a ng multi.

Now this is a treat! Knowing that Hank suspects nothing of what is to come is almost more satisfying than it would be to beat him to a bloody pulp and throw him off the top of the Science Tower. Another time, perhaps, because today, for the first time since he had the displeasure of laying eyes on that hideous, mangled mug, the two of them are working towards the same goal.

“AWW, YOU MISSED ME!! HAHAHAHA! I KNEW YOU WOULD!!” Unfazed, as per usual, by the former test subject’s lack of enthusiasm, Tricky props his chin into his palm and sways excitedly, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he does. “SO, TELL ME, HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE HOME?? PERSONALLY, I HATE WHAT THEY’VE DONE WITH THE PLACE. THE WALLS COULD REALLY USE A BIT MORE… HMMM… RED!!

“AND PUT THAT AWAY!!!” he howls, jabbing an accusatory finger at the weapon Hank is brandishing. “I’M NOT GRACING YOU WITH MY PRESENCE BECAUSE I WANT TO KILL YOU… I MEAN, I DO, BUT NOT TODAY!”

missed is definitely a word that can be used to summarize hank’s feelings towards tricky. it wouldn’t be correct, of course but hey, you can still use it if you want to — and apparently, the clown wants to. the jawless grunt feels a rumble of annoyance in his chest, but it fades as soon as it had come upon tricky’s next words. his weapon does not fall to his side ( he’s far too accustomed to combat to let his composure be too effected by shock, ) but the subtle hints of expression which had already been hidden by layers of fabric and plastic perform a drop which would otherwise have been noticeable. there’s no way tricky could know this is where he’s from, because no one knows that ... right ? there’s something he’s missing, that much is obvious, and it annoys him that the clown simply moves on without elaborating on such a heavy implication. he wants to know more, but he can’t ask. it’s a source of frustration he’ll never get used to.

From the lingering traces of Phobos’ influence to the ghoulish specters that arrived in Nevada with the discovery of Dissonance, Nexus City is filled with echoes of history that reverberate throughout the once sprawling metropolis, now home to nothing but squabbling hordes of bandits and Nexus Core personnel that were either cowed or brainwashed into serving a dead man. Tricky detests them all, but the Nexus idiots hold a special place in his hateful little heart by virtue of their shared history, so not a single thought is spared for the gaggle of agents he dispatches on his way to his old office.

Nostalgia is not the reason for his being here today, but he allows himself a moment to indulge in it regardless, soaking in the familiarity of the room while fondly recalling how freeing it had been to trash the place and disappear off the grid with a new name and a new purpose. His only regrets are that he did not do it sooner, and that he did not finish off more of his colleagues by the time he did. Not that it would have made much of a difference anyway, what with Nexus still churning out clones for their stupid battle against the equally stupid Mr. No-Jaw, who just so happens to be standing in the doorframe connecting his and Stacker’s old office.

Showtime.

“THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNS!!” From the walkway above, Tricky throws up his hands in a mock celebratory gesture, equal parts clown and ringmaster. “WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?! WERE YOU WAITING FOR ME TO ROLL OUT THE RED CARPET??” Cackling, he lurches forward and grips the railing, which rattles in his trembling hands. “ACTUALLY, FOR YOU, I JUST MIGHT!”

he remembers this place all too well, and for hank, that’s saying something.

it’s funny — he’s usually so quick, able to memorize an opponent’s moves and respond to them with very minimal exposure. such streamlined combat ability requires not only experience, but also intelligence, required both to store all that information in his head and use it to cook up the perfect counterplan in mere seconds. though it’s sometimes assumed that he’s a mindless killer, or that he has some sort of mental issue which has prevented him from learning to speak ... for the most part, no one questions hank’s cognitive abilities. no one who wouldn’t live to regret it, anyways.

it wasn’t always like that, though, and he knows this much. he’s forgotten a lot from when he was younger, and he’s not entirely sure whether it’s because of how repetitive it was and how easily it blended together, or if his psyche had made some deliberate effort to delete what he went through. it doesn’t particularly matter, though, so he elects not to think about it ... basically ever. unfortunately for hank, it matters now, and spending so long avoiding the pressing issue of where the fuck he came from ( as his teammates so often put it ) has rendered him unable to deal with the sudden confrontation of his past. this is where he came from, right here. it’s too clear now. he has missions and objectives like always, of course, but he keeps getting distracted just like hank wimbleton never would, caught up in his own head as he recalls things that he had spent so long repressing. he can’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing right now, for example, and he also can’t find it in himself to care.

