The Monster and the Nightmare - Screaming_Mudskipper (2024)

Chapter 1: From Where His Story Begins

Chapter Text

If he had known what would happen to him that morning, he probably would've stayed in bed.

He woke up hungry and a little cold, but that had been a regular reoccurrence the past couple of mornings. He released a long yawn and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, even though he didn't sleep that well. After that, he tightly wrapped his him-sized blanket around his shoulders like a cape and hopped down from his not him-sized bed.

He left his room, making his way down to the end of the hallway, where the front door and the only window in his "house" were. He was too small to see outside without his footstool, but he didn't need to. The raindrops racing down the windowpanes told him all he needed to know.

It was another icky day.

It was also Sunday.

Sunday was food-looking day. Not as many people were out and about on Sunday. Sunday was also when there was the most food in the trash; stores would throw out old food on Saturday and get new food on Sunday. It was also important that he looked in the morning when not as many people were awake. If he didn't, then a lot of the safe food to eat would be gone. At least, that's what the blind man told him.

The blind man was homeless and would wander around the city, looking for what he called "forgotten things": small objects that got thrown away, like spoons, books, and music boxes. Every Sunday, the blind man would come to the building where his "house" was and help him look for safe food. He, in return, would help the blind man find "forgotten things" to add to his ever-growing collection. The blind man would even let him keep one of the "forgotten things" they discovered that day, though they were usually toys or something of the like.

The blind man had told him that if he didn't come on Sunday, it was likely because he was sick; but, he promised to be back the following Sunday, and he would bring a special treat to make up for it.

The blind man didn't come last Sunday.

He wondered what the special treat would be?

Right now, he needed to get ready for the icky day ahead. He made his way back down the hall and into the bathroom. Climbing on top of the stinky toilet, he leaned over to reach the sink and splashed cold water in his face. Now fully awake, he went back to his room and traded his blanket for the pillowcase he used to carry food. Last and most importantly, he grabbed the head of his stuffed teddy bear and wore it over his face as a mask. He had emptied the head of its stuffing, and he had ripped off one of the eyes so he could see a lot better.

Now that everything was in order, he went back to the window, this time dragging his footstool behind him. He climbed on top of his footstool, opening the window and climbing through it. He landed feet first on the fire escape, causing the structure to shake slightly. Down the cold, slippery stairs he went, one hand tightly clasped on the railings as much as he possibly could. He then carefully descended the fire escape ladder with one hand until he finally reached the bottom. Excited to see the blind man after a long week, he ran to the nearby dumpster where they always met up, splashing through puddles as he did so.

But the blind man wasn't there.

He looked inside the dumpster.

Not there.

He checked behind the trashcans.

Nope.

He peered through the cracks of the surrounding empty buildings.

Nothing.

The blind man didn't come.

He stood in the alleyway, lost and drenched with rain. The blind man had told him not to go looking for food by himself; it was too dangerous, as a "funny person" might try to snatch him up. But he ran out of his extra stache of food halfway through the week; he hadn't eaten in the past three days and wasn't sure he could last another day without eating. His belly painfully complained, and he obeyed its orders to feed.

Bare feet trudged through freezing puddles and soggy filth as he made his way to the alleys where the food stores were. He ran to the first trashcan he laid eyes on and began digging through it. When he couldn't find anything that looked remotely like food, he went to the next can. Right on top, he saw a box of saltine crackers. Elatement grew, as he remembered the blind man telling him those kinds of crackers don't go bad.

So hungry...

Without a second thought, he snatched the box, tore it open, and stuffed a handful of crackers into his mouth. As quickly as they came in, he spat them out. Sour! Bad! They went bad! He'd been lied to! He feebly scrapped off the taste off of his tongue and moved on onto the next can.

Tin cans! Beets, green beans, peas, and carrots! Unlike the blind man, he couldn't smell through the tin to know if the food was safe or not; he couldn't afford to be picky, though, so he took the can that looked the tastiest.

One of the backdoors to the stores opened. A shopkeeper walked out, holding a bag of trash. They noticed him and yelled at him to scram, as "parasites" weren't allowed. He ran to the next alleyway, the shopkeeper complaining about the mess he left behind as he did so. Good thing he was wearing his teddy bear's head.

He managed to find more food: a potato, a cheese slice, and a loaf of bread. They all looked okay to him, but he couldn't tell if they smelled okay. The rain also wasn't helping matters, soaking everything until it felt like they were melting in his hands. His pillowcase was nowhere close to stuffed, but he couldn't carry anymore; all the food he found was his size and weighed half as much. He hoped what he found would last him until next Sunday.

He hoped the blind man would get better soon.

He sneezed and shivered. He was very cold, very wet, and very very hungry. He wiped his nose with his hand and heaved the pillowcase over one of his shoulders, beginning his trek back home. The sound of tin scraping pavement through thin fabric followed him, as was the distant rolling of thunder.

As he made his way back, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder over and over again. He kept thinking there was someone behind him, but there was no one there every time he looked. All the while, the sky darkened as black clouds gathered. Lights that hung above backdoors began to brighten the alleyways in a dim, sickly orange glow. It gave him a funny feeling that crawled all over his shoulders, and he didn't like it in the slightest. Finally, he had enough of this game and turned around to call out to whoever it was who was following him.

Nothing happened at first until the backlights flickered and brightened, their faint hum growing louder. Bulbs from the lights further down exploded, plunging that end of the alley in shadow. A charge of sorts filled the air, causing the hairs on his head to stand on their ends. Lightning cracked the black sky above and let the dark alley below.

That's when he no longer felt hungry.

For at the end of the alley, there stood...

...Him.

He would hear the other homeless tell all sorts of stories aboutHim, as he and the blind man would look for food and "forgotten things". In one story, He turned someone's tongue into worms and their eyes into moths. He turned someone entirely inside out in another story, leaving them to suffer an excruciating death. Then, there was the story when He made an entire neighborhood of people disappear, leaving only their shadows behind. He was a monster, a specter of mutilation.

Everyone was afraid of Him. So afraid, in fact, they dare not say His name, in fear that He would appear if they did. They say He was so tall, He made grown men feel like little boys. They say He was so thin, He could fit in crannies that not even mice could go. They say He was so powerful, the city's towers would literally bow in reverence to Him.

Fighting back will accomplish nothing. Running will only encourage Him to give chase. Hiding will never work because He will always find His victim in the end. If one ever saw Him, they might as well be a goner.

And there He was, standing straight and still as a lamppost, a silhouette in the darkness.

That said, he had heard of a method that supposedly placatedHim enough that He would leave one alone. Ever so slowly, he placed his pillowcase on the ground and tied the ends as well as he could. After that, he lowered himself to his knees, clasped his hands together, and recited the following prayer:

Oh, Great Eyes of heaven and earth,

Sake-red emperor of humankind,

May your gaze remain divine

And your nature ever ben-vo-lent.

This humble offering, of all I have,

I give to your loyal steward;

May my offering please you both,

And bring forth blessings to the world.

He didn't stay to see if his offering worked; the moment he finished praying, he got back up on his feet and made a mad dash toward home, leaving splashed puddles in his wake. He barely registered his surroundings as he ran down the alleyways, eventually spotting the ladder that led him up to his "house". Hands grasped cold metal, and feet climbed up slippery stairs. The next thing he knew, he slammed the window to his "house" shut, the sound of rain and thunder instantly becoming faint.

Heavy breaths filled the silence of his "house" as he waited to see if He had followed him. When no one appeared, he released a huge sigh, falling butt-first from his footstool and onto the floor. He didn't care that his butt was now sore or that he lost all the food he found; he was just relieved that he escaped Him. He continued to sit contented on the hallway floor, shivering and drenched but safe.

Suddenly, the air became filled with charge.

And then the front door did something that it had never done before: its locked knob jittered and clanked.

He just managed to get up on his feet when the door began to peel as the old wallpaper on his "house's" walls. In terror, he ran to his room, hiding under the table that someone had placed there for some reason long ago. The moment he slid under, he could hear the front door fall over. An eerie silence followed, then heavy, slow footsteps. They made their way down the hallway to his room, then stopped at the doorway. He covered his mouth with his hands in the vain hope that He wouldn't hear him breathe.

"Hiding will do you no good, little nightmare. I know you're here."

The voice echoed in his head, croaky and void of any emotion. That was probably the scariest thing aboutHim: He's neither happy nor sad, neither angry nor bored, neither afraid nor disgusted. He feels nothing.

Even though he knew hiding was pointless, he continued to do so anyway. It was the only thing he could do. Seconds felt like hours as He waited for him to come out and surrender. When that didn't happen, the room began to tilt and shake from impatience. The worst possible thing happened as this took place: he lost his balance and tumbled onto the floor in plain sight.

He dared not move, let alone look up to the face of the one who will soon bring his end. So he was caught off-guard when a loud CLUNK hit the floor right in front of him. It was his pillowcase, with the food still inside. Why did...?

"You left this behind,"He stated, dry and straightforward.

He didn't hear his prayer. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened again; when he did, a terror-filled whisper came out.

"... it's... y-yours..." was all he managed to say.

"I don't need it," He bluntly replied

He rejected his offering. That was it, then. He was a goner. He curled himself into a tight ball, arms wrapped over his head and legs tucked under his torso. The sound of his heart rapidly pumping overwhelmed his ears. He hoped whatever was going to happen to him would happen quickly.

... Why was nothing happening?

"Stop quivering. I have not come here to bring you harm."

He barely had time to register what he just heard when he found himself lifted from the collar of his shirt. The floor was now yards below him, his feet dangling in thin air. The sudden change caused him to yelp and rapidly whisper "no" under his breath. His mask was roughly yanked off his head, and a large fingertip forced him to look up from the ground. Inches from his tiny youth-filled face was another longer and much older face. Aged, wrinkled skin flickered and glitched. Dark, tired eyes pierced his inner being with impatience. He spoke the following words,His dry lips never moving:

"I have come here to grant you a wish."

... huh?

"A... a-a wish..?"

"Yes, a wish. Anything your heart desires, I will make it so."

He... didn't even know how to respond to that.Him, the monster who did unspeakable things to people, wanted to grant him a wish!This didn't make any sense at all!He didn't even know what he wanted! He had food and clothes! He even had his own "house"!

But he didn't have the blind man.

And if he didn't see him soon, he likely would never have him again.

"M-My - my friend!" he managed to sputter out. "The blind man - He's sick! He said he... he'd be here today, bu-but he d-d-didn't come! And - and... and..." His voice died, not knowing how to finish his plea without acknowledging... it.He merely tilted his head to the side in a curious manner.

"That's it? You want nothing for yourself?"

"... I don't want to be alone..." he silently confessed. He tightly closed his eyes and covered them with his hands, no longer able to look atHis face anymore. He released a long, weary sigh.

"Then it shall be so. I will ensure the well-being of your friend, and you will be my successor and heir to the Signal Tower."

He let him go, causing him to fall on top of his pillowcase. He looked up to see Him and ask him what he meant by "successor" and "heir", but He was already gone, leaving behind a disheveled bedroom. He snatched his pillowcase and blanket and dived under his bed.

Wet. Cold. Scared.Very scared.

What did he do?!

He began to cry from fright and confusion, hiding under his bed for the rest of the day.

Chapter 2: The Samaritan's Chore

Chapter Text

Nightmares were such peculiar things.

Elusive and crafty, but very peculiar.

The Thin Man recalled one nightmare that tried to hide from him, just to lure him into a pitiful trap. It then tried to hack him into bits, so he did the same to it. There was also another nightmare that acted tough and brave but paled the moment it saw its adversary. It stood as still as a tree, so that's what he turned it into.

He even remembered a pair of nightmares he came across by chance in a dilapidated apartment building. Siblings, he reasoned. Why else would they be together? One of them was too diseased even to breathe; the other fled the moment it saw him. He gave chase, and it managed to run a fair distance away. Unfortunately for the nightmare, the floor below it gave way. It became nothing more than a red stain on the ground below. He went back for the diseased one, only to find flies already laying claim on its corpse. He left it there for the other rodents to feast upon.

Those were only the ones the Thin Man could remember off of the top of his head. He had encountered countless nightmares in his far-too-long life. He had dealt with the fightful and the frightful, the proudful and the peaceful, the harmful and the heedful. He never encountered two nightmares that were the same.

Never had he seen a nightmare wander around during the day.

And neverhad he heard a nightmare speak in human speech.

It was almost as if it thought it was human!

Very peculiar indeed.

The Thin Man couldn't let this nightmare slip from his grasp, knowing he would never find another one like it ever again. So he stalked it, cornered it, and tricked it into an agreement he wouldn't let break. The nightmare's end of the agreement wouldn't be a problem since all of its requirements were almost too simple. No, it was his end that would pose some difficulty.

The nightmare didn't ask anything for itself; instead, it asked for the needs of another: a "friend", a blind man specifically. Homeless, most likely, since only the homeless caught diseases nowadays. And whenever that happened, it was a sign that they were knocking on the North Wind's door.

Nightmares were never selfless.

It was all very peculiar.

One would think it would be easy to find such an individual with that description. The fact of the matter is that it simply wasn't so. One minor disadvantage could cost one their entire livelihood, no matter how insignificant that disadvantage might've been; as uncomfortable as it was to admit, that was a story shared by many. Any one of those folks could be the man he had to keep an eye on. That is if the man was even still alive.

He'd have to pay a visit to the Archives.

Every broadcast that ever aired on the televisions had been taped and stored in the Archives for historical preservation. Basic broadcasting protocol. Except the Archives housed more than broadcast recordings. Televisions weren't just receivers; after all, they were also transmitters, and not only did they see everything, theyremembered everything as well. The entire city was littered with televisions to the point that avoiding one was nigh impossible. The nightmare's "friend" was bound to have passed by one at some point recently.

It wasn't easy, but the Thin Man found what he was looking for and a little bit more. Two weeks ago, a stray television caught the nightmare scavenging with a homeless man. The man in question wore a burlap sack with no eyeholes; his clothing was nothing more than patches and tatters. An old bedsheet draped around his shoulders was the closest thing he had to a coat. Natural deformation had shrunk down his legs to stubs, and his arms were twice their regular length. His elongated fingers lightly brushed over everything in his facility: the filthy ground, the dilapidated buildings, and the foul dumpsters. Through the compressed audio, the Thin Man could hear the blind man click his tongue and sniff the air.

He also noticed a worrying... "habit" of this particular individual. Every time the blind man came across a television he had never encountered before, he would never appear again. He did nothing to the televisions; he was actively avoiding them. That was another story many homeless shared that even fewer people wanted to draw attention to: it didn't matter how charitable one was to some individuals; they were unhelpable because they didn't want help. They distrusted authority for whatever reason and therefore wanted nothing to do with it, even if it meant life or death.

