Title: Mahogany Gray Status: Complete Characters: Anon, Fang Rating: SFW Classification: One-Shot Author: alex_iorn Summary: It is never over. Never was and never were. A bit weird oneshot about Anon stopping Fang from committing E1 [NOTES] Heavily inspired by Disco Elysium [/NOTES] There is completely nothing in Anon’s dream. Only cold blackness. In some way, primordial. His consciousness slowly ferments in there, not bigger than a grain of salt. There’s no need to rush anywhere, and Anon keeps on unexisting. To him, an inordinate amount of time passes slowly. No struggle. No memories. No ex-girlfriends. Nothing, just blackness, void of any possible movement. It is warming, but only in a way of a hug from a toxic friend. Anon asks the void about the memories and, most importantly, the “ex-girlfriend” thing. The baleful awareness slowly creeps up on him. A mass of meat and flesh, stable physically, but shattered mentally, lies hidden in his dead angle. Whatever comes next, it is terrible, it will lead only to more awareness of the meat-thing. Anon is not afraid, he keeps on questioning. Suddenly, he feels his own guts interrupt whatever was going on in this “blackness” and “nothingness”. This big gut feeling of something going completely wrong, like a big ass switch flipped – only for a ballistic missile to be targeted on the wrong city. This big gut feeling that Anon avoided for quite awhile – now it is back, with better forces. Despite them being almost completely discarded and abandoned by Anon, left aside for him to suffocate in his way inside the cold pale yonder, they are not here to make any amends, nor they are here to kill him one last time. They are here to tell him the news he doesn’t want to hear. And tell him they do. They tell a lot. A staggering amount. As if his guts are something more than he himself, Anon, a human being with them inside his clockwork mechanism (or an organism), expected. Anon is frightened, ashamed, shocked, revulsed by each and every word those gut feelings tell him. They are not here to fuck around, because that thing was already done by Anon long time ago. For the span of more than a year, he had fucked around. But now, it seems, it's time to find out. Suddenly, Anon hears the ever so nauseating and painful sound. A fiery streak penetrates the skull, trying to force his eyes open. A clarion call from the depths of what he was before. *** Cold sweat rushed down his eyebrows, soaking the bed wet. Anon abruptly wakes up, taken away from what he had considered a nightmare. The disgusting feeling of being in a wet, but comfy bed, makes him quickly stand up on his feet and walk away from it, at least one step. Making him stand almost in the middle of his living room, surrounded by neverending chaos. This place is trashed. The furniture has suffered quite a lot. There are deep scratches everywhere, like lacerations for inanimate objects. Some things lie on the floor like they are supposed to be there. Somewhere in the deep dark corner, Anon spots with his sleepy eye – the remains of what he considered his “pet”. Those remains trigger something important inside his weary mind. He remembers everything. The prom. The suffocating tensity. The utmost failure. The disruption of friendship. The auditorium. The slow passing of time. And then – the suffering. The questioning, the emotion drain, the wicked eyesight, the darkness and chaos. Everything turned to shit, in the span of several hours. Anon never thought that he could reach a point below Rock Bottom, but he did. And in this sudden awakening, in this frightening confusion, he heard someone knock from beneath the floor of that point. It could be a joke he could laugh from, but only hysterically. And he doesn’t feel like laughing at all. In fact, what he feels right now is only confusion. Is only anger. Is only fear. With his awakening, the envision of what could happen this upcoming morning and what will follow after woke up a darker side of his mind. Uncomplete. Unaware. Uncapable of understanding. It slowly gnaws on him, eating the last stability there was away. Right now, in this second where he stands in the middle of his room observing the chaos of previous days, – right now, in this second, he wants to curl up like a baby and sleep away all the fear and confusion, believing that this also could be a part of this nightmare – the revelation and the sudden awakening go side to side like nothing else. But quickly, this confusion, this anger and fear, all the feelings and emotions he experienced in that particular moment, – they all were brushed away, with a strong hand of clarity. Coming in from his gut feeling. He heard a quiet, comforting voice of a man late in his fifties, speaking to him. Congratulating him on successful disruption of his dream and even more successful awakening. Anon wanted to ask something – he wanted to know a lot of things about whatever the hell