Archive of Our Own

A sharp sound had N. Gin look up from his work without registering the action. The second time broke him from his thoughts, and with the third time came recognition.

It was Cortex, snapping his fingers at the other end of the lab.

Gin’s body had beaten his mind to it; Cortex had trained him well.

Whistles and tongue clicks joined the snapping. It was enough to have him abandon his work and get a move on. Neo Cortex was not a man to be kept waiting, let alone someone whose patience should be tested. Cortex had drilled the rules into him quick, and continued doing so long after the lessons had sunk in.

He began making his way to Cortex in a clumsy rush. The awkward weight of his missile wrenched away his balance and melted his steps into a stumble. His wobbling steps on the steel floor echoed in the lab alongside Cortex’s persistent clicking and snapping and whistling.

Cortex stood waiting by his own workbench, his judgmental stare burning into Gin. It didn’t take long for its heat to become too much to handle, and Gin averted his gaze.

What’d become of his life to make him obediently respond to getting called over like a dog?

He used to be respected once.

Shame should’ve coursed hot through him, hotter than Cortex’s reproachful stare, but his veins held none of it. It was instead gratitude that was on the forefront of his mind whenever he considered his current life. This was all he had left, the only place in the world that’d still have him.

Granted, there was the stapler factory.

The army had deemed him a liability after the accident and decided to let him go. They suggested he should enjoy his last week alive—their estimation, not his—far away from society before he’d inevitably blow up—again, not his estimation.

He’d lost his voice to a cracked jaw and minced vocal cords. A temporary setback, really.

For now, messy writing was all he had to defend himself with. His missile was stabilized, he underlined the statement thrice. The higher-ups refused to read his scribbled arguments. A guard was called to escort him out, prodding his back with an actual long pole, hesitant to touch him.

Despite part of his brain now being hamburger meat, he was well aware he had to stay active. Staying off his feet would only lead to further deterioration. A job was a must, ideally something industrial. Brio would probably think him crazy for still wanting to be near machines. He couldn’t help it. The accident hadn’t made a dent in his affinity for them.

Factory after factory turned him down after plenty of horrified gawking. Nobody bothered to read his written explanation of his situation. Who could blame them? He’d get lost in the staring as well whenever he caught his reflection.

The stapler factory was his last stop. He’d have to relocate elsewhere to continue his search if it didn’t work out. Staring met him there, too, but not the shocked sort. He couldn’t decipher the feeling behind it.

A hand reached out then, ready to accept the notepad he offered. His brain paused; he wasn’t hallucinating, right? Someone actually wanted to give it a read. His thoughts jumped back into action and the notepad swapped hands.

Eyes lingered on the very first sheet to take in his plea for a job. No move was made to flip over to the rest of the pages, where a truthfully dishonest account awaited. As out of his mind as he was, he had enough sense not to admit to having built bombs for the government.

More staring. No questions were asked. He didn’t know what to make of it, but the silence was getting to him. Nervous fingers twitched at his sides, itching to scratch at his face.

He was a wreck. Blood and fluid soaked through the gauze wrapped around his head and neck, a glassy look in the lone organic eye peeking through the dressings. The heft of his missile pressed his head to the side. Each breath in and out rasped.

Moments later the manager mumbled an a’ight as they extended a hand for a handshake. Welcome aboard.

It was Gin’s turn to stare.

The workplace environment was pleasant, the work itself very rehabilitative. Unsteady hands regained their dexterity as a partially tenderized brain built new pathways. Time knit shut the throat he’d dug into with tools to restore his voice, leaving behind a raised red line.

Then came the day he was handed a certificate. On it stood Employee of the Month printed in fancy bold letters. He couldn’t tear his eyes off it. The world around him dulled; his coworkers’ congratulatory words faded into the background; the pats on his back were barely noted. A bitter feeling twisted in his guts. Well, this was it, the life he’d resigned himself to. A physicist gaining recognition for his work at a stapler factory.

