Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey all! Scott here”

Tiny, nearly inaudible clicks of a motor start to whirl, the tiny green light is on. That means it’s recording, doesn’t it? It means “You’re back.”

Whatever that means.

Whenever that thing turns on, Scott starts talking, it feels like having a captive audience, he just keeps talking on and on- he’s never at a loss for words. A topic enters his mind and it comes to him just like that. The best part? He never has to write anything out and screen it with people, it’s pure compulsion that keeps him going! His mind becomes so clear when that camera’s rolling. It’s only when he’s in this room.

Within the brightly lit enclosure, a section of the wall is coated in blue. His desk has always been against a blue wall. The space has become second nature to the man sitting in front of the camera. It sure beats the outdoors! Scott had never cared for people- did you know 50% of the adult population AREN’T virgins? It’s sickening. And he has his desk here! Lord knows he loves it. And his copy of Madden 08 , and his copy of Madden 08 , and his copy of Madden 08: En Español-

What kind of routine is this? Some would call this place purgatory, Scott would call it New Location Mcghee. Home, as it were. The only place he wishes to be. The only place anyone sane would want to be. And that is- of course- what Scott Wozniak is.

Any professional could make the argument he’s gone off the deep end, that he needs help- but this is how he has always been. At least to his knowledge.

“What the f*ck is this!?” He holds up a Dreamcast controller. Standard appearance, a level of charm to be had in its slight oddity- but it’s nothing particularly special, it is as it has been, the same for the past twenty-something or so years. Give or take.

“The controller with love handles!”

His voice echoes off of his own four walls, this small sanctuary containing everything he would ever need.

…

“You know, playing this myself is fine but-”

Scott stares at the Sonic Adventure 2: Battle screen. Of course- needs two people to keep talking about this game, after all- the IRS only counts him as one.

“This doesn’t work, but who could I-”

Cutting him off, the doorbell rings.

He turns around.
“Wow, a visitor?” He says, directly to the camera. It would be rude not to address it after all, it feels almost like a person. Not really, but how else would he describe the feeling that it gives him? The thought of being watched, an audience all of his own, without even having to look at a single face. There’s never any visitors when it’s off, so perhaps this compulsion is a gesture of goodwill to whatever he talks to, it sounds crazy but- well- he doesn’t even turn the camera on hims-

Someone pounds on the door. Scott quickly gets up, out of his mind, and opens the door to his room.

One broad shouldered, thickly bearded man greets Scott. Looking slightly down, he half smiles.

“Heard you needed someone to do dear god anything but Gex .” 

Of course- one of the few people he ever talks to, one of the few people he could call something adjacent to a friend. 

“What if I told you that we were playing as a blue hedgehog?’

“Are blue hedgehogs Gex -adjacent?”

Scott pauses.

“No.”

“Awesome.”

Rex always shows up at a time of convenience. Usually, he needs more people to play a game with. Actually, that’s every time he’s over. But he’s always with that other one- the one with the name and the face- no matter.

Before Scott can lead his guest inside, the one other person he could, in some universe, call something related more or less to a friend, pops up behind Rex.

“And did I hear Gex ?” His smile wide, his whole face appears to smile when his mouth curves upwards.

Oh, Jeb. That’s his name.

“...Yes.” Scott says, remaining relatively still. He’s the one who likes Gex . Obviously. 

“Oh, come on then! I’ve been waiting for this forever!”

Scott lets them in, of course, these people aren’t too bad. One of them protects chastity! The other- well, he seems more preoccupied with Gex . He plugs in the player two controller.

“You guys are gonna have to share.” Scott blinks.

Rex and Jeb look amongst each other. Rex wordlessly, maintaining eye contact with Jeb, grabs the controller.

“You know, I didn’t take you for a Gex guy.” Jeb smiles, gesturing in Rex’s general direction.

God is that all he ever talks about?

The second the thought enters his mind, something sparks in the back of his brain- a jolt of pain. Something sharp, a migraine? But as soon as he recognizes it, it’s gone.

“Is this a gun?”

Oh, they’re still talking, and to him.

“Huh?” Scott asks, bewildered. Jeb’s holding the controller in a peculiar fashion. Wait, wasn’t Rex just holding it?

Jeb picks his character, Scott chooses his. Rex puts on shades and lounges back.

“Oh, of course you picked a little BITCH. So you.”

What the f*ck does he mean by that?

“What the f*ck do you mean by that?”

He glances at his screen, then back at Rex. Sonic the Hedgehog? What the actual hell could have warranted that respon-

It happens again. The spark in his mind. A sharpness in the base of his neck, as if something had shorted inside of his brain. For a moment he swears he can see- blue? Something blurry and blue in the corners of his vision, just out of focus. The pain forces his eyes to look at the screen. Jeb’s laugh breaks through the pain, and it all stops. He’s moving his character to find Scott’s.

“ Gex ’s changed a little bit, you never know what to expect!” His legs fold in on his stomach, curling themselves into a more comfortable position. Scott, on the other hand, shifts around in his seat for a moment. His jeans rub against the couch almost uncomfortably. A chill sneaks its way down the back of his neck. God, was it always so damn cold in this place? He glances back at the TV. He tries to focus on the game. F*ck, why does he have to do this sh*t when his only two- acquaintances - are here? He never talks to anyone outside, hell, he hasn’t gone outside in months! 

 A moment that seems like an eternity is a blip to the other two, Scott guessed. Maybe he should get himself checked out, but that would mean going somewhere. He starts to move his character around, where was he anyway? The splitscreen- ah! Like a performer that has picked back up his script, he’s back in.

“Now the multiplayer is the only way to access the ‘Battle’ part of Sonic Adventure 2: Battle . Almost it’s like it’s right in the name, SON OF A BITCH those swine at SEGA knew what they were doing.”

