I can-"
"Hush. You can barely move, let alone drive. We'll go see how Khoshekh is, and once he's out of surgery, we can take him home. I'll take a Claritin or a Benadryl or something, and he can stay with us. How does that sound? Does that sound alright?"
Cecil could hear the placating tone Carlos was imploring, and while he appreciated it, he knew it was only because of how fucking terrifying he must have looked not minutes earlier. Cecil sniffed and moved away from Carlos' grip, looking up into the eyes behind those thick glasses -- he knew how tired he looked. He always tried not to see himself in the reflections of Carlos' glasses, but he couldn't help it sometimes, and he knew how progressively worse he'd gotten in these past weeks. It all came to a head tonight, it seemed, with those horrible smudges beneath his red-rimmed eyes and the drawn sickly pallor that was painted onto his face. Three of the five of his eyes were now closed as they normally were and his two primaries were lidded and mournful. He didn't have the energy to keep the others open.
"I'm sorry," he croaked, his voice coming out rough and cracking. Carlos shushed him and caressed his cheek.
"There's nothing for which you need apologize," Carlos reassured. "You're okay. And Khoshekh is going to be okay. I just know it. He's a strong cat. And you're a strong community radio host. My strong community radio host. We -- all of us --are going to get through this, alright?"
"And StrexCorp is prepared to offer assistance with that."
They both turned to meet the sharp, baleful glare of Lauren, who stood before them. The yellow light of the lobby behind her shedding gold onto her back and casting her face and the front of her body in shadow, making that bright, unnatural smile all the more menacing. She had in her had a checkbook and a pen that she was obviously holding far too tight, her hand shaking with what Cecil could only assume to be rage. Her knuckles were white beyond her perfectly manicured nails. Her eye, immaculately made-up, twitched.
"What do you want?" Carlos spat. She turned her gaze from Cecil's to his at once, her smile faltering for only a moment. It seemed that she was done trying to play nice.
"Carlos the Scientist," She said, faux sweetness dripping through her gritted smile. "You are not a StrexCorp employee, and have caused us great detriment in the past, and as such you have no say in this matter. However, in light of this"- she stepped slightly to the side, taking her foot off of a piece of shrapnel that had been beneath one of her polished, business-height-heel shoes -"situation, Strex feels it acceptable to address the affected party's kin. So, if you or another of our Community Radio Host's family members would like to hear our offer, we would be grateful to provide."
"Offer?" Carlos asked, his eyes narrowing. His hands didn't leave Cecil's shoulders, holding him securely. Cecil was grateful for this- he felt that if Carlos let go, he might fall over and shatter into a million pieces.
"Yes. StrexCorp Synernists Inc is prepared to, in an act of good faith, ignore the... damage to company property." Cecil felt Carlos' hands tighten marginally, no doubt in rage, as Lauren gestured to the debris of the StrexPet. "Additionally, though this is something we by no means have to do, we are willing to pay for the entirety of both your and your station cat's medical fees. We feel badly for your situation, and we'd like to do whatever we can to compensate you for the emotional damage you've sustained in your studio. Damage, of course, for which StrexCorp will deny any culpability, if any suit was to be brought before any court. Needless to say, Strex had nothing to do with today's... altercations."
She clicked the pen and scratched something into her checkbook, ripping the check out and stiffly offering it, her unsettling smile never falling. Cecil snarled.
"We don't want your money," he rasped. Carlos put his hand on Cecil's chest and Cecil looked at him, seeing that same placating expression on his face, mirroring the tone he'd used before. Cecil frowned. Was he going to fucking negotiate with her? Carlos looked back to Lauren.
"Cecil doesn't mean that. We'll accept," He said with that professional tone of voice that he took on when he was talking to city officials. Cecil usually loved that tone. This time, he felt the need to recoil as if touched with acid.
"Wonderful," Lauren exclaimed, handing the check to Carlos. "If anything more is needed, don't hesitate to reach out. We trust there will be no further issue on this matter."
"Of course. Thank you, Ms. Mallard."
"No, thank you, Mr. The Scientist." She took her keys out of her purse and unlocked her car, which sat on the far side of the lot. "Believe in a Smiling God, friends. Have a joyful evening."
And with that, she left, leaving Cecil and Carlos still on their knees in on the pavement. When she pulled out of the parking lot, Cecil glared at Carlos, eyes ablaze.
