#isolation tw

"Sir, I hate it here."

"I don't see why. You have everything you need, and I don't have to punish you if you do well, which has been happening lately."

"I want to go outside, and connect with other people, and have a hobby, or something to pass the time. I've done so much for you that your demands no longer take up the whole day." Whumpee wanted much more than that, but they knew they couldn't have it all. So, they started small.

"Well, I don't see myself bringing in other servants - like you said, you're comfortably on top of the work pile. Going outside might be feasible, but it'd be hard to keep an eye on you. And as for a hobby, that would be fine as long as you would drop it as soon as I asked you to do something. What do you think?"

Whumpee's heart sank when they realized Whumper would continue to keep them isolated, but maybe they could work something out with the other two requests. "I could try to do yard work, and stay within the yard."

"Hmm, alright. Though I'd have to find a way to keep you on the property - how do you feel about an electric collar?"

"Ummm-"

"I say let's do it. That way we'll both be happy, right, Whumpee?"

"...Yes, sir."

"Good."

"About the hobby - may I take up painting? I used to do it all the time before...before I came here."

"I don't think so, that's a lot of materials I would have to get, and it would take up a lot of space. How about something else?"

"Reading? You have a large library, and I'm sure you're not reading all of those books all the time."

"Sure, but you'll have to get a book approved by me before you read it."

"Okay, sir."

"Is that good enough for you, Whumpee? I know you want to change things up, but you should be grateful for what you have already."

"I know, sir, and I am. Even without my requests, things are a lot better now than when I first came here."

"Good to hear. If you ever are ungrateful, Whumpee, I would hate to take away your privileges to teach you a lesson."

"Of course, sir. I promise I won't be ungrateful."

"What do you say for fulfilling your requests?"

"Thank you, sir, for letting me do the yard work and read."

"Do you really hate it here, Whumpee?"

"I...no. I don't, sir."

"Less hesitation next time, alright?"

"..."

"Whumpee?"

"Okay, sir."

“Oh.” Tommy turned red, though he didn’t let go. He was a big boy- it was his fifth birthday just before Dream had left last!- but he could still be clingy, right? It felt childish and silly for a big kid to do, but Dream always praised Tommy for it, so it was good, right? “Why’d it take you so long to find shit? Did the rabi- radi- poison cloud bomb shit hurt you?”

Dream had told him all about how the world got fucked up when he was only little. There used to be a big island outside the bunker doors, with lots of people, and stuff like schools and other stuff that was on the DVDs. But then the countries, which were like really big families but not really where one person controlled everything like Dream did with him, but they were mean about it, bombed each other, and the bombs had poison in them, and it killed everyone except him and Dream, because Dream had found the bunker and taken him there.

It was always scary whenever Dream went out scavenging in the surface world. Every time, Tommy made a thousand prayers that he wouldn’t get hurt. He wasn’t really sure what a prayer was, but people did it in the movies, so it must work. Once, Tommy forgot to do his prayers, and when he realised he was so worried that he was sick all over the bed because he thought he’d killed Dream and he’d starve to death alone. 

There was the Gun- Dream always said that if one of them was gonna die, he’d take it and kill both of them quickly because it was better than dying in pain or being alone, but Tommy wasn’t big enough to reach the cupboard it was kept in. Besides, only Dream was allowed to use the Gun. Once, he’d hit Tommy just for looking at it for too long, but it was only a little hit, so it was okay because Dream did stuff that left scars when he needed a proper lesson. They didn’t show that on the TV, but Dream had told him that what was on the TV was made up and that stuff like talking cats weren’t real. But cats were, which was equally as weird as talking cats, Tommy thought.

“Nah, I’m fine, lil’ cockroach.” Dream ruffled Tommy’s hair, grimacing a little at its messy state. “God, you need a bath. You’re filthy. Did you roll around in the greenhouse or something?”

“… nooooo?” Tommy yelped as Dream pulled his curls, just enough to hurt. “Okay, okay, I did it, m’ sorry! I wanted to see if the dirt would make my hair brown, so I got some dirt and poured it over me.” He put on his best puppy-dog impression. “I take full respo-sbility for my actions. So, uh, you can hit me and stuff.”

“Aww, look at you, trying to be manipulative. It’s adorable.” Dream laughed. “Fine, you can get away with it for now.”

Tommy giggled at that, before he suddenly stopped. Oh yeah, there was something important he had to tell his big brother. The excitement of finally having someone around was so overwhelming he’d nearly forgotten. “Uh, Dream? Can I tell you something?”

