Chapter Text
Boboiboy didn't realize how long he had been standing in the middle of the living room until the dull, insistent ache in his legs finally forced its way through the fog.
It was a strange yet grounding sensation—the protest of muscles held in a state of unnatural, statue-like stillness for far too long. He had been a fixed point in the center of the room while everything else moved without him. The morning light had shifted without ceremony, reflecting its harsh glare of midday on the windows. Time had passed. A lot of it.
To anyone else, the passage of time in total silence would have been unbearable, but to him, it was just… empty. Blank. His mind felt like a barren bliss. No thoughts about the last few days. No thoughts about TAPOPS, about debriefings, about the future that was inevitably waiting to demand things from him again. No thoughts about the cocoa he was holding.
Right.
He was still holding his mug.
The realization came distantly, like noticing an object left behind by someone else. He looked down at it. Despite the hours that had slipped by unnoticed, the cocoa still looked fine, though the steam was long gone and the ceramic felt lukewarm against his fingers. He raised the mug and took a careful sip. The sweetness was faint, the warmth mild, but it went down easily. He didn't stop at a sip this time. He drank the rest in slow, measured gulps until the mug was empty. Another motion completed. Another task done.
He finally blinked, slow and deliberate, as if remembering how. His eyes stung a bit. When he shifted his weight to move, his knees gave a faint pop that echoed loudly in the empty house. He felt it immediately: blood rushed back into limbs that had been locked in place for too long, sending pins and needles through his calves. The ache that followed was dull and heavy, and it grounded him more than he expected. And, as soon as the feeling came, it passed immediately, leaving him wrapped in that familiar, hollow sensation he's slowly becoming accustomed to.
Everything felt 'wrong' again, as if the soreness had never been there at all.
He carried the empty mug back to the kitchen. With the sun so high, the kitchen lost its depth—pale yellow walls washing toward white, tile throwing back sharp reflections. The refrigerator hummed a low frequency, a vibration that seemed to resonate with his own pulse. He stood before it, staring at the handle. Time stretched unevenly, seconds and minutes folding into each other, measured only by the faint swell and fade of the hum.
Tok Aba's voice echoed in the back of his mind—a gentle reminder to eat something later. To be fair, he should be hungry; his body had burned enough calories in the last week to justify a feast, yet the thought of chewing, of tasting, of the sheer effort required to prepare a meal felt like an impossible feat. He stood there for a long time, contemplating the internal mechanics of hunger. It wasn't that he was nauseous—he just lacked the fundamental energy to care.
Deciding that lunch was a variable he could ignore for now, he turned away from the counter. He didn't have the strength to perform the act of eating. Not yet.
He made his way toward the stairs, his movements quiet and relaxed. He took the steps one by one, his feet finding the exact center of each tread, avoiding the spots he knew would creak. It wasn't a conscious effort to be stealthy—he was alone in the house after all—it was just that any noise he made felt like an unwelcome intrusion on the perfect frequency he had found.
He reached the top of the stairs without a sound, though the air felt weird. It wasn't an inherently bad feeling, more like the lingering unease of his nightmare that left his nerves a little too alert. He didn't think much of it. He didn't think much of the fact that his bedroom door was slightly open, either, even though he had a vague memory of closing it. He pushed it open and slipped into his room, easing the door shut behind him. The familiar space greeted him without ceremony—his bed was still messy from the night before, sheets rumpled. The heat in the room made it feel stuffy, pressing against him in a way that stirred irritation beneath his calm. He crossed the room to turn on the fan, as much to steady himself as to cool down. The low whir of the fan should have felt comforting. It didn’t.
He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do now that awareness was settling in. Somewhere deep down, he expected something would happen. Nothing did. The silence felt deliberate. Eventually, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor, feet flat to anchor himself. The fan hummed by his side, pushing warm air around without really cooling anything. He watched the blades spin, over and over.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.
"… Okay," he said quietly, the word slipping out before he'd really thought to speak. He cleared his throat and tried again, softer. "So. What now?"
The room didn't answer. Of course, it didn't.
"Right," he murmured.
He exhaled through his nose—a breath that barely counted as a sigh. He leaned back against the bed, arms folded behind his head, and stared up at the slanted attic ceiling. The wooden panels pressed in at an angle, close enough to feel personal. His old solar system hung above him, planets turning slowly on their strings. Tok Aba put it up years ago, when space had felt big and full of possibilities—before 'liking things' had been replaced by 'needing to be things.' He followed the slow orbits, again and again, until his eyes began to glaze.
The silence was a weight, but it was a comfortable one. It didn't ask anything of him. It didn't require a hero's resolve or a grandson's smile. It just was.
