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"In you go, Kasady. If it was up to me, you wouldn't be seeing the light of day again. Group therapy's not for monsters like you".
"Appreciate it, Rob".
Cletus is thrown violently into the stark white cell, almost losing his footing because of the guard's brute force. Not even a second later the clicking of at least half a dozen locks is heard as the enormous, heavy door encloses them in their prison once again. They do have some freedom of movement this time around, however, which is nice, considering how they would force Cletus's body into complete incapacitation at times. The price to pay for mobility is that now they have motion-based sonic guns all around their cell, built to detect the levels of biomass within their radius, automatically firing once their threshold is triggered.
Oh well, nothing ever comes without its drawbacks. Except for murder, that is.
"The kid walkin' yet?"
The guard does not appreciate being reminded of Cletus's knowledge regarding his familial situation. He raves at him, calling him a beast and an animal and all the other names they have both grown so tired of hearing.
This one’s prattling is so dull, so repetitive, that they don't even find his fear amusing. Cletus walks away from the door, shuffling his feet to a corner of their cell. The guard should leave them alone to return to his miserable working routine sooner or later.
But then something happens.
There's a crack – a crack that would be imperceptible to human hearing – and Cletus makes a sound of mild discomfort as he sits down and leans against the padded wall. The quadriceps should not have contracted. This isn't right.
Alarmed, Carnage extends a small part of his body over his Host's shoulder, forming a face – uncaring of the sonic guns that immediately identify his biomass and lock on him.
"What happened?"
"What?"
"That just now, what was it?"
"I dunno, a cramp?" Shrugs Cletus, wholly unconcerned.
A cramp. It feels like a foreign word, even if his Host's body has had similar experiences before. There is something about this in particular that seems off to Carnage. The other times, there was a reason for Cletus's muscles to be strained. Now, all he did was walk across a hallway and from one side of their cell to the other. Then again, it could be because they’re spending most of their days caged, with much less physical activity than their usual schedule consists of, but he can’t be sure.
"Something is wrong". Internally he unfurls hair-thin tendrils over all four heads of the left quadriceps, as well as the tendons, inspecting for damage. Yet, he finds nothing worrisome – which only amps his worry, if anything. "This shouldn't have happened".
"Relax, Red". Cletus senses both his physical and his mental agitation. "It's a cramp. Nothin' big".
"But why did it happen?" Frustrated, he frantically stretches himself all over his Other's lower limbs, searching in between muscles and nerves and layers of fascia for an injury that is not there. His immune system seems intact as well, with a quick examination. The uncertainty makes the symbiote grow more alarmed by the second. Perhaps those dimwitted doctors slipped some poisonous substance in Cletus's system when they had Carnage sedated that he hasn't been able to detect yet? How does he find it? How does he get rid of it?
"I dunno, 'cause it happens. Why do you eat brains? The older ya get, the less your body wants to work with you. That's it. Now get back in before you get blasted".
Normally he would have listened – a blare from the sonic guns would be pleasant for neither of them – but he can't let this go. Not like this.
"Older". He repeats. The word really doesn't sit right with him. It makes parts of him prickle with a bad premonition. He doesn't like the sound of it.
"Yeah? What's got you all antsy?"
Carnage is not stupid. Despite how many times he has been thought to not even possess a will of his own, he is not stupid. He knows Cletus was 33 years old when he was spawned and they bonded for the first time. He knows Cletus is two months and eleven days away from 43 now. He knows humans have a shockingly short lifespan compared to his own kind – to whom even the concept of a lifespan in itself, death of so-called natural causes, is unheard of. He knows all that: he just hadn't realized that the same rules apply to his Other as well.
Cletus has always seemed so above every other human they have come across, so distant compared to them. Something much, much greater. An unstoppable force that cannot be truly caged or restrained. All this time Carnage has been so focused on their shared goal of ending as many lives as they felt like in the most amusing ways possible in order to showcase the futility of order that he did not have the time to consider his mortality. Truth be told, their thrilling, turbulent lifestyle does not allow much room for pondering. Idleness is dreadful to them. On top of that, by instinct, Carnage monitors the damage time would have otherwise done to a lone human's tissues whenever he picks up on something disconcerting, thus Cletus has yet to show striking signs of physical ageing that correspond with his chronological age. But even so...
"Oh, I get it". He didn't mean for his thoughts to be audible – he didn't project them – yet Cletus hears them anyway. "Yeah, well... It is what it is. Someday I'm gonna bite the dust too".
It is extremely rare that he is at a loss for words when talking to his Other. It is even rarer that Carnage feels angry towards him. "Don't just...say that". It sounds wrong. Deeply so. As if someone were to say that human blood contains more copper than it does iron.