“Course, Tommy. We’re family, right? You can tell me anything.” It sounded more like an order than a comfort, but Tommy was used to orders. Dream said that if he didn’t follow all the orders, then maybe something would go wrong, and the toxic thingy would seep through the doors, and they’d die, and Tommy didn’t want to die. Being alive was pretty awesome, he thought. “Don’t you trust me, lil bro?”

“Of- of course! It’s just- it’s about b’fore, y’know, the bombs an’ shit. I had- I could remember it.”

Dream froze up at that, glaring down at Tommy like there was something dangerous about what he said. Tommy nervously fiddled with his fingers, voice catching in his throat, before Dream gave a sickly sweet smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “What could you remember, little bug?” His voice was honeyed, but Tommy knew well enough the poison it hid.

“I- uh, it was when I was real little. Back before I realised I was a boy and stuff.” Tommy couldn’t look his brother in the eyes, feeling somehow guilty about it even though he didn’t know what he did wrong. But it upset Dream, and therefore Tommy couldn’t help but get the sickening feeling he deserved punishment. “I was in a pink dress- like that one in Sims, right? And I was- I was in a park, and there was grass under my feet and shit. And- uh, I think I remember- I don’t know, I don’t think he was my dad. He looked kinda like you, so I guess he was my big brother?”

Tommy gulped, and Dream continued to look down at him, unblinking. “Continue.” His voice was like ice.

“U-um.” Tommy could feel tears pricking at his eyes. He knew he was gonna get a whooping, but it’d probably be worse if he directly disobeyed Dream, so he continued. “Well, I uh, I was playing with a doll, but I lost it, and this nice man got it for me, but then we were really far away from my other brother. And I looked up and- and it was you! And you had the Knife, and you just kinda picked me up and ran.” Tommy laughed, the idea seeming funny. He must have been so tiny back then. “And then I got this.” He gestured at the rough scar across his chest- the first Dream ever gave him, which he treasured because it meant Dream cared enough to correct him, and that meant he loved him.

“Tommy.” Dream didn’t sound mad, just completely emotionless. “Don’t tell lies.”

“I-I’m not- it’s- I ’member it, promise!” Tommy huffed, putting his hands on his hips. “I remember it.”

“Really?” Dream raised an eyebrow.

“Really really. I can pinkie promise if you want.”

“No, no, I believe you.” Dream’s voice was suddenly calm, suddenly sickly sweet again. “But, Tommy… that means you’re not well.”

Tommy blinked. “Huh?”

“Tommy… how could I meet you in a park if I found you after the bombs fell? That doesn’t make sense. Think about it.” Dream gently ruffled Tommy’s hair as he spoke, giving him a sad smile. “I… some people just aren’t well, Tommy. What they see and hear isn’t what’s really going on. I wish I knew this earlier, so I could help…”

Tommy furrowed his brows, deep in thought. “Does that mean… anything I see and hear and shit? It could all be- like, stuff I made up?”

Dream nodded. “Mhm. But it’s okay. I can do all the thinking for you! Just- just tell me everything you see and hear and remember at the end of the day, and I’ll tell you what the truth is. Okay?”

“Even if I do something bad? Won’t I get in trouble?”

“I mean, yeah, but if you avoid doing that and don’t speak to me, you’ll also be in trouble, right? So it’s fine.”

“… Right.” The idea of there being no way of avoiding hurt seemed horrible, but if Dream thought it was correct… it had to be, right? Everything Dream did prevented the outside things from breaking in and poisoning them, so Tommy had to trust him, or else they’d both die, and neither of them wanted to die.

“Try not to sound so bratty about that, God.” Tommy couldn’t tell if Dream was joking or not saying that, an equal mix of humour and frustration in his voice, and he instinctively flinched. “I make the rules for a reason, Tommy. I keep us alive. I keep us more than alive. I keep the electricity running and get you your favourite food. All I ask is your obedience; is that so hard? Christ.” He covered his face with his hands, sighing. “I guess I can’t blame you. You- you’re not well. It’s not your fault that you’re fragile. It just means you need a firmer hand.”

Something about being called fragile made Tommy feel really upset, but if Dream was saying it, then it had to be correct, and Tommy was being the unreasonable one. Maybe he was fucking crazy. Maybe he was thinking wrong stuff, maybe he needed Dream to tell him everything.