is going on here, – but the man was quicker, telling him that any answer he would like to know will, first, not satiate him, and, second, will not be the thing Anon would like to hear. Anon, believing that this all – the awakening, the comforting voice of his own gut feeling, everything! – is nothing more than just a hallucination, stumbles over into the kitchen. His body almost pushes his cognizant control away, thus making this simple process ever so hard. He manages to walk over to the table and take a seat onto the chair that felt like the most comfortable thing ever. He feels nausea, headache, he feels his own limbs detaching from his body, he feels his heart failing, – he doesn’t experience anything, but these phantom feelings are still there, unavoidable. The comforting voice of a man tries his best to reassure Anon. He is nothing more than shocked to finally listen to himself. Anything that he feels right now is not real and there is basically nothing to worry about, at least at the moment. Slowly and steadily, the comforting voice manages to grasp onto the little thing that Anon managed to say in this inner dialogue – the one that one says to himself, with no vocals present – only instrumental, with the instrument being the strings of his own soul. Like on a six-string hollowbody guitar. Even slower, but even steadier, the comforting voice manages to reassure Anon – or at least get him out of the state of constant denial. It tells him everything, making him remember every single day of his own life. To his own surprise, Anon remembers everything in deep detail, and he asks about that, to which the comforting voice quickly tells him about the theory of mnemonics. Safe to say, Anon remembers the threads on 4-chan that are now closed forever, even with his own posts included. And, safe to say, Anon is surprised to remember all that. The comforting voice tells Anon to drink some water, set up the alarm and go to sleep. Anon questions about the alarm, to which the comforting voice responds: “You will find out soon enough.” Anon wants to persuade the comforting voice, but decides not to, for many reasons. He stands up and, with strange and sudden ease, walks over to the kitchen counter. After searching and finding his only cup, he fills it with water and drinks it all up, filling the stomach with cold rousing liquid. Despite the anticipated effect, he felt even sleepier. Anon walked over to his bed, but before diving in, he brushed his hand against the sheets. Strangely enough, they were dry. Anon felt the coldness of the late night sweat on his eyebrows! Anon felt like waking up in the soaked bed! All of this is weird, from top to bottom. He waits for the comforting voice to say something, and waits for around five minutes, but the voice never comes. It said everything that could be said in this time of day (or rather night). It said everything that could be said to a man experiencing shock from hearing his own feelings talk back to him. Anon quickly decided not to irritate whatever was brewing inside his own body. Before falling asleep, he searches for his phone, and, after finding it, checks the alarms. All of them were off. Strangely enough, Anon does not remember why or how that happened, but what the comforting voice has said to him, after telling him what to do, reassures Anon – he will find out everything soon enough. He will find out who’s the devil, who’s the angel, who’s the king and who’s nothing more than ash in a forgotten ashtray. He will find out the mysteries he experiences – he just has to wait in sleep. Anon sets up the alarms, settles his phone down and finally lies down onto his bed. After playing a looking game with his wall for about two seconds, he closes his eyes, calm and steady, falling asleep yet again. The morning finally made its way into Anon’s retina. He wakes up from the constant beeping of his alarms, and gets up like usual. Headbashing the floor into oblivion, a grunt of virile success. Washing his face and taking a long piss break. Then making himself some food. Everything was the same as before, but Anon didn’t feel like everything was like that. He remembers the night. He remembers the comforting voice. He knows that everything shall be decided today. This day is no laughing matter. People could literally die if he doesn't act. The comforting voice comes onto the line yet again, congratulating Anon on this small victory. He listens to it speaking, spitting theories one better than the other. He would like to say something back, something vicious, something to get the comforting voice to stop in its tracks, but decides not to. He needs someone to guide him, because he is still confused – the feeling of confusion is gone, yes, but it’s only half of solving the problem. The end goal is unknown. The beginning was already surpassed. The middle, this path of thorns and forks, is a landmine playground, uncharted