#echoed.electron.fics

You wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding loudly in your ears. Your skin is cold and clammy, and you can feel your cheeks still wet from the tears.

You hate these nightmares. The ones where you can still see him, still hear him, still feel him as he hurts you. Though it happened long ago, the memories still haunt you, resurfacing every so often to leave you cold and empty inside.

You can hear Ray shifting next to you, and you try to take deep breaths, try to calm yourself down. You don’t want to wake him, it’s not his fault you’re messed up like this.

But it’s too late. The man stirs again, blinking awake as he lifts himself onto his elbows. He peers at you through the darkness, brows furrowing as he takes note of the gleaning tears on your cheeks.

“Honey, what happened?” he asks, voice soft and gentle, it’s calming familiarity already washing away some of the excess dread left behind from the nightmare.

“Just a nightmare,” you reply. “Don’t worry, go back to sleep.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Concern is threaded through his tone, and you can feel your walls crumbling away.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You could never be a bother.”

You suppose telling him is inevitable. He’d have to find out at some point, right? Even though the bruises faded physically, they still remained underneath your skin, glaringly obvious if you knew where to look.

“My father used to beat me,” you whisper, voice thickening with emotion. “Sometimes I still get nightmares about it. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, it' s not your fault,” Ray replies, brushing your hair away from your forehead with the pad of his thumb. You lean into the touch, savoring his gentle warmth against your cold skin.

He reaches over, wrapping his arms around you and gathering you close as you both fall back onto the blankets. Carefully, and every so softly, he rubs a finger across your cheek, repeating the comforting motion over and over again.

You cuddle into his protective hold, the distress you felt earlier evaporating as he holds you tight. His body is warm against yours, never overbearing, never suffocating.

Ray could never possess those attributes.

Patrick Stump hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off the guitarist since the first time Pete Wentz introduced Panic! At The Disco to their band. His gentle features and soothing voice that often contradicted his sarcastic words had drawn the singer in, and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to stop his feelings from spiraling.

Especially when he first saw them perform.

Dear fucking god.

The way Ryan played that guitar, fingers dancing across the strings like that instrument was his entire world, enraptured him entirely.

Patrick Stump had been hooked ever since.

Yet, when he finally found himself alone in a room with Ryan, he clammed up. He couldn’t say a word. If he did, he would screw up. He would screw everything up. Screw up the relationship they didn’t even have because Patrick was too much of a coward to make the first move.

“Hey,” Ryan said suddenly, his voice slightly hesitant. “Patrick, right? Feels like we haven’t talked much. How are you?” Patrick, right?

The world pierced a hole straight through Patrick’s soul. Right. Right. Because the singer was the one who couldn’t stop thinking about the guitarist, not the other way around. Right.

“Yeah, I’m Patrick. And I’m doing good, how about you?” He wanted to say more, wanted to say so much more, but he managed to contain himself to those two singular sentences. Never enough, but it had to do.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Ryan replied. A silence began to stretch between them. Patrick wanted to say something, wanted to fill the awkwardness, but he wasn't sure what to say.

“Hey, your singing is amazing, you know that?” the guitarist said suddenly, and Patrick’s heart stopped. “I mean, Jesus Christ, man. You take lessons or something?”

It was all Patrick could do to not stand there with his mouth hanging open. “No, not really. Fall Out Boy is my first real thing I’ve done to get experience with my voice.” He felt a blush creeping across his cheeks. He felt so weird talking about himself.

Ryan looked impressed, and the singer’s heart swelled. “Fuckin’ awesome, man. Hey, I got to go, but we should hang out sometime, if you want. Don’t see why we don’t talk more, with our bands being so close and all that.” He left quickly, but his words remained. They echoed loudly through Patrick's head, sending a giddiness flowing through his veins that he hadn’t ever experienced before.

No way. No fucking way. Ryan Ross wanted to talk to him more. Ryan Ross found him interesting.

Kev knew before he even entered the base that whatever waited inside would be excruciatingly unpleasant. He kept getting sloppy, kept screwing up basic tasks; Leska wouldn’t like that.

He could feel the dread thrumming through his veins as he stepped into the base, an undeniable buzz of electricity that made him want to turn and run and run and run until he was far away, in a place where Leska would never be able to find him. Never be able to catch him.

But Kev knew that dream was impossible. So he forced himself to take a step forward. Then another, and another. He kept his chin up, despite his fear, attempting to maintain a confident composure as he advanced.