"What the fuck?" He hissed brokenly. Carlos sighed.
"We need that money, Cecil," Carlos responded. "There are other ways to pay for medical assistance here, I know, but you're not paying the Life Tax for Khoshekh tonight. I can't- I'm an interloper. I'm not allowed. We wouldn't have sued anyway- I wouldn't know how, here, and I don't trust the courts to rule fairly."
"They never rule fairly. That's kind of the point of the courts, Carlos."
"My point stands. Listen, we're taking money away from Strex. That's all they care about, right? Money? So why wouldn't we want to milk them for as much as we can?"
"Because we're giving them what they want!" Cecil responded. "We're giving her what she wants!"
"She's scared of you, Ceec," Carlos pointed out. "She wouldn't have done this if she thought she'd done no wrong. This is a good sign. We can make them bend with enough force. And we may be able to take them down through official channels, if something like this could make her sweat. No coups or teenage militias- just good, old-fashioned exposure of wrongdoing."
Cecil pursed his lips, wanting to fight further but finding he didn't have the energy to continue. He sighed and leaned forward, resting his forehead on Carlos' shoulder.
"I'm so tired," Cecil whispered. "I want this to be over."
Carlos sighed, placing his hand on the top of Cecil's head, minding the headphones as he carded his fingers through Cecil's curls.
"I know," Carlos murmured, continuing to run his hand through Cecil's hair. "I know, honey. Let's just go pick up Khoshekh and go home, yeah? I'll make us some pasta and we can watch Cat Ballou. How's that?"
Cecil made a noncommittal noise and Carlos kissed his temple, letting his lips linger for just a moment before pulling away. He helped Cecil stand and walked him, staggering, over to Carlos' car's passenger side door. Carlos jogged over to the other side as Cecil clicked his seatbelt into place and he gave the host a weak, barely genuine smile before turning on the car and pulling out of the parking lot.
The drive was in relative silence. Carlos' radio played whatever interloper music he'd been able to find and download without the Secret Police interfering, but neither of them spoke. Cecil was unhappy with how Carlos handled the situation with Lauren. Carlos was unhappy that Cecil didn't understand that what he'd done was in their best interest. They were unhappy with each other, but neither had the energy to fight, and they cared very little about this unhappiness when faced with the source of it, pulling up to the emergency veterinarian's and seeing one of the vets standing out front waiting for them.
No, any unhappiness they had for each other disappeared entirely when Khoshekh was brought out, resting uncomfortably in that crate.
Khoshekh was okay. He was missing part of his paw and one of his eyes, and the vets wouldn't know whether full cognitive function would return until much later, but he was awake and meowing, albeit weakly. She told them that he needed calm and stability for awhile, but he would be okay. Carlos asked if he would start floating again, and the vet shrugged. Probably, she said. He was a floating cat, and if that was what he did, then he should be able to recover that ability. Cecil, gently but shakily stroking the top of Khoshekh's head while his boyfriend and the veterinarian conversed, didn't very much care.
Cecil cried when he saw the cat. He couldn't help it, seeing the poor creature curled up in the crate, cone around his neck and sporting more bandages than fur. But, he reasoned, Khoshekh was alive and that's all that mattered. Carlos carried the crate out to the car- Cecil could hardly lift his arms. He might have torn something in his blind rage. He wouldn't be surprised.
By the time they got home, every last bit of adrenaline had waned from his system. He'd rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window and had closed his eyes, unable to hold his head up or his eyelids open any longer. Carlos nudged him from his half sleep with a loving hand and quiet words, and Cecil dragged himself from the car, making sure that Carlos got the crate out of the backseat before even thinking about heading for the house.
Carlos insisted that Cecil go sit on their couch when they did make it inside, setting the crate down and opening the wire door so that Khoshekh could leave if he so desired. The vet had told them that it was okay for Khoshekh to roam as long as he didn't have to climb stairs or exert too much energy- he couldn't jump, anyway, and she told them that it was unlikely he'd even try in the first few days, but they should just be careful anyway.
