— letters

"Well, this is the Glade of Dreams," answers Rayman. "More specifically, we're in the Woods of Light. It's a good thing you ended up here, of all places; this is a pretty peaceful forest."

Glade of Dreams. Monkey might find that name to be a little too on the nose, if such a phrase were in his somewhat limited lexicon. Maybe he’d think he was dreaming if everything didn’t feel so real, from the warm breeze to the grass between his toes. It should be pleasant. Definitely an upgrade from the late-night rain and hardwood floor it had taken him away from. And yet, it’s apparent that he and the boy(?) are having two vastly different reactions to this particular situation.

From beyond the tiny, narrow gap ahead of him that he didn't register in the pitch-darkness, a sudden blinding flash of light prompts his pupils to retreat into themselves: a winking beacon in the nothingness. Morse? Is he dead? All this nonsense about seeing lights when you are dying is everywhere, but his obstinate skepticism has already been proven wrong once today, when Clarence's claims about an omniscient, incorporeal mind-reader turned out to be an actual thing. He even had a conversation with it, for god's sake.

Spotting the trace glistening of eyes receded deep in the wreckage, Clarence reflexively lowers the beam to the floor in front of him, an apology not making it further than conception. Despite being pointed at the ground, the flashlight floods the now-cramped tunnel with more than enough fluorescence to see by. Which, in this moment, is both a blessing and a curse. Taking in the sight and again acting unconsciously, his free hand raises to pull at the hair on the back of the professor’s head (hair he’s fairly certain is already starting to thin), and in a display that probably isn’t at all reassuring to the person belonging to that reaching arm, finally summons enough nerve to crane at the waist and glance behind himself. From where he’s standing, at least, it sure looks like he could squeeze through to whatever’s on the other side…

This deep in panic, Rennick barely registers that one remaining forehand clamping a stretch of flesh near his tail, anchoring him somewhere between certain death and a fleeting chance at freedom. Whichever of the two is closer, he hasn't the faintest idea. His arms are halfway pinned fast against the walls, so, in a last-minute bid for... something, Rennick whips out a few tendrils, scrabbling blindly for Clarence's form in the nothingness, screaming the name of his companion between mouthfuls of dirt sputtering out.

It all happens in a split second— somewhere between coughing up a lungful of what’s most likely decades-old asbestos, eyes squeezed tight, face buried in the elbow of Philip’s parka, and feeling something that, at first, he mistakes for the stones and pebbles that the crumbling walls had turned into projectiles; it isn’t the rubble, it’s the same scrawny (yet deceptively strong) tendrils that have already grabbed him on several occasions in the past. Unlike in the past, this time he reaches out for them without thinking, eyes opening in a rapid series of blinks.

Under less dire circumstances, Rennick would have been positively delighted to hear Clarence utter the word "please" outside of a sarcastic context, providing him with ample ammunition for future teasing; as it is, however, all that registers to him is the terror in his companion's voice, alerting him to the fact that the ceiling is quite literally coming down on their heads. Even the slobbering bone-beast is not exempt from misfortune; of all the different forces at play, whichever way they might manifest themselves, however ancient they might be, gravity is king.

At the sight of the two titans starting to detangle from one another (or at least, what he can make out of their shapes in the dark), relief floods Clarence, releasing some of the extra pressure in the form of a thankfully muffled, shuddering exhale. In all (forever unspoken) honesty, he has to hand it to Philip for making it as far as he had, if this is what human anxiety feels like. He's already very goddamn sick of it. But of course, the relief doesn't last long when—

If Clarence calling both it and him sons of bitches wasn't enough of an indication that this is very much an unhappy reunion, whichever unfathomable way the two happen to be acquainted, that 'What have you done?' is plenty telling on its own, as is Clarence's understandably unenthused reponse to the beast's approach. Reasonable, yes, Rennick thinks, but a gambler, too, and now that he has confirmation that his ticket out of here is still in one piece, the stakes are different: outplay the presence, and he can live; outplay it, keep Clarence alive, and he can be free.

Taken by the element of surprise, the amalgamation of flesh and bone goes down easily, claws scraping for purchase against the worn tunnel floor but finding none before it’s dragged back, where it flails and thrashes like a wounded animal, tearing at the tendrils enveloping its maw with its remaining arm. It doesn’t just use its arm, however, lashing out with its powerful legs wildly in the blind hope of snapping, ripping, piercing. Of course, it’s constrained by the same comparatively small space as the other, and each poorly aimed strike leveled at the walls brings with it more rumbles. More plumes raining dust and tiny rocks down directly over their heads.