Don’t show weakness, or Leska will assume you want to be prey.

Kev could feel Leska’s eyes on his, and could see the unnatural yellow of them gleam in the dim light of the room. The General hadn’t spoken yet. He was waiting for Kev to get closer, waiting for the moment where he could strike with the most efficiency.

“Is it complete?” The man’s voice was cold, echoing through the room. Kev stopped, allowing himself to become rooted to the ground where he stood.

“Almost. I just need a little more time. There were so many people, I didn’t want any witnesses to escape.” The excuse was reasonable. Leska knew that it was difficult to dispose of a mass amount of witnesses without raising suspicions. Logically, he should have accepted the answer and allowed Kev to move on. However, Kev knew Leska would never let such a mistake slide.

“So the task is not complete?” the General asked, although he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear Kev reply with a definitive ‘no,’ wanted to hear him say it so he could use it as an excuse to punish him.

Not that Leska required an excuse.

The General simply seemed to find it more entertaining when he could blame Kev for the abuse directly.

Kev forced his face to remain neutral as he replied. “Yes, Leska.”

The answer was short, yet condemning.

“Knees, now. Shirt off.”

Kev’s chest tightened. He still had the wounds on his back from his last whipping, they had only just begun healing. If another beating was what Leska had planned, it wouldn’t take long before his back began to bleed again.

Yet, he obliged, dropping to his knees and yanking his shirt over his head. He heard the familiar snap of leather, and he felt his old wounds sting with remembrance.

Kev heard a distinct whoosh of air, before the belt struck his back.

Electric pain shot through his body, and he could feel the healing skin burning with protest.

Crack.

Blistering agony coursed through his veins, and it took every muscle in Kev’s body not to flinch or wince. That would mean more strikes, more pain.

Crack.

Kev could feel warm liquid seeping down his back, hot and alive against his searing skin. It was blood. He could feel it dripping off of him, see it pooling on the ground with each passing strike delivered.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

The minutes blended together. Kev tried to count the amount of times the whip hit his back, tried to keep track, but the blood pouring down his back made his head spin and his chest tighten. He could see his vision swimming, and he knew if Leska didn’t stop soon, he would inevitably pass out from loss of blood.

Crack.

Crack.

Then… nothing.

“How many?” Leska demanded impatiently. “How many times were you just struck?”

No.

Kev wracked his brain, trying desperately to come up with a number, an estimate… something. Anything. But his mind was blank, and the tremors overtaking his body made it impossible to focus.

“Eighty?” he guessed, keeping his tone as light as possible.

“Wrong.”

Whoosh.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Bright spots danced across Kev’s vision, making him panic. He knew unconsciousness was coming. His screaming back had begun to go numb, and Kev could feel that cool emptiness spreading- his legs, arms, and chest were soon encompassed by the feeling.

His eyelids began to close, but he wrenched them open again. He just had to hold on a little longer. Just… a little… longer…

—

The first thing Kev registered as he blinked awake was a dull sense of panic. He’d passed out mid punishment. Leska wouldn’t take that well.

The second thing he noticed was the pain. The wounds on his back were bright and alive and burning, skin stretched tight. He feared that even the slightest movement would reopen them and send blood cascading over his skin once more.

The third thing he felt was the cold. Biting, clawing cold that wormed its way under Kev’s skin and into his bones. Cold that seared his flesh and slowed his heart.

The fourth thing he saw were the chains.

Metal cuffs around his hands, his ankles, securing him to a post stuck into the frozen ground.

He was outside, forced out into the cold of winter. The previous punishment hadn’t been enough, no, he had failed that too. Two failures in one day. He was shocked Leska hadn’t done worse.

The weariness from earlier hadn’t faded, in fact it was intensifying in a way that shook Kev to his core. His vision was blurring and he could hardly see straight, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The only reassurance he could offer himself was that Leska wouldn’t let him die. He was still necessary, still needed, still important in some sick way.

Unless that had changed.

If Leska had decided Kev was useless…

No. That would never happen. There was no escape to this. He’d probably wake up in his room later with just enough strength to give himself a shot of NR. That was how it always went and how it would always be.

Kev eyelids were already closing again. His body had gone numb, even the wounds that had previously been so insistent fading to a gentle hum.

A soft darkness washed over his mind, gentle and calm. Almost loving.

