Chapter Text
A Small Quiet
The tome was at least an interesting read, but not necessarily fascinating. It covered topics of mysticism in a world he did not know well, but had gleamed in the dreams and recounts of a deserted culture. Anything that was of the Tower did not exist, thus the Tower did not exist in these books.
Was this not escapism? It was a disgusting concept. But also, he did not care.
Not for the first time, he pondered if this was a subject for him to dabble in. Did he grasp the topics of the literature? Everything from scaley beasts, star voyaging, and wire communication was fantastical in his range of comprehension. He had wandered the deserted streets evading adults with crater faces, and beat the ever living gooey flesh out of amiable hands, and fled the screaming patches where his pack had fallen behind. The fastest went on, the weakest were taken. The strongest ran onward, the meek surrendered.
As his attention once more untangled from the marks, he debated on a task for—
A weight crashed onto his hand. The one slumped on the tabletop, prying at the frayed edges of a spare book. He sighed through a string of smoke.
“C̶̻̽h̴͍͆i̷̧͛l̶̪̕d̸̫͆.̸͇̇”
He did not need to direct his gaze onto the smaller to figure out the knew fixation. The Thin Man flicked his hand, but that only aggravated the little monster and succeeded in having it latch onto his wrist. “B̶͓͋ǫ̶̇y̷͕̐.̵̹͘ ̷̟̅ D̶̲̄o̸͙̎ ̴͓́ Ÿ̵̥ò̶͙ṷ̶̋ ̵̺́ M̷̯̑i̶̻̅n̷̲͋d̷̯͛?̷̥̐” This was getting obnoxious with the biting and the clawing, then the kicking and climbing. “I am not Ḯ̵͉n̷̘͘t̶̹͒e̴͔̅r̸̫̓ẹ̸͠s̴͔̏t̵͚̅e̷̳͝d̵̗̑ ̴͓͒ in E̷̢͠n̶̛̼t̵̜͛e̷̛̼r̴͔̉t̴̼͌a̷̯̒i̴̮̋n̷̡͂ȉ̵̠n̶̹͌g̴̡̈́ ̴͇̕ a V̷̟̚ȉ̵̬ḻ̶͋ȇ̸̥— Ș̷̕t̶̻͆ó̶̼p̵̧̅ ̵̥̕ T̷̤̋h̵͈̚a̶̰͛t̴̜͗.̶̖́”
The child tried sticking his head into the cufflink of his sleeve. “Hisss.”
“M̵̨̒y̴̘͘ ̶̬̒ Ẁ̸͎o̶̰͑r̷͍̓d̴̼̓,̴̨̆ ̵̹̍ Y̴̡͝o̸͓͊ų̷͆ ̶̼̆ A̴͍̚r̷̰̈e̶̝̽ ̵̼̀ S̷̫͆o̵̢͌ṃ̴́e̷̮̐t̷̼̆h̸͕̿ì̴̭ṅ̵͇g̶̞̎.̵͚̀” He gripped the boy by his shoulder and flipped him onto his back. Leaning over, he pressed a finger to the child’s nose and looked him in the face. “No M̴̳̈́ó̷̬r̴̙̆e̷̫̚.̷̱̓” The child leapt up and wrapped around his knuckles. And for good measure, more gnawing.
Flipping his hand over, he pressed the child onto the table. This pried a satisfying squawk out of the intolerable heathen. “Have we learned O̴̯͐ȗ̵͍r̵̠͗ ̷͚͆ L̷̳̈́e̷̙͋s̷͎̈s̵͍͗ò̵͉n̵̫̓ yet?̶͖̓” No, we have not. The boy wriggled free and lunged at his wrist. It became a fiasco of the child kicking his fingers away, bite his thumb, or fight to make his fingers do something other than swat the child. “D̸̰̍o̷͔͐ ̵̙̎ Y̵͉͆o̴͎͗u̶͓͛ ̸̩̍ Ë̸̥́v̴̖̕e̴̪͛ǹ̸̙ think about ̶̫̋Y̷͍̅o̶̥͑u̷̞͂r intolerable ̴̘͘N̵̢͠ó̴̡n̸̨͑s̸̭̃e̵̯͝n̸̼̆ś̵̩e̴̠͝?̶̧͐”
The boy coiled around three fingers and fought to… pull his arm. Out of its socket? He could not fathom what might the child be onto. The smaller huffed and tugged, rotated himself and tried to turn the hand over as well in the process. Of course, this did nothing.
