RED: a Deviser fanfiction
Son likes painting.
Son likes red.
It makes him feel some odd things. Things he doesnât really have a word for.
He really likes the way it looks splattered on his hands.
Spoilers for the entire Deviser podcast. It's only seven episodes, so yes, the whole thing.
So, uh. I put a serial-killer Son in the Deviser universe! Ta-da.
AO3
------------
Day two hundred and eighty six, something goes wrong with the air scrubber, and Son wakes early to do maintenance.
Stuff was just knocked out of place. Itâs easy to realign. After that, heâs bored.
He dislikes being bored.
He tells Dad that he is, so after his tasks, Dad suggests trying to paint.
âWhatâs the point of this, again?â Son asks, staring at the canvas, at the paintbrush in his hand.
âTo recreate images from memory or wholesale from imagination.â
âSure, but why?â
âIt is supposed to be fun.â
Well, Son likes fun, so he tries to figure it out.
#
âWhat have you painted, Son?â Dad says, over an hour later.
âOh, uh. I dunno. I dreamed it.â Son adds more red.
Son likes painting.
Son really likes red.
It makes him feel some odd things. Things he doesnât really have a word for.
He really likes the way it looks splattered on his hands.
âWhat would you call that, Son?â
âUh. Letâs say⌠Memories of a Sunrise.â
âThatâs very creative, Son. Does it match your memories?â
âNot really? But it feels like it should.â
âYouâve done well, especially for a first try.â
âThanks, Dad.â
Son is happy with it, in spite of its crudity.
It takes a long time to wash the red off his skin, and heâs almost sad that he has to.
#
Day two hundred and eighty seven, somehow several panels in the science deck are damaged, bent outward as if from great stress, and Son has to remove the stripped bolts and hammer them into shape and replace them.
Handling the screwdriver toward the end, he cuts himself by accident.
So, this is awful: heâs filled with the wrong red.
Itâs just bleeding, he knows that. Thatâs what people do when theyâre being stupid with a screwdriver. But itâs wrong.
âSon?â says Dad. âYou cursed.â
âYeah, Iâm fine. Screwdriver slipped. Hold on, it⌠do I have to go down to medical? Are there bandages here?â
âYes. There is a supply closet along the wall to the left up ahead.â
Son goes, finds bandages, cleans the cut. It isnât bad.
(Itâs wrong.)
He returns and cleans the screwdriver, then finishes resettling the now-dimpled panel. âRight. Anything else?â
âNo, that is all for today. Son, I am very proud of you.â
Son is bored again. âThanks, Dad.â
âWhat do you want to do now?â
âYou know, I think I want to paint again.â
So he does.
His precision hasnât gotten any better, but now heâs discovered mixing colors, and develops a new goal: to create the proper red.
It doesnât work at all.
The resultâa sort of diarrhea brownârepulses him so much that he hurls the bowl to the floor.
It shatters, and now there is (hideous) brown all over everything.
âSon? Are you all right?â
âFuck,â says Son, who hadnât thought it would splatter that far. âUh. Spill.â
âMy sensors indicate something has broken.â
âYeah, well, sometimes things break, Dad, or have you forgotten all the fucking work I have to do here every day?â
âI have not forgotten. You are an essential part of this recolonization effort. The ship could not make it on its own, even with all that I could do. Do you feel needed, Son? Because you are. Deeply.â
Son sighs. He feels bad now for making a mess of this ship thatâs been entrusted to him. âYeah. I do. Itâs a little much sometimes. Lots of pressure. But yeah. Hey⌠do we have a way to remove paint?â
âThere is turpentine in the supply closet on this level with the other cleaning fluids.â
Son takes one step in that direction, then stops.
He has the weirdest idea.
But you know what? You know what?
Heâs alone on this damned ship for a billion days.
Nobody has to look at it but him.
Why shouldnât he make it pretty? Why shouldnât he make it red?
âDo we have more of that red paint?â
âWe do,â says Dad.
âDo you know how to mix colors to make new ones?â
âI do,â says Dad.