And would that be so bad? Dream was his big brother, and he was the bestest big brother ever. He tucked Tommy into bed, he cooked his favourite food, he played Smash with him all day long sometimes, and even sometimes let him win. When Tommy realised he was a boy, he immediately gave him a cool new name and cool new clothes. He gave the best hugs and was so cool to talk to, he had the most awesome stories about what he did in the surface world. Tommy was pretty sure most of them were fake because they all contradicted each other, but they were so cool he didn’t care. And no matter how long he had to leave, he always came back.

Yeah, Dream knew best. He made the rules for a reason.

“M’ sorry. I’ll tell you everything.” Tommy gave the biggest grin he could, even though he didn’t feel happy, he just felt guilty and stupid. “You’re so smart and cool. I trust you.”

“Aww, and you’re so smart and cool too, Tommy, else you wouldn’t realise that!” Dream laughed, all venom in his voice dissipated. “Also, we need to wash the dirt out of your hair. Seriously, how did you get so much in?”

Tommy batted his eyes innocently. “It was an accident, I swear.” He burst into giggles at that too, and they were both smiling, tension removed from the air. All was well again, and Tommy had learnt a valuable lesson.

13ES: I have it loaded from my memory conflux now. ... I apologize if this is upsetting to anyone.

Loading memory from Memory Conflux

Please stand by...

Memory loaded successfully!

. . .

EPS: Misunderstandings are not something I take lightly.

EPS: It's my job to prevent such misunderstandings from my part. I sincerely apologize for such incompetence.

13ES: Prism that's enough, your work does not equal your worth. You don't need to be so hard on yourself because of a simple mishap.

EPS: With all due respect, that doesn't excuse my actions. I know... that... Stories?

13ES: Prism, something isn't right. The communication towers are... trying to send a signal?

EPS: Stories, your communications are-

13ES: Prism?!

[LIVE BROADCAST] - [ANNOUNCEMENT] COMMUNICATIONS MANIFEST to Group Alpha

[[ERROR]]

CANNOT OBTAIN LOCAL GROUP ID - ATTEMPTING AGAIN. PLEASE STAND BY...

...

. . .

. . .

[[ERROR]]

LOCAL GROUP ID UNOPTAINABLE - SENIOR ID FOUND

ATTEMPTING TO CONNECT...

13ES: I don't... did the communications break? I don't think it... !

[LIVE BROADCAST] - BROADCAST ANNOUNCEMENT - SLIVER OF STRAW

TRIPLE AFFIRMATIVE

AFFIRMATIVE - THE SOLUTION IS PORTABLE AFFIRMATIVE - THE SOLUTION IS FOUND AFFIRMATIVE - THE TECHNICAL IMPLEMENTATION IS POSSIBLE AND APPLICABLE

13ES: Sliver of Straw? But... what-

[EQUIPMENT MANIFEST] Grabbing data Loading Holograms Please stand by...

13ES: Holograms?! But-

[EQUIPMENT MANIFEST] Thirteen Elder Stories - Second Generation Group Senior of Group Unidentified has been added to hologram announcement

[ 13ES: Who else is out there?

STOU,CF: ... . . . You and the future of your group are all that exists. ... Senior Thirteen Elder Stories, do not ask me this again. ]

13ES: ...

. . .

It was a lie. T-there's more of us out here.

They never...

They... they wanted to keep us behind locked doors... they didn't want us to...

Everything... every single thing. It was all a lie. Everything was nothing but a lie.

[LIVE BROADCAST] - COMMUNICATIONS MANIFEST to Thirteen Elder Stories

[[ERROR]]

ID CODE LOST.

ALL PARTICIPANTS IN BROADCAST ANNONCEMENT BLOCKED.

13ES: WAIT!

I...

I never got to even speak to them...

2. When you sardonically ask your dad about the risk of you starving before his two years are up, he undoes the latches around your neck and for a second you stupidly think he’s going to free you. But he doesn’t. He shows you what he’s done to you and you’re glad you haven’t had anything to eat in a month or you would throw up. But your head isn’t connected to your stomach or anything, so you couldn’t do that anyway. You try not to think about it. You can’t.

3. Ananke doesn’t visit at all after that first day. Dad comes down whenever he has the chance, which isn’t often, between all the sex and drugs and whatever other bullshit he gets up to while living your life. You spend a lot of time alone with only your thoughts. In theory it’s no different to life before, but before was a choice. Now you’re trapped down with no one to talk to, and you never had many friends, but when you get out of here, you’re going to make some.