Keeping his end of the agreement was going to be more challenging than he originally predicted.

With all the information the Thin Man could gather, there was nothing left to do but investigate the streets. And he found the perfect place to start: in one of the endless rainy alleyways, three homeless people sat around a television to watch the news. One wore a bedsheet with terribly-cut eyeholes, one wore a burlap sack with even worse-cut eyeholes, and one simply wore a gatsby cap. There was a high chance they didn't know the man he was looking for, but it was either them or not being able to find anyone to interrogate at all. He knew all too well how these folks viewed him.

Emerging from the same television screen they were watching wouldn't help his reputation in the slightest.

At least they chose to freeze from fright instead of fleeing. The Thin Man figured it would be best if he went straight to the point.

"I'm looking for a blind man who doesn't like televisions. Some research informed me that he is seen with a little boy now and again." Since it wore a mask, he figured none of them knew that the nightmare wasn't human.

The trio simply stared at him, taken aback by his lack of wrath.

"Uh... do you mean Mr. Cecil?" the one in the gatsby cap spoke. "Because if you're looking for - !" The one in the burlap sack dope-slapped the snitcher's hat right off their head, revealing the latter didn't have an actual face. Not an uncommon sight among the homeless; faces were expensive, so he heard.

"His name's 'Mr. Cecil'?"

"Yes, but we don't know where he is," said the one in the burlap sack hastily, eyeing their big-mouthed acquaintance. "He's always moving around, never stays in one place for long."

"So none of you know where he is."

"Not a clue," said the one with the bedsheet. "Sorry. Maybe someone else knows something?"

They're lying.

"Where's Mr. Cecil?" the Thin Man asked the one in the gatsby cap. They were the only honest one out of the trio, though that may be due in part to their idiocy. The one in the gatsby cap stammered.

"We already told you, we don't know!" the one in the bedsheet interrupted.

"And even if we did know," the one in the burlap sack added, "We certainly wouldn't tell you!" That comment made the one in the gatsby cap panic and whispered to their peers. The scene reminded him of a young kid telling their naughty friends not to swear in front of their parents.

Idiots, all of them.

As peculiar as all of this was, he was quickly losing patience. The Thin Man focused on the heads under the bedsheet and the burlap sack, imagining them popping like balloons filled with confetti.

And so that's what happened.

The one with the gatsby cap froze in horror as they watched their acquaintances keel over. The Thin Man leaned in close to the one in the gatsby cap, almost entirely hovering over them.

"Where's Mr. Cecil?" he asked again, his tone precisely the same as it was the last time.

"He's in there," the one in the gatsby cap revealed, pointing to a nearby abandoned building. "You won't need to look for too long. You... you'll hear him..."

That didn't sound promising.

"Your honesty is very much appreciated," the Thin Man said as thanks. As he walked to the building, the one in the gatsby cap gave his final words:

"Mr. Cecil's a good person, you know! He's just a little strange!"

And with that, they ran out of sight.

Poor fool. Words alone wouldn't change his mind if he came to harm someone.

The Thin Man found an opening in one of the walls of the building, small but manageable. He hunched and climbed his way inside, stumbling a bit as he lifted his second foot over. Inside was damp and dark, though it didn't take long for his eyes to adjust. All sorts of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac filled the ground level from ceiling to floor; most of it looked like junk that came straight from the trash pile. Free from the constant pelting of the rain, he could hear wet coughs from not far away. They sounded painful.

Sure enough, it didn't take long for the Thin Man to find Mr. Cecil. He found him laying on top of a pile of old newspapers; his deformed arms wrapped around himself, perhaps in an attempt to stop his shivering. His breathing was shallow, and he moaned from pure misery. He was muttering something, but the Thin Man couldn't make any sense of it.

Such a pitiful and peculiar sight.

"Mr. Cecil, I presume?" the Thin Man asked politely, as odd as it sounded. The muttering ceased.

"Wah?.. Who's there?" Mr. Cecil asked, voice somewhat muffled by the burlap sack still over his head. He donned a strange accent and sounded exhausted. "Sam?.. Jun?.."

"You're acquaintances are no longer here. You and I are the only ones left." Mr. Cecil let the Thin Man's words sink in for a moment before the full weight of the situation broke through his delirium.

"BROADCASTER!" Mr. Cecil somehow managed to scream in rage. He jolted upright, a move he seemed to regret when he clutched his head and stomach immediately. "YOU... oh, you!YOU! STAY THE BLOODY HELL AWAY FROM ME! OR ELSE I'LL... I'll... oh..." Mr, Cecil crumbled onto himself, laying back down on the newspapers. The Thin Man watched with amusem*nt, all the while.

The man called him by his lesser-spoken title.

How peculiar.

"As much as I would love to see you do your worst, I doubt you would be able to do so in your condition." The muttering began again, though he heard a "khyber pass" and a "hampton wick" in the mix this time. The man must be more delirious than the Thin Man initially assumed. Now wasn't the time to listen to sick men rant, however. "Speaking of conditions, I am to ensure your well-being. Specifically, I am making sure you recover from this illness of yours." Mr. Cecil slightly lifted his head, attention piqued.

"Oh really?" he asked, his tone making it clear he wasn't buying his words for a second. A brave fool, this one. "And what sparked this sudden act of charity, eh?"

"A friend of yours made an agreement with me. He asked - ."

"NO FRIENDS O' MINE WOULD MAKE IAN BEALES WITH YA, BROADCASTER!" Mr. Cecil jolted upright again, not learning his mistake from the last time. He crumbled onto himself again but managed to stay sitting upright this time, letting loose a rather painful-sounding coughing fit. The Thin Man waited to see if Mr. Cecil would finally let his nausea get the best of him, only responding when he didn't.

"Well, this friend of yours did. Quite a selfless thing to ask for, I must admit. Very peculiar."

"Who was it... then? Yoshi? Henrick? It... better have not been Willis..."

"He didn't give me a name. He did say, however, that you were supposed to meet him yesterday and didn't." That made Mr. Cecil's breath hitch. His breathing suddenly grew shallower.

"Please... oh, please don't tell me it was... was a little boy..."

"It was." That seemed to drain what minimal fight Mr. Cecil had in him. Once more, he laid back down on the newspaper pile. The mutterings resumed; this time, the Thin Man could fully understand what he was saying:

"No. No, no, no. Oh, laddie, I'm sorry. I'm sosorry, Little Buddy. So sorry..."

He wondered how much of Mr. Cecil's shaking was from fever and how much was from weeping.

He didn't have the patience to find out. "Mr. Cecil, I am aware that you want nothing to do with me or anything associated with me for that matter, but I made an agreement, and I will uphold my end by any means necessary. So, if you will kindly pull yourself together, I'm taking you to a hospital to evaluate what it is you've contracted." No response at first, but then Mr. Cecil's shaking and breathing calmed a bit.

"Fine," Mr. Cecil spat, voice now hoarse and darker in tone. "But let me be very clear: the only reason why I'm not going for ya jugular is 'cause the lad wanted me ta get better."

"... Alright," was all the Thin Man said in response. The brave fool didn't have the strength to swing an arm anyway, and even if he did, he would've been dead long before he could even try. Mr. Cecil released a throaty growl of anger, which quickly devolved into a choke and a coughing fit. His nausea won this time around, the stench of pure stomach acid overpowering the air around them.

It was slowly becoming apparent that Mr. Cecil was going to need a little assistance.

Mr. Cecil removed the now-soiled sack from his head with one hand, revealing his old, tear-stained non-face. The Thin Man, meanwhile, grabbed hold of Mr. Cecil's other free wrist. Waiting until the man could breathe decently again, the Thin Man gradually pulled Mr. Cecil onto his feet, his stubby legs weak from illness. Clammy hands clung onto his shoulder for support as if his life depended on it. It kind of did, but that was beside the point.

"H... how far... do we haf'ta..?" Mr. Cecil didn't finish his question. It seemed the nausea wasn't letting him.

"Not far. The hospital's just outside." That wasn't true, but the Thin Man would make it so. He didn't have time to deal with an old, sick fool all day.

"There's a... pair of doors... 'round here... I... I can't... remember..." His breathing was becoming more labored, probably trying to fight nausea off. The man's illness-fueled misery was beginning to annoy the Thin Man. How pitiful could he possibly get?

"Deep breaths, Mr. Cecil. Deep, controlled breaths." The Thin Man offered the advice to the sick man, though it was more toward himself. He couldn't allow his impatience to have everything it wanted, as easy as it was to let it so. Impatience wanted him to kill Mr. Cecil and lie to the nightmare; patience reminded him that his honesty was the only positive aspect he had left of his reputation.

Deep breaths, Thin Man. Deep, controlled breaths.

It suddenly came to his attention that Mr. Cecil's breathing had slowed. Still relatively shallow, but not as shallow as it was before.

He actually took his advice.

That was...

... odd.

Fortunately for the Thin Man, the awkwardness of the realization didn't get the chance to settle. Just as he willed it, the hospital arrived right outside the building. Neither man had the time to be hunting for doors, so he just transported them both inside the waiting room. Mr. Cecil nearly lost balance, but otherwise, he was left unscathed.

The waiting room was vacant, which was abnormal, but at least he didn't need to deal with nosy strangers. Scattered about were a few sparse chairs, all old and wobbly. The checkered floor needed cleaning, but not too terribly. Adorned on the walls were posters containing essential health tips, condescending in their tone. The upper floor, just above the ceiling, seemed to be devolving into chaos. Panicking patients and reassuring nurses were adjusting to the hospital's newest location. One would think the city citizens would get used to this, and yet they never did.

Peculiar is one of the most annoying ways.

"Wot? Where..?"

"We've arrived."

"But how - ? "

"Don't think about it. Just sit down." Mr. Cecil did so without argument, taking claim to the nearest chair his hands could find. Due to his reduced height, he was able to curl up on the chair with ease. His arms wrapped around his shivering frame. With Mr. Cecil taken care of, the Thin Man walked across the room and went up to the waiting room desk.

A mid-aged nurse sat behind the desk, crisp and clean in her appearance, unlike the hospital she worked for. A simple but effective bun tightly pulled up her black hair; cat-eye glasses shielded her eyes. Her nurse's outfit was white as untouched snow, making the red crosses pop out like freshly spilled blood. Heavily deformed was her spine, hunchbacked and twice its desired size. Her spindly arms appeared too thin for her otherwise... wide frame. She seemed to be indifferent to everything happening around her as if her crossword puzzles were of higher priority.

"Thin Man," the nurse acknowledged.

"Myrt," he responded.

"What's your reason for changing our address? Again, might I add."

"I made an agreement," he explained, gesturing toward Mr. Cecil's location in the waiting room. Myrt looked up from her crosswords to see what he was talking about, her null expression taking on a more serious tone.

"I see," she observed, wisely deciding to leave the matter at that. She placed her crosswords to the side and picked up a clipboard containing a fill-out sheet. "What's his name?"

"Cecil."

"First name or surname?"

"Last name," Mr. Cecil weakly spoke up from the opposite end of the room. "M'name's... Roger Cecil..." Myrt silently mouthed out his name as she wrote it on the fill-out sheet. Mr. Cecil, meanwhile, let loose another painful coughing fit.

"I'm going to assume he's here for whatever nasty thing he has," Myrt said quietly, primarily to herself. After writing a few other things down, she spoke to the Thin Man again. "You can just go ahead and sit down. Dr. Frank is currently performing some experiments right now, but he'll see Roger as soon as he can."

He liked that about Myrt; any other nurse would've told him to take a ticket.

That was it, then. The Thin Man fulfilled his end of the agreement. He could return to the Signal Tower. Mr. Cecil just needed to wait a few minutes in the waiting room for Dr. Frank.

Or hours...

Mr. Cecil moaned from discomfort.

A small, still voice whispered at the back of his mind. A voice so foreign, yet simultaneously so familiar. It begged only a single word:

Stay.

... Damn it.

Without a word, the Thin Man sat next to Mr. Cecil, his back straight and his hands on his knees, which were so high up they could touch his chin. He felt as if he were sitting on a chair made for a child. It took a minute or two for the sick man to notice his presence. He groaned from either illness or annoyance. If it was the latter, it was indeed a sentiment shared between the two of them. Mr. Cecil spoke no words, as he seemed not to have the mood or the energy to do so. Silence dominated the next several minutes.

"Ya know her?" Mr. Cecil eventually asked.

"Know who?"

"The nurse... over there..."

"Yes, I know her well enough. I visit here often."

"Why's that?"

"You don't want to know."

Silence once again.

"Can ya at least tell me... what kind o' agreement the lad made ta ya?"

"It's not your place to know."

Mr. Cecil growled at that, not as harsh as last time, though.

So protective.

It was very peculiar.

"Why are you care so much about him, anyway?" the Thin Man asked.

"Like... ya give a piece of sh*te," Mr. Cecil replied, his tone tainted with venom.

"And what if I do?"

"Then ya wouldn't... have made that deal with him... in the first place."

His fight came back.

Oh, joy.

"I make agreements, not deals."

"Potayto, potahto! They're both... the same! The other person doesn't suffer misfortune,.. but you reap all the benefits! It's... how it always goes!"

Except there was a difference: a deal implies he's some agent for evil.

His patience was quickly draining.

"You still are aware who you're arguing with, do you?"

"Oh... I'm more than aware."

"Then you'll be wise not to encourage me to crush you into a pulp."

"Except you can't."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" This fool was starting to get under his skin.

"Tell me,.. Broadcaster. What were ya exact words... when ya made ya end of the agreement?"

"Exactly what I told you earlier: I am to ensure your well-being!"

"Those words specifically? "

" Yes! Those words specifically! "

An impossibly wide smile slowly crawled its way onto Mr. Cecil's non-face. It was the kind of smile that mischievous individuals donned when they planned to cause trouble. Those kinds of smiles never meant anything good.

The tired chuckles that escaped Mr. Cecil's lips weren't helping.

"Do you find that amusing?"

"You... bet your britches I do! OY! MISS! YA HEAR BROADCASTER? HE'S GOTTA ENSURE ME WELL - !" Mr. Cecil immediately started coughing. When will the man learn to stop screaming?

"I don't want any part of your little argument, thank you very much," Myrt yelled back, having long since returned to her crosswords. The Thin Man waited for his coughing fit to end to resume the argument.

"And what is it about my exact words you find so amusing?"

"Ya weren't exact enough!"

"... Would you mind elaborating on that?"

"Ya didn't... say ya would only help me get over this sickness. Ya said... ya would ensure me well-being. That means you are ta... make sure me overall quality o' life is good... Which means no harm is ta come ta me,.. which also means no harm can come from ya."

Even though Mr. Cecil was blind, it felt as if this sick, pathetic man was looking straight into the Thin Man's very essence.