“Grr!” That was more a throaty snarl. If he were a child himself, it might have been intimidating. It was hard to say, he had not fought for scraps or a shelter in ages. Though, there was a time… once long ago….
Prodding the child in the tummy produced an amusing series of squeaks and snorts. In the least, it incapacitated the wiry beast from further retaliation. The boy rasped after a barrage of nudging and rolled across the stacks of books and pages, scrambling to get away. This time the Thin Man would not let him withdraw, and before the child made a gallop or more, he snagged a scrawny ankle and drew the boy back into range. The penalty for such insubordination was flip the boy onto his back, forcing the smaller to roll over and orientate himself, except the child found himself once more flat on his back. No remorse or hesitation on the Thin Man's part. If the child tried scampering away as before, the action was denied by hauling the boy back. No contest with the vicious snapping or flailing - the boy started this, and the Thin Man would finish it.
A few times through the repetitious tumbling and tugging, the child did roll too far out of range, but skittered back on his own and swatted at fingers. In the rare instances he feigned disinterest and lay his hand aside, then how dare the man in the hat! The boy displayed his annoyance by pouncing on his fingers and growling.
Much of the childs rowdiness was managed by either pinning him and letting him squirm free on his own, or ‘wrestle’ with the boy. He supposed his hand was an adequate foe, since the brat refused to tap into his own powers.
It took a while, but at last the child wore himself into a stupor. The lunging was no more and the child was pacified by fumbling with his hand, even if he was no longer supplying a ‘fight’. At last he could return to his book and find where he left off. He could turn the pages easily with his power and the static, but he found some novelty in shifting each page with his thumb. Much like it amused him to nudge at the boy still fiddling at his fingers.
He was not aware the child had ceased harassing him, until he realized a faint brushing slipped across his palm. Very faint but evident enough, which caused him to pause and turn to examine the boy. In all the rumpus, his hand had rested upon its side to do battle with the feisty thing. Now, the child lay strewn across his palm, with one hand trailing over and along his hand pad. What in the city?
For a long while he watched with the edge of his eye, unbeknownst to the boy. The child was not facing him, the wonderful coat that was him had been tussled a good deal and lay crumpled against the small of his back. Up and down his arm went, a curve, then across a ways. Repeat. Sometimes he traced the same course, and other times he found a new fascination to chart along the inner curve of his thumb’s base.
“What are you doing?” The body twitched, not visibly but with a sharp gasp beneath his thumb.
“Lines,” was supplied.
“Lines?” he crackled. It took a moment of thought before he made the connection. “Ah.”
“Lots.” The child shifted a little more onto his shoulder, and kept tracing the crease in the palm. “Mmm.” His new position let him bring both his arms up, and for a brief spell ceased touching his hand. “Them lots.”
He hummed. “I earned every one.”
For a long time the boy stayed quiet, his strange touch slowed. “Lots,” he mumbled. “How have?”
The Thin Man drew a breath on his cigarette and gave it a thought. “From being very busy. A̷̞̿l̵͖̂l̴͙͊ ̴̢̈́ T̴́ͅh̴̃ͅȅ̸̮ ̴̥̔ T̸̡̚i̶͇̍m̷̖̈ẹ̷͆.̵̻̈́”
Another, “Mmm,” from the boy. “S’much. Busy.”