That feeling comes to him when he talks like this, the feeling of having a captive audience. I mean, he has his- company - but when he’s going on about something like this, when words just flow through him, he feels more eyes on him. Is there a camera here too? There must be, the tapes include all sorts of angles of his house.

Scott’s head remains stationary, but his eyes glance at the two men around him. Their energy bounced off of one another, now that’s what friends look like. Even if Scott isn’t too particularly close to them, they tolerate him. That has to be enough. It’s nice to not be alone for once.

But all good things must come to an end.

At some point, they’ve finished the level. Scott realizes he’s running out of things to say, it feels like the time that he walks back to his office, his guests leave, and he’s alone once more. But- could they stay? Maybe, even if for just a little while longer, away from the cameras. 

Scott fights his own throat to allow his words to flow from his mouth. Why is talking so monumentally difficult? “Why don’t the two of you come with me? I can- I can show you guys my office.” He smiles, it’s more of a grimace if anything. Pleading eyes stare back at Rex and Jeb.

Rex sighs and steps away. “Sorry, every school dance needs a chaperone.”

Jeb smiles. “And Terry’s grilled up a pumpkin, can’t miss dinner.” 

Scott frowns. “Can you guys- please just a little longer, ten minutes! All I want is ten minutes, just let me go to my desk and I’ll wrap things up-” Something buzzes in the back of his head as he continues to brawl with his own vocal chords. He watches as they step away from the couch set. He looks back over at where he thinks the camera is, then, he’s slightly jolted, as if he were awoken in the middle of a sermon. Whatever bullsh*t excuses the guys have kind of roll off of Scott’s ears as he feels fuzzier.

By the time he looks back at them, they’re gone. Why does this stir a sting to his chest? Maybe Scott could go with them? He runs to his front door.

“Guys- Give me a second, I-”

He turns the doorknob…

clunk

He turns the doorknob.

clunk

It wont turn.

He wiggles the door, is it locked? The lock’s from the inside, right? His hands tremble thinking how far they could be away by now as he fumbles with the knob. Who knows when he’s going to see them again!? Scott’s vision starts to get fuzzier. His brain pops and fizzes, as if circuits were failing, sparking. With the corners of his eyes tinged by blue, he yanks harder. He flicks the tiny lock mechanism. Not even a sound as it happens. As if it were just there for decoration. 

“I can’t- what the hell is wrong with this thing?” His heart thumps in his chest, as if it were attempting to escape just as much as Scott is.

The static in his brain hurts so much. His heart feels as if it’s burning. He doesn't realize how much it hurts to breathe. He takes a step back, face stricken with terror. He can’t think properly as he whips around, looking- just staring at his living room. Suddenly it’s all so suffocating. He slams his body against the door. It leaves him with nothing but a giant bruise to form in the coming days.

“WHAT THE F*CK?!” He cries, do they call this tinnitus? This is way more f*cked up than how people describe-

And the moment his foot takes him closer to his room, it gets a tiny bit more bearable.

Scott does as a Scott that’s about to pass out would do in this situation, and stumbles closer to his desk room. 

It feels right, this is what Scott “the Woz” Wozniak is supposed to be. Keep going.

He sits down in his chair, his brain hazy at best, his body exhausted from the sudden pain, but he brings himself to speak. As if a puppet on a string, words are pulled from his scratchy throat.

“And the test results are in, THAT is what voluntary chastity is like.” Scott holds up a copy of the game, and smiles. Despite it all. The camera light flashes blue, the thing it does right before turning off for good. After the little light flickers off, Scott just…

Stares at it.

A VHS tape pops out of the VCR stationed right below the camera. It’s labeled with the game he talked about. He picks it up, placing it aside as he comes back to lucidity. What was he thinking about that made his head hurt so much? He peers around and down his open door. His gaze meets the front door.

That’s what he was doing.

He runs to the door, the static no longer as heavy on his mind as he grabs and twists the knob. He can’t get out. He kicks it, the ball of his foot colliding with the tough wood of the door. This does nothing short of chipping a toenail and causing Scott to yelp like a bitch.

After the momentary weakness, he laughs to himself. Doesn’t he just keep getting into peculiar situations? It’s hilarious, the joke’s over- can someone let him out? 

“HEY! Rex! Jeb! I think my door’s stuck! HI? HELLO? HEY GUYS!” 

His lungs burn once more, every breath he takes in sends a fire up his trachea as he yells. A miserable, pathetic cry rings out through the air, a plea that Scott hadn’t even known was in him. Before long his throat is raw. How did they leave?

And why can he not?

Chapter Text

Scott has been standing at this door for god knows how long. A paralyzed animal, unable to do anything but think. It’s quite easy to get lost in your mind in a place like this, it’s quiet, its sole inhabitant is Scott. He should have gotten a cat or something, he remarks to himself. With that small thought, he realizes that he has been soundlessly sobbing the whole time.

He looks back over to his studio room. He can see that f*cking section of blue against stark white. It used to be so warm, why does it feel so terrifying? His steps grow heavy with lethargy from his panic as he walks closer to his desk room. Exerting all of that energy into breaking down this f*cking door left half of his body in a pulsing pain. He feels more normal- and it kind of pisses him off. It really pisses him off. Why can’t he leave? Everything was fine earlier. What changed? How long has he been stuck here? Why does that camera turn o-

The window.

His window, he can leave through his window, right? Maybe he can figure out what’s up with the door. Maybe there’s a normal explanation for it all, he reasons with himself, running up to the window. He, with trembling hands, quickly pulls the blinds up. The locks should-

The locks should…

The locks should be there.

Why aren’t they there?

Does his window just not lock? He laughs to himself, anyone could break in from the roof if they were f*cking crazy enough. Scott shoves up on the glass, it has to have some give. The Fire Prevention Bureau would be up these architect's asses if they didn't! He strains his muscles trying to open the damned thing, at some point something gives- and it’s not the window. He lets go of it, giving himself a moment to rest. He gazes out onto the street, unfocused eyes jittering around to the mailbox, to the pavement, to the road, to the-

To the…

“The f*cking trees.”