"Apart from a few choice peoples,.. I've become the only bloke ya... can't touch. And ya won't break the deal,.. 'cause ya and I both know ya a stickler for rules... Ya can't do jack sh*te! "

The silence itself went silent in the waiting room.

"... ... ... f*ck," he whispered.

For whatever reason, that made Mr. Cecil break into hysterics. Gut-deep laughter filled the waiting room for a few solid seconds until it inevitably switched into yet another coughing fit. It sounded as if the nausea was about to win until he somehow managed to take deep, controlled breaths. The Thin Man watched as he could visibly see the energy drain from Mr. Cecil's non-face, trying so hard not to upchuck onto the waiting room floor. He won the fight in the end, but he no longer had any fight left. He sunk as far back into his chair as he could, muttering to himself.

"I needed that. Been a while... since I had a good steffi graf..."

The Thin Man waited until a few minutes of silence had passed before speaking his truth. "I was serious you know, giving a 'sh*te' about why you cared so much." That got a chuckle out of Mr. Cecil; it was far weaker than it was previously, and it faded as soon as it appeared. A moment or so passed.

"... Really?"

"Really."

A long pause of contemplation filled the air.

"'Help all runaway kids.' It's part o' the Vagrant's Code. I vowed ta uphold that code years ago, and I don't plan ta break it anytime soon."

The Thin Man took a deep breath, not wanting to tell the man the truth but knowing he must.

"Mr. Cecil, the boy - ."

"Stop... calling me that. I'm just... Roger. 'Mr. Cecil' makes me sound like... someone's pop."

"... Roger, the boy isn't human. It's a nightmare."

"Oh, I knew that."

The Thin Man gave off a low hum, then allowed silence to dominate once more.

Wait a minute.

"When?"

"When what?.."

"When did you know it was a nightmare?"

"From the moment... I first encountered him."

"How?! "

"From his scent. I could... smell it from a good ways away."

As... "intriguing" as it was that Roger had an above-average sense of smell, the man admitted to a more serious matter. Did he even realize what he just confessed?

"Let me get this straight: you encountered a nightmare, and not only did you not kill it on sight, like you're supposed to, but you willingly cared for it?! "

"Yep,.." Roger casually replied.

"... Please tell me you're pulling my leg."

"I ain't joshing..."

The Thin Man let loose a long, exasperated sigh. Impatience wanted him to rip Roger to ribbons; patience reminded him about the agreement.

"Why?" he dared to ask.

"What was it... ya said earlier? Oh... yes. 'It's not ya place ta know.'" And with that oh-so-meaningful echo, Roger closed his eyes for the first time since the Thin Man saw his non-face. As wise as it probably was to try and get some rest, he looked anything but restful. The waiting room chairs weren't exactly comfortable, in all fairness.

The Thin Man stole a glance at the waiting room desk. Myrt was missing, probably fulfilling other nurse duties. Curious, he checked the time on the clock on the far right of the room. They had only been waiting for ten minutes.

He should've done what he usually did and ignored the voice.

To the Thin Man's relief, both men exchanged no other words for the following half-hour. To Roger's not-relief, he made no progress in finding respite from his sickness. Myrt had returned to her place behind the waiting room desk after thirty minutes or so. She looked ticked, which meant she just got done speaking with Dr. Frank.

"I told Dr. Frank about Roger. He should be here any moment now. He also told me this is the only time he'll pause his experiments for a waiting room patient, so take with that what you will." Good ol' Myrt, never afraid to tell him her grievances with Dr. Frank. It helped him keep the head doctor in check.

Sure enough, the swinging double doors connecting the waiting room to the rest of the hospital flung open, slamming against the walls. Roger had snapped out of any delirium that might have been setting in, yelping in fright. That, of course, sent him into yet another coughing fit.

"Cheese and rice!" Roger managed to sputter out in between coughs. The jumpscare's source hung on top of the ceiling, like an overstuffed caterpillar in desperate need of a metamorphosis. Swollen and puffy were his lips, and sunken were his ever-observing eyes. He huffed and wheezed from overexertion and poor health, the irony of which would never cease to amuse the Thin Man. The head doctor immediately turned his attention to where the two men sat, eyebrows "raised". The Thin Man sat up from his undersized seat to formally greet his crazed acquaintance.

"Thin Man!" Dr. Frank spoke in genuine surprise, an upside-down grin straining to appear calm. "Miss McGee didn't tell me you were here! What's the occasion, hm? An inspection of the testing rooms? New labs rats for me to experiment with?" Dr. Frank asked that second suggestion as he stole a glance at Roger. Roger, in turn, tensed up when he heard the word "experiment".

"No," the Thin Man clarified, tone harsh and stern. "I'm here because I've made an agreement with an individual. My conditions of the agreement require this man next to me to make a full recovery from whatever ailment he has."

"Odd condition."

"Peculiar individual."

"Very well. I'll see to it that one of the junior doctors evaluates him."

"Myrt also mentioned that you, and I quote, 'Don't pause your experiments for waiting room patients.'" Dr. Frank's face paled, as it should. That grin still stayed, however.

"Oh, heh heh heh! Eh, I can explain - !"

"I'm listening."

"Well, you see, folks who come to the waiting room normally have minor ailments, like broken arms or black eyes. Their conditions aren't as severe as, say, those who come through the emergency room." Dr. Frank paused to look at Roger, now hunched over; his arms desperately wrapped around his torso. "Although, had I known that his fine fellow here was in the dire condition that he is, I wouldn't have waited."

"You would have known sooner had you not assumed. Your care for your patients was one of the many reasons I chose you, not just for this man here but also for the Greater Good. I sure hope you're not applying this same kind of mentality when it comes to your task at hand, Dr. Frank."

The grin finally faltered. Good.

"You know what? On second thought, I'll just evaluate him myself."

"Cripes ,.." Roger whispered under his breath. "Will one o' ya just off me already?" Roger may be having second thoughts about staying at the hospital, but the Thin Man wasn't going to let him back out of it. He spent too much time on this whole affair just for it to be all for nothing.

"Ignore him," he told Dr. Frank regarding Roger. "He's just in a sour mood."

The wrong choice of words, apparently.

"YA BETTER BELIEVE I'M IN A SOUR MOOD, YA SON OF A - !" A violent coughing fit cut the curse short. The dry-heaving that soon followed was probably one of the worst things the Thin Man heard in recent memory. The man tried so hard to take deep, controlled breaths, but he didn't have the strength to. Once the fit subsided, Roger quietly whined, "Can I please... lie down...? I'm so tired..."

"Can you walk?" Dr. Frank asked, genuinely concerned. Crazed as he might have been, he still cared for any who came to him for healing. He had already pressed his swollen and oversized hand against the sick man's forehead before waiting for a response.

"... I'm afraid ta," Roger admitted. Dr. Frank mused a hum, then crawled to the far left of the waiting room, where a television set and a pair of wheelchairs sat. He rolled one of the wheelchairs next to Roger, who slowly sat in it once he heard the wheels roll up toward him. Before the head doctor could take him away to one of the exam rooms, Roger grabbed onto one of the Thin Man's arms, grip tighter than it had ever been.

"Please ... tell me ya didn't harm the lad..."

"... I have no intention ever to harm it."

Roger loosened his grip, slowly accepting that what he said was the only response he was ever going to get. The Thin Man then looked to Dr. Frank, eyes narrowed and tone low.

"Word of warning, Herbert Frank: if I see as much as a semblance of an attempted amputation, I will amputateyou beyond recognition."

"Understood, Thin Man," was all the head doctor said in response, though the Thin Man could see the sweat dripping from his forehead. Doctor and patient then entered the hospital's bowels, nurse and steward watching them disappear as they did so.

"I'll keep you updated on Roger," Myrt offered.

"That will be very much appreciated."

He noticed a look of apprehension on Myrt's face.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

"It's not my place to say." Ah, so it was about himself.

"It's not like you to withhold the truth, Myrt. You will always be in my good graces, I can assure you." Myrt, after all, was essential for making sure Dr. Frank didn't take for granted the power gifted to him. Without her, the Thin Man would never receive an honest report about what the head doctor was up to. It seemed like she wasn't going to say anything, though, much to his dismay. The Thin Man was about to depart through the television set until Myrt finally spoke.

"Who's the 'lad' Roger spoke of?" Oh, she must've left before that... revelation regarding Roger.

"A boy Roger cares for," the Thin Man explained, which wasn't a complete lie.

"How old?"

"Young enough that it needs an adult to look after it," which also wasn't a complete lie.

"You are aware that Roger may not get better, right?"

An uncomfortable pause filled the room.

"Yes," she continued, "there is a chance he will get well again, but there is a higher chance that he won't. And if a little boy is relying on Roger to look after him, who will if Roger is no longer able to? Until Roger can, for sure, be able to care for him again, you have a moral obligation to look after him in his stead, whether or not it was part of the agreement."

A more uncomfortable pause filled the room.

"And what if I refuse?"

Myrt took a deep breath and removed her glasses from her face, revealing her eyes only filled half of her eye sockets; the rest was just tar-black emptiness. She began stroking the lens as she mused. He never realized Myrt looked so similar too...

"I heard all sorts of stories about you, growing up. Stories about how you were a warm person before the Great Evolution turned you cold. The fact that you stayed here when you had no obligation to proves to me that there is still some warmth in you, no matter if you realize it or not." Myrth placed her glasses back on her face. "Then again, what do I know? I'm just a nurse."

The small, still voice whispered a single sentence, still begging but more hopeful in tone:

You know you must.

... Damn it!

"Oh, Myrt?" the Thin Man asked, stopping Myrt before she could leave the desk again. "When he does get better, could you tell me how much a face application costs nowadays?"

A peculiar request, for a peculiar man, who looked after a peculiar nightmare.

He was beginning to hate the word "peculiar".

Chapter 3: From Which He Became Known By Title

Chapter Text

A "moral obligation," huh?

"That was how she put it, yes."

The Thin Man stood in a pitch-black room, bathed in harsh analog light. Tethered to the unseeable ceiling hung a cascade of television sets. Each screen projected a single eye, ever observant and analytical. He could see the raw power those eyes possessed, a power that had protected humanity from the claws of evil for countless millennia.

And what did you say in response?A deep, androgynous voice asked.

"Nothing. She then tried to appeal to my better self."

Did it work?

"... Possibly."

The eyes rolled as if to say, "Of course it did."

Why does that not surprise me?

"She did make a valid point, you know. What good is a successor if they perish before you do? I can't afford to look for another."

I agree that a dead successor is a worthless one. At this point, however, I believe your choice is already compromised.

The Thin Man tilted his head at that statement.

"What do you mean by that?"

If what you say about Roger Cecil is true, he may have planted seeds of paranoia and distrust into the boy. And if that is the case, then he'll never listen to you. You're better off finding another successor.

The Great Eyes didn't know of the nightmare's true nature, and he hoped it stayed that way. At least, for a while anyway.

"I just told you I can't. No one else is fit for the position. It has to be the boy."

And, pray tell, why is that?

He didn't know how to even put it all into words at first. Once he had an idea to do so, he took a deep breath and began to explain.

"When I first went searching for a potential successor, I thought one of the elites would be a perfect choice. After all, they have a lifetime of experience in looking over land and people, amongst other things. But I quickly discovered that the elites have grown apathetic towards the people they govern over. They gorge and consume with little thought or care of the consequences. Such attributes make a poor steward, and I don't believe it would be wise to choose any of them.

"I then began searching among the middle class. While they may not have experience in governing, they do understand responsibility and consequence. Not to mention they highly value knowledge, which is crucial for a steward. As I searched, however, I noticed that the middle class are bitter people. They believe that not every wrong committed against them has been righted and seek vengeance for things that can't be properly avenged. They have also become creatures of persuasion, no longer thinking for themselves out of fear of contradicting your word. At best, any of them would be nothing more than a mindless puppet; at worst, they might transform into a cruel tyrant. Neither of these things, I feel, would do the world any good."

He paused for a moment, waiting for the Great Eyes to respond.

Go on. I'm listening.

"That's when I thought to search among the lower class. They are a group of humble people with strong ties to their community. Due to their experience living on the lowest rung of the social ladder, they would know better than to take advantage of those below them if given great power. But just as you had stated before, they are distrustful and paranoid for a variety of reasons. And that's not even taking into account those who are even more bitter than the middle class. Even if I begged them, none would want to be the next steward. So, I didn't even bother to look."

The Great Eyes narrowed their stare ever so subtly.

So how did you find the boy?

He gulped, knowing the following answer would make his superior livid.

"I went searching for a nightmare."

The Great Eyes could kill with a single look, and it seemed they would've struck the Thin Man down where he stood. He wasn't too worried, though. The Great Eyes needed a steward to look after the world while they remained trapped in the crust below, and, as things currently stood, the Thin Man was the only being worthy enough for the role.

That said, he was still a bit worried.

You didn't.

"I have."

It won't!

"It must! Didn't you hear me explain exactly why?!"

And have you forgotten that nightmares are only offspring?! You do remember what nightmares become when allowed to mature, do you?!

The Thin Man wisely decided to remain silent for the time being.

We have shed blood, sweat, and tears to ensure the peace and unity of this world! I have purged humankind of the evil that infected it, and you have protected humanity from the evil that still roams in the tainted lands! By allowing this nightmare to live, you're endangering not only the people of this city but the whole world population! I want you to try and at least give me one good reason why I shouldn't devour the beast where it stands!

He needed to choose his words carefully. If not persuasive enough, then all the work he did would've been for nothing!

Deep breaths, Thin Man.

"What if it wasn't a nightmare?"

That got the Great Eyes' attention. He could've sworn the television sets were hanging lower than usual, enclosing on him with that ever-powerful gaze. He continued, his confidence lifted somewhat.

"The nightmares, their ancestors, I mean, refused to have evil purged from them, correct? If I can get my successor to watch a television set, you could purge the evil inside it, thereby neutralizing it and making it no longer a danger to humankind. If it believes itself to be human, why not make it one?"

And you're sure it will work?

"One way or another."

... I still think we should make you immortal and no longer worry about this "successor" nonsense.

It was the Thin Man's turn to roll his own eyes.

"The North Wind is pissed already that humankind is, and I quote, 'living longer than it should.' I don't want to know what he'll do if I become incapable of dying."

Neither do I, the Great Eyes admitted. The television sets seemed to have returned to their original positions.He's a little too... wild for my liking. Still, as I said, your successor may already be compromised. How do you plan to get it in front of a television set?

"Simple. I build its trust, and I have an idea how to do it." He just needed to find whatever loose change that had located itself inside the Signal Tower.

Trust requires connection, you know.

"Yes, I'm aware."

And you do remember what happened the last time you made a connection, do you?

"... I try not to."

Then you understand that you must tread lightly when gaining this nightmare's trust.

"... yes, I understand..."

Because if you grow too close to this nightmare, I'll have no choice but to devour it for the safety of the world.

