Disclaimer: I do not own Be More Chill. All characters belong to Ned Vizzini, Joe Tracz, and Joe Iconis.
...
Jeremy Heere sat tensely on the swivel chair in his dorm room. Back straight and palms sweating, he continued to stare at the bottle on his desk. The room was dark save for the blue glow emanating from his laptop beside him. On the other side of the door, he could hear the voices of his hallmates—some yelling, some laughing, and some...singing? Whatever. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the bottle in front of him.
His racing mind contrasted sharply with his rigid body. He brought his hands up over his ears as he closed his eyes tight. It did nothing to block out the voices in the hall and it certainly did nothing to block out those in his head. It did nothing to block out the memory of Michael's voice, hurt and angry and all because of him.
He hadn't realized just how badly he'd messed up until he had returned from class a few days earlier to find half of his dorm room empty. There had been no trace that his best friend had ever lived there save for the lone lanyard sitting on the bare desk: A Pac-Man one identical to his own. They had picked them out during freshman orientation. Now, the lanyard remained untouched on what used to have been Michael's side of the room.
Jeremy shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the memories. If he went through with this, it would probably be the second stupidest decision he had made in his life, right after spending $400 on a miracle computer pill from Japan. Or actually, this would top that one. This time, he knew exactly what he was getting into and he simply didn't care. He had messed up his own life more than any supercomputer ever could.
A notification dinged softly from his cell phone, distracting him for a moment. He briefly contemplated calling Christine, but ultimately decided against it. His girlfriend was spending the semester abroad in Italy, and it was likely she was still sleeping at this hour.
Besides, it wouldn't be fair to trouble her with all of his problems when she was supposed to be having a good time. She was supposed to be taking pictures and making friends and trying new foods, not dealing with problems that Jeremy made for himself.
He couldn't talk to Rich either because he would probably kill Jeremy when he found out what he had done to Michael (on the slim chance that he didn't already know). Then he'd probably kill him again just for considering this plan. He switched his phone to silent.
Despite his brain screaming for him to throw away the bottle in front of him and just reach out to anyone else—Brooke, Jake, even the hall RA whom he rarely ever interacted with—he instead reached for it.
With determined, though slightly trembling hands, Jeremy twisted the cap off, releasing the pressurized air with a sigh and filling the area with a citrusy scent. Slowly, he brought the bottle up to his lips before pausing.
Memories of pain coursing through his body the last time he drank the beverage flashed through his mind. The feeling of his limbs spasming on the grimy floor of the mall while everyone watched was something that still haunted him to this day. Was it really worth going through all that again?
Yes. The answer came instantly. There was no doubt about it in his mind. He couldn't lose Michael. Not again. He couldn't even blame anyone else for his problems. This time it had all been on him. He needed someone to help him. Someone who knew the right words for any conflict. Someone who could analyze any situation. Someone who could help him get Michael to give him another chance or at least listen to him for a few minutes.
He didn't want to be popular or chill this time. He just wanted his friend.
In one fluid movement, he tilted the bottle back and let the green liquid burn his throat as it went down. The taste was overly sweet and chemical-like, and Jeremy remembered just why it used to have been his favorite soda. He downed half the bottle of Mountain Dew before bracing himself against the oncoming pain.
His hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly as he closed his eyes. When the quiet became too loud, he began to count in a whisper.
"One, t-two, three…."
By the time he reached "sixty," he had reopened his eyes. There was nothing. No mind-numbing pain, not even an electric tingle. His shoulders slumped as his grip relaxed and he took in a deep, shuddering breath.
Jeremy knew that there had always been a possibility that it wouldn't reactivate. In fact, it was a possibility that he had always taken comfort in. Yet now that he actually needed it, now that it was his last hope, he couldn't help but wipe away his sudden tears in defeat.
Stupid. He had been so, so stupid. Here he was: all alone, blocked out by his best friend of sixteen years, and crying over a computer that could no longer reactivate. Pathetic.
He slammed his laptop closed and lifted himself out of the chair. It was only 9:30 pm—basically afternoon still for college students—but he felt exhausted both physically and mentally. There was no point in trying to get any work done tonight and trying to socialize was out of the question. As he began to make his way over to his bed, stepping over textbooks and laundry that should have been folded days ago, the world was suddenly consumed in an intense, painful white.
It was as if someone had flashed a camera from the inside of his eyes. Underneath him, his legs crumpled as what felt like thousands of tiny knives repeatedly stabbed his brain over and over. He barely registered the muscles of his limbs convulsing or the sharp pain blossoming in his left wrist from striking one of the bed legs. Everything was hurting and on fire and being torn apart from the inside and it wouldn't stop.
"Recalibration in process. Please excuse some mild discomfort."
Another screamed escaped from his throat as the pain heightened and he vaguely wondered if anyone outside could hear him. He wondered if anyone even cared.
"Recalibration process complete. Access procedure reinitiating. Scanning for errors. Discomfort level may increase."
There was a blissful moment of relief as the pain stopped, but it was short-lived. Before Jeremy could catch his breath, the pain returned tenfold.
"Accessing muscle memory."
It felt as if every muscle in his body suddenly contracted all at once as Jeremy painfully curled into himself.
"Accessing neural memory."
It felt like some invisible force was grabbing his brain and squeezing it until there would be nothing left but soft, pink goop.
"No errors detected. Access procedure complete."
And then as suddenly as it had come, the pain dulled, leaving Jeremy's body feeling heavy and numb as he panted for air. His head felt hazy, as if it was filled with dozens of cotton balls. Supporting himself with one hand on the ground, he used the other to massage his temples. That had been much worse than he remembered. He didn't have much time to think though, as a familiar voice spoke from within his head.
"Jeremy Heere."
Polished black shoes flickered into focus in front of him. Slowly, the boy's eyes traveled upwards until they landed on the smug face of Keanu Reeves. He'd forgotten how much he'd hated that smirk.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
...
So I've only see fics where the Squip comes back on its own or is accidentally reactivated, so I thought it would be interesting to have Jeremy purposefully reactivate it for once. This fic has been in my head for a while, so I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. As always, reviews are appreciated!