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the-uptake · 5 years

Text

Only the Vital Ones

The Uptake, With Symbiotic Self-Indulgence. Book III, Chapter 3. Second chapter currently MIA: Go to first. Go to next. (Heavily revised 2019.10.28: Decided the arts and crafts time belonged in Ch3 instead of Ch10, and also consolidated all the chapter parts into one post rather than two.) TW: Body horror, substance use, alcohol, dysphoria, gore, societal cruelty mention. While ‘Choly tries to make peace with everything he’s done, Augen tries to make peace with his humanity.

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“In those days, desires weren’t allowed to become reality. So, fantasy was substituted for them–films, books, pictures. They called it ‘art.’ But, when your desires become reality, you don’t need fantasy any longer, or art.”

–Amyl Nitrate, “Jubilee”

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Well, shit. There it went again. Or, didn't.

Wearing jaded fatigue, a dark tank, and orange leggings, 'Choly inspected his physiognomy in the bathroom mirror, and determined nothing freshly indicative of his character. He tugged a bit at the fold of cheek skin sagging loose from his chin by several inches, drew it this way and that, and resigned to the recourse of excision. Two years ago, the spirit of verbot chasing would have precipitated this metric of flesh, distortions of anatomy from disguises tacked in place with piercing and stitches, and contortions to slip undetected where he did not belong. His distracted fingertips tracted the series of scars in turn as though lines on a written page. He knew their stories, and compared to them, these recent additions felt more like phrases and incomplete thoughts at best.

He sniveled at the impotence of having had to make such a superficial adjustment for sake of his own clumsiness, rather than in the aftermath of risky enterprises. He'd tried several times to contact the Tellurides after the riots and subsequent quarantine, and he knew in his gut that all three of them had gotten walled up with the rest of the Quarter. And the Geek, and Chalcedony, too, for all he knew. His only solace came in knowing that at least his parents had moved back in together downstate before things had gotten especially hairy.

The dialogue of his connective tissues wove a potent metaphor of collapse. The ragged scoring along his right temporal line. The suture at his right jawline. The bright constellation of pockmarks starboard of his face. The long crease along the left cheek from the lacrimal fossa terminating vaguely somewhere along his trachea. And these comprised just the current superficial evidence of his series of necessary facial abjurations, a road map of scansion and diagrammed sentences etching every inch of him. Though his face served as the cover to his metahuman narrative, in this sense his armpits, sides, and thighs had the most to tell of any part of him. His skin functioned more as a roll than as sheets. Though within limitation, he would simply continue pulling to produce more once time obsoleted the current space. But, therein lay the problem: There was just... so much of it... Still, graceless and imprecise, he managed by hand with the most rudimentary of tools and technique. Nearly apologetic of its entropy, apologetic tissue permitted the adjustments of his detached whimsy. For as much as he could fault himself, he just as much blamed the state of his skin. He was little more than the decrepit auteur of a decrepit opus. He'd lost the sense of his audience, but still he persisted.

So, he pulled the craft knife and needle and thread from the medicine cabinet, and his reflection smiled in intent apathy. Isopropyl alcohol sterilized the lingering must of dust and waxed mint. He pinched the sagging tissues taut with index and middle fingers, and steadied his grip with his thumb against his jaw. Then with a single stuttered breath he drew the blade over each side of the fold of skin, several times, with the finesse of a butcher. Experience had trained his heavy-handedness not to dip deeper than subcutaneous layers: a deeply scarred platysma still skewed his expression of melancholy. Only occasionally bothering to blot away excess blood with a black hand towel, he worked boredly at the newly forming ligature becoming adjunct to the much deeper scar, drawing the cheap cotton thread through the pinched raw edges of tissue with not so much as a wince. Once finished, he nipped the thread with the craft knife. Inspecting his craftsmanship, he drew a lone fingertip along the puckering edges now drawn taut, and licked the blood off in satisfaction. A short ache-twinge tugged his lip into a sneer as he rinsed the towel and implements. With an unceremonious wipe, he cleaned the blood off the counter where the fold of skin had patiently lain.