It had been two months since Izabela’s last pet had died. She’d liked him quite well, he’d always been very obedient towards her. She supposed his compliance had led to his death, in a way; he should have told her he couldn’t take the whipping before he lost too much blood.

But he didn’t, so he died.

It had been two weeks since Izabela had captured her new pet. This new girl seemed to be in her early twenties, with thick dark hair that cascaded to the center of her back. Her face was comprised of soft features, and her blue eyes were big and reminded Izabela a bit of a doe. She was the perfect prey.

Despite her victim being several inches taller than the vampire, the girl’s terror had overruled her advantage and Izabela captured her with practiced ease.

Yet, it seemed the girl was not nearly as willing to comply with Izabela’s wishes as the vampire had originally hoped. Ever since the day of her first arrival, when Izabela had trailed bleeding gashes up her arms when she continuously tried to ask annoying questions, it seemed as though she’d made a quiet vow to herself. One to not give into Izabela’s whims, no matter the cost.

It was infuriating.

It had been two days since Izabela had first fed off her pet. It had seemed to be the only method of torment that worked, and although the blood was slightly repulsive due to her prey not being a vegetarian, she withstood the bitter taste. It was worth it in order to have the satisfaction of watching her pet stumble around afterwards, dizzy and confused due to lack of blood.

Besides, it would be easy enough for Izabela to remove meat from the girl's diet in order to make her blood more… satisfactory.

It had been two hours since Izabela finally discovered her prey’s name.

Hope.

It was a ridiculous title, and ironic, considering the situation Izabela had her in. The vampire had found out in the middle of the night when she checked up on the girl. She had found her prey whispering the word over and over, a grim mantra of remembrance. When Izabela inquired about what she was saying, her victim proudly told her that it was her name, like she expected the vampire to be intimidated by her words.

Izabela didn’t like the name. She didn’t like its message. Silently, she decided that from that moment the girl would no longer be called Hope, but a name of the vampire’s choosing.

Her new title would be Ansa, an elegant name of Finnish origins that meant “trapped.” A satisfying counter to her prey’s old name.

Now, she had Ansa cradled in her arms, claws digging into the soft skin of her cheek, fangs sunk into the delicate flesh of her neck. The girl was trembling, trying to push Izabela away with increasingly weakened attempts.

Her pathetic struggles amused Izabela, and she smiled against Ansa’s hot skin as she continued to drink deeply from her shaking body.

Izabela watched carefully as her pet’s eyes clouded over, and she knew if she wanted the girl to survive, it was time to stop feeding. She unhooked her teeth from under the girl's skin, allowing her to tumble from the vampire’s grip, observing as her victim slowly brought quivering fingers to the weeping wound on her neck.

Gently, Izabela intercepted the girl’s hand’s path, lacing her fingers through Ansa’s and bringing her other hand up to carefully trace the spot on her face that Izabela’s claws had just threatened to penetrate.

“Your name is Ansa,” Izabela told the girl, voice firm but missing the hard edge that usually adorned it. She declared the words as though she was giving her pet a gift rather than stripping her of any remnants of her past life.

“No…” the girl whispered, closing her eyes tightly as her mind spun from lack of blood. “ ‘S Hope…”

“Shhh.” The vampire hushed her as she slowly unentwined her fingers from those of her victims, allowing her trembling fingers to thump to the ground to join the rest of her body. Izabela’s claws that had previously been caressing Ansa’s cheek pressed harder, threatening to break skin if she continued to argue. “Your name is Ansa.”

It was imperative to force this point into the girl’s mind while she was still weak. Although Izabela could easily hypnotize the girl into obedience, it was entertaining to see how much she could make her victims believe through plain agony and disorientation.

She got to her feet then, gesturing for Ansa to follow her, not waiting for her to recover from Izabela’s feeding earlier. She watched, satisfied, as Ansa stumbled to her feet, eyes still closed, leaning heavily against the wall for support. Izabela turned on her heel, grinning when she heard unsteady steps behind her.

It wasn’t much, but it was progress. It was obedience.

Gerard felt the knife settle into his chest, felt the blood flow forth from the wound, but that didn’t matter. Not yet. He had to keep going.

He staggered towards the edge of the stage, towards the white tape outline he was meant to land in. His legs gave out beneath him but he didn’t relent, crawling forwards on his hands and knees until he finally settled in his final resting place.

