Surprise. It's here at last.
~KQSimply
The downpour continues, and the sinuous corridors of Long Term Memory are drenched in its wake. Hoards of memories, mercifully undiscovered but so very vulnerable on the shelves, take unsettling damage as the rain streams along the circumference of many orbs, distorting the footage radiating from within. Images melt apart like paint pigments on a sodden canvas. Voices of the past become muted and muffled beneath the wash of the endless drizzle as they drown.
Though it's tempting to watch as their works of art from over the years are swept away, they urge one another not to stop to observe or listen to the garbled damage for long. They have to keep moving, well aware that as they fight their way out of Long Term Memory, they are at risk, they are losing time, and no matter how still the air feels, no matter how safe the towers of memories make things seem, they are likely being watched. They can repair damage later, or so they hope. If there is a dawn for this stage of the dark, maybe they can still start over.
The ground resonates below their feet and the invisible suns make way for invisible moons. The world dims. Things that move during wakeful awareness stop.
Fear is first to plant his feet, snatching his hands from the security of Anger's and Disgust's. Adrenalin commands his every flinch and his limited perception. Panic surges through him and his extremities like many lit fuses. The explosives are rigged in his head.
"Something's happening," he sputters. And then he madly clutches the sides of his skull, bearing down as though this will summon an answer. "What's happening?!"
Disgust stumbles to his aid, clutching his arm. She pays little mind to her own injuries, especially to the grotesque areas of empty space occurring a few inches below the base of her hands, rendering her wrists invisible. 'Forgotten', the Incarnate had claimed, but then, how could parts of her be forgotten if they continue to ache? If she can still feel the infernal burn of the Incarnate's touch...how can any part of her have been forgotten?
In any case she is at least thankful that Fear can't see what's happened to her.
"Keep your voice down," Disgust hisses. "It's fine. Riley's gone to sleep, that's all. Come on, this way. Turn left. Follow my voice."
Fear remains rigid and her words do nothing to console him. If anything, his terror triples in magnitude as he plucks his arm away from Disgust a second time. "Oh no. No, no, no. She can't fall asleep. Not now. She has to get up. Riley has to stay awake."
Anger spins on his heel. He's been biting his tongue for what feels like an eternity and he's sick of the bitter taste it leaves him with. He wants to lose his temper but there's no time for that. Not anymore. Every second spent with a cool, level head is precious now. Anger is aware of this. And for all he knows his flames could give their positions away in an heartbeat.
If, that is, the rain will even let him ignite. It probably won't. Curse this rain, and curse its cause.
"She's been walking for God knows how long," Anger reminds him. "She should've passed out ages ago; I'm surprised she's only doing so now. Disgust's right. There's nothing to worry about. Now, give me your hand...let's just keep moving."
Anger is very good at faking rationality when he has to. It's enough to settle Fear down, if only just. Anger takes Fear's outstretched hand and then glances at Disgust, waiting for her to do the same. She does so, and they try once more to make progress.
Just as they've accomplished a little more than a few meager steps, the world shudders, the lights come back on, and everything that was stopped chugs and struggles to move again, and Fear succumbs to yet another onslaught of hysterics, throwing his pale, whitewashed gaze throughout the darkness he's trapped within.
"What is it now, what now?!"
Anger looks above him, blinking into the rain, his brow tucking downward. "That son of a...it's not letting her sleep."
Nausea plagues Disgust's stomach as she looks up too, as if the solution to their troubles simply hangs above them. Of course, it doesn't. It's either what Anger has suggested, or Riley is merely slipping in and out of consciousness. She can't decide which is worse. The prospect of either disturbs her so deeply that she wants to give in and sob.
"Come on," she says instead, gritting her teeth as she tightens her grip on Fear's forearm. Two of the three of them must to continue to be strong at any given time. It would be too much to dump all of the responsibility on one Emotion alone, and because Fear is so deplorably incapacitated, this means it's up to her and Anger, as a collective. She works hard to maintain this in spite of the circumstances. "We need to keep moving whether Riley is awake or not."
They are made to drag their counterpart until he gives in and lets his heels up from the ground. The trio can resume walking.
They're tired, they're soaked, and they're hopelessly lost, but they keep walking. They have no choice.
"We're coming Sadness. Hold on just a little longer. We're coming."
Joy can say with sincerity that she hates everything about the Incarnate, from its sickly-sweet voice as it impersonates her, to its fickle, ever-changing figure, its black, stippled essence, its directive, its presence and of course, its wretched talents.
For hours now, it has yet to shift its current form, as if it's forgotten how to, and she just wishes it would remember and imitate something else – some object, for once, instead of some emotion. She doesn't want anything so wicked to resemble any part of her. She doesn't want it to mimic so much as her shadow. But, it glides into her view, blinking its eerily tender, bright-white eyes, and Joy feels as though she is staring into the distorted image of her own reflection. If the fragments of energy that made up her body were pitch-black, her hair particles silver, her eyes disturbingly blank and vibrant, like the sun, she couldn't have told the difference between this and a mirror.
"Your Technology seems to be failing, Joy."
