Dedicated to my sister, who loves this ship just as much as me, and my friend Fuzzy, who drew an absolutely amazing portrait of a BDSM lemon for me. BTW Gizmo isn't actually dead, it just fits into the story. also i updated because i realized there was an inconsistency with the location of the story. sorry! i just returned from a long hiatus

Found on the as of yet unidentified corpse of the latest victim of the Irish Reaper(s).

His mental deterioration began with headaches, which evolved (or devolved) into migraines, then to blackouts and lost time. He couldn't understand why he would go to sleep in his green dinosaur pajamas on his mattress and wake fully clothed and God-knows-where in the woods. How could he understand?

Something lurked in his skull besides his tormented brain, something much worse than a lost spider. So he paused his life and let doctors attempt to muck around in his head, and this is when the horrid events I must relate were spurred into action.

I must hurry; they left me to bleed out on an unforgiving and chilly concrete floor. They may never come back, but if they do, all you may find of me will be my eyes, ears, and tongue all half-submerged in a stagnant, old pool of blood.

If you are a police person, they're gone. The only evidence they leave or left behind is their destructive need for each other.

Jack started to notice something was amiss right after one of his dogs died.

When he was recording a game, an excruciating headache smashed into his skull like a semi truck. He was on his computer, getting ready to record, and was in the middle of practicing his intro; "Top of the mornin' to- ow, fuck," he shouted, ending with a mutter, and gently rubbed circles on his head.

He stood cautiously, not wanting to provoke the headache, and left his room for a few minutes, vision blurry from the intensity of the pain. He downed four generic Advil pills, and then lumbered back to his room. He chalked it up to being mournful for his dog. He plopped himself down in his computer chair, and cradled his skull in one hand while he skyped his best friend.

Mark answered after about two rings. "Hey, Sean! What's up with your head?" the other YouTuber commented, concerned. Jack peeked up through his spread fingers at the brightly lit screen at Mark's worried face.

"Got a headache that's worse than any fuckin' hangover I've ever had," he dryly commented, with a small grin. Mark was skeptical. "You don't normally get headaches, right? Is this because of Gizmo?"

The American had a certain glint in his eyes; Jack knew that look. "Why? Have yeh had headaches on this scale before?" Mark rubbed the back of his neck. "I may or may not have. It was right after Daniel died. It turned into blackouts, and I had my doctor look around in my head just to make sure I didn't have a brain tumor or something.

I got a brain scan, and there was nothing. I black out about once per day for about the same amount of time very day, and it's just kind of become normal," Mark explained.

"Why didn't yeh tell me beforehand?" Jack inquired, the pain spiking. "Fuck." Mark winced at Jack in reminiscence of his own migraines. "I've already had a brain scan, and I have meds that I take to make the blackouts as short as possible. I'm still not very sure if they help at all," Mark said, and shrugged.

Jack decided that a brain scan probably wouldn't work in his own case. "Is there somethin' I can do to not get blackouts?"

"I'd say get a psychologist or something, I dunno. I have one. It doesn't really help the blackouts, but we're working on narrowing it down into something that can be treated," Mark said, reaching for his green Reptar shirt.

"I'm going to go work out; I'll talk to you later, Jack, 'kay?" Mark looked at Jack for feedback. "Kick ass, Markimoo," Jack replied, grinning fully, ending the call.

He sat back in his chair, head throbbing and resting in an open-palmed hand. Then he sat up quickly, grimacing at a particularly painful pound in his head, and surfed the Internet in hopes of finding someone who could possibly help with his brain.

He sighed with relief as the pain meds kicked in, and the intensity decreased to a dull throb.

Finally, he found a psychologist in his area, running her own place. He wrote down the number and made coffee for himself (sans alcohol due to the intensity of his worse-than-a-hangover headache), and settled back into his chair so that he could play assorted video games. He wouldn't finish recording.

After falling asleep at his computer, Jack woke a few hours later and opened his eyes.

His gaze immediately rested on stairs, and he awakened himself fully to look upon the stairs leading to the attic. He was disoriented upon having just woken up, and he uttered noises of high-pitched confusion. "The fuck?"

He descended the stairs slowly, careful not to plant himself on the floorboards unceremoniously and suddenly, and rounded the corner into the kitchen. He tiredly eyed the clock, which had read 10:17 am and now read 4:23 pm. He ran back up the stairs to gauge if he did anything in his sleep.

The attic was rearranged in a strange way; a table lay in the center and everything piled up around it except for a clear path directly to it.

Jack dug around in his pockets and located the note, which was thankfully still there.

He picked up a phone, wedged it between his shoulder and head, and skyped Mark again. Mark didn't answer, but a voice answered over the phone. "Hello?"