Chapter Text
It’s like… goo.
That thick, gluey dark ooze that pours out of everyone’s body when they throw up or break off a limb, that annoying sludge that refuses not to stick, except maybe for that one redhead that’s stuffed with cotton instead, or that puzzle-jumble that breaks apart too easily, or a literal fucking ribbon—or maybe everyone has always been different in their own bodies and he’s only sticking with this particular example because it just… sticks.
But a normal person won’t care—he shouldn’t, because it’s lame. It’s uninteresting and even borderline creepy, because why should he obsess over some muck, some disgusting filth that’s apparently her flesh and blood, so annoying he can’t wipe it off his skin for good.
Why should he bother when it all had been an accident—he didn’t mean any of this to—why does that darned psychopath keep on—
“I-It’s fine, I was in the way. It’s no one’s fault.”
Maybe it would have been better if she had blamed it all on him instead.
“Hoo-wee,” He whistles away the gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach, “Take a good look, Gangle. That’s how you take one for the team when all else fails.”
“B-but—” Her squeaks already irk him, “You shot her—”
“God, ribbons, it was an accident. Lighten up! Pom—” He shakes off the slight itch in his throat, “—Pompom’s much stronger than that. It’s not like she’s gonna die just because my finger slipped a little. Amirite, Pom?”
She’s barely standing on her two feet with her left shoulder blown to nonexistence. “Yup,” The pain must have been so harrowing she anchored her weight to her severed limb like a cane.
His stained finger twitches against the trigger guard. He can’t help but avert his eyes to the opposite direction.
“Pomni!” He can already feel the headache coming his way. Of course, she’d spawn at the right moment. That’s good ol’ Ragatha for you. “Oh, dear! Pomni!!!”
The black goo slathering onto her rather vibrant blue dress stopped him from rolling his eyes—not like he wanted to do that anyway. Old habits die hard. “Okay, this is way too explicit even for an adventure!”
“Please don’t touch my shoulder.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Jax, what the h[%$!#]l have you done this time?” Zooble, who came along right behind Ragatha, narrowed their eyes on the object clasped in his hands. “Is that a f[%$!#]ng shotgun?”
“How else are we going to beat that delirious eye doctor?”
“We’re delivering packages.”
“We’re delivering service products sourced from dead people because this doctor is so into his job it blew his mind into psychosis. He can’t even see straight!”
“And apparently you can’t shoot straight. You shot Pomni with a f[%$!#]ng shotgun.”
They didn’t need to rub it in. Why are they here in the first place? “Well, that’s how things usually go in this kind of adventure. Maybe you should come along more often if you’re so concerned about it and ‘play hero’ next time. You like that kind of thing, right?”
“F[%$!#]k off.”
“Is the ceiling spinning?” The slurring in Pomni’s speech catches his eye for a bit. “Oh god, I’m losing so much blood my head’s probably spinning, isn’t it?”
“It’s actually Gangle’s mask that’s spinning.” Ragatha presses her lip into a thin line. “Gangle, you good?”
“Please don’t talk to me right now.” She whimpers as she holds her breath. She’s got a good portion of her ribbon arms snaked around Pomni’s shoulder to stop its bleeding.
His roguish grin stays in its place but—due to unfortunate circumstances that are personal to him—it cannot stretch wider to reach his eyes, like he usually does. The ridiculous scene could’ve been precious enough to garner a few giggles out of him had it not been Pomni who was subjected to all this mess.
Like why couldn’t he have just shot Zooble instead? It would have been way funnier to see them blast apart to pieces like bowling pins on impact and roll off the floor as they flip him off in every direction. My, way funnier, indeed.
So much so that imagining it alone is funny enough, though the withering look from Ragatha tells him that, perhaps, he had picked the wrong time to do so, with his glassy eyes fixated on the wheezing jester in her arms to rub more salt to the wound he has inflicted. On accident. Again.
Why is he so good at being bad? It’s not even intentional.
“Ophthalmologist, coming through!”
Everyone turned to the dark hallway where the voice came from, and through it came running Kinger—an eyeless Kinger flailing off his limbless hands in every direction. Behind him is the infamous twitchy doctor who can’t keep his feet on the fucking ground.
“You will never escape—!”
He shoots him in the head.
Blood splatters across the hall in dramatic flair, reaching everyone despite the distance. Kinger’s the major victim of the splash, drowning him in bright, cartoonish red. “Ah, all I see is red!”
One eye coated in blood rolls off by the bunny’s feet, but it’s not like he cares anymore. He’s so done with this adventure he can’t wait to go back to the tent and sleep everything off, like he always does.
He wipes the fresh blood off his cheek. It came off so easily. Too easily.
Sigh.
Why can’t it be like the other one that sticks too much?
Sticking to places it shouldn’t be. At least, have the dignity to cover it all. This red, cartoonish blood that’s brighter than Ragatha’s hair. What kind of update is this?
Why can’t it just—cover everything? Why doesn’t it stick instead of that—of that—what would he do if he couldn’t get that thing off at all?
What would you do if I abstracted tomorrow?
He scrapes off the old goo, but it sticks like skin, so he digs in deep, and he thinks of corn, of pomegranates, those little fuckers that look like some disgusting egg sack she calls trypophobia. He didn’t even know there was a word for that.
I’d move on. And probably forget about you.
And her favorite color was red.
“Like this f[%$!#]g joke of a—” He mumbled through his teeth, almost exasperated.
He lets out a big sigh.
“F[%$!#]k.”
It was amidst Caine’s congratulatory speech across the dead-silent hospital, through a storm of confetti and hovering party poppers, that he found himself giving in, even for just a short while, to just look—to peek through the rain of colors at the nearly unconscious girl who’s too pale for his liking.
Gun in his hands, he lowers it, along with his walls, whispering silent apologies she will never get to hear. Not ever.
Because there’s no point in doing it, at all.
You’re NOT the funny one!
Maybe it’s better this way.
Once the portal appears, it will all go back to the way it used to be. Maybe even right after he steps into the other side, Pomni’s gonna be good as new—like nothing ever happened. Maybe he should do the same.
Fight back!
Who cares if it sticks? It’ll come off anyway, one way or another.