The ex-stalker Wolframite took the piece with him out of the bathroom on a fresh towel. He fished out the aluminum box from the very back of one of his nightstand drawers, and with it and the flesh he rounded the full-height open-frame modular shelving unit that divided the hall track from the kitchen to sit at the brushed steel table. Beside the box lay his coffee mug, a quaint butcher paper and twine parcel, a paring knife, and his reader on a kickstand. With the apartment to himself for the day, he'd been surveying some of the writing pieces in his drafts, only to absently tug at his face yet lacking the lucidity imparted by caffeine. He rubbed again at his marred face in a dull restlessness, his hands dipping beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. He flinched when he grazed his cheek suture and stood, to pace an uneven gait in the narrow track the length of the apartment which functioned not unlike a hallway.

He appreciated that Cecil remained oblivious to a majority of his habituations. Or at least, he appreciated the impression of Cecil's obliviousness to them.

He returned to the kitchen and pour himself a fresh cup of black coffee from the carafe Cecil had brewed before leaving for work, and he sat again. Then, he snipped the string on the box and unfurled its wrappings. His glasses came off and lay across the table from him as he continued massaging at his cheeks and chin and neck marbled with errant scars and bad grammar. He flicked up the messaging app frame and tapped Augen's active username with a sigh.

Rather than initiate conversation, he took a sip from his mug, then produced from the small wax-coated cardstock box a decently-sized chalky pastel ball. He then smoothed out the parchment with a detached free hand, swallowed the mouthful of coffee, and set down the Confec bonbon atop it with the other. The ball bore a mealy consistency somewhere between soap and fudge. A quarter-inch butt fell to the paper, and he stuck it in his mouth to let the hyssop-like bouquet melt on his tongue while he sank into his chair and hesitated on the various sampling of tasks on the table before him.

He only ever noticed the smell upon first opening the metal box, somewhere between wet and musty, but not quite rotten. He took out the jar. Several pale, murky, greyish things floated near the bottom in the turbid liquid. With a long breath through his nostrils, he took it to the sink to drain, collecting the material in his fingers and rinsing them under running water. Tossing pieces that met his satisfaction onto a fresh black towel on the table, he returned the other pieces to the bottom of the jar, adding the newest piece of flesh. The box fashioned a kit of sorts, and from it he used a set of measuring spoons to add two different white powders to the jar. After filling it up with fresh water and tightening the lid, he shook it vigorously, then set it in front of him on the table to sit and dully watch the alum and ammonia salts dissolve around the hunks like a revolting snowglobe.

As the gloss washed over him, the Wolframite pulled the folded up towel from the top of the stack in the box and set it beside the still wet pieces he'd separated from the jar. He unfolded the older towel and detachedly patted at the material that it had contained. The scrap of fresh leather, roughly now a four inch square, was sufficiently dry, so he produced the patchwork from the very bottom of the box, and unfolded three and a half years' work in his lap. Saliva stuck in his throat as his hands ran over it. Each patch bore its own unique scars from all previous excisions, a continuum of every time before it since October 2052. There were enough pieces sewn together that he couldn't recall everything they had to say anymore. He used the thin cord and upholstery needle from the box to tie the patch onto the edge he thought its shape fit best against.

Why do I do this with the pieces? After a pause trying to form an answer, 'Choly's shoulders rolled in a noncommittal shrug. "Well what else am I supposed to do with them?"

It had always felt so uniquely deranged and grotesque to simply throw human flesh in the trash.

He stood and laid the full thing out in the floor in front of the daybed. He hadn't unfurled it in entirety in months, and the visual of the sheer amount of skin which comprised it overwhelmed him. He estimated nearly two square meters lay before him where he knelt, though his estimations were exactly just that, never having worked in any deliberate proportion, just adding on wherever he grabbed the stuff each time. The tapestry was so disfigured, so monstrous, so revolting. Throttled in the dialectic of Caliban, he recoiled at his inability to do anything but approximate himself to this thing he'd fabricated. And just as abruptly, his only recourse was to get rid of it.

A cold chill cut through the veneer of his slice of Confec. He couldn't bring himself to dismantle the thing. Instead, he quickly folded it back up and returned it to the box beside the haphazard tanning kit, then returned the box to its hiding place in his nightstand.