As he leaned his head against the back of the couch, Cecil heard the sound of the tap being turned on, water filling a glass, the sound of a half-empty pill bottle being taken from the shelf. He heard it opening, the tipping of the bottle, and envisioned his boyfriend taking one or two pills to prevent allergies he knew would hit him anyway. He heard a weak meow as Khoshekh limped out of the crate, immediately beginning to investigate his surroundings. Evidently, though, he didn't entirely care, because he padded up to Cecil and meowed up at him, begging to be picked up. Cecil, with the last of his energy and despite the horrible protestations of his arms' muscles, brought Khoshekh up to lay next to him; the cat curled up at his side with a purr, both of his tails flicking contentedly. When Carlos came out of the kitchen -- two bowls of leftover pasta in hand -- he smiled at Cecil, who was petting Khoshekh methodically along his back, minding the bent and broken spines.
"I think he enjoys not floating in a men's restroom," Carlos commented, setting one of the bowls onto the coffee table and settling the other on his lap, picking up a fork. When Cecil went to grab the other, Carlos put a hand against his shoulder. "No. Your arms are... just let me, okay? I know you hate it, but let me."
Cecil pursed his lips and reluctantly sat back. Khoshekh watched as he did, irritated by the lack of attention but sated once Cecil's hand came back to rest against his spine. Carlos speared some pasta on a fork and held it out for Cecil, who bit it with some modicum of long-suffering annoyance. Carlos had done this before- it was difficult for the Secret Police to target his head or throat for their Re-Education like they normally did for citizens. Both of those, for Cecil's career -- on which the town hinged -- would be put in jeopardy. So, instead, they often went for the other, more physical parts of him: his legs, his back, his torso and arms and ribs. He couldn't count on his crooked fingers how many times they or his whole hands had been broken, how many fractures his arms had endured, how many sprains and twists they'd put on his wrists and ankles and knees. He walked with a cane on the worst days, and on the best everything was just achy. And so, sometimes, when it was especially bad, Carlos insisted he do things for Cecil -- such as feeding him -- to take some of the burden off the host. Cecil always agreed, if reluctantly.
In between bites, Carlos put on Cat Ballou, and when Cecil had finished his pasta, he quickly became engrossed in Lee Marvin riding gallantly across the screen. Carlos ate his own food quietly, and Cecil eventually listed to let his head rest, once again, against Carlos' shoulder with a shallow sigh. Carlos pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
"Everything's going to be alright," Carlos murmured, unprompted. Cecil frowned and turned his head slightly, further into Carlos' shoulder, a silent response. "It is. A scientist is always honest, Cecil. I promise you that everything, even if it's a while from now, is going to be alright. Statistically, the chances for chronological betterment are high."
Cecil hummed, his voice more gritty crack than honey, and Carlos sighed.
"It will be alright," He said, more resolutely this time, more quietly, as if to more convince himself than Cecil. "It will."
And they both fell silent. Lest for the sound of Cat Ballou and the sound of Khoshekh's purring and the sound of both of their breathing, it was silent.
Somewhere, Lauren was filling out the expense reports for Khoshekh's medical bills, which were significantly higher than what she knew they should be. Somewhere, Kevin sat in a rented room, looking down at a StrexPet that was shivering and sparking, gnashing teeth crooked and laced with rat fur ground down from bones and sinew. He was satisfied with this scene, with this robot's sorry state. Forcing it to do these things, forcing it to learn what was right and what was wrong, forcing it to go against its very programming, was satisfying to him. He wanted it to feel pain as much as he wanted it to obey him.
All of that, however, was somewhere else. And for tonight, Cecil felt no desire to see any of this. He didn't want to see Lauren or Kevin or Kevin's awful projection. He didn't want to see how his beloved town had changed so drastically, so detrimentally, in such a short amount of time. No, he didn't want to see at all.
He closed his third eye, along with the others, and leaned more deeply against Carlos, trying to exhale away the pictures of these events that had lodged themselves into his head. Carlos wrapped his arm around Cecil's shoulder, Khoshekh purring softly at his side. Usually, these actions worked. Sometimes they did not. Tonight, thankfully, Cecil found his mind wonderfully blank as Carlos embraced him, and he was able to feign sleep so convincingly that he almost believed it, himself. Carlos, to his credit, never did believe that Cecil was asleep, but acted like he did, anyway. He liked caring for Cecil. Cecil, sometimes, liked to be cared for.
So the lights were turned off, and Cat Ballou's volume was lowered, and Cecil pretended to sleep as Night Vale did the same. That, at least, would not change.