- Detective.
Fixer had to make a conscious effort to close his mouth and stop his eyes from popping out of their sockets. He was starting to hit the limit.
- De- tec- tive.
He was surrounded by crudely disfigured shapes that recalled in his mind glimpses of horrid scenes. For all this time, they meandered the new material plane, the only other beings of flesh to exist alongside him. Barely stepping and painfully wheezing, they would utter the only word they could, closing the distance and aiming to put him out of his misery - something he could not do himself, for either party. Their tortured muttering of his title seemed like dark, twisted mockery, another spring of insanity in the world gone wrong, but that was until this moment.
Now, he watched them bow to him, the circle of bludgeoned monsters having turned into a circle of reverent unfortunates. Almost a minute was spent with them stretching their bodies to the best of their abilities, so that their horrifying physical forms would give way to sheepish appreciation. He used that time well, as his sanity was beginning to actively leak under the pressure.
- De- thec- thive?
Fixer breathed deep, inhaling and exhaling, and rigorously exorcizing any burdening thoughts further into the pulsating maze of his mind. There was no more space left, he could only reorganize. Too much he stuffed in there, never to be considered, lest he find the truth too horrifying to cope with. He trod on in denial, his one means of perseverance, but that has come to an end.
There was no way he could ignore what the Victims were doing.
- I… no. No. No, no, no.
- De- tec- tive!
He needed time to sort things out. Thankfully, they all seemed to have plenty.
---
A world gone wrong. A world done right.
So complex, so fragile, so simple, so sturdy, black, white, impossible colors, unimaginable shapes, engines of horror and beings of filth.
It would not leave him even as he woke, wandering the neon-lit streets at night. He stumbled and left traces of vomit behind him. It has been so long since he was last contacted by any of… them. The streets felt abandoned, and so did the suite. Bulging tumors had consumed the building, faintly changing color day by day, assimilating the essence of his world, and only he remained. The district was empty.
That did not matter. That was good. It only let him out at night, trying to cater to his worthless needs, him unable to spend entire days locked in. The flawed schematics for his being made him too reliant on air, nature, food and water. Turning him inside, out and back again, the Orb took care of those issues one by one. Time was of the essence, and so the process had to finish fast.
He understood. He just wanted to see the night sky from time to time. Its colors felt the least wrong in all of the world, the deep dark blue and the radiant white consoling his bleeding, hurting senses. He stared at the Mare in the Moon. She was no longer there.
He knew now that it was pure weakness. Now, when he pulled the photographs from the pulsating flesh, he was full of strive and near devoid of the dangerous empathy. It knew too well now what it lead to, the jugular blood still covering the floor, the couch and the ceiling. No more skies.
If only it could stop it from coming back when it was most dangerous. Unfortunately, there was no time for that precaution. The equine operator and his little amnesia would have to work together.
---
He fell on his face when the recall recoiled. Not even a cry of pain, only a labored breath came out of his mouth as he found himself swimming in a boiling sea of insanity, involuntarily bowed alongside his new followers.
He saw so much. Too much. Many images blurred still, but those that he did see were horrifying, and fit together so perfectly that it was near impossible to put them together. He was left with a series of disturbing images that told a story, but his pus-filled tumor of a mind cried out in protest and refused to form it. Having laid it to rest, Fixer remained on the floor and realized that his eyes were leaking.
- Detective.
The Victim closest to him, the intact one, suddenly broke her silence, having noticed that something happened to him. Unable to retaliate in any way, Fixer only watched as she straightened out and looked at him, her motions like that of a puppet. For a few seconds, the Victim and the detective looked at each other. He wondered what was going to happen now. Not even worried - merely curious.
- Detective.
The Victim twitched and performed a series of near-mechanical motions that saw her front hoof extended in his direction.
She was helping him get up.
