Work Text:
“I don’t like musicals!” These were the last words Paul Matthews said before he threw the grenade and he was content with that. The last thing he saw was the grenade flying through the air, hitting the meteor and he was content with that. The last thing he felt was being thrown across the room by the explosion, face covered in heat and body being torn apart and he was content with that.
Death was practically instant, something he was grateful for. He didn’t even feel himself hit the wall or floor or whatever his corpse ended up on. It was over now. The world is saved, Emma is saved. At least in the end, his life had a meaning. Now, it was time to rest.
When his eyes fluttered open weakly, he didn’t really register the implications of it. The first thing he saw was nothing. An endless black abyss in every possible direction. He laid down in this abyss but there was nothing underneath him, that he knew. His skin felt both teeth chattering-ly cold and clothes soaking-ly hot. When he looked down at his chest, even though there was no source of light, he could see himself perfectly fine. What he saw perfectly fine made his heart drop to his stomach.
To call his dress shirt and pants clothes, at this point, was inaccurate. They were torn to shreds and soaked with blood. A few bits of rock and rubble stuck out of his torso and shoulders. At this point, he noticed that another piece of rock was jammed into one of his eyes, blinding him halfway. All four of his limbs were torn off but they were conveniently still right there. His old limbs hovered right next to the spots they once inhabited, as if waiting to be reattached. Shattered bone stuck out the ends, pointing at him threateningly, and they hung limply in the air. If where he was even had air.
The right arm was torn from the middle of his forearm. A few fingers from his right hand seemed to be thrown off too. His left arm was gone all the way to his armpit. His left foot was detached and everything up to his right knee was a distant memory. He turned his head up to stare into the black after looking at the pieces of himself. As he did so, he wondered if this is what hell is. Looking at your own dead body for all of time, constantly being forced to think about your death, about the choices that lead to it.
Out of nowhere, Paul saw a face enter his line of sight. A man wearing a thick mask made of stone stared down at him. The mask was covered in several cracks and had three large holes, two for the eyes and one for the mouth. A bright blue glow filled in the mask’s eyes. The man grabbed Paul’s chin and tilted his head around, studying him. Paul tried to say something, tried to move something other than his head but his body wouldn’t do so. It figures, given that his body barely counts as one at the moment.
Seemingly finding whatever he was looking for, the man let go of Paul’s face and walked over to his right arm. He supplied a sharp silver needle out of nowhere and held it in front of his face. A thin strand of slimy thread formed inside the eye and he flourished as he elegantly grabbed Paul’s dangling arm. He slid the arm into place, resting open muscle against exposed bone, and pressed the needle into the loose skin.
Wh-what’re you doing? Paul thought, mouth unable to move. “Fixing you.” The man answered as he pushed the needle through the wound. His voice wasn’t muffled by the mask somehow. What? Paul questioned but nothing more was said as the man started sewing Paul’s tattered arm back on. He hummed mindlessly as he did so. It was a catchy song, Paul was almost tempted to join in before he realized he recognized the song. It was the same one he had been forced to sing but a moment ago.
How do you know that song?
The man scoffed, there was a musical quality to the sound, and continued his repetitive action, one that he did with great grace. “I wrote it, of course.” Dread settled in his stomach as the man continued. “It’s a good song, isn’t it?”
Paul shot his working eye up and down the man urgently. Are you some sort of demon…or something? Even in his own head, he sounded unsure. The man held Paul’s arm and turned it around. Slimy blue thread held the arm together now. Gently moving his hand to hold Paul’s right hand, he took the needle and poked his palm. He felt the sharp sting and his hand twitched against his will.
The man smiled and snapped his fingers. Several new needles with thread dangling out appeared out of nowhere and went to work on the other limbs, sewing them back into place. The man placed a finger on Paul’s torso and dragged his finger along him as he circled Paul. He came to a stop at Paul’s head and placed a delicate hand on his jaw. “Or something.”
Growing rapidly confused, Paul watched as the man wrapped his hand around the sharp rock sticking out his left eye. The man tore it out with ease and Paul was grateful that he couldn’t feel anything right now. “I didn’t shut off your pain to be nice.” The man said distastefully as he threw the rock behind his back. “I did it so I wouldn’t have to hear your annoying screams.”