What more could he possibly want? The work was enjoyable despite the lack of challenge, and his coworkers didn’t pry into his business. It wouldn’t get better than this. And yet, an insistent hunger remained deep within, far beyond flesh and bone: the call for destruction. He had neither the funds nor the material to sate his first and oldest love.

This was fine, he thought, until a familiar voice called out to him on his way home, beckoning him to an alleyway. There, beneath a flickering light stood his childhood friend. How did Cortex manage to track him down? Gin would leave his phone ringing, let all the e-mails from Brio go unanswered. His only friends didn’t need to know about the recent addition to his head.

He was hoping they’d thought he’d blown himself up already.

A strange sensation overcame him beneath Cortex’s stare. He felt unsure all of a sudden. Smaller. He wrung his hands. The layers of confidence he’d built since the academy days peeled off one by one.

Cortex proceeded to circle him, and Gin's gaze fell to the ground. He’d rather not know what Cortex thought of him now, just how much he offended his eyes.

Fingers slipped beneath his sensitive jaw, tipping it up to meet Cortex’s eyes as Gin winced. A smug smile spread across Cortex’s face. It made Gin’s skin crawl.

In all fairness, he couldn’t say for sure it was smug. To him, even Cortex’s neutral expression seemed calculating. Brio had always been far better at reading Cortex’s face.

At any rate, Cortex had a job for him. He didn’t need to think twice. Working at the factory was fine, what Cortex had to offer was better.

“I’m not entirely convinced you truly want it,” Cortex said. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you, and you seem so pleased with your current career. A true shining star in the stapler industry. Who am I to take that away from you? If you were to beg for it, I might be willing to reconsider.”

A chill ran down his spine. He couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity. There was no hesitation as he threw himself at the cold hard ground. With pain bursting across his shins, he looked up at Cortex, raising clasped hands toward him. His post-accident life had already torn his dignity apart; he was glad to offer the shreds to Cortex

“Please,” Gin began, tongue growing numb and alien in his mouth. The reverb of his mechanically revived voice only amplified the off feeling. It pried control of his tongue from him, had it voice pleas and promises. Tame at first, turning increasingly alarming in no time.

Was this him, was this really him speaking, him grabbing Cortex by the ankle, his mouth inches from Cortex’s boot, h—

Cortex yanked his foot back.

Gin was left grasping nothing. He blinked sluggishly at Cortex, vision a nauseating clash. Blurred view from his organic eye crashed against the sharp images of his cybernetic eye. Don’t throw up. He could still make out Cortex’s face through the visual assault. Had he ever seen Cortex like this before, so visibly taken aback?

“You really are brain-damaged.”

He hadn’t regretted his decision then.

He didn’t regret it now.

Still, at times his thoughts would wander to the factory. They’d surely welcome him back anytime—what a shame he could never return. He was forever indebted to Cortex now. His childhood friend had taken him in, reconnected him with his everlasting love, and encouraged his destruction.

Nothing else would ever compare. He’d actually ruined him for good. Should Cortex ever give him the boot, he’d frankly blow himself up than go back to the factory.

Cortex could slap and yank and kick and stomp him to his heart’s content. Whatever he’d dish out, he’d put up with. It was a small price to pay if it meant getting to stay on the island.

The snaps and whistles and clicks ceased.

He nearly tripped over his feet on the last few steps, stumbling to a halt in front of Cortex. Wheezing, he doubled over, clutching his knees. Black spots smeared across his vision, cleared away by harsh blinks. He hated this. So much blood had been lost to the accident. Just a little bit of exertion was enough to leave him winded.

Oh, the wonders of anemia. Cortex had picked up on it, too. He’d eagerly call for Gin from the depths of the castle for the most inane reasons. The more stairs along the way, the better. Gin would arrive dizzy and gasping for breath, and Cortex would scoff at him. Took you long enough. Don’t keel over now, I need you to sweep the floor.

Shaking his head, Gin let go of his knees and pulled himself straight.

He was fine with anything coming his way, but his eyes still swept across the floor and Cortex’s workbench for clues as to what Cortex had in mind. There were no utility carts nearby and the bench had Cortex’s current project laid out on it.

Ice prickled in the pit of his stomach.