Closing his still leaking, swollen eyes, he reached for the limb with his, and used it to get back up from the cold floor. For how awkward and painful every motion looked for the Victims, they possessed surprising strength - this one did not flinch a muscle when a grown stallion used her as a crutch. Admittedly, that stallion was undernourished beyond belief and very sick.
The truth of the matter was still the same. The Victims were not hostile.
They just never knew any better.
- Detective.
- Can you… - Fixer started, only to be interrupted mid-sentence by a rending coughing fit.
The other Victims had begun to get up, the lead one motioning them to do so with a turn of the head that would easily have broken any neck. When his lungs were done with their revolt, he was again surrounded by circles of standing corpses. This time, however, they did not have an atmosphere of aggression and dread around them.
He was so sorry.
- Can you understand me?
- Detective.
This time, her voice seemed almost remorseful. In a confusing motional response, the vanilla mare shook her head.
- You… can’t? - Fixer raised his eyebrows, looking around him at the almost guilty-looking congregation.
- De- thec- thive.
The Victim that crawled the ground like a serpent - the one who was hung in the maze - tried to point towards something around his neck, but his awkward, mismatched physique only made him twist without direction. The rest of them hung their heads low, leaving the answer ambiguous.
Even if they could understand, they could not talk back.
- I am sorry, - said Fixer, if only to alleviate the guilt off himself as well.
Almost as if to coincide with his admission, the floor had started to shake incessantly, sending the Victims shivering and wheezing more intensely than usual.
The tremors were followed by a recognizable distant roar, one that he had heard before. It had first sounded when the corridors were tearing themselves apart and turning into new ones back at the main precinct hall, just before the first Error was dispatched. His assumption that nothing would stay static for long had been confirmed.
They had to move.
- Detective.
To Fixer’s surprise, the lead Victim shared the sentiment. She turned around and pointed a stiff hoof towards the dark hole. He nodded, and made a step forward - a foolish decision in hindsight, for he was in the middle of the Victim crowd, and they had a leader, and who knew how they would react to someone breaking the chain of command. Those worrisome thoughts did not end up coming to reality, however, as with his step, all the rest made a simultaneous one in the same direction. He made another, and yet again a synchronized clop, bang, and screech was the response. The vanilla mare was still in the front, stepping like a puppet with the stiffest joints, but somehow, Fixer was leading the procession into the dark and out of the morgue.
Curiously, he felt stronger for it. Venturing into the tunnel and beyond, he felt little fear and more drive to see them reach something resembling safety. In the noisy hurricane or painful thoughts, something more decent emerged.
That something turned to grief yet again when his still wet eyes adjusted to the dark.
---
The towering Aberration stood up and wailed at the sky.
The sky wailed back.
The end had begun.
---
He never understood these. There was an innumerable number of things he could not possibly find a reason for that had become routine, but these seemed to exist simply to defy his mind’s presence.
The portraits. They hung from the outwardly caved walls of the passage, attached to the jaggy surfaces by their sheer desire to rend his confidence asunder. Dozens of his own eyes stared at him in the dark as the absurd marching band took step after step down the unlit hall, its narrow, choiceless intestine leading them to whatever destination awaited. He wanted not to watch, to escape his own gaze, now so punishing, but the grim features kept shoving themselves within eyesight.
Delirious, hateful, piercing, ragged, and horribly smirking - these were present the most, ominously frowning from the wooden frames and near exactly copying his own condition, hatred conceding to guilt and mourning within Fixer himself. Their smirks, which looked painfully unnatural, as if merely caused by spasms, mocked him. These nearly littered the choking corridor at the beginning, covering up the small open sections where the unicorn could swear something was moving, catching up with the procession. As they progressed, the hall was becoming brighter and brighter, signifying that the silent, limping parade was starting to reach its destination.
“Frame Fixer.”
