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Pain.
Pain in ways that could not be described by human words, that burned the fear of her prey people victims into her very soul
(did she still have a soul? He didn’t think she did)
and twisted it out it shards of spiral-sharp madness as the weight of the Watcher’s gaze pulled her onto oblivion.
Something pulled at her being, taking her power and making it its own
(did you think it was just space that gets twisted around my corridors?)
and pulling her back with it.
(Too soft and real and true and not nearly sharp enough. She hadn’t been this in a long time, she wasn’t supposed to be this, she couldn’t survive as this, before time folded in on itself and refused her the memory of what she was supposed to be)
Back
And
Back
And
Back
And
This
Being
Is
W̸̨̞̝̟̥̰̲̠̌̓̔ͅR̶̛̛̭̘̖̜̬̜̄́̏͛̈́̆̉̾̂̊́Ȍ̶͈̯̻̦̮̯̄͑̓͗̃͐͆̋͛͗̿̂͆͘N̴̞̤̝̲̰̈́̆̑̀̌̎̓̔̇̕̕̕͜͜ͅĢ̵̧̧̛͙̲̱̭̬̬̻̪̈̃̓̆̔́͑͗́̕͜
Helen Richardson stumbled back, nearly dropping her mug as she reeled back in her chair. It took her a moment to come back to her (she was a her, no matter what the Archivist thought) senses, looking down at the mess of paperwork spread across her table. She must’ve knocked over a stack. She clenched the sides of her desk. What was that? She wasn’t dreaming, she hadn’t even been asleep.
A knock came at her door (not Her door, Her doors were not that dull shade of grey) and her boss poked his head in “Helen?” He asked. She looked up, trying to shake away the remaining confusion. “Yes?”
“Are you okay? I heard something get knocked over?” He asked, stepping into her office. She nodded “I’m fine just,” she put a hand on her face, “must’ve not gotten enough sleep last night”
Insomnia could probably explain away whatever violent flash of Deja vu she just experienced (nothing could ever explain her. Words were for Watchers and Weavers, and she had never cared for either). “We still need you for the house on Saint Albans.” He responded bluntly. Something about the name felt familiar.
“I’ll be down in a moment” she responded, buried her face in her hands to try and ignore her growing headache ( broken being and shattered mind stuffed back inside flesh and sinew and it was wrong wrong WRONG-)
“No we need you on now,” he emphasized the last word in a way that made her want to scream “David just called in sick and the showing is today”
She sighed “Okay, I’m right behind you.” She stood up shakily, like she didn’t quite know how to use her legs, then threw open the door and followed her boss down the stairs, trying to ignore how wrong her skin felt on her bones.
She didn’t notice how her office door had turned an obnoxious yellow.
—————————————————————
Halfway across London, in a dingy cafe, something that refused to be Michael dropped the coffee it was holding, floods of memories from a twisted future pushed directly into its being. It gripped the sides of the table it was sitting at, illusion briefly flickering as fingers sharpened into points that dug into the surface.
What had happened? Last thing it remembered it was-
Oh
It grabbed its hand to try and stop the shaking, to check if it was still physical and……alive is a strong word for what it was but it was the only one it could think of in the moment. Honestly it had expected its unraveling to go very differently, for the faces and blond curls to slide off it like water on a slick surface and for its final moments to be those of blissful impossibly and unknowns. But that wasn’t it. It had spent its last moments small and afraid, trying desperately to open a locked door.
It had probably looked like him.
Pathetic.
It’s reflections writhed with impossible colors as it took a shaky breath. It didn’t need to, a worthless habit it had picked up from him it had yet to shake. It had never been one for answers, not when its very existence depended on deception, but the only thing it could think to do was retrace its steps. It turned to the door.
“Sir? You still have to pay-“
It sent a withering glare to the poor employee, eyes flashing with impossible colors, letting its humanity shed for the briefest moment, revealing fractals and spirals and impossible colors, boney fingers as sharp as knives, thousands of faces that shouldn’t be and looping, spiky patterns that went on and on and on and on and-
The employee stumbled back, eyes wide, delicious fear radiating off them in waves as it slipped back into something more human. It turned back to the door, opening it with a creak and slipping into its corridors (they weren’t just It’s anymore) .
The door it left behind was yellow.