The last thought in his mind as he sang out the remaining notes was that this whole scenario seemed so, so familiar.

—

Gerard was on stage. The crowd was amazing, thousands of heads stretching on for what seemed like miles. He began to sing, remembering how everything had led to this moment. His very first performance. He had to make it count.

He said every lyric with purpose and passion, grinning as the crowd cheered and screamed along. This was it. This was what made all the… work it had taken to get on that stage worth it.

He couldn’t remember any rehearsals.

How had he gotten there?

Gerard refused to let his smile falter, refused to stop belting the words at the top of his lungs. It must have been the adrenaline, distracting him, making it hard to think.

As he began the final number, he saw the Clown dancing towards him and instinctively braced himself for what was to come. He didn’t let his reaction show, but for some reason, deep down, Gerard was scared.

The body remembers what the mind forgets.

In a sudden burst of action, the Clown sank his dagger into Gerard’s chest. He felt it settle there, felt the blood flow forth from the wound, but that didn’t matter. Not yet. He had to keep going.

He staggered towards the edge of the stage, towards the white tape outline he was

I’ve done this before.

meant to land in. His legs gave out

This isn’t my first performance.

but he didn’t relent, crawling forwards on his hands and knees until he settled in his final resting place.

His mind raced as he sang his final notes, and the world faded quickly to black.

—

Gerard was on stage. The crowd was

The same as before.

amazing, thousands of heads stretching on for what seemed like miles. He began to sing, remembering how everything led to this moment. His very first

No, it wasn’t.

performance. He had to make it count.

Or the punishments would come.

He said every lyric with purpose and passion, grinning as the crowd cheered and screamed along. This was it. This was what made all the

torture

it had taken to get on that stage worth it.

He didn’t want to hurt anymore.

As he began the final number, he saw the Clown dancing towards him and 

stay away

instinctively braced himself for what was to come. He didn’t let his reaction show, but for some reason, deep down, Gerard was scared.

The body remembers what the mind forgets.

In a sudden burst of action, the Clown sank his dagger into Gerard’s chest. He felt it settle there, felt the blood flow forth from the wound, but that didn’t matter. Not yet. He had to keep

why?

going. 

He staggered towards the edge of the stage, towards the white tape outline he was meant to land in. His legs gave out

please, please stand

but he didn’t relent, crawling forwards on his hands and knees 

lie still

until he settled in his final resting place.

Break the cycle.

The world winked out.

—

Gerard was on stage. The crowd was amazing, 

and familiar

thousands of heads stretching on for what seemed like miles. He began to sing, remembering how everything had led to this moment. 

My throat hurts.

His very first performance. He had to make it count.

My head hurts.

He said every lyric with purpose and passion, 

My heart hurts.

grinning as the crowd cheered and screamed along. This was it. This was what made all the

reconditioning

it had taken to get on that stage worth it.

As he began the final number, he saw the Clown dancing towards him and instinctively braced himself for what was

fight back, coward

to come. He didn’t let his reaction show, but for some reason, deep down, Gerard was scared.

The body remembers what the mind forgets.

In a sudden burst of action, the Clown sank his dagger into Gerard’s chest. He felt it settle there, felt the blood flow forth from the wound, but that didn’t matter. Not yet. He had to keep going.

Not anymore.

Instead of collapsing and crawling, Gerard refused to falter. Instead, he ran.

don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop

He dodged microphones, wires, and instruments, mind fully set on running. He felt the dagger strike him again, over and over, but there was no stopping now. 

He threw himself at the Clown, wrapping his arms around the shorter man’s body. With his final thoughts, he prayed that this time, he would truly die.

Make it count.

He heard the explosion as the Clown’s jacket blew up, and he threw his arms open, embracing the burn as the world exploded into white instead of the cruel, familiar darkness.

He found his eyes lingering on Pete, who lay under the covers beside him. The skin of his face was lit up in the glow, and Mikey felt a pang in his chest. How had he gotten this lucky? How was it possible that this man, this beautiful man, was his boyfriend.

Ever so carefully, so as not to wake Pete up, Mikey curled into his side. He rested his chin on his shoulder and laid his arm across his chest. He loved the way Pete felt against his skin, warm and comforting. Not unlike the blankets that covered them both.