And thus the pendulum swings. The presence is back, heralded, as before, by a headache that defies comparison to anything Rennick has ever experienced prior to falling ill. A rope of blood-tinged spittle yawns into a low, wide arch as he hoists his hammering head slightly upward, his gaze not so much shifting as careening wildly from Clarence to the thing and back in an attempt to make sense of what this means, first and foremost, as per usual, for his own survival.

“In the broadest sense,” is all Clarence can think to say, and it’s unclear even to himself which one he’s responding to. Now that the chaos has settled down for the moment, and there’s no immediate concern that the walking garbage disposal is going to pop his free ride (because of course that’s all this is, a partnership of convenience) like a water balloon, he’s left wondering if getting involved was such a good idea, after all. And where he takes it from here.

                they dropped the world on your shoulders and called you ATLAS

At some point in the conversation, she lifts her head from the steering wheel long enough to get a proper look at Miles, like he had just admitted to something more bizarre than the garden-variety strange that she was used to working with. Really, lizard people? Illuminati? Now she’s gone and done it. Merris had managed to step into some questionable things herself, ones that had others just as incredulous, if not more so, than she was. Not anything like his before. Had he known something more, or was this man more unhinged than what she gave him original credit for? If Merris didn’t say it, her expression most certainly would have.

Relief (an alien feeling to him at this point), when his cockamamie story is digested with an understandable amount of skepticism but also an as-of-yet unseen level of receptiveness; although to be fair, his cockamamie story is as close to the truth as he’s ever admitted out loud before. He’d been hopeful when he had mentioned receiving the benefit of the doubt, but not particularly expectant. Whether she actually believes him or not is another thing, but at least she hasn’t asked him to kindly step out of the vehicle yet.

The 'oh, no' of realizing that Clarence decided to act against his orders, because to hell, right, with the man who just saved his life, switches to 'oh, yes' when the stabbing pressure against his belly lessens, then right back to 'oh, no' when Clarence starts running his mouth again. Being accused of anything, justly or otherwise, has Rennick seriously considering teaming up with the creature to flatten the smallest among them like a tick before the two of them return to tearing out each others' throats. Hopefully he'll get to tear off its other arm before he goes—leave it lying flat in the dirt, using its feet to launch itself forward like a fucked up frog that never gets off the ground.

If it helps the overstressed overseer to feel a bit better in some cosmic kind of way, Rennick isn’t the only one chastising Clarence’s half-baked distraction tactics— Clarence himself is doing plenty of that on his own; now that the impulsive panic is waning, and he’s left with just regular panic. Maybe the hope had been that the larger of the two would seize the opportunity to maim the other arm, or somehow manage to snap the monstrosity’s nonexistent neck. Hollywood makes it look so easy, after all. Whatever he was thinking, he must be out of his fucking mind. A chuckle, seemingly faint in the profound darkness. “Well, how’s that for gratitude? Whatever happened to standin’ by your pals, huh?”

"Worked, though, didn't it? Hello, beastie." Of all the things he was expecting, an actual response was not one of them, and the uncanniness of it, of that rough, brittle voice being produced by something so grotesquely inhuman in appearance, almost makes Rennick wish there was none. Again, he wonders if Clarence made it to safety, and that is presuming, perhaps foolishly, that such a thing even exists anywhere in the Shelter. Does it know where he was planning on taking Clarence? Where they were going to hide? Is it, in fact, probing his grey matter this very instant, and he simply cannot tell over the white-hot agony already tormenting him?

“You are wasting time. Prolonging the inevitable, maybe.” It says this as if answering its own unasked question, because it is. It may not particularly care for them, but there is some genuine curiosity regarding humans and their nature— and given Rennick’s refusal to assimilate, he is still entirely too human for the entity’s liking. Which is why it doesn’t let him up, despite this vessel operating with one less appendage; why it doesn’t entertain the notion of satisfying any of those curiosities. No. Instead, it simply clamps down harder, gaunt fingertips threatening to punch right through the flesh as its terrible maw begins to close the gap between them once more.

This isn't a farewell either, because he is not going to die to a hair claw clip made flesh; more of a 'get the hell out of here before it turns its attention on you,' but Rennick cannot adequately convey that when a shamble of sinew is stamping around on top of him, driving its limbs deep into his mostly boneless body. Those hideous fangs arch above him like ribs filed to points, and, oh, okay, so its feet are hands, too, preventing him from moving what might once have been his hips. Wonderful. Thank god he still has his tendrils.

With an involuntary lurch forward and to the side, Rennick can feel the pressure against his left go slack when suddenly, the arm that had been pinning him down is reduced to dangling by a thread of shredded, twisted muscle. The pain that cuts through the creature’s entire being, experienced to the fullest even now, is unimaginable; forks of lightning setting every nerve on fire. And yet, the only noise that escapes from its mangled, fleshy gullet is a low and grating rasp.