territory. One step to the side – boom, six people killed. The comforting voice tells Anon to not think a lot about the possible outcomes, and begs for him to trust only to this voice, only to what he is listening inside his head right now. As insane as all of this sounds, it is completely normal for people to listen to themselves, to impersonate their feelings, to give them a voice they’ve heard years ago, to follow their guide. Anything from outside, the moment Anon will walk out of his apartment and enter Volcano High, must be repelled, brushed away, for it is nothing more than a false lead, or to submit it for information. And, most importantly, the comforting voice tells Anon to not be afraid. Of course, the situation is overwhelming, of course, Anon feels that he has a weak hand. But it doesn’t mean he has a losing hand. It doesn’t mean everything for him is over. The game is wicked, and he is outmatched, but the competition is still going. The clocks are ticking, and Anon must be like them – continue onward. The storms are frightening, but they will pass. This is his fight. This is the fight he can win . Anon finishes his breakfast and leaves the dirty dishes in the empty metallic sink. He puts on his jacket, get the bag, puts on the shoes and leaves the apartment. Now there is no turning back. The comforting voice stepped away for a bit, so Anon could walk in peaceful silence, thinking on his own about what was going on with him. Anon understands that what he experiences is basically insanity, but he decides to follow this insanity anyway. Who knows where it might lead him? Besides, the reassurance, the persuasion, the comfort of the voice… It is too surreal, but it is true. Truth is surreal, because we, people, can’t accept it as is. He heard the comforting voice of a man in his fifties in the late night after waking up from what can be called “an atavistic nightmare”. Confusion and anger, hatred and fear. Everything that Anon experienced, the comforting voice brushed aside, leaving the mind clear and pure. The following sleep was peaceful, uneventful, bland even, but he got up in time. The comforting voice still was present, telling Anon everything it couldn’t tell him at night. All of this is insane. But as much as Anon knows, this could be his only way to redeem himself after everything that happened days before. The building of Volcano High soon made its way into Anon’s cornea. If he could close his eyes, he would see a silvery negative of this brutalist construction. The comforting voice of his own mind returned to him, telling him to go with the flow for now, telling him to avoid any unnecessary confrontation. Basically – become a normal student that didn’t know about the prom night. It is a simple task, and Anon gets to it pretty quickly. The first period has passed uneventfully, and so did the second. In the cafeteria, giving himself a little break after those two periods, Anon listens to the comforting voice yet again. It tells him to observe. Simple, but only in the part of understanding it. When the third period rolled around, the comforting voice stopped him before entering the science classroom. It tells him that this particular period is the deciding moment, and in this little second he must abolish any doubts and follow the guidance of the voice. Anon nods, silently, and enters the classroom under the comforting voice thanking him for understanding. He sits down at his usual spot in the back of the classroom. The classmates seem relaxed, unexpecting any trouble. Anon, with what he has been listening to, with how tense he feels, looks rather strange in the background of every one of his classmates. The comforting voice of his mind tells him to not think about what others may think. He must focus on himself, on the voice he hears. As much as it feels insane, this might be the only way. Anon obliges, forgetting about the classmates like the nightmarish days from his past. “A-ANON?!”, he hears. Anon doesn’t raise his gaze, but he is aware of who is speaking to him. Fang is shocked to see him, contemplative, avoiding confrontation with her. To say the least, his mere presence here ruins most of the plan. Fang growls at this and takes a seat near him, deciding to play the usual game. Anon still doesn’t know about the plans. Too bad for her, Anon knows – at least the abstract of what could happen. Ten minutes in, Fang asks the teacher, and swiftly leaves the classroom with her bag. The teacher follows her with his examining gaze, but does not suspect anything. Anon wants to rush after her, but the voice tells him to wait, at least for a good minute. That minute was the longest, most worrying and tense minute of his short life. Everything could happen in this minute. He even begins to doubt this neverending clarity and confidence, but after this minute finally passes, the voice begins to shout inside his head: “RUN! AFTER HER! NOW!” Anon asks