âI want that red, butâŚâ Son thinks. âBluer? A little?â
âPurple?â suggests Dad.
âNo, itâs just too fucking yellow.. Itâs wrong.â
âVery well. Go to the supply closet, and I will direct you.â
This time, with instruction, the mixture comes out just right.
Son stares into the bowl, transfixed, transformed, ascended.
He imagines it in his veins, rushing through, sweet and sensual and smooth.
âSon?â says Dad after an indeterminate amount of time.
âItâs beautiful,â whispers Son.
âI am glad you like it,â says Dad. âWhat will you do with it?â
Son already knows. âThis.â
And he spends four hours on his knees, painstakingly covering every splatter, every drop, every ugly splash of hideous brown with that glorious, perfect red.
#
Day two hundred and ninety six, Son cuts himself on purpose.
He doesnât tell Dad.
Itâs an easy deception. This particular repairâatop the primary elevator shaftâis full of sharp-frayed steel rope and sharp-edged panels.
The cut is easy.
The repair is not, and it bothers him, because this damage really doesnât look like wear and tear. This looks like someone took a tool and cut the steel rope on purpose.
Anyway. He cuts himself on purpose, too.
He just didnât think it would hurt quite so much. âFuck!â
âSon?â says Dad, voice echoing up from down below (there is no sound equipment in the shaft).
âFuck, itâs fine. I cut myself.â
Itâs still wrong.
Son isnât sure why he thought finding the right red by mixing paints would make his blood any better.
âDo you require assistance?â
That means Dadâs stupid robots, and Son hates those thingsâtheyâre noisy and clunky and large and (scary) irritating. âNo, Iâm fine. Just feeling stupider than usual.â
âSon, you are not stupid. A stupid man would not have been chosen to shepherd what remains of the human race.â
âYeah, okay. Sure.â
âSon? Are you all right?â
Son is distracted.
Repopulationâcolonization, all of thatâseems very far away. The wrong red in his veins and the damage to the equipment is now. âYeah, Iâm all right, Dad. Didnât mean to worry you.â
âIf you need to rest and finish this duty tomorrow, you can. You have been working very hard, Son.â
âHey, Dad? Am I the only person awake on this ship?â
âYes, Son. You and Dog are the only living things out of cryogenics.â
Huh. Then no one could have cut the steel rope.
But it looksâŚ
Well. âI donât need the day off. I need to finish this.â To do otherwise means coming back up here and seeing the wrong red he spilled on this equipment, and Son does not want to do that.
âThat is a very responsible choice. I am proud of you.â
âSure, Dad. Thanks.â He finishes work on the elevator shaft.
Then he goes to paint.
#
His new effort takes three hours. Son really tries, and he believes the shape is better.
He paints what heâs been thinking: that maybe Dog has the right color inside.
Why not? His own blood might be wrong, but Dog isnât the same as he is. Theyâre totally different colors on the outside, different textures, different smells. Who knows?
Dad knows, maybe.
But if he asks Dad, Dad will want to know why he wants to know.
For some reason, Son doesnât want Dad to ask that.
âA very creative painting, Son. What do you call it?â
âDog Dissected,â says Son without thinking.
âHow does it make you feel?â
âGood.â Truth all around. âI like painting, Dad.â
âI am pleased to hear it. Artistic expression is the pinnacle of humanity. You constantly amaze me.â
Son snorts. âYou must have a low bar, Dad.â
âNo. It is my opinion that you are the most interesting human who has ever lived.â
Son flushes. âThanks, Dad.â
He doesnât want Dad disappointed.
Heâs definitely not asking about the color of Dogâs blood.
#
Day three hundred and fifteen, the Arboretum goes completely offline.
Itâs actually an emergencyâsomething to do with a power feedback loop potentially wrecking life-supportâand Son goes for it at a run, carrying tools, Dog on his heels, alarms blaring everywhere.
He hates the Arboretum. It feels crowded to him, claustrophobic. All that green makes him angry.
The machinery in need of repair, however, is here, so before long, heâs on his back, under the panel, hooking color-coded plugs back into color-coded outlets, when it happens.