They never move. The leaves remain as static as ever. Outside looks as if it was frozen in time, trapped within a snow globe. Scott, in this moment, feels nothing short of dread sinking into the bottom of his gut. He looks back at his desk. Is he heaving? It’s been a while since he’s done any exercise. Have those lights always glared at him so harshly? It’s so warm in here, too warm, heat flashes- no, pulses- through his body. The heat closes in on his body, he has to get it out. 

He realizes that the panting he’s been hearing is coming from him, as his frantic gaze falls on the landline stationed atop his desk. He walks over to it, he’s gotten calls before, it should work, maybe he can call for help. Jittery, porcelain hands grasp the unit, and the entire thing comes up with the motion. There should be a number pad right on the bottom-

There should be a number pad. Why isn’t it there? Can this f*cking thing not do outgoing calls? He turns the machine around in his clammy hands. He eyes the end of it. Hold on, why isn't it connected to the wall? How the hell does this thing work anyway? Scott picks up the receiver, straining, trying to make out any sound at the other end.

Silence.

What use is a phone that doesn’t work!? Fear boils in his body, distilling itself into anger of an animalistic kind- but that of prey. The cut landline is chucked across the room, thumping against a shelf full of games. As it collides with the floor, he feels his body ache, soreness creeping into his muscles. He's been getting calls, at least, when he’s filming- but he doesn’t control when it happens. He feels absolutely out of his mind. He looks towards the window, and an idea takes form. If he can break it he could, maybe, climb out and figure out what the hell is going on. He stumbles up towards it, winding up with great force into his elbow, propelling it forward- until he feels his nerves all at once start to scream at him. A fire ignites through his body, the sole thing his vision is “graced” with becomes brief glimpses of static. Scott’s limbs weigh down on him as his body crashes to the ground. His face knocks against the windowsill. He’s hardly conscious enough to realize he’s crying.

Scott’s head spins as he opens his eyes. He appears to be face down in his carpet, as if he had fallen flat on the entire front half of his body, like a cartoon. He cranes his head upwards, although nothing’s changed. He’s staring right at an expansive, fat shelf full of those god damned stupid Nintendo games. If this were some f*cked up dream he’s having, it’s been going on borderline forever. When you get hurt in a dream, aren’t you supposed to wake up? A fuzzy feeling nestles itself deep in the back of Scott’s mind, crackling static put to a simmer. Scott flops his head over to see his desk, the obnoxious blue section of the wall almost taunting him. Whenever he looks at it now, he feels even more blue than usual. Literally. Something cages his mind, his body, his vision, a vague blue-ness. His Genesis, with that one game with the bald guy on the front- Was his name Buck? Dick? It had something to do with college hoops- had his landline settled nicely next to it. He remembers throwing the damn thing earlier. What happened?

In this moment, staring at his cage, Scott feels more kinship to a mouse than he does a man.

His door is open- oh yeah- he does have a whole house. He's gotta eat something. He opens his raw throat.

“Can’t go crazy on an empty stomach.” He croaks to his walls. He stands up, walking rather slowly to the kitchen. He looks at his windows. If he were to guess, it’s the same story as his office. He feels absolutely insane. Bleary eyes peer past his glasses, back over at the counter. Scott ponders- can you sustain yourself on Mello Yello and Cheez-Its?

Every moment Scott thinks about his situation, he feels something hurt. Not just emotionally- literally.

He paces around his room, looking at his suddenly towering shelves of games, as he hears the VCR start up. He rushes to his desk, plopping down in his chair. A brightness fills his brain, a hit of dopamine as he sees that green light flick on.

“Hey all, Scott here!” He smiles. Ease floods his body, settling into his bones. This is routine, this is comfortable, this is Scott. Maybe someone will come who can help him, maybe he can leave with them-

“Saaaay, do you want me to play one of Nintendo's worst games of all time to end up spending thousands of dollars in therapy?”

The camera’s iris looks so warm, like a friend. It’s such a great listener, it being you of course; His audience. He beams, talking about this feels right, nothing can hurt him here. He takes a moment to breathe, a mobile phone clasped in his hand, with Mario Kart Tour on it. Therapy? He’s perfectly sane and sound, why would he say that? That’s the thing that only mentally ill people do, and he hasn’t gotten sick in his brain for a good while. He picks up a figure of a pale yellow dog off of his desk, an Animal Crossing figure- when had he picked up a gamepad? How long had he been talking? He pauses, looking at the items in his hand. The buzzing comes back, every second increasing in volume; the painful sound urging him to keep talking. He sees on the screen, it’s a party game of course.

“Well I couldn’t possibly play Animal Crossing Amiibo Festival by myself- what do I look like? A f*ckin’ loser? I at least need to play Animal Crossing Amiibo Festival … with one other person.”

Wow, it would be real convenient if he had another person to interrupt his sh*t. Could he…? His hands shake as he picks up the phone, staring at the camera warily for a moment. He’s being good. He’s doing what he is supposed to.

“I am forwarding this message to everyone in my contacts list, if you stop by tonight we can play…” 

Scott pauses momentarily, down on his hand is scribbled in his handwriting ‘WHEN IN DOUBT, LIE WITH GEX’ sprawled above a taped photo of Gex 's cover art. He sets down the telephone unit, did that even do a damn thing?

He freezes, hearing muffled words, two voices mumbling amongst themselves. Someone’s in his house.

Scott walks to his living room, where Rex and Jeb seemingly have let themselves in; he never opened the door for them like he usually does. Scott holds the doorway, overseeing his couch, looking over to Rex.

“Did not take you as a Gex fan.”

Rex coolly meets Scott’s gaze, a near-practiced smirk peeking through his thickly bearded face. Rex pulls out an owl figurine from his pocket.

