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All around him, he can hear the patient center collapse in on itself. It was wistful thinking to believe he could've just blasted this door down in one fell swoop, but he stands his ground and pushes harder, fists clenched as he pleads, Menu, I need more.
He'd forgotten all about it— honest. Caught up in the delight that for all that time, practicing in a mirror and writing and fantasizing and daydreaming— the time spent with Charger Block and Crown had gone so well. It had all paid off. And now, he's paying dearly for putting them in range of a danger they cannot even begin to comprehend. Around him, he can feel his vision blot out as the room is swallowed up by a blinding light. He's losing time.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
There's not enough room, before he can feel the immense heat from the laser build up between what dwindling space remains from the door and him. He takes a step back, bumps into something— Oh my word He hopes they're both still here. He can't look away to check, to make sure they're okay, that they're here. He owes the both of them such a big apology. He owes them an explanation. He can only give one of those and he pleas, once more, Menu, please.
He hears the door finally creak. And then suddenly, it folds like a paper, wrenched off its hinges and sent tumbling backwards outside. He can see black spots building in his eyes, but it's not enough to block out the sight of their only way out. He's already moving, feeling behind him, and for a moment he lets himself feel relieved when he pushes before him both Charger Block and Crown.
"Go!" He urges. And then the breath leaves him without a sound, as the launcher beneath his feet flings him backwards, reeling, into
It's something he'd dully realized, after he'd promised to see them tomorrow and closed the door, but even with the two of them gone now it's still not exactly quiet in his house. It's something he takes for granted now, as he stands there in front of the door, and watches them as they, after a moment, finally make their way out to the sidewalk, and out of sight.
They're great kids. The last few hours had been, quite literally, the best few hours of his entire life. Maybe it's just something about them, and the way they both got along so well with one another like a house on fire. Their fervor is contagious, and he'd gotten the flu from it.
Just in case, Pipe Bomb stands in front of his door for a few more minutes, before finally letting his hand slip off the knob as he turns to clean up.
He doesn't mind it. Necessarily. It can be nice, something he'd become used to and appreciate now after the whirl-storm of their tag team. He's left to recollect himself from the most activity he's had in forever, bending down to pick up the fallen picture frame and set it back onto the stand. Adjust it a little. There we go.
It's grounding. Yeah. Nothing's ever quiet. There's always something happening, like the quiet huff of the throw pillows as he fluffs them up on the couch, satisfied with his work. It's in the way the cups clink against the tray before he picks it up, and walks off down the hallway to the side kitchen. The clock ticks after his leaving form.
The water rushes out of the faucet, and he sets to work. The gloves and apron are only ever there for precaution now, in case any of the water gets sprayed out from the sink and could land on his wire ends. It's happened before. It was only an unpleasant experience, but it's something he'd like to avoid. Like when water gets stuck inside your ear, but no matter how long you keep your head tilted, it doesn't come out. It's been however long since he'd last been alive and now those memories are little tiny silhouettes on the stage, and he's sitting at the very back with no binoculars.
He knows what pain is like. He doesn't remember where or when he found out though.
If he were told to describe what it felt like, he'd be at a loss of words. He could try and describe how he'd imagine pain would feel; like being speared right through your medium, and you're unable to pry it out of you. Or if someone reached through you, and grabbed a hold of your inside and yanked it out. It's something raw, and it's nausea, and it lingers.
It's not the best descriptor— there's some in the books he's read that still stick to him to this day, carefully bookmarked and put away to return to on his shelves. Maybe he could take up writing again. He'd say he's a little inspired again.
The water is shut off. He takes the towel off the rack to dry the two teacups, to wipe the insides of the teapot clean. Those, and the tray, are put back where he'd taken them from in the upper cabinets that line this kitchen. After folding the towel and retrieving the other meant for the tiles of the counter, Pipe Bomb wipes away the excess water before he sets to work putting everything back the way it'd been. Apron and gloves included. He walks out of the kitchen with nothing left to do, and,
He walks out of the kitchen with nothing left to occupy his psyche. He stands in the middle of the hallway, to the living room it funnels into. Just a few hours ago, Charger Block and Crown had stood around and complimented the painting he'd hunt over the couch. He doesn't remember where he'd gotten it from. Just that it struck him enough to get it and hang it up there.
He moves to sit down where they'd previously sat, hands smoothing over the cushions. Hands that, twitch and fidget, that bring themselves up to one another and hug himself with.
His mind hadn't stopped ringing since he'd gotten back.