He'd figure out what to do with it later.

Knowing he was too far gone to write, he woke up his reader screen hoping Augen was still around to distract him from himself.

ketherphorbia: you’re up early 9augen: funny, i was just about to message you. not at the library today? ketherphorbia: no, and i’m not getting anywhere with what i was trying to do so you have my full attention 9augen: how does meeting up for lunch sound? ketherphorbia: i ketherphorbia: i just started in on a fresh confec bonbon, but yeah 9augen: the finnegans across the street from your old place? its on me ketherphorbia: something tells me you’re just looking for an excuse to milk their one-cred goldfinch lunch special 9augen: if you want a few, just say so. can you be there in... what. an hour? ketherphorbia: it honestly sounds fantastic. we can both talk. if you want

Still rattled from the abrupt invitation, ‘Choly put the knife in the sink and rounded the modular divider to rummage in the other nightstand drawers for something to throw on. First came his back brace, splints, and wrist braces, and he yanked together his salmon button-up, black sweater with the elbows cut out, and slashed jeans over the orange leggings. Taking his jewelry box into the bathroom, he then brushed his bangtails and tucked the right side back with his ABC-gum barrette. He hooked his new black acrylic skull-cutout gauge hangers into his ears, and plucked his balloon animal and saturn-symbol pendants to string around his neck. The spoon pin went in his left collar-point, and he sat on the daybed for his socks. On the way out the door, he tucked the wax paper wrapped Confec into his diamond-shaped cross-body bag and nabbed his cane, retrieved his glasses, and slipped into his mint creepers.

Along the short trip down to Level 5, he shot Cecil a short message:

|| Might not be home when you get off work. Augen invited me to lunch. He hasn’t said hardly a word since it happened, and I get the feeling he needs a friend right now. ||

Cecil replied to him as ‘Choly waved his pass and boarded the toll lift:

|| I can only imagine how hard it’s been for him. Hope he’s doing ok. You two have a good time. Expect me late. Love you. Give him a kiss for me ||

With a chuckle and a fish emoticon, ‘Choly exited the lift and hobbled down the street. He texted Augen that he'd arrived, asking where to meet him, because at first he didn't see him outside. Leaning on the front façade of the Finnegan’s, a tall gothic figure smoked religiously. The younger man with dark hair pulled into a low messy bun wore a black button-down and drop-crotch pants, a dark grey knee-length gauzy vest, a large black shawl-scarf wrapped around his shoulders and neck, and mesh boots. Upon closer inspection, the combination of facial body mods--spider bites, gauged one-inch ears and 2ga medusa each with glass plugs, symmetrical double brow piercings, and batwing clicker--confirmed for ‘Choly that this was his friend. Somehow, even with his suspicion as to why Augen had initiated the meeting, he’d still expected to find him his old self, and not this anxious chain-smoking human mess. It stuck in his throat, to know his friend had silently suffered in his humanity for the past six weeks. Augen rolled his eyes at him, having just checked his messages.

“Word of warning, I’m a bit thrushed right now,” 'Choly blurted out. Rather than respond, Augen leaned down and steadied ‘Choly’s chin to give him a kiss. ‘Choly smiled strangely and reciprocated with a second peck, then navigated the awkward posture into a hug as he tucked his head against Augen’s chest. It unnerved 'Choly that his friend was no longer cold-blooded, no longer clammy and tepid, but he kept it to himself. “...Hello to you, too.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Augen rubbed at ‘Choly’s scruff and held the door for him. He eyed ‘Choly’s sweater dully in passing. “Don’t Quit Your Daydream, huh?”

‘Choly looked down at the saying printed on his front once they’d cleared the atrium, and his brows upturned.

“Hah, maladaptive daydreaming. Had it for years. I just kinda threw something on so I wouldn’t run late.”

“Daydream... into a living nightmare...”