“Yeah.”

The other man chimes in, with his pink-dusted cheeks and squinty eyes gleaming as he grins. “Is it Gex night!? I’ve been waiting for this for YEARS!”

Scott settles himself between the two.

Scott looks between them. Their faces are warm, comfortable; They’re the only people he’s seen for- as far back as his tapes go.

Jeb giggles. “Oh, I LOVE Gex !”

Seriously, is that all he talks about?

Scott picks up the- wait, he just had Isabelle a moment ago. Scott hesitantly picks up a Lottie figure he doesn’t recall having placed, tapping it onto the gamepad. The two men on his side stay silent as he talks about the introduction of the game. “...aaand- this is going to take us an hour and a half to finish.”

“Great thing I have a little snack that we can share.” Rex grins, pulling a single, warm corndog from his pocket, taking a bite from the top. The corndog is passed over to Scott. The stick’s warm too. Scott looks Rex in the eyes, then glances down at the corndog. He takes a bite from one side and offers it to Jeb, who takes it without hesitation. 

The next couple of rounds pass in a blur for Scott, his own words overwhelming his conscious mind. He looks up at the screen momentarily, a stupid boring text blurb about how he lost happiness points. He looks down at the gamepad and starts nervously laughing. 

“Hey- this might sound a little crazy and honestly who the hell could blame you for thinking it but I can’t really open any of my-” 

Bile foams up in the back of his throat, accompanied by that sting that causes him to lurch forward. He makes out Jeb’s words-

“Man, you really haven’t played Gex before, have you?”

What the hell is it with this guy, he feels like puking and this is all he can say!? His nerves start to spark in the back of his neck. He yelps for a moment, then stumbles to describe what’s going on, anything to make that terrible pain stop. “So we basically have to grind in this game for a couple of hours to unlock everything. We have- we have Balloon Island…” As he speaks he feels it recede.

He doesn’t realize how shaky his voice has become. 

“And that was Amiibo Festiv -”

“Gex,” Jeb sharply ‘corrects’ him.

“Gex. Okay, Jesus Christ can someone PLEASE tell me what the f*ck is going o-”

Jeb stares at him oddly, eyes trained on Scott, his face is nearly expressionless, but his brows lay furrowed slightly in… concern? Pity…? He does nothing to get closer.

Scott feels himself lurch forward, gripping the table, bile bubbling at the back of his throat again. Okay, it’s NOT acid reflux. Probably. But if it IS, it has great timing. He can see Rex out of the corner of his eye, looking down at him, starting to grimace. Oh, and they react NOW? As soon as he sees this expression, his head slams down onto his coffee table, eliciting another cry.

Scott finds himself at his desk, blood leaking from his mouth, and a tape on the floor. No- No, he played so nice, he played by the rules- until the very end, but he just didn’t want to be left alone again. He didn’t want to feel trapped again, where are his- where is his company? The camera’s offline- Have they left already? He tries to get up from his chair, his head's still light and fuzzy. In his haze, Scott trips over the leg of his rolling desk chair. He tumbles to the ground pathetically. Scott’s glasses clack against themselves as they tumble a foot away. He cranes his head back up at the stationary camera, vision blurred. 

Will they come back?

Will you?

Chapter Text

Scott hadn’t blacked out. No, this would be too simple a fate for the Woz. As he staggers to his feet, a drunken airheadedness comes upon him. Scott comes to find an oddity all around him; a pulsating mass of blue. Gargled sounds of what could almost be voices hum throughout the air. What is this? Could this be death?

.

No. He feels much too aware of his peril for that. Everything is much too alive for that; For if this were death- would he not be able to feel his heart beating through the ground? Unease settles on the edge of his lips, but not a word could be uttered. It burned through his body with nowhere to go, cycling through his blood like wine sipped on an empty stomach. Scott lets in a labored breath, as if he had forgotten to be alive. It feels like that, doesn’t it?

..

…

Forgetting how to be alive.

Those hummed voices, they strike his ears; so familiar, scratching an itch inside of Scott’s mind. He’s enveloped in a warmth as he strains to listen.

The further he strains, the more he feels he can see- someone. It becomes the closest to looking through a television screen smothered in static. The blurred visages of people, some of whom, remain nameless in his mind- but two stick out.

Jeb?

Rex?

….

Scott is almost startled to hear another, clearer- yet pained- voice join in.

“Where are you guys?”

His own.

His eyes flutter open, once more enveloped in his forcibly reclused state. Scott had found himself often confined to his desk; where he would sleep. He had always slept here. It had never bothered him before.

It’s just always been so blue. Literally. A hallmark of his own life, even when the camera’s off. When his company is away. When You’re gone. The more and more he bides his time, the closer the feeling brushed against him- threatening to choke him. Drown him.

And as of late, the threat seems almost tangible.

He’s stuck. Not like that ever had left his mind. Not that it could. He sits back against his chair, please god give him something to think about other than- this. His brain feels so foggy, so heavy, but sleep evades his troubled mind. He could get up to see the bags painted purple and grey under his eyes but there wouldn’t be any point. Surely that camera will go on any time now, and he’ll remember some video game thing that takes him on a tangent. Maybe those people will show back up. Maybe he can get them to stay after the camera’s off.

But of course, this was reality.

Or- whatever’s closest to whatever Scott’s in. He must wait. This is all he ever does.

Please.

Turn on please.

He glares at the walls, crushing masses in this spacious cage for one. Accursed f*cking walls that he has to stare at every day, the eggshell ceiling trapping him.

Please.

A certain change in disposition sparks within his brain, not grief, not even sorrow, but terror.
It’s suffocating, living like this, you know. An entire house and no one to share it with. Is this a punishment? Does anyone f*cking care? Something’s wrong here, this isn't how it’s supposed to be, Scott knows this, the notion ringing out in his head so sharply; this isn't how it’s supposed to-

The green light pops on, accompanied by the whirring sound of a tape inside of the VCR.The compulsion to greet someone returns to his body; warmth rejuvenates him. To be given purpose once more. Oh thank God you’re back. Why had you been away so long? Can you help him?

