Chapter Text
Click.
The first sense that returns is hearing.
Click.
It takes time to properly identify the sound, but it’s a comforting sound. Typical, a sound heard daily as a habit, wrought with vague nostalgia.
Click.
It’s a pen clicking.
Click.
The second to return is smell. Disinfectant. Overwhelmingly clinical, far more than any hospital. The air feels impossibly dry, and it’s burning his nose.
Click.
Third. Touch. His wrists feel raw, tightly wound to cold metal. He’s in a chair. It’s uncomfortable. The painful discomfort has been here the entire time: he’s just finally conscious enough to notice it. The metal chair is cold against his back; he’s in a hospital gown, something barely more durable than the paper gowns given in doctors’ offices, fabric scratching at his neck like a nooses’ asphyxiating drag.
Click.
His thoughts come properly now, staining whatever sleepy, drugged stupor he was in like oil to the ocean. He feels dirty, muddy, impure—yet his body feels impossibly clean, as if scrubbed against his will, prepped like meat to be butchered.
Click.
A voice. It’s saying his name—calling out to him. (Avery?)
“...Derek Hutchins? I assume you’re awake, now.”
He opens his eyes. The pen finally stops clicking. Neurons fire, weak, barely traveling a message to his disobedient limbs—an attempt to rip his arm free from the zip ties holding him down proves fruitless, the only results for his effort being the faintest finger’s twitch.
“Oh, lovely.”
The voice is anything but comforting. The stranger—perhaps a doctor, donned in a lab coat—speaks politely, but every word is clipped short, curt. He’s wearing glasses, a face mask, and dull, dark hair hangs over his features, making it impossible for Derek’s unfocused eyes to piece together his face.
Spitting out a singular word in reply feels like trying to work rusty metal; his vocal chords, unused for whoever knows how long, barely gather enough energy to whisper. “Where am I?”
“You truly are intelligent,” says the Doctor, as if coddling a child, “it’s incredible how quickly you’ve pulled yourself together. But perhaps that is the Entity’s influence.”
The Doctor hums, then waves a medically gloved hand—shrugging off the comment that sends alarm bells through Derek’s head. Entity?
“It is true that you have remarkable composure, truly.”
It doesn’t feel like a compliment. Restrained behind the Doctor’s voice is barely discernible anticipation—like Derek’s composure is an exciting challenge, and not a welcome edition to the whole.
“You are currently being protected, and monitored, by a branch of the U.S. Government,” the Doctor begins, clicking his pen as if he were punctuating his sentence with the sound. “Currently, you are being held in our Low-Security Interview cell—though that can change very quickly.”
Everything still feels bleary, like half of his brain is asleep whilst the forefront is forced awake against his will. With all the effort he can scavenge from his unwillingly lax body, the only strength he can gather is the slight curling of three fingers. Everything feels numb, yet it isn’t. It’s cold, everything hurts, he’s never felt this dehydrated in his life, and—
He’s confused.
That’s strange.
Since that world—that world that shouldn’t have ever existed—since the King, Derek has not felt confusion. It was almost funny, how he acclimated to it, finding the seeping, churning knowledge of everything here and now and past and future and everything, all at once as the most wretched of blessings. He’d never offer to anyone else—never want anyone else to be cursed with it, no—but for that, every curiosity and question sated, he found himself welcoming the sentencing of death with open arms.
Yet here he was, emptiness weaving from the core of his mind, inkblots over the white pages of everything that once fulfilled him to the brim. Fractions of it remained; language, some history, everything there was and is to know about Avery… but after that, it wilted. No—not wilted. Like snow and permafrost blanketing a field of flowers, it was hidden, suppressed. Whatever drugs or relaxants they used to stifle his mind and body were working to their fullest.
There was an out-of-body, distant realization, too; to notice that headsplitting ache had finally ended, only the migraine of his body’s starvation lingering behind.
The danger of the King no longer loomed: something new was before him, and his ability to recall what he knew about it was cut off, and Derek hoped the second-long grief he felt—as if he had suddenly lost a limb—hadn’t shown on his face.
It’s alright, Derek dismisses the short-lived panic attempting to take him over. With every second, I’m being able to control myself a little more.
There’s no IVs in his arms. Other than the zip ties around his ankles and wrists, his restraints were minimal. He couldn’t blame them. He’s in no way capable enough right now—drugged or not—to overpower anyone, even if he’s taller than most. He runs his tongue over his gums, then his lips—the barely-there saliva leaving every crack within the flesh stinging.
Between his government-hired kidnapped—he can only assume—and him, is a table. It’s thin, white metal. The Doctor’s chair likely matches his own, then.
“What do you know about House 31, Hutchins?”