With the detached comment, Augen picked a seat for them right in the middle of the bustling lunchtime venue. Marinating in his dissociative veneer, ‘Choly swallowed hard at the prospect of purposefully navigating his mental filter. With a series of finger gestures along the tabletop which doubled as a touchscreen menu, both ordered pinzones dorados and got to glancing over their options in silence. The server, a young brunet named Bert, promptly came and left with their drinks, as well as a basket of multicolored meal-rinds and two dishes of salsa. 'Choly sipped at his golden glowing pinzón, a smooth over-ice mix of tonic, hydroponic mezcal, triple sec, and lime liqueur, and mentally praised the facility with which one could get drunk at any hour in this city.

“So... this is a thing now.” ‘Choly got a rind real heavy with salsa and shoved it in his mouth.

Augen knocked back half his liquor in one motion, and slouched over it.

“I’d lived myself so fully, that I’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be human. I’ve missed smoking, if we’re looking for an upside to all this.”

“There’s gotta be a way t’get back what you had. At least some of it?”

“That’s... just about the last thing I want to talk about right now. Past tense doesn’t feel so great.”

They used their mouths to crunch rinds and nothing else. Augen took a hit off the cig around his neck, and with a deep exhale he shut his sunken eyes, the vapors entangling with the odd abstract light fixture over the table. Once they'd placed their orders, 'Choly did his best to people watch behind a zoned out Augen, mostly observing the rotation of three servers popping in and out of the kitchen door with dishes. When a couple that sat on the same side of their far-corner booth thought 'Choly gawked at their unapologetic PDAs and gave him a stink-eye, he coughed, and started trying to read the pattern of scrapbooked web articles which plastered every wall and the ceiling of the restaurant. The theme of all the articles painted up Tri-City's sheer melting pot culture as a fusion city, boasting a collage of articles about people from just about every level in the hyper-metroplex.

Bert interrupted their silence with their meals, and 'Choly squirmed back to give the server the space to lay it out on the table. The teen couldn't hide a sigh of relief as he picked up one plate, and glanced between the both of them.

"Who ordered the wraps?"

Augen gave him a lazy hand gesture, and the plate slid over to him. On Augen’s plate of spring wraps lay six large seared shrimp. Sliced in half both for presentation and facility, the three girthy wraps were stuffed with a combination of mushroom slices, seaweed, and fried mealworms.

"And then, the benedict's yours. Extra sauce?"

"Yes, thank you," 'Choly lauded with a heavily modulated affect, as the other mess of a plate came his way. A viscous pale yellow-green mess blanketed two nondescript mounds of protein and bread, and along its side the cook had scattered soft, colorful citrus gummies. "So glad I can still get breakfast here this late."

"Is there anyth--" Bert broke off, unable not to stare at Augen, as he fished out a pair of napkin-rolled utensils to give them. Augen returned the stare, deadpan. "...Spring wraps, and a side order of shrimp. It is you."

‘Choly gave the poor boy a glossy smile, about to praise how good it all looked, but he quickly drooped in recognition of the tension.

“So I took a bath today,” Augen dismissed, total fatigue in his voice. “Big deal.”

‘Choly coughed, cataract-bloom eyes wide as he took a stiff sip. Setting the pinzón back down, he tried to smile up at the waiter again, his voice cracking. "Could we get more rinds?"

The waiter shook his head and shut his eyes, then nodded.

“--Sure thing.”

“And we already need another round of birds.” Augen traced the edge of the faded glass with one black-polished finger and a heavy-lidded, eyelined smirk.

The server flashed him a fake grin, poorly hiding his revelry that the city had defanged the loathsome goth.

“I’ll be right back.”

‘Choly fought with the self-conscious selfishness of directing the conversation to himself, but still he persisted, hoping to distract his friend from getting recognized by his typical order. ‘Choly unrolled his flatware to tuck the napkin beside his plate, and took up the table knife and fork with zeal. He didn’t want to admit it, but as had become typical in the past few weeks, the only thing he’d put in his stomach so far by that time of day was a slice of wax and a cup of coffee. Augen took precise bites, holding his food gingerly with thoroughly ring-encrusted hands. His face stitched with a faint sweat which could have been from stress, the heat of the food, or even mounting enebriation. 'Choly observed in distant and fascinated contemplation, unsure whether his friend derived his mannerisms from humanity or the vestiges of having so recently once been a hybrid. Augen shot him a vague glance, and he cringed from getting caught watching. ‘Choly pushed the sauce-drenched larva-hash back up on the one round bready thing he’d been cutting bites from, sheepish.