As if a puppet, he raises his arm, and smiles. His cheeks hurt. God they hurt. His eyes burn. Even your stationary iris cannot remedy it.

“Hey All! Scott hee-AAAAA”

His smiling face contorts, now bearing confusion- fear- anger- anything, something terrible; it is as if the terror has overtaken his body. He yells, is this supposed to be f*cking funny? Is this a bit? No, no it’s not. He needs to be heard.

He just keeps yelling, something warm trickles down his face. He looks at the walls, he screams.

“I HATE WALLS! Why do I LIVE HERE!? Have you EVER REALIZED there’s a reason for these things to exist?!”

His words claw at his throat, the force wearing it so suddenly raw, he keeps shouting, eyebrows knitting together. This isn't how it’s supposed to be.

“That’s right, you haven’t, because there ISN’T ANY!”

He sees some sh*tty portable on his table, he fights the urge to just talk about it. That isn't the point, the camera is on and he can talk. Subtlety didn’t work last time. He has to reach out. Surely someone's out there. He feels your gaze.

“It’s so LONELY here- when you’re not here, no one comes! I’m-”

He starts to bitch. Every syllable continues to feel like barbs traveling up through his neck, his brain sparking once more. Before more words can bubble from his throat, his ribs feel as if a ten ton weight is pushing them from both sides, a cold fire scalds his lungs, the blues in his vision become so harsh, he screams- oh God it's so hard to breathe-

The light goes out.

Another tape pops out.

Scott cannot get out.

He lets out an agonized cry.

“No- Please, PLEASE- DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE.” Scott screams; a man maddened. There are no ears for it to fall on.

His cry dies with a choked sob, the tape clatters to the floor. Through all of the shuddering and the tears that attack his eyes, he sees the label. “OUTTAKE” it reads. He cradles his head in his hands, his chair the only thing to ground him.

Why do you always leave? What about those people that only show up when you’re here? Why do they never stick around?

He stares up at the camera. You never talk back. He can practically feel your eyes on him, and yet you don't talk back. Is anyone even there?

Scott’s gaze trails down as he stands, staring at that camera. A pasty hand stretches out to move it. As soon as he tries to push the camera, he feels terribly ill. The fibers of his muscles burn, static fills his vision as he violently gags- He quickly retreats from the thing. “Guess that’s not an option.” he quips, through a trembling throat. He sniffs back the sludge of snot and tears that betray his pain. He can’t see an on button- or any buttons, really. Just black plates where they should be. He doesn’t want to touch y- it- again, anyways.

It’s so cold when it’s off, even though very little changes when it’s on. It’s about the feeling, Scott supposes. The feeling of being observed- witnessed- seen.

Heard .

He craves your eyes on him, your company. Please.

One trembling voice cuts through the still air.

“Come back.”

Scott’s hands shake, DS in hand. He has the automated Personal Trainer: Cooking voice going on about preparing- what, peas? It doesn’t matter, even this stupid Nintendo game could help him right now. Last time he actually cooked he made some f*ckass Ohioan mac n’ cheese. He- he had company over, didn’t he? Yeah- he fondly recalls sitting on the couch with Rex and Jeb, eating stale pretzels. Personal Trainer: Cooking made a fool out of him but- he didn’t seem to mind; at the time, yes- but… now? Not really. It was nice. But then was then and now is now. He hasn't been able to stomach a single thing in this cage. He has a surplus of stupid video game cereal, some frozen Banquet meals- a shudder passes over him as he recalls the chicken tenders meal. He can’t eat those anymore. Oh, and of course, he has a couple of cans of Campbell's soup- AND the Mello Yello and Cheez-Itz. he never thought about where they were coming from until… until he “broke”. How has he been eating this f*cking poorly?

He does have that devil’s food cake mix. Too much of it. Does it ever expire? He picked up a box, and upon finding no printed date, opens it up. He doesn’t actually know what he’s doing. He pours it in a bowl, taking a spoon to it- Oh God maybe it needs a liquid. Scott tosses the spoon into the bowl, grabbing some milk. He slops some milk into the bowl, inconsiderate as he splashes it onto his table. The texture is truly something disgusting. He gets a few bites in and frowns. He screwed it up somehow.

 “God damnit.” 

Scott dumps the rest of his cake mix + milk bowl into the sink. Can’t he do anything right? He grabs himself a cup of water to wash the remainder down, and peers through heavy eyelids over to his living room; the babbling of that automated personal trainer’s voice becoming nothing to Scott.

A singular, lanky, dejected body sits on his couch. A controller lay in his hands. Bright yellow. Glazed over eyes follow the character on his screen. Scott’s never been an Animal Crossing guy. It’s a series that he never was a huge fan of in the first place. That Amiibo Festival thing was impromptu; however, in some way, controlling a little Scott... Does he feel as trapped in there as he does in here? Of course he doesn't. He’s code. He cannot feel. He’s a puppet for the real Scott’s button presses.

“I’m real. He’s not.”  

Scott seems unsure of himself.

The couch is so empty, too big for just one person.

It had been too long since company had splayed themselves on it. Scott always finds himself nestling in the middle, as if he would turn to either side at any point and meet a warm, pink painted grin; or a pair of bold, sparkling- yet greyed- hazel eyes. But of course, no matter how many times he turned to his sides, nothing would ever come of it. 

“ Animal Crossing features a real time clock within the GameCube, powered by an internal battery. Honestly, I think this is awesome. You know, at the time, this was a novelty!”

His voice rings out in faux bliss as his gaze flickers upwards to the camera; hopefully.