"... yes, O Great Eyes..."

Good! Glad to hear you haven't completely lost your marbles!

At least he had reassured the Great Eyes to a degree. The Thin Man gave a slight bow out of respect and then teleported out of the room.

Now, where were all the couch cushions?

Was it possible to be both terrified and bored at the same time?

He was terrified because he didn't know ifHe would return to end him finally. He was bored because there was very little to do under the bed where he still hid. One thing was for sure: he was starving.

Besides the tin can, all the food he found was uneatable. He was lucky enough that the can opener had been stored under the bed a few days before; he was unlucky enough to have a very unhappy belly. It kept demanding to be fed, only satisfied when the tin can had been emptied. And even then, it whined for food the following morning. He wished his belly understood that he wouldn't be able to get more food until next Sunday, and he didn't know how much longer that would be because he couldn't look out his window.

He was starting to worry.

And he didn't know what "successor" meant.

At least he found a minor distraction to keep himself busy. He accidentally left his mask on the floor away from reach, and he wasn't brave enough to risk a second or two out from under the bed. So, using the can opener, he punctured two eyeholes into the tin can. He ensured he did so from the inside, so the eyeholes' sharp edges would be on the outside. The blind man made it clear that he must never touch sharp metal. He could get sick, and he would...

He had a new mask now; that's all that mattered. It wasn't as soft or comfortable as his other mask, and it was kind of sticky from the juice that the tin can preserved inside, but he couldn't afford to be picky. His breathing sounded echoey from under the can, so that was a plus, he supposed.

It was colder today, though that was due in part of him remaining soaked three days ago. The chill of the rain had settled into his bones, making it very difficult to stay warm. His lungs felt weak, his nose was stuffy, and he ached all over. But there was nothing he could do about any of it.

So under the bed, he remained, curled in a tight ball and shivering under his him-sized blanket.

There was a faint rapping on the front door down the hall.

The awful groaning of peeling wood followed soon after.

Charge filled the air.

Heavy footsteps echoed throughout his "house," quiet at first but gradually growing louder.

He sawHim standing in his bedroom doorway.

"There you are, little nightmare."

He was done for.

He slowly approached the bed.

He was done for!

He saw a large, grey, boney, wrinkly hand.

The beating of his heart felt as if it would burst out of his chest. He quickly hid as much of he could of himself under his blanket. It would probably be excruciating, but at least he didn't have to see any of it. He braced himself for the inevitable.

... Nothing.

A loud THUD!

... Nothing again.

Confused, he took a deep breath and barely peeked from under his blanket. Laying inches from his face was a bundle of wrapped paper nearly his size. Despite his stuffy nose, he could tell it emanated a strong smell that made his mouth water and his belly beg. He so badly wanted it, but he knew it was a trap. The moment he would reach for it, He would grab him.

Speaking of Him, He was... well, He was lying on His back on the floor. Feet close to the bed, head relative to the doorway, right arm across the belly. Not a twitch, not a shift. He didn't want to move with Him still in his room, so he decided to wait.

... And nothing happened.

It occurred to him that he was going to need to perform an act of foolish bravery. In the blink of an eye, he snatched the bundle and held it close to his chest.

... And all was quiet and still.

He didn't like any of this, but he at least had something he knew was good and fresh. As silently as he could, he slowly tore the paper away, revealing a warm loaf of newly baked bread. The aroma overpowered the senses, and he shoved the first handful into his mouth before he had realized it. So sweet! So warm! So fresh! His belly had never been so happy before in his life! Handful by handful, he stuffed more of the bread into his mouth, stopping only to occasionally sneeze or cough.

It wasn't until he had devoured half of the bread that he remembered He was still in the room. He froze entirely still, a handful of bread halfway into his mouth. His eyes locked onto Him, scanning for any sign of movement.

... And there was none.

Still, he needed to be more careful. One wrong move could trigger Him to do... whatever bad thing He was going to do. He continued to eat a few handfuls, this time slowly and quietly. Not once did his eyes break contact with Him, only ever closing whenever he sneezed. It felt like an eternity passed, and yet there was nothing. Not a single movement.

His terror gradually morphed into confusion, which then shifted into curiosity. Why was nothing happening? Why was He lying on the ground? And, most importantly, what was a successor? A dangerous thought suddenly occurred, and he anxiously tapped his fingers on his half-loaf of bread as he mused over it. While he thought, he came to the rather despairing conclusion: it didn't matter what he did, He was going to hurt him. That was just the way of things. With that in mind, he took a deep breath, placed the tin mask over his head, and crawled out from under the bed with his bread loaf held tightly to his chest.

He was going to get a closer look at Him.

Ever so slowly, he tip-toed close enough toHis left foot that it was within his arm's reach; the foot itself was approximately half his size. Using his right index finger, he gave the gentlest of taps on the tip of the foot. Once he did so, he immediately scurried under the bed and waited for Him to respond.

... And He didn't.

More curious than he was previously, he crawled out from under the bed again. He tip-toed to His foot until he was in arm's reach and tapped the tip of the foot again, this time without hiding afterward.

... Nothing.

Even more curious, he tapped the shoe two more times.

... Still nothing.

He had no clue what to make of this, but his curiosity at this point overpowered his self-preservation. He grabbed hold of the foot and gently moved it back and forth, left and right. To his amazement, the foot bent and folded like... well, a foot—a very bendy foot, but a foot nevertheless. After a few minutes, he peered off to the side to get a better look atHis face, even though His hat shielded it.

No change.

Curiosity growing, he tip-toed aroundHim until he reached His left hand, palm up, and fingers curled in their resting positions. Grey, wrinkled, and static-y, just as he remembered it. Upon closer inspection, however, he noticed a few details that he hadn't seen before. Firstly, the veins around His wrist were quite prominent; they looked as if they would burst right through the skin, which made him feel a little uncomfortable. Secondly, weird white blotches stained His palm, thumb, and fingers. It reminded him of paint, but he wasn't sure if it was paint or not. It didn't look wet, that was for sure. Much like what he did with the foot, he took the index finger and moved it back and forth. Sure enough, it moved like an ordinary finger.

Also, no change.

It then occurred to him just how bigHis hand was compared to the rest of his body. Wild curiosity convinced him that it could encase his whole head in a fist, but he wasn't foolish enough to press his face into His palm to make sure. He did, however, want to know just how big His hand was in comparison to his. Checking to confirm that there hadn't been any change, and there wasn't, he pressed their hands together, palm end to palm end. What he found was that his middle finger just barely reached the middle of His palm, and it made him feel smaller than he already was. Also, His skin felt like normal skin, except wrinkly, and it made his hand tingle a bit.

A somewhat morbid thought occurred to him as he continued to press his hand against His. He dared not finish the question, not wanting to jinx himself, but it would certainly explain a few things. Not even he could be this still if he tried! Moving on from His hand, he made his way toHisribs. He squatted from a distance, far enough that he assumed he was out of arms reach if He finally decided to do something. He observed intensely, looking for any sign of movement to confirm or deny his suspicions. It was incredibly subtle, and he almost missed it, but there was movement. Slow and shallow, His chest rose and fell in a steady and mesmerizing rhythm.

He breathes.

He wasn't sure what to think of this.

Oh, and no change.

If He was alive but not moving, did that meanHe was sleeping? Did He sleep? Does He sleep? Why? Why sleep? Why does Hesleep?

His hat hid His face, so he couldn't know for sure if He was sleeping or not. Still, the very idea of Him sleeping blew his mind. He had to see it for himself. Without thinking, he reached for the brim of His hat and lifted it.

Under the shadow of the hat brim, a pair of piercing, void-like eyes glared back.

Fight or flight instinct kicked in. In a blink of an eye, he dashed straight for the bed and dove under. He curled himself into a tight fetal ball and waited for Him to do whatHe was going to do.

He waited.

... And waited.

... And sneezed.

... And waited...

Why was nothing happening?

He didn't move from His position on the floor. Not even a little bit! Slowly, he uncurled himself and turned around so he could see the rest of his room.

... Did He sleep with his eyes open? No, people sleep with their eyes closed. Then again, He wasn't people. Or maybe He wasn't sleeping. Perhaps he did something that keptHim from hurting him. But what did he do? All he did was touch His foot. And touch His hand. And -

Oh!

Confident but more cautious than he had been previously, he crawled out from under the bed. He moved His foot in a circular motion, bentHis fingers back and forth, and watchedHis chest rise and fall. Finally came the last part, and his confidence left him. What if it was a fluke? What if everything he did only made Him want to hurt him more? Did being a successor have something to do with it? He gulped and lifted the brim of His hat.

He froze when he saw the eyes, haunting and empty. Now that he got a good look at them, he noticed that they weren't completely black. The dots of His eyes were pitch black, just like everyone else's eyes, but the white parts were a not-as-black. They were static-y too, just like His skin, but easier to see. It was almost hypnotizing. There wasn't much to say about the rest of His face, other than it looked neutral as ever.

"Hello," He said. His voice was croaky and quiet; His cracked lips never separated.

He gasped in surprise, let go of the hat, and took a few steps back. He almost hid under the bed again but realized He didn't move. He only spoke.

He said, "hello."

... why???

He lifted the hat brim again, a little slower than last time.

"Hello," He said.

"Hi," he whispered back, the tin can causing his voice to echo a bit.

He lowered the hat, waited for any sign of movement, and then lifted it once more.

"Hello again."

"Hi."

No movement. Down the hat went. He began to pace in a tiny circle. It seemed whenever He said "hello," He didn't do anything. If he said "hello," would the same thing happen? Up the hat went again.

"Hi."

"Hello."

No movement, which meant no hurting.

He should've been relieved, but he was just confused.

He didn't understand.

"Hi."

"Hello."

"Why are you not hurting?"

To his surprise, He raised one of His eyebrows.

"What?"

"You hurt things. That's what you do. Why are you not hurting?"

His brow furrowed at that question.

"Why would I hurt my successor?"

"... ... ... I don't know what that means."

"What part of 'Why would I hurt my successor?' do you not understand?"

"Suh-sess-or."

There was a pause. His eyebrows raised, and His eyes broke contact to look at something else.

"... Ah," was all He said in response.

An awkward silence lingered in the room as Hiseyes wandered.

"Hi."

"Huh? Oh, hello."

"You hurt me?"

"... No, I'm not going to hurt you."

"No hurting?"

"No hurting."

"Oh."

Now he was relieved. At least, for the time being. He didn't know how long he was going to be a successor, after all. Feeling a little safer, he took a few steps away from Him, plopped down on the floor, and began taking slow bites of the bread. It wasn't making his belly as happy as it did before, which was odd, but he didn't overthink it. Food was food, after all, and it mustn't go to waste.

That's what his friend told him...

Well, it still had its paper wrap. He could just keep it wrapped up and eat the rest later. Thatwould make his belly happy. With as much care as he could give, he rewrapped the bread and stashed it under the bed for safekeeping.

Touch foot.

Touch hand.

Watch.

"Hi."

"Yes?"

A pause, and then he sneezed.

And that was the end of that conversation.

...

What now?

His belly wasn't as angry as it was before, he was still cold and achy, and a monster was lying on his floor. As frightening as it was the past couple of... however long it had been, it was probably the most exciting thing to ever happen in his "house." That and last Sunday, but last Sunday wasn't that great. Non-Sundays were very dull. If he wasn't eating or sleeping, he was waiting for Sunday to come.

He couldn't remember how long ago it specifically was, but his friend had given him a dusty stick as one of the "forgotten things" he could keep that day. His friend explained that if he rubbed the dusty stick against something hard and flat, it would leave dust behind. Every day, he was to rub the stick; when he had seven dusty marks, it meant it was Sunday, and it was safe to go outside. It was pretty helpful, even though it made his wall and floor very messy.

He had an idea. At the foot of his not-him-sized bed was a not-him-sized cardboard box. Inside the cardboard box were all the "forgotten things" his friend let him keep, though he had no purpose for any of them. There was the body of his teddy bear, a triangle that spun on the tip, a weird-looking thing with wheels and string, and a "choo-choo," amongst other things. Reaching down to the bottom of the toy box, he found his dusty stick, roughly half his size and somewhat cracked from use.

Foot.

Hand.

"Hi."

"Hello."

He noticed what he was holding in his hands.

"Is that chalk you have there?"

"It's a dusty stick."

"... That's what it's called. Chalk."

"Oh, ok."

Chalk. Not dusty stick.

With that new nugget of information stored away, he began making marks with his chalk near His feet.

"What are you doing?" He spoke underneath His hat, but His voice sounded clear.

He didn't say "hello."

Was that bad?

He stopped making marks and froze as still as could be. He would've also tried to stay quiet, except his lungs thought that was the perfect time to start coughing.

He sighed loudly.

"Hello."

"Hi?"

"Yes, hello. What are you doing?"

He didn't answer.

"Nightmare, what are you doing?"

"You hurt me?"

Another sigh.

"I just told you, I'm not going to hurt you."

"No hurting?"

"No hurting."

"... I make marks."

He continued his work, making his way up to Hisright leg.

"What do you mean by 'make marks'?"

"I make marks."

There was no better way to explain it. He was at His waist now.

"Alright then, why are you making marks?"

He paused at the right elbow to think for a moment and then continued.

"... 'cuz."

"Because why?"

"Just 'cuz."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is."

He had reached His right shoulder.

"No, it's not. Saying 'just because' doesn't explain anything."

"My friend says 'just 'cuz.'"

Around His head, he went. All the while, He had gone silent.

"Well, he should stop doing that."

"Why?"

"Because it probably means he's keeping secrets."

"Oh, ok."

He sure did say a lot of strange, confusing things. He went back to making marks. Down he went, from His left shoulder to Hisleft wrist.

"... Hello?"

"Hi."

"Do you like making marks?"

He stopped at the fingers to think about that question. Making marks helped keep track of when it was Sunday and when it wasn't. Sundays were good days. He sneezed before answering.

"Yes."

"May I ask why?"

"Sundays are good days."

"Is that... is Sunday when you see Roger?"

He stopped at His left knee.

"'Roja'?"

"Your friend. That's his name. Roger."

"My friend is the blind man."

"I know that, but his name is Roger."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Oh, ok."

Roja, not blind man.

There was a short pause.

"Did Roger ever tell you his name?"

"No."

Another pause.

"Have you told him your name?"

"He calls me 'lil' buddy.'"

The conversation ended there. He reached His feet, finishing up the marks he was making. It had used up quite a good chunk of his chalk, but he wasn't too bothered by it. He still had plenty left.

For whatever reason, however, making marks had worn him out. And as much as he wanted to take a nap, he didn't feel safe doing so as long as He was still in his "house." He's not hurting now, but what ifHe decided to hurt later?

Maybe if He were asleep, it would be safe for him to sleep too?

He went straight for His hat.

