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Human fragility is nothing new to The Mimic. He’s used that fact to his advantage many times over. Tearing off limbs and heads like a human would wings from a butterfly. He relishes in their suffering, breaking them into pieces, and throwing them into disorganized piles. What happens to them then is none of his concern. Or…at least hadn’t been his concern until his son came into his life.
Gregory’s a million times more breakable than the humans that find themselves in the depths of the pizzeria. One wrong move, a punishment gone awry, and his child’s entire existence comes to an end.
He would rather avoid that. Finding someone that looked like his friend wasn’t hard per se, but finding someone that both looked like his friend, had the personality of his friend, and possessed some level of intelligence, was a bit harder than it first appeared. Not to mention how much effort went into forming a connection between Gregory and him. All of it would be for nothing if he let the boy die or, god forbid, slip away.
The Mimic stands in the entryway of his and Gregory’s room. It’s his second favorite spot, because from here, he has full control over who leaves and comes in. With the plus side of being able to watch his son go about his day, pacing, sleeping, and like now, drawing.
Gregory sits on the floor, drawing a picture in the dirt. Since the virus is almost complete, the quiet moments of playing and drawing have taken a backseat to the work The Mimic needs done. Which is a shame because these moments are his favorite.
“What are you drawing?” He asks, coming to sit down next to Gregory. The concrete floor isn’t the best surface to draw on, but down here, their options are limited.
“My family!” His son beams. He looks down proudly at his creation in the dirt.
The Mimic can make out three figures in the dirt. A small figure with messy hair, a medium figure with a ponytail, and an almost comically tall figure with no hair. “Is that us?” He already knows it is, because who else would Gregory draw? They’re the only family he knows. The only family that matters.
“Yeah,” Gregory says. “Me, Vanny, and you.” He sighs, shoulders slumping. He brushes the dirt, ruining the picture.
“What’s wrong? Why’d you ruin the picture?” He somehow manages to keep the anger out of his voice.
Gregory shrugs. “I dunno. It feels…off.” It’s only because of the sad look in his son’s big brown eyes that The Mimic continues to stay calm. He repeatedly reminds himself that children are sometimes difficult, not out of malice, but because they’re hurting.
“What do you mean?” The Mimic stares at the space where the picture was once etched into the dirt. For a brief second he thinks about punishing his son - using the fear gas to teach Gregory a lesson - but it passes quickly.
Gregory’s voice breaks as he tries to explain further, “I-I don’t know.” He sobs, hiding his face in his hands. The Mimic is taken back. He isn’t used to Gregory crying about….well….really anything now that he thinks about it. The boy has definitely been distressed, both directly and indirectly, caused by him. But never enough to cry like the child The Mimic sometimes forgets he is.
His son’s shoulders shake, and he cries into his hands. “Everything is so confusing nowadays. I….nothing feels right. I want to be good. I want to be happy and not cause any problems, but something’s wrong. And no matter what I do I can’t fix it.”
The Mimic makes a mental note to check the state of all the Balloon Boy arcade games. The last thing they need is for some busybody to ruin things (especially now, when things are going his way).
“Most anything can be fixed, Gregory,” he says, clawed hands reaching up to gently brush his son’s tears away. One of the best lessons he’s relearned since caring for the boy in front of him is how to be gentle and kind when he needs to be. It’s a lesson he once learned from another child, and one he hadn’t used in literal decades.
His son gives a wet hiccup. “So…so I won’t feel like this forever?”
The Mimic sighs, petting Gregory’s unruly mop of hair. “Nothing lasts forever.” Except me and you and Vanny - if she continues not making a fuss.
“Re- really?” He sniffles.
“Really,” The Mimic assures him. “Now dry your eyes. I want you to draw another family photo before lights out.” He’s been dying to hang up a picture in their room. It’s so dark and dreary. Surely a picture will fix that.
Gregory wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ll go grab some art supplies from the daycare. The attendant might lend me some if I put a little glitter glue on it.”
The Mimic, if it were blessed with facial expressions, would have pulled a face. The one arts and crafts supply that he’s always hated is glitter. It being tied to a glue form makes the thought of it being used in the picture he wants so bad only marginally better.
“Fine,” he says. “But only a little bit. I don’t want it to stain your clothes.” He swears blood comes out better than whatever unholy concoction is in that daycare glitter glue. The last time Gregory made a picture under the attendant’s supervision, The Mimic had to throw out a perfectly good t-shirt. “And I want you back here before lights out in an hour.”
“Okay!” His son exclaims. “Be back soon.”
The Mimic sits there for a moment, staring at the pile of dirt his son was drawing in. Gingerly, he draws a line in the dirt, and then another, and another, until two crudely drawn figures are staring back at him.
Sighing sadly, The Mimic wipes the drawing away.
Nothing truly lasts forever.
Even you, old friend.