Work Text:
"Could your damn nails just stop... expanding?" Sasha went to ask desperately, but the words died on her tongue as she watched as the nails -if she could even call them nails- swirl around Michael's contorted 'fingers' -once again, could these claymation monstrosities even be dubbed fingers?- and disappear into his morphing form before glitching above them. As all this happened, the avatar looked down upon the confused woman with a mischievous yet innocent smile.
"Could your brain just stop firing electrical signals?"
Sasha frowned, unamused, whilst the anomaly amongst the averages chortled above her, sighing as he phased into the armchair slightly. Its grin only grew at her watching: she quickly averted her gaze, keen to avoid any admittedly apt comments about the Eye's ever present affect upon her.
The nails were falling off. But, they were still there. Like an exploded view, the nails deconstructed into their key parts up until atomic level. Then, the atoms fell at varying, unreliably inconsistent speeds back into the... where the nail bed was. It was stagnant now, almost unnervingly still atop the crooked finger.
Eyes wide, Sasha didn't comment on the sight, rather choosing to ignore her agape mouth and rushing questions (Why is the appearance of atoms so anticlimatic? Were they even atoms? Why were they effected by gravity? Did Michael have Its own gravi-) and instead rooted through her work bag for a glittery red.
Sure, the last colour choice of neon cyan would horribly clash with the dark rose red she grabbed. But -in her defence- the last time she had tried to have some colour cohesion the colour had... shifted? To be honest, Sasha didn't even recognise the colour... did Michael just invent a new colour while doing nail polish?
Annoyingly, it seemed so. Even more annoyingly, no one would believe her.
"You alright with this colour?" She didn't even know why she was asking the concept. It wasn't like It wouldn't just change the colour if It didn't.
Peering up, Michael filled her vision. He was looking intently into the now empty coffee cup, nursing the last remains of heat from it. Corals and magentas brushing into a blur, the picasso lookalike appeared oddly more corporeal, merging and fading into himself less. Instead, It was melting into the coffee table, the deep black underneath of it dripping into Michael's lank legs.
Dilated and constricted, Its eyes were unfocused. Sasha smirked almost maliciously: time for some gentle revenge for his kidnapping of her (not like she would complain outright, the abstract had been routinely saving her from actually working for a bastard).
Slowly -with as much stealth as her bright, sunflower yellow cardigan allowed- she sneaked her arm closer to Michael. Then, she grasped Its boney arm and shook wildly, watching with glee as the thing sprung to life immediately.
It almost reminded her of a smear frame in traditional animation, except if each frame was meant to be seen fully. Streaks of already elongated blue iris' and a black pupil were pulled backward, and His glowing blonde hair stood on edge for a millisecond. She almost doubted her vision for a second, but the way His hair slowly fell back into place afterward confirmed her... sanity? Was she even sane anymore?
"That... was a cheap trick." The 'throat of delusion incarnate' shot, but His relieved giggles spoke a different story. One Sasha had enough sense not to comment on.
Instead, she sported a fake pout and fluttered her eyelashes, "I am so, so, so sorry," and then paused, looking for seriously at Michael, "Now, is this colour alright?"
It stayed perfectly still -yet stimmed endlessly, somehow- other than Its pupils slowly turning to view the nail polish container (if she had her phone, she would have totally filmed it and edited a sliding rock sound over it and sent it to Tim) with a curious glint.
The concept then smiled impossibly more, saying "Of course."
Sasha frowned thoughtfully as she unscrewed the nail vanish and removed the excess into the container.
Michael always had a way of saying so much with so little words. Its wordless yet so sociable nature unnerved her still, even after what felt like years of knowing the abstraction. Jon felt the sentiment the same, especially after being kidnapped by the thing. After all, it took His new fancy interrogation cop's dream power to get more than a couple of words from Michael.
"You're thinking."
Chuckles echoed softly around the endless hallways, though not from Their own being. Sasha painted another stroke of the glittering paint onto the now twisting nail, and smiled. The dots of pink and iradescent pearl looked rather beautiful, even if the beauty would be short lived knowing Michael. (She was right, choosing to look away as a muted khaki grew like bacteria amongst the pastels).
"No shit, sherlock. We all do... unless, well, you know what I mean,"
"No, I really don't."
It was Michael's turn to giggle, the reverb shaling its way through his halls.
"I'm calling bull!" Sasha argued, pointing the nail vanish applicator at the offended concept before going back to paint the underside of the nail that was exposed. She ignored her half smile at Michael's chortling.
Silence soon enveloped the two, only being filled by Sasha screwing up the lid of one nail vanish container and rooting through her bag for the next. It was peaceful. It shouldn't have been, being forced to paint a malicious entity's nails wasn't exactly on her bucket list. And, yet, she felt calm.
That was until Sasha's curiousity got the better of her. As it always did with Michael, annoyingly.
"Michael?"
"I am Michael, yes. You are Sarah."