After a while, the lack of stimulation started to gnaw on him. He needed a distraction, something to keep the 'processing' from turning into actual thinking. He pushed himself up, the bed groaning under him, and went to his shelf. He pulled down a random science book from his collection. Didn't matter which one, really. He just needed words—any words—to fill the space.
He went back to the bed, glanced at the cover—Earth: Portrait of a Planet— then flipped open a page somewhere in the middle and started reading, his eyes moving over the lines almost automatically, letting the words carry him without thinking too hard.
"The lithosphere, comprised of the crust and the uppermost mantle, behaves as a relatively rigid shell. Beneath it lies the asthenosphere, where temperatures are high enough for rock to flow like liquid..."
Rigid, like someone who should be resting…
Boboiboy froze. The sentence on the page stared back at him, unchanged. The words hadn’t shifted, hadn’t rearranged themselves into something new or meaningful. They were still about layers of earth, about heat and pressure building far below the surface.
That thought hadn't come from the book.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the page before he realized he was doing it, the paper crinkling slightly under the pressure. His eyes flicked back to the paragraph, rereading it once. Twice.
"The lithosphere, comprised of the crust and the uppermost mantle, behaves as a relatively rigid shell—"
Nothing. Just text.
He stayed like that for a long minute, the textbook feeling heavier in his lap every passing second. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to move or someone to whisper, but the room remained silent, only the hum of his fan filling the silence. The heat stayed thick and oppressive.
He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders dropping. You're just tired, he told himself, the thought echoing like a hollow comfort. My brain's just making stuff up. I'm too on edge.
He forced his gaze to skim through the pages, desperate to find a more complex paragraph, something so academic and dry that it would drown out his own mind. He found a section on pressure and began to read.
"As depth increases, pressure rises due to the weight of overlying rock. Under these conditions, minerals respond by deforming, recrystallizing, or changing their structure entirely. High pressure alters the stability of mineral forms…"
He tracked the sentences carefully, letting the technical terms press in around his thoughts. Pressure. Weight. Deform. Change their structure entirely. He stared at those words in particular, like his focus had caught on something invisible between one word and the next.
"That's normal," he muttered under his breath, more out of habit than conviction. His thumb slid along the edge of the page, grounding himself in the texture of paper. "Things change under pressure. Everyone knows that." He focused on a small diagram on the page showing the phase transition of rocks under extreme stress.
He let out a small, humorless laugh and grimaced at the irony of everything. He didn't resent being a hero or becoming one at such a young age. He genuinely liked helping people. He liked knowing he could make a difference, even when it meant risking his own well-being. But sometimes, more often lately, the expectations stacked up higher than he could ignore, and responsibility pressed down on him until it was hard to tell where obligation ended and he began.
But it was fine. He could handle it. He always did.
Even the most stable of rocks can fracture under pressure, you know?
His stomach dropped, breath faltering. This wasn't a stray thought, a fleeting idea, or the usual hum of his inner voice whenever he tried to sort things out. No, this was something else, something that didn't feel like his own. The voice sounded like his, but somewhat deeper, with a soft, almost tired tone to it—like it belonged to someone a little older, maybe someone who'd been through more than he had.
He gulped nervously, his throat dry, the taste of fear sharp in the back of his mouth. He snapped his gaze to the bedside table, where the glass of water still sat, unchanged, the same one that had set him spiraling the night before. He stared at the glass for a moment, the urge to drink nagging at him, before he reached for it. Still gripping the book in his other hand, he took a sip, but the dryness of his throat caught him off guard, and he ended up gulping it down in one go, the liquid rushing too quickly to be comforting.
You're going to make yourself choke. Slow down.
He sputtered, coughing, water splashing onto the pages of the book still clutched in his hand. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the flush creep up his neck, but the tightness in his chest lingered. He set the glass down with a trembling hand, and the dull thud echoed too loudly. The water hadn't helped. If anything, it only made the unease he was feeling worse.
He slammed the book shut. He didn't want to read anymore. He didn't want to think about tectonic plates, or pressure, or how much he currently felt like a volcano waiting to erupt.
"Just a book," he whispered, voice trembling as he leaned his forehead against his palm. "Why am I overthinking a science book?"
Maybe rest would do you good?
Boboiboy bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. It was the same voice again, and he was certain it hadn't come from the hallway or the window. He looked around frantically, panic rising.
We know you're tired, the voice rumbled again, tone almost scolding and nonchalant about the fact that it was trespassing in Boboboiboy's mind. Yet you continue to pretend that you are not. Why? Why do you insist on trying not to fracture despite the underlying weight you're feeling?