The closer they got, the more of the other portraits there were. There was no longer any regard for placement - they hung from improbable angles, sometimes halfway stuck in the stone, sometimes floating in thin air, perfectly fit for passing through. Some seemed to have mercifully fled - their empty frames littered the floor, creaking sometimes as a Victim’s hoof stomped them. His illness-torn, sweat-covered, and beaten visage pointed its smog-filled eyes at him.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like breathing in sulfur.”
At last, something had begun to clear out near the end of their way - faint shapes in the slightly brighter dark painted a picture of something tall in the middle of a spacious chamber. The lead Victim made a careful stop, her head going through an uncomfortable turn and motioning a hoof forward, uttering the same phrase yet again, but with an eerily reverent tone.
- Detective.
- Right, I… I see, - he felt the need to at least acknowledge her words to himself.
The procession was coming to a stop, Fixer becoming paranoid near the last steps that the horrible black shape would stare its screaming form at him from one of the last pictures. Fortunately, however, none of these seemed to be present - at the very least, not within his sight. They walked out into a big room, and left the unicorn to breathe in the dusty, strange air that circulated within.
- De- thec- thive?
His “flock” separated themselves from his vicinity, but kept nearby - as he watched them shamble and twitch, a resemblance of motion language reemerged within his trampled memory. Holding up a hoof to his temple, Fixer realized that if any of it was applicable, then it told that the Victims themselves were afraid. Their heads shook ever so slightly, and drooped low, ears pinned down - for those who could move any of those parts. They stepped warily, taking time to move each joint, of which there seemed to be less for some than for others.
The Victims did not stay near him to prevent him from fleeing. They were just afraid. He was their comfort.
- De- tec- tive.
He saw the broken one from the forest approach him as all of them neared the tall rectangular shape that stood in the middle. Weakly, she tried to lift up her head, weighed down by still vomit-inducing implements and the sheer fact that, upon further inspection, her neck appeared to be twisted. Standing in place and up for observation, she looked exactly like a body that flung itself from a great height and had a very unfortunate fall. Her eyes were obscured by the metal, and yet she had managed to shift herself into a position where they would face him if they could.
- De- tec- tive.
Fixer breathed heavily. Not only was how his “followers” looked still ever so horrifying, but he could only guess how to interpret her meek utterance.
- What are you trying to say?
- De- tec- tive.
Twitching slightly, the Victim had one of her legs smash into the other, the more openly damaged and broken one colliding into the one that made her limp even more severely, almost entirely covered in metal bolts. The sight of that leg made Fixer shudder, as now he remembered the details of the encounter in the forest.
She was apologizing.
It was at that point that Fixer’s Rationale had fully realized that whatever was wrong with his mind must have taken full control, as he went on to say:
- It’s… alright. You didn’t know anything. You didn’t know any better. It’s okay now. I promise, - his voice tried to twist itself into something remotely comforting, solidifying the assumption.
- De- tec- tive.
With a screech of metal, her body turned, and she pointed - as hard as she could - at another Victim, who also departed from the group that had already shambled their way to the rectangle. An especially dark figure in the very dim light, carried through from numerous meters above, Fixer recognized the Victim as the one that killed him.
He shuddered in place, daring neither to stay away from the others for long, nor to come close to Fixer himself. A miserable sight, the leather-bound figure with sharp spikes of different shapes protruding from seemingly random places, he barely instilled any fear that one would expect from a being that once brought death. A good number of the sharp pieces went right through his body, contorting it heavily. His mouth was devoid of skin, and hung open perpetually.
She wanted to apologize for him, too.
The unicorn lowered his head and sighed deeply.
- He didn’t know any better either. Don’t blame him.
After all, it may just have been inertia that threw his head onto the dangerously prolonged spike that was mounted on the Victim’s forehead, mockingly turning him into a sort-of unicorn. It exited right down the neck.
- It’s okay. I don’t hate you.
He could not have known if they understood him at all, but it seemed that the tone of his voice was approval enough for them - the Victims nodded and shambled on to meet the rest at the center of the dimly lit spacious chamber, Fixer an expected guest.
