Qenpen

Wight swatted away were he figured the light was coming from, groggily pushing himself upright. An unimaginable soreness radiated through the boy's bones, and he immediately laid back down again.

"Told you." The man tsked softly beside him.

Wight's eyes eventually managed to blink open in the harsh light of the room. Slowly, he could make out the figure of a fat man with grayed hair standing over him, his expression friendly and warm. The boy's mind reeled with confusion as he rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hand.

"Where—where am I?" Wight blurted out in alarm, jolting up again despite his limb aching sharply in protest.

"No need for alarm! You're safe. You are in Capital Knot City, in a Bridges quarantine ward." The man answered calmly, walking around the metal exam table Wight was laid out on. The answer didn't help to quell the storm of confusion welling up inside the boy.

"Capital Knot City-?" Wight yelped in shock, "What am I doing here? Why am I in quarantine? Who are you—?!"

The questions spilled out from Wight in a rush of panic as he swung his legs over the edge of the table. The man quickly stepped back to Wight's side, hands held out in a placating gesture.

"Woah, woah, easy. Slow down there!" The man loosened the black tie around his neck, clearly unsure of how to respond to the boy's obvious skiddishness.

"My name is Deadman. I am a doctor…of sorts." The man explained, his black gloved hands fidgeting with the buttons of his red dress shirt, "What about you? What's your name, hm?"

Wight shifted uncertainly along the cold metal exam table, hands gripping the edge as his pale eyes darted in nervous glances around the room.

"M'name is Wight…" He mumbled out, finally able to swallow down the sharp pang of panic that had been clawing behind his ribs.

"White?" Deadman questioned, his head cocking to one side, "Like the color?"

"No—Wight." The boy huffed again, his eyes begrudgingly lifting to meet the doctor's, "Like, W-I-G-H-T."

"Wight!" Deadman repeated back warmly, smiling as he pushed back the thin-wired glasses up his nose, "Like a spectre, not the color. Understood."

"Why am I in Capital Knot City?" Wight asked sharply, his gaze beginning to narrow with suspicion.

Deadman seemed to grow somber, friendly expression subsiding into something more rueful.

"Wight, what do you remember from before this?" The doctor asked carefully, hands clasping in front of him as he stood beside the boy.

"I was in Central Knot City. With—with my…" Wight hesitated for a moment, reluctant to mention Petey to Deadman—Petey strictly said Wight wasn't allowed to talk about him or the plan to anyone. It was clear instructions, but now Wight wasn't really sure how to explain why he was in Central Knot City.

"…With my…friend." He finally concluded, but not without an obvious edge of uncertainty, "We were…on vacation."

Deadman gave Wight a strange look at the reply, but didn't say anything to object to the boy's answer.

"Well…I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but Central Knot City is…gone." Deadman sighed solemnly, his eyes downcast and lips pressed into a thin line.

Wight froze, a cold chill settling underneath his skin as he gave a thick swallow. He bowed his head staring down at his bare feet as they hung over the edge of the exam table.

"Gone, like…a Voidout…?" Wight whispered in a small voice, trying to push down the guilt threatening to bubble over in his chest.

"Yes, a Voidout." Deadman murmured, "It was only you and one other who survived. You are incredibly lucky to be alive, Wight."

This was part of the plan, Petey said so; Wight knew this was coming. He shouldn't have felt so shocked, but he couldn't help it. Now, a whole city was gone, reduced to a tarry crater. And, Wight was responsible for helping produce the destruction.

Wight knew all of this was going to happen—but as he sat in the awkward silence of the room, Wight memory strained to remember what actually happened. It was all a blur; nothing was clear.

Questions swirled in the boy's mind; where was Petey? What had happened that he had to leave him with Bridges? Petey always preached of how foolish Bridges was, how they were all blind idiots with delusional visions of a future that would never come.

"Is my…friend here?" Wight asked hesitantly; maybe Petey was waiting somewhere in the building for him and they could both leave this stupid place together. He wanted to get out of here.

Deadman's face seemed to flicker with a flash of pity, and another sad sigh slipped from his lips.

"No, Wight…it's just you. And, a porter who survived the blast."

Wight's brow furrowed; Petey wasn't here, he'd left Wight behind? No. That wasn't possible. Petey would never leave Wight behind—this was all a big mistake. The confusion was slowly being replaced with anger.

"I wanna leave." Wight suddenly blurted out as he slid off the edge of the exam table, medical scrubs crinkling softly with each movement.

"I'm leaving, I don't wanna stay here anymore."