An act of spontaneity. Not his favorite flavor of Cortex’s disciplining, if he could even call it that anymore. Cortex barely bothered with a reason to lay a hand on him nowadays.

A cart wheeled up to them and tools meticulously lined up on a tidy workbench would’ve been a reassuring sight. Those signaled a deliberate plan and hands that’d move with purpose. He’d still be in for a world of hurt, yes, but he’d know what to expect.

What was waiting for him was free form jazz of physical punishment. Something done without real consideration just to satisfy a whim. A little bit of sticking this tool here, a bit of force applied there, stay still now, what if I were to do this, how about this, and this, and this and this and and and—

It was a gamble, plain and simple. Sometimes he got off lightly. Other times etched unpleasant experiences deep enough into his memory he’d have no problem vividly recollecting the ghost of the pain.

He’d gladly take the usual punishments any day over all that—even the socket scraping and tuning fork tapping.

“Done spacing out?”

His focus snapped to Cortex and the stern expression on his face.

Cortex leaned an elbow on the workbench and picked up a steel ruler. He tapped one end of it against the surface in a slow, steady rhythm as he looked Gin over, raking his stare from head to toes and back up. Cortex glanced up above Gin’s head; his missile was no doubt pushing out smoke by now.

Tap-tap-tap.

“Yes, Doctor Cortex.” He knew better than to apologize. Cortex had forbidden him from apologizing if the circumstances weren’t serious enough to warrant it. Spare me from your mindlessly offered apologies. I’ll tell you when I require them, Cortex had told him.

Tap-tap-tap. Cortex eyed the ruler and then him. The anticipation turned Gin’s hands clammy, a cold sweat gluing them to his gloves. His fingers clenched.

The tapping paused.

Cortex pulled himself upright and began to run a slow, gloved finger across the length of the ruler in silence, his eyes remaining on Gin. His hold shifted to raise the ruler, bringing it down on his open palm with a reverberating thwack.

The sound made Gin’s toes curl in his boots. Was this really what Cortex had in mind, corporal punishment? There had to be more to it. Striking him with a ruler like an unruly student was too simple a punishment for such a brilliant, sadistic mind to cook up.

It must be yet another one of Cortex’s mind games. He refused to partake in those. His reasons had nothing to do with the brain damage—he could keep up well with Cortex’s occasional mental nonsense. Simply put, it was a waste of time. It was better to act oblivious, and let Cortex think he’d won another round against a complete brain-dead ignoramus, as he liked to call him. It stroked Cortex’s ego and made him preen.

Whenever he’d watch this juvenile glee take over Cortex, he’d feel like a parent humoring their kid. He’d never in a million years say this out loud.

So he decided to take the ruler slapping at face value. He brought up a hand and pinched a fingertip of his glove, preparing to remove it should Cortex give the command.

“Keep them on,” Cortex said as he gave Gin’s hand a light smack with a ruler. “Lower your hands.”

He let his hands drop to his sides, fingers twitching out of nerves. Just go with it. Think about your job. He’d had much worse. It was going to hurt, he knew it would, but no matter what Cortex would do, how painful it would be, it’d be nothing compared to—

A harsh hand clapped across his lower back.

—a missile to the head.

The strike jolted him upright with a sharp inhale. An ache crawled across the small of his back. How could such a bony hand hit so hard?

“Keep your back straight.” Cortex stepped to Gin’s left side.

Gin turned his head to look at him. Eye-watering pain stabbed him in the head when the heel of Cortex’s palm shoved at his still-tender jaw, wrenching a strangled sound from him.

“Look forward.”

Blinking away tears, he quietly obeyed. He moved his sore jaw from side to side. The motions were kept small so as not to provoke Cortex any further. Each shift had tears well up anew, but his jawbone felt relatively fine. No worrying cracks. He’d have to inspect it later for possible fractures.

He scanned the far end of the lab, where unfinished pieces of the space station leaned against steel walls. A group of android assistants stood near the constructs, looking their way, awaiting Cortex’s next command.

