Chapter Warnings: Language, Manipulation.
I'm so sorry this chapter is late! D: It kept trying to run in a direction I didn't want and I've been adjusting to a new schedule, so have admittedly been procrastinating/avoiding computer altogether the last little while. I'll try to get back on schedule, though it may take a few weeks to get back to my regular posting time of Saturday/Sunday since I'll have to figure out how to work with my schedule. Updates could be wonky for the next little while, so I'll just say that instead of promising anything.
I had to completely redo this chapter multiple times because there was just no cooperation from Jacques and Ed. I finally found a way to approach the scene and considering all my trouble with this chapter, it's certainly not my worst work.
December 22nd, 2030, 9:00 AM
Los Angeles, California
It was quiet for the most part. A "truce" of sorts had been met between Silver, Roxanne, and Jacques where the couple just left the Septic alone and he got whatever was needed through his ability. It seemed to help the artist's sour mood to know he was at least useful now. There were still sarcastic quips and harsh insults, of course, but as long as it was relatively quiet he mostly stuck to himself.
Unfortunately for Jacques, anxiety had begun pooling in the pit of his stomach. Anxiety that was making the harsher side of the Septic's personality rear its ugly head more and more often. Every time his phone pinged he was jolting, flinching, as if he'd been struck. He'd check the message with a pallor to his face, then the color would return and his shoulders slump when it turned out to just be a device or app update, or the motel asking for a rating. It was clear he was waiting for something, and it was something he wasn't looking forward to.
A month—nearly an entire month—since he'd last heard from Ed. The cowboy had promised to text him. Why…why hadn't he done so yet? Just get it over with!
The artist jumped when his cellphone pinged, pencil thrown into the air as if Jacques himself was a comical cartoon character. It landed with a light clatter on the windowsill next to him before rolling off and onto the floor. He ignored it and reached for the device, cursing the time it took to unlock the screen, dreading the sight of the message app with its little "1" in the corner. A new text. Only one person would have texted him.
Roxanne was in the shower, Silver asleep on the other bed, while Jacques stared the app down. It was mocking him. Jacques rubbed a hand over one wrist—the same wrist Ed had bruised almost a month ago. It was no longer discolored, nor did it hurt, but the memory was still there. Ed had never been cruel to him before coming Outside. A little pushy, maybe, but never mean in any way.
Jacques furrowed his brows. Then again, he knew very well how Ed could be. Back…was home even the right word anymore?…the artist wouldn't really argue if he was told to do something. He didn't mouth off to the Ipliers. The other Septics, he avoided. He never really understood why Ed had taken an interest in him. He wasn't powerful by any means; awkward around others unlike the salesman. At the same time, he wasn't tied down by relationships like the rest; higher on the intelligence spectrum than some of the others. Not Dark or Doc or Schneeplestein smart, of course, but more so than Ed at the very least.
The Septic murmured to himself in French; grimaced when Silver stirred.
He needed to check the message. He would really rather avoid making Ed any more upset with him than he'd been the last time they saw each other.
Jacques's hands were shaking as he clicked the little icon. Why were they shaking? Stop shaking! He cursed himself when it made him drop his phone in his lap. He checked the sender. Caller ID read "Edgar." The artist swallowed around the lump forming in his throat as he read the text.
Ed wanted to meet up with him. That's all it said: 'Meet me at Marlow's.' Marlow's…wasn't that the Internet cafe?
"Sur mon chemin..." he murmured to himself as he slipped out of bed.
Roxanne was still in the shower, but he started as Silver's sudden voice from behind him.. "Where're you going?" The superhero had rolled over to face the artist, brows scrunched up.
"Just a walk. Fresh air is good, no?"
Silver looked ready to argue before thinking better of it and clamping his mouth shut. "Just…keep your phone on, okay?"
A roll of the eyes was all that answered the Iplier's request, then Jacques was slipping out the door. He had his phone, wallet, sketchpad, and pencil. That would do.
The Septic's eyes flickered about as he shifted to a jog down the wide sidewalks. Their motel was in a "sketchy" part of the city, so he would prefer to get to the busier areas quickly. That, and he didn't want to keep Ed waiting.
Still not exactly the best at traversing the streets, Jacques found himself scurrying in front of honking cars and tripping on curbs and cracks in the sidewalks in his rush. The occasional pedestrian would gawk or laugh or just ignore him altogether, while a few actually moved to help him back up. The first time admittedly surprised him enough that he flinched away from their touch; determined to keep a human's hands away from him. The next, he was a little more willing to accept the help and then was off again.
By the time he actually reached the cafe, craning his neck to check the sign and make sure it was indeed Marlow's, the artist was out of breath. Wiping sweaty hands on his jeans, Jacques then moved to pull the door open. No use waiting to go in.
He first noticed a young woman behind the counter; she gave him a friendly smile and nod in greeting before going back to wiping down the counter. His eyes flickered about the rest of the area; a few other people were there. The first patron he noticed being a broad man, and then his smaller companion, but none of the others really caught the artist's initial attention.
Another quick scan easily revealed the cowboy at a lone table off in the corner of the cafe. Jacques hugged his sketchpad tightly to his chest as he approached and took an empty chair next to the older Ego. Ed barely even glanced at him.
The artist noted the other's scruffy appearance: Unkempt mustache, his long hair in greasy strands beneath his hat, and it looked like he had the fading ring of a bruise around his neck and the top button broken off his shirt. Had someone tried to strangle Ed? Jacques almost snorted at the thought. Maybe the cowboy had gotten too cocky, lipped off, tried Persuading someone higher on the intelligence spectrum who didn't take kindly to his words. Or maybe he'd been in a bar and ticked off a drunkard. The Ipliers couldn't drink without practically poisoning themselves, but that had never stopped some of them from at least hanging out in bars; ordering sodas or food. Had never stopped some of them, namely Wilford, from starting things with the patrons back in their plane.