The unicorn looked around once again, stepping weakly but with determination, an errant ping within his tumor-filled mind wishing for a light spell of some sort - as adapted as his eyes were to the dark, he still saw little more than shapes in the distance. They resembled bookshelves, cadaver carts, couches, stools, pieces of wood - all sorts of absolutely unrelated things, put together to form strange bulging shapes, filling the huge room that could not possibly have fit within the precinct. It reminded him of something… almost royal. Huge pillars loomed within sight, but seemed ghostly in the near lack of light.
At the center of all, though, was his destination - the big, strangely full in its shape object that cast its shadow over the Victim congregation, doubling the dark.
- Detective.
The official-looking Victim in the lead acknowledged his having reached their goal. Everyone else took to the ground, leaving only him and her standing. Fixer looked warily at the darkness in front of him, the only verifiable thing being the neck-torn Victim leader. As his heartbeat wound up, he squinted and saw that she was pointing to her side - true enough, there was an extension of the darkness. The longer he stood near to it, the less comfortable it felt, but nevertheless, he made a step ahead.
“I don’t like this.”
Breathing heavily and letting out errant coughs, he recognized the extension as a table - and on it, he saw something surprising. Something familiar. His grey telekinetic aura enveloped the object as he brought it closer for further inspection.
- My lamp? How did you?.. - the unicorn asked the now-rhetorical question.
- Detec… tive.
Fixer was almost surprised to hear the leader sound this unsure and shaky. Every word of hers - all one of them - always sounded determined, albeit croaked and wheezing. Now, it seemed like she was almost ashamed of what she was telling him in her singular language.
- Detective.
Her head shifted, the slightly flickering glasses signifying that now her eyes were drawn towards the rectangle in front of them. Fixer realized that this must have been why they brought his “flashlight” back, however they did it. They wanted him to see whatever it was that stood before them, dark and ominous. Whether they somehow knew that he could no longer muster the strength to cast light himself, or simply did not know that he could do so at all, Fixer had no idea.
“This is ugly.”
He took a deep breath and gave the lamp a shake, bringing it back to life with a ray of light that consumed almost all of the darkness in front.
Fixer’s eyes shrunk and his breath grew labored and erratic.
“Well, someone is self-critical.”
- How… how did you… why… who?
No, he did not understand at all. It made no sense. It made no sense, and it stared him down like a tiny senseless speck that thought it could change something.
- Detective.
It was him.
A gigantic, monstrous portrait of himself stared Fixer down. And this time, it was not lenient.
This was a horrid combination of all versions of the frightening image that he had seen to that point. Pieces of him went from sick, to relatively normal, to the impossible, geometry-defying gaping maw that he so wanted to be a figure of his imagination. Together, they formed a singular inconsistent form that stared at him, belittling his very existence with its pulled-together eyes.
The Aberration was all but there in full form. Only the other parts suppressed it, and that would not be for very long.
Even worse was that he could see that it did not simply become so by itself. Stacked together, plucked up and stitched, these pieces were made from other portraits, and the awful truth seemed to be that those were his own Victims that did this. It was their work of art, dedicated to him. He tried to fight against the idea, but that was until his knees betrayed him and moved his near-unmoving gaze to where the vest and chest of the picture-Fixer was.
There, in big, shaky letters, he saw three letters.
“G O D”
- I’m so sorry.
“That’s not enough.”
- I know.
“Well, I know what is.”
---
- No. No, no, no no no no no no no no.
The black, foul residue from the kilometers-reaching cluttered pipes flowed, filling him to the brim with visions and ideas and toxic waste.
So cold.
- No, no, no. No. You… You’re not real. You’re not real. You… you…
He rose from the ash and the grime, and inhaled the lung-rending air to exhale a breath of turpentine and cropped black smog.
They knocked, they shuffled.
- You… you… No. No, no. No. You can’t be real.
