Work Text:
The seams are discreet but Tim can’t stop staring at them. On an intellectual level he’s aware that Jon isn’t like the thing that took his brother, wearing human skin in a tasteless parlor trick for an invisible audience. There are only synthetics here—highly engineered polyethylene that’s so ludicrously expensive that four different companies are currently in court accusing each other of corporate espionage. They’re all vying for the holy grail of exclusivity for the best formula.
Tim can understand why. Any designer could fire up 3D modeling software and go to town, freely arranging physical features in accordance to the Simulacrum’s purpose. Expressive, round faces for models intended for the healthcare sector. Sharp brows and imposing jaws for those assigned to police work. Anything you wanted, anything you needed.
In theory, that was all well and good, but a digital concept couldn’t successfully translate into the real world unless the technology was available to break the dolls out of their home in the uncanny valley. Skin that wasn’t stiff or shiny being a prime example of that. Manufactured flesh that didn't fold in flat lines that disturbed the human eye, subconsciously recognizing it as not right, don’t trust it.
A feeling Tim is plenty familiar with.
He’s less familiar with how dry Jon’s hand is, the careful strength of his grip. The sun is overbearingly intense, and the seams encircling and bisecting Jon’s wrists, elbows—more lines disappearing under the sleeves of his shirt—have activated in reaction, glowing luminous. That’s where the plastic is meant to be peeled for access to the components that might need an upgrade or a replacement part. Tightening up an articulation. Installing a new feature. Maybe giving it a new personality, though supposedly that would require a complete reinstallation of the OS, and apparently if you’re going to go through all that trouble you might as well get a new one and start from scratch.
Or so Tim’s heard.
It’s not as if he has a few million quid in the bank to buy a bloody lifesize toy, does he?
“Tim?” Jon squints up at him. The midday sun striking his face highlights that he’s too stylized to be human, for all that ingenious minds have labored at the illusion of veins pumping blood beneath the surface, a gentle thrumming at the base of the throat. Too many hidden colors on his dark hair, tousled by the wind that’s been buffeting them since they got off the train at Dumfries and only worsened as they traveled north in a rental. They’re here to do a follow-up on statements of a cemetery that was sometimes there, sometimes not.
It’s currently not. They’ve hiked out into the hills and gotten bugger all to show for it. If Tim weren’t a practised hiker, this could have been downright dangerous.
“You sure you got your footing now? Not gonna go arse over tit?” he asks, rougher than intended, hiding how fascinated he is by this peek past Jon’s manufactured humanity. It’s usually such a convincing pretense that despite Tim having every reason in the goddamn world to loathe Jon, it constantly slips his mind.
“I should hope not.” Jon arches an eyebrow. If he were human, Jon would have been winded and carved to the bone by the trek they’ve taken, half of it distinctly uphill, scrabbling over several jutting outcroppings of granite, hauling rucksacks filled with supplies of the practical, survival sort, as well as a few esoteric measuring whirlygigs that Tim is bemused by. They give him big-time paranormal show flashbacks.
Tim releases Jon’s hand. “How much farther do we have to go until we can haul ourselves back to civilization?” He’s sweating, nape damp, though the constant wind is staving off overheating.
“Since we weren’t given precise coordinates by any of the claimants”—Jon sniffs derisively—“I would say due diligence demands we go as far as we can.”
“What, before we pass out? I’m not camping out here. There’s a reason I bailed on the Boy Scouts and it wasn’t the ugly uniform.”
“Don’t be daft. We have twenty-seven minutes to locate the cemetery.”
“Fantastic.” If the locale wasn’t so bland, Tim might have enjoyed the hike. It beat being trapped in Research, crowded by endless piles of busywork that ended in frustrating deadends.
Tim doesn’t question Jon’s precise timetable. There are hundreds of files and apps in that hard drive of his that are tracking where they are, what the weather forecast is for the next month, and how long it’ll take them to drudge back to the tiny clearing they’d left their rental parked at. Since Jon’s a glorified high-tech jack-of-all-trades, there’s technically no need for a compass or a GPS device, though Tim is carrying spares in the rucksack. There’d been a twinge of guilt in his breast when Jon had seen them as they’d divided up their supplies, but Jon hadn’t breathed a word, stoic.