after all, he remembers this spot, for as ... neglected as it may appear now. he remembers when he lost his jaw, and when he was starving, and when a desperate hunt for food lead him to what he’d so briefly thought was some sort of friend. he’s learned a lot since then, but can’t help but think back to it every once in a while: the first time he had been betrayed. he’d learned he couldn’t trust anyone — he still knows he can’t, but he still feels a pang of guilt as he remembers how violently he’d been forced to treat the first grunt who’d shown him any semblance of kindness. hank has done so much worse than that incident, both before and since, and he recalls now that the orderlies had done more than return the favor on hoffnar’s behalf. it’s been a long time. he’s sure that old scientist is long gone. despite all of this, hank still feels guilty, a feeling that lingers right up until a distraction snaps him back into the present.

In his mind’s eye, swiping his tongue across his bloodied teeth, he pictures the keepers of the Other Place watching them, horrified that he needed so little time to figure out that Hank has been working for them all along. Logically, it makes no damn sense, but Hofnarr doesn’t need it to; every interaction, be it with his surroundings or other grunts, is twisted to suit his narrative of choice, which is that everyone is out to punish him for transgressing beyond the limits of the mortal realm.

It comes as no surprise, then, that Hank is relentless in his assault. For a fleeting moment, watching the soldier-to-be exercise his unparalleled combat skills, a morbid sense of pride swells in the scientist’s chest, which he only just now realizes is drenched in blood. Adrenaline may have spared him the pain, but it cannot save him from the shock of seeing the box cutter poking out of his shirt, buried so deep that when he staggers backwards, it does not budge.

Breathing so hard and fast that the air never properly reaches his lungs, Hofnarr stumbles backwards against the desk, his blood-slick fingers failing to hold on to anything, and sinks into a half seated, half slumped position. Lacking any and all recollection of what put the two of them in this situation, the most he can do is hope that Hank has no intention of putting him out of commission for good.

it’s only once gripped tight by the panic of realizing that there really is no new weapon within arm’s reach of himself that hank also notices there’s no longer any weight keeping him pinned hard against the wall. he turns his head back in the direction of his aggressor, only to find that the grunt who had so relentlessly attacked him is now helpless, all but limp against the desk and struggling to breathe there as his once-neat clothes are quickly drenched in more and more blood. it would be easy to kill him now ... but hank doesn’t want to. it’s funny, he thinks, because that’s supposed to be the only thing he wants to do — both in general, it being the one thing he’s actually meant to get done, and at this moment in particular, since he’s fairly certain that less resistance on his own part would’ve lead to hoffnar being the one to kill him first.

it still feels like his fault, though. he’s the one who broke out of his cell. he’s the one who got caught. he’s the one who did something, whatever it was, to invoke such a violent reaction ... and now that he’s not in as much active danger, he can more easily remind himself that the more damage he does, the more trouble he’ll be in. as it is, he’s worried about the punishment he’ll receive — when he turns back up covered in someone’s blood, it won’t be long before they find out whose it is, and he’ll really be in for it at that point. this is unavoidable. killing the scientist who’s struggling in front of him will only make it worse.

wordlessly ( and not just because he can’t speak, ) hank makes his way around the desk, taking the extra time to make sure there is a large enough radius between himself and the larger grunt that he can’t be surprised by a sudden attack. the clone lowers himself just close enough to the ground so that he can pick up his remaining treats from the vending machine — food and drink, even if he’s not sure if he deserves them or even if he’ll be able to get them down ( particularly when there’s not too much time left now before he’s caught, ) because he doesn’t want to feel like this venture was a completely useless one. as he stands back up, he spares another look towards the scientist. if he knew first aid, would hank help ? he isn’t sure himself. probably not.

Much like the other DR-contaminated scientists, now patients at the asylum adjacent to Stacker’s office, self-preservation could not be farther from Hofnarr’s mind. Hank might as well be jabbing a paper tissue at him, and that is presuming he has noticed the boxcutter at all, which does not seem to be the case; indeed, his grim determination persists, even as the clone starts slashing at him, the sharply-angled blade catching in the fabric of his clothes and leaving nasty, uneven gashes across his distorted form, some of which are bleeding profusely.

