Chapter Text
Just as most days are, it was quiet. The wind gently glided across the acres upon acres of tanned grass and dead wheat, picking up and dragging along small bundles of dead leaves and hollowed twigs. The wind made its way through the rotting wood of the little farmhouse that sat idly in the properties’ center, slightly shaking the homes’ rustic frame as the sun began to sink below the skyline. There was no movement apart from the slight stirring coming from the farmhouse’s dilapidated master bedroom.
On a large pile of hay and tattered cloth laid a large, masculine figure composed of a dark, gelatinous wax substance. Whilst his Silhouette was relatively humanoid, its features were not. A light groan rang through the stale air as the figure sat up, stretching as his two purple eyes blinked open out of sync. His mouth stretched open with a gummy-sounding tear, as he had no lips to keep the flesh around his mouth parted. He reached a hand upwards towards his head, lightly rubbing one of the large horns that jutted out of it as he grabbed what seemed to be a separate pile of tattered burlap and worn cloth from the ground.
He slid the burlap onto his figure; up his legs, around his torso, and onto his head- lightly shuffling back and forth inside of it until the burlap laid properly against his form. The spikes and horns peppering his shoulders and jutting out of his head seemed to tear through pre-existing holes from previous wear. striped tendrils slithered into place, drooping out of his burlap “mouth” and wrapping around his neck like a loose scarf.
As the clock struck six, a set of loud, guttural caws ripped through the farm’s calm air, causing him to shudder in surprise despite that same noise taking place like clockwork every day. As his purple, slimy companion shuffled its way out of the nearby barn, his day- or rather evening, had begun.
~•~
Just as most days are, It was quiet, until the dull sound of clicking against the cobblestone cut through the crisp autumn air like a knife, its rhythm steadied as it drew closer to the properties’ outskirts. Its distance didn’t make the noise any less heard.
The clicking belonged to the tar black heels of a tall, gangly man whose silhouette was carved out by the dark tone of his clothing, and his large-brimmed top hat. The dimmed grays and striking blacks paired well against the almost vampiric shade of cream that made up his pale flesh, complimenting the yellowed undertones of his bloodshot eyes and slightly jagged teeth as he formed a small smile out of habit.
The scarecrow watched from the edge of the nearby field, his aviary companion stowed away within a nearby barn. He allowed the burlap’s dulled colors to swallow him into the sea of untended crops. He watched as the man lightly glanced around, almost nervously as his dull gaze scanned right past him. The man gingerly stepped onto the dry rotted porch, lightly wincing at the sound of the wood as it groaned under his weight. He looked at the door and stepped forward as he knocked. Three quick, steady taps against the warped gateway between him and what used to be.
Silence, there was no answer.
He let out a sigh and repeated the movement; Three quick, steady taps. He gingerly shuffled to the side, staring through the dirty, cracked window. There was nothing on the inside to indicate any sort of life other than an oddly placed open tin on the table. Its dented lid was cast aside to reveal a decent pile of scrap fabric, worn thread, and a jagged pile of needles, a good majority of them bent at strange angles. The man silently reached for the doorknob, taking in every dent in its bronze form as the mechanism let out a low squeal of agony, freed rust and dirt spackling the ground as it moved for what appeared to be the first time in decades. This was far from the case, however, and he knew that.
The door was abruptly slammed shut by a large, gelatinous wax hand; its digits burrowed into the expired wood in a claw-like fashion, the wood threatening to buckle or even shatter under its grip.
The next thing he knew, the man was met with a pitchfork dangerously close to his neck. He let out a low chuckle as he turned himself towards his assailant, lightly pushing the pitchfork to the side as he gave a sinister grin. Despite the trials and tribulations of time, it was a grin the scarecrow unfortunately still knew well.
”Mind tellin’ me what you’re doin’ on my farm, partner? I don’t recall ever invitin’ company.”
The man spoke, all his previous signs of nervousness seemingly dissipated as he opened his mouth. “No need for aggression. I’m not here to cause any trouble..at least, not for now.”
The man took in the figure standing before him as he spoke, mentally noting everything from the tears and dirt in the tarnished burlap covering, to each uneven stitch holding together the fabric covering his legs and false arms that were currently dragging along the ground. He noted the vibrant orange and the deep plum stripes that decorated the hands that held the pitchfork in their iron grip. These striped arms came directly from the scarecrow’s mouth hole, jutting out like the numerous horns and spikes with the same colorations. Each one stabbed through the scarecrow’s outer shell like bent needles.