She stuttered, lying on the ground. Her eyes had lost focus and her speech had become senseless. As the primordial dread, so clearly intricate in the network around him, engulfed her utmost being, she had served her purpose.
They were afraid.
- Ha. Haha. N-not real. Ha, ha, hahahahahahhhhhahahahahhhh
His eyes opened, and poured through them cold electric light, signaling to the engine of deconstruction, summoning its loud siren to ring the end of the world gone wrong.
Fear. There was no fear.
- Hahahahahahahaahahahahah, haha, haaaaahahah
The spasming shape on the floor, a tiny insignificant speck to him, was still a pillar of existence for this wretched world, coming apart at its seams. He stretched out his arm and commanded her neck to face the sharp transistor, throwing the lifeless body at the door, painting a red carpet for a new age.
Now there were none.
He was alone.
---
When a loud, ear-rending roar awoke him, he was surprised to find out that he had to be woken at all. His body plastered over the dust-covered stone pedestal that lead up to the picture, he felt as if only a second ago he was reeling in horror from what he had seen on the canvas.
Now, the surroundings had gotten much brighter, and there was not a lost soul nearby.
- How did… - Fixer had to stop to cough, his lungs pumping out more sick waste to expel from the works.
The awful vision that befell him must have deprived him of consciousness, the time that passed - of company. Their masterpiece shown, the Victims must have shambled away in shame of the effect it had taken on their god.
The unicorn’s rising head slumped against the floor. No words of any description could describe how wrong it all was. Weakly smashing himself against the stone, he tried to beat his thoughts into submission, but all he had achieved was a “clank” echoing through the vast chamber, his horn colliding with the harsh surface.
“Get up. Time to get to work.”
- I…
“Lift your head up. Come on, get the fuck up. Time is short.”
- Why do I even… - numb-legged, he got his body off of the floor, and braced against the inevitable headache.
“It’s coming.”
- What? - Fixer mumbled, his eyes ripping themselves open, and was immediately overtaken by an entirely different matter - controlling his desire to fall back into blackness.
The portrait. It was different.
- No. No, no, no.
“I know it’s not pretty, but come on, it’s just a portrait. Get going. Wasting time.”
Hyperventilating, the unicorn tore his eyes off the picture that drilled his soul itself with its formless shapes, the gaping maws of the eyes and mouth radiating sheer repulsion. Somewhere in the back, be it of the room or his mind, Fixer heard the roar again, and felt everything shake. Hastily, he grabbed the lamp, mercifully remaining next to him on the floor, and shook its ray of light to life, departing from the wretched work of art and as far from the sound as possible.
“Good. You have to see it for yourself. That’s next. Can’t say it. We are very, very close now.”
With every step, the walls seemed less and less supportive of the ceiling, the room preparing to tear itself down and bury him within. Afraid that his heart would outrun him, he almost ran to where he somehow knew he had to go - a set of iron bars and a door that stood at the far end of where his light could reach.
- What is-
“Absolutely no good.”
Yelping in surprise, Fixer barely leapt out of the way when the section of the floor to his right suddenly disintegrated - in its place, materializing out of nowhere and covering the dreadful grey void, came to be something that nearly burned Fixer’s eyes - both literally and figuratively. Having been given twice more than enough reason to hurry, he ran a weak gallop towards his goal, having shut his irrigated eyes that fought the foul toxicity.
“They lived here, I think. All this trash… probably made huts out of them. It’s almost funny in some way. Too bad it’s all ended like this. It was mildly entertaining to watch.”
Finally, as the terrible roar echoed again, the door had been reached - and promptly broken through, Fixer being sent into a rolling halt on the strangely smooth surface below.
- How… how could-
“What did you expect?”
- I… I don’t know, - the unicorn said, his eyes still itching, but no longer refusing to fall under his control.