“If you don’t wanna talk about it, there’s gotta be something you can do to take your mind off it instead? Have you tried... writing, since...?”

Augen finished off the first drink right when Bert swung by two replacements and more rinds and salsa. ‘Choly hadn’t even drunk half of his first pinzón yet, and he nudged his new one his friend’s way, knowing the rate this meal was going.

“Most of the time,” the goth mumbled, welcoming the offer, “my writing takes a particular head space. And I sure as fuck haven’t been in it.”

“I mean, like. Not in a carnal sense. Sort of in a carnal sense. An emotional sense? A purgative sense?”

Augen kept his eyes on his food, but his ears patently on his friend. ‘Choly’s hallmark withdrawn posture and tone signaled vague, incumbent rambling. With welcome resignation the goth listened, as he’d aspired from the start. After all, ‘Choly always had been the long-winded one of them.

“You... You remember how I was writing stories about me gettin’ with the Geek, but then I stopped abruptly? The last wip I posted before I stopped was right after I found out that the Geek and the Larva were the same person. Early on, the reasons I couldn’t reconcile with finishing the piece were ‘cause of how badly my first encounter with him went, but then fantasy turned into reality and he... caught me stalkin’ him and. You remember that right?” ‘Choly fished his reader from his bag, and tried to locate a picture in his camera roll. “I know I sent you a selfie of the black eye he gave me...”

“...You couldn’t shut up about it for a month. Heh.”

‘Choly looked up from his reader with a dull gloss to his features, and sniffed.

“He even tracked me down, what, five weeks later? An’ things got super weird--" He chewed at his labret. "...I’m still trying to process everything that happened two years ago.”

“This is about the walls, isn’t it.”

“Not quite. And yet. Exactly. I just. I owe it to him to get the details right, don’t I? It feels real lousy to even consider writing a nonfictional account of him, and yet.” He popped an orange gummy in his mouth, and licked the thick, tangy sauce off his swan-splinted fingertip. “I feel like I need to get the very concept of him in print, to get it out from inside of me. I know it’s already been two years since the walls went up, but I don’t think it’s possible for me to forget all that... death, even for a day.” A grapefruit one, this time. “How do you stay motivated to write something that hurts and arouses you, both in ways nothing else has ever really managed to?”

Augen dipped a spring roll in his salsa, and started working on the third drink. Not glancing up from his food, his brows piqued with heavy lids.

“A difficult question. Perhaps a better reply would be another question: Who’re you writing this for?”

‘Choly set down his utensils and stared down his food.

“I’d say it was for me, but I feel like I need to put his ghost to rest. I’d say it was for him, but it’s also in hopes of jamming my brain because something more accurate could exist of him than anything I’ve written of him prior. And I’d... say it was for you, or any of my followers, but I... don’t even know if I can bring myself to post the results.” The dreg sneaked the Confec from his bag and set it beside his plate. “I... I gotta have another slice.”

That got Augen’s attention.

“Mmh. Mind sharing?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

‘Choly sliced through the partial ball a few times with his thumbs against the spine of the knife, and Augen reached over to help himself to one. Wincing at the bitterness, he chewed it up and washed it down with more liquor. 'Choly simply slouched back and let the stringent melt go for a few minutes, thinking it nearly paired with the citrus cubes.

“Cecil knows about us,” Augen began, eyes stitched shut, “but you never did tell Cecil about the Geek, did you? Have you ever wanted to?”

“I told him about Chalcedony. And he may not have said anything, but I know he knows about me an’ the Geek. Can’t not. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how open he is to it all. It’s like he believes leaving me untethered keeps me more faithful. He’s... not wrong, I guess.” ‘Choly looked up when he heard Augen stifle a choke, and suddenly he regretted sharing. His friend’s face was glistening, grey eyes wide. “Are you-- all right?”

Bert paused in passing, noticing Augen's demeanor.

“How’s everything tasting so far?” the waiter interjected.

“Don't mind him." 'Choly quickly stashed the Confec back in his bag, unsure whether having it would cause them trouble. "--I think something just went down the wrong way.”