This, too, goes unnoticed as he rams Hank backwards against the wall with enough force that his own teeth rattle from the impact. Using his ample weight to prevent the other from escaping a second time, Hofnarr then twists his head sideways, fangs flashing in the dim lighting, and attempts to land a bite across the smaller grunt’s left shoulder.

hank desperately continues to lash at the larger grunt’s torso, but the fact that hoffnar isn’t responding to this assault at all is ... worrisome, to say the least, but what else is he to do ? the small part of the clone’s brain which is still thinking logically about the consequences of his actions says that he can’t just try to straight-up kill hoffnar ... but the longer the attack goes on, the less inclined he is to listen to that internal voice of reason. he hadn’t vocally reacted to being slammed against the wall, but he does yowl as the scientist digs his teeth into his shoulder, successfully tearing into his skin ( and then some. ) it’s quite nasty, and definitely painful; so much so that he panics, and resorts to a new strategy.

One of those frantic kicks connects squarely with the side of the doctor’s face, knocking his glasses askew and causing him to sputter, breathless, from the unexpectedness of the impact. By the time his vision is no longer swimming, Hank has put enough distance between them that he is well out of reach, which elicits a rasping snarl from Hofnarr, who rises into an unsteady crouch, his skin rippling as the dissonant reality within him manifests itself, this time physically.

“I trusted you! I even agreed to keep my mouth shut about your stupid little stunt, and this is how you repay me?” Wasting no time, the previously gentle grunt lunges for his quarry, grasping fingers outstretched, hoping to seize Hank by his head and bash it against the wall until he is confident that every single treacherous thought of his has been expulsed, or the steel is dappled with brain matter—whichever of the two comes first.

once again, the scientist snaps at him, and hank falters as if he must pause and reflect. is this really his fault ? he still feels like it must be ... he still can’t think of any other reason why someone so nice would resort to attacking him. there isn’t time to wonder, though, and he certainly isn’t able to apologize — so he goes back to frantically shifting around the desk, looking for something heavy or sharp. all he finds is a dull-looking boxcutter. it’ll have to do.

To his Dissonance-addled mind, the display of submission registers as refusal to respond, driving Hofnarr’s unwarranted anger to an explosive apex and fueling his equally irrational suspicion that Hank, wittingly or otherwise, is working to further the goals of his unearthly tormentors.

“Answer me!” he hisses through gritted teeth, flecking the air with spittle as he seizes two handfuls of the clone’s clothing, pressing him harder and harder against the scuffed linoleum floor. Though he may have the advantage of size, his age, sedentary lifestyle, and single-minded focus on intellectual pursuits has left him without any sort of bodily strength, potentially putting him at the mercy of his young charge, should he ever decide to retaliate.

“And stop playing dumb! I know you understand! I know it! I have never believed, not for one second, that you are the dim-witted sack of meat that my guys tell me you are!”

hank’s breathing quickens even more as hoffnar continues to yell and shove him harder into the cold ground. he would answer if he could, would agree with whatever the scientist wants him to say to avoid a bloody confrontation, but he can’t ... question of his intelligence aside, he literally has no way to communicate. ( he, for one, isn’t sure whether or not he’s dumb. that’s what everyone tells him, but he wants to think it’s not true, and that he just doesn’t understand things because he lacks experience ... but, anyways. ) if he really thought about it, he could probably try to nod or shake his head; alas, this doesn’t occur to him, still frozen solid as he’s berated for his alleged uncooperative stance.

unfortunately for hoffnar, there’s only so much mounting panic the clone can take before his fight or flight response kicks in. normally, when he’s being harmed and he puts up a fight, it is either in a setting where he was expected to do so, or there are some mechanisms in place to prevent him from doing any real damage. ( there have been a few incidents, of course, which helped him earn his current reputation, but so few relatively speaking that they are truthfully negligible. ) now, with no such measures to speak of and no motivation but pure fear that hoffnar will proceed to do any one of the terrible punishments which hank has endured in the past, feeling the full weight of the larger grunt atop him finally leads him to begin a struggle ... one which, being one of the most skilled combatants to come out of this project, he is almost certain to win.

“Your holding cell, you see, is not so different from my office. Not in purpose, at least, and that purpose is to keep us confined and compliant through ignorance of their grotesque machinations. They cannot control us otherwise, and they know it.” The sensation of something or someone tugging on his coat goes unnoticed in favor of the ghostly, shapeless figures, like visual snow, that wisp in and out of his field of vision.

“What, do you really think that I am free to do whatever I want simply because I’m top dog around here? That I am not subject to their foul derangement like everyone else?”

A clammy, quaking hand comes down on one of Hank’s, fingers digging crescents into his skin, pinning it against the floor with enough force to potentially hurt the younger grunt. In the dimness beyond, Hofnarr is hunched down on all fours, still holding the snack bar in his other hand, glaring daggers through the veritable windows of his lenses, as though attempting to force the other to see reason in his increasingly feverish, disjointed ramblings.