"Hi."

"Yes?"

"You sleepy?"

"... No, just lying down."

So He didn't sleep. But why was He lying down?

"Why?"

"... My height scares you, and I don't want that."

"Why?"

"Because I cannot gain your trust if you're frightened of me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to help you, and I can't help you if you don't trust me."

"But why?"

There was a long, long pause.

"Remember when I said 'just because' isn't an answer?"

"Yeah?"

"I take it back; it is a perfect answer."

"... You're co-foosing."

He was about to end the conversation there, but then wondered: if He didn't sleep, did that mean He didn't breathe either?

"You b'eathe?"

"... Do I breathe?"

"Uh-huh."

The look He gave was not one he had ever seen before, and it looked bizarre on His face. Then again, seeing Him give any look that wasn't neutral was strange.

"... ... ... yes???"

"But no sleep."

"Not now, no."

"Oh, ok."

So He breathes, but He doesn't sleep. That was a slight problem. It seemed he had no choice but to wait until Heleft his "house," and he had no idea how long that would be. He plopped down onto the floor and began to think.

He's lying down because no scaring, for some reason. No scaring because He wants trust, whatever that meant. He wants trust because He wants to help, which didn't make any sense. And he still had no idea what a "successor" was.

He couldn't tell if his head was spinning because he was confused or achy.

If he understood correctly, He would leave if He helped him.

He had an idea.

"You help make marks," he said, forgoing all "hellos."

"What?"

"You say -" A pair of sneezes interrupted before he continued. "- you want to help me, yeah?"

"That wasn't -"

"You help make marks."

He thought about holding out his chalk for Him to take, but the thought of Him moving, and by proxy hurting, still frightened him a bit. So, instead, he placed the chalk into His left hand. Under His breath, He uttered strange words that he couldn't understand.

"Very well," He spoke soon after. "What kind of 'marks' do you want me to help make?"

"Make marks 'round me," he explained, making a gesture around his body.

"Like what you did earlier?"

"Uh-huh."

It wasn't until he had laid down with his back on the floor that he realized one flaw with his idea: for Him to make marks,He would have to move. And, if He moved, He might hurt him. Sure enough, looming above him was a large, grey, and wrinkly hand.

In a panic, he rolled onto his belly and crawled, which quickly evolved into a run. That stopped as soon as it started once he reached the wall of his room. He turned around to see Him, back pressed against the wall and breathing as quickly as his lungs would allow.

He had moved. He lounged on his side, left arm propping Him up, and His right hand was elevated in the air, holding his chalk. He didn't look pleased, but He didn't look angry either.

"Nightmare, I can't help you 'make marks' if you won't stay still -"

"No hurting?" he interrupted in a panic.

"... You already know that answer to that question -"

"But no hurting?"

He... stared at him. After what felt like forever, He placed his chalk on the ground and pinched the bridge of His nose. He could hear Him make deep, audible breaths before finally asking a question.

"Would it help if I promise not to hurt you?"

Promise: to do what one says they'll do, no matter what happens. That was how his friend Roja explained it to him. But promises can be broken, which means someone doesn't do what they say they'll do. Only monsters break promises.

Monsters also hurt things.

Oh, why did everything have to be so confusing? Back still pressed to the wall, he slid down to the floor and curled himself into a tight ball, all the while keeping his eyes on Him. He wasn't going to cry in front of Him, but it was easier said than done. He watched him do all of this and then returned toHis original position on the floor. His right fingers drummed on His chest as His eyes kept their gaze on him.

"Nightmare?" He finally asked. Although His voice was still croaky, it sounded different somehow.

He didn't answer Him, though.

"... Hello?"

"... hi..." he finally responded, once he had managed to calm himself down somewhat.

"Nightmare..." Hepaused for a moment. "... do you understand what the North -"

"You shouldn't say that."

"... Why not?"

"Because if you do, he'll come and get you."

"Well,... there's only one thing in the whole world that... you-know-who fears."

"What?"

"Me. If I say his name, he won't come."

He had nothing to say to that.

"But you do know what he does, do you?"

A menacing and malicious unknown. It seemed no one, not even his friend Roja, really understood what he was. He made people sleep and never wake up; he made people leave and never return; he snatched people away and never gave them back. So many uncertain answers, but there was one thing he did understand.

"You're... not... you, anymore?"

"No, it -" He stopped, then continued slowly. "... yes. You are no longer you. And do you understand why that happens?"

"... My friend Roja says... all things must end even-tu-ally."

He broke His gaze from him, staring intently at the ceiling as if He was trying to find something.

"... I'm going to... stop being myself one day. It won't be for a long time yet, but it will happen. The trouble is, there are many things I need to take care of, and when I am no longer myself, I need someone to take care of all those many things for me. Someone that I know will do a good job."

He turned to look at him. His void-like eyes almost looked... soft?

"That's where you come in. You are my successor. That means, when I am no longer myself, you will take care of all the things that I am caring for right now. I am here to help and teach you everything you need to know to do your job well. I am not here to hurt you. Does that make sense to you?"

So that's what "successor" meant.

The mere concept of Him "no longer being Himself" was a little hard to grasp, but he was pretty sure he understood what He was telling him.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

That same bizarre look He gave when he asked if He breathed came back.

"Why do you think that?"

Because he didn't want to become a monster that hurts things and other nasty stuff.

"Sounds scary," he said instead.

He made a weird noise as His body slightly shook.

"It is a little scary, I'll admit. But it's only scary when you have to learn things all by yourself. That's why I'm helping you."

"And no hurting."

"No hurting."

"You promise?"

"... I promise."

It wasn't quite the reassurance he wanted, but he supposed it was better than having his worst fear happen. Still, he didn't feel safe letting Him make marks around him. He wasa monster, after all.

He did have an alternate solution, though. After wiping the tears and snot off his face as best he could, he cautiously went to his cardboard box and pulled out his teddy bear's body.

"Help make marks?" he offered, placing his teddy bear's body nearby.

"... Nightmare?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's his head?"

Its head?

Oh! His mask! He completely forgot! A quick glance-over of the floor, and there it was a few feet away from the bed. Excited to have his mask back, he held it up to show Him.

"Here it is!"

"Oh you - ... I forgot that - ..."

"What?"

"Oh, never mind. It wasn't important."

"Oh, ok."

He moved into the same lounging position Hewas previously, this time much slower and with His eyes locked on him the whole time. He only watched back in response, making sure He didn't suddenly hurt him out of nowhere. OnceHe... looked comfortable enough, He started making marks. Unlike his marks, which were slow and long, His marks were quick and short. They were also much thinner and lighter than his, which were thick and solid. He wasn't very precise, as He had started at the shoulders, but He quickly deviated from where He was supposed to be.

"You said Roger calls you 'little buddy,' is that right?"

"Uh-huh."

"What do you call yourself ?"

"... ... ... 'me.'"

"Yes, nightmare, you. What do you call yourself?"

He already answered that question.

"'Me.'"

"Nightmare, I - ... oh, I see. You call yourself 'me.'"

"Uh-huh."

"Anything else?"

"No."

He paused from making marks.He had just finished the arms.

"No?"

"No, just 'me.'"

He gave him a weird look before making marks again.

"Well, what does everyone else call you?"

"'Person-thing.'"

He stopped again.

"'Person-thing'?"

"Uh-huh."

"Not 'boy' or 'kid'? Just... 'person-thing'?"

"Uh-huh."

He started again.

"Huh, that's interesting..."

Apart from the scratchy sounds of making marks, the room fell silent. He had finished making marks around his teddy bear, butHe didn't stop. Instead, He moved his teddy bear out of the way and started making marks inside the marks. He would even smudge the marks together with His thumb, creating dusty and swirly clouds. That wasn't how one was supposed to do it, but he didn't have the nerve to say so.

"... You call me 'nightmare.'"

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because that's what you are. You're a nightmare, not a human."

Not human?

"But I am human."

"You think you're human."

"So?"

He looked at him in the eye. The shadow of the hat brim made it look likeHis eyes were glowing.

"Tell me, nightmare, is your skin made of porcelain? Does it crack and break with the slightest bump or cut or scrape?"

"... No?"

"Can you remove your face like a mask?"

"No?"

"Does your face melt?"

"No?"

"Are your insides made of stuffing? Just like your teddy bear?"

"No?"

"Can you stretch your neck out like that of a snake? Or walk on the ceiling like an insect?"

"No?"

"Then you are not human."

He went back to making marks. He watched as the marks slowly began to look familiar.

"If I'm not human, what am I?"

"A nightmare, of course."

"Is that bad?"

He paused for a moment.

"... They're evil ."

Evil: a very, very, very, very, very bad person.

"... I'm not evil."

"Everyone thinks that."

They both kept quiet after that, though, on his part, it was because he was deep in thought. Nothing He said made any sense. Monsters weren't humans, humans weren't monsters, and he wasn't evil. He sure liked being confusing.

He noticed that the marks didn't look like marks anymore.

It was his teddy bear! Only it had its head!

How'd He do that? He crouched down to get a closer look at the marks. Surely He did something to the dust to make it look more real, like magic. Right? He used magic?

"Like it?" He asked.

"Yeah..." he answered, trying to figure out how He made the marks look so authentic.

"Would you like me to do it again?"

Seeing Him do it again might help answer this current mystery.

"Yeah."

"Alright then, where would you like me to make marks?"

There wasn't anything else to make marks of, except for...

"There," he said, pointing to the marks he made earlier. He looked down to the floor at where he was pointing and made an odd look.

"You want me to make marks of myself?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"... Very well."

He flippedHimself in place, His back now facing him. He, in response, ran aroundHim so he could watch Him closely. With his chalk now in His left hand and His right arm propping Him up, He began making marks again. This time around, however, His movements were a lot shakier. Each mark He made was more uneven than the last, going in directions that didn't look right, but he couldn't understand why. He quietly grumbled to Himself.

"Nightmare?" He finally asked.

"Yeah?"

"Would it scare you if I were to sit up?"

Would it scare him? Sitting up wasn't lying down, but it wasn't standing up either. Besides, Hepromised no hurting.

"No, you can sit."

"Oh, good."

Planting both of His hands on the ground, He pushed Himself into a sitting position and crisscrossed His legs. He then began to stretch. Neck kinked left and right at unnatural angles; arms stretched out and over the head in a jittery fashion; back leaned... back so far it looked as if it would snap. Every cracked joint made a loud pop of static and a satisfied grunt.

He had to remind himself that He promised no hurting. He was only stretching.

"There," He said, once He finished. "Now, where was I?..."

With the chalk in His right hand again, He resumed making marks. They weren't shaky and uneven anymore.

Watching His body bend and contort in ways that would break limbs reminded him just how monstrous He was. That, in turn, made him think about what He said about humans being monsters and monsters being humans. It was still ludicrous, but it made him wonder...

"Are you human?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I am," He responded, without looking up.

That wasn't right.

"But what about pos-lin?"

That made Him lookup.

"'Pos-lin'?"

"You said that I'm not human because my skin's not pos-lin. And my skin's not pos-lin 'cuz it doesn't have cracks. But your skin's all wrinkly. It doesn't have cracks, so you're not pos-lin either."

Under the shadow of the hat brim, he could see His brows raise. He placed the chalk on the ground and examined His right hand front and back. Once He had checked both sides,He released a long sigh,His brows furrowing in unison.

"You make a fair point," He admitted. "Tell me then, nightmare; if I'm not human, what am I?"

"A monster," he said without hesitation, though the moment that word escaped his lips, he wished he hadn't. It wasn't wise to make a monster angry.

Instead of anger, however, the corners of His mouth raised so subtlely that he nearly missed it.

"A monster, you say? If I'm a monster, then that means Roger is a monster too, as is everyone else in this city."

That wasn't right, either.

"My friend Roja's not a monster."

"Oh? Why not?"

"His skin's not pos-lin."

"And what about everyone else? Are they monsters"

"No, they can't be."

"Why can't they?"

"'Cuz monsters aren't afraid of monsters."

Something... strange happened after he said that. His eyebrows slanted away from the center of His face. His eyes widened, and His mouth bent downward. He had seen the same thing on many homeless people, as he and his friend Roja would search through cans and dumpsters.

He was sad .

Their conversation quietly died as He wordlessly went back to making marks. He watched Him perform what one could only describe as magic: wood grains disappearing in dust and smudges. His swirling movements made his eyes grow heavy, but a jarring sneeze snapped him back into alertness. He sniffed in a feeble attempt to clear his plugged nose and wiped the dripping snot away with his arm.

"Nightmare?" He asked, croaky and void of emotion like Healways was.

"Yeah?"

"What do the others call me?"

"...'Him.'"

He hummed at that and nothing more.

"My friend Roja calls you 'broadcaster'."

No reaction.

"The others don't like it when he does that. They say that if he keeps doing that, you'll come and rip his arms off."

Still no reaction.

"But my friend Roja says that that's a load of gravel and grit and that you don't care about vay-gants. Then he shouted 'BROADCASTER!' and aaaaaall the birds flew away! And you didn't come! Then Roja told them to stop being puss*es."

He paused a moment.

"Roja's kinda co-foosing."

"Sounds like it," He mumbled.

"And then someone said that it didn't matter anyway, because 'broadcaster' isn't your name. He said your name, and then everyone threw him into the dumpster! And then they ran around the alley to find food, and then they threw the food on the ground! But my friend Roja didn't do that. He said something about cheese and rice, and then we walked away."

Another pause.

"Everyone else is kinda co-foosing too."

"So long story short, Roger calls me 'broadcaster,' everyone else calls me 'Him,' and you call me 'monster.'"

"I don't call you 'monster.'"

He looked up at him, still making marks while doing so. He didn't look as sad, but He wasn't back to His emotionless face either.

"I thought you said I was a monster?"

"Well, yeah, but... um..."

He didn't know how to explain it. He was a monster, but when he thought of Him, he always thought of Him as... Him, not "the Monster." As he tried to put his ponderings into words, He slowly stopped making marks.

"It is that you think of me as a monster, but you call me something else?"

That sounded sort of right.

"I think so."

"I see. So then, what do you call me?"

He...

... What did he call Him?

The homeless didn't want to give Him any name, afraid that the new name would be just as powerful and dangerous as His real one. So "Him" the homeless always called Him. His friend Roja didn't do that, though. He didn't mention Him often, but he always called Him "broadcaster" when he did. He didn't think much about it until that day Roja shouted to the scraper-tops, and the homeless ran around like "Charlie Dickens without their heads," whatever that meant. He asked Roja why he called Him "broadcaster," and Roja gave him three answers.