Were their machine brains capable of independent thought? They could certainly feel —he’d heard them scream before. Oh, they’re programmed to feel pain, Cortex had told him once, very nonchalant like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Every now and then he’d catch them staring at him. The bolder assistants would lay their hands on his shoulders and try to usher him down to the deeper levels of the castle. Your metal frame is exposed, they’d say. A new coating of synthetic skin is required.

He wasn’t like them. No matter how many times he’d tried to get it through their thick skulls, they wouldn’t l—

Metal slammed onto his head. It hit the organic side at an angle—that’s sharp, that’s sharp, that’s too sharp—cutting into skin and banging against his skull. Visceral pain erupted across his head, adding to the lingering agony in his jaw. It was too much, overbearing to the point it strangled any sound that tried to escape his throat, nailing his limbs in place.

The long edge of the ruler, came the belated realization. Had Cortex actually sharpened it beforehand? That’d be just his style. Don’t hit the head plate next, don’t, don’t, don’t. No need to scratch up the metal.

Cortex scraped the ruler up the curve of Gin’s skull instead. A burning line was left in its wake, a stinging throb that had his cybernetic eye jerk to the side for a split second. The warmth spread, wet and familiar. Ah, Cortex had drawn blood. Not a big deal. Gin was no stranger to washing fluids out of his hair.

What a nuisance. He promptly scolded himself for that thought. Think of your job. Just grin and bear it.

Hopefully Cortex had enough decency to refrain from sawing into the cut. The ruler lifted from his head and slapped down again, pressing the flat side to his skull. There was a hand in his hair then, trailing down with a featherlight touch. He knew it as well, all too acquainted with its affinity for yanking.

Fingers tightened in his hair with a firm tug. The dread of additional hurt to his jaw granted the strength to keep his head still so it wouldn’t follow the pull of Cortex’s hand.

At times he wondered if Brio had been pushed around as well.

Back when they'd roommates at the academy, he’d seen how Cortex had manhandled Brio, how he would seize Brio by the wrist, dragging him around, shoving at his back. Just kids being kids, he’d figured. Nothing serious. How wrong he’d been.

The hand adjusted its grip, and pulled his hair taut with another tug. Cortex mumbled to himself as he repositioned the ruler here and there.

Gin couldn’t catch any of it, distracted by the warmth now trickling down in rivulets. Blood stained the side of his face. It gathered sticky and itching behind his ear and soaked into the collar of his lab coat.

He was already thinking about the aftermath. It’d be back to work for him. Back to work in a coat he wouldn’t be allowed to change out of, a coat that’d be clinging to his neck and shoulder with a disgusting dampness once the mess cooled. Pressure ignited in his skull at the thought of it.

No fair. No fair no fair no fair. Pain sprawled above and below his eyes. None of this was fair. A bloating force leaned its weight against barely healed bone from the inside. Whatever Cortex was after this time, surely Gin could’ve given it to him without the pain and the blood and—

And this growing, finger-twitching need to grab Cortex by the collar and slam him to the floor.

He was thankful for all Cortex had done for him, truly. But there was only so much resentment his gratitude could stifle before it’d begin leaking out. Come on, the voice in his head insisted. Think of your job. The plea in his head grew harder to focus on, smothered by the burning pain and anger.

“You’re getting blood on the ruler, you know.”

He made a noise he hoped was affirmative; he didn’t trust his teeth not to grit if he were to speak. Yeah, okay, how’s that supposed to be my problem? He wanted to say it so bad, but he was muzzled. Metaphorically speaking, of course, though he wouldn’t put it past Cortex to one day make it literal.

The pressure kept swelling. The cut still dripped as the stench of agitated missile smoke fluttered around him.

He envied his other self a lot these days, the Gin who lived within the gaps in his memory, in little fragments he strained to recall.

He would watch his own hands in his mind’s eye, wildly gesturing at Cortex. Cortex was always there in the faint recollections, forever the focus of the other Gin’s attention. He didn’t have the slightest idea what’d been said, let alone the tone he’d used.