“Well? Do you?”

it’s no exaggeration to say that this is the very first time in hank’s life where he’s felt the sting of betrayal. he’s been hurt before, of course — but hoffnar was the first person to treat him with unearned kindness, and now he’s taking it back for reasons that the smaller grunt does not understand. the emotional feeling of it hurts just as much as being grabbed and slammed against the floor: a burning sensation in his chest that seems to worsen with every breath or heartbeat. he doesn’t understand, and he’s too caught up on it now to make any attempt at deciphering all those words, so complex and foreign, but clearly angry. that, at least, is something the clone can understand ... relentless anger, directed towards him for reasons he isn’t privy to.

The attentiveness with which the clone observes and listens to him reminds Hofnarr that it has been a while since he really, truly talked to someone, and while Hank cannot respond in the same manner as most other grunts, it doesn’t feel like he is talking to himself; there is reciprocation, subtle though it may be at times, and that is enough.

“Well… perhaps in the future. I’m not that old, at least if you ask me, so… who knows? One day, you might just find a certain someone clowning around at an event you are attending. I’d like to think that’s a possibility.” Like clockwork, another piece is broken off, then another, but now, instead of presenting them to Hank, Hofnarr drops them on the floor without seeming to notice or care that they are not reaching their intended destination.

“But some things will have to change first. This entire farce needs to end, or the two of us will never set foot outside the prisons they keep us locked in.”

hank watches wordlessly as his food falls to the carpet, but once again, it’s only because he doesn’t have any words to give. first, he considers the scientist’s ramblings, finding himself doing a surprisingly good job at piecing the sentences together into coherent messages in his head — well enough, at least, that he finds himself doubting that either of these things are possible. he’ll be surprised if someone as important to the project as this somehow ditches it to become some kind of ... entertainer ? and he doesn’t entertain for a moment the possibility that he could be there, too, free from this place and free from his purpose. all he’ll ever be is a tool. he won’t get to go anywhere he wants, or see what the world really is like out there. the small grunt deflates slightly, no longer able to look at hofnarr ( though he’s still trying his best to pay attention. )

he still wishes he knew what to do. clearly, something is the matter ... or maybe this is normal, what would he know ? — still, he assumes something’s off, and chides himself for not having the appropriate response memorized, like when he fails a test or gets his shit rocked after making a minor combat mistake. he’s staring at the bits of food on the ground, and he feels bad for them. he isn’t sure why. he’s still going to eat them, he’s too hungry not to ... he lowers himself closer to their level so he can pick them up and try to eat them while the scientist towering over him continues to speak, occasionally tilting his head back so he can swallow more easily. having to provide for himself makes it a little harder to focus, but he still tries to decipher the meanings behind words he doesn’t know. farce. prisons. hank hums thoughtfully, but again, that’s the most he can really offer ... until he tugs at the fabric of hofnarr’s clothing, as if to try and physically snap him out of it.

“I know, right? This one has always been one of my favorites.” Emboldened by the positive response (the tiny noise of happiness being something the both of them understand), Hofnarr breaks off another piece, this time with some difficulty, caused by his increasingly tremorous hands, and presents it to Hank in the same manner as before. Unless the clone prompts him to stop, he is planning on continuing to hand-feed him until Hank either decides he has had enough or both snack bars are gone, which is the far more likely scenario, all things considered.

“Can I tell you a secret?” A rhetorical question, it seems, because without waiting for a response, the doctor continues: “Sometimes, I wish I had become a clown instead of going into science. I’m not very good at making people laugh, though, and, I mean, that’s kinda what being a clown is all about: making people happy.” Forlornly, he pries another crumbling piece from the snack bar and offers it to Hank. “At least I’m making you happy. That has to count for something, right?”

hank, observant by nature and trained to hone in on that gift, is acutely aware of how the scientist before him has been shaking harder and harder as the seconds tick by. usually, to see a grunt trembling in his presence isn’t something the small clone would question — not wholly because he understands his reputation, but more so that he’s used to it and therefore figures it’s normal in one way or another. this isn’t normal, though. it keeps getting worse without him even doing anything, after all, and he finds his happiness ebbing away as he thinks harder about it, even if the effort of thinking critically always ends up making his little head hurt. he wishes he had the words to ask if hofnarr is alright ... but hank hasn’t had any words for a long time, so he’ll have to continue what he’s doing and hope it elicits more positive reactions in return. neither of them have much experience in the cheering-up department, but also, both of them are trying.