4. Seeing Dad is weird. You’re the only person who gets to see his face underneath the mask. You’re the only person who really knows him anymore. Maybe he likes that. Maybe he needs that, and that’s why he keeps coming back, taking off his mask just to chat with you. He never takes yours off, and you wonder if it makes it all easier for him. Whenever he puts the helmet on, you miss him, but you can pretend he’s someone else doing this to you. But he’s still Dad.

5. A beeping machine is the best you can do. It’s a good idea. It’s simple. It doesn’t look more or less important than anything else you’ve had to make for them, so it won’t draw their attention. That may be the downfall of your whole plan, but it’s something. It’s all you can think of. You’re scared. You’re trying. You have to keep trying. You can’t stop trying. It’s all over if you stop trying. If you give up, you’ve lost, and you can’t lose. You have to keep building.

6. You’re so tired. You don’t know how a head that doesn’t need a body to live can still get tired. You don’t know how any of this works, and you won’t stop to think about it. You don’t need to sleep, not really, but you do out of habit. That’s the benefit of not having a body, you guess, not having to get comfortable before being able to sleep. A head just needs a place to rest. You have that. You wish you could lay down. You’re so, so tired.

7. The cell is six feet long, six feet wide, and ten feet high. That’s your entire world. You used to be content just staying in your room half the day. You were never an outdoorsy kid. But you can’t even properly breathe the air in here, and you can’t move, and you can’t do anything about it. You keep trying. Every time they ask you to make something, you slip in something else that could lead someone to you. When you get out, you’re going to go to the park.

8. They could at least give you something to read. An ebook would be easy, they could just hook you up to a Kindle and you wouldn’t even need fingers to turn the pages. Or a DVD player, one of the portable ones from when you were a kid and needed entertainment in the car on the occasional day trips up north. You sometimes feel like your mind is melting from boredom, and it scares you more than staying here forever. If you don’t have your mind you don’t have anything.

9. You have to think about it. You finally stop to think about it. You consider your options. You’ve made robot armor, robot suits, you’ve built canons and mind-control machines, you’ve built things that should have been impossible outside of comic books and cartoons. You can build yourself a body when you get out of here. You start to draw up the plans in your head. They’ll be ready to go whenever you get out. It’ll be nice to build something with your hands again. When you have hands again, anyway.

10. You wonder how your mom is doing. You haven’t heard from her in years and you’d like to keep it that way. If she wanted you to miss her, she shouldn’t have left. But you still wonder. Does she know you’re missing? Does anyone? Dad pretended you had run away, he told you that, but he also told you he’d gone great lengths to "find you again". You wonder if he called your mom. You wonder if she’s worried about you. You don’t know if you want that or not.

11. You were never a violent kid. When the schoolyard bullies got you down, you fought back, but you didn’t like to. You weren’t any good at it, anyway. Now they have you building weapons. You don’t want to do it, but if someone has to do it, you’d rather it’s you, not them. You finally have a choice.  You could make it right, and you do. You make cannons, lasers, a giant robot warrior, mind control machines, and you hate it as much as you’re proud of yourself for it. 

Dion glared at the locked door, arms crossed. All of his attempts to force it open had proven futile, leaving him nothing to do but lean against the wall and glare at it.

The room he was in—if it could even be called a room, when there was just barely enough space to lie down—was small, four plain stone walls with a single metal door. There was a single… cot was too generous a word, honestly. It was a slab of metal just barely big enough to lie on, held up by two diagonal metal struts braced against the wall underneath it. There was a drain in the center of the floor; Dion refused to touch it if he could help it. By bracing himself against the walls of the corner, he could climb up high enough to get at the ceiling. But the panel over the single small light refused to budge, no matter how hard Dion tried to pry it off. Spots still danced across his eyes from his efforts.

The only ventilation came in the form of four small slits in the door. There was a slot at the bottom of the door, as well, but the panel covering it wouldn’t budge. If Dion were more resourceful, if he had a better idea of what was going on—

But he wasn’t, and he had no idea. He’d been handling groceries out in town, on his way back to camp—

And then he was in here, in this barren room, with no way out. The jacket he’d gotten for his seventeenth birthday was missing, as was his wallet, pocket knife, and compact. Whoever had taken him and put him here had gone through his pockets, and the knowledge left Dion feeling violated.

But there was nothing he could do about it, and that, more than anything, crawled under his skin like so many wriggly spiders. The inaction grated against him, his leg bouncing in agitation. He needed to move, to get up and do something—

But he couldn’t do anything. Not yet. Not until the door opened, or he found out what the hell was going on, or—something, he didn’t know.