"Ye- no. I am Sasha, dim wit. Also, why do you speak so cryptically?"
A pause. His free hand messed idly with the now cold coffee cup, before Its mouth opened once more.
"Am I wrong for following my nature?"
"I never said it was wrong, I am just... curious?" She added apologetically, unscrewing yet another nail polish and starting to paint over a swirling nail carefully. Shifting browns and indigos phased into each and layers atop eachother, dripping onto the nails below and forming new ones.
"As you are. You are of the Eye, afterall." It said thoughtfully, pausing between each word, "I. Do not know."
"Okay... that's alright. I just... expected you to know, you know?"
"No, I don't know."
Sasha gave him an unimpressed look but was met with a face devoid of trickery. Instead, Michael looked creepily candid. If the thing was capable of that, at least...
"I can not know what you know because knowledge is subjective in its interpretation and understanding," He began before continuing a minute after,"Do you know why you smile when you are happy?"
She went to respond but faltered, face dawning in a sense of understanding she was always punched in the face with when Michael said His cryptic gems of wisdom played as paradoxes. It made sense of Him to do that, she supposed. He was the speaker of deception (or whatever He dubbed Himself).
"That... makes sense,"
"Sadly." Michael added, laughing. Sasha, despite herself, laughed along.
. . .
With shaky, apprehensive legs, Sasha stepped out of the glowing door, watching with a tired smile as it disappeared into the archive's walls. Her bag was still chock full of nail vanish (Michael had enough heart not to steal any of them) but most were now a half less full than they were the day before...
Oh well.
It was better than being left to die (she can't count on her two hands anymore how many times that has happened).
The ticking above her piqued her interest, and she looked upward for the time. At first glance, the time was half past four, or otherwise thirty minutes till closing. Whether it was intentional or not, Michael had timed her kicking out rather well.
So, she stretched out her aching back and plodded over to her desk, rumaging through it to snatch her phone and wallet (she learnt never to take such items into the halls, as they were permanently distorted afterward). She then quickly typed in her password to unlock her laptop before signing out and shutting the device down. Impatiently, she watched as the laptop's light died down soon to a pitch black before snapping the device shut, stuffing it in her bag.
She then briskly walked past the photos of her and Tim -it didn't stop the stab in her heart- and shrugged on her winter coat, grasping at her cardigan's sleeves to hold them down. Tightening the laces of her boots, she was just about to leave the archives early (not as if she would get anything done within -she checked the clock again- fifteen minutes) as a stumbling figure brushed past her. She could recognise that sleep deprivation anywhere.
"Jon? Are you... Jesus, you don't look good.." Fumbling with her jacket, she moved closer to the smaller man. Sims didn't react at first, but then whipped His head around to her with wide eyes. She managed to stifle the hurt she felt at the sight, knowing that a dozen or so one on one encounters with malicious entities would surely mess her up too.
"I... uhm, yes I am quite alright, Sasha." Jon responded, though His hand traced the wall with a concerning desperation.
"I'm calling bull,"
Within a moment, she was stablising the swaying man with a supportive arm, biting back a million words.
"Uhm, thank you, Sasha... things have been... less than ideal, as of late."
Sasha chuckled at the wording, before saying, "Yeah, I feel it too. Tim's been... distant -I think it's because of this clown group- Martin has only just stopped carrying around that corkscrew, Melanie's been snappy, and Elias is a bastard. Overall, looking like its just me and you,"
She lied. Jon was losing Himself more each day. Though to admit she was alone in normalcy now was... hard. If she could even say she was normal, that is.
Jon hummed in recognition. His eyes drooped as they began to walk to the exit, but Sasha's regular shaking kept the man relatively upright.
"I keep hearing the calliope organ."
"What, from Leane Denikin's statement?"
Jon sighed before nodding, pinching His head as if to stop a headache. Humming, the researcher continued to guide the shaky man forward, turning a corner past Rosie's office.
"It... its following me. The circus, I mean. It wants to use me for its.. dance."
Sasha couldn't help but laugh, joking, "What, have you as a ballerina in the corner?"
"They want to use my skin as ceremonial clothing."
Biting back a gasp, Sasha averted her gaze as she started to pull the Archivist quicker to the exit.
"Ah. That's, uh, not fun..."
Jon quietly hummed in recognition, leaning into her shoulder.
"Still think its 'ka-lee-o-pee',"
Startling awake, Jon sputtered on her shoulder, contesting, "We've had this conversation far too many times, Sasha!"
Despite having to readjust her hold on the wriggling man, the researcher laughed, pulling the archivist through the automatic doors of the exit, a brush of fresh air pulling her hair back from her face.
She needn't check the time, as stars were hung in the sky and the moon rose like a nightlight. She knew better than to think she was safe, but she couldn't help but feel eased by the stars' ceaseless watching (God, Michael would have a field day with that...).
"Yeah, you just don't want to admit I'm right," Sasha quipped while a smug smile graced her face.
"I- oh, shut it!"