The boy frowned at the Augen, who blanched and rubbed at his Adam’s apple a bit. On cue, Augen forced a cough.

“I... It's nothing," the goth uttered.

Augen tapped a finger on his glass, not looking to Bert, and the waiter plucked up their empty glasses with a nod and excused himself, shaking his head in delirious incredulity at what had become of their once most troublesome patron.

“Seriously... Are you okay? You know you’re supposed to let that stuff dissolve in your mouth.”

Rather than reply, the goth snatched one of ‘Choly’s wristbraced hands in both of his own, and guided it to hold his strained throat. He sustained breathless, tormented eye contact.

“It's wearing off faster than I was planning. Thought, for sure I'd at least get to slagging finish eating. I'll... I'll take it.”

“Wh--” ‘Choly tried to pull his hand back when Augen tipped his head back and lolled his eyes ever so slightly, but Augen held fast. The musculature writhed. “The f--”

“Here you go,” Bert tried, nudging the fresh drinks onto the table to interrupt purposefully. Augen glanced up at him in a pained sweat, and the boy squirmed. “I--”

“Thank... you,” the goth rasped. He finally let go of ‘Choly and inhaled the fresh drink in a single motion, and when he slammed down the glass a little too hard, Bert jumped and left. ‘Choly rubbed his hand at his pants to dry the clamminess, and fretted.

“Did you... Are you...” ‘Choly glared at his friend who increasingly failed at holding it together. “The fuck is in your cig cartridge?”

At a whisper, Augen leaned in close with a shrimp in hand, still struggling to eat despite everything.

“Gather your things where you can just... grab them easy... and play along.”

“Fuck, Augen. Did you really have to get this high while we were eating?” While he complied, ‘Choly’s face slacked loose about his face. “You’re tryin’ to pile it on with somethin’ to take the place of the vampire grafting. That’s what this is. What did you--”

Augen put a trembling finger to his own mouth and hushed him in exasperation, then slyly removed most of his rings to pocket them in the sash of his drop-crotch pants.

“Tch, wait for it...”

Hands clenching his temples, the goth stared a hole in the food between them. With an abrupt stifled seizing up, his head jerked back, and his neck musculature split at the seams to burst with intricate, familiar structures. He groan-choked as his ears pointed and flared out. He hunched over to clutch his stomach, and with a clatter of dishes, he spilled forward like a canned worm as his spine cracked and doubled in length. Despite that increasingly recognizable, panting face now inches from ‘Choly’s, the dreg could only stare in a dull slack gloss, transfixed on every high-definition hyper-detail of the rapid mutations which transpired before him.

The rest of Augen’s grafted features caught up rapidly. His webbed, clawed fingers wrapped around the far edges of the table as he craned across it, and he raked off half the dishes which shattered in the floor as he continued to writhe in asphyxiating agony. He gnashed his jaw as the bone wasted into cartilage, and his lips pursed tight before snapping wide into a prominence of concentric thorns. His disgustingly vascular skin exuded a gelatinous mucus and fell semi-translucent as it shifted to bear respiratory function. His throat punctured in two rows to either side of his trachea, aligning the second set of gills. He flared his flourished nostrils and panted and heaved, clouding scleric eyes escaping into his lids in tortured bliss.

As if the clatter hadn’t gotten all the patrons’ and staff’s attention, Augen let out a gurgled shriek. ‘Choly finally remembered to flinch and tried to shove him away, but Augen grabbed him by the wrist with a glare and demonstrated his now exaggerated neck by cracking it. The fish jerked and he looked behind him to see a patron still aimed their pneumatic gun at him. He brushed a tranq dart from his lower back and slowly closed his mouth into a broad, dopey smile. Before ‘Choly knew it, the vampire had snatched him up and rushed for the front door. On the way out, he flung ‘Choly, belongings and all, into the lender’s wheelchair, and scrambled away as fast as he could.

"APRIL FOOL'S, BUGDICK!" Augen cackled hoarsely.