Which wasn’t an android thing. Rosie, the other Simulacrum in the institute, tangibly exuded emotions to anyone she spoke with. No, aloofness was very much a Jon quirk, and Tim appreciates that. It wigs him out when they’re too nice, too helpful, too… servile. A little too Stepford Wives for him. Makes him wonder if those people that argue Simulacra production is merely a new form of slavery don’t have a point, even though they’re just parts and programming. No soul there.
Call him an old-fashioned, intolerant fucker but they aren’t alive. No different from the microwave in the canteen.
Granted, the microwave hasn’t ever been a snarky git to him. Or sighed impatiently when he has to stop and take a swig from the water bottle.
“Not all of us run on whatever it is you run on, Jon.” Tim purposefully takes his time drinking, tipping the bottle and swallowing noisily. Making an entire production of it.
Jon dryly says, “At the moment I’m running thin on patience.”
Tim chokes. Water burns in his nasal cavity. Fuck, that was funny. He hates it when Jon is funny. It makes him likeable. “What, are you expecting we'll find it?” A cemetery that came and went on a whim? That’s mental, and Tim’s heard more than a few tall tales in the three months that he’s been with the institute. Every nutter out there has a story, and they’re all frothing at the mouth to tell it to someone.
“There have been multiple statements from a variety of sources over a substantial period of time. It doesn’t matter what I expect, only that we perform—”
“Due diligence. Yeah, I heard you the first seventy billion times.” Tim dries his mouth with his wrist. Jon watches him. They’re on a grassy incline. Not as steep as some they’ve traversed but high enough that it obstructs their view.
“Then I’d appreciate forfeiting the unnecessary delays,” Jon says, and scouts ahead.
Forfeiting. Seriously. Tim had worked in publishing for five years and he still marvels at Jon’s pompousness. Did he hook himself up to the internet every morning, scouring for new vocabulary to use? He rolls his eyes but then observes that Jon’s slacks aren’t meant for exercising and they stretch very nicely over his arse as he climbs.
There are admittedly decent benefits to Jon’s company.
Jon stops. “Oh, hell.”
Tim clambers over the crest of the hill, alarmed. “What? What’s wr—oh, hell.”
A vast, get-lost-for-days forest spreads out below them, a green ocean extending to the horizon. The dense canopy hints at thousands of interlinked branches, implying that no sunlight ever reaches the detritus. Tim doesn’t like the looks of it based on that alone but that isn’t why they’re both surprised.
“That’s not supposed to be here. A copse or two, sure—” Tim is vexed: he’d made sure that the map he’d Googled was up to date. But after a moment, he realizes that's irrelevant. These woods are ancient. They'd been gnarled and creepy even before the Brothers Grimm had run around collecting fairy tales about the diabetic-enabling witches that lived in them.
Jon’s mouth is an angular slash of frustration. “Correct. There isn’t a reported forest of this magnitude in this part of Scotland.”
“And yet…” Tim trails off. What, were they sharing a hallucination? Bollocks. Dread slithers down his spine but he refuses to acknowledge it. That would mean that something is wrong and there isn’t, not really. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Along the way a map was misfiled. A dumb mistake. Nothing ominous about that.
Jon takes a step forward and starts climbing down. What? Is he off his meds? Did his wires get crossed? Tim snags his arm. “Whoa, whoa. Where are you going?”
“Three out of the eight statements given describe the cemetery as being past a forest. I would think—”
“You’re not thinking.” Tim, in frustration, tightens his grip and gives the android a shake. It feels bizarre. There’s no musculature to what he’s touching. Only a smoothness that evokes the idea of a porcelain doll.
But Jon isn’t fragile. He lifts his chin. “Pardon? I already explained why it bears investigating.”
“Yeah, alright, whatever, you’ve got all those statements memorized in that hard drive of yours. I’m sure you’re right. But we’re not going into a creepy forest that neither of us has a map for when the sun is going to set soon. There’s due diligence and then there’s being dumb. Let’s not be horror-movie dumb.”
“What does horr—never mind.” Jon visibly has an argument with himself. Are his logic circuits overloading at the mere possibility that Tim has a point? Is he going to be an arse and insist they go in? Because he’s welcome to enter the ominous woods; he doesn’t have a neck to risk, so to speak. In contrast, Tim has already learned his lesson. He might enjoy adrenaline-fueled sports but he isn’t stupid.