He gripped the edge of the mattress, his knuckles turning white. The room felt like it was shrinking, as if it was about to swallow him whole. A shaky sound tore out of his chest, something halfway between a laugh and a breath he couldn’t quite catch.
"I'm actually going crazy."
It was getting harder to breathe.
You're scaring him, a second voice drifted in. This one was deep and lazy, each word stretching out like a drawn-out yawn, slow and deliberate, as if it had all the time in the world. We're gonna have another panic attack, huh. You can just let go and let me handle it. The tone was oddly soothing, like it had dealt with this a hundred times before—calm, detached, and completely unconcerned with the drama. Like it knew exactly how things would play out.
"Stop it," Boboiboy hissed, his eyes squeezed shut as his hands shot up to his head, fingers digging into his temples like he could force the noise to stop. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, the pressure in his mind building to a deafening roar, like something was about to crack inside him.
You are fragile, the first voice responded, ignoring his plea with the stubbornness of bedrock. If you don't calm down now, you will break.
Let go already… the lazy voice added with a phantom sigh that ruffled Boboiboy's mind. Hey, breathe.
He scrambled off the bed, his feet hitting the frame loudly, but he paid no mind to the pain. He couldn't breathe anymore; it was as if his brain simply forgot how to take in oxygen. The heat of midday didn't register, and he felt as if he had been doused in ice water with how hard his body was shaking.
The 'barren bliss' was gone. His mind felt no longer his own; it felt crowded, as if every inch of space in his thoughts was being invaded. These unknown voices began to swirl around him, breaking the quiet and twisting his sense of reality. It was disorienting, hearing them talk over his own voice, and he felt as if everything was pushing him closer to the edge.
Was he going insane?
The question pulsed in time with the piercing throb in his temples. This wasn't just 'processing.' This was a breach. The silence he had sought so hard for had been shattered, replaced by a cacophony of perspectives that weren't his own. He pressed his hands harder against his head, but it did nothing. Shadows danced around his vision, stretching and twisting against the walls until they no longer resembled his room. It clawed against his senses as his panic continued to rise.
"Look at you," a new voice hissed, cutting through the ringing in his ears like a blade. "Such a fragile and pathetic child who can't handle a little pressure."
Boboiboy staggered forward, hands slamming against the edge of his desk to keep himself upright. The wood creaked under his grip. His lungs burned, every breath shallow and useless, like he was breathing smoke instead of air.
Just like back at the station—
"No," he breathed. The word came out broken, barely louder than a whisper. He wasn't sure who he was talking to—the room, the memory, himself. But, he knew that voice. "You're not real."
A low, amused sound rippled through the room, but it wasn't laughter. No, it was something colder.
"You think you defeated me?" the voice sneered, its presence weaving through the voices from earlier. Boboiboy's gaze snapped up before he could stop himself. The small mirror on his desk caught the harsh spill of afternoon light from the window, reflecting a narrow slice of the room. At first, it showed exactly what it should: his own face, pale and drawn, eyes blown wide with fear, sweat running down his temple. But then it flickered, and Retak'ka's vicious grin stared back at him, sneering as if savoring his terror.
Boboiboy stumbled back with a strangled cry, heel catching on the rug. He hit the floor hard, breath tearing from his lungs as panic finally broke through completely.
"You're gone!" he shrieked, the words ripping out of him raw and desperate. "You're supposed to be gone! I blasted you away!"
The reflection tilted its head slowly, mockery dripping from the motion.
"Hm, yes," Retak'ka said pleasantly. "I suppose you did kill me."
Boboiboy was almost surprised his heart hadn't torn itself free from his chest. It slammed against his ribs with a frantic, panicked force, each beat loud enough to drown everything else.
No… He couldn't…
"You look surprised," the alien murmured. "Wasn't it your goal to defeat me?"
"I—I didn't…," he said, voice breaking despite himself. He scrambled backward on his palms, gaze flickering desperately between the mirror and the door, as if either might decide to let him escape. "You're lying. You're just in my head! To mess with me! I didn't kill you!"
"Oh, I am very much in your head," Retak'ka agreed lightly. "But that doesn't make me wrong. You did kill me, Boboiboy." The reflection seemed to lean closer, grin stretching too far across its face, which sent a horrifying chill down his spine.
"You tore me apart with power you barely understood," it continued, voice dropping into something almost reverent. "You burned so bright I almost admired it. Don't you remember that?"
Boboiboy’s breath hitched violently, a harsh cough ripping through his chest as a dizzy haze closed in, threatening to pull him under. He didn't remember—not clearly. There was only a blur of blinding light, a roar of energy, and then… silence.