Derek can only narrow his eyes. I have no clue what that is. Maybe once whatever is keeping him dumbed down wears off, he’ll recall, but he really hasn’t the faintest idea. Even with the infinite knowledge, it wasn’t infinitely changing. It showed Derek everything that happened and would happen, from the birth of the universe (and every other universe) until its end; but Derek had made new choices.
His choices—the way he spoke to Avery—was the only real difference, he admits, but that created a new future. A future that even he couldn’t know, even when his mind recovers.
And even he, after all of that, knew nothing of the King but the world he experienced and the books he found within it.
…But there was a more significant change.
“I should be dead,” Derek breathes out, a quiet confession. It was something he had accepted passively, neutrally, a natural cost to the overcharged human brain. In every possibility he saw, Derek—D3rLord3—always ended up dead. He always died, and it was always for Avery; and not one lifetime did he ever regret that choice.
Overcharged human mind. My survival— that means— Did the chant fail? Did he not capture the King within his own mind?
The words almost slip out against his will, urgent and full loss-of-composure: Is Avery alright? — but he bites his tongue, bites until logic returns and forces his worries deep, deep below. Avery is alright. He knows it because—if… If he wasn’t, if he had become the King’s vessel, nobody would be alive, now, would they? Especially not Derek.
…And if he worries about Avery now, visibly in front of some government agent who needs something from him—he presumes information—all that does is give them a threat to use against him. If Avery becomes their ammunition against him, that would mean…
Avery deserves to live free from this.
He isn’t sure if the Doctor heard his whisper, but it doesn’t matter. They likely know of his situation. Perhaps they found him from his documentation, or the videos… It didn’t matter. He’s silently relieved Avery never revealed his full name.
…Free from the King…
“How is…” Derek pauses, unsure if he’d heard it right, “‘House 31’ relevant to me?”
…Free from me.
The Doctor scrapes his pen across the table, jostling the clipboard in his lap as the screech of metal fills the room. “Answering my question with another question.”
To take ground sometimes you must concede it. “I don’t know about it. I’ve never even heard of it until today,” he replies, and it isn’t a lie. If ‘House 31’ is related to the King, then, even with his “infinite” knowledge, that subject is still mostly a blank space. “My question, then?”
The Doctor cocks his head at the provocation, mumbling something under his breath that Derek doesn’t quite catch.
“It was an experiment of ours.” He clips the pen onto his lab coat’s pocket, then unclips it, twirling it in his hands across deft fingers. He’s very fidgety, Derek observes.
“That’s relevant… how?”
“Mm.”
He’s still twirling that pen. Derek feels his eyes twitch. He wants to snatch it out of his hands.
“The world, that is.”
“What?”
“Because you’re compliant, I don’t mind answering a few questions, Hutchins… But I am in a time crunch.”
Derek’s jaw tightens, teething gritting together so harshly that he swears a tooth may crack.
“But maybe you are not as valuable as we thought.”
He watches the Doctor rise from his seat, tucking his clipboard under his arm and tucking his pen into his pocket. “If you no longer have your knowledge—nor have become a vessel—perhaps this experiment truly was a failure. Tsk… I’ll return later.”
“Your… experiment? You caused this?”
Derek isn’t even dictated a response as the Doctor lifts up his lanyard—holding it to a keycard scanner on the far wall—and exits through the robotic opening and closing of an automatic pocket door.
His head is already spinning. Then Avery—his death, he… he really, truly believed he was dying!—all this suffering… wasn’t the random machinations of a god, but the ploy of the humans who summoned him? All of this could have been avoided?
…
Calm down.
Everything feels fuzzy again—the entire world out of tempo—
Knight, quiet down.
His eyes widen, head whipping around the room like prey forced into a corner. What? What the— that— that’s—
“That’s not my voice.”
He'd recognize that voice anywhere.
.
.
.
CLASSIFIED
[Experiment 01011001]
ONLY TO BE SHOWN TO CLASS 4 EMPLOYEES AND ABOVE. READING THIS DOCUMENT WITHIN A STATUS BELOW CLASS 4 [OR UNAFFILATED WITH THE DEPARTMENT OF METAPHYSICAL SCIENCE] WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION.
THIS IS YOUR FIRST AND FINAL WARNING.
PROJECT ‘HOUSE31’
FILE ███████
SUBJECT #333: “Derek Hutchins” *
HOUSE31 was proposed by Dr. ███████ on █/██ ███, using the previous Experiment “Eternal” [encoded as Experiment 01000101] as referenced (proposed by Dr. Jeffery Steinberg) as reference for subliminal messaging and manipulation of the human psyche. As per the previous experiment, this attempt was based within the sandbox game “Minecraft” (chosen per the observable routines within “survival”/“SMP” playstyle). Due to past human subjects being leaked to the general populace and exposing the D.M.S. to the public eye, “the Village” was drafted to create a lifelike group of humanoid consciousness fully within Dr. ███████’s [and D.M.S.’s] control. This "simulated" group was to summon the theorized being the ██████████████. ██████████████ will be regarded as “KiY” and must not be referred to otherwise.**
These “Villagers” [humanoids] are raised believing they are human, within a “reality,” upon the faith of KiY and “motivating” the summoning through the appearance of HOUSE31.*** The humanoids will be “pure” of human fault to allow KiY to choose a ██████ and fall fully into the property of the D.M.S.