“Okay,” Jon acquiesces, startling Tim. He continues begrudgingly. “We can return tomorrow, after revising our data.”
Tim is left off-kilter. As usual, he throws out a joke as he figures out how not to fall on his backside. “Are you going to yell at Google for betraying us? Because I could get behind that.”
“Mmn.” Jon’s gaze drops to the hand still wrapped around his bicep. If it could even be called that. Tim reflexively squeezes again. His fingertips dimple the synthetic skin underneath Jon’s shirt—it’s a soft, pleasant give, then an unyielding solidity that is unmistakably alien. He has the wild impulse to fit his nails into those glowing lines, to pull apart the disguise. Discover what Jon really looks like.
Nuts and bolts. That’s it. Tim jerks his hand away as if burned.
The return walk is noticeably tense, each lost in their own thoughts. Tim occasionally flexes his hand, speculating on what the difference would be if he’d grabbed Jon without a layer of clothing in the way. Worse, he speculates. It’s not a healthy train of thought to ride but it’s miles better than focusing on what they’re leaving behind: the forest that, much like the cemetery, shouldn’t be there at all.
Of course, once he remembers that they’ll be returning the next day, Tim obsesses about it. Should they bring tents? Could he talk to a few of the locals? Would they have anything useful to impart or would they repeat ghastly old wives’ tales to add to the general unease? Tim already doesn’t like the situation. Fieldwork can be a nice break from being stuck in the institute, sure. But he doesn’t like unpredictable variables. Or having to rely on Jon. Machines can and do malfunction constantly.
(He’s never heard of a Simulacrum glitching but there’s always a first time, isn’t there?)
“So tell me about yourself,” Tim suggests abruptly, and once the words are out there’s nothing to be done other than to plow forward. It has to be an improvement over the gloomy silence. “What’s it like to belong to the Magnus Institute?”
Or maybe not.
Jon slants a glance at him. It’s difficult to parse. Particularly since Tim avoids meeting it. God, he sounds like a proper tosser, like a toothy gameshow host oozing fake sympathy for someone losing out on a million quid.
“Not unlike how working for it feels like, I imagine,” Jon deadpans.
Touché. Score one for the walking appliance. “Aside from being paid a salary.” Tim is impressed. He didn’t realize he was capable of being such a dick.
Jon takes a deep breath. A Simulacrum doesn’t need oxygen the way people do, Tim’s read. For them it’s a secondary cooling system. But the way Jon expels it gives away that he’s getting on the android’s last nerve.
“To clarify a misunderstanding on your part, I do not belong to the Magnus Institute. Neither does Rosie, if we’re delving into the specifics.”
Not that Tim cares but… “No? What, did they pass a new law and you get to own yourselves now?”
That earns him a subtle glare of disdain. It hits Tim like a sucker punch. Jon’s voice is tight when he speaks. “Rosie is entailed to the head of the Magnus Institute directly, whoever they happen to be. Her role is to assist and facilitate the changeover of power. Rosie doesn’t belong to the Magnus Institute—she is part of the Magnus Institute.”
“I’m not seeing the difference.” Tomayto, tomahto. Tim shrugs. He’s not intentionally being abrasive for the hell of it; he just genuinely doesn’t perceive how that changes matters.
“No. You wouldn’t.” Jon quickens his pace. The sun is breaching the horizon, transforming the sky from a pale blue to a spill of bloodied oranges and pinks.
Score two for Jon. Honestly, Tim can’t blame him for getting sharp-tongued. Still, this is good. This is keeping them from dwelling on what’s going on, and it’s doing a fantastic job of reminding Tim that, coworker aside, Jon’s not human. So despite an urgent whisper in his mind to shut the hell up before he puts his foot in it, Tim gamely keeps the match going. “What about you, then? What’s your deal?”
Jon has gained enough distance that Tim is obliged to sprint to catch up. With the wind dying down, the heat is starting to turn sticky and oppressive.
“I’m—” Jon hesitates, then straightens his spine. “I belong to Elias.”
Tim shrugs. “Head of the institute. So the same as Rosie.”
“No. I belong to Elias Bouchard.”