Cortex usually reacted with annoyance. Occasionally, though, Gin’s words managed to strike a nerve with him. Cortex’s hands, never hesitating to punish, would actually falter. They’d clutch his own arms or the fabric of his lab coat, unable to settle. He’d glance toward the exits, eyes never straying from Gin for too long.

It was so unlike him, as though he was—could Gin even dare think it—afraid. Despite his subservience, Gin reveled in this sick, sick sense of satisfaction. A relief a part of him had avoided being declawed by Cortex.

Cortex tolerated the other Gin a lot better. Why couldn’t that same patience be extended to his lucid self? He’d get slapped around for pointing out valid concerns, whereas Cortex would keep his distance when the other guy began talking.

Sometimes he’d snap back to clarity to discover developing bruises on his face and arms. His other self was presumably capable of going too far. The last episode had actually earned him a black eye; he was still healing from that one.

Cortex never wanted to discuss the matter afterward. You must learn to rein in your brain damage, was all he’d have to say on it.

How? It was out of Gin’s hands. The tension was everywhere now—in his head, his shoulders, his clenched and trembling fingers. Half of his brain was mashed, stumbling from one extreme to the other. He was helpless against its impulsive force. One minute he’d feel better than ever, the next he’d put a fist through a wall.

Hah. Easy for Cortex to tell him how to behave. He’d love for Cortex to spend a day in his shoes. Too bad his shoes were custom made, an eternal, lonely torture tailored by his own hands, unfit for others’ feet. There were no words that’d convey how excruciating it was to live with a mind smashed into a thousand pieces as his brain haphazardly scooped up handfuls of the mishmash for him to process against his will.

It was overwhelming. Rage, misery, laughter he couldn’t contain, wailing. Days he’d feel like himself, days he’d start doubting, questioning what it meant to be him.

Cortex loved to remind him of what he couldn’t be anymore. When did you become such a pessimist, he’d ask. You used to love my plans. Where is your excitement?

He’d lost himself and become something new, he supposed. A bitter, pained little wretch full of conflicting thoughts and actions. All the junk going on in one’s head was Brio’s area of expertise. If he were to ever see him again, Brio could probably explain what was wrong with him.

Back when he was still in gauze, he’d tried reading books on the subject through a half-busted vision. Brain damage could have a tremendous effect on one’s personality and body. It could lead to this and that and that and that and that and that and and and—

His hair was released. The ruler withdrew, but not before delivering a little smack to his head.

“Well, well, well. Looks like I remain unbeaten.”

Gin’s brain took its sweet time registering Cortex’s words.

“Huh?” He didn’t look at him. His aching jaw reminded him to keep facing forward.

“I still have the most hair out of us three,” Cortex said.

A confused noise bubbled from Gin’s throat. Cortex had always had the most hair. That was an uncontested fact; no measurements needed. Brio’s head had once held a single strand and Gin himself preferred his hair short. Was this really why he’d been made to bleed, for such a stupid reason?

The tension within surged further still, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. A part of him wished to close his hands around Cortex’s neck. Another part was surprised Cortex had acknowledged Brio’s existence, even if it wasn’t by name.

The third part brought a desire to hurt, a hunger different from his need to throttle. It coated his tongue with a tingling poison, distilled of thoughts that need not reach others’ ears. The vile words didn’t linger there long, scraped off his tongue with a drag of teeth and swallowed alongside spit.

His nerves were alight with the sting of sweat in his leaking cut. Stay still, don’t do anything foolish now. It was nothing. No way he was hitting his breaking point already, he’d had worse, he’d had so much worse, this couldn’t be the last straw.

Come on, hold it together. Reply. He had be normal and reply.

He swallowed. “You could’ve“—he cleared his throat, straightening out his wavering voice—“you could’ve just asked me to shave,” he managed. It’d be fine by him. He’d done it before out of a whim of youth.

Cortex gritted his teeth audibly. “I don’t need another Br—” Cortex cut himself off with a frustrated huff.

A long, strange sound burst from Gin’s mouth in reply, wobbling in pitch like a synthesizer hurled down the stairs. What was that, that couldn’t have been him, it couldn’t, it couldn’t.