First, that was what He was: a "broadcaster." "Broadcaster" was what made the "idiot's lanterns" so dangerous. He wrote the unintelligible voices, composed the sporadic music, and, from what Roja heard, choreographed the stiff and lifeless dances. Such sights and sounds lulled countless men, women, and children with the empty promise of joys without woes. Their very thoughts and wills were slowly consumed by "broadcaster" until all that remained were the clothes they wore on their backs. They became one with the world, never to be recognized again. Beware of "idiot's lanterns," and be very wary of "broadcaster."

Second, to not call Him by His name would be an act of hypocrisy. The homeless constantly introduced themselves by saying their names whenever talking to non-homeless strangers; they did it to remind the strangers, and maybe themselves, that they were still people. And yet, to think of Him as anything but a malicious specter was a sin greater than murder. Specter or not, it was only fair to call Him by one of His many names. Yes, He had more than one.

Third, because he just did.

Although he trusted Roja, he didn't feel safe calling Him by any name, let alone "broadcaster." If the mere mention of His name was enough to make grown-ups panic to the point of tears, then he probably shouldn't say it.

But he was a successor now. He won't hurt him, Hepromised.

Even if...?

Would He...?

"... Um,... I... I call you... 'Thin Man'...?"

His brows shot upwards. His eyes widened, but not in a sad way. Then, His brows relaxed. One corner of His mouth twitched up ever so slightly upwards, and His lower eyelids raised in unison. He had seen this look before as well, whenever a kind stranger would toss their loose change into a homeless person's cup.

Thin Man was happy .

And, just as Thin Man promised, no hurting.

Under the tin can, he smiled back.

However, it faded as soon as it came when it occurred to him just how strange the name "Thin Man" actually was.

"Um, w-why do... why is your name 'Thin Man'?"

Thin Man made that weird sound again.

"It isn't my name; it's my title."

He tilted his head to the side in confusion, to which Thin Man responded by whispering strange words to himself .

"... You know how you call Roger 'my friend'?"

"Uh-huh."

"If 'Roger' is his name, 'my friend' is his title. Names are who you are; titles are what you are."

"Oh! So, why is your ti'le 'Thin Man'?"

Thin Man gave him that strange look yet again, gesturing to himself. He started at his head and then made his way down his tall, thin body tohis wai - ooohhh.

"Oh yeah..." he said quietly, a little embarrassed that he didn't put two and two together sooner. Thin Man only rolled his eyes and resumed making marks once again. The more marks Thin Man made, the less the marks looked like marks at all. The dust was no longer dust but wrinkles and thread and leather. His eyes began to grow heavy again, but he was determined to stay awake.

"... I've been thinking..."

His attention moved from the marks to Thin Man. Thin Man's eyes followed suit.

"Since you're my successor, it only seems right that you have a proper title. You know, besides 'successor' and 'nightmare.'"

"And 'person-thing.'"

"And 'person-thing.'"

"And 'lad'."

"Yes, and all the other titles you have. Anyways, I figured, since I'm 'the Thin Man,' it seems fitting to call you 'the Thin Boy.'"

"Thin Boy"?...

... Thin Boy...

Hm...

"Unless you like being called 'nightmare' -"

"No! No, you can call me Thin Boy."

Thin Man raised an eyebrow at that.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I... I think I like it."

Yeah, Thin Boy kind of liked it. Much better than "nightmare."

It was at that moment Thin Boy gave a big, long yawn. His eyes felt heavier than they were before, but the tin can hindered his attempt to wipe the sleepiness away. He knewThin Man promised never to hurt him, but Thin Boy still didn't feel safe falling asleep in his presence. Promise or no promise, Thin Man was still a monster.

"Tired?"

Thin Boy started to shake his head in denial, but the look on Thin Man's face forced him to nod slowly instead.

"I thought so. And don't try to lie to me in the future. I always know the truth eventually, and I don't take kindly to liars. Understand?"

Thin Boy nodded again. No lying. Thin Man doesn't like it.

"Good. Glad to have that out of the way."

And with that, Thin Man rose tohis feet without a grunt or a fuss. Up, up, up he went until it seemed he would burst right through the ceiling. Thin Boy had nearly forgotten how tall Thin Man was. The sight was still quite frightening.

"I have to go now. Some things need my attention at the moment. Get some rest."

A weird feeling came to Thin Boy as he watched Thin Man about to leave his "house." Despite the fact he wanted Thin Man to go away the momenthe came,Thin Boy now wanted him to stay. It wasn't so much that he cravedhis company; instead, any company was better than none at all. Especially since his friend Roja was...

All things must end eventually; that was what Roja told him as they walked past the sick man who was far too still.

He fears Thin Man. He won't come if he speaks his name.

"Roja died, didn't he?"

That made Thin Man freeze in his tracks just ashe was about to step through the bedroom doorframe.He was hunched over, so he had to look under his arm to see Thin Boy.

"Roger is alive, just sick."

He wouldn't be alive much longer, though.

"Sick people always die. That's what -"

"I made an agreement with you, Thin Boy." Thin Man stood up straight as he spoke. He sounded angry. "You would be my successor, and I would help Roger recover from his illness. For him to die would mean one of two things: One, I failed to uphold my end of the agreement, and trust me when I say I never have, and never will, fail to uphold my agreements. Two, you failed to uphold your end of the agreement. That means you are no longer my successor. "

His voice lowered, andhis stare intensified.

"You are still my successor, are you?"

Thin Boynodded fiercely.

"Then Roger will not die."

Such harsh statements should have brought relief to Thin Boy, and yet they strangely didn't.

"... Will he come Sunday?" He dared to ask, voice almost in a whisper.

Thin Man suddenly didn't appear angry anymore, and he looked away from Thin Boy.

"No, I... Roger won't be well enough to come on Sunday for... for a little while."

"Oh..." Thin Boy whispered, looking down on the unfinished marks. Even when incomplete, the marks looked exactly like Thin Man, right down to his wrinkly and boney hands. His face and suit buttons were the only things that were missing. This was the closest thing Thin Boy was going to have for company for the next couple of days if he was lucky; if not, then it may be the only company he'll get forever. The thought terrified him, and it blurred his vision and ran down his cheeks. Determined not to cry again, Thin Boy tried to rub the tears away with little success.

Then, with a FLOOF, everything went dark and warm.

Also, it smelled very... static-y.

It took a moment or so for Thin Boy to free himself, but once he did, he discovered that what fell on him was none other than Thin Man's suit jacket. He looked up to ask Thin Man why his suit jacket was on top of him, only to find he wasn't there. The charge-filled air was gone too.

Thin Boy didn't even know Thin Mancould take off his suit jacket. He always thought his clothes were a part of his skin. Thin Boy tried to imagine Thin Man without his suit jacket, only to find that he couldn't. His friend Roger once said "broadcaster" loves his suit so much that it's the only thing he wears. Nothing more, nothing less.

If this was Thin Man's only suit jacket, and if Thin Man loves his suit, then he'll have to return to get it back.

A part of Thin Boy made his belly twist itself into knots.

But more than anything, he was relieved.

Another yawn escaped. With the Thin Man gone, for the time being anyway, Thin Boy felt safe enough to remove the tin can from his head, allowing himself to rub his eyes of tears and sleep properly. A deep chill ran across Thin Boy's shoulders, and he wrapped what he could of the suit jacket around himself without even thinking. Almost immediately, the intensity of the cold decreased. For the first time in days, he was somewhat warm.

With the warmth quickly sapping what little energy he had left, Thin Boy grabbed his mask and crawled under the bed. He wrapped his him-sized blanket into a ball-ish pillow and curled up under the suit jacket. Finally allowing sleep to take over, Thin Boy was out the moment he closed his eyes.

A moral obligation.

That was how Myrt put it.

She just had to use the word "moral," didn't she? Not "recommended", not "optional", "moral". As if not doing so would make him a -

... a monster.

Why did that one single word sting sobadly?

How did he not notice the smell before?! It reeked! Thin Man didn't want to think about the rotten food, the body odor, and other things due to its implications. The bottoms of the walls were covered from corner to corner with tally marks. Toys were left to collect dust, and the whole apartment was as bare as bone. The ni - Thin Boy was scared out of its wits and ill from living in filth and rain and cold, and everyone just stared at him as they walked on by-

A televised laugh track devoured the ancient and agonizing memory as quickly as it appeared; the soothing hum of the transmission took its place, and Thin Man sighed in relief. He pressed his forehead further onto the top edge of the television set in comfort.

Progress was made, at the very least. The Thin Boy seemed to feel safe around him; well, enough to not remain hidden under the bed the whole time. There was still some progress to be made when building trust, and there was a whole lot more work to be done otherwise. The Thin Man groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. This successor business was going to take forever!

Deep breaths, Thin Man. Deep, controlled breaths.

On a positive note, the Thin Boy was inquisitive. Its questions mainly consisted of that one dreaded word for now, but they'll soon become more... productive. And when that happened, teaching it the ways of the world would hopefully be a breeze. He would need to be careful, however. That curiosity seemed to carry a recklessness with it.

He opened his eyes to look down at his left hand, which the television set bathed in its harsh analog light. Remnants of muscle and tissue appeared as splotches against his ectoplasmic flesh. His right thumb rubbed the part of his palm where the Thin Boy pressed its hand. Such tiny hands, like that of an infant. Much like how his were compared to -

Purge.

And tranquility.

How are you feeling?

The Thin Man looked up to the screen. Behind the static watched a single sympathetic eye, its gaze laced with mild worry. He took a deep breath before responding.

"Much better. Thank you."

This nightmare is bringing you distress, inflicting you with sorrow and pain. Continuing whatever plan you have for it will do you no good, and that, in turn, will do the world no good. Abandon it and find another successor.

"I can't. I made an agreement. My word is all the good I have left, and I will not lose it."

A heavy pause filled the dark, empty room.

Then it shall be so. Be more careful next time. And remember: don't get attached .

"I'll be careful, and I won't get attached."

The television set turned itself off, leaving Thin Man in the blackness. Within the silence, the quiet voice whispered:

You know you must.

...

There had to be a more reliable way to find money around here.

Chapter 4: It Was a Light

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Thin Boy wasn't in his "house."

Sometimes, he was in Nowhere-Place.

If Thin Boy thought the everyday world was confusing, then Nowhere-Place was very confusing. It was bright enough to see, but it was still nighttime. The city was much smaller, but there was only a void of darkness beyond the city limits. No one was around, but he could still hear voices following him wherever he went.

Thin Boyhad no idea how he went to Nowhere-Place, nor how he would leave it. His friend Roja told him it was a dream or something his head would imagine while he slept. But it couldn't be a dream because he would fall asleep in Nowhere-Place and wake up again. He could feel the cold wind and damp streets under his feet and across his shoulders. Even though he couldn't adequately describe how it tasted, he could taste things. He even fell once while trying to climb outside a building, and it felt like he was falling. His head didn't imagine any of those things.

Besides, one doesn't simply imagineHer.

She was always in the sky, circling the city and pointing in the same direction. Her face and hands were that of a human's, but everything else was certainly not. Although small compared to the sky,She was still enormous and covered in thick white fur. Her ever-staring eyes burned a bright hot yellow; Her voice was breath-like, hushed as a whisper. Without ever stopping, She would repeat the same warning to Thin Boy. And while he had forgotten the meaning behind some words, he still understood enough of what She was trying to tell him:

"... must... never, ever peek... monsters will find you... steal your skin... eat your bones... lick your blood... eyes into marbles... teeth into dice... never peek... understand...?"

Thin Boy was scared of Her, but he was more afraid of monsters; and so he always made sure to never, ever peek.

That is, until the day when a monster peeked for him.

She was very unhappy about that.

It never occurred to Thin Man that there could be empty parts of the Pale City.

Well, not empty per se. People were here but weren't bustling about in droves and chatting loudly with peers and acquaintances. There weren't any cars, trucks, or buses either, not that anyone with the money to afford a vehicle would find themselves here anyways.

Instead, Thin Man could see people sitting on street corners while musing over their cigarettes. There were folks huddled around televisions like moths to a flame, although some averted their gazes from the screens. Everyone else was hiding behind boarded windows in the shadows, observing the surroundings as either prey or predator. No one spoke a word; only through whispers and faceless stares did they communicate to one another.

It probably would've been eerily quiet if not for the loud and horrendous sound of television scrapping against the sidewalk.

The apartment the nightma - Thin Boy lived in lacked a television set. Knowing Roger, that didn't surprise him; however, going back and forth between the Signal Tower and the Thin Boy's apartment the not-as-short way was quickly becoming tedious. So, Thin Man needed a television to make travel much more convenient. He strongly felt that the Thin Boy wouldn't like it very much, but there was only one way to find out. Quite peculiar and perplexing, that nightmare...

Televisions in the Pale City were as numerous as trees in a forest. There was no need to steal or borrow a television, let alone buy one. One just... took. Of course, Roger had to choose a place without one for miles to hide the Thin Boy. Smart, yes, but very annoying. Hence, the Thin Man was pushing a television set to the apartment building housing the Thin Boy. He would inevitably get a few strange looks with all of the racket he was making. Most seemed more annoyed by the awful noise than frightened by the sight of the Thin Man. Those who were afraid quickly scattered and disappeared from view.

After what felt like the entire day, Thin Man finally reached the apartment building. Despite looking as dilapidated as the other buildings surrounding it, this building looked a little more... maintained. The striped, patched canopy hung over the entrance with a random assortment of fabrics. The metal-framed front doors were scrubbed of dirt and webs, though nothing could be done about the rust that had started to accumulate. Thick wood boards replaced the doors' glass to prevent break-ins. Over the doors was the sign for the building, which was nothing more than plywood and white paint. A much older but better-crafted sign was leaning nearby; its characters were written in faux gold. If Thin Man were correct in his assumptions, basing them off patterns he'd notice, this building used to be a hotel.

That would explain why everything in the Thin Boy's apartment was sparse.

It would also explain why there wasn't a kitchen.

Thin Man had learned from previous visits that someone locked the doors from the inside. Not too surprising, considering the building's social climate. He teleported inside on those two previous occasions but couldn't do so with a heavy-ass television set. However, he refrained from opening the doors by force and knocked as loud as he could. If someone had put in the effort to attempt restoration, that same person must not be very far. The very bricks that made up the building shivered, much like how a chill runs up the spine.

No answer.

He knocked again, the shiver evolving into a tremble.

Still no answer.

He whispered a curse to himself in tongues long dead. If no one was going to let him in, he had no choice but to open the doors by force. Bracing himself for the unpleasant experience that was to come, he began imagining the doors tearing like paper.

If the sound of metal scrapping cement was annoying, then the sound of metal peeling was maddening . The wail-like screeching was enough to even make the Thin Man wince in pain. He covered his ears in a vain attempt to dampen the noise. Fortunately, for every living soul in the area, it lasted only ten seconds; for while he was prying the doors open, Thin Man heard someone yelling on the other side. Thinking they may open the doors, he stopped and waited.