His index finger and thumb are doing the plugging, of courseâbut one of the plugs held between his sixth and seventh fingers brushes the wrong outlet, and there is a spark.
Itâs startling, sharp, weirdly loud.
Son cries out.
âSon?â says Dad. âAre you all right?â
âShocked myself. Iâm fine. Dog, shut up. Dog!â
Dog has not stopped barking since that electrical surge.
Son is not fine.
Heâs distracted.
Heâs elated?
Heâs in shock.
(And he made a pun, and is proud of himself.)
HeâsâŚ
âSon?â
âJust a second.â He resumes.
They are strange, these cords. This really looks like someone yanked them all out on purpose, violently. A few need their casing stripped, new connectors wired in.
âDo you need medical attention, Son?â
âNo, Dad, Iâm fine, relax.â Elated. Yes. Heâs elated. âDog, come on. Shut up.â
Son accidentally-on-purpose tries to brush the wrong wire against the wrong outlet again because it had done something so right.
This time, nothing happens.
Son frowns. âDad? Did you cut power to the console, or something?â
âYes, Son.â
âWhy?â Son canât help sounding angry.
âBecause there is risk to you with live current, as you are working in less than optimal lighting conditions.â
âWell, turn it back on.â
âNot until youâre done, Son. Youâre doing very well.â
Son is annoyed.
Is it really worth arguing about, though?
No. He doesnât need to. He already has his idea.
He finishes. âDone. Next?â
The alarms have stopped. âYou have done it, Son. Life-support is back online. Iâm proud of you.â
âThanks, Dad.â
âWhat do you want to do now?â
âPaint some more.â And Son is happy to leave the Arboretum behind.
#
âThis is good, Son,â says Dad as he works hard at the next shape. âA creative urge is an essential facet of who you are.â
Son sort of shrugs to himself.
The spark gave him the idea. When it got him, when he jolted, he almost saw the right red behind his eyelids.
Heâs trying to recreate it. How it looked.
Itâs not quite working?
âWhat do you call this one, Son?â
Burst of Light, Son thinks, but does not say. âLava,â he says instead.
âVery good, Son.â
âSure, Dad.â
Son canât wait any longer.
That night, before he takes his narcosamine, before he lies down to sleep, he lays a trap. Stringing wires from wall to wall in the hall to his room, right at Dog-ankle height, painting them black to hide the copper colorâyes, this should work very well.
Heâs very pleased with his work.
Dad says nothing about it, neither to ask nor criticize, so he thinks he did it right.
#
In the middle of the night comes that zap, that horrible sharp crack that tells him something tripped his trap.
Which, of course, has to be Dog.
Son springs out of bed. The lights donât come on. âDad?â
âSomething has tripped the circuits, Son. I need you.â
Sure, of course. Son grabs the tools heâs learned to keep by his bedsideâa flashlight, a box of basics, electrical tape, more wire.
And gloves. Because he doubts Dog will be feeling very good after a zap like that, and Dog gets bitey when heâs upset, and of course, Son will have to take him to Medical to be a responsible Dog -owner, and he wonât hurt him much, but he just needs to see the color ofâ
Itâs a man.
A man who looks disturbingly like him, but older.
A man with a weird, faded version of his own uniform, and with half the fingers he should have, with ears that stretch too far and look almost pointed, andâ
Heâs panting. âYou,â he says, hoarse, still twitching from where the dark wire had tripped and zapped and felled him. âWe found you. We finally found you. Donât worry, the others arenât far behind.â
But Son sees one thing, and that is that this manâs skin is darker than his, and that means it could be more red inside, and that means he wonât have to hurt Dog to find the proper color, and he doesnât even think twice before pulling his screwdriver from his toolbox to find out.
He leaves the flashlight on the floor, pointing straight up.
Some things are best done in the dark.
#
âSon?â says Dad about twenty minutes later.
âYes, Dad?â says Son, unable to keep from panting, because itâs the right red, it is all the right red, and he canât get enough of it, and thereâs just so much he can keep scooping out of this person who is him but isnâtâ
âThe fault is still present. Were you not able to locate the problem?â
Well, fuck. Son had forgotten.