His head briefly flinched to the side, the tension concentrating there in pulsing waves, either a headache on the horizon or death to all.

Cortex was speaking again, but Gin couldn’t grasp on to the words. He couldn’t stay here. He had to leave before he’d blow up, but even if he were to get past the doors, the blast radius would still— It— It would—

The tension popped.

Yet he was still there, fully intact, not a shredded mass of blown-up flesh. The overwhelming pressure melted into warmth, a pleasant heat that swallowed his brain. No sparks in sight, the surrounding smoke already dissipating. He was no stranger to this sensation, a visitor—no, an inhabitant so frequent he should’ve recognized it right off the bat.

It was comfort. A relief so powerful it should’ve worried him, but any modicum of care he tried to clutch on to spilled past his grasp. Something within told him it’d be fine. He’d be fine.

The soothing force crawled through his veins in a gradual claim, coaxing his limbs to relax and fingers to unfurl. A soft haze shrouded the organic eye, the cybernetic one left unaffected. His vision became equal parts cloudy and clear, but he couldn’t muster any annoyance toward it. Pain slipped to the background.

It was a change of ownership, his body gently pried from him, and he was readily submitting to it.

He’d know what to do, the Gin who wasn’t him but still was, the one who’d made his home in his skull when the accident had cracked it open. He’d take care of it, even if it might come at the cost of bruises. Physically he remained in place, but the rest of him was far, far away, a curious, tired spectator to the not-him-but-still-him.

His jaw fell open, weighed down by the sudden words on his tongue. “You couldn’t even hold on to the first one.”

The voice of not-him was fascinating to take in. Different in cadence, not a drop of emotion to be squeezed from that monotone. And what he’d just said, oh, it was the most beautiful thing he’d heard in ages, right up there with Cortex’s job offer. Had he said that himself, his jaw would’ve been more bone dust than solid in record time.

Was he going to be punished, to get his jaw shattered again, his missile kicked deeper still to further destroy his sense of self? The bitter words had been brewing in his head for a while now, he’d admit that much, but he hadn’t said them. Sure, they’d come from his mouth, but he wasn’t in control now. It wouldn’t be fair to punish him for that.

Then again, fair had never been part of Cortex’s vocabulary.

“What,” Cortex spat.

“Since you couldn’t hold on to Brio, what makes you think you’ll be able to hold on to me?”

Delirious laughter rang within the privacy of his head despite not a single indication of amusement coming from the mouth of not-him. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up, more a playful chant than a scolding. Don’t you ever shut up, please don’t, keep on talking.

Another frustrated huff came from Cortex. The ruler flew past Gin and hit the workbench with a sharp clatter before Cortex stepped into his field of vision. Cortex leaned toward Gin, squinting, the rest of his features scrunching momentarily before he drew back with a click of his tongue.

Gin wondered what he’d seen, how not-him looked like. Could Cortex tell them apart at a glance? He wanted to know so bad.

“Would you look at that,” Cortex grumbled. “The brain damage’s talking again. I’ve got no interest in dealing with it. You’re not going to remember a thing afterward.” And, of course, because he was Cortex, he did the exact opposite after a moment of consideration: “I’m all you have left, anyway.”

He really, really wanted to remember everything this time. He knew full w—

“No, I’m all you have left.”

It was like a splash of cold water to the face. That couldn’t have come out of his mouth. His mind jolted, a burst of clarity clearing the mental fog. Shut up, shut up, shut up. He envisioned launching himself forward, picturing fingers reaching for an invisible barrier between him and not-him, desperate to breach it, to shut him up, please, please, please. I don’t want to die.

The fog returned with a vengeance. It dragged him down deeper and deeper with it, deeper than he’d initially been. His worries shrank along the way, insignificant once more. Frantic pleas quickly found a new tune, a chant of so what. So what if he couldn’t shut up, so what if he’d die.

So what. He was living on borrowed time.

The other him pressed on. “I’m all the human help you’ve got left, because Neo Cortex is too much of a genius to need anyone else. He just can’t handle the slightest criticism.” His feet stumbled a step forward, and Cortex took a step back, glare flickering between Gin’s face and missile. The murderous hatred in Cortex’s eyes burned bright even through the mental haze. So what.