“Yes.” He tapped the cigarette and plucked his neglected book up. “So very busy trying to remove us from the Ḛ̴͌q̷̛͇u̴͈̔a̸̰͑t̷͕͋ḯ̶̧ỏ̵̼n̸̩͂ ̸̣̀ O̵̹͋f̷͎͠ ̴̤̆ A̶̮͑ world A̸̱͑t̴͕͑ ̴̲͝ T̸͓̋h̶̻͗e̷̍ͅ ̵̥̊ Ç̴̛u̸̼̽s̶̲̒p̶͓̉ of dying, but never C̷̘̕o̵̹̅m̵̡̽m̴̤̈î̵̠t̴̗̀t̵̟̽i̶̠̾n̶͍̊g̴͍̎ to O̸̟͋b̵͍̌l̶̠͊ị̶̾v̷̗͋i̷͈̿o̸͇͊n̶̦͝.̷̧̔.”
“Obly-von.”
“Oh-bleh-veon.”
“Obl’eh-vun.”
Sigh. “V̴̺̉e̴͉̋ṟ̵̈́y̶̩̕ ̵͈́ G̶̰͛o̶̯͆ơ̷͓d̴̈́͜.̸̥̂” He arched his fingers around the child, then unfurled his hand. The child sustained his faint tracing while the Thin Man continued to flex his fingers, like a contemplative trap – except without the musty leaves and rusted teeth, and no distant tinkling of a music box guiding him among the jagged foliage.
With the multitudes of topics he poured over, he could not envision that the citizens had not once documented an ounce of the Tower, let alone a report related to the beast within. He did not expect a fully detailed catalog on the beings appearance, but he anticipated a footnote of detail that would provide a hint of what its origins might have manifested as. Dozens of volumes upon volumes he flipped through, elaborated on sophisticated equipment and the technology the citizens depended on – not addicted to, but simply modernized the world for ease. That informed him of one facet to this world, that the Flesh relied on the screens and the televisions – much as he did. Which insinuated the literature he scrounged through was dependable regarding what was not printed within, such being the Tower and the Flesh; a topic point that remained scarce if not nonexistent, despite his persistent exploration.
Books which elaborated upon current events remained sparse, between those of formulating patterns through numbers and those delving into a hardships and dystopia setting that mirrored this world entirely. The latter strife was a mythical to discover, and whether the pages remained legible after sitting on shelf beneath a broken ceiling, assaulted by elements and time, was rarer still. He might stumble upon one such enigma of a title and believe,
“At last. This is where it began.”
Only to studiously preen the marks and discover, this was not a cataclysm familiar to this world. Another crisis, a wholly different event that was overtly dramatic, and did not include Flesh beasts parading as benign skyrises. Though the contents of these perish songs did indicate a whole psychosis inexorably drawn to self-annihilation. He did have an allure for his own entangled existence, but that was the whole issue he struggled to rectify. The tomes did not offer much, aside from the strong prevail and the wicked perish. The hero is always victorious and the hazards receive their final comeuppance – balance restored and the good guys live long, happy lives.
Not in his factual and unwavering experience.
The forceful snort pried his attention from the depths of the book’s inner spine. He set aside the reading piece and reached for the dwindling stub, but stalled with his fingers at his face when he noted the boy was no longer wriggling around. In his own reverie, his hand relaxed in a coil around the lump, and the scrap of cloth was no longer shifting about or doing anything save for breathe. Shallowly.
“Ḯ̶̠s̴̬̿ ̴͖͌ T̶͙̽h̴̫̊ạ̵́t̴̬͒ ̶̣́ C̸̱̋ọ̷̐m̶̼̾f̵̯̂ŏ̵͇ṟ̷͂t̸̥̍a̶̳͛b̶̨̈l̸̮̄e̵̩͠ ̴̪̄ F̴̬̔ô̷̰r̶̨͒ ̷̨̛ Y̶͔̏ò̸̖u̸͓̇?̶̭́”
Not even a flinch. The kid was far out of it, practically comatose. A fact which mystified him. How could this anxiety infused creature, terrorizing him one moment, click off like a switch and collapse? He almost envied the child.