"Why? Not talkin' about it 's gonna make me live longer?"
"You won't die". The symbiote hisses in a decisive tone.
"Everyone dies, Red. Everything dies. Maybe it's when you're too old to wipe your own ass, maybe somethin' gets to you before then. Who knows?" Another shrug. "An' maybe that's the beauty of it, y'know? Why we gotta live in the now and ought to be free to do whatever the hell we want". He pauses. "Expect for you guys, I guess. You guys are hardy. But the point about bein' able to do what we want still stands".
"You won't die. I'll just reanimate you. I've done it once: I can do it again".
"If some nutty shrink decides to kill me with a pillow again? And my body's still fresh when you get to me? Sure. But what're you gonna do if someone blows me to bits?"
"I'll collect the pieces and sew them back together ". Carnage growls, his white, pupil-less eyes narrowing in a display of his determination.
"Okay, let's say you do that. At some point my body's just gonna start bein' a burden anyway. Not 'cause it wants to, but 'cause it’s got no choice. It's gonna turn slow, sick, clunky. An' sweetheart, I think time's somethin' even you can't go up against ".
The finality of his words... It creates... an emptiness inside of Carnage. Not the same one he feels when they're apart. A different one. A helplessness. It's odd to encounter a problem that cannot be solved by transforming some part of his body into a weapon – most likely in order to slice said problem in half.
"...I just have to make sure your senescent cells die on time and all cells in each tissue replicate as they normally do". He says, the previous intensity faltering somewhat. "It can be done".
And prevent harmful epigenetic changes. And make sure all damage done to his DNA is repaired quickly. And stop proteins from aggregating. In all tissues. All at once. Constantly.
He has taken care of some bothersome clusters of non-stop multiplying cells from Cletus's stomach before. But that's all it was: some millions of disorganized cells, not his whole body. Pumping blood into the heart until he can produce a new rhythm for the sinoatrial node and it starts beating by itself again is also different. Regenerating an organ or even a limb or two is still not the same. All of that is something one-and-done. He does not know if he'll be able to stretch himself so thin so as to supervise every cell at once perpetually as Cletus’s organism weakens over time. Doubt grips at him as though suddenly the magnitude of gravity around them has increased. It is the first time Carnage doubts his abilities to protect his Host.
But it needs to be done. And he sure as hell is going to try.
"You know I don't get you when you start talkin' like my biology teacher back in high school".
Cletus does not need his thought process explained to him. Not when he's barely even aware that mitochondria exist. No reason to put his mind through a long-winded explanation of the basics of cellular biology when it's knowledge he won't be using or needing.
"Cells this... Cells that..." He goes on. "Should've stabbed the guy in the cells of his eye when I had the chance".
The familiar warmth of fondness ripples through Carnage's form.
He doesn't want – can't – imagine that there will be a time when he'll stop hearing his voice. Stop being able to talk to him, to listen to his thoughts. The flowing mass of red and black leans closer, until their foreheads are nearly touching.
"... I don't want you to die".
"Aww, baby, relax. I ain't dyin' tomorrow. We still got plenty of time ahead of us, yeah?"
Cletus leans forwards too, and Carnage feels the warmth of his soft skin somewhere above his eyes. The symbiote makes an unsure trill. His words always offer him reassurance when necessary, as his touch offers him comfort. Yet, at the moment Carnage feels neither particularly reassured, nor wholly comforted.
Most of the time they are so perfectly in sync, their thoughts tangled together in strong, clear, interconnected threads. Not being able to understand the way Cletus approaches this matter digs a hole inside of him, a void filled with insecurity.
The average human life span is 73 years. What would 30 years more – even 60 years or 80 more, with Carnage's interventions – be when nearly 10 have already gone them by, and he's barely even realized? He remembers their first official victim – that pathetic ant of a man, Gunther Stein – as though it were just two days ago.
Through the tiny tendrils that sit comfortably around Cletus's heart and lungs he listens to the blood pulsating through his arteries and to the hum of oxygen being exchanged for carbon dioxide in his alveoli: the very sounds of life itself flowing through him. Carnage wants to forget that there is a time when those sounds are meant to cease through no fault of either of them.
Why are humans designed to die from the day they are spawned? Inching closer to nothingness with each passing day?
Why are symbiotes designed to wander aimlessly from host to host, gaining nothing of value in the end? What is the point of having a host in the first place if nature itself is just going to forcibly separate them eventually?
What good is such a broad existence if there is no one around to share it with?
"I want you to do me a favor though". Cletus says, pulling away so he can better look at him.