Shh.. It's alright, a deep, soothing voice murmured, wrapping around him like a weighted blanket. You don’t have to fight this alone. I’ll carry it. I’ll carry everything you shouldn’t have had to bear. You’re safe here… with me. Every word was laced with tenderness, but the intensity made it feel suffocating.
Hey… hey, hey, another voice cut through, slow and lazy. leaning against the chaos like it could handle it all with half its strength. But beneath that drawl, tension rippled. Calm down. We can handle this. Let's breathe for a sec, yeah?
"Shut up! All of you—just shut up!" Boboiboy screamed, fingers clawing at his hair as if he could tear the voices from his mind. Panic flared so hot he could barely think, and in a desperate attempt to silence everything, slammed his head against the floor. Pain exploded behind his eyes, but the noise didn't stop.
His eyes locked on the desk mirror, and something deep inside him snapped. With a guttural scream tearing from his throat, he lunged across the floor, every muscle coiling like a spring. His fist collided with the glass, shards scattering on his desk and floor. Pain flared in his knuckles, but he barely noticed. He just wanted silence.
He stood there for a heartbeat, chest heaving, staring at his reflection in the broken mirror. Cracks spidered outward from the point of impact, the jagged crater of the center swallowing the rest of the reflection. Even in the fragments, the distorted image of Retak'ka seemed to linger for a final, mocking second.
He looked down at his hand.
Crimson blood welled from the cuts on his knuckles. At first, he barely registered it, but then a droplet hit the wooden floor, stark against the warm color. He gasped as he stumbled back from the desk, eyes darting to the jagged shards littering the floor. Panic surged through him—he couldn't let it spread. He bolted toward his closet, weaving carefully around the broken glass, yanking the door open, and tossing clothes aside in a frantic search for a towel.
"Running won't help," Retak'ka hissed from the shards, voice sharp and mocking. "You think you can hide from what you are?"
Boboiboy's hands shook as he clutched a towel, tears spilling down his face. "Stop! Please… stop talking!" he sobbed, voice desperate as it cracked with fear. He cradled his mangled hand against his chest, whimpering as pain finally registered in his mind.
"You're… more like me than you realize," Retak'ka whispered, each word crawling over his skin like ice. Then, as if nothing happened, his presence vanished with a chilling laugh, leaving Boboiboy heaving on the floor. Sobs rattled his frame, and a surge of adrenaline made him lunge for the door. His only thought was escape—anything to get out of the room. He couldn't take it anymore. Everything was closing in on him, caging him like some kind of animal on display.
Boboiboy threw his entire weight against the door, wrenching the handle with a strength born of unadulterated terror. The hinges groaned in protest, and the door finally gave way. He burst out into the hallway without a second thought, his body moving on pure instinct. The towel wrapped around his fist was soaked with his own blood, but he barely felt it as he bolted down the hall. Tears blurred his vision, and the world swam around him as he stumbled around the hall. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, but his mind focused only on one thing—escape.
His eyes flickered to the stairs ahead, and without thinking, he rushed toward them, feet sliding slightly on the slick wooden floor. He lost his balance for a moment, knees slamming into the floor with a sharp thud. Pain shot through him, but he didn't stop. The towel slipped a little as he scrambled to push himself up, fingers digging into the railing for purchase.
"You can't escape yourself…"
Retak'ka's voice slithered into his mind, a cruel whisper that made him stop for a second. He froze on the stairs, shivers crawling up his spine. "No!" he screamed. "Shut up! Leave me alone!" He practically threw himself down the remaining steps, his bare feet slapping against the wood.
"Atok! Ochobot!" He screamed as he hit the landing. He stumbled toward the kitchen, his eyes frantically searching for a flash of yellow metal or the familiar presence of his grandfather. But the house was empty, the only sound being the ticking of the wall clock and the mechanical hum of the refrigerator.
Then it hit him, a sickening lurch of realization. They weren't here. It was the middle of the afternoon. Tok Aba was at the cocoa shop, probably busy with a rush of customers, and Ochobot would be right there beside him, helping with the cocoa orders. The shop was close—just a ten or fifteen-minute walk down the main path—but in his current state, it felt like it was on the other side of the planet.
He didn't stop to put on his sandals. He didn't even think to grab his cap. Boboiboy wrenched the front door open and stumbled out, bare feet hitting the porch's weathered wood before thudding onto the gravel path. The stones bit into his soles, but the physical sting was nothing compared to the chaos in his head.
"They can't hear you," Retak'ka's voice hissed again, sounding delighted by the isolation. "No one can. You're all alone."