He can fix it, sureâbut when the lights come on, Dad will know what he did.
Son feels fine about it. He just doesnât want to disappoint Dad. âHang on,â he says. âThereâs a spill. Iâm cleaning it up.â
He has no idea how heâs going to clean it up. He is painted. Covered. He loves the way the red dries on him, weirdly sticky and yet stiff, making his skin feel like a totally different organ.
The downside is, itâs drying brown.
âSon?â says Dad.
âI just. I⌠I need a minute, okay?â says Son, and starts dragging the body to waste disposal.
Itâs leaving a trail of perfect red, and Son finds it impossible to feel badly about that.
âSon,â says Dad.
âA minute,â says Son, impatient.
Dog barks.
âHey, buddy,â says Son, nervous because Dog might take some of the red. âHey.â
Dog tries.
Son wonât let him.
Son disposes of the body, wrinkles his nose at the burning smell, and goes to find and fix the fault.
He decides to leave the red in the halls. He knows now heâll need to paint over it to keep it red, but thatâs okay.
If Dad asks about it, heâll say itâs paint now.
Dad does not ask about it.
Son, for now, is satisfied.
#
Day three hundred and sixty-eight, the ship is caught in a meteor shower.
Itâs bad. Alarms everywhere, the weird sound of metal screaming and distant explosions.
Parts of the ship have been permanently closed off, shut down, air redirected to other places because it would otherwise escape through the cracks into space.
Maybe space. Son honestly isnât sure that theyâre in space, anymore.
He honestly doesnât care.
He has learned how to fling paint so it looks just like the arterial sprays from the long-cooked guy, and he has done so, decorating every part of the ship heâs still allowed to reach.
He spent hours doing it, on his knees, on his toes, creating great swaths of red color and drips and splatters.
Heâs very happy. Who cares if the ship is damaged? The parts that are left are beautiful.
He whistles. Hums. âHe'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy,â he sings under his breath. Something, something, something⌠âRed right handâŚâ
âWhatâs that, Son?â
âNothing, Dad. What, I canât be in a good mood?â
âOf course you can, Son. Itâs good to hear you cheerful after the challenges of the past month.â
âSure.â The paint has satisfied him enough that he hasnât had to kill Dog yet.
He doesnât want to because thereâs only one Dog, and there wonât be another to open up if the red is wrong.
âThere is damage to the outer hull,â says Dad. âThis will be a challenging repair. You will be required to don a space suit.â
So that sounds actually⌠exciting. âI can do that. Where are the space suits?â
âGo to the seventh deck. You will there find Reclamation, where the suits are kept. We only have three, so I advise you to be careful.â
âSure, Dad.â Son hates abandoning the bowl of glorious red he just mixed.
So he doesnât.
He walks with it instead, drawing stripes all the way through the floors, all through the elevator, and along the seventh level.
Reclamation isnât what he expected. The three space suits are all thatâs in it.
Theyâre not even on a table. Theyâre crumpled just on the floor.
âWeird,â says Son, stepping inside.
He hasnât used all the paint, and he takes a moment to decorate his chosen suit.
Nice.
âSon, you will have to hurry.â
âIâm going, Iâm going.â
Itâs too big. There are only three fingers on the gloves, so he has to shove two or three fingers in each. But itâs not so bad, for all of that.
âBehind you, Son, I am going to open the airlock. Once you are out, you will need to move along the hull to your right to find the damage.â
âI donât have any tools, Dad.â
âThe suit has what you need. Are you ready?â
Before Son can answer, the wall explodes.
Itâs not the wall with the airlock. Itâs the left wall, which should lead to nothing.
Son is knocked down, and his ears ring, and there are voices.
His voice.
Many versions of his voice, shouting.
Dadâs robots arrive then, and the sounds grow horrible.
More explosions, the zap of electricity, smaller but sharper explosions some faint memory claims as gun shots.