Deadman stepped in front of Wight, holding his hands out again as he tried to reason with the boy.

"Uh—well, actually, about that…" Deadman cleared his throat awkwardly, "You can't leave, Wight. Like I said earlier, you're in quarantine—and for your own safety, I cannot let you leave."

A scowl bloomed across Wight's face, his bare feet shifting restlessly along the floor.

"Quarantine?" He snapped, "I'm not sick! I'm fine!"

"That is unfortunately not true, you're Chiralium levels are dangerously high! You pose a threat to others and yourself." Deadman explained, "I meant what I said before, Wight, you're incredibly lucky to be alive with Chiralium contamination this extreme."

"No! I'm fine! I'm not staying here—you're all brainwashed idiots!" Wight snapped, his voice growing in volume as his hands clenched at his side.

Deadman seemed to almost expect the angry outburst in a way, because his patience didn't waver.

"Wight, please calm down. You're already hurt; I don't want you to wear yourself out." He murmured gently. Wight stood stiffly in the middle of room, eyes angrily narrowed at Deadman in a sort of defiant stand-off.

Deadman only sighed, shoulders slumping as he walked to the table in the corner of the room. He motioned down at a small plain backpack resting against the table leg, "We found your things, too. Don't worry, we decontaminated them from most of the Chiralium residue leftover from the blast."

Wight stormed over, yanking his bag up into his arms and zipping open the top. He scrounged through the items, checking to make sure nothing was misplaced. Everything was there, but he still glowered up at Deadman.

"I'm not staying here." Wight insisted loudly. Deadman shook his head, clasping his hands behind his back.

"It's not up to you, Wight. You are still a child—and, there are concerns about your health and your…mental stability."

Wight dropped his bag back down to the floor in a harsh throw, gritting his teeth as he stomped one foot in sheer frustration.

"There is nothing wrong with me! I am mentally stable!" He screamed at Deadman, his voice ringing in the quiet of the room.

"Yes, I'm sure." The doctor replied dryly, pushing up his glasses again, "But, you are now under the care and guardianship of Bridges until further notice."

The boy gave a loud noise of anger, waving his clenched fists at his side in barely contained aggression.

"You really aren't helping your case with this reaction…" Deadman offered up patiently, watching as Wight paced around the room.

"Shut up! This is stupid!" Wight barked back, kicking at a leg of the exam table.

Deadman only sighed again, giving another shake of his head as he idly tapped a few buttons on his cufflink and waited for the boy to calm down a bit.

Minutes passed, and Wight eventually cooled down. He had curled himself into a corner of the room underneath a counter, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

Deadman had remained a perfect vision of patience, humming quietly as he tapped on the holographic screen projected over his cufflink.

Wight glared up at the doctor from under the counter, though the heat of his gaze had greatly diminished. Eventually, the boy's defiant silence was broken with a heavy huff.

"You said…some other guy survived the Voidout." Wight started reluctantly, pressing one cheek on the top of his knees as he stared down at the floor.

Deadman smiled, secretly relieved that the boy started to open up again.

"Ah, yes. A porter. He's very lucky, too." Deadman told Wight, still busying himself with the screen of his cufflink.

"How could he have survived that?" Wight mumbled, half to himself and half to Deadman, "Is he invincible, or something?"

Deadman chuckled, closing the holographic screen to look down at Wight.

"No, he is a repatriate. Meaning: he can't die. Well—not permanently, anyways."

"Sounds pretty unlucky, if you ask me." Wight scoffed, his words soon followed by a wide yawn.

Deadman gave an acknowledging nod, his eyes still flitting over Wight's curled form with an unreadable expression.

"You're exhausted, hm?" Deadman stepped a bit closer to where the boy was hiding beneath the counter, "We have a room for you—still in the quarantine ward, but it's a comfortable room."

"Why do I have to stay here…?" Wight sighed, this time more sorrowful than angry.

"We just want to make sure you're safe, Wight. I want to make sure you're safe…" The doctor replied, his voice low and steady—as if talking to a frightened stray.

"You only need to stay in the quarantine ward until your Chiralium levels are back to a safe place." Deadman added compromisingly, watching close for Wight's reaction.

He glanced down at his sport watch again: 2:27 am. Just a few more minutes, then would come "the beginning of the end"—or at least that's what Petey had said. The whole thing still made no sense to Wight, but that didn't matter. He would do this, for Petey. It didn't matter what he had to do. He'd do it for Petey.