This sucked. Dion glared at the door from where he was sitting on the slab.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes, and his vision swam worse than it already was.. He didn’t recognize the voice speaking to him, the words spinning through his head uselessly. He swallowed, but the nausea remained.

Still, he spoke. “Dion Aquato.” Son of Donatella and Augustus Aquato. Eldest of five siblings. Dion Aquato. I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Meals came in through the slot at the bottom of the door—gross. Even if it was on a tray, it was still being slid along a floor that had been exposed to god knew what. Dion didn’t eat, the first few times, fear of poison and disdain for invisible concrete floor grime holding him back.

But the hunger pricked at his stomach. It was impossible to sleep well on the slab or the floor. He needed to keep his strength up however he could, if he ever wanted out of here.

The meals were simple. A plastic spork came on the equally plastic tray. Neither the utensil nor the tray could be used to escape, as far as Dion could tell, so he left them by the slot when he finished. The food was…

He didn’t know how long he’d been in here, but he was already homesick. Truth be told, he’d been homesick the moment he’d finished inspecting the room, but the feeling had only built over time. He missed his mother’s cooking. He missed cooking. He missed food that wasn’t bland unseasoned drivel. He’d had his fill of dry chicken and plain mashed potatoes and sad greens. He wanted to eat food, real food with actual flavor that he wasn’t shoving down his throat just for the nutritional value.

How many days had it been? Three? Four? Dion wondered if his birthday had passed already, if he had turned 18 in this cell, away from his friends and family. It had only been a week off, when he’d found himself in this tiny stone hell.

Ugh. This sucked. The food was awful. He had no idea what he was even here for, or where here even was. He wanted to go home. He wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to figure a way out of this cell.

Dion was clean, at least, his hair hanging loose around his face and on his shoulders. He couldn’t remember when the grease had been rinsed out—but he really didn’t want to think about that. So he didn’t.

“An explanation would be nice.” He grumbled. “Wouldn’t mind some fucking answers.”

The door had no answer for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up to a bright light right in his eyes. Where—

He was lying back on a hard surface, at an angle. There was pressure across his legs and chest. Attempts to move were thwarted—oh. He was strapped down.

Dion turned his head to the side to avoid the light shining down on him, cool metal pressing against his cheek. He scrunched his eyes shut, spots dancing across his vision. His head was pounding—probably because of the light.

He heard footsteps to his left. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

There was a woman standing there with a clipboard in hand, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Dion blinked.

Nope, she was still there, still regarding the clipboard in her hand through cat eye glasses. A pen floated over the clipboard.

Dion turned his head to look to the right. The room he was in had… six walls? No, wait, it was eight, wasn’t it? Yeah. Eight. Eight plain white walls that went up to… he couldn’t tell, with the bright light looming above him. He scrunched his eyes shut and turned his head back to his left, opening them as the woman walked over to a shelf taking up three of the walls.

The room gave him an uneasy feeling. The bright light reminded him of dentists; the lady’s labcoat and the sanitized room reminded him of hospitals. There was even a counter back to his right that took up three of the walls, with a sink and cabinets.

A binder floated off the shelf and opened in front of the woman. She flipped through the pages inside for a moment before the binder returned to the shelf.

Dion opened his mouth. He was so done with his stupid little cell, with this bright light searing down into his eyes—but most of all, he was so done with not knowing what the hell was going on. He wanted answers, dammit, so he opened his mouth and spoke.

“What do you want from me?”

The woman’s head snapped around so fast that Dion almost thought it might fall off. She was regarding him, now, and Dion snapped his mouth shut. He felt like a bug under her gaze, like a number on her clipboard that wasn’t what she expected.

She walked over to him, lips pursed.

“At least say something!” His mouth moved before his brain could process what he was saying. Her brow furrowed, and Dion tensed.

“You,” she loomed over him, close enough that he could see the gold of her eyes, “should not be up.” She held something small in her hands, and Dion strained to make out what was surely going to be used to hurt him—

One click. Two clicks.

Dion never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

His head swam. His mouth opened, then closed. He tried again. “Dion Aquato.” Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato I’m an acrobat I’m a brother I’m Dion Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

There were holes in his memory.

Dion almost didn’t notice them, at first. Day and night blurred together in his cell, with nothing to mark the passage of time. How long had he been here? How many days? Had he turned 18, here in this cell, away from his friends and family?