The scarecrow grimaced through the burlap fabric, only a light outline of his expression showed through it. “You know you ain’t welcome here. I suggest gettin’ a move on, ‘less you gots a death wish.” The scarecrow held the pitchfork steady as his voice lowered, moving it into a defensive stance against his torso.
The pale man frowned almost comically, feigning hurt as he spoke. “Simon, old friend..you wouldn’t hurt me just for stopping by, would you?..” The scarecrow, Simon, gave nothing but a hardened glare as what remained of his brother spoke, his hands shaking lightly as he continued. ”..All I wanted was to check up on you and our homes’ remains. It’s only natural for family to-“ The moment the word ‘family’ left his lips, the pitchfork was back at his throat; it’s rusted, but far-from-dull tip pushing against his adams’ apple threateningly.
“Now you listen and you listen good.” Simon began, voice low and unwavering, “We stopped being family a long damn time ago and you damn well know it, I don’t associate m’self with ya anymore coward. Whatever reason you’ve foolishly shown your face here, the answer’s no. This is your last chance to leave willingly.” Venom laced every word Simon spoke as he lightly drove the pitchfork deeper into the man’s pale flesh, unintentionally drawing blood as he did so. As the first droplet of blood ran down the rusted edges of the pitchfork, he held himself still with a silent yet deeply angered expression.
The man gave a blank, dead stare as he slowly freed the tip of his assailant’s weapon from his neck, the silence growing denser as the small red dot on his throat grew into a small line. It ran against the pale cream of his skin, creating a light stain on the neck of his dull gray sweater. He pulled out a tiny fragment of rust, lightly crushing it between his index and thumb as he pushed the pitchfork away. He regained his godforsaken grin, but the dead look behind his eyes remained.
“I wouldn’t act so brash if I were you. I have something you want, and you possess something I need.” He drew out his voice as he spoke.
Simon did not waiver. His talon-like feet dug into the ground as he spoke. “An’ just what in the hell could ya possibly have that I would want?”
The man’s voice, despite nearly being skewered through the throat a mere minute ago, showed no signs of wavering as he spoke, gently wiping away at the red line every few words. He showed more disdain for his stained sweater collar than fear of what caused it. Of course, that disdain was shown only through glimpses in the clouded lenses of his eyes, his crooked smile still held.
“You detest the idea of being associated with me perhaps, but I do wonder..do your feelings of loathing extend to the rest of our beloved family?” He began to pace around the decaying mass that was the front porch of their once-shared family home, his words ever-so-slightly going up and down in an almost playful, song-like pitch every few steps he took. One look at Simon’s expression showed how immensely irritated he was by this, among other things; his irritation brought his estranged brother a small, fleeting feeling of schadenfreude as he continued.
“As it stands, I am the only living Lankmann that remains, meaning that I have been put in charge of the family’s property, our property.” He stopped at the edge of the porch, Simon’s eyes following him like a hawk as he slowly turned on his heel in a big, comical fashion. He continued to playfully pace back and forth, his heels giving a dull click against every rotten piece of wood below him. Simon stood in a defensive position, weapon held tightly across his chest in silence as Lankmann continued to speak.
“For so long, this old place has sat in the back of my mind, I’ve always thought to myself ‘Whatever shall I do with it?’ I have no use for it in its current state, and to restore it would be an absolute waste of time and funding that could be used for the foundation. Perhaps, I could just..forfeit the property rights to the authorities. The paperwork would be a chore.. but it would finally take this place off my hands, giving me more time to work on current, more important matters..”
Simon kept his defensive demeanor as he spoke, watching Lankmann continue to pace back and forth; Each click of his heels soiling the sacred remains of their family’s..no, His home. Despite his name, Lankmann stopped being a part of their family a long time ago- they both did. In reality, the night the Lankmann family was lost, was the night that they were both created; Each reborn like grotesque moths freed from death’s cocoon. Simon knew this. Lankmann knew this. This place was an integral part of them, whether they wanted it to be or not.
“You wouldn’t. Even a narcissist like ya wouldn’t give away an extension of alla’ us, of yourself. Yer too prideful to give that up.” Lankmann let out a low chuckle, a dangerous glisten in his eyes. He abruptly stopped pacing, snapping his neck towards Simon in a singular, swift fashion. in a single stride, they stood almost face to face. “Am I, dear Simon?”