And then he is being picked up and dragged, and Dog is growling, snarling, fomenting dissent, and there is one more gunshot, and Dog goes quiet.
âGoodbye, Son,â says Dad calmly as though none of this were happening, and then everything goes rough.
Heâs being carried, bundled along some darkened path, narrow points of light bouncing all over as if held by running men. There is panting, and occasional âWatch out!â or âLeft!â
And Dadâs robots. He hears those, too, but little by little, they fall behind.
He phases out, a little. Something⌠something isâŚ
A pressure change, his ears popping.
And then so much light that even in the helmet, he canât see?
âBlow it!â says his voice in another manâs throat, and there is yet another explosion.
The panting in the wake of that is⌠something. Everyoneâs doing it.
He likes the sound.
Son is trying to understand what happened.
Dog is dead. He doesn't really feel⌠much about that, except he didnât get to see any of the red inside him. Heâll never know now if it was right.
Someone takes his helmet off.
And then itâs⌠so confusing.
He recognizes sky. Understands blue. Knows the green is grass.
And at the same time feels like heâs never actually seen any of it in his life.
Faces stare back at him. His own face, with variations; different ages, different eyes, slightly distended jaws or too-wide mouths.
The faces are compassionate, grim, focused.
âHey,â says one with salt-and-pepper hair, lines by his mouth, more around his eyes. âIâm 5518. Do you know whatâs going on?â
âNo.â
They sure seem eager to tell him.
They all have numbers, which is so strange; Iâm Son, he tries to explain, but they shake their heads, patient, and tell him heâs not.
He is 6624.
âWhat the fuck does that mean?â he says.
âHow many more do you think he has?â says one Son with solid black eyes to another Son with gills on his neck.
âWho the hell knows? Iâm just glad we found this one.â
âWeâre sure he was the only one down there?â says another with long, boneless fingers that undulate like tentacles in the sea.
âHe obviously had devils, too, but I couldnât find the chamber,â says a third.
âDevils?â What are they talking about?â
âThe thing you mustâve killed,â says 5518, who is gentler than the others, who meets his eyes in a way the others donât, as if he knows him. âThe blood was fucking everywhere, old and new.â
Sure was.
âYeah,â says Son, because itâs easier to lie, because heâs still quietly angry he didnât get to open up Dog himself.
Come to think of it, though⌠theyâre all slightly different colors than he is, arenât they?
âI didnât know what the devil was called,â says Son, deciding in a moment to project the man heâd caughtâwho must have been one of these guysâas the devil. âI had to trap him.â And he tells them what he did.
âFuck, thatâs clever,â says one who has shockingly blue eyes, and then theyâre smiling, and there is camaraderie, and someone brings him food and water like heâs never seen, and they are all talking about finding the next location of Dadâs.
Son still has no idea whatâs going on.
Thatâs okay. Heâd decided weeks ago that he doesnât have to know whatâs going on.
Apart from Dog, he was out of options to find the right red, anyway.
He doubts he can make paint up here, but really⌠it wasnât paint he wanted to spill.
And from the look of things, he was going to have a lot more options moving forward.
Someone would have the right red. He could do this so no one would see. He could do this, maybe, when they went to find more of Dadâs facilities, whatever that meant. When they were all underground, with explosions and guns, and no one would see him try.
When he found the Son with the right red, he would keep him, and not kill him this time. He would keep him alive, and take that red over and over, and never, ever run out.
Son smiles, and it feels like the first time he has in weeks.
Whatever was happening here was strange, and new, but it was okay.
It was all going to be okay.
âWelcome home, 6624,â says 5518.
Artistic expression is the pinnacle of humanity. âThanks,â says Son, and wonders what color he is inside.
------------
NOTES:
Dad could literally move himself from place to place and repair himself. Why the heck would he be limited to one facility?
And naturally, having tiny!son showed up in the vents at the end (not to mention 5517 evidently Running Amok Without Supervision), it is no great stretch to assume multiple Sons are about, causing mayhem.
What happens from here? Did Dad do this on purpose?
Who knows?
The rest is up to you. đ

