A coiled wobbly noodle speeding heartily down the street, he jerked left and right as he wound his way down ramps, a calculated and familiar escape route. The speed they’d achieved rattled the chair’s caster wheels, and ‘Choly clenched his teeth, the Confec robbing him of rightful sobbing when the fish tilted the chair back to compensate.

“We’re coming up on wheelchair-inaccessible territory soon. I'll admit I didn't think things through this far. I’m gonna need you to... do the skin thing. Totally slack. And... hold onto me for dear life.”

They rounded to the dismount, and ‘Choly’s head pounded as Augen plucked him up and the chair went flying off the edge of the street to eventually land in the bay. Reminiscent of a dance-dip, he flung ‘Choly around him like a sloppy backpack and kept running, ‘Choly’s cane in one hand and both ‘Choly’s forearms in the other. With a sharp duck into a side alley, they lost the three treadless-motorbike police who’d trailed them. Catching his breath slowly, Augen hugged the wall and walked backwards for a ways before he turned forward and descended a series of poorly neon-lit stairs. ‘Choly groaned. His head swam like he'd gone over with the wheelchair.

“Was that... entirely... necessary...”

After passing through a pair of wired-windowed doors, Augen set ‘Choly down against the wall of the alley-hall, and gave him back his cane once he’d reset his joints. Then, the vampire produced a canteen and drenched his face, neck, and shoulders.

“Explicitly.” Augen let out a slow, hearty chuckle. "Slag it all, that was fantastic."

“Where are we even going...? Level Four starts soon. We go deep enough into this alley, we’re gonna hit the quarantine.” No response followed. “I’m not getting an explanation until we get there, am I.”

Augen put up the portable water he’d had ready from the start, and tucked his gills into the now damp scarf-shawl. He held out his webbed hand in offer to piggyback ‘Choly again.

"Mmh, it's a few flights until there's an access elevator that still runs lower than Level 5. I'll continue carrying you, if it's too much for you. And you want me to."

"I feel like I'm going to regret turning down an offer like that."

Augen hoisted him back up across his shoulders. Nothing but fluorescent red lighting illuminated the next access tunnel, the hollow echo of the abandoned mid-level alleyway deeply claustrophobic. 'Choly sank his face into the vampire’s shoulder, and over time the biodrug harmonized with the rhythmic descent down next case of stairs, and soothed him into a total detachment from reality.

"Look to your right."

Augen tapped at the forearms he held around his neck. 'Choly picked his head up and did as directed, finding he'd passed out long enough that they now traversed a different corridor entirely. Bright yellow graffiti dripped along the long corridor.

WE'RE STILL DOWN HERE AND THE AIR'S JUST FINE

The more 'Choly took in of the wall, the more he realized similar graffiti had accumulated all throughout this passage, a technicolor synecdoche of the ghosts which resided a hundred yards beneath their feet.

"It wasn't my primary intention to show you this, by bringing you down here, but on the way down the stairs, after all you said at lunch, I figured bringing your attention to it might do your sensibilities some good. The access doors up at Level 5? I didn't unbolt them. They did."

"But how--"

"They're finding all the cracks the city didn't seal. They've been trickling out to the city limits' commercial district for some time now, but they only just recently got this far. The city pretty literally burned all the bridges they knew of between Levels 3 and 5. ...I've seen them in passing a few times. It's a shame we just missed them, going by the fresh paint. Nothing keeps 'em down. It's beautiful, really."

'Choly sank back into Augen's shoulder, staring at the defaced wall as Augen walked.

"They've been able to escape..."

"Long enough to grab food and water, and get back inside." The vampire opened the next access door and finally exited the alley. "It's just a short way to my place now. You should get some rest."

'Choly yawned and nodded, in shock and awe as he looked around the once familiar neighborhood, now a crumbling urban ghost town. Before he really noticed, they had already entered a building.

"You... this is that place you mentioned before, isn't it. We're on Level 4, aren't we."

"Home sweet home," Augen soothed, laying him back on a palette of bedding. He removed 'Choly's glasses and bag, and petted his forehead before leaving him to pass out.

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#biopunk #cyberpunk #dystopia #entomophagy #april fools #body horror #the uptake #with symbiotic self indulgence #wssi #melanochro kara #august ritter #only the vital ones #central day

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