“I don’t n—”

The other Gin didn’t let Cortex finish. “What does it say about you when your only option for human interaction is a walking corpse?”

He internally barked a laugh. Well, he was as good as dead. In a best-case scenario there’d be at least something left after Cortex was done with him. Should anyone discover his remains, he prayed the state of them would be enough to send the unfortunate soul to therapy. That’d be cool.

He couldn’t look away. Cortex’s expression was alien, so wrong his brain refused to process the sight any further. He watched as Cortex twisted his upper body just enough to look behind him, to the back wall where the space station parts and lab assistants stood. This was it. No doubt Cortex was considering commanding the assistants to tear his no-good, brain-damaged meat apart.

Ah hah, what a thrill it'd be to watch as his limbs vacated their sockets. He hoped his lights wouldn't be out before the evisceration was in full swing.

Some time passed. A minute, maybe. A few seconds, an hour, perhaps? Hard to tell. Cortex turned to face him again. One of his usual scowls had replaced the uncomfortable expression from earlier. He raised a hand, snapped his fingers and pointed at Gin.

Oh, here it comes, the thought was gleeful. Gin would've been wringing his hands from excitement right about now if he'd had any control over them.

“Back," came Cortex's curt command.

Confusion cleaved through his anticipation. What did he mean, back? An equally perplexed sound slipped from the other Gin's mouth.

"I order you to go back to where you came from." Cortex paused between each word, condescending like he was talking to a little kid.

Gin was still more puzzled than offended. Where was the bloodshed? His guts were supposed to decorate the floor. It wasn't r—

“To the factory?” the other Gin asked in a monotone, not a hint of teasing in his voice. The question might’ve been sincere, but deep inside Gin burst into laughter all the same. His brains would’ve painted the walls within seconds had that sort of disrespect come from his rational self.

Violence ignited in Cortex’s eyes again. Fantastic, they were on the same page again. Tear me apart, come on. Let me have this.

“I’m telling you to return to your side of the lab”—Cortex jabbed a finger past Gin’s shoulder—“and get back to work,” Cortex hissed.

Boo. What a letdown. If it were up to him, he’d rather stand here and wait for the repercussions. But this wasn’t about what he wanted, so his legs dutifully turned him around and began the walk back to the other end of the room. They took him across the lab, head never looking back at Cortex despite his wishes. He eagerly expected numerous steel hands to grab him from behind and pulverize his bones. Please, please.

To his disappointment, his feet brought him to the workbench unharmed. The piece he’d been working on was waiting there. It required delicate work. The other guy could handle the rest of it, probably. And if not, well, he’d have lots of overtime to look forward to.

His hands approached the work and halted before making contact. An unpleasant sensation pulsed in his head, nudging his mind for acknowledgment.

Yes, you’re up there, little cut, making a real mess and laundry to deal with. Tone it down, will you? Tch. The nerve of a— a— a paper cut, really, to demand attention. Who does it think it is?

His left hand moved up and out of his peripheral vision, and his foggy brain knew its destination. Bad hand. Bad. You’ve got work to do, so get to—

A palm slapped over the curving length of the cut in a mind-blanking press as though attempting to force the blood back in. You son of a— A long pained hiss slithered across his thoughts. Fantastic. A dirty glove rubbing germs into an open cut. Couldn’t a man fantasize about his death in peace?

It made something sobering stir within. Death? Why would he— How long had he been thinking of that, why would he entertain the thought of getting ripped apart in the first place? He’d turned himself into an abomination to reject death back then, and he wasn’t about to submit to it now.

The hand lowered itself. It hovered over the items on the bench, drifting from one object to another. What was it looking for? There was work to be done. It stopped at the plastic bottle of antiseptic; Gin kept it nearby for small mishaps. The hand slowly closed around it.

He helplessly watched as the other hand joined in to unscrew the cap, a frantic no thanks repeating in his head all the while. Thanks, but no thanks, he didn’t need that right now. Please.