—————————————————————
Helen looked back at her car parked neatly in the driveway, for sale sign placed neatly on the front lawn. She took a breath. No need to think about how horribly familiar this all felt. She could do this showing, then go home, take some ibuprofen for whatever wrongness had welded itself into her bones and probably nap for a year. (she shouldn’t have this body it wasn’t hers not anymore she need OUT-)
She heard footsteps towards the front door, causing her to quickly look up from her clipboard. The face she was met with was-
Wait
She knew that face
(Her killer)
(Herself)
(Predecessor)
(PRISON-)
(Never wanted to be never wanted to be never wanted)
(Never should have been MICHAEL-)
“Hello, Ms. Richardson I assume?” It he asked. Why did her being scream with terrible familiarity? “I’m-“
“Michael” she finished breathlessly. Her eyes widened, how did she-
“I do not believe we have met?” He raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side in an almost unarming gesture. She pulled her clipboard tighter to her chest. “I,” she paused, trying to find the words ( worthless worthless words gone gone GONE-)
“Lucky guess?” She shrugged. It seemed to be good enough for him, though there was an underlying suspicion about it. “So, are you here for the house tour?” She froze. Stupid question Helen of course he’s here for the house tour.
Why did she get the feeling he (never a he never a he if it’s a he she wins) felt the same visceral wrongness that she had in her core?
“Hmm,” it paused, placing his hand on his chin (not sharp enough not sharp enough not nearly sharp enough) “I suppose, that’s what you do, correct?”
She didn’t even process the oddness of that statement, just gave a quick nod and turned to the front door, gesturing for him to follow.
She did not notice how the wood was stained yellow beneath her fingers.
Michael did.
And the memory of a locked door sent a chill down its spine.
—————————————————————
Helen went through the sales pitch almost on autopilot, trying desperately to not look Michael in the eyes, trying not to dwell on the impossible familiarity of everything that sat in the bottom of her stomach like a stone. She opened the door to the first bedroom, the door creaking uncharacteristically.
“And this is the guest room, watch your head. Low ceilings you know” she let out a small laugh.
…….
Had her laugh always sounded like that?
She desperately tried to ignore how his eyes lit up with fearful recognition at the sound. She tried to ignore how it felt good.
“If your not in need of a guest room, the place could work as a study, but I do have a couple potential buyers who were planning on using it as a nursery…” she trailed off as she turned to right wall, cream colored plaster seeming so very wrong to her.
“Ms?” She turned back to Michael, shaking her head, trying to dispel the lingering Deja vu that seemed to be plaguing her. “It’s nothing,” she responded far too quickly, “it’s a nice space-“
“You’re lying” he replied bluntly, causing her to freeze. He said with such utter certainty. “It’s just,” she tried to find the words (won’t ever find them gone gone GONE- ) “I could’ve sworn there was a door here? Like it wasn’t, but it was.” She gritted her teeth. Dear lord she sounded so crazy. She’d probably be getting a complaint later. She turned back to Michael
And saw an expression of utter fear.
Why did she enjoy that?
“Ms. Richardson” he said slowly. “No, sorry, it’s fine,” she cut him off, turning back to the door, placing her hand on the handle, “if you want to check out the rest of the floor….”
She looked up at the door,
Now stained an obnoxious yellow.
“Ms. Richardson?” Michael’s voice in the background seemed faint as she stared at the door, once a simple white, now seemingly yellow as some stark defiance of logic and sense. It seemed, so familiar. So very familiar.
Goddamnit she knew this door.
(It was her door.
It used to be hisITStheirs?It’s but it wasn’t anymore, it knew that, and it was afraid that she knew too. It was hers, part of her, her corridors because it never wanted to bE MICHAEL-
and it sung to her. No it did not sing, it was no hive. It spoke, to something deeper than any human (not human never human not here not now not anymore) should ever experience.
Of freedom.
Of chaos.
Of fractals and patterns and impossible being.
Of shedding her who in place of an unfathomable what.
Of melodies and hallways and bending, twisting screams and madness and-
Of what she used to be and will be and never was but could be again. Of the hands of the clock broken at odd, fractaline angles and the delicious insanity it caused.
It spoke to the twisting, festering madness screaming silently inside her very soul.
Helen the Distortion
that was her
her being purred at the title
It said it wanted her to come home.)
And she listened.
Helen, not Richardson anymore, never needed to be Richardson again, opened the door, and ran down the hallways. The door wouldn’t lock behind her, not like lastnextfirst? time, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t need the map. Not this time.