His ears perked up when the blood flow stopped its maniacal thumping - nothing but his own ragged breath and heartbeat could be heard. Somehow, the roar was gone, and so were the quakes. Instinctively, his eyes opened, and met a pair of themselves.
A cold tingle running down his spine, Fixer crawled back and against the wall, but made a relaxed breath when the pony in front of him did the same.
- Mirrors again, - he uttered, observing the room he was in.
“You tell me.”
The fact that the iron bars were gone and had been replaced by glass of different sorts - including the mirror panel in front of him - was barely surprising. Having become accustomed to feats of insanity, be it his or the world’s, Fixer took the time to relax and assess the surroundings. In good part that was to avail himself of the vision of the foul metal intestines ripping through the grey stone, pulsating and leaking a terrible chemical odor - so as not to fear its resurgence. Giving his head a prod with his hoof, Fixer concentrated.
It was a small room, almost completely covered in glass, at times shifting into old, scratched wood panels. Even the floor was glass - surprisingly solid and reflecting him from below. Moving the light off of the mirror surface, Fixer saw that there was a desk right around the corner.
With little to do but stare at his reflection, now associated with the dread-instilling portraits, he got himself to rise and keep walking, his limbs still shaky after the panic-fueled run. Wearily stepping, he listened to the echo, and concluded that there could not have been anything outside the room. That was despite him having clearly come from an enormous space that was about to collapse in but a few minutes. Focusing on more immediately important issues, the unicorn moved the light to the desk, and received an instant reward for his rational actions - on it was the diary, complete with his name on the cover.
- Alright, that’s… - he spoke so that there would be some sort of verbal congratulation, - That’s better.
“Above.”
Rising a curious brow, Fixer took a glance at the wall by the desk. On it was a page from the memo book - carefully taken out and pinned to a wooden panel with a piece of glass. As he had the light illuminate the paper, he was surprised to read:
“Day (3) ?1/4 MUST BE ENOUGH
They bought it. Never thought found YOU AGAINTHIS
once shatteredonsider me. Granted, there are problems. WAS NOT THE PLAN
Problem one - I’m pretty sure that if the fever does not let off, it’s mugs up for me. Ever since the… encounter in BROKEN been getting worse. I can barely walk in a straight line without a headache now. Expectedly, it makes my task rather difficuvictims show signs SHATTERING TIME
PIECE TOGETHERsn’t sound too farfetched. IS SHORT
Problem two - that CAN FIXh is far too suspicious. It must be some sort of a cruel joke. Of all of them, she has got to be the dullest tool in the shed… and yet, she is the only one to think that maybe a stranger with their photos in his things is a cause for alarm. CAN SHAPENot that I can’t take her. GET IT BACK
FRAME FIxER FIND MORE
wILL SHAPE JUST ONE LEFT
MAKE SPACE SHE KNOWS
DO NOT ESCAPE REMEMBER
THEY LURE YOU HAVE
ORt is wrong. TO FIX
until next
I think the timber wolves and the forest might not be my biggest problems on the way out.”
He recalled the entry - it was there before, one of the first he had found inside the blood-glued book. Reading through it again, he was not only disgusted to find more parts fitting together in the awful story, but also surprised to see that not all of it remained the same.
- That wasn’t there before… was it? - asking nobody in particular, Fixer looked at the familiar writing added in the blank spots, contrasting with that which he remembered. These words would always be plastered over the original text, blurring and making it absolutely illegible.
“No it wasn’t.”
- So what-
“I think it has a point.”
Tilting his head, the unicorn took the page off the wall and decided to put it back into the book - to his surprise, it immediately opened.
To his dismay, it was now full of absolutely blank sheets. All the entries were gone.
- Oh, for f-
Halfway through cursing whatever made it so, he felt a familiar feeling of roaches coursing through his skin and desperately trying to escape. His coat electrified as he could swear his ears had begun to curl under the noise. When something behind the door he now stood in front of made a shuffling sound and a faint echo of wind carried itself to him, he realized that a discordant criss-cross of visual noise his eyes were catching was not result of exhaustion.