A sleepy lull settled over the pair of Mikey listened to his boyfriend’s gentle breathing, the steady inhales and exhales that still made his heart feel like it was going to beat out of his chest. He soon found his own breathing subconsciously matching the rhythms, their chests rising and falling in time with each other.

Mikey watched silently as Pete’s eyelashes fluttered softly before he lifted his eyelids, blinking away sleep and revealing his deep hazel eyes. The light flecked them with gold, a striking, resounding color that washed over Mikey and could comfort him without Pete even saying a word.

Before Pete was fully awake, Mikey leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Hi,” he whispered, pulling away and smiling.

“G’morning, Mikes,” Pete replied, staring up at his boyfriend as his eyes crinkled with a smile.

“Suppose that means we have to get up now, right?” Mikey asked, wanting to do anything besides that.

“Nuh uh,” Pete joked, grabbing Mikey by the collar of his pajamas and pulling him back down onto the bed. Mikey didn’t argue, instead once again wrapping his arms around Pete. He pulled him in, and the man happily obliged, curling up and nuzzling his head into the space between Mikey’s chin and shoulders.

Mornings like these meant everything to Mikey. Mornings like these were the reasons Mikey would prevail through his whole days. Mornings like these reminded Mikey what it was like to feel truly, wonderfully alive.

The rain pounded hard against the window, sharp and prominent in the quiet of the room.

It was just supposed to be a movie. That was all Patrick Stump had suggested. One rewatch of Ghostbusters for old times sake, and then Ryan Ross would leave. Their breakup had ended on good terms, after all, and Patrick often found himself missing the other man more than he’d like to admit.

As their bands divided, the two began to inevitably drift apart, each chasing their own ideas in directions that seemed to always be going in the opposite direction. Eventually, it was doing more harm than good for them to stay together, so they decided to cut it off. Clean and respectful, nothing like so many of the other messy breakups Patrick had witnessed throughout his musical career.

But now? The roads were messes, you could barely see two feet in front of you. It wasn’t safe for Ryan to try to go home while the weather was in such a state.

He’d have to stay.

As the credits to the movie rolled, Patrick felt himself tense slightly. He hated feeling this way around the guitarist, when everything used to be so smooth and easy. His heart hurt for those times, and for a moment he selfishly wondered if Ryan would consider giving them another chance. Maybe. Maybe.

“So…” Patrick started, eyes darting between Ryan and the dark screen of the television, unsure of what to say. “Do you want to watch another, or…?”

“Yeah, might as well,” Ryan replied, seeming just as nervous as the singer. His voice was tight, which Patrick immediately assumed was with annoyance until he saw the man wringing his hands in his lap and realized it must have been with nerves.

He hated that Ryan felt nervous around him. It wasn’t fair. He wished they’d never grown apart.

Patrick nodded and stood, planning on going to retrieve the second Ghostbusters movie from his shelf of DVDs, when the light flickered out and the hum of television jolted to silence.

“Fuck,” Patrick muttered under his breath. They’d lost power. "Guess the second movie's out of the question."

"Yeah," the guitarist agreed again, sitting on the edge of the couch, muscles tensed like he was debating whether to stand up or not. "Want to see if you have any flashlights?"

Patrick nodded and Ryan stood. He made his way up the stairs, wincing when they creaked underneath the two men's weight.

"So… how are things going?" Ryan asked carefully, seeming to feel the same need to fill the silence that Patrick did.

"Oh, you know," Patrick replied, not really answering. Telling Ryan that he missed him and wanted him back with all his heart didn't seem like an appropriate conversation topic. "How are the Young Veins going?"

Patrick could see the while outline of Ryan's teeth as he smiled warmly, his awkwardness beginning to melt away. "They're great, man. They're all good people, it's nice."

The singer mimicked the smile. He was glad Ryan had something good like that. He deserved to be happy.

The reached the top of the stairs, and Patrick pressed his and to the wall to guide his way. He hated how dark the hallway got when it was dark, he couldn't see anything.

The house erupted with noise as thunder exploded above it, and Patrick jolted forwards. "Shit…" he hissed through his teeth.

He felt Ryan press a hand to his shoulder, and he instinctively leaned into the touch. Without thinking, he raised his hand and placed it over Ryan's holding his fingers in place against Patrick's shirt.

"'Trick…" Ryan whispered, sounding slightly flustered. Patrick didn't remove his hand, instead turning slightly so he was facing the guitarist.

