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This part essentially explains what happened right before 'Pinocchio' happened.
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It was a normal day, nothing particularly going on. Lately, Thomas had been calling upon him more frequently, now that his main role had become something closer to a companion than a villain. But Thomas hadn't needed him so far that day, and so, he was sitting in his room, weaving lies that Thomas might need to use later. That was also his job, after all.
Something felt off, though. He hardly acknowledged it, just as he hardly acknowledged anything when he wasn't performing. But there was still something there, at the edge of his awareness.
After a while, whatever it was started encroaching closer, and he eventually realized that Thomas wanted something. That something, though, was unclear, tangled up and confused- it was one of Thomas's more unconscious desires, one even the man himself didn't understand.
Deceit didn't understand it, either, and he wouldn't unless he untangled the mess.
So, he set his current tapestry aside and began to grasp at the tangled desire. With gloved hands, he found one of the loose ends and began to weave it back through itself, detangling knot after knot at a steady pace. The less tangled it became, the more intelligible it became, but the less Deceit understood the desire.
Thomas thought he was behaving strangely. Thomas was worried about him. Thomas thought he was worried. Thomas thought he was trying to hard to be accepted. Thomas wanted to talk to him.
Thomas wanted him to be himself.
That was the point where Deceit's hands caught on an extra-large knot, and he didn't think he could detangle it. He was stuck on that part, Thomas wanting him to be himself. What did 'being himself' mean? He had no 'self' to be, he was whoever Thomas wanted him to be, whoever Thomas needed him to be.
But his 'self' was what Thomas wanted now.
How did he fulfill that command?
Which role was the one Thomas wanted?
Who was he supposed to be?
He didn't know.
Deceit dropped the tangle into his lap as a sharp pain spread through his chest, gasping at the unfamiliar sensation. He grasped onto the front of his shirt with one hand without thinking about it. It felt like something was tearing him apart from the inside, but he made no attempt to stop it. He didn't even think about stopping it, merely noticing it and feeling it but not having the ability to even consider doing something about it.
Thomas wanted him to be himself.
The colors around him began to fade, slowly being replaced with bleached white.
His breathing was fast and irregular as the pain got worse.
The furniture in the room began to blink away, some of it shattering to pieces before it did.
The bed he sat on disappeared and dropped him to the floor.
A crackling static noise filled the air.
He found himself crawling forward, though he didn't know why. He had no goal in mind, and he didn't think about doing it. He was just moving forward, his advancement hindered by using one hand to grasp his chest.
Something was wound around his leg, growing tighter with each inch crawled, and eventually, whatever it was snapped. He heard a strange, springlike sound followed by a dull thud.
The floor squirmed beneath his fingers.
The walls shuddered.
He felt weightless and heavy.
Then, his vision faded into a glitching white.
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There's one more part after this.
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