" - all things sane and holy, will you stop trying to steal my expensive doors?!?! Removing my expensive doors from their hinges in the middle of the night, that I can kind of accept!!"

He could hear the lock mechanisms moving.

"But scrapping my expensive doors when I am ten feet away?!?!That, I will not accept!!"

The door handles turned downwards.

"I'm going to throttle all your necks for stealing my expensive doors, you sons of HOLY f*ck!!! "

Thin Man only managed to catch the sight of a handlebar mustache and a wide pair of angry eyes before the doors slammed shut.

He waited to see if the man, likely the building's "owner," would open the doors again. When he didn't, the sound of peeling metal returned. This time around, that only lasted for about two seconds.

" - stop doing that to my expensive doors?!" He could see more of the man now. His hair was beginning to thin, the ever-growing bald spot poorly covered by a frazzled combover. His ears stuck out so far from his head that the Thin Man swore they would appear as thin lines if viewed from the side. He had a face that surprised Thin Man; thick staples held it up. Everything else sagged downwards, making the youthful-sounding man appear old. Beard stubble invaded his chin and asymmetrical cheeks. His attire was moth-eaten and nothing more than a button-up shirt and worker's overalls. The dim interior hid everything else.

"I will leave your expensive doors be," Thin Man offered, "if you let me inside."

"Like I'm going to do that, you sick f*ck!"

Thin Man could already tell this individual was going to be fun.

"If it's of any reassurance, I'm not here for you."

The man's unease swiftly turned into confusion.

"Then why the f*ck would you come here?"

"I'm here for someone else who lives here." No point in telling an already paranoid man there was a nightmare of all things in his precious building. "You do have other people living here, do you?"

The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He then pointed at the sign above them, his hand about the size of his head. Thin Man's gaze followed. The characters meant nothing to him, so he decided to play along with that.

"Ah, yes, I noticed that earlier. Unfortunately, I don't speak 'childish asshole.' Would you mind translating for me?"

The look on the man's face was priceless.

"You mother fu - this is a fine establishment I'm building here!"

"I can see that," Thin Man commented, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm.

"I offer to house the poor f*cks who don't want to freeze to death on the streets! I have fifty tenants in this place that pay me rent, and they pay good money too! You wanna know how much I ask for?!"

"Their souls?"

"One yen! One f*cking yen!"

"Wow. How generous of you."

"Do you wanna know what I use that yen for?!"

"To buy expensive doors?"

"To keep this building maintained! I've rebuilt entire floors so folks could live here; I replaced pipes and fixed electrical wires so my tenants can get access to water; I'm currently working on the heater so my tenants can stay warm in the winter! Do you even f*cking care why I bother to do all of this?!"

Thin Man had the growing suspicion that if he didn't tell the Landlord the truth, he would yell at him until the sun went down. He interrupted the Landlord's diatribe and went straight to the point.

"My apologies, good sir. I mean you no malice, but I do need to go inside. Your building has a nightmare, and I must take care of it."

A curious look crossed the Landlord's face. The doors opened a smidge.

"I would know if there was a nightmare in my building."

Thin Man suppressed a gut-deep laugh; he couldn't hold back the smirk that he could feel creep onto his face.

"Nightmares aren't like mindless rats that you can hear scurrying inside your walls. They're observant, perceptive, and clever; they always know what danger lies ahead of them and how to evade it quietly. You wouldn't know if your building had a nightmare, and you'll never know! In fact, by the time you do realize one is nearby, it has already left and disappeared into the vast world beyond."

The Landlord gave a suspicious glare.

"If a nightmare isn't going to hurt my tenants, why should I f*cking care?"

Thin Man's smirk twisted to a frown.

"Because nightmares aren't harmless. They're no bigger than a human child, sure; but that's because they're offspring too. They're offsprings of far more feral and violent creatures. Creatures that can puppet the body, bend the mind, and rob the soul. Those dark powers lay dormant in them, projecting as an intense form of self-preservation. If you are foolish enough to corner a nightmare, prepare for a visit with the North Wind himself."

Thin Man leaned in closer to the Landlord, who responded by closing the doors a tad.

"There are many places inside an apartment building to get cornered, and your tenants are superstitious. They'll hunt that nightmare down if it means ridding of ill omen, and cornering it will be the first thing they'll do. If you care for them as much as you say, you'll let me in and take care of the nightmare properly."

There was hesitance in the Landlord's eyes, darting back and forth in rapid thought. Thin Man could hear fingers drum against door handles. His uncertainty was understandable, if not draining.

"How do I know you're not trying to pull my f*cking leg?"

A sharp squeal of signal interference pierced the air and ears. Before the Landlord could close the doors again, Thin Man grabbed hold and forced them to remain open; the Landlord, all the while, kept his grip on the handles. Thin Man leaned in closer, his face mere inches away from the poor soul who dared question his honesty.

"My patience was already running quite thin when I came here. You don't want to know what will happen when it runs completely dry."

Finally recognizing the sh*t he got himself into, the Landlord loosened his grip and took a few steps back. The force Thin Man used to keep the doors ajar resulted in said doors opening wide open. Had he not been a tall and flexible son of a bitch, he probably would've fallen over from the sudden shift in balance.

"Alright! ALRIGHT!!! You can come in! Just get rid of the nightmare and get the f*ck out! And stay the f*ck away from my tenants! They're f*cking terrified of you!" Despite the Landlord's apparent fright, he stood with his chest puffed out and his feet planted. A brave fool, this one. Better than being a coward, Thin Man supposed. He stood up straight and took deep, controlled breaths.

"Thank you. And don't worry, we won't be meeting again."

"I sure hope the f*ck we won't!"

"I appreciate your honesty, by the way."

"Oh f*ck off!"

And with that final remark, the Landlord diminished into the shadows. A slew of "f*cking hells," "sick f*cks", and "f*ck me" gradually got quieter and quieter until a slamming door completely cut them off.

Well, that was a lovely conversation with "Mr. f*ck".

He would find out the Landlord's real name later. The nightma - Thin Boy was his top priority right now. Propping one of the doors open so he wouldn't get locked out again, Thin Man quickly pushed the television set inside. Once it was far enough inside, he closed the doors, the lock mechanisms working their magic. The stench of mold suddenly made itself known.

Thin Man didn't have the patience to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark; instead, he simply turned on the television, the channel set to stand by. The white analog light didn't reveal much, but it was enough for Thin Man to get his barrings. He was in a spacious hotel lobby or what remained of one. Faded, shaggy, and ripped to shreds was once the crisp, clean, and bright red carpet. Said carpet and its padding laid sprawled across the exposed floor, giving off the appearance of scrapped skin. There seemed to be an attempt to repair the carpet, but it looked like a toddler forcing jigsaw pieces together. Intertwined with the carpet were armchairs, love seats, and coffee tables; all of them were crafted with an other-worldly style, something that would've stuck out to the populous in years long forgotten. The laminated wood that once glimmered like gold was now dull and chipped. Cushions sewn with fine thread and elaborate designs were ripped beyond recognition. The rest was simply left to rot. There was no visible attempt at repair.

The walls seemed to have once been adorned with bright pastel wallpaper depicting water lilies and koi fish, now peeling and caked with mold. There appeared to be an effort to remove it, though not successful. Leaning against the walls were modern-esque paintings of the countryside and sacred sites. Tearing and water damaged half of them, but all were covered in dust. In the middle of the lobby stood two pillars, made of the only thing of actual value in that place: white marble. On the other end of the lobby, a small flight of stairs led to what Thin Man assumed were the receptionist's desk and the elevator. Although he couldn't make out the ceiling, he could hear the faintest twinkle of a glass chandelier.

He couldn't shake off the feeling that he had been there before, back when the hotel was in its prime. He couldn't figure out why he would be in such a place, so he shook it off as misremembering something else.

After traversing the valleys that were the carpet and furniture and climbing the mountain that was the stairs, Thin Man managed to get the television to the elevator. To his relief, the elevator was functioning. Sketchy in how well it worked, but it was better than carrying that heavy-ass television set up a much longer flight of stairs. Punching the number for the floor where the Thin Boy resided, Thin Man manually closed the elevator doors and the lift ascended. Gears groaned, cables tightened; a crazed and mournful wailing rose from below, though Thin Man could barely distinguish what the poor soul was crying out.

Maybe it was better that way.

When the elevator stopped on his desired floor, Thin Man quickly scooted the television down to the end of the hall. There didn't seem to be any other creatures living on that floor, nor the ones above or below. So, he wasn't too worried about the noise. Finally, at long last, he came face to face with a wooden door, covered in the scars of his two previous visits.

"One last time," he promised the door, its form peeling itself into ruin. A few more grunts and scoots, and the television was finally in its rightful place in the living room. Releasing a long, exhausted sigh, Thin Man collapsed onto the floor.

Never. Again.

Aren't you being a little dramatic?

He turned his attention to the television set. The standby had been changed to static, and a dark silhouette of an eye glared at him like it was his disapproving mother. He snorted at the hypocrisy.

"Like you're one to talk."

Getting back up on his feet, Thin Man reached his hand into the television screen. He raked his fingers across the rough, hard ground until he felt a different texture. He could feel something cylinder, with metallic ridges and smooth paper. He grabbed hold of the surface and pulled out a can of food.

So what's your plan this time around?

"I've already gained some of the nightmare's trust; I just need to cement it." There was also building on that established trust, but he highly doubted he would make such progress today.

And you're going to do that through food?

"As incredibly effective as food is, I can't entirely rely on it. It still perceives me as a threat, something that wishes to harm it." A small pyramid of cans began to stack alongside the television set.

It isn't wrong.

"Which is why I must cement the trust I already have now. If I don't, I might accidentally break all trust and will have to start from scratch."

Sounds bothersome.

"It is, but if things go according to plan, it will all be worth it."

And what about its "human behavior"? What are you going to do about that?

Thin Man placed the last can on top of the pyramid before responding.

"I'll just have to ignore it."

... You're kidding me.

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

Tell it it's not human.

"I already tried explaining that to it!"

And?

It backfired.

"It didn't work."

Then explain better.

Thin Man groaned in frustration. As all-knowing as the Great Eyes were, their comprehension of mental development was lacking. It was ironic as it was infuriating.

"'Explain better' isn't a helpful suggestion."

Well, you've done it before.

"When?"

All the time! I've seen children come to you with all sorts of questions, and you've always been able to answer them in a way that makes sense.

"They used to come to me," he corrected.

They still do.

"Not like they used to."

The eye behind the static gave a curious look. Very rarely, if ever, were the Great Eyes curious. After all, they knew everything; there was nothing left to be curious about. But there was one thing that eluded the ancient-born deity: children. Children were mankind's creation, and mankind was still in its infancy in the grand scheme of existence. The mere concept of children was something new, and the universe rarely created new things.

The thought of a complex and all-powerful deity being perplexed by a simple and dependent child would never cease to amuse Thin Man.

He wondered if he could use this perplexion to his benefit.

"Besides," he continued, changing the uncomfortable subject. "Constantly telling the nightmare that it isn't human will only antagonize it and maybe break its trust. It's easier if I let it believe the lie for the time being."

The longer the lie lingers, the harder it will be for it to know the truth.

"Trust me, the moment someone else besides myself says it isn't human, it'll have to face the truth."

Then again, if the title "person-thing" was anything to go by, Thin Boy may have an issue putting two and two together.

And who will this other person be?

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Thin Man -

"Will you stop fussing?! I have a plan! Everything will fall into place; you'll see! You need to be patient!" The eye narrowed in response to his outburst before speaking again.

Everything better fall into place.

And with that final warning, the silhouette faded behind the static. Thin Man echoed the warning in a mocking whisper before turning the television off. The Great Eyes could be such a worry wart sometimes.

Are you sure you're not the childish one?

He didn't give the quiet voice the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, he looked down at his hands, the wrinkles casting dark shadows in the dim lighting. What remained of his skin was once smooth, the fingertips and sections of the palms ridden with calluses. Such skin never cracked and shattered from rough play and wilderness misadventures in boyhood. Instead, it cut and bled, leaving a trail of impurity until adequately bandaged. But once the impurity contained itself, the skin would heal so that one would never know, unless told, that there was ever a cut. Never once did it replace itself altogether and grow back in all the wrong ways. Such skin remained with him as he grew in height and age. Never did it gradually flake away like old paint until all that remained was grey hardened cartilage. He never needed faux skin grafted onto him to replace the old. He never needed to worry if he was important enough for his skin to fit perfectly and last a long time.

Skin such as his was now the stuff of nightmares.

Perhaps it was for the best that he was more a specter than a physical being.

He still wasn't used to seeing wrinkles, though.

With his focus returned to the task at hand, Thin Man gathered the entire can pyramid into his arms. It was a quick stride from the living room to the bedroom, where he assumed the Thin Boy spent most of its waking hours. There wasn't as much dust as the rest of the apartment, but that wasn't saying much. When he came to the bedroom doorway, he found the Thin Boy hiding poorly under the bed, just as it had done on his previous visit. His suit jacket was hidden alongside his protege, which didn't surprise Thin Man.

From what he observed yesterday, the Thin Boy seemed to be a slave to concrete concepts. It had some comprehension of the abstract if its use of the word "confusing" was anything to go by, but it primarily based its understanding on the physical. If someone speaks a specific name, a physical action, the person the name belongs to will come. Therefore, one must never talk about that name if they don't want that person to come. Monsters, physical creatures, do not fear other monsters; the people around the Thin Boy are afraid of a monster. Therefore, those same people couldn't be monsters. Thin Man only wears a suit, a physical object, and he "misplaced" his suit jacket. Therefore, he must come back the next day to get it back. Simply telling the Thin Boy, "I'll be back tomorrow," wouldn't give it the reassurance it wanted.

He couldn't help but feel there was another reason for leaving his suit jacket behind.

In any case, introducing more abstract thought was a problem for another time. Thin Man walked to the random table that was in the room and carefully placed the can pyramid onto the floor nearby. He then turned his full attention to the tiny form under the bed to get a read on its current reaction to his presence. To his surprise, the Thin Boy was in a deep slumber, his suit jacket used as a makeshift blanket. Well, he shouldn't have been too surprised. If the constant tremors and disruptive sneezing and coughing were of any indication, his protege had fallen ill. It wasn't as sick as Roger was, which was a slight relief, but from what little recollection he had of his sick spells, being unwell generally wasn't a pleasant experience. He swore there was a time he almost slept through a whole day due to illness.

Though he was willing to let the Thin Boy sleep if it meant it would recover quicker and, by proxy, make progress sooner, he couldn't let it sleep under the disease playground that was the underside of the bed. At best, it would only make the illness last longer; at worst, it might exacerbate it. Smelling that room's very air made him feel he may get sick himself! The illness-inducing stench was a swirl of unbathed skin, expired food, and...

And...