No. He didn't leave in the first place. It was a close call, and he not only owes CB and Crown an apology (done), or an explanation (too soon), but his gratitude for keeping him from falling completely through.
He knows they won't leave him to his silence for long. They're endlessly curious— and it's a good thing. To some extent. What details they have with their Operators, he's not quite sure of exactly, but it would do more harm than good when they hadn't even been here in the S*n for much long.
But he still feels ashamed. They didn't know what they were doing at all, what was happening at all. And he'd led them right into the bird cage. Would it be good, if the less they know the better? For now, at least. He knows it's not good to keep them in the dark. Maybe it's some part of him that wished he had been, and he's just projecting that longing he'd wished he could've clung onto longer, onto them, or something. His Operator wasn't a therapist when it came to these things.
What would this be now? Is she still operating on that— that— he doesn't even remember the object. Or how long it's been since he'd talked to her. One of his first friends on the S*n— he likes to still think so, because it wasn't like there were many other options.
But it's been so long since he'd last heard or even seen a blink of her. And it's for the better, this way. Especially after what'd just happened.
But.
But nothing had happened. At all. He knows this. He knows this, deep down, that the split second when his face slipped through the wall before getting yanked out, that nothing had happened. And he should be glad nothing happened at all. Because he's still here. And tomorrow he gets to see CB and Crown again. He's still here, back inside his house, safe, because nothing has happened.
The clock ticks. He spares a wild glance up at it. Barely a minute has passed.
Barely a second had passed when he looked back through the other side. Everything was happening so fast and before he knew it, he was on his knees and he's outside. The air is full with panicked gasps, adrenaline pumping hot, as the patient center dissipates behind them like it was never there to begin with.
He remembers how cold he felt, and it wasn't from the night breeze. He remembers how his arms weighed down his sides, heavy with lead, how he was seeing but not really, and Crown's words were barely heard in his mind, so far away.
He remembers the blinding light overtaking his vision as his head passes through and he remembers.
It's— It's just like sleeping. He knows it's been a split second but his mind can't wrap around such a simple fact when it felt like— like maybe how a computer would feel when it gets rebooted up. The time reads differently than how it did when it was shut off. But no time had passed between when it was down. Or something like that. It's been nearly like— how long— four centuries since he'd last tried coding. That was a nightmare, he remembers.
This isn't working.
He remembers how he used to think it so silly, that on the S*n, you can still choose to indulge in what used to be a necessity alive. Sleep was especially one of them. Sleep was good. It helped pass the time. Whenever Pipe Bomb didn't have anything else other to do, he would situate himself the best he could, and close his eyes, and say, Menu, put me to sleep for a few hours.
Insomnia claws into the cracks of his phone case. His hands shake as they grip themselves around him, staring mutely ahead.
And the thing is, it's not even that big of a deal. If it was, he'd reckon maybe more people would speak of it. It'd be a whole panic. It's been so long since there has been one all over the S*n, but that was before his time, his birth, his death. He's pretty sure now that he thinks about it, the guy was jesting with him.
During the worst of it, he'd say, Menu
And. He'd think it.
But he never goes through with it. Put me to sleep for a few months, He goes with instead, because at least at the end of it, he'll be awake. And nothing would have changed. No one to knock at his door wondering where he'd disappeared to, no someone to leave mails for when his hibernation was done. No anybody to check up on a ghost that was never really there.
And he would close his eyes and not move once for those periods of months. It was perhaps the most at peace he'd feel, during those turbulent times of despair.
He doesn't want to go back there. And yet he can't bring himself to move.
Is there a such a thing possible than a worse than death for someone already dead? Sometimes he'd hear this in passing conversations, and the other friend would laugh or joke. Maybe Hell is real, and I'm already there.
He feels nauseous. He feels raw. And maybe the worst part about it is that he doesn't want to go back there, yet he can't bring himself to move. It was fortunate enough that CB caught a hold of the ledge. It was lucky that Crown had grabbed onto his leg.
Because he knows if neither of them had been where they were, he would've gone through completely, and there wouldn't have been a way to get back. Finally, an eternal slumber for the done-for.
He knows if he'd gone through completely, he'd
And yet.
He, he forces himself to breathe deeply. For the first time, something other than the ringing in his head, other than the clock, there was sound. Heavy breathing, squeezed and tight and practiced.
The Sun is rising. It will be another day for the S*n soon. And now he has something to actually look forward to, for so, so long.
If this was a dream, then he doesn't want to ever wake up.
Pipe Bomb sits there until he hears knocking on his door again.