That little flame of hope is blown out very quickly. The iris; dark, empty, cold. He feels a phantom in his home; those fleeting moments of companionship that had got him by. Why can’t he ever tell them what’s going on, do they know anything? When they depart, do their lives go on outside, while Scott’s trapped here?

He never gets better. He deteriorates, but not fast enough to die it seems. He never grows.

Always the same.

Never learning a thing.

A million new thoughts flood through Scott’s head. Those of companionship; fleeting moments that he deeply wishes to bottle up in his mind forever. To be submerged eternally in such a light…

How can he contact them? Maybe he can send a letter, maybe- just maybe.

He lies down his controller to grab a paper, scribbling a message. A letter of goodwill; a plea. The strange fuzz engulfs his mind. When it clears he looks back at his paper.

“Hey all, Scott here! Been a second, hope I didn’t scare you or anything, that was so weird of me. Looking forward to hanging out again!”

That isn’t what he wrote.

Sure it’s not untrue, he enjoyed their company- but that’s not-

He balls it up, chucking the wad into the corner. He tries again. And again. And Again. The moment he writes those words, “Hey All, Scott Here”, his mind fades into a haze of grey and black. As if he were never there. A bystander in his own actions, puppeted by disjointed inclinations of action, the vaguest of such.

He focuses his eyes, again- words he never intended to write. Scott’s muscles tremble, stabbing his pen into the desk. Well- he tries to. Trembling, thin hands scrape the pen against the wood; the pen sliding and bending, his fist colliding with the furnished wood instead.

Had they even cared? They looked at him before he passed out, but neither extended a hand. They watched him fall, observing him crumble like a pitiable creature within an exhibit.

Eventually, Scott scribbles his thoughts and, without looking back at it, folds it up and files it away within an envelope. It gets slipped under his front door. Scott can’t be even sure they’ll get it. He can only hope.

He picks back up his controller, staring at his villager. His face stagnant as they stare at one another. He moves to save his game, and powers off his GameCube.

He knows that the internal clock remains silent, betraying not a sound.

Then why, pray tell, does he crave and fear that sound?

Would it soothe him to know that time is passing?

Would it terrify him all the same if it was?

“You should be back by now” He mumbles, eyes looking anywhere but that cold iris, or the black, reflective TV screen.

Scott stands up, trudging to his office. He stares into the room. Familiarity of a sickeningly sweet kind fills his body, what else does he know if not for his home? There is no other place for him. It was not contentedness- however, what else would you call it? Scott knew the answer, but dared not speak it- let alone think it; this acceptance would break any resolve he believes himself to have.

Will he remain so low forever? Surely not, if God had even the smallest amount of mercy. An abject display of terror strikes his heart, as he imagines a fear that renders his blood cold; what if you never return? Would you even have seen or heard his cries? A terrible silence clouds Scott’s mind as he feels his thoughts choked out. His eyes had become tear-stricken once more without his notice; The walls of his office blurred in a blue mass on all sides of his gaze.

Through shaky breaths and burning tears, Scott bends down to lie upon the ground. He curls up against his rug, cheek touching the fibers. Tears stain his porcelain face as they drip down the side.

“Where are you?”

Chapter Text

You haven’t been back in a while.

At least, Scott assumes it’s been a while. It has felt like an eternity, that must count for something.

His eyes carry a darkness, hollowed and pale cheeks; embodying physical decay in all but rot.  the rest of him appears to be frozen in time. He never has to cut his hair- he could do for a shave. It’s actually funny, for the longest time he couldn't grow more than a couple of blonde burrs on his chin. Point being- it’s negligible at best. He feels exhausted. He looks like sh*t and he feels even worse.

Does he deserve this? 

Is this a punishment? For what? Being afraid? Asking for help?

Maybe he does really deserve this.

…

F*ck, sleeping like this is doing a number on him.

He sat himself up, truthfully he wasn’t able to sleep. Not for a good moment. Scott would just keep his head on his desk, hoping. Sleep becomes more comforting every day, making him forget about his cage; remember his companions. Too bad it’s become so irregular. It’s difficult to gauge how long he lies there with his eyes shut, and when he opens them he finds the scenery to have remained the exact same.

Maybe if he hadn’t been such a shut-in, this wouldn't have happened to him.

Sitting here staring at the camera’s- comfortable. It’s not particularly enjoyable, but comfortable. The less he has to think the better.

Scott feels his brain sinking into his tiny, warped reflection of the camera. The lens seems to swallow his visage, gentle breaths coming from a slightly agape mouth. Scott is aware of how odd he might look- but there’s no one to see him. You’re not here. His eyes provide no such focus, staring just past his own reflection.

Can anyone hear him? He would say that he films himself for himself, however, he can feel so many eyes on him when he talks. It doesn’t quite frighten him, it’s welcoming. Though he may hold the tape of whatever he did, it is not for him, is it? Maybe once upon a time it was.

“I need a therapist.” He dejectedly mentions to the inactive camera.

Scott glances down at the tape recorder.

He made tapes of his own, he thought, of course- there are tapes of all these advertisements for all this sh*t that only he could care about. When did they start just happening? Did he actually make those? He stands up, feeling like a man starved- actually he hadn’t been able to stomach making himself a lot of food. His lanky stature does little to disguise his diet, could he starve himself in here? How slow of a death would-

His thumb passes over some promotional tapes, almost reverently. He pulls one off that he hasn’t watched recently, that he had acquired at some point a while ago. Its bright orange spine must have caught his eye. One of the first promo tapes to be up on this shelf.

Old habits die hard, he opens his mouth to no one. “Welp, haven’t watched this in a while.” Oh god his voice is groggy. Is he sick? He walks over to his CRT. He fumbles around a moment before sliding it in, the satisfying clicking noises of the reader soothing Scott’s mind. The advert plays and- it’s blurry and distorted, he didn't compile this did he? The guy in there kinda looks like… well, a white guy with glasses and the same cap that's on his desk. He’s advertising water. Why water?