Unease drips into Tim’s stomach. The android is inscrutable, staring ahead as if he could see their rental in the distance.
The time to be a raging wanker is over. Tim stuffs down the impulse to shoot his mouth off. The joke he wants to crack is tasteless, not to mention everything short of novel. Everyone makes those kind of wink-wink-nudge-nudge insinuations about the other usages one could get out of Simulacra if they had enough money to build themselves the most expensive sex toy in the world. Shit, there’s a whole market of pornos that claim to star real Simulacra. (Tim’s seen a few and wasn’t convinced even before he worked with one.)
He goes with a joke anyway, but keeps it light. “And he makes you work in Research? Christ, the least Elias could do is give you a cushy job in HR.”
There’s a beat, and Tim wonders if that was still too gauche.
“I asked if I could work in Research. I didn’t like being at home all day.” Jon seems embarrassed. Because he’s much closer to Elias than Tim had realized? No. No, Jon’s not the type to have his head in the gutter. He’s far more likely to be mortified at having been purchased to be a pretty ornament. To not having a satisfying purpose.
It certainly paints his insistence on due diligence in a new light.
It paints Elias in a new light too, but Tim will deal with that later. There’s only so much his brain can process before it catches on fire.
Discretion is the better part of valor here. Tim prides himself on being a smooth talker—but his tongue is less silver and more lead when it comes to Jon. To this. What can he say that won’t trip a land mine?
They trudge on, with Tim draining his water bottle, throat parched. It’s gotten dark enough that he opens his rucksack, searching for the torch. It takes him a couple of minutes to find it, as it’d gotten lodged in a corner, underneath a medley of nutrition bars and digital readers. That’s his excuse for why he’s oblivious to the forest rising up around them.
“This is wrong,” Jon says, and there’s static in his voice, a distorted whine that grates.
The torch is a solid weight in his hand. Tim flicks the switch and shines the beam on the tall trees surrounding them. They’ve crossed small copses before, strips of trees that grew close together and then tapered off after a few meters. His logical mind suggests that they walk a few more steps in and then they’ll be on the other side.
His gut is screaming at him to get the fuck out the way they came in.
Tim is inclined to compromise. “Let’s go around, yeah? A little longer to get back to the rental but at least we won’t twist an ankle being blind.”
Jon shakes his head. His eyes are glowing faintly in the dim light. “No. You don’t understand. This is wrong. We’re not where we’re supposed to be.”
“Then we got turned around.”
“No.”
Tim tries to crack a smile, though it feels like it takes years for his muscles to form it. “Listen, I hate to break it to you but that’s how reality works. We took a wrong turn at Albuquerque, that’s all.” He shifts, dead leaves crackling under his shoes.
“It’s the same forest.”
Tim scoffs. “The one we left an hour ago? We wouldn’t get that lost.”
“No. We wouldn’t.” Jon wraps his arms around himself, cupping his elbows.
“You’re a GPS device. You’re saying we did a loop?” Tim laughs disbelievingly. “Christ, Jon, are you an outdated model?”
Jon ignores him, retracing their steps. The beam of light flicks past him as Tim follows, studying the trees. To his relief there are no stick figures or voodoo dolls hanging from the branches, but he’s glad that they’re not going to go in any deeper. It’s impossible that this is the forest they encountered but it doesn’t matter—they aren’t geared to wander in unknown woods at night. He flicks the torch back and forth the interwoven branches, the labyrinth of roots at their feet. His imagination starts to wander.
The forest takes on the aspect of a cathedral for Tim. Each trunk a column in the structure, as Smirke would have designed it. The canopy forms the high vaults, and perhaps when the sun is shining directly overhead the leaves create a natural stained-glass effect, filtering the light through a rainbow of greens and yellows.
His fanciful foray stumbles when Tim wonders but which god rules this place?
Then he realizes what Jon must have noted, but had been waiting for him to notice. They should have exited into a clearing by now.
“Where the fuck are we?” Tired of the acid eating at his insides, Tim fishes out the map and GPS tracker from his rucksack. Jon stands beside him and doesn’t protest. Instead his attitude is resigned, feeding Tim’s unease.