When Ed cleared his throat, hands tight around a coffee mug, the other started. He couldn't quite look Ed in the eyes due to those damn sunglasses, but did his best when the cowboy lifted his head to look at Jacques.
"Did…you need something from me?"
A nod answered. "Yeah. Cash."
Jacques arched his brows slightly. "Okay… How much?"
"Couple hundred. Now."
"Quelle?! I can't…" The artist glowered and lowered his voice, "I-I mean, I can, but not in public! My pages glow when—" He clamped his mouth shut when Ed stood; scurried after the Iplier as he left the cafe. "Ed? Ed!"
The artist had to jog to catch up again. His brows were furrowed, lips pulled into a deep frown. Something was off with the Iplier. His gait was stiff, skin pale. He looked…stressed.
"Ed?"
An alleyway, behind a trashbin where they couldn't be seen from the street, and the cowboy finally turned to face Jacques. "Just hurry the hell up," Ed growled. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the brick wall behind him. His sunglasses were off now, tucked in the pocket of his wrinkled button-up.
His eyes looked…dead. Blank of anything as he set his gaze on the Septic. Soulless, like something out of a paranormal horror film. It send a shudder down Jacques's spine, but he just shook his head and opened his sketchpad to an empty page.
"Right… Right."
It really didn't take long for Jacques to follow the command: A stack of cash sketched out, then pulled right off the page. Something small, relatively easy, for the Septic. He did his best not to meet Ed's eye as he passed the it to the cowboy.
"That is enough?" A grunt was the only answer as Ed fanned through the stack.
Though Jacques wasn't one for conversation, a few of the others knew about his abilities. Ed, obviously; the Host. He was pretty sure Jackieboy, Dr. Iplier, and Schneeplestein knew, too. The doctors knew everyone's abilities since they sort of had to, Host because of his narrations, and Jackieboy…well, he was Jackieboy. He seemed to find out everyone's abilities one way or another—he wasn't even that nosy; Jacques didn't get how he did it. But Ed? Whenever Jacques would get upset, he'd rant on and on. Ed actually listened, and now the artist was anxious about that. Jacques was dramatic when he was upset. He'd…begrudgingly, admit that. Would shout or mutter things about the problem or himself.
…Shit. How many things had the artist revealed?
Jacques started when Ed pushed himself away from the wall.
"I need to go back to the motel now," the artist said as he stepped away. Something was seriously wrong with Ed, and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the older Ego as possible.
"Why don't ya follow me, kiddo? Ya'll don't wanna go back to Silver, do ya?"
Familiar anxiety balled up inside the artist as he jerked away from Ed's outstretching hand. He pulled his sketchpad close to his chest, head ducked low. "I do, yes." One foot slid back, followed by the other; eyes set on the cowboy. "J-just leave me alone. I gave what you wanted, no?"
The fact the Ed's expression remained blank scared Jacques more than if the cowboy would have gotten angry instead. Something wasn't right. This was Ed, right? And not just some shape-shifting Ego? Jacques had never met one since they were fairly rare and he could care less to actually meet one, but he'd heard that all five of…what was the guy's name? Thomas? That his Sides, or whatever he called them, were all capable of it. Maybe they weren't as rare as he'd thought?
Jacques looked the Iplier in the eyes. Caramel brown. Almost gold; like Ed had used his Persuasion recently. It only served to make Jacques more uneasy with the situation.
"Sh…show me your aura!"
That stopped the cowboy in his tracks. His eyes were still so blank, but he was hesitating. The artist swallowed around the lump in his throat.
Auras were an Ego's very soul; their identity. They were like fingerprints: Not one ever alike another. Even the Twins and Upgrades had ones so unique from each other. Jacques's was like splatter-paint wings. Small, of no use in anything but grabbing attention, but still his aura. Unique to him; something he cared deeply for because it was all his own. Ed's, a dust cloud; topped off with howling wind and even stinging to the eyes and wind-whipped clothes of anyone daring enough to get close.
Appearances could be copied. Perhaps even abilities could.
But an aura would always remain individual.
If Ed couldn't or wouldn't show his aura…
When asked to see an aura, it was shown. No questions asked. Like identification for humans almost, but far better proof than any I.D. card could ever hope to be.
Jacques turned to bolt, shoe slipping clumsily over the ground and instead offering a face full of concrete. He pulled himself into a sitting position, tasting blood from the lip he'd bit on impact.
Whether fortunate or unfortunate, before Ed could decide to advance or Jacques to get back up and run, a man—well, clearly not a man—materialized between them. A teleporter? Jacques felt his brows furrow as the clear Ego grabbed Ed by the shirt, shoved him angrily. The Ego had wild, dark hair; a pale complexion, but really only the…makeup? on his face was all that was actually memorable. Two thick, dark stripes running from beneath the eyes to the jawline. Like a little kid had wanted to copy Mommy's rain-streaked mascara and went overboard when she wasn't looking.
The Ego looked about ready to give the cowboy an earful, but was gone almost as quickly as he'd appeared—Ed in tow. Disappearing into thin air as if the two had never even been there in the first place.
How would the artist even begin to tell Silver about this? Maybe it would be best to just keep it to himself.
AN: Ed seemed...soul̵le͝ss͘, hmm?