The Distortion wanted her back.
And she was happy to oblige.
—————————————————————
It hadn’t summoned that door.
It’s impossible, unnecessary breath caught its throat. It hadn’t summoned that door.
She did.
She was-
Pain burned into every fiber of its being, screaming from every angle and line and fractal, torn apart as she stepped inside and it was pulled and twisted and discarded and it all unraveled-
It did not want to die again
It threw open the door and raced after her.
—————————————————————
Back. Down. Left. Right.
She knew the way, the twists and turns and corridors towards the center of the Spiral burned into her very being. Left. Right. Left again. Break the mirror. The hallways didn’t twist and bend as much as they did beforeaftermaybelast. It knew, wanted her back back back home for its being to be complete. Down. Right. Up. Sideways.
The final stretch ended in a door this time.
She didn’t care.
She threw it open.
It entered right after her.
—————————————————————
The center of the Distortion was not what she remembered (fleeting fickle memories she was about to get back to return to become whole). It was a small office space, piled high with papers with rambling notes in a language she didn’t recognize. She heard the frenzied creak of a door behind her, then a slam. She turned around to see Michael in his, it’s full being, impossibly sharp fingers and dark eyes upon a thousand shifting faces and an ocean of blond curls that stared and snarled and writhed like the stories of old about Medusa and the Gorgons.
“You cannot deny me this part of myself” she snapped, moving behind the desk defensively. “I very much can” it snarled back, before seeming to blink, shifting into something appearing more human.
“Would you rather I starve?” She shot back (a piece of The Spiral, unable to feed, stuck and caged in bone and marrow until it cannibalized-)
“Would you rather I die?” It’s practically yelled, terror painting its every word (why is it locked why is it locked why is it locked why IS IT-)
The two backed down, a scowl on Michael’s face as Helen gritted her teeth. “Die is a strong word.” She replied simply. “Maybe for you” it hissed, moving over to her side of the desk. She raised an eyebrow curiously. It rolled its eyes “I am Michael. I am the Distortion. You were the Distortion, but you were not Michael. You were not me-“
“No matter what the Archivist thought” she finished simply. It turned to her, vaguely confused, but seemed to resign itself to not knowing.
“It does not want to be you.”
“I am aware” it said bitterly, breaking eye contact and leaning over the desk, “Micheal is the shroud of its failure woven into its very being. Helen was the mark of its truest success and blissful apotheosis. I do not want to be Michael, but I cannot not be”
“Did I want to be Helen?” She scowled, but the words held no bite. “We were never meant to be” it responded, looking up again and standing up straight.
Helen paused, her mind churning with thought, until eventually, something clicked.
“What if we were anyway?”
It froze, turning to her in ConfusionDisbeliefIntrigue. “There was never meant to be two of us”
“There was never meant to be one of us,” she chuckled softly, crossing her arms. It paused, turning away, then back before she continued, “and since when have we cared about limitations?”
She held out a hand, still not nearly sharp enough, and it looked down at it. Then it smiled, a smile so very wrong but more right than anything she had ever known. It placed its hand in her’s, a silent agreement, before digging one of its boney fingers into her wrist, a trickle of static blood from the wound (more right than the red ever could be in its wrongness) and started the becoming.
And it hurt
The pain of becoming SpiralDistortionMichaelHelen is impossible and wrong as they both forget and remember and forget again, the unfathomable, perfect pain of me becomes us and one becomes two and neither know anymore, the brilliant, blinding pain of coming home, spiral sharp madness burned and twisted and neither is left alive or dead or anything in between. Helen isn’t Helen and Michael isn’t Michael not really but they both are and are not and they are the Distortion, fractals and spirals and impossible colors, boney fingers as sharp as knives, thousands of faces that shouldn’t be and looping, spiky patterns that went on and on and on and on and on unto eternity, the twisted pattern of the corridors and the map ShemadeHewasgiven is burned onto not-skin and spread like a cancer onto many-jointed limbs and talon-like hands and impossible geometry and when it is done there is two, Michael and Helen, twisted funhouse mirrors of eachother, two hands of one being, both real and neither true.
When it was done, two beings that couldn’t quite be considered people walked out of that yellow door and back into the house showing. Both of them knew this was wrong. But to both of them, nothing has ever felt more right.