Fortune favors the clone yet again, because Hofnarr, as promised, starts breaking what’s left of the snack bar into tiny little pieces, well below bite-size, that he hopes are manageable for Hank to eat and actually enjoy. They are very small, so much so that his limited range of jaw movement should not present a problem, and thin enough to melt on his tongue instead of requiring him to chew. That’s the idea, anyway, because as far as caring for an individual with this particular physical disability, Hofnarr is just about clueless.

“All right,” he mumbles, barely moving his lips, “here goes…” Pinching a piece between his thumb and forefinger, he extends it towards Hank’s face, again being mindful not to make any sudden movements that might frighten him into recoiling. “Try holding it on your tongue and pressing it against the roof of your mouth.”

no one’s ever made such a concentrated effort to take care of him before — hell, no one’s ever taken care of him before, period. hank knows he shouldn’t trust it, but it feels nice to be offered assistance, and the hunger clawing violently at his stomach dissuades him from running off without at least finishing his snacks. he may be a weapon, but as it’s been noted so many times before, he is helpless in almost every situation outside of combat ... and he’s so small. smaller than he should be at this point, actually. maybe that’s just because he has so much trouble with food, though.

Initially, Hofnarr offers no response. He is seated on the floor near the wall, staring emptily into his lap, as if frozen in time, having stopped cleaning the lenses of his glasses on the rim of his shirt. Only when he realizes that the room has fallen silent, the crinkling of plastic and rustling of shifting limbs no longer there, does he raise his head, rubbing three fingers against his forehead. The grunt sheltering under the safety of the desk immediately catches his attention, as it had done earlier, but this time, his reaction is a much different one.

“Hm? Oh…” Having slipped his glasses back on, the scientist scoots towards Hank, interpreting his expression, in combination with the conspicuous chocolate-to-floor ratio, as an indication that this whole eating thing is not going as planned.

“Um… I’m not really sure what you need me to do here, but, uh…” A sigh swells against his ribs, manifesting more in his mind than in his body. “Do you want me to… feed you? Is that it? You’ll have to give me the bar, in that case.”

hank wonders why hofnarr keeps going quiet and still like that. it’s probably nothing he can understand, though, so he tries not to dwell to much on it and to instead focus on the task at hand. although he initially shrinks back when the larger grunt moves just slightly closer, the clone hesitantly resumes his initial position, gaze not moving away from the scientist for a moment as he does so. you can never be too careful, after all ... but you can be too hungry, and he’s well past that point, so he isn’t in a place to be completely untrusting.

Stacker’s office is as silent and empty as it was when they left it. No scowling, masked orderlies lurk in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to seize their wayward asset, who is beckoned inside by an encouraging flutter of Hofnarr’s fingers while he holds the door open for him.

“Sheesh… I forgot how dark it was in here. Let me know if you want me to turn on the light, alright?” Crumbs, he presumes, are about to go everywhere, so he offers the tiny grunt a handful of paper tissues from the box on Stacker’s desk. Him making a mess may or may not be unavoidable, but the extent of it can hopefully be reduced, leaving less for Hofnarr to clean before he inevitably succumbs to the siren song of the void.

“For your mouth,” he explains softly, “and your fingers. In case you have never had chocolate before, you should know that it can melt, getting all sticky as it does, so try not to hold it in your hand for too long.” Not that that will be a problem, should the clone be as hungry as he suspects he is.

a flood of relief hits hank as they reenter the dark, empty office — but seeing as how used he is to dark and empty ( even if he isn’t quite so used to promises being thus fulfilled, ) it isn’t long before that feeling fades, replaced once again with the all-consuming hunger which has been the driving force behind everything since he first left his cell earlier today. the clone slinks his way past hofnarr and into the room, not minding the darkness one bit as he accepts the paper tissues more out of reflex than understanding, then returns to his spot underneath the desk ( he feels safer there ) and begins the next step in this mission: figuring out how to eat these things.

the first thing he does is try to gnaw on the drink, though ( perhaps luckily ? ) he can do little more with his abysmal jaw strength than cause the can to crinkle softly, which scares him into putting it down on the floor and scooting away from it to focus on the more straightforward foods. thing is, more straightforward doesn’t particularly mean he knows how to open them. hank chomps fruitlessly at a plastic-wrapped bar for about thirty seconds before it finally occurs to him to tear at this indestructible shell with his hands, at which point he successfully rips it open with minimal struggling. hofnarr goes mostly ignored this whole time, for he’s so bent on getting some food in him that he’s not aware of much else going on around him ... but now that he’s finally opened the food and carelessly tossed the unwanted wrapper on the floor with his abandoned drink, he must face the very real and much harder to combat issue of actually eating.