Dusek Reznik. Reporter. Journalist. Spokesperson. Interviewer. Jack of all trades media and communications-related. Current project: explore, document, and interrogate as much of the anomaly known as "the Isle" as possible. Reports to follow. Stay...
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The adjacent reflection of one man sat across from the other, each a little off from the first. The one who had, up until this point, been reading, glanced up and observed his brother with a bemused and distant, dreamy expression. The more somber of the two fidgeted briefly with hands that sparked in nervous gold, ink which skittered across his knuckles and wrapped coils around his wrists.
"I don't follow, brother mine," said the dreamer, closing his book. The bespectacled figure across from him on the window seat sighed and worked his jaw, teeth digging into the inside of his cheek. The rain lashing against the window outside was as glum as the glow reflecting off the glasses he wore. There was a pressure to the moment the second (or was he the first; who came first?) didn’t care for. He instead smiled to himself and set his book aside, sitting a little more upright.
“Perhaps you’d care to draw me a diagram,” Remus suggested pleasantly. The tattoos of gold stiffened and retreated like snakes from Ireland’s shores up Dusek’s sleeves. The sudicky adjusted his dark frames and frowned at the floor.
“That’s—not precisely what I had in mind.” The care he took in enunciating each word wasn’t just particular. It was manically precise. Remus heaved an internal sigh, wishing his brother would simply…let go; speak plainly. Of late, he’d found an impatience in himself that had less to do with the fire kindling in his chest from a stolen draconic heart (or, rather, in a way, bought and paid for; or at least, lovingly donated) and more with the realization Dusek wasn’t one to easily accept help.
Except, this time, he appeared to be the one reaching out.
“Then please clarify another way,” said Remus, as tenderly as a man with the heart of a dragon could muster, “so I might better help you.”
Fidgeting with his fingers, picking at the ink stains he found there, Dusek was silent for such a long moment the chimera of a man before him thought he might’ve forgotten what else it was he wanted to say. The rain continued in its relentless downpour, dragging layer after layer of silvery damp against the panes. The thin cracks between the edges and the ledges offered a thin wind of chill that made Remus shiver—and in that moment, Dusek rose from his perch on the window seat and bestowed his jacket around Remus’s shoulders.
(It was just as well, Remus had begun to hoard every other jacket Dusek owned, so really, it was only a matter of time.)
Huddled in the goods of wool and cotton, Remus observed his brother’s face in the soft light of the reading room and the dimming moon outside. Dusek’s pale features shifted into an expression of unease, as they always did when looked at for too long. Remus tilted his head, lips pursing vaguely.
“…I don’t—believe I am a person, sometimes,” the Czech reporter said slowly, fingers once again twisting, twining, and writhing. “I just—I am…made for a specific purpose, and is that not what a machine is…?” His eyes flickered away; shame applying weight to the back of his neck and pushing him forward into a bow. He hunched and swayed, hugging a knee to his chest as his gaze sought the rain’s reflective eyes instead of his brother’s own. “I do not know how to be a person, Remus.”
There was a silence that threaded between them, and Remus tugged on that thread until he found his way to the source of the issue. It wasn’t that he was slow on the uptake—it was that a thought registering in Remus’s head was a seed that instantly took (firm, unyielding) root and he tended to branch out elsewhere, finding new ways to look at old problems…
“…You already are,” Remus offered calmly, reaching out to drape Dusek’s coat over both of them as his brother’s trembling caught his eye. “A person. You’re my brother. You’re a reporter.” Remus’s eyes sought Dusek’s own, and the fate-child finally returned the favor of his gaze. Remus smiled, offering a nod of encouragement. “These are the things you are, but also, you are you. Dusek. And it’s not up to anyone else to decide who or what a Dusek is. You’re not a blender,” Remus added, and Dusek snorted, watery eyes cinching shut. “Or a potato masher or some sort of punch ladle…”
“It was getting good,” Dusek said shakily, running a hand under his eyes—to fix his glasses, he’d argue. Allegedly fixing his glasses, Remus would shoot back. “Until your mouth kept going.”
“Part of being a person is being messy,” Remus pointed out.
“I don’t do messy, brother.” Remus’s heart warmed at Dusek’s rueful response, and he dragged him in for a hug beneath the coat.
“Too bad,” Remus murmured, as Dusek sighed with defeat at once again being hoarded.
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When I was young and readymade, the sister-aunts swathed me in stars and dipped me in a bath of ink and dreams, bled my finger on the spindle of their wheel and let the contents of my early life seep out, a contract sealed and a Faustian pact contrived.
They told me it was to connect me with the universe; to plug my growing organs into the electric undercurrent of boundless energy and pump them full of life to last forever. Mother’s milk, to me, the long ‘Way of the sky whose breast I suckled was full of nutrients in the form of information, stardust, and lost concepts floating from star to star like confused impulses trying to find their intended nerves.
In the granules of exploding light, I myself found my youth.
My existence.
I was brought up in a waystation frozen in time and space, a small globule of spun glass and gold and steel that was suspended by a long network of gilded thread spun by the Sudičky above a bubbling caldera of stars forever caught mid-collapse, explosion, and rebirth.