- whhahawho do you HAHAHAHA nonononono NO THNK WHO WHY?
“A very good point.”
---
He had lost track of time. Drifting in scalding delirium, he only caught rare instances of peace and quiet, when his mind would finally return to the hospital room he was confined to. As much as he despised it and all of its surroundings, a small part of him shuddered and cried within, dreading the visions that inhabited his dreams, day and night. The only highlights were when they came to mock him, plunging him deeper and deeper into resentment.
The one way to preserve sanity and a cohesive narrative of events was the journal. His memo book, concealed from everyone else, hidden and rigged by magic he was no longer even remotely capable of in his current state.
Past pages of sketches, random alcohol-fueled thoughts and cryptic half-words, he wrote down as much as he could. Eventually, he had to repeteadly read the previous entries to find out where he was, or what was happening - aside from the task, searing in his head. When the entries had begun to disappear, him absolutely sure that he had in fact written on that day, he realized that not even that was going to keep him in his own loop.
As he coughed out more oily ichor, his senses perked up, still dampened by the ripping drift within. There seemed to be noone approaching the room - this was the time.
Shaking and blurry-eyed, he revealed the book and got to a blank page, scarcely remembering the flow of events and barely conscious enough to even check if any of the entries were there anymore. Relying mostly on whatever blurry recollection that resided in his mind, he got out the pen and spasmed it over paper:
“Day ???
I’m a fly in a bear trap. I’m stuck, and I can’t even see what I’m stuck to. Am I? I don’t know. My head, my lungs, my eyes, I can’t rely on them, I can’t feel them, they don’t work anymore. Not for me. I think it’s been a week, but I can never be sure. A week since what? A week where? What is a week? Nothing is right.
These were the only things I could trust, not even myself. Now they are missing. Like I’m dreaming it all up. I hope I am. I hope I wake up, and it all goes away, and then I wake up again, and it drifts further and further, and then I never wake, and everything is fine, and nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong. Remember, nothing is wrong. It’s all I know and it’s wrong. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong world, wrong wrong wrong.
It told me it wants home. Myself… I’m not sure how I’m writing this. Or thinking. I can barely feel my horn. I think things and they’re on paper. It’s never that easy. My hearts beat and I breathe in the air, but nothing comes out. The cogs grind and grind and the noise never stops. I can’t feel my legs. Where is he? Where has he gone to? Who is he?
What is my rationale?
I don’t know. I think I do. I hope I’m writing.
No, I don’t.
I hope it’s not real.”
The siren sounded off again, and he convulsed, twisting in his bed. Soon, so soon.
---
Fixer looked to his sides nervously, unsure of what to do. He recognized this one, he did, and that memory expunged the one that just bashed into his mind. They had met before. He recalled its distorted, jagged blue shape stretching towards him in its half-flight, and felt his breath clog up.
-nononon why YOU?
Quickly pushing the journal into his pocket, the unicorn fled back to where the room took a corner, and listened carefully. The Error was outside, he could hear reality whine at its every step. It was moving - it always was, he knew. Banishing all errant thoughts from his mind, he held his breath and waited until the terrible noise distanced. To his luck, it seemed unable to detect his presence - or, perhaps, there was some other reason that no normal mind, however normal his was, could understand.
What he did understand, however, was that if he wanted to make it out and make things right, it would require him to open the door and face whatever was outside. A few seconds passed, and his mind was made up - with a dry gulp, he moved the door open.
- this HOW how no howreal?
Immediately, he had to shield his eyes - so bright was the outside. He expected light and wind - they always followed the blue Error. Them, and openings to the grey void that enveloped the whole world. He defended himself not only against the bright light, he also kept away the nauseating texture that was sure to be facing him. Once the pain in his eyes had settled down, he made a wary turn and faced away from where the wind was coming - the gate of the Error.