Carnage simply waits to hear the rest. They both know he would do anything to please his Other. Cletus being pleased means he will be pleased in return as well.
"Don't keep me around if I get... I dunno, too old, or somethin'. When I start givin' you too much trouble, just kill me an' ditch me somewhere. Go find someone else. Another host. Go make more pretty things together".
His tongue may not be required for him to speak, but it still feels as though it's tied in dozens of knots. For a few moments he is certain that his hearing receptors have either transmitted inaccurate signals to him, or that Cletus is joking. Another second ticks by and he realizes that neither is the case, and disbelief is replaced by rage.
“Another host?" He snarls in a harsh, shrill voice, revealing even more teeth.
He doesn't even know where to begin. All of it is so outrageous it borders on absurdity.
"Unless you've figured out how to live on your own by then, I guess. That'd be cool. But yeah, otherwise, I think you're gonna need one".
"I don't want another host!"
After all they have been through... All the fights to get back together when others separated them because they were unable to compete with their shared strength, Carnage is appalled that he would even suggest something like this. Not appalled with him – never – rather, with the idea itself.
Regrettably, he has found himself in a few other bodies before – his time with them short-lived, thankfully. It was almost exclusively against his will and the one and only time it wasn't he regretted ever thinking about leaving in the first place. (Yet, despite his lapse of judgement, Cletus was so good to him afterwards... Not getting angry over him not managing to overcome certain base instincts of his species at the time and leaving... Simply happy to have him back.)
Carnage still remembers Ben Reilly's vehement refusal of the gifts he has to give: how every muscle and nerve wrestled him for control. Remembers Tanis Nieves's pointless turmoil and guilt over the people they crushed in their path as he abandoned his second spawn inside her prosthetic arm. Remembers the Wizard's idiotic arrogance for thinking he could control Carnage, as well as the perverse longing for his family.
All of them rejected him. Thought him either a parasite to be disposed of, or a tool to be controlled.
Cletus is the only one who ever truly welcomed him. Who saw him as a gift: as something precious. Ever since the moment he first became conscious of the symbiote's existence. Carnage does not know of any other symbiote so lucky as to be wanted from the very first contact it makes with its host. Even his parent's meathead of a partner has rejected him time and time again in the past, despite how happy they both brag about being.
But Cletus and he, they always share the same goals. They always have. The same thoughts, the same mind, the same heart. And if such a thing as a soul exists, then they share that too.
How could he ever hope to find a better host? How could Cletus think he would ever want for another?
Rage melts away into desperation and he tries to condense all that he feels in the rawest manner of communication that there is.
I want you. You. Only you.
Cletus gives him the hint of a sympathetic smile for a small moment. It's an expression his facial muscles very rarely assume, but it does not look unbecoming right now. "Red-baby, as much as that flatters me, I don' want you wastin' away 'cause you tied yourself to a corpse".
"I'll be wasting away without you either way!" The anger comes back, because Carnage is unable to understand how he can be so calm – so apathetic – about this. "There is no me without you. I didn't leave you when your brain was dead, I'm not leaving you if your body gets old".
"You might need to get my bones mended twice a day".
"I don't care".
"I might not even remember ten ways to kill someone".
"I don't care. You'll still be you. I'll just project our memories back to you".
He sighs, head resting against the wall, green eyes drifting unfocusedly towards the empty ceiling. "'S not worth it. I'm just gonna turn into a burden you'll have to carry around at some point. And t' be honest, I don't wanna be remembered like that: old an' weak. We got a reputation after all, right? So you're gonna have to kill me". The symbiote flinches, every fiber of his being opposed to even the consideration of the idea. "'Sides, won't it be kinda... – what's the word? – romantic? There's no one else I'd rather kill me".
"No". Carnage says, partly unsure himself what he is referring to. It might as well be denial that this whole conversation is taking place to begin with.
Cletus's eyes focus back on his gooey form. It's not a word his Host hears often from him.
I can't. Never.
How could he ever bring himself to destroy the one being he is meant to protect?
"If I kill you, I'll die with you".
His Other frowns. "Don't do that. That's just stupid. By the time I'm dyin', you're gonna have… – I don't even know – your whole life ahead of you, more or less. So many things you could see. New cities to paint red, new arteries to bleed, new brains to eat – you know it. Don't miss out on all the fun".
"I don't want to see it if it's not with you!" His voice is a high, sharp hiss, a tone he does not use with Cletus, but right now he can't think of any other way to get his point across. "And don't try to tell me to find another host again. I can't. You make it fun. Without you, it won't matter if I get to kill thousands or hundreds of thousands at once. Destroy a city. A country. There's no fun: no point".