Ryan leaned in, close enough that the singer could finally distinguish his features in the suffocating darkness. His lips were parted slightly, eyes wide, but he didn't look angry. He looked surprised, but not annoyed at the two men's sudden closeness.

God, Patrick couldn't do this anymore.

He leaned forwards, pressing a kiss to Ryan's soft lips. For a moment, he felt the guitarist freeze before he melted into Patrick's touch, his lips beginning to move with the singer's.

Then his brain seemed to catch up with his body and he pulled back, breath quickening. "'Trick, you know we can't. We broke up for a reason, you know that."

"I don't care." Patrick's voice was gravelly, and even he could hear the longing in his tone. "I missed you so much. I can't…"

Ryan cut him off before he could continue. "Fuck, Patrick, I miss you so much, too. But we can't just do this, we can't."

"Why not? We split up because we were drifting apart. We don't have to drift apart anymore. We can be together even if our bands aren't."

"I know, and you know I want to. I just…"

Patrick leaned forward, turning the man around and so he was pushed against the wall and pressing another kiss to his lips. Ryan responded faster this time, his hand moving from Patrick's shoulder into his hair as he pulled the singer up against him. Their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, an old, familiar feeling that Patrick had yearned for ever since they separated.

Patrick was the one to pull back this time, instead leaning forwards and whispering into Ryan's ear. "Ry, you know I love you."

The guitarist's eyes found those of the singers, and in a hushed tone, barely audible above the pounding rain, he replied. "I love you too. Can we try again?"

The man hated solitary confinement. At least when he was with the others, he had something to do to pass the time. When he was alone, though, there was nothing he could do besides fixate on his aching body.

Sometimes, he would quicken the hours by trying to come up with old memories. The start of the band, his family, his name.

It never worked.

He’d just get confused further, unable to differentiate true memories from scenarios he had created in his deluded mind.

All the man knew was that he was made to sing. To perform. Or he would be punished.

Not like he wasn’t punished already. They called them simple medical procedures, they said they would help his pain.

They never did.

The guards would drag him from his cell, not even allowing him to catch his balance, and drag him into the familiar white room before cuffing him to the bed.

Sometimes, doctors would come in and talk to him. They’d ask him questions about what he remembered from the shows, inquire if he could remember anything from before the performances began.

He did his best to answer, but he truly had no idea.

They hurt him…

Other times, several masked nurses would enter the room. They’d put him under anesthesia, and he always woke up feeling wrong. Different. Separated even further from his mind, his body.

It was for his own good. To help with his pain.

Who was he?

It was usually after those procedures that they would return him to the others. He loved the others. He didn’t know why they’d always look so sad when he came back.

Frank would guide him to sit, Ray would pat him on the head, talking to him in a soothing voice with words the man couldn’t understand.

Mikey always kept his distance. He stared at the man, eyes full of sadness and longing, like he was afraid of something.

Do I have eyes like that, too?

They’d even bring him the Gentlemen sometimes. He loved the Gentlemen. The Gentlemen would tell him the truth. Only him. He was very loyal. And he called the man Mama.

Everyone always got sad when the man talked to the Gentlemen. He didn’t know why. The Gentlemen was so nice, and he told the man beautiful stories about sandy deserts and open plains and bright, burning colors.

The Gentlemen had a good imagination.

The man did not.

He wished he could see the things the Gentlemen described. Maybe he wouldn’t be as lonely, then.

The Gentlemen told him scary things, too. He said he’d seen Mama die. He said he’d watched blood pool around Mama’s lifeless corpse and he could not do a thing.

The man did not want to believe the Gentlemen.

But the Gentlemen would tell him the truth.

They’re like these terrors-

They’d take the Gentlemen away if he told Mama too much. And then he’d be alone again. Well, mostly alone. The band would still be there. But they could not tell him the truth. Nobody could but the Gentlemen.

Sometimes he’d see Mikey cry. Just a little bit. The man wanted to ask what was wrong, but the words never came out right.

Nothing he said ever came out right anymore.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

How could it be fair?

And sometimes he’d get angry. He’d scream and sob and punch the wall until guards came and dragged him into a different room. A dark room. With a camera.

And they’d fix him.

I can’t-

He hated being fixed.

Can’t take it-

Hated the procedures.

Mess messes he was a mess he hated messes messes were bad the Gentlemen told him so the Gentlemen said Mama was a mess and MOAT is a mess and messes are scary and messes-