His vision adjusted, Fixer was half-surprised and half-sickened at the scenery. It was a long, tall, narrow corridor that blended itself into others much like it. The auxiliary sections of his old precinct immediately came to mind - familiar shapes and the same feel of age and decay.
What was sickening about it, however, was that the shape was all that the place took from them. It was a whole sparkling rainbow of putrid colors, with what looked like actual clouds and pieces of the sky, cumulus - solid, as if frozen, growing where dull walls once were, and with mirrors lining up on the floor and ceiling.
There was no void, a huge section of a former wall conceding to a dent that culminated with an eye-rendingly out of place tangled mess of greased filthy metal. It gaped open among the colorful horror and stray cumulus, as if pointing towards how unerringly wrong it was. The foul odor coming from it, combined with the freakish mix of colors and ill-placed surroundings, made him want to hurl - but he knew that this was no time for weakness. The Error was still nearby, hunting him and wishing for something indecipherable.
- nonono notreal who?
He took a deep breath and started his way. The blue hunter may have been around any corner, but Fixer knew not to think of that. He marched on, mapping out his way - far down one of the branches was a familiar, blooded, smudged piece of paper, contrasting clearly with the overly bright surroundings.
Every step echoed through the web, completely implacable in any geometric sense. He saw clouds rip open at the blink of his eye, and fill up sections with a turn of his head. Whether that was his worn down mind succumbing to the immense pressure that has been banging on his temples for what felt like hours, or the place routinely changing himself, he did not care. From his own knowledge, that was not the blue Error’s specialty. That was what the orange one did - and it was gone. It was all he wanted to know.
The piece of paper remained illuminated at the far end, and he saw the glass in it twinkle among the ghastly lights of the shifting corridors.
“Fixed them. Now again.”
It took much longer than it could possibly have taken, but at last Fixer realized that he was nearing the page. That was when his eyes, once again, had begun to go black and white with spastic tears that scratched like sand paper. Thrown off his balance, he got back on track - but now, the blue Error’s presence was haunting him, so close, just behind his back.
- youyouyouyouyou are youyouyouyou no no not not REAL who ARE
“The Shard. I need the Shard.”
- Fuck… off… - he spat out, galloping towards the sheet at the turn of the corridors, and battling the growing screech inside his head.
Mechanically, he pulled out the glass shard from the paper, and threw it behind himself. With a sound that nearly sent him back to thoughtlessness, it had the Error emit something Fixer could barely describe, and disperse on the spot. Barely half a second of relief later, however, its yells emitted from a further point in the maze. It was not gone - it was only set back.
That barely surprised him. That small shard was different from the rest of the glass, but it was not the same as what he had taken to searching. He finally formed out his plan - survive as long as he can until the treasured shard comes into being. The pages, pinned by smaller ones, were secondary. He knew he had to fix, and for that he would need to reunite.
It made no logical sense. It was silly, in fact.
“You don’t really know where you stand.”
But it was a good thing to focus on. He kept going, haunted still by the Error’s distorted calls, and strengthened his resolve with a look on the page he had gathered.
“Day ? - ask nurse2/4
BETTER LIKE THIS?
It skips too often. Look out for them my ass, everything is much more complicated, always is. Keep phasing out. Hard to stay awake. Still capable, but just barely. Even harder to keep the book from the nurses. ALWAYS
DIAMOND ROUGH a trigger
BROKEN KEY not for long
IN REFLECTION very easy
THERE IS NO FEAR once complete
UNTIL NEXT she is out
FIXED THEMng pain. Have to find out what the pills are made of. They taste different in here. Like there’s sugar in them.
ALWAYS WATCHING”
Fixer felt a smirk spread over his face as he continued his way through the Error-infested labyrinth. A twisted game of cat and mouse.
- She can watch all she want.
“Not like there is much to look at.”
He was the cat.