Work Text:
He was walking.
Was it really walking if he didn’t have a destination?
He was wandering?
No, he thinks, wandering is slow. The feet are currently going fast.
He was running? Aimless running? Wanderrunning.
Did that make sense? Did anything really make sense, Micheal really didn’t know. He did know that the bright, 90’s bowling rink like, with confusing colorful patterns, carpet hurt his eyes.
…eye? Several eyes? Two eyes? What was really the right amount of eyes? Well he thinks he has two so that’s probably must be it. Was there even a right amount of eyes, it was probably just down to preference. Like hair! Or nails. Did he have those too?
Where was he again? The hallway was bright and there were so many mirrors that both did and did not show him. Sometimes it did show him, but a him that didn’t look like what he believed himself to look like. Sometimes too tall, sometimes too short, never quite what a human supposedly looks like. But, where actually was he? There was a hallway, but he had been places without the hallway. Where was he before the hallway?
It was cold and he had a summer jacket. No, he corrected himself, winter jacket. It has to be somewhere snowy based on the cold wet still left in his hair.
Sannikov land, were the words that came crashing down on Micheal. He was in Sannikov Land.
Had been in, was more accurate. Now he was in a hallway. A strangely long hallway. A hallway that twists and twists and veers to the left forever and yet he will still find himself walking right. Or was he going straight right now? It was so hard to tell when the lights were so bright and his eyes were so dim. It was really a miracle that he was walking.
Was it really walking if he didn’t have a destination?
He was wandering?
No, he thinks, wandering is slow. His feet are currently moving fast.
He was run-
No. Something about Sannikov land was what he was thinking about. How had he gotten here? Or at least where he had gone to get to here?
A face quickly flashed up in his mind, an elderly face.The face of the kind- well, she had proven herself recently to not be as kind as he had thought- the face of Gertrude Robinson.
She had brought him here right? That means she would know the way to leave, right? Where was she anyways, he would hate for her to get lost in these hallways, they were rather long and confusing, terrible design for a hallway really. She was quite elderly, maybe she would need help.
He certainly needed help. What do you do when you need help? You call right?
He yelled for help. If Gertude was here she would have called for help already probably, she was old but she was still smart. But he would have heard her calling for help, why did he not hear her? Was she not here? She had been with him earlier… so where would she be if not here?
She would be outside. Outside the door. Outside the door he walked though. She had told him to go through the door. She put him here. Why had she done that? He had listened, why had he listened? Did he have a reason? He was supposed to save something right? Someone? Maybe that someone was him, he did really want to be saved. How would someone save themselves? Maybe if he kept walking he would find someone. Something?
He was walking.
Was it really walking if he didn’t have a destination?
He was wandering?
Wait a minute, Micheal did have a destination.
He had a map! Gertrude had given him a map! How kind of her! Whyever he was here must be where the map arrows pointed to. Had Ms. Robinson drawn those? Of course she wouldn’t have just left him in the confusing, bright, and loud hallways completely on his own.
How was a hallway loud? It was him then? Was he being loud?? This wasn’t making any sense. Why would it make sense though, he had been abandoned to die by someone he trusted. She betrayed him. She left him. He was going to die because of her. She didn’t, wouldn’t, care. He hated her. He felt a pressure, a rage, in him. He hated her. He hated her. He hated her . She should be dead, not him. Wait, he wasn't dead. Where was he? He hated this. He was crying and the tears made his face sting and it was loud and-
Oh it was just his ears that were being loud, not him. It was just the ringing in his ears. Of course it was! That was nice, at least he could check off that hallways couldn’t be loud. Ha ha. Did he say “ha ha” out loud? Maybe, did it really matter? It’s not like anyone could hear him. Wait wasn’t he here for someone? Gertrude? No, Gertrude was nice enough to give him a map to who he needed to find.
Wait, he didn’t like describing Gertrude as nice. She had left him alone.
Michael Shelly didn’t like being alone.
Oh, he was Michael Shelly… right? Was that who/what/when he was trying to find?
Anyways he should probably keep following the map, he was starting to get tired.
And so he kept walking, and walking, and walking. Down, and down, and down, and up, and left, and sideways, and diagonal, and spiraling ever further down and up.
Did that make any sense? Did he make any sense?
Michael doesn’t think he cares. His limbs are far too long to think properly.
And anyways, he found the final door! The map hadn’t lied to him. Gertrude hadn’t lied!
…
…She had. Hadn’t she.
Michael opened the marked door and it hurt. It hurt.
It hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt it hurtsdajkljjdfsa;ihc;vo;fwejkfaITHURTS*ITHURTSPAIN(AND&MOREPAIN%SDFHLKJSMslfhIfa@dsCakjshfoiHsdfahuiAfssdfEdhLfdsIfdkSOdideisS$_(IDFAnDheDisintigratedAndMeldedandRefromedandStretchedAndCrumpledAndWarpedandBuckeledAndCoiledAndBentandHeDistorted
And then there was a brief moment of clarity, something he had not had for a long time.
She had left him. She had lied to him. The Archivist had promised him usefulness, glory in a sense, and fulfillment. And she had convinced him to walk into his own death trap. Did this even save the world? Did his death, because he couldn’t imagine what this was if not death, actually mean anything to anyone? And what he felt more than any pain as his body continued to stretch and pull and twist and his mind continued to melt, was a burning rage.
And then that clarity was gone and Michael Shelly didn’t exist.
Michael thinks he still hurt. Did he hurt? What was hurt? Was he Michael? He must be Michael if him being Michael was his first thought.
He looks as more joints add themselves to his elongated fingers and yellow curls grow and ripple too fast from its scalp. It doesn’t think he likes being Micheal. It wants to be anyone but Michael. It doesn’t want to be anyone, especially Michael!
But it is stuck in this physical form, yes distorted but still too physical. It shouldn’t be physical. It shouldn’t be real.
It shouldn't be able to feel this angry.