Minutes pass. The GPS is giving him coordinates alright, and they’re proving fucking worthless. Either that or he should have stayed in the Boy Scouts longer and learned how to properly read a map. (He’s lying to himself; he knows perfectly well how to read a map. It’s not that, that isn’t the problem, the problem is—)
As if sensing Tim’s spiral thoughts, Jon says, “They’re nonsense. I’m having a... similar issue.”
“We’re lost?”
Jon doesn’t answer. He’s taking pity on Tim. He doesn’t believe they’re lost.
No, Tim doesn’t think they’re lost either, but he has to cling to some shred of sanity or he’s going to go mental. He’s trapped in the wilderness of Scotland in a forest that shouldn’t exist, and he has the personification of his worst nightmare for company.
“Right. Maybe there’s some sort of—electromagnetic interference going around. Let’s have a kip, and then we’ll try again.” Tim switches off the torch, taking out a small LED lantern as replacement. It’s a harsh light that illuminates the area starkly, turning everything into black silhouettes. He sits on the ground, leaves and twigs digging into his jeans. There’s another bottle of water in Jon’s bag but despite his thirst, Tim doesn’t ask for it. He might need it later. When it’ll make a difference between life and death.
“Well? Sit. Get comfortable.” Tim pats the ground, expecting to be refused. But Jon does kneel, moving stiffly, as if his joints have rusted.
The stillness is what proves unbearable. Tim’s no stranger to roughing it in the wild, he thrives in being out of the city. That’s why the lack of noise disturbs him. While he wouldn’t be thrilled to listen to mysterious rustling in the underbrush, or in the overgrowth, that would be normal. Nocturnal animals going about their business, avoiding the interlopers with their strange scents.
What he wouldn’t give for a cricket chirping. Something to temper the dead silence.
“Guess we’ll be making statements once we’re back in the institute, huh?” Tim half-smiles. “A disappearing cemetery and an insistent forest. What a pair.”
Jon makes a small sound that could have been agreement or a nonverbal suggestion that Tim should shut up.
Tim tries again. “At least it isn’t cold.”
No reply. Jon’s hands are twisted in his lap, fingers interlaced, and he’s staring at the LED lantern, a gypsy gazing into their crystal ball for answers of the future. Is it a better conversationalist than Tim is? Because Tim’s going to be offended if so.
“So… Elias, huh?”
Jon blinks.
Tim recklessly muses, “I didn’t think he’d be the type. Not a bad-looking bloke, why would he need a blow-up doll?”
Got his attention now. Jon’s scowling at him. Tim braces for a proper chewing-out.
“You’re afraid. I understand, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult me. Furthermore, it doesn’t give you the right to insinuate unkind things about Elias,” Jon chastises evenly. And startling Tim, who had anticipated more of a… reaction that wouldn’t invite shame to curl up alongside the disquiet. It sits cold and damp, tasting faintly moldy.
“I’m not really—uh, insinuating so much as…” Yeah, there’s no way to extricate himself from the pit he stepped into, is there? Which is fitting, considering he dug it.
Tim huffs dismissively. “Look, it’s not like you can understand what fear is, alright? I’m sorry about the dumb jokes. That’s all they are. Hard to be charming when all’s gone pear-shaped.”
“Right. I couldn’t possibly understand what fear is,” Jon agrees blandly.
“Well, you aren’t programmed to. It’s fine.”
It dawns on Tim that he just stepped deeper into the pit. It comes by way of the pure disgust crossing Jon’s face before his expression settles into an indecipherable mask. The unnatural silence coalesces around them again and Tim can’t decide whether that’s preferable to continuing to be a giant dickhead. Because even he’s starting to be repulsed at his behavior. Time to dial it back before he can’t resist the compulsion to punch himself.
Tim drums his fingers against his thigh, a meaningless, nervous pattern. He wonders if the sun going out like a lamp being turned off is typical for the area. Had they stopped to talk to the locals, would they have been warned about that? Not that it matters anymore. What they’re waiting on is for Jon to jump up and cry out that he’s pinpointed their location and can guide them back to the car. Or at least, that’s what Tim is hoping for. Because what other options does he have?
(He has a few. But he doesn’t want to entertain them just yet.)
Tim glances at Jon. He’s seated at the periphery of Tim’s line of sight, so he’d have to turn his head to look at Jon directly. Which he unintentionally ends up doing, fascinated.
