Ancom can't sleep. Not ques fault. Que was sick. Arms. Corpses. Pain. It was all pain. All an illusion. The world was really made of rotting corpses. Que stared at a computer screen to keep quemself awake. The screen was a bright contrast to the darkness of the rest of the world. Que felt arms all over ques back, and every time there was a new one there was new, fresh pain layered on top. Ow. Ow. OW. Que looked behind quemself. Surely the rotting, pulsing flesh that was the world would show itself any minute but it never did. Why bother? Que cried. Screaming, yelling, for someone, anyone, to help quem.
Posadist opened the door. "hey, uh, ancom, whats going on?"
"IT HURTS HELP IT HURTS ALWAYS PAIN OW OW I WANNA GO HOME"
"Ancom, calm down, whats happening?"
"HOME IS A PLACE HELP ME PLEASE IT HURTS ALL THE TIME"
"Ancom, please-"
Ancom screamed. Posadist was tired, yes, but that could wait. Posadist hugged Ancom, providing a contrast of comfort to the current pain.
"I WANNA GO HOME WHY ARE THERE GNOMES HELP PEOPLE ARE HEOPLE"
Posadist didn't know what any of that meant. But it meant something. Words fused into other words, a sort of incoherent jumble. Posadist didn't have any extra arms to comfort Ancom with, but that would have harmed more. In between mouth breathing and a general awkwardness, Posadist spoke.
"Ancom, tell me what's wrong."
"I am in constant pain and everything hurts all the time. This is because really the world is made of pulsing rotting masses of flesh, and I'm one too, but I' just creating an illusion for myself so I can stay sane. The world is a lie."
"I, uh, don't know how to respond to that."
"i hate this i hate you i hate all of this please let me go home"
"where is your home?"
"a place."
"where?"
"I don't know its a place home is a place."
They sat in silence for a while. Neither of them knew what to do. I certainly don't either. You see, all of this is really just me projecting personal experiences on characters and I can't really be sure on how this would theoretically end considering the centricide fandom doesn't have much in the way of knowing how posadism would respond to any of my personal symptoms. I need help, but instead of annoying a professional, I am instead exploiting a parasocial relationship which I know will probably cause concern for everyone involved. Posadism flaps his wings.
"Ancom, rest."
And Ancom did.