In spite of his protests, the hand rose past his view with the uncapped bottle in its grip. Anticipation overthrew death in his thoughts. Here it comes, another serving of hell on earth. Nausea settled in his stomach, dulled by the mental veil.

The hand kept still in the air. What a cruel thing it was, refusing to get it over with. His organic eyelids twitched and scrunched shut—not by his choice—followed by the bionic ones. Total darkness. It didn’t make the wait better in the slightest.

A slow tilt of the hand, and liquid agony came pouring from the bottle. The steady stream soaked his hair, cold for a moment before sinking white-hot teeth into the open cut.

His mind flashed back to that night months prior, to the blood-soaked floor he’d had struggled on, when the crater in his skull had still been fresh and spewing fluids past hot metal.

Antiseptic splashed against the floor, the smell of chemicals sharp in his nose. It further drenched his already soaked clothes. A headache was already rearing its ugly little head as soft puffs of missile smoke descended into his vision. The foul compound seared through layer after layer. His delirious brain was convinced that this was it, so sure the liquid would eat through his skull and dissolve his brain. Let me be me, let me exist.

He barely registered the whimpers and shaky breaths spilling through the cracks in the other guy’s stoic shell. Even he had a limit, huh? Hah. Served the other him right for pulling this stunt. It was only fair they shared the burn.

The stream began diminishing. A trickle first, then pitiful drops, and soon it ran dry. Sweet relief. His scalp wasn’t aflame for much longer. The burn dwindled and fizzled out within a minute. Good. Very good. It’d be even better if he didn’t have to stand in the stench of antiseptic and blood. Can’t have it all, he supposed.

“I expect you to clean that up,” Cortex called from behind.

The left hand lowered itself leisurely, and placed the empty bottle on the workbench. Light returned when his watering eyes cracked open. A long inhale stuffed his lungs full, but the other Gin didn’t reply. With an equally long breath out, his body put his right hand out to the side. Trembling fingers curled one by one toward the palm. He assumed they formed a shaky thumbs-up; Cortex’s offended gasp suggested it was something else entirely.

It wasn’t his problem. His hand was beyond his control—as was everything else. Cortex could go ahead and beat him until he’d be more bruise than man. The flesh wasn’t his at the moment, after all.

Mmh. He had so much to do once he’d be allowed back in the driver’s seat. Thanks for that, other Gin.

Someone needed to train not-him-but-still-him, and see if they couldn’t get that guy to behave. Cortex was the best pick. Gin had tasted plenty of his disciplinary actions, and he’d love for the other guy to get his fill, too.

The hands picked up the work in progress off the bench. Careful, don’t break it now. They turned the piece this way and that, running a finger along its side, tapping. Come on, you can do it, right?

The piece was lowered with care, and his hands shifted the necessary tools toward himself. That’s the spirit, you’ll do fine, not-me. He would keep an eye on the work, and take note of possible mistakes to fix later on. It was all he could do in this state.

And maybe, if he really focused, he could remember this, what the other guy had told Cortex, all of it. He needed to talk things out with Cortex, they couldn’t avoid this subject forever. He wanted to know more about what’d happened during his past strange episodes, to find out whether he could do anything to make things better, whatever the things were.

All right. You have to remember, he told himself. Keep on focusing. You have to remember.

His body pushed wet hair out of his eye, and returned to work with a gnawing headache and hands that knew what to do.

Remember. You have to remember this. You have to re—

His focus faltered, mind snagging on the word remember. Huh. The more he repeated it, the more nonsensical it became. Remember. Heh. Who’d come up with that in the first place? Couldn’t they have picked something better, maybe something along the lines of— Ah!

A thought turned slippery then, something important, something with intent that he was supposed to keep a tight grip on. It slipped from his imaginary fingers and slithered out of reach before his mind could hook back onto it. What was that? He mulled over it. He was supposed to remember, uh, hm. Remember what, exactly?

He thought about it as he watched his hands work with a soldering iron. He thought and thought, trying to picture grabbing on to the elusive thought, but nothing came to mind.

Oh, well.

It couldn’t have been that important if he couldn’t recall it.