HOUSE31 began on █/██ ████.
* Introduction and Experimentation of Subject #333 — Page 5-6
** ██████████████ [KiY] — Page 4
*** HOUSE31 — Page 3
➊
You’re too loud.
“I’m too loud?”
Yes.
“You’re the one in my head.”
Derek cannot believe he is in a situation where he is both kidnapped by the government and petulantly arguing with a God. Apparently, the King’s suppression was only thanks to the drugs taking half of his functioning brain out, and now, after who-knows-how-long, Derek is left with full, struggling control of his lead-filled body and a flooding headache of knowledge battering back into his skull. It was reliving his worst (—and best) moment all over again. The sort of torture far graver then anything he could physically endure; left writhing in his seat until the blazing sparks died from behind his eyes—as every iota of everything all at once dug its claws into him once more with the fury of a dead man’s grip.
He’s sure whatever cameras they have stacked in here will surely find his seizure-like fit interesting. Or the sight of Derek talking to himself. Though, perhaps acting insane could work in his favor… it already feels like he’s teetering upon a cliff, and the King he had tried to kill in a suicidal, kamikaze self-sacrifice telling him to “panic less” because it’s “too loud” is the closest he’s been to getting pushed over the edge.
“How is this even possible? You said— I’m unfitting. My mind is broken, I can feel it even now, I…” Derek takes a deep, forceful breath, and finds himself wishing he could’ve gotten the fate of spiraling within the sterile, white room, rather than gaining the most contemptible of company.
And it shouldn’t be possible. Not with what he knows—even the King himself confirmed it. He can feel it, even now, all the better as every overpowering sensibility has returned. It makes him want to keel over and “die” all over again, a thorough, throbbing ache of a skull filled to the brim.
I said it was unsuitable to be my vessel. Not that I couldn’t hold it together—don’t think so little of my abilities, impurity.
Ignoring the slight to his purity, Derek continues— “But we should be dead. We should have ceased to exist, wiped from everyone’s memory.” —Everyone… Derek holds a small wave of grief back, Avery saw my goodbye, right? Does this mean he hasn’t forgotten me? If he has, I… I hope he…
…This sort of thing doesn’t suit me.
Ah. That. I was simply saying that to get you to cancel the spell.
“Are you… are you serious?”
Derek is seething. (He should have known, he should have known! What point is this cursed knowledge if it has such a cursed blindspot for its creator?)
He’s overcome with anger so unlike himself that he’s unsure who he’s even angry at—himself? The situation? The King? It doesn’t matter—just, everything… Yet, something else is catching his attention. There’s a strange prickling inside him—far, far away, but just within reach. It’s the King, Derek realizes, is he startled?
It’s hard to read, but it’s there. As if it belongs there, in Derek’s body, something that was once wholly his own. Wholly his own even if the King had forced knowledge upon him. He had been wholly his own until what he believed was his death—and now—now he isn’t. The King is there, and Derek can feel him, a despicable, encroaching stitching on the fracturing parts of his mind. It’s… revolting. He mentally reels back, trying to rip away from whatever sensations are seeping into him from the King’s emotions. He wonders if the King can feel his absolute disgust.
Derek hopes he does.
The King is… quiet. It’s too quiet.
“What does this mean, then?” Derek calls. For me. Am I still going to die? Just later, rather than sooner?
…Stop that.
“...What? Stop what? This is my body, you can’t tell me what to do with it.”
Whatever it is you’re doing… do not. I will only warn you once.
Derek scoffs, a cross between exasperated and hysterical. “Stop what?! I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
Your… emotions, the King begins, sounding ill at the word, are very… intrusive.
At Derek’s silence, he continues. Your strife was certainly satisfactory outside this ruined prison of a shell, but within it, it is… unpleasant.
Unlike Derek, who had to approach and dig into the King’s unwanted presence apparently keeping him from ruin, it seems the King was in a… different position. Derek has no sympathy—in fact, he finds himself feeling irritatingly violated. I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t want this, I wanted an end, I wanted…
If I lived, I didn’t want to live like this. Not with the King being served and assaulted with every one of Derek’s often buried-close feelings—something he was even unsure about sharing with those closest to him, now forced open for the King to see.
