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Gregory cries, trying to bury himself under his one blanket. The darkness of his shared room - the darkness he’s always hated with his entire being - is nowhere near enough to quell his raging headache.
He coughs, and he’s forced forward. The pressure contained in his temples increases. He wipes at his eyes, reburying himself underneath the stiff blanket. The cot he was so “lovingly” gifted a few years back is on its last leg. It creaks with the slightest movement, and Gregory can feel some of the plastic plating digging into his back.
He’s been sick before, at least he thinks he has. The memories of before are hazy at best, and even worse now, with his brain on fire. But he must have, Gregory is human after all, even if The Mimic seems to forget that at times.
Gregory is vaguely aware of two people talking above him. Their voices filter through his ears, in and out, like white noise. A coldness suddenly overtakes him. He shivers, teeth chattering.
“He’s sick,” someone says. If he were a bit more well, he would have recognized them as Vanny. “We- I should take him to a doctor.”
“No!” A second person - The Mimic, Gregory quickly realizes - exclaims. “He needs to remain here. It’s dangerous out there, especially when he’s like this.”
Neither of them can disobey. It’s hardwired into them, and beyond that is the fear of being on the receiving end of The Mimic’s wrath. They’ve both seen it firsthand. How it pops off limbs and removes heads with practiced ease.
Still, Gregory secretly hopes Vanny argues back - just this once. He doesn’t want to die. Not down here. Not like this.
But Vanny walks a line thinner than his own. Her terms of employment are continued obedience and subservience, so it’s no surprise when she utters the word, “ok. I’ll go grab some supplies.”
Gregory cries harder. The ache in his body has settled in his bones, weighing him down. He hears Vanny leave, pausing for a second. Maybe, for once, her worry for him is overriding her own self-preservation, but then the door closes with a resounding thud, turning his cries into sobs.
There’s a click, almost like someone smacking their tongue in exasperation. Like a parent admonishing a small child.
Another shiver runs up and down Gregory’s spine.
The cot creaks, and familiar clawed hands pulls the blanket from over his face. Gregory squeezes his eyes shut, not out of fear, but because the pressure in his head hasn’t lessened in the least.
Another click. “My, my,” The Mimic says. “Won’t you open your eyes?”
“Hurts,” Gregory mutters, holding a hand over his eyes. It seems that closing his eyes isn’t enough to ward off the light. It sits on his eyelids, breaching his senses, and making his headache worse and worse.
“Hm…that’s no good.”
The creaking gets louder as another body slots into the cot right next to Gregory. Two metal arms reach around, gathering him. Gregory sobs, suddenly terribly afraid of his fate. Images of The Mimic's other victims flash in his mind’s eye, blinding him.
“Shhhh…..sleep. Vanny’ll bring back some medicine soon,” The Mimic says, as if that’s what’s wrong. That the deep ache in his bones and fire in his brain is the cause for his discomfort.
(Well, it is, but Gregory would argue it’s only part of the reason. If he could form coherent sentences right now, that is).
“I…I want to go home!” He wails, fear overtaking his self-preservation instincts to shut up. “I want my mom! I want my dad!” He can almost see them now. A woman with a soft smile and a nice voice, and a man with hair and eyes like his own. Without fully knowing them, his memories a hodge-podge of fractured snippets from his life, Gregory misses them terribly. More than he usually does, and with his brain and body on fire, it’s hard to stay quiet.
Everything about this feels wrong.
The cot.
This room.
The blanket that feels like it's been starched to Hell and back (but most certainly hasn’t).
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong!
He throws the blanket down, temper brewing. Irritation bubbles up inside him, and all he can do is cry about it. The words he wants to use against his hulking machine hovering over him get lost in his throat. And that, more than anything else, makes Gregory angrier.
Because for the second time in three years since he’s been taken, he realizes how helpless he actually is. He can be as angry as he wants, but it won’t save him. The Mimic might back off for a little while, but it’ll never truly leave him. He’ll never escape. Not now.
Not ever.
A wave of exhaustion washes over Gregory, and the creeping dread of being held captive is replaced by stolen memories of warmth and comfort.
The clawed hands that hold him firm, reach up to his hair, sitting there for a moment. Gregory pants, trying to catch his breath between sobs. The hands carefully card through his hair, soothing the pain just a tiny bit. He subconsciously leans in, seeking comfort.
“Dad’s here,” he answers, voice soft. “Sleep now. Nothing can hurt you while I’m here.” The Mimic His dad sounds sincere in his words, and he finds he has no more will to fight. The sickness and his own barrage of thoughts leave him feeling untethered.
Gregory sniffles, feeling a sense of wrongness about this entire situation. Like nothing is as it should be. A facade of recollection. But then, he’s hugged tighter. The cold metal from his dad’s arms and chest help his fever just the tiniest bit. He snuggles closer, taking refuge in his father’s arms.
The usual background noises of the foundation settling and rats scurrying lull him to sleep.
That night, for once in literal years, Gregory’s dreams are pleasant. He dreams of a family that isn’t his own. Of a kind little boy that looks like him, and of a robot that hangs onto the little boy’s every word.
In the corner, unseen, a figure watches over Gregory intently. Its gaze sometimes flits to the little boy talking a mile-a-minute to the robot on the workbench. A reminder of what he can no longer have. What neither of them can have.
He ends the dream, placing his son in a dreamless void. There’s no need for nightmares tonight.