She had been looking for him for quite some time. When the moment came to see him again, in that blank and distorted world, he was perched on an island perpendicular to the block she clung to. The weak gravity made walking unstable, but he seemed to have no problem with sitting on her 'wall'. She called his name and he turned to look, manipulating the distance and space and suddenly he was right beside her.
Maybe he had always been there.
This world made her hurt, it offended the sensibilities, it was deep and dark and it dripped, swirled, mixed. One fluid thing lead into another and another and another until one could not understand what was right, what was wrong, what was up, what was down, what was black or white or brilliant shades of grey.
This world made her hurt.
Please, she begged, come back to us. To the real world. To a world that made sense and was filled with light and colour and sound. A world with people, with places, with anything other than this should-not-exist existence. His face, blank and immobile and cold as ever, told her all she needed to hear: No, no, no.
Why, she wanted to scream. Why would he not listen to sense, listen to reason, take a step away from his exile?
He looks away and she wants to scream, to cry. They are miles, light-years, seconds, hours, minutes, years, inches, centimetres, kilometres from where anyone would find them. Please, she begs, please.
Again, there is no answer. The moments stretch infinitely in a world where time does not exist. It is both ten seconds and ten years before he responds: Can't she see?
No, no, she can't see. She begs him for something, anything, to help her understand.
And then he is bleeding.
This is a metaphor, he says, for what it is like out there.
She cries out in shock, wanting to take his hand. Why did he slash his palm open like that? The stupid, brilliant man! He doesn't flinch as she takes his hand, despite the fact that he dislikes touch.
She uses her teeth to rip part of her sleeve, tying it around his hand. The fingers, calloused from working with machinery and in the field but still long and slim, twitch inwards. She is drawn to the hands she has never gotten to study before. Her fingertips brush against a line of raised flesh across his index finger.
That, he says calmly, is from when he caught his Houndoom. She grabbed his hand as a puppy, tearing the skin, but was eventually tamed.
The single scar draws her eyes up his arm. He rolls up his sleeve.
These, he indicates, were from feeding his Golbat. The pokemon needed blood, he offered his own. Those over there were from an experiment gone wrong. Those next to it, an experiment gone right. The track marks over here were self-inflicted from when he had foolishly believed for a very short time that pain was better than nothing.
Her eyes travel up even further. His own eyes, cold and flat grey, catch them. He pulls away and removes his vest, the shirt underneath it.
Her eyes begin to water. His entire body is a map. Scars cross and fold over themselves, writing a story. This one, his Weavile. This one, a knife blade from a peer. He ghosts over some, as if they still pain him. His nose, he reveals, was broken. He has since recovered from thousands of bruises.
He finally gets to the largest scars.
That was from when daddy lost his temper. That was from when mommy threw a fit. That was from a broken bottle. That was from when-
Cyrus stopped his explanation. No, none of this was truly important.
Please, tell me, she begged.
His eyes had already begun to glaze over once more. There were far too many scars that couldn't be seen, he said, internal scars on the heart or the brain or wherever the human spirit is housed.
Scars from lonliness, scars from solitude, scars from never knowing love, scars from knowing all too well that he has no grasp of what this 'love' thing was. And scars from his defeat. Scars from knowing without a doubt that he was trying to help the world and that they had turned their backs on him. Scars from when he was cast aside as a villain.
He showed her his hand again. It was bleeding.
This will be a scar, too, someday, he says with the first expression she has ever seen: A sad smile. This is the scar that represents the world that believes this is madness. No, no. You're wrong. This world is a good world, he says, this world is one where one can lose and find themselves. This world is my home. It's the first home I've ever known.
Would you take that away from me?
No, she whispers, no, no.