A̷̕͜l̸̡̛m̴͈̈́o̵̩͒ṡ̸̝t̷͉̄.̵͚͠.̸̹̄.̵̝̋.̶͚͐ ̸̝͛.̷̨̇.̸͐ͅ.̵̼̒
Bending his thumb, he gave the disheveled hair a meek scritch. “Child.” He prodded between the shoulder blades, but that did nothing. There could be a giant eyeball in the sky and disgusting tendrils reaching into the skyscraper windows, and this boy might sappily snooze through the end of days.
There was no telling if such a scene would never happen. All things considered; it was possible. At the least, inevitable. It could happen in the next moment.
The Thin Man craned his head and checked out the nearest window, at his back and across the room. Outside, the rain fell and the sky remained dark. Cloudy, as well. He waited and watched, the stub at his lips expelling the last wisp of smoke. The ash was long cold and the comfort lost, when he stole the stub and pressed it against the table.
That was a bit harsh, but not even the faint shift bothered the child much. Not at all if he was honest. Children were wound tight and prepared to spring at the first disturbance on the draft; the initial and before introduction of the tangible threat.
The boy was drooling. On his hand. And he would be honest, that was very gross. Almost as gross as the child’s dirt encrusted face, which is where drool seeped from.
He lit a fresh cigarette and let himself sag back on the rickety chair. The storm continued uninterrupted, absent of swollen eyeballs, or flesh melting like wax from the skyline. Heavy drops shattered across the windowsill and the wind shrieked against the gutted frame, blind but always seeking the ones drilled to bone by endless storms. The cold, the wet, the time slipping away and the roads stretching further into labyrinths leading nowhere; mortal threats held no sway over him. A crackle and a spark, he was beyond the roads; he was no more living than a transmitted signal, wild and untamed. Unfretted of the box and its impervious walls. Only one could contest his existence and erase his presence.
The boy dozing in his hand, as if the world did not hate him. He continued to prod the child’s back with his thumb, but that did nothing to erase the drool or rouse the boy. Not that he wanted the boy awake, no, he much preferred the quiet. It was peaceful. And quiet. Anything for the quiet.
He was only vaguely aware of something besides the drool. It was very subtle, and at first puzzled him about the faint but persistent vibration. The child’s breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible… ah, he knew what that was. Beneath the steady breathing was a heart, beating, all but invisible.
Quiet, deep slumbering, utterly detached from the wakeful plain. No dream hunts and no fretfulness. Not a twitch, as he delicately stroked the boys back. He pondered how vile it was that he once yearned to stop that heartbeat and end the cycle. End everything, his existence his sentience, destroy everything and know nothing more of his imprisonment. By whatever means, in any shape or form, he needed to dismantle the metaphorical mechanisms that drove the hand of that ticking clock. Even if somehow that did work, someway, by some incomprehensible paradox of a cursed world, he would have regretted. And at times the noises the child came up with were tolerable. Sometimes more tolerable than the absolute null of his prison and the buzzing static that soaked his presence.
Outside the rain fell harder, the Tower was likely grinning through the pummeling storm the way it did when he was a small child, glaring at the spire that signaled his course. Centuries later, he was no closer to finding his way, than he was during that time when he had nothing but anger and spite to drive him to disastrous ends.
Or not quite ends.
Without a care in the world, the child snoozed on. The breathing remained so faint and so very undetectable, he coiled his fingers around the shoulders just to assure himself the boy had not vanished completely from his grasp. There were frequent times that he plucked the child up and it was the easiest thing to do, to deal with wild mood swings or a terrible assault on his person; he never thought anything of it. Right now with the boy oblivious to the world and lost in that elusive blanket of nothingness that sleep so rarely gifted, the small body felt warm and heavy in his hand.