“Are you shivering?” Surprise colors his question.
Jon snaps out a rapid-fire “No.”
“Are you cold?” What little knowledge Tim has about Simulacra could fill a booklet. A very anorexic booklet. But he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to tremble from anything. Not from cold they couldn’t feel, and definitely not from the nerves they didn’t have. Except, well, despite Jon’s denial, he’s absolutely trembling. Drawing his shoulders defensively upwards and holding himself tighter can’t hide that.
“You just said it wasn’t a cold night,” Jon points out.
“Well, yeah, but otherwise I don’t get why you’re all quivery like a dropped blancmange.”
“Delightful.”
“Don’t worry, I imagine you’d be one of the tastier blacmanges. Maybe with a dash of rum.” Tim could use a shot of rum at the moment. Three, if he’s being honest.
Jon eyes him. “I’ve been monitoring your vital signs. You are not addlepated by drugs or alcohol, and while you show early symptoms of dehydration, it’s insufficient to impair your wits. I assume stress is causing you to babble.”
“You’ve been what?” Tim automatically swallows at the reminder that he’s thirsty. His throat clicks.
“Monitoring your vitals? It’s impossible not to when I can hear how fast your heart is beating." Jon shrugs.
That booklet is destined to grow less anorexic, apparently. Tim lays a hand over his chest. To him, his heart isn’t any louder than it usually is. But give him time to panic, it’ll get there. “This is a violation of my privacy, somehow?”
“Perhaps, if you hadn’t signed a contract that gave me permission to do that. One you didn’t read, obviously.”
“Who the hell reads the work contract they sign?” Tim is going to grill HR about that when they get back.
If they get back.
There’s a thought Tim wants nothing to do with. One that makes insides squirm. “You know what? Don’t answer that. I’m sure you read all the contracts. That still doesn’t explain why you’re shivering.”
Jon sighs. ”It couldn’t possibly be because I’m afraid, so what does it matter?”
“You’re software. You’ll be fine if pretty much anything happens to you.” That’s the great thing about not really being alive. Lose an arm? No problem. Get your skin ripped off by a murderous clown? No big deal. A quick visit to a repair shop and you were good as new. Whole, hale, and hearty.
Jon is watching him, concerned. “Your pulse is quickening.”
“I’m fine,” Tim grinds out. He’s fine, everything’s fine. Abso-fucking-lutely fantastic. This is what he signed up for. For weird shit to happen to him on the off-chance that something would lead him on the right path. He’s not going to die in a daft forest that shouldn’t be there.
Jon moves to sit beside him. Tim tenses. “What? Are you going to offer a hug?”
“God forbid,” Jon returns blandly.
“I don’t know. Maybe I could use a hug.” The idea of hugging Jon makes Tim’s heart jackrabbit in his chest. What would that be like? Just as alien and off-putting as holding his bicep had been?
“Shut up, Tim. I might not be human but I’m not heartless. This forest is lonely enough without you shutting me out.” Jon leans into Tim, their shoulders and upper arms brushing. It’s a light, non-invasive contact. There’s no warmth to Jon’s body. But he isn’t cold, either.
Tim relaxes. Slightly. “I never took you for the Care Bear type.”
Jon closes his eyes. His lashes are long, dusky half-moons against his skin. “I don’t think you took me for much of anything. You treat the coffeemaker nicer.”
“The coffeemaker provides me with caffeine.”
“Mn. And who do you think refills it every morning?”
“Oh.” Tim digests that. “Wow, I’m a prick.”
Jon doesn’t have the decency to assure him that he isn’t. But he also doesn’t offer a caustic remark when Tim presses closer, leaning on him. Not even when Tim falls asleep like that, drooling on his shoulder.
When morning comes and Tim wakes up, they’re still in the forest. But there are birds overheard and rustling in the bushes. Jon has powered down. It should creep Tim the fuck out because Jon doesn't look quite like he's sleeping, but not quite like he's dead, either.
He sighs and rubs his eyes, too wrung out to be embarrassed about how he slept the night. He still thinks Simulacra are creepy but... Jon is creepy for a different reason, in a different way. A way that Tim can relate to a little too well.
God, why couldn't he just let Tim hate him in peace?