Scott watches the guy on screen, moving about pretty oddly. He’s… kind of getting influenced. “You know, this is pretty bodacious water.”

What the hell even was that. He never says that.

He squints at the boy on the screen. It’s blurry, the video keeps glitching. It’s hard to see but… “I may be crazy but we’re pretty damn similar.” He mumbles, the twinge of cynicism that follows a lot of his sentences weaves its way through the man's speech. It’s quite egotistical to see yourself in a stranger but- He moves closer to the CRT, sucked into its trance, as if an invisible string were pulling him into it. In his trance, Scott doesn’t acknowledge the warmth that hangs on his fingertips from the hot, buzzing electronics. He presses his palm against it- before shaking his head and staring at himself as the screen goes black.

“Great I think I’ve f*cking lost it.” The vibrations of his voice hit the screen, a receiver, as it were. One without ears.

Who will even care? His friends didn’t even help him.

His friends …

What were their names?

It stings Scott’s aching, weary heart to forget; even for a moment. How could he? He stumbles back, gazing upon his own tear stricken face.

Rex. And Jeb. Of course.

Some miserable, maddened stare presents itself to the absent iris.

It is a curse to be conscious, but rest is a lady that curls her hand away from him.

You left him, had gotten bored of him.

Rex and Jeb had too.

God, what was even the point anymore?

Scott shuffles around his closet, jackets adorning the racks; various items litter the sides. There appears to be empty game boxes, his Wii U, shitty shovelware, snakebite kit, the other spare Wii U, and-

His shotgun.

He’s never actually used it on someone before. The end of its barrel glistens. Cautiously, Wozniak flicks up a little compartment, a singular heavy shell laid in the weapon. One slug, prime for large game.

His breaths become unreliable, shaky, labored.

It is a dangerously beautiful thing, the promise unsettlingly attractive to a man like himself.

It is as if it was prepared just for him, an act of divine intervention.

A hand slides gently across the body of the weapon. Scott's thumb softly crawls up, hesitantly following the rest of his fingers, before grasping its weight in his trembling clutches. 

The air stills in the moment that his gentle reverie transforms itself into a grip, fluttering fingers steeling themselves to hold the iron firm- while Scott's mind reels. The further his mind runs, the farther deniability fades from his intent. 

Reverie slips into fear, and fear slips into madness.

What occurs next could be deemed impulse brought on by desperation, and maybe that would be accurate.

As if reading his intent, as if angered by it, Scott's ruin begins spreading from his lungs into his mind.

Or maybe- perhaps it is pushing him.

All Scott knows is that it was closing in on him; For good, he thought. Pops in his ears, a spark lighting in his brain, creeping from the stem- One moment longer and he would be at his desk, where he started.

He couldn’t go back, he had to get out.

In a haze, a hand reaches through static. It takes his mind a moment longer to register the clunk of the weapon.

[SIGNAL WEAK]

Very briefly, Scott can barely register the dawn of a giant, fleshy tear in the back of his head.

[SIGNAL LOST]

.

..

…

Scott’s eyes open, lying in front of the open door to his closet.

His palms catch his head as static envelops his mind. Mouth to hand, blood to floor. He would have to clean all this up.

A blasted up shell lies next to him. Scott touches the back of his head, wet with blood.

He screams. His head pulses. His first thought is of you. It slips from him.

Scott stands up, every other second, everything goes black. His world is a f*cking PS2 game loading chunks moment by moment, suspending his vision in repetition. He can barely think, let alone breathe. He chokes on air; feeling like he could vomit. The blood on his hands stains his clothes, he wipes his face. He tried to call for help, but no one could hear him.

Regret.

He regrets everything in that moment, as his hands jerk by his gaze at a tenth of their regular speed. His own noises stay indistinguishable from the fuzz clouding his eyes, ears, and mind. Scott cries, at least, he thinks he does. He can hardly recognize his own hand gliding across his disgustingly sweaty shirt, streaking it with his blood.

He wishes he had just

[SIGNAL WEAK]

His heart races; he fears this to be an unending nightmare- a divine sort of torture.

Scott wonders. Would it matter if there were people to see him like this?

Would they help?

Or would they stare and laugh?

What would Jeb and Rex think?

What would you think?

Scott’s tongue feels heavy, blood coating the muscle. He can hear every noise this bag of flesh makes. Something of animalistic terror lingers in his eyes. His body crashes against the wall, utterly helpless in his progressing agony. As the acrid, crimson spit bubbles from his chest, Scott screams again. Would you see him reduced to this? Would it finally make a difference? Is he real?

The well- torment made liquid and born upon the man- drips out of his mouth, not as intense on the outside as it feels to Scott.

Nonetheless, Scott screams a third time. 

He clutches a fistfull of carpet as he hears many muffled voices through his haze; tongues recognizable and of strangers. He stares at his office door, where his only company resides- weeps bitterly. His eyes well up- He can’t tell if he’s coherent, he can only hope. He needs to be understood.

Scott lurches.

He croaks, strangled and hoarse.

He screams .

“PLEASE, SAY SOMETHING-!”

Saliva hangs onto every syllable.

Scott’s feet change trajectory as he crawls, clumsily stumbling into the nearby bathroom. To move reminds him of how he feels, trapped in his own body, as if he were just barely in control at a tenth of the speed and a thousand times sicker. Through heaved breaths, Scott grabs hold of the countertop. Clawing, he stands just enough to see himself.

Wild eyes greet him- eyes of a man who stumbled back from nothingness- that of a madman. Every disgusting centimeter around those eyes puffy and red from tears, paling in comparison to the blood trickling down his nose. The gore appears to leak from exposed flesh, however it remains remarkably shallow. His shirt clings to his body, soaked in sweat. He stares at himself, a disgusting haze of static creeping in further and further- inch by inch, Scott becoming number and number to his pain. In trade, he feels the terror of witnessing himself near beyond recognition tear his mind apart. He remains paralyzed, as if it were that if he stayed right here in this moment, his anguish would come to a halt. 