My companions, besides the quiet and distant Fates, were the stars and the void, the prior beaming knowledge through my glass screens to me, the latter being what I came to fear as sleep and the potential loss of knowledge the stars could’ve sent me, had I been awake and aware to receive it.
I was always taught that one must never miss the essential messages of th e universe. Especially one as insignificant a receptor as I, for even such a small switchboard could send messages to larger, more important mainframes. Every part of the motherboard had to keep working to support the System. The Solar System.
When I did sleep, my bed was a flat glass mat upon which resided a long black mattress and a single blanket comprised of crinkly silver warmth and the plush lining of what I came to compare to a hotel blanket or that of an aeroplane.
In this stunted cell, I watched and did as I was told. The creatures I had been crafted from must have been obedient. Perhaps in part the Sudičky had threaded me with dog; weaving in some canine element of loyalty and focus. I was feline in curiosity. I was devoid, for the most part, of humanity.
I grew up tracing numbers and chasing images across my skin. The energy the Fates had birthed me in thrived as I grew, even as my eyesight waned and my insides strained. I was given knowledge of sunlight, and the sister-aunts introduced me, little by little, to things of the world they had come from as the stars taught me. I tasted dishes of their worshipers (kalach and sola), felt sunshine on my skin, sang in a thousand tongues to entertain their ancient faces into beatific and toothless smiles–
Corpses, all, though I didn’t realize it then. Cadaverous and cantankerous, they crowded more around their spinning wheel, frantically trying to weave themselves back into relevance. Sometimes I could see through them as I could see through the glass.
And sometimes I cried out in what little sleep I had. Reached for a hand I thought was there. Had nightmares of suffocation in a void not black and terrible, but red and salty and smothering. I dreamt I never saw the stars; never saw anything, as I thrashed through nightmarish swamps of bits of things unmade or undone. Not ready things curled quiet in rivers of discarded scarlet and membranous graves.
I woke from one of these in a cold sweat, of age, and utterly alone. The sister-aunts had prepared me for their eventual disappearance. They would go to seek out others of their kind, such as the Dark One (Chernobog, they’d sigh with reverence, dismay, or exasperation interchangeably) and his people. Their people. I was to be their instrument, to inform them of the things they would miss when they left the spindle behind.
My connection to them was eternal as it was inescapable. They wove themselves into my very strands of DNA (as if I was indeed their child after all), dancing across my skin in a maddening reminder of my origins in stars and void alike. And what could’ve been, without them.
...Though it has occurred to me now that I am more void than stars.
As I write this now, my life has changed. I fell to Earth (or rather, was gently placed there). I picked up a pen people here could understand; I found school instead of stars. I found love and the void and love and the void again, smaller every time it all cycled back around.
I found...family instead of creators.
I am still trying to find faith. And home.
I’m a long way from both, but at least now, I am less alone, and I don’t have to fear any kind of darkness--
Within or without, whichever the case, I’ve come to terms.
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"A-oh, sorry," she said, flushing slightly as she'd been caught staring- but immediately recovering herself with a grin and a slight wave. "Kristen, fellow journalist. I'm not usually in the station on a Tuesday, so I've never really seen you face to face but- you're Dusek, right?" She bounced a little as she spoke, animatedly, adjusting her papers into the crook of her elbow. She was almost a little envious- from what she'd heard on his show, the man had a knack for investigative reporting.
"Kristen. I've seen you around," Dusek said without tone, his blue eyes bright and watchful as he slowly straightened away from his desk, placing the papers in a neat pile before filing them away. His pale features flickered with faint interest, but little else. He seemed, at most points, an illusion of humanity. Mostly he appeared a ghost; a hologram, inside a little glass box. Televised for Kristen's entertainment.
"I am indeed. Dusek Reznik." He approached the door of his box and offered her a hand with the same somber expression. "I apologize for not introducing myself sooner. I am usually..." His eyes slid back to the room he hovered at the edge of.
Kristen wasn't one to hang around work on a day off, but she'd left some paperwork in the station the previous night and hadn't especially felt like exercising her breaking-and-entering skills on the station. Dusek was someone she was aware of, if not exactly familiar with, and she paused curiously, papers in arms, as she glanced through the glass into the studio, observing the other journalist. John definitely had an eye for talent, and Dusek seemed to be exemplary in their shared field.
In his soundbooth long after his shift had ended, poring over texts to be used for broadcast fillers sometime tomorrow, the sudicky was distracted. Distracting himself, actually. From disturbing rumors, from his worries about his brother back at home (hopefully, where he told him to wait), from--much. He was a man in need of constant focus. Or constant distraction. Dusek just wasn't sure he knew the difference anymore.
Looking up slowly from his desk, the sudicky pinned the watcher he'd felt eyeing him with a piercing, neon-blue stare, his eyes as steady as his stoic hands, which shuffled and redistributed papers without breaking any sort of stride.
"...Something I could help you with?" He asked calmly, through the glass, his expression unchanged despite the worries that clouded his mind.
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