Derek wants to laugh. Or cry. He does neither, keeping his composure, even if he now realizes it’s useless: the King can feel his struggle, can’t he? But all Derek has left—that is wholly his and his alone—is his shell. He can’t let go of that now, too.
“...Can you hear my thoughts? Can you see what I see? Hear what I hear?”
The King takes a minute longer than Derek would like for him to respond, but he does.
Yes, if I put effort into it—but that leaves your mind unraveling, I’ve discovered; so I shan’t be sparing what limited energy we have into that useless endeavor. I don’t have a choice with… your… emotional matters, it seems.
I share your senses, but it’s muted—best described as viewing as though a play. A screen, if you will, so am I able to “look away.”
Derek wants to scream.
This is hell.
This has to be hell. He has to have died, and this must be hell. He was never religious in his life but—but if the King in Yellow is real, why can’t hell? It has to be hell, because Derek doesn’t know if he can live with this. Well, he finds himself dryly chuckling, I bet this government facility, whatever it is, will eventually kill me, anyway.
You will not die.
Derek startles. Then he comprehends what the King just did—that sense of violation returns full force—someone (and the King, especially) peering into his mind, looking under the veil and reading his thoughts. It was the most disdainful thing he’s ever experienced. “You just said it’s too much ‘energy.’” Derek spits out every word like a curse. “If you do it again, without asking— without so much of a warning— no, ever, I will—”
He stumbles, trying to find a good threat. Ah. He’s got it.
“I will kill us.” The smile that finds its way onto his face is devoid of joy, but it tastes of bitter victory all the same. “I’ll kill myself, right here, right now. Don’t think I don’t have the willpower to do it,” he says, running his tongue under his teeth. He has the willpower. He knows he does. It’s why he wasn’t such a good vessel, isn’t it?
…You’re threatening me? A God?
He doesn’t have to go searching for the King’s emotions to read what’s loud and clear in his tone: indignation. How “lowly” Derek is compared to the King, isn’t it?
“Didn’t I ‘kill’ us once already? Should I finish the job?”
…
The King doesn’t speak for a long time.
When he does, Derek almost thinks he imagined it.
Our predicament… is not ideal for either of us. As much as I am inclined to continue our path as adversaries, I am wise enough to choose the far more optimal one.
Let us… call a truce.
…For survival, you understand, yes?
“Hah!” Derek laughs aloud, sickened by the very idea of it. The moment the idea entered his mine, he became sure of what he was going to do. I have the willpower. “Fight for your life all you want.”
..?
Oh?
“As long as you keep me alive here—as soon as I understand this place, and if they’re threatening Avery—” He makes sure to whisper the name, absolutely sure there’s at least one camera in the room, “—as soon as I’ve understood everything, as soon as I’ve made sure they won’t hurt him—I’ll end my life, King.”
I’m going to end this. Once and for all.
…Ha. Once again, threatening the King with his death… it’s almost nostalgic.
“And by helping me, you can live for a little while longer.”
Someone as self-centered as a God could never give up on life. Every second, every morsel of power they can grab onto… they won’t give it up. There’s no hesitation within him—it’s not even a question. He knows the King will agree, because that’s the kind of disdainful person that only the King in Yellow could be.
Always that vessel with you. Tch.
What, Avery…?
“He’s not a vessel.”
…And far too curious for your own good. You always must ‘understand.’ Are you not satisfied with the knowledge I gave you?
…No, no… I’ve underestimated you, haven’t I, Knight? Of course you aren’t.
At the King’s sudden switch in tone, all he feels is a cold chill. A silver tongue lulling over the words like reading poetry, speaking as if he’d captured something delightful. That change, switching as if flicking a switch from condescension to… this… Derek couldn’t discern the reason why. It tempted him; what can only be described as morbid curiosity. Just like the killed cat, Derek cannot resist it.
He never can.
He searches for the second time, searching for that prickling recess of his mind cocooned and hidden away. He reaches for it. Pries it open, wanting to read what he can from the God’s mind encrypted enough to hide his thoughts but not his feelings.
Again, his mind reels back as if burned, a shiver going down his spine. What was that? What was that? What was that—what— what was…
He wants to move, move away, but he can’t. He’s restrained physically, but even if he could run, there’s nowhere to go. The culprit is within the cavity of Derek’s own body. There’s nowhere to run. He can’t even try. It’s disgusting. The King—Derek can’t understand a being like that, even with their souls intertwined, it’s impossible. For once, he doesn’t want to understand at all.
Derision. Elation. Anticipation. Amusement—something hideous and covetous—even excitement, the childish sort.
The cusp of something almost fond.
Derek wants to vomit.
You’re scared? Quiet down, won’t you?
I’m agreeing with you.
Let’s work together, Knight.
“I’m not scared.”
Derek says it on instinct. It’s almost impressive, really.
He says it so confidently that he almost convinces himself.
Maybe I am scared.