All of his street clothes had been missing when he’d woken up here—he was dressed in a simple shirt and pants made of a rough fabric he couldn’t identify, the light gray seeming to melt into the stone around him.

(But hadn’t he searched his pockets when he’d first woken up here? He remembered them being empty of his things—)

That was the first clue. The second was the collection of plastic sporks in the corner of his room—he was sure he’d put them there, but he couldn’t remember eating that many meals. The third clue was that he still didn’t know how he was clean, despite being in his cell long enough to start to smell.

There were holes in his memory. Once he finally realized this, he realized the danger he was in. Panic spiraled in his brain. What if he forgot everything? What if he forgot his family? His home?

But what could he do? He’d never even left this cell.

(Had he?)

Still, he needed to remember. He thought back to his life outside, to home—

He could remember his mother’s face, at least. Could still remember every member of his family, from his parents to his Nona to his siblings. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Raz. Tala. Queepie. Could remember the circus, the blue and green stripes of the Aquatodome.

He glared reproachfully at the door of his cell. His name was Dionysus Aquato. He was the eldest of five. He was 17—no, he was probably 18 already—and he refused to forget his home and family. He’d die before he let that happen.

“You’re not keeping me here forever.” He whispered. “I’ll get out eventually.”

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion woke up strapped to a table.

There was a bright light overhead. His head swam, a pounding headache behind his eyes. His mouth had that awful taste that it always got when he overslept.

This wasn’t his tent or the caravan, though. This was an octagonal room, the ceiling obscured by the light bearing down on him. There was something familiar about the room, but he couldn’t fathom why.

He turned his head to his left. There was a woman standing there, regarding a binder floating in front of her through cat eye glasses, hair pulled back into a bun. There was someone next to her in… a pantsuit? The woman was wearing a lab coat, which some part of Dion felt was far more appropriate for the sterile setting.

Dion didn’t recognize her, though. But hadn’t he seen her before?

And the guy standing next to her—Dion had never seen them before. But he knew their face. Didn’t he? He didn’t know.

“Why is it conscious?” They asked. It took Dion a moment to realize that they were talking about him. That… that didn’t bode well.

Her lips pursed. “Because I’m investigating a problem.” She pressed something—

Pain! Dion yelped, his body jerking against the straps. It arced up his legs and arms, through his chest, into his head—

Just as quick as it came, it was gone. His shoulders heaved.

A problem. She’d called him a problem. That couldn’t be good.

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Something. He tried to remember, searching his mind—

Another scream was ripped from his throat as a fresh wave of electricity burst through him. He spasmed, the straps pinning him down. His wrists and ankles were starting to ache—were they going to bruise?

The pain left again. Dion’s thoughts chased each other in circles. His head spun. He needed to—he needed to—

Remember. His name was Dion, Dion—

Dion Aquato!

His name was Dion Aquato. He was the eldest of four—no, five. He came from the Aquato family circus.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie Mom Dad Nona—

He screamed as another wave of pain rushed through him. The electricity didn’t stop, even as his voice cut out, even as he continued to spasm. His head swam, pain pounding his brain to bits—

All at once, the pain stopped. He shook, and turned towards the pair.

The woman’s binder had fallen to the ground. Her nose had bled, a red smear on her upper lip.

“Well.” She said, “That’s… interesting.”

Dion didn’t have the energy to question it. He needed to remember, anyway. Mom Dad Nona Frazie—

Something clicked. Once, twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

It sounded disappointed in him. He couldn’t fathom why.

“Dion Aquato.” He was answering the question, right? He was Dion Aquato. It was his name, his identity—he was Dion Aquato eldest son acrobat 17 years old Dion Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion I’m Dion Aquato—

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

The pile of sporks in the corner was gone. If it had ever been there at all—he had probably just imagined it.

He didn’t know when he’d gotten here. Didn’t know how long he’d been here. Had a week passed? Was he 18, now, had he missed his birthday in this stupid little cell?

His old clothes were gone, replaced with a dull blue shirt and pants the same gray as the stone around him. It was weird, to look down at his legs and see nothing but gray, gray like the walls, gray like he was just another fixture in the room, just another setpiece—

(Hadn’t his shirt been gray? Hadn’t he been wearing his street clothes when he first woke up in this cell?)

His head swam. Lights danced behind his vision.

His name was Dion Aquato. He had a family and a home. His name was Dion Aquato.

(Was it?)