the teacher and leaves the classroom. Now, she could be anywhere, in each and every room of this five stories tall building, but with strange confidence Anon walks through the hallways of this floor, not even considering checking other floors. His perception was so sharp, he could possibly even hear the ultrasound. This was a strange, yet comforting feeling, that gave Anon even more confidence in his silent actions. Sooner than he thought, he found the presumably place where Fang possibly could run off into. The comforting voice isn’t there to lecture him, waiting for something important. It is weird to be on your own in this situation. Whatever awaits him behind that door, inside this bathroom, will not be any type of “nice”. It won’t be nice in the slightest. In fact, what could be there can and will be the thing Anon feared the most. But he is here now. And there is no way back. Anon, slowly, as quietly as he could, enters the bathroom. From the get go he hears some strange noises, as if someone nervously tries to reload a revolver. He slowly makes his way and sees Fang, squatting down in front of her bag, away from Anon, holding something with two hands and fidgeting it with utmost scrutiny. Anon stands, observing her, waiting. Then she stands up and turns around. Noticing Anon, observing her preparing for the crime, makes a tsunami of shivers go down her spine. For a second they were playing a watching game, her amber eyes stuck onto his, as he pierce her amber eyes. This is the moment of tribulation, of catharsis, of apotheosis – many fancy words, and yet no word can describe how big this moment was. “Anon… Please, leave…”, Fang says to him, her voice shaking like a glass panel in an earthquake. Anon responds with a slight step forward. “I love you, Anon… Please, don’t do this…”, Fang says yet again, only to see Anon step to her. “Don’t make this worse than it already is.”, Fang’s voice gained that wicked confidence of a killer. But that didn’t stop Anon. He made yet another step forward. Now he was only an arm’s length away from her. “Why do you do this?”, she asks angrily, “Is this some kind of torture? Why can’t you fucking listen to others for a second? Why do you have to do this? Is there a reason for all of this, Anon?! Answer me!”. She yells, but that doesn’t stop Anon from staring at her, asking many questions with his eyes. Then, the moment happens. “I’m sorry, but you’re forcing me,” Fang says, and raises the revolver onto Anon. There is a second before she will pull the trigger. The visual calculus tells Anon that she won’t press it if he reacts right now. Anon presses on with his volition, against the remains of morality he had, for the sake of her, and others, safety. He grabs the barrel of the gun, pointing the weapon far above his head, then, masterfully, wraps his entire hand against hers and begins to pull, causing immense pain to Fang. As much as it hurts for him to see her in this pain, this is but a sacrifice, for the bigger, most unbearable pain to be avoided entirely. The pain makes her wince, she lets the gun go. It falls with a metallic sound of a small victory, but now Fang will try to kill him with a different method. He quickly lets her arm go, before the force he applies to it will break a bone or two, and with all the power he has inside his weak arms he punches her right into her guts. She lets out a strange sound, but to Anon, as much as wicked it is, it was a cue of the biggest victory so far. No longer conscious, her body desires to fall down onto the cold tile floor. Anon grabs her under her hands and slowly gets her body onto the floor. Immediately, he picks up the gun and hides it behind his back. Then he looks into Fang’s bag. Nothing out of the ordinary. The comforting voice comes in, to assist. It tells Anon what to do, and Anon does what he is told. He hid the body in a stall, closing it off from anybody. The voice of his mind reassures him that no one will find it, if no one will search for it. Anon returns to the classroom, feeling victorious and worried. *** Fang slowly wakes up. It hurts in her stomach, as if someone hit her with a bat or a good fist. Her vision is murky. Everything inside her mind is dizzy, wandering around like a group of drunkards. The surroundings are hazy and unrecognizable. Everything feels weird. Slowly, she regains the clarity of her vision and mind. She looks around, soon realizing where she is. Recognizing this apartment, her mental bane, brought fright and confusion. She tries to get up, but her entire body is unwillingly secured with a row of plastic screeds. Her hands are behind her back, they hurt unbearably. She can’t raise her legs; something holds them. She looks down, and notices a different pair of legs sitting on top of hers, dressed in pants and boots she’s oddly familiar with. She is afraid to raise her gaze, because she doesn’t want to meet the person who she wanted to stay away from for this day, who holds her captive now. But she does anyway. Anon seems out of this world. Not in terms of looks – he looks like the same human she met every day. His eyes are completely vacant, staring at something on the wardrobe. He is completely static, as if asleep, yet his eyes are open; they even blink once every couple of seconds. She can’t find the proper words. She wants to beg him, she wants to scream at him, she wants to say something cheeky or outright vicious, and this mix brought her to nothing. She could only ask him: “Is that you?” Anon does not respond. Each and every movement hurts a lot. This pain turns on the anger switch. “What the fuck is going on?”, she says, “Why am I tied up?”