Boboiboy swallowed hard. He didn't turn toward the main road. He couldn't. The thought of Tok Aba and Ochobot seeing him like this—breathless, bleeding, screaming at nothing—sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. If he was a 'disaster' as that voice claimed, he had to be a disaster in private.
His legs moved before his brain could protest, carrying him toward the one place where he could think clearly—or at least, the place where no one would see him like this. The beach. He veered away from the shops, darting behind the rows of residential houses. He stuck to the narrow alleys and dusty backlots, feet slapping against the pavement and the hot dirt of the side paths. Every time a car engine hummed in the distance or a neighbor’s gate creaked, he flinched, certain they could see what he'd been hearing.
"Run then, little hero," Retak'ka mocked, his voice echoing in the chaos of his mind. "Hide with your tail tucked between your legs. The hero of the galaxy, terrified of his own thoughts. You think the ocean will wash me away?"
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Boboiboy hissed through gritted teeth. He clutched the damp towel even harder, the sharp sting of the gashes on his knuckles momentarily grounding him against the chaos of his mind. He pushed himself harder, chest burning and vision blurring as the houses began to thin out. The residential silence was replaced by the distant sound of waves hitting the shore. He scrambled over as quickly as he could, bare feet sinking into the scorching grains of the sand.
He reached the shoreline and collapsed, sliding onto his knees where the wet sand met sea foam. He stayed there, bent over, mangled hand trembling against his chest. The wind was whipping his hair, and the salt spray stung the cuts on his knuckles despite being wrapped. The sting didn't stop the flood of whispers that clawed at the edges of his mind.
You don't have to carry this alone, you know, the soothing voice whispered into his mind.
"Stop…" He whispered hoarsely, but there was nothing else he could say. His head felt heavy, the world around him tilting like it might slip away entirely. Was it all in his head? Was he losing it? The questions spiraled faster than he could catch them, each one more suffocating than the last.
He could feel his pajamas sticking to his skin, soaked through from the waves lapping at his legs, but the sensation barely registered. The coldness of the water didn’t matter compared to the burning heat that seared through his chest, pressing in from all sides. It was suffocating and relentless; everything was closing in on him. His breath came in short, jagged gasps, but it did nothing to quiet the panic rising like an uncontrollable tide inside him. The world felt like it was slipping from his grasp, and he wasn't sure anymore if the voices were real or if he was actually going insane.
Just let go… let me hold it for you, the voice whispered again, soft and insistent, like it was threading through the cracks in his mind, trying to pull him into something he couldn’t even understand.
He whimpered, a sound of desperate denial, the word caught in his throat but never fully forming. He felt the panic threatening to choke him, a weight crushing his chest as his heart hammered against his ribs. The whispers wrapped around him like chains, but he couldn’t break free. He stared numbly at the vast sea before him, bloodied hand dropping to his side. It stopped bleeding, but the cuts on his knuckles flared with sharp pain as saltwater touched them. He didn't particularly care about the sting. If anything, it was a welcome feeling. The sting was grounding him.
You're safe now, you don't have to fight anymore, the other voice murmured, words soft, almost like a lullaby.
Boboiboy flinched, as if the words were a hand reaching out, pulling him deeper into something he couldn't fight. He couldn't tell if the voices were soothing or suffocating, or if it even mattered anymore. He felt so small, so fragile, like he might be swallowed whole if he were to take that hand.
"No…" His voice barely escaped his lips, strained, but it was all he could manage. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be trapped in this endless loop of voices and confusion. He didn't want to let go. He didn't want to lose himself in whatever this was.
You really don't have to carry it anymore. You're not alone. Please, we can help. The same lazy drawl persisted, its tone gentle as if talking to a lost child. But Boboiboy's heart continued to hammer against his chest, pulse racing with an urgency that made everything feel realer, sharper, more suffocating.
"Please leave me alone," he whispered through clenched teeth, voice breaking in a desperate plea. The words sounded weak even to him, but he couldn't be bothered anymore. He tried to push it all away, to sweep everything under the metaphorical rug in his brain and pretend that everything was fine and dandy. Like how he usually does.
We just want to help. The soothing voice was softer now, but no less insistent, offering warmth that only made the chill inside him grow.
Boboiboy shook his head resolutely as he closed his eyes. He let out a tired sigh, his head feeling heavier with every passing second. He wanted to scream, to run, but his body refused to move. Instead, he sank lower, his limbs sluggish, and he stretched them out in front of him as if the shoreline might somehow ground him. His wet pajamas clung to his skin, the waves lapping at his legs, but the cold didn’t reach him. He opened his eyes and stared out at the endless sea, feeling nothing but emptiness.
I'm tired.
This time, no voice followed.