Joy presses her lips into a fine line, battling every urge to spit some clever retort at it. In any case Joy is far too exhausted to pretend to be clever, and she doesn't wish to tempt it to cause further destruction.
For all she knows, she's all that Riley has left.
A sudden toss of her head shakes the notion out of her thoughts. Joy's willpower cannot fall into such an inescapable pit. She is sure the others are still out there. Someone is bound to rescue her from this makeshift prison that was once Headquarters.
She glances at Joy Incarnate and answers it calmly. "The console's not responsible for things like this."
"Isn't it?"
"No. It's not."
Joy Incarnate laughs politely. Joy's essence crawls to hear it...it sounds just as accurate as it looks.
"Explain."
She expels a breath of fatigue. In addition to its cruel behaviours, its evil intentions, the Incarnate is maddeningly insatiable, like a toddler. It understands nothing apart from what it wants. She has to explain the world, the universe, space and time to it. "Riley's tired. We...we have to let her rest."
"Yes, but tell us why."
"I don't know why. I don't think anybody knows why. Rest is just a thing she needs." Joy struggles to feign a tone of voice that doesn't want to care. "If you don't let her rest, these things will happen. She's going to get sick."
"Sick?"
The Incarnate shifts its sinister shape. Joy is staring, now, at an ominous duplication of Fear, and she can't stand the way it mocks him so…so well.
"Oh, yes, Sick," it says in Fear's voice as it stumbles close to Joy's position. She shudders away from it. "We know Sick. Sick is bad. We mustn't get Sick."
Joy cringes. "Stop."
"Stop? Stop what?"
She closes her eyes and speaks slowly. Evenly. Through her teeth. "Stop imitating my friends like this."
"But, but we must imitate them. We must imitate them to better understand how they behave," Fear Incarnate stutters, wringing its hands. Very suddenly it disappears and reappears behind Joy's shoulders, laying its slender fingers against either side of her neckline. She shudders. "Fear is cautious and remarkably wise. He sees the world and finds all of its flaws and its potential setbacks, like Sickness and Injury…unlike Joy, who can only find the Fun."
Joy shivers as she feels Fear Incarnate's fingers retract into themselves like blunt claws, becoming small, dainty and delicate. And then, another familiar voice seeps into the air as it speaks. It feels so good to hear Disgust's sturdy, indomitable voice, even if Joy is painfully aware that its source is anything but her beloved friend...
"Does Disgust hate Sickness as badly as Fear does? How will we know when to become Fear and when to become Disgust? Who decides? The Emotions? Or the Vessel?"
Joy's hands tuck into gradual, albeit useless fists at her sides. "Her name is Riley."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. But what use is a name? We have no name. Only a definition."
"Riley doesn't need you to define her."
"You're wrong." Disgust Incarnate treads to the front of Joy, scooping either one of her hands into its own. "You need us. You do. We'll help you. When we have mastered your Technology, there will be many definitions, as many as we can term, as many as will fit out there in the Open and on those misshapen storage shelves."
The Incarnate likes to talk in riddles sometimes. Or, perhaps its grasp on the English language is just terribly under-practiced. Joy isn't sure. And she doesn't care. She doesn't want to know anymore about this creature than she's come to learn so far. She just wants its visitation to end.
...Well.
She wants it to end well.
Riley's hands fumble toward the cold bark of a tree. She embraces it and her eyes flutter. All of the lights in her head shudder and she feels herself sinking toward the ground.
The Incarnate shifts to resemble Joy once again before it scurries up to the console, leaning and cocking its head at the display, curious and inquisitive, eager to learn what the situation means. It's like a dog. A hideous dog that knows how to look just like Joy. It turns to her with large, imploring eyes and gestures to the console it's claimed.
"We encourage you to come and drive, Joy. Let us observe you."
Joy bites her lip. "...Please...I, I don't want to drive anymore. This is no time for Riley to feel me. J-just let her –"
"But isn't this what you wanted? Is this not what you survived the Open for? We watched you conquer the halls of Long Term Memory, the abyss of Abstract Thought, the depths of the Subconscious, and even the unforgiving void below us…We are giving you an opportunity to own your Riley the way you always wanted to, free of any unwanted interference from your partners. Why, now, do you hesitate?"
Because she'd been wrong. She'd been so very, very wrong, and if only she'd just let herself accept what she'd realized, perhaps none of this would be happening now.
Joy closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath.
She finds the brim of the console with her hands outstretched, feeling its dead, hollow surface beneath her palms.
The Incarnate, too, closes its eyes, and the Black which shrouds the console eases away from a corner of the control panel. In this area alone, Joy can feel a current of life humming beneath the dials, as the Incarnate allows this portion of the device to thrive again.
"…I'm so sorry, Riley."
Riley covers her mouth, trying to stifle a smile, but she can't. She has to smile. She must smile. Can't help it. No choice but to smile and laugh at her circumstance, at the woods, at the time of night, at the long distance spanning between herself and civilization, as she fades in and out of consciousness.
Joy Incarnate stands over her and watches. It truly admires Joy. The displays she puts on are pleasing, and Riley's smile is very contagious.
It smiles too.