He looked at the door. Metal, like the—well, cot was too generous. More like a slab, really—slab sticking out from the wall, held up by diagonal metal struts. Metal, like the ring around his neck.

(He couldn’t remember when it was put on. He couldn’t get it off. Maybe it had always been there.)

“How much longer?” He asked. How much longer would he be stuck in here? He wanted to go home. He wasn’t even sure where home was.

The door had no response for him.

+=+=+=+=+

He came to strapped to a chair. The room he was in was familiar, octagonal-shape tickling some corner of his brain. But every attempt to recall if he had been here before resulted in fog filling his head. But he needed to remember, right?

There was a woman standing at a control panel-like structure to his left, her mouth moving. He couldn’t hear what she was saying through the panel of glass between him and her. 

Remember. He needed to remember. His name was Dion Aquato. He was 17 (18? 16?). He didn’t know where he was. Home was Mom Dad Nona Frazie Pooter Tala Queepie, it was blue and green tents and a towering caravan. He needed to remember.

He muttered their names under his breath, pushing at the straps wrapped around his arms and chest. As usual, they refused to yield.

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie

Dion Dion Dion my name is Dion my name is Dion

Mom Dad Nona Frazie Raz Tala Queepie—

Pain shot through him, electricity coursing through his body until his head spun. Even when it stopped, the room continued to spin, the bright light above him leaving spots in his vision.

He needed—he needed—

Remember!

His name was Dion Aquato. Home was green and blue and Mom and Dad and Nona and Raz and Queepie—

He was missing something. He needed to remember it.

“Shut up.”

Another bolt of electricity. Another scream that left his throat raw.

He didn’t even realize he’d been muttering. But he needed to remember, he couldn’t shut up, he needed to hold onto everything that he had for as long as he could, needed to hold himself together no matter what. He mumbled their names, his brain struggling through the haze of pain and light dancing behind his eyes. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Tala. Queepie. Mom. Dad. Raz. Tala. Mom. Dad. Nona. Frazie. Mom. Dad. Nona—

“I said shut up.” Something clicked—

Dion’s body convulsed against the straps again. His throat hurt too much to scream, the electricity seizing through him.

The electricity stopped. He twitched. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

Remember. He needed to remember. Mom. Dad. Frazie. Queepie. Mom. Nona. Raz. Queepie. Dad. Nona. Tala. Mom. Dad. Mom—

“Fine, then. If you can’t shut up, then you won’t speak at all.”

Something clicked. Once. Twice—

He never heard the third.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure. “Dion.” That… sounded right.

“Who are you?”

They sounded frustrated. He wasn’t sure why.

“Dion.” He was Dion, wasn’t he?

“No, you’re not.”

+=+=+=+=+

Gray walls stared back at him. He tried to remember any place other than this, tried to remember being anywhere but these walls—

Nothing. Just gray.

He knew he had come from somewhere, though. He had a mother and a father out there, somewhere—somewhere that wasn’t here.

But what did his mother’s face even look like? How did her voice sound? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, and she seemed all the less real because of it.

How many siblings did he have? Did he even have siblings at all?

His head hurt. Lights danced behind his eyes. He clutched his face in his hands, massaging his temples. Nausea threatened to spill out of his mouth and onto the floor below. He choked it down.

His name was Dion. He had a mother and a father. He couldn’t remember their faces. He needed to remember.

Did he? He couldn’t remember. His head swam.

He pitched forward, his hands hitting the concrete floor as he fell off the slab. His name was—he was—

He retched.

Shoulders shaking, he leaned back. He rubbed his mouth, not caring about the bile and spit on his arm. He looked at the door.

“I’m—” He needed to remember. His head was swimming. “Where am I?” Who am I?

The door had no answers for him.

+=+=+=+=+

Bright light loomed above him, searing his eyes.

Exhaustion weighed him down more than the straps holding him still. A bitter taste lingered in the back of his throat.

A woman’s voice floated over to him. “Shutdown, Test 24-2.” The light was blinding, he couldn’t see where the voice was coming from—

Pain arced through his limbs. Something in him clicked. His head pounded, pressure like a vice—

Something clattered on the floor.

“Stop now.” The pressure receded at the woman’s voice. He couldn’t fathom why. He was too exhausted to care, his eyes slipping closed. Light danced behind them.

Click.

Click.

Click.

+=+=+=+=+

“Who are you?”

He had no answer.

“Who are you?”

Why were they asking? He wasn’t anybody.

“Who are you?”