. Anon does not respond. “Answer me, you fuck!”, she yells, “Why the fuck have you tied me up for?”. Anon does not respond. The absence of his voice slowly turned anger into fear and worry for him. “Anon? Is everything alright?”, she asks, already knowing the answer. Anon finally turns his gaze to her. His eyesight scares her. He seemed drained, entirely. He looks like a shell for what he was before. Fang lowers her eyes, just to avoid his depressing and draining gaze. He turns his eyes away, and Fang looks at him yet again. Slowly, she understands what happened. Why she’s here, how did it all come up to this. “Anon, please, untie me”, Fang says, “It hurts.”. Anon turns his eyes to her yet again, then says: “You will kill me if I do so.”. “No the fuck I won’t!”, Fang responds, “Who the fuck you take me for? Please, Anon, it really does hurt. I’m not faking it! Why would I fake something in front of you?” The words she uttered quickly made her question her own egoism. It was an outright lie. Why does she lie to him, right now? In such a situation? There was no need for this, because she already lied to him before. The day she decided to commit a crime. The day Anon stopped her. She lowered her eyes yet again, pondering on a lot of things. Suddenly, Anon stood up and went away, into the kitchen, then returned, holding a pair of scissors. He got onto his knees and began removing the chains. Snap, snap, snap. Screed after screed. After the last screed was snapped, he put the scissors onto the table and stood up, looking down onto Fang. She was in relief, to say the least. He stretched out both of his arms to her, to get her up onto her feet. She looked at him, and then gently grabbed his palms. He got her up and sat her onto his bed, sitting beside. For a second they were silent, both of them, seeking for words that would kickstart a proper conversation. “And you decided that killing them all would be a better idea?”, Anon asked, not even looking at her, sounding desperate, pleading. Fang looked at him, with more worry in her eyes than ever before. She didn’t reply, because Anon already knew the answer. “Why can’t you understand that you are always better than this?”, he asked yet again, his voice was shaking. She slowly, cautiously, got her hands around him, followed by her wings covering him entirely. “You are always higher than all their words, Fang. All they can do is spit shit at you – why can’t you get this? I love you so much, and I love your lyrics, and your faux touch on the guitar strings… Violence never was the answer, alright? I care about you, because you love me. I wasn’t loved, you know? You are all that matters. You… are the only thing I have.” The more he spoke, the more she shook. “What happens if you die? I don’t think I would be able to live, knowing that the love of my life is now six feet under. Do you understand what kind of doom you could’ve brought onto me with your death? And what about your friends? Those people you’ve brushed away because you couldn’t just forget about the prom? You think they wouldn’t care? They do, Fang. As much as I am. And maybe even more. Please, Fang.” He slowly got out of her grasp. He didn’t look like he was crying, but to say he was devastated and completely exhausted is to say nothing. Fang was deflated too, trying to answer the questions Anon asked her inside her mind. Anon went off to drink some water and cool off, and in that moment of absence, when she was all alone in the living room, Fang finally realized it. Anon hurt her, because she brushed him away. Anon tied her, because she didn’t give him any other choice. All of that happened, because she just couldn’t forget and let go. A silvery tear dropped down her cheek, onto the laminate flooring. Anon returned, noticing her thousand yard stare of realization. He sat down near her and tried to slowly get his arms around her for a hug, only to then feel her head bump into his chest and her hand clasp onto his shirt. Her wings are folded, shaking ever so slightly, like her entire body shakes as she cries in comprehension of what could be the tomorrow. Anon puts his hands onto her and throws his gaze outside, onto the bright gray sky.