He pulled his hand from Paul’s jaw and held his fingers over Paul’s decimated eye. The chunk of bloodied tissue flew from its socket into his grip. A sinewy and tattered nerve remained connected to the eye and the man snapped it off. The nerve fell onto Paul’s cheek and the very end dangled on the edge of his lips, nearly falling into his mouth. If it was possible at the moment, Paul would’ve gagged.
The man chuckled melodically, dropping the old eye onto the ‘ground’. “You do not understand how satisfying this moment is for me.” He balled his hand into a fist and a blue light shone through his fingers. “My greatest threat, the most stubborn human in Hatchetfield, lay helpless at my feet.”
He unfolded his fingers. Resting on his palm was an eye, identical to the one Paul lost, albeit this one was much more blue. He slid the loose nerve back into the hole that once housed Paul’s eye. Then, he jammed the new eye into the socket with a pop. Like a TV switching on, Paul could now see out that eye again. At the same time his eye started working again, the needles all finished their stitches.
The man motioned to Paul’s middle. “I can’t fix that. That’ll bring too much attention.” He placed a hand on Paul’s blood soaked cheek and adjusted his head to stare at him. “After all, who will buy that you survived that explosion completely unharmed?”
But I didn’t. I died. Paul pointed out. “Those grating humans that are on their way to save you don’t need to know that.” Paul thought the mask's mouth was a pure circle but apparently one side was slightly upended. It looked like a smirk that made him uneasy. “All they need to know is they found a poor, injured survivor and out of the goodness of their hearts, they’ll take you to the mainland. You’ll get to see Emma again, don’t you want that?”
Paul’s entire body was thrust into the iron grip of fear. Who are you? The man leaned in close. “Oh, you already know me, Paul. We’ve run into each other so many times. This morning on the street, at work, Beanie’s, in the professor’s bunker, the school, that funny little helicopter crash, and who could forget the theater?”
You’re the… head.
“Took you long enough to figure it out.” Paul could hear the smile in his voice. But, the meteor-
“The meteor?” He said incredulously, cutting off his thought. “The meteor was useless the second it hit the theater. All that mattered was that it infected someone. Once that was done, I could give two shits about what happened to it.” He pulled himself away and did a flourish with his hand.
Paul started spiraling into despair. It was useless, destroying the meteor was useless. He died for nothing. He was still infected and he was going to be brought back to life and he was going to hurt someone. Paul barely noticed as thick strings tied themselves into the stitches holding his limbs together. They forced his body upright; he’s not quite sure if he’s still floating or if he’s now standing. Not that it matters. Nothing matters.
He failed and now everyone on this earth is going to die. It’s all his fault. Thick, hot tears started streaming down his face, spilling down into the deep, dark nothing. When it fell into infinity, the distant sound of laughter could be heard. The man tapped a finger on Paul’s face, dabbing off one of his tears. He regarded the tear for a moment. “Didn’t know you still had this in you.”
Flicking the tear away, he held out his hands, holding his palms up. “You know, my brother likes to collect humans, calls them his toys.” Paul wasn’t listening but the man persisted. “He likes to break them, see what new ways they can be torn apart. Me?” He held one of his hands against his chest for a moment before putting it back into position.
“I like puppets better. Sure, it’s fun to watch you fall apart,” He beamed underneath his mask at the man sobbing in front of him. “But, it gets old. Now, puppets. Taking the old and making it better? It’s a challenge but it’s very rewarding work.”
Suddenly, Paul felt a sharp pain rattle his body. He was allowed to let out a small gasp and some invisible force held his mouth open. Something wet was sliding up his throat and his eyes started going blurry. A cocktail of blood, bile, tears, spit, practically every liquid left in his body spilled out his mouth. Paul watched it fall into the nothing as a ball of glowing blue goo formed above the man’s hands.
“Have to get out the old stuffing if we want to fix you up.” The goo slid into Paul’s gaping maw, easing its way into his body, filling him out. It became his blood, his sweat, his tears. The first thing Paul noticed was how cold it was. Every part of his body felt like it was made of ice now. If he was able to, he’d be shivering. The man placed a finger on Paul’s dangling chin and pushed his mouth closed.
“There. Is that better?”