Wight stopped in front of the door; room 02106, just like Petey said. He could hear a television blaring from inside; the trill of canned laughter, indistinct voices buzzing from speakers. The hair of the back of his neck stood on end, and he swallowed down the anxious sting of bile in the back of his throat.

'Do it for Petey.' Wight thought to himself, pressing his lips together into a thin line, 'You can do this. Petey said it'd be easy.'

His eyes darted to the opposite end of the hallway; Petey was leaned against the wall, blue Bridges hat pulled over his face. He was being inconspicuous, but he was waiting.

Waiting for Wight.

Wight felt conspicuous.

The boy lifted one hand and knocked on the door—not too soft and not too hard. He was trying to be casual, it didn't feel like it was working.

The shuffle of feet sounded before the door hissed open. Wight almost stepped back a pace, but he held his ground. A middle-aged man stood in the doorway, sharp scowl of annoyance plastered across his face. The man's gaze flitted over Wight with an air of stuck-up irritation.

"What the fuck you want, kid? I didn't order anything." The man's voice was sharp, and Wight could only keep his eyes trained on the floor. The boy's heart pounded in his chest.

'Do it for Petey.'

"M'sorry." Wight mumbled weakly under his breath, voice catching in his throat.

"Yeah, okay, what do you wan—" The man's words were cut off abruptly as Wight's form phased into a haze of gray—like a phantom given shape.

The haze swarmed around the man as he inhaled, grey vapor sinking into his skin as he stumbled back a step. The door hissed shut again as the man stumbled around in his apartment, eyes rolling back as he gasped and writhed for control. But, his limbs no longer moved to his will, it was like he'd been pushed from his own body and forced to watch the world act out around him.

His thoughts felt sluggish, warped and pressed as he found his body slowly standing to its feet again. The man tried to scream for help, but he couldn't form the words, couldn't push his voice out of his lungs.

"I'm sorry," The man could hear Wight's voice ringing in his head, rushed and strained and regretful.

It was already in motion. Wight couldn't stop now.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." It was all Wight could find himself saying, over and over again. He couldn't stop now. The man's body stirred again, clumsily stumbling towards a drawer in the back of the room. The man tried to pull his body away, tried to look in a different direction, tried to do anything. He couldn't move. He couldn't think straight.

The man's hand slowly tugged open the bottom drawer, where the man kept his gun. It was loaded. The man still couldn't move.

"Stop—stop it! What's going on-?!" The man's thoughts swirled in panic, his heart racing painfully fast behind his ribs. The man's hand picked up the gun, pulling back the hammer with a hollow click.

"No! No, please! I can't move, I can't—stop!"

His body straightened up, without his permission, without his volition. The man could see his reflection in the mirror hung over the drawer; his skin was deathly pale, glazed with a cold sweat. His eyes stared back at him, now a horrific grey color, like a cataracts had grown over his irises in the last few seconds that had passed—only he wasn't given the mercy of blindness that cataracts would give him in this moment

The gun was pressed against his temple, index finger hovering over the trigger. The man couldn't move his finger, but Wight could.

"I'm sorry…" Wight's whispered voice cut through the static in the man's head, strung with harsh finality.

The bang of the gun was loud, but Wight didn't feel a thing. He stumbled back into physical shape, a strangled yelp breaking from his throat as the man's body tumbled to the ground with a sickening thud. Blood have began to promptly pool along the carpeted floor, the man gurgling faintly as his body lay slumped with the gun still gripped in his hand.

Wight panted, nearly wheezed, out a strained breath, the corner of his eyes stinging as he knelt on the floor. The television still blared loudly from one of the other room in the apartment; canned laughter rang through the space, echoing off the walls. Wight couldn't take his eyes off the man's body; the way it lay sprawled at an uncanny angle, the way blood oozed from the head. Wight felt cold.

The door hissed open behind Wight, but the boy didn't stir. Shoes shuffled to where Wight sat knelt on the apartment floor.

"Hey, look at that…" Petey murmured softly, his hand patting Wight's head as he crouch beside the younger.

"You did it! See? Not that hard. Right, kiddo?"

Wight didn't say anything, he could only stare at the body. Petey rested his hands on the boy's shoulders, carefully turning him to look in his direction.

"Hey, eyes here. It's okay. They don't matter anymore, Wight." Petey whispered with a warm gentleness as he eased Wight to his feet, "It's the beginning of the end, remember? And you're sticking with me…"

"…Till the shows over." The boy finished in a hoarse whisper, eyes fixed on empty space as they walked out of the apartment.

"Now—" Petey started as he wrapped his arm around Wight's shoulder. The apartment door hissed shut behind the two of them.