It didn’t, of course.

That would be a mercy.

At a point, the numbed sensation of trickling liquid pouring from every direction would become indiscernible. Something drips down from Scott’s chin, gaze becoming too blurry to tell what bleeds and what burns; all becomes an unsettling warmth. It’s nauseating. Every bit of it is. Salt and sweat and iron coat the corners of his lips as he heaves. One certain horrid nausea overtakes his mind in a matter of moments; A new sensation processes, he hears the sound far before he sees the scarlet tinted acid erupting from his throat, defiling the pearly white of the sink. Something in him cries to God, swallowed by these walls. If he had ever felt terror in his life, surely this was the worst of it. 

Scott stares at protruding knuckles settled into corded hands; that of which he is to realize are his own. His numbness, the root of his failure to realize the fervor of which his hands have laid claim to the countertop.

His veins betray him, constricting with what could only be described as a burning icy sensation, blooming from his chest to his limbs. The ground at his feet remains unstable in all but physicality; it threatens to swallow his spirit whole- if at any moment the tile would split open and reveal hell itself underneath him. This concept does nothing to soothe him.

He cannot bear to look at himself any longer, his own visage is so unclear to him in this state. He stumbles out, gaze averted from the clotting mess across the hall. He stares into his office, this sight reserved now only for the miserable. Through bleary eyes he can still see the bright blue portion of the wall. He hobbles into the room- pleading for any level of comfort to alleviate any single second of this torment.

Craning his head to his shelf, he sees his tapes strewn about, party streamers from an event long gone; from people long gone.

When had he seen them last?

Do they remember him?

They live in his mind as concepts, visualizations of almost people- though they speak nothing of consequence at all. What is Rex’s favorite color? He sure only knows that he hates sex. Where did Jeb go to high school? He sure only knows he loves Gex. To think of his company as ideas on a board haunts him. Have they once had any substance to their talks at all? Or had he just talked their ears off about everything BUT of what torments him? If he dared to speak again would he receive those same pitied stares?

Do they show up of their own mere convenience? their brief involvement in his life- that his soul had come to crave so desperately- had it meant so little to them; whereas it had meant the world could keep turning for Scott? Whereas it meant that the stars would shine ever so brightly that blessed day in his distant memory- if he had ever seen them at all, this is.

What, by the scourge of God, insists that he bask onwards in perpetuity while they continue on? Chasing motion in nothing, chasing feeling in the still, chasing tomorrow in a permanent today? 

Scott does not possess the mind to remember what it even felt like, to, for a moment, have cherished company. He knows that it warmed his very soul, and maybe he could pick the feeling out of a lineup, but nowhere was it stored in his body. All he has are these tapes.

Too many questions and not one answer, not even in those tapes.

Bound in decorative covers, these tapes cover 70% of the last few years, what feels to be his entire existence. They don’t cover the numbing loneliness. They don’t cover the sickness that plagues him. They don’t cover his innermost screams for help.

When you are talking of such little consequence, but it means the world, does it then gain purpose?

Scott has had an abundance of time to answer this.

It too lies on the shelf, taunting.

If Scott were a braver man he would answer that burning query. 

A man without blood soaking into his carpet and splattered onto his ceiling- reminiscent of black mold.

The kind that maddens you slowly, and kills you even slower.

The matter that poisons your mind.

The sign of decay that turns the minutest of weakness into your rot.

Scott lies his head down. The little drying streams of crimson soaking itself into the shag fibers feel as if they go down to the roots of his home, feeding and drawing it deeper into the soil; grounding him. If Scott is the bloom, then what is the root? To peel back layers of his home- or his mind- to dissect from what Scott “The Woz” Wozniak is, lies something that even he does not know if he could stomach the reality of. 

This would require someone with the right certifications. If he hadn’t put off getting that therapist…

To lie on the floor is something reserved for dogs, creatures that take care of their waste wherever, that snarl and destroy, and yet stay bound to masters. Scott finds some comfort in this shared indignity 

After all, less than human is a natural face for him to wear. A beast in a pen.

As if the ocean came to swallow him whole, azure hues tinge his vision. This time, he lets it; of lethargy or acceptance, he does not know.

And the static does not come as violently.

It laps at his feet.

It brushes against his neck, a tickle, a claw.

His hands no longer feel to be his own.

Cold.

He expects the sensations to dull, or be pitted against hell itself, but it all simmers. Maybe the temperature is rising so slowly that the frog would find itself unable to realize that it is being boiled alive.

Small, helpless.

To really take in his surroundings is a silly thing to ask of him, really, but he flips to his back, taking in his ceiling. Baby blue was a strange color, wasn’t it? Most people just paint their ceilings white. Now to think of it, why hadn’t he taken out that painter’s tape? He’d clearly finished painting, though how long ago he cannot recall.

What Scott doesn’t realize is that with each passing moment, more than lethargy closes in on his life.

It’s all reminiscent of the silence after a gunshot. The lingering smoldering gunpowder, a life escaping, just before everyone starts to scream.

The screams never come, Scott finds himself a home in the moment between a tragedy and its true terror. He lies in the in-between; the air while the smoke is still fresh.

It hadn’t worked, what is there more to do? Nothing was fun anymore.

It was all so numbing. 

He is not allowed a slow death, to take his life into his own hands- even if it means to take on the place of an unruly dog.

There is a nothingness greater than a baited breath, heavier than the very last microsecond a person regards another as alive- while a corpse lies suspended in motion- flesh and muscle convulsing; the mind banished into the unknowable.

It’s the absence of a single thing outside of the self. It is truly having not a thing ahead or behind, above or below. It is suffocating in the first person.

In a flit of consciousness, a muffled jungle repeats itself behind static seas that threaten to drown him for good.

Wozniak heard his phone ring.