Simon subconsciously took a small step back, his brows knitted together under the burlap of his mask, Its dense fabric obscuring the thought-riddled contortions in his expression. Lankmann immediately picked up on Simon’s shifting demeanor. Despite his life’s trials and tribulations, at its core, the cloaked creature standing before him still had Simon’s weaknesses, the same weaknesses he had been able to exploit since their childhood. Shifting back down with a single, powerful thump of his heels, Lankmann spoke.“However, if you are to help me... I just might be able to correct the records. This place had supposedly burned down shortly after the accident, did it not?” Lankmann then went back to pacing, this time without the playful semantics.
“..An’ just what exactly would you possibly be needin’ from me? Must be somethin’ special fer ya to be out here botherin’ me of all people.” Lankmann stopped pacing at the edge of the decrepit platform underneath him, back turned to Simon as he seemed to stare off into the distance. “Your knowledge, Dear Simon.”
Simon, for the first time since this whole ordeal began, allowed his guard to waiver. He afforded himself vulnerability, if only a fraction, to voice his confusion. “..Pardon?”
Lankmann smirked upon hearing that, but only for a moment. He could not allow Simon to catch on to what he was doing. “That little orange nuisance, once believed to be a..simpler issue, has become an egregious thorn in my side. Any attempts made to detain it have proven futile; The Foundation, as it stands, is not equipped to handle an entity such as this. However..”
Lankmann looked Simon in the eye, “You understand this creature more than anyone else, Simon.”
Simon snapped at him, returning to his defensive state as he firmly gripped the pitchfork in his hands; Its wood beginning to splinter under the pressure of his grasp. “No. No no no, absolutely not. Wh’ever ya have in mind..it'll be a cold day ‘n hell before it’ll work. That thing ain’t somethin’ to ‘understand’.”
“Well, dear Simon, you and that creature are, to some degree, one and the same. Whether you like it or not. With this offer, you can use that to your advantage! You may be able to succeed where others have failed, to stop that monster’s rampage, and save the few remaining people still residing here.”
He continued, “Come on, Simon. It’s a win-win for you! You get to save countless lives while securing the last bit of familial heritage that still stands. I don’t see why anyone in your shoes would pass on such an opportunity.”
“Cause’ anyone else in my shoes wouldn’t KNOW you like I do. There’s never just a single layer to these sorts a’ things, especially with you.” Simon argued, folding his arms across his chest, the pitchfork still firmly in his grasp. Despite the years gone by, Simon still knew Lankmann and his methods. He was a man who rarely went without ulterior motives.
Lankmann let out a low chuckle, tilting his chin upwards in a better-than-thou posture. His Cheshire grin looked like it could’ve split his face, “You’re just going to stand by while all these good people drop like flies? Do you genuinely value your own pride THAT much more than you value the lives of others, Simon? Hoho… That’s quite unlike you…” He drew out his emphasis every few words, eye contact unbreaking as he did so.
Simon hadn’t let his guard down just yet. He didn’t trust the man, if you could even call him that, as far as he could throw him. Whilst Lankmann almost always had an ulterior motive, he was never the type to let a threat go empty. He discreetly looked at the dilapidated farm around him, then looked back to Lankmann. If it meant he could preserve this place, to protect the only evidence that his family ever even lived- to protect the evidence that he had once lived..it was worth it.
“..Fine.” Simon let out a low huff, his gaze burning holes into Lankmann’s head, “I’ll do it. But you better listen here and listen damn well, cause I’m only gonna say this once. I am only doing this for all those innocent people and to protect our home. If I get even a HINT of you tryin’ta double-cross me, I WILL find you. When I do,”
His grip retightened on the pitchfork as his head raised, his ominously cold gaze matching tone with Lankmann’s. “It’ll be s’mthn you’ll always remember.”
Lankmann let out a hearty chuckle, simply extending his hand, “I’m glad to know time has left you unchanged, dear Simon.” Simon glared down at him, Lankmann simply let his hand drop down to his side.
“Don’t go testin’ yer luck, deal’s a deal. Now if y’arent needin’ anythin’ else from me, leave.” Simon’s glare hardened, nudging his head towards the cobblestone path behind him. As far as Lankmann was concerned, for now, his work was done here. “Yes, of course. Deal’s a deal.”
~•~
Just as most days were, it was quiet. The peaceful aura of the farmland returned as the clicking of tar-black heels slowly drowned into the whistling of the wind. With each fading click, fate’s time-stained cogs began to turn, its unforeseeable influence bleeding out across the county of Eastridge. Its countless threads poked and weaved through the endless patches of weathered earth, hefting its blades into the sky. Each metal sliver incisively hung upon the stars, each with a precise moment in mind.
All cycles start and end, each thread forming and breaking under its endless pressure. This thread is no different.