The look Cletus gives him, he hasn't given him before. A mixture of surprise, wonder and… something else he can’t quite pinpoint.
"Carnage..." Cletus's thought of his given name echoes through both their minds. His given name, but also their shared name. Of course, Cletus was the one who gave him the name 'Red' too, the one he is more prone to using, but calling him 'Carnage' like this... it's different. Heavier. He feels it down to his molecules. He’d feel it even if they were miles apart. Like when his Other was sick and dying and called out to him – when they were both sick and dying.
"Ugh, shit, I can't reach you". His arms struggle against the restraints of the straitjacket he had temporarily forgotten he is wearing.
Inside the sleeve of the annoying garment, a thin tendril pours out from his wrist, gently coiling around the man's palm.
"Heh... Yeah, that works too". His thumb traces softly over the wriggling biomass. "You wanna know somethin'? There's no me without you either".
"I know".
Neither can survive without the other. It's more than a subjective confession: it's a fact. Just like the Earth rotating around its axis causes the perception of the sun rising and setting is a fact. So how does Cletus expect him to keep on existing without him?
Cletus is the one who leads them most of the time. Sure, Carnage has his own sparks of inspiration every now and then, but for the most part he is more than happy to sit back and let Cletus take the wheel. Decide where to go, whose cage to rattle, who to torment, who or what to massacre. What would Carnage even do without him?
No one could replace him. Even humans who also happen to be killers share nothing in common with him in reality. None of them have his passion. Or his insatiable hunger for blood. Just hypocrites trying to prove to themselves they have a goal beyond entertainment, really. As for their bodies...
Carnage hates the idea of having to familiarize himself with a new body. It feels... not right, whenever he has to do so. The limbic system will function differently, the medial nerve will be just that slightly off from where his pseudopods are supposed to spread to reach it, the right subclavian artery will be branching out directly from the aortic arch, rather than the descending aorta, as it branches out in Cletus's body. It's disorienting.
I'll keep you alive. I'll keep you well. Don't want another host.
"Well, darlin', you ain't gettin' one as long as I can put two and two together anyway. It's waaay too early to worry about that". He squeezes the tendril in his grasp in a reassuring manner. Then yawns loudly. "Man, all this plannin' ahead got me beat".
Cletus props himself against the wall in a more relaxed position, and Carnage shrinks in size, before letting his head rest on his shoulder, leaving the tendril still wrapped around his wrist, the end of it caressing his fingers. There is more he wants to do: he wants to spread his mass in its entirety, until he can embrace Cletus from both the inside and the outside, get rid of the unnecessary, rough, buggy clothing and engulf him in red and black completely. Alas, the guns trained on them keep him from stepping outside any further. This will have to do for now.
The symbiote is not exactly happy with where they left the conversation. But at the same time, he does not know how he could be put at ease. There is so much to worry about. From now on, Cletus's mortality is going to be like an ominous dark cloud, lurching over them constantly, reminding Carnage of the cruel reality of their limited time together, of the countless possibilities for failure at every step if he's not careful enough, attentive enough...–
"Hey". His Host's thoughts interrupt him. "Cut that out. No more of that, alright? It's enough for a day. We're good now, yeah? Let's switch topics".
Maybe it is for the best. Cletus offers him a mental image of the guard who brought them back to this room being sliced into three oblique, sagittal pieces, which Carnage gladly takes to mull over briefly. Yes, some escape from boredom would be nice. They might take delight in the fear of the pathetic humans who gaze upon them – especially those who are supposed to guard them (the irony), who are watching them right now – but otherwise, Ravencroft presents very little possibilities for entertainment.
"When do we get out?" Carnage asks.
"I was thinking in a couple of days. We got brought in last week. They'll still be on edge. They'll be expecting us to break out. But you reaaally need a distraction right now. Gotta get my girl in high spirits again".
Cletus is right, as he usually is: immediately Carnage feels as though new life has been breathed into him. (Metaphorically, at least, considering he has no need to breathe.) His mouth expands wider, now displaying an unmistakable grin.
"I want him". He displays the picture of the guard (Rob, perhaps? No matter. In a while he is going to be nothing more than pieces of dead meat) being sliced to shreds back to his Host. "Looks crunchy". The symbiote's tongue flicks over his teeth at the thought of the strong tendons and bones of the bulky man being crushed between their jaws.
"Then you'll have him, baby".
They'll figure it out in the end. They always do. Carnage has not let physical or even geographical barriers come between them before, he does not plan on letting the fragility of human nature divide them either: not when Cletus's psyche is something so much more formidable than the limitations imposed on him by his species. But yes, enough of that.
There are much more immediate, delicious matters that require their attention.