A disagreeing groan left his throat as he stared at the haunting mask. “Oh, right.” The man said with a snap of his fingers. “We have to replace that voice box as well.” He placed one of his fingers on Paul’s neck and slid his finger across. His throat split apart, showing off his now blue insides. A soft white light started shimmering from the hole. The man reached over with careful fingers and somehow grabbed the light.
The light floated out like a ribbon, dancing through the air. The man pulled it close to his mask and the light flew into one of the many cracks covering the stone. “So many little things I have to correct with you.” He commented as he placed two of his fingers on his own neck. When he pulled his fingers away, a brighter, albeit smaller, blue light swam around them.
He rubbed the two fingers against Paul’s cut, sealing it up, the light gone. The man moved to cup Paul’s cheeks. “Now, I’m going to send you back home, are you going to behave yourself?”
What kinda question is that? No. Paul thought but for the first time since getting here, his mouth moved. “Yes.” His voice was completely monotone and his face was contorted to be completely blank.
Paul didn’t think it was possible but the eyes on the stone mask shifted to a squint. “You’re still fighting, aren’t you, Paul?” Once done, the puppet should be happy, he should be smiling. When Paul didn’t respond, one eye shifted back to its normal circle, creating a clear eyebrowless eyebrow raise. “Why?”
“If I give in, then they all died for nothing.” The statement was forcibly pulled from Paul’s mind to his mouth but it was the truth.
“But they didn’t die, Paul. They’re all still right here.” Paul was hit by flashes of his dead friend’s memories. They didn’t die in the explosion. It made both his head and his heart hurt. Not only did he fail to stop the infection, he failed to even kill one infected. “They’re a part of you now. And them, you.”
Paul resigned himself to merely trying to glare at him. It didn’t work, given that his body was no longer under his control but the message seemed to get across. The man sighed and started tapping his finger against Paul’s cheek, rhythmically and grumpily. “How about a deal, then? You stop fighting and I will give you what you want.”
He took a dramatic pause. “Happiness.”
The first instinct Paul had was to laugh off his offer. He doesn’t want that, he wants nothing. How has this guy still not learned that?
The mask shifted into a smile. “But you do want that, Paul. You said so yourself.”
“That was you.” Paul’s monotone voice shot back.
“I write the songs.” He corrected. “I don’t write the words, my leading man. Every single lyric that my creations sing comes from their own heart. Especially the newborns. They’re not good at conformity yet.”
Paul’s mind grew quiet as the man went on. “Think about it. When was the last time you were actually happy with your life? You work a dead end office job with three friends to your name.”
“I was happy with Emma.” His mouth said before he could even think about trying to stop himself.
“Well, there it is.” The man stated happily. “If you stop fighting, you can be with her again. You will get that happiness you so desperately want.”
He hates it but the man is right. For the first time in his life, Paul has a desire and it was right at the worst time for it to happen. He does want to get to hold Emma’s hand as they go for walks in the park, to cuddle with her at night, to share clothes with her, to try and fail to make dinner for her. He wants to be able to be in love with her and this is his only chance.
But she’ll die, he can’t do that to her. Or is it really dying? In his head, he can see into Bill and Ted’s minds as if they were his own and they feel like them. Bill still seems like a caring single dad trying his best, Ted still seems like a bastard. They’re them, Paul is still himself. Maybe, if they can get Emma to join the hive too, it’ll be fine, it’ll work out. Then, they can be together forever. She’ll be happy and he’ll be happy.
“Ok.” Paul muttered. Pokey brushed Paul’s mess of hair back in a vain attempt to make him look slightly better. “It’s a deal, then?”
“Ok.” He repeated. Pokey grabbed Paul’s head and held his forehead against his cracked mask. Paul relaxed himself in Pokey’s grip. Music started playing in Paul’s ears. A soft gentle orchestra commenced. It sounded like a lullaby, his brain started feeling fuzzy as a pleasant smile crept onto his face. Everything turned into static, everything except Pokey's touch and that wonderful music. In this moment, those were the only things that mattered. He closed his eyes sleepily and felt Pokey’s touch slowly fade away.
The first thing he felt was the crumbling rocks underneath him as a PEIP agent placed their arms underneath him and he was content with this. The first thing he saw was the agent’s face, smiling down at him in an attempt to comfort and he was content with this. The first thing he said was “Emma.” though a mouthful of his old red blood and he was content with this.