He had no idea how he gotten here. How he'd become what he now was.
He'd started out in all the right ways. He'd know what he was doing was right. Everything had lined by perfectly as if the Man Upstairs himself was leading his way.
He'd spent years, years, chasing after a false idea, growing more and more obsessed with his work, until nothing was left but a single minded obsession in a swirling, unstable mind. Any change, any resistance was seen as a challenge.
And he'd been knocked down by some random construction worker, after years of fighting and unvarying ideas, a handful of words had left him exposed for all the world to see. Sure, the citizens had forgiven him, (they never were the brightest bulbs), although the Master Builders were to bitter to ever truly forgive and forget. At the most they tolerated each other.
In a way, it was the forgiveness, the acceptance that wasn't right. He'd spent years building himself up to be above everyone, he'd known deep down he would never be seen as anything special without his power. And yet... nobody hated him. He had none of the fear, none of the power of before, and he now lacked the hatred and pointed stares he had been sure he'd receive. The world had moved on to the next act and he'd been left as just another actor with a part that's already finished, curtains drawn and applause given, and was now sitting backstage as others took the spotlight. It had left him empty inside, and he'd clung to the first sign of familiarity in this new world.
He knew one day they'd leave him. Let him suffer and be haunted by the loneliness that crept into his bones so easily. Had this been what they had felt? When he'd forced Good so far back they couldn't even talk to each other? It served him right, he supposed, that he would end up like this. Karma, what a brick. But for now they had too many memories to force him to relive, this time from the other side of the looking glass. He knew the entire reason they had reached out to him had been part of a plan for revenge, they had made sure of it, but at the moment he was to broken to try and find any other way to survive.
He twisted his tie, such a vibrant red, between his hands as their heavy footsteps sounded behind him. The bed creaked and sunk a little as they joined him, wrapping arms around his waist and pulling him back, his back to they're chest. He tilted his head back and found them wearing the silver aviators, the very ones he'd once ripped from they're face. The Cops shared face betrayed no emotion, even as his head was tilted back to lock lips with them.
It was incredible, how much changed after a flip of the coin.
There had once been a time when he called the shots. When he could make the stronger man (men?) do anything he could think of. All it had taken was a word, sometimes a glance, and they were at his beck and call. That all seemed so long ago, now that he was the one who craved approval. He needed the Cops to tell him what he was doing was good, was right, even if it gave them a twisted sense of pleasure to give it just as much as Business had given it to them.
He sure as the sun shinned knew this wasn't healthy in any knew he needed to start anew, and this was only causing the last bits of his mind to crumble away. But after all he'd done to them, he couldn't give himself that second chance. He had never complained once when the other pinned him down, or used him as a punching bag, always sure never to bruise him in ways that showed. Given how he dressed, it wasn't that hard. He knew deep down he deserved it. For every mark they gave him, every time they took his body, he had done it ten more times to them.
He lay on his side of the bed, breathing heavily into his pillow. The Cops stayed on their side, back to him. Even after the rush faded he had trouble falling asleep. He could never fall asleep first, he was to scared he'd never wake up. He also made sure to get up early, resulting in very short sleep schedules. Sometimes he never slept at all, especially if they had the nightmare again. He never knew quite what they dreamed, but one would always call out to the other. Depending on who had been in control when they went to sleep. They couldn't switch in they're sleep, a fact he'd taken advantage of many times.
He unconsciously traced a series of scars across his chest. BC. GC. He was still unsure when he got them. He had a distant memory of the Cops holding a pocket knife, but it was so hard to pinpoint. In the dim light, he'd bet he would be able to see the much older B carved into the Cops back. Whenever he saw it, it made his stomach churn. It was a reminder of everything he'd ever done to them.
He finally turned over, letting sleep overcome him. He had a big day tomorrow. Even if he was only President of Octan now, Octan still held all the power. It would take awhile for the new leaders of each world to truly come together. Sometimes he wondered what would happen when they finally got a hold on things. Perhaps he would just … fade.