The voice was starting to grate against his head. Nausea danced in his throat.

“Who are you?”

“I—” Who was he? Was he anything?

“Who are you?”

Bright light danced in front of his eyes. At once, the answer came to him.

“Who are you?”

“Nobody.”

After all, he was already twenty. If society had been so broken when he was a baby to require total physical isolation from each other for safety...surely, if he was getting out of this, they would have figured out a solution by now. Or at least found a way for families -not that Virgil had any with his parents dying right after his second birthday- to be together again.

He’d spent his entire childhood by himself. His teens by himself. And now he was starting his second decade. By himself.

Why not continue his isolation into his thirties? His fifties? His nineties? It was all too easy to imagine. Living and dying in this room without anyone but his naggy nanny AI GWEN being the wiser.

And yet.

Thomas remained certain that they would meet. Soon.

And maybe...just maybe...he’d felt a flicker of hope that this potential meeting would happen when he’d received an upgrade to his phone a week later that allowed him to facetime his new friend. To see another human being face to face for the first time in his life.

It had been overwhelming.

And Thomas understood. He had anxiety himself. Knew what it was like to be introduced to sudden changes in routine. Which was why Virgil’s other online friends hadn’t yet received their own upgrades to facetime. Seeing one person on the screen was stressful enough when Thomas could tell at a glance how Virgil was feeling based on looks alone.

It made him more self conscious of how he dressed, how his hair looked, knowing that Thomas could see him.

And now, four months later….Virgil exhaled fingers fidgeting with his phone as he stared at the walls of his room, still unable to see how his friend would be able to get into this place to meet him in person when the only opening was the little service flap that brought his food and other things to him.

His first meeting. His first actual in person meeting. Thomas had given him time to get used to the idea when he’d broached the subject a month ago. Assured him that they would move at Virgil’s pace if he wasn’t ready.

His pace being that, after nearly a week of sleepless nights worrying about what would happen, they’d decided that Thomas would first just stand in the doorway and chat from there once he showed up. No physical contact whatsoever so that Virgil could get used to the idea of seeing him in person first.

Truthfully. It scared him. Sure. He’d already seen Thomas’s face and heard his voice over the phone, putting to rest the fear of not knowing the person coming into his space.

But Virgil still wondered if he would totally screw this up. If he reacted badly to his friend in person would that cement the fact he needed to remain isolated? That he couldn’t ever be integrated back into society?

That he’d be forced to remain alone. Forever.

BZZZZ.

Virgil jumped, nearly falling out of his bed at the unexpected buzzing of his phone.

Okay. Maybe he was just a little tiny bit on edge about all this.

He shakily inhaled as he glanced at the message on the screen.

Thomas: Ready?

Ready? Was he ready? Like he’d actually ever be ready for this. Not when this could change everything. Virgil scoffed, raking his eyes over the walls of his room as he responded.

No. But get in here.

He hit send as he rose to his feet, trying to keep his heart from bursting from his chest as he pocketed his phone.

Would Thomas actually appear? Or would he back out? Say that there was a glitch. That something came up and he’d have to postpone?

A soft hiss to his right had Virgil tensing as a long dark crack appeared in the otherwise seamless wall. A crack that grew wider with every passing second until a black void was staring back at him.

An opening.

He could get out.

“Sure you’re ready, V?”

His breath caught at just how rich Thomas’s voice sounded coming from the darkness compared to how it sounded through his phone. It was---it was---

Virgil turned more fully to the doorway, trying to swallow over the lump in his throat. “Get in here.” He repeated, not caring how his voice cracked.

Thomas chuckled and the shadows shifted until a young man around Virgil’s own age, wearing a floral shirt, appeared in the entrance.

Virgil didn’t realize he’d moved from the bed until his pale hand, visibly trembling, was reaching out to Thomas, fingers brushing his cheek before he could stop it.

Warmth.

So different from the warmth of his showers, his heated blanket.

This warmth was...it was….

Life.

Thomas was HERE. Not a hologram. Not a robot. HERE.

Thomas gave him a grin, brown eyes shimmering as he caught Virgil’s hand, pressing it gently against his cheek before he could pull away, not at all thrown off at the sudden change to their ‘no touching’ plan. “Hey, Virge.”

Not alone.

Virgil laughed, not caring how it sounded semi-hysterical as he stepped forward resting his head against Thomas’s chest, shivering as his friend wrapped warm comforting arms around him in a hug that was a billion times better than any weighted blanket ever would be.