A horrid knotting feeling festered in his chest and abdomen. It was uncomfortable, almost painful, and he hated it.

While it would probably be quicker to pick up the Thin Boy and place it on top of the bed, he had a strong feeling it wouldn't appreciate being touched and removed from its hiding place. He'd have to wake it up and convince it to move out from under the bed.

As quiet as one could be, he cautiously approached the sleeping Thin Boy. He stopped just short of a couple of feet to not scare it too much when it inevitably awoke. He then sat crisscrossed on the floor, not willing to be stuck lying on the floor again. Seeing the Thin Boy's face up close, he noticed its skin was a sickly pale color, its hair and face drenched in sweat. Dark circles framed the eyelids, and clumps of sticky residue entangled the hair. He could hear the faintest of mouthed breaths, shallow and rapid due to its age and size.

"Hello?" Thin Man whispered. The word "hello" seemed to be a codeword for "you're not in danger, it's safe to talk." They ceased using the word by the end of his previous visit, but he figured it would be better to play it safe. The Thin Boy, however, didn't stir. "Hello?" he tried again, this time just speaking above a whisper. Again, no sign of waking. "Hello?" he tried once again, talking a little louder. "Thin Boy?"

When the knotting started to worsen, he caught the Thin Boy's eyes flutter and eyebrows crease. Encouraged by the more favorable response, Thin Man continued. "Thin Boy? I need you to wake up. Hello?" The Thin Boy whined as tiny hands emerged from underneath the suit jacket, rubbing sleep away. Its heavy eyelids eventually opened, revealing unfocused chestnut eyes glazed with fever. It stared at him with the most confused look, as if it didn't know who it was looking at. Suddenly, the eyes went wide as saucers. It grabbed the suit jacket and used it to cover its whole head.

Had the Thin Boy been in a better state of health, he probably would've been more amused by the delayed reaction.

"Hello?"

"... hi," the Thin Boy finally answered, voice raspy and muffled under the fabric.

Good, good. This was good.

"Rest well?"

"Um... uh... I don't know."

Not very helpful, but it was at least responding to his questions. This was good.

"Well, as tired as you may be, I need you to get out from underneath the bed."

"Why?"

There was that dreaded word.

"Because it's filthy under there, and that same filth was probably what got you sick in the first place."

"Sick?"

It took a moment for Thin Man to process the implication behind that simple question.

Again, "person-thing."

"Thin Boy, do you feel good?"

"... no."

"Is not feeling good normal for you?"

"No."

"Then you're sick."

The room went silent for a moment; then, a tiny quiet question squeaked from under the suit jacket.

"... like my friend Roja?"

sh*t! He forgot that it associated sickness with unavoidable death!

"No, Thin Boy. Your sickness is nowhere as severe as Roger's. You'll recover, but lying around in filth will slow down recovery. So, if you don't mind, I need you to get out from underneath the bed."

Silence again. He could see tiny bumps of fidgety movement underneath the fabric. Oh, what now?!

"Thin Boy?" he asked in an annoyed tone.

"I don't know what that means."

"What what means, Thin Boy? You need to be specific."

"'Seh-vare.'"

Ah. That was sort of a more advanced word. The Thin Boy's vocabulary was far more simple. He forgot that.

"'Se-VERE.' It means 'serious' or 'very great.' In other words, your illness isn't as deadly as Roger's. You'll be fine."

"I'm not... 'seh-veer'?"

"No, Thin Boy."

"... Is Roja 'seh-veer'?"

"He was, but he isn't anymore. He'll get better soon."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He shouldn't have said that last thing, but he was determined to keep his word. That, and he was sure the Thin Boy wouldn't leave the bed if he didn't.

"But... what about monsters?"

"Monsters?"

"Monsters can't see me here."

He raised an eyebrow at that.

"But I'm a monster, and I can see you."

Tiny fingers crept from under the suit jacket and pulled the fabric down far enough for the eyes to peek out.

"You said you're human."

"I am human. But you think I'm a monster, remember?"

It donned a confused expression in response. Of course, it did. For something to be two very different things at once was an abstract concept. This conversation served only to perplex the Thin Boy more than it was. He needed to rewind things a bit.

"Where are these other monsters, anyway?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Uh-huh. They'll come, tho'."

"How do you know that if you don't know where they are?"

"You came."

Oh.

Oh.

That surprisingly made sense. If he, a physical monster, came into the Thin Boy's home, a physical place, whose to say other monsters wouldn't find their way in here?

At least it was honest.

"So you hide under the bed?"

"Uh-huh. Monsters can't see me here."

"Don't monsters like hiding under beds?" That was a thing, right? Monsters hide under the bed to keep kids from playing at night?

Well, even if it wasn't true, the question alone made the Thin Boy's eyes widen in surprise. It hid back under the suit jacket and then lifted a section of the jacket further away from the Thin Man. It was scanning the bed for such monsters. He could picture the manic darting of those chestnut eyes as it searched for any potential threats. The pupils would be slit pins, the irises contracting in and out as a camera lens. It was quite the wild sight, a warning of the madness that would soon manifest when it matured.

"No monsters here," the Thin Boy concluded, entirely concealing itself again under the suit jacket. The Thin Boy wasn't going to leave the bed with that kind of attitude, much to his dismay. Thin Man rubbed his chin as he tried to think of a convincing reason, at least for the Thin Boy.

He suddenly remembered something. It was so long ago, and he was confident that it was more of a figment than actual memory, but he recalled a village that retained old superstitions from an age long gone—an age which gave nature's unexplained phenomenons faces and names. One name, in particular, caused the corners of Thin Man's mouth to lift upwards and his eyes to narrow with mischief.

"Maybe not now, but there will be. Where there's filth, Akaname is close by."

Tiny eyes showed themselves once more.

"Aka-nah-may?"

He feigned surprise.

"Roger never told you about Akaname?"

"Nuh-uh," Thin Boy answered, shaking its head in emphasis.

"Well, he should've! Akaname lives around here, you know! He likes to crawl around and lick filthy things, like slime and scum! And he spreads sickness wherever he goes!" He gave a fake gasp. "It was probably him that got you sick!"

"Aka-nah-may was here?" It pulled the suit jacket upwards in fright.

"Oh, not only was he, he is here! He's licking all the dirt and food in this apartment right now! And if you're not careful, he'll lick you too!"

Thin Man watched with anticipation as the Thin Boy's eyes shot between himself and under the bed. He could practically see the gears turning in its head.

"Did... Aka-nah-may make Roja sick?"

All roads led to Roger.

"I'm not sure, but I wouldn't be surprised. Akaname isn't very nice, you know."

"He makes people die?"

Careful, Thin Man.

"... If he's around for too long, yes."

The Thin Boy went quiet for a moment, its brow furrowing with serious consideration. Then, its eyes narrowed in anger.

"... I don't like Aka-nah-may."

Not the reaction he was looking for, but at least it was an adverse reaction in his favor.

"No one does. That's why we keep things clean. Akaname hates clean things."

The gears were really turning now. This was good, very good.

"... No peeking."

Huh?

"What?"

"No peeking."

No peeking... no peeking...

It had been hiding under the suit jacket since it woke up. It was wearing a rusty can over its head on his last visit, and it wore its teddy bear's head the visit before.

Ah, he understood now. "No peeking" meant it didn't want him to see its face. Clever of Roger, teaching the Thin Boy to hide its face from everyone. Its behavior was so human-like that Thin Man had to remind himself that it was anything but. The only dead giveaway was its face. It was too...

Oh, what was the right word? Symmetrical? Pristine?

Inhuman. Yes, inhuman was the best way to describe it.

Then again, considering one of its many titles was "person-thing," that mask may not be as fool-proof as Roger had hoped.

He wished it wouldn't hide its face, though. Obscuring its face made it easier for him to fall into the trap of its deceit. He'll have to figure a way to break that pesky habit.

"Thin Boy, I've already seen your face. There's no point in hiding it from me."

"No, you haven't," the Thin Boy lied, completely concealing itself again under the suit jacket.

Didn't he tell it never to lie?

"Yes, I havenightmare. I saw it on our first meeting, remember?"

"... yeah," it whispered in admittance.

"Then why did you lie?"

No answer.

"What did I tell you about lying?"

"Don't do it?"

"So why did you?"

"... I don't know."

"You don't know why you lied?" It was more of a skeptical statement than it was a legitimate question. He couldn't have any of this lying nonsense. The Thin Man doesn't lie, and neither would his protege. That and lying made it harder to gain its trust.

All went quiet under the suit jacket.

"Nightmare?" His voice held a tone of warning.

"No peeking."

"Nightmare!"

"No peeking! Mustn't peek! Never peek! Never, ever peek!"

It was panicking now. That wasn't good.

"Nightmare, I just want to know why you lied! Is that too much to ask?"

"You promised no hurting!"

"I HAVEN'T - !" He quickly stopped himself. Screaming was a sure-fire way of losing most, if not all, trust that he currently had. Instead, he resorted to rubbing away the splitting headache that had suddenly developed at his temples.

Deep breaths, Thin Man. Deep, controlled breaths.

Do you want to know why it lied to you?

Not now.

You violated its boundaries and tore down whatever sense of security it had.

No, he hadn't.

You did on that first day.

... Ah, f*ck.

"Fine! If you don't want me to see you without your 'mask,' then I won't! " Thin Man tightly closed his eyes and covered them with his left hand. A tense silence permeated the air as he waited for any response.

"... no... no peeking?"

It just had to ask in the quietest, most timid voice it could muster, didn't it.

"Yes, Thin Boy. No peeking."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

There was a moment of pause before he could hear what sounded like a tiny body emerging from underneath a suit jacket.

"Must never peek..." The Thin Boy whispered, most likely to itself. It also muttered other things, but they were too quiet for Thin Man to make out. The mutterings quickly deteriorated into nightmarish jibber-jabber, melodic but harsh.

Okay, he heard enough.

"Thin Boy, could you not say such things?"

"No peeking!"

"I'm not peeking! I promised I wouldn't!"

So infuriating, this nightmare's distrust in him.

"No peeking, no hurting. He promised..."

Even more infuriating, this nightmare knew its distrust was unfounded.

Not entirely, anyway.

"You peek now!"

"Nightmare, I have already told you: I'm not peeking!"

"No, no! You peek now, okay?"

... Was it trying to tell him it was okay to look now?

He really needed to work on its vocabulary.

Just in case, he cautiously separated his middle and ring fingers enough that he could see through his hand with his left eye. The night-Thin Boy was sitting upright, albeit quite hunched. Its teddy bear's head now obscured its face, its fever-glazed eye being the only part visible. His suit jacket was draped over its tainted flesh by the shoulders, now probably reeking with that sickening stench.

It looked so small.

But most importantly, it was sitting a handful of paces away from the bed. Good! Now they were finally starting to make progress. He lowered his hand from his face.

"Finally decided to come out, I see."

"Is fil-tee."

"Yes, your bed is very filthy."

"Aka-nah-may likes fil-tee."

"Yes, he does. I bet he would've found you if you had stayed under the bed."

"I don't like Aka-nah-may."

"No one does, Thin Boy."

"I don't like fil-tee."

"Good. You shouldn't like filthy things."

"I don't like Aka-nah-may."

"... You already told me that, Thin Boy."

A series of tiny, pitiful coughs erupted in the room. At least they didn't sound wet or rattly.

Or painful.

"Don't like Aka-nah-may... Don't like sick..."

He was beginning to suspect that the Thin Boy didn't rest as well as either of them had hoped. In this state, there was no way he could get anything done. Thin Man hung his head in defeat and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Deep inhale, deep exhale.

Oh well. At least the Thin Boy now had -

"Food?"

Ah, it finally noticed the pyramid.

"You want to eat some of it?" he asked rhetorically. Of course, it wanted some of it. Canned food was leagues better than garbage found in the alleyways. He couldn't imagine the Thin Boy saying no.

"... no..."

...

Well, now he could.

"No? Why not? "

"Belly's... diff-ent angry..."

Its belly was "diff-ent angry"...

...

What the f*ck was that supposed to mean?!

"'Different angry'?"

"Uh-huh..."

... And no elaboration given.

"Thin Boy, I don't know what 'different angry' means."

He could practically see the gears grinding in its head, trying to come up with an explanation...

"... it's diff-ent angry..."

... And failing.

Alright. Okay. "Different angry." He could figure this out. No problem.

If there was "different angry," there was a "normal angry," so to speak. And since the Thin Boy's perception of the world around it was primarily based on the physical, there must be a physical attribute to this "normal angry," a feature that it likely observed from the other homeless people. Well, if there were anyone it would watch when it came to reading emotions, it would probably be Roger. What did Roger do when he was angry?

He screamed a lot. He swore, growled, and made what sounded like insults. Made threats, was a sassy son of a -

What a minute.

Growling.

"Growling stomachs"...

Hunger! "Normal angry" was hunger! What was different from hunger? Not hungry? No, the Thin Boy would have said something like "belly not angry" or something like that.

... A stomach ache?

Oh, Great Eyes, he hoped not. He could barely remember the last time he had been genuinely sick, but he knew stomach aches weren't common symptoms of fevers. A stomach ache could mean it was dealing with nausea, which meant it wasn't dealing with a simple cold. And if that was the case, he had a more complex situation on his hands. Besides the common cold, his knowledge of illnesses was practically non-existent. He'd have to take it to a medical facility, which would notend well. Dr. Frank was the only doctor in the world who still knew how to treat illnesses, but he was bothersome to keep in check. Keeping him from revealing the Thin Boy's true nature to the world would be easy; keeping him from turning the Thin Boy into one of his many experiments would not.

And then he remembered that he was fussing over what was the equivalent of a plague-carrying rodent. A rodent with very human-like mannerisms, and just so happened to be his successor in keeping the world in peace and harmony.

He cursed himself in dead tongues. How did he get himself into this mess?

"Thin Man?"

That tiny, unsure voice broke through his train of thought. Brought back into the present, Thin Man focused all his attention on the Thin Boy. Its fever-glazed eye stared intensely back, seemingly observing his every movement.

It didn't look like it was in any sort of pain. Maybe "different angry" was just simply a lack of appetite.

"Sorry, I got lost in thought." Thin Man leaned back and reached for the can on top of the pyramid. "'Different angry' or not, you still need to eat. I will not allow my successor to starve to death." Can finally obtained, he placed it in between himself and the Thin Boy. "Besides, nothing rids of a fever faster than a helping of soup." Or was it a cold? He thought he heard somewhere it didn't matter either way.

It was hard to tell what the Thin Boy was thinking with its teddy bear's head covering its face. But he didn't need to see its face to know it wasn't buying what he was selling. That damn eye looked at him with such uncertainty and weariness that it made the knot in his abdomen twist.

It's an animal, Thin Man. It's not a human child.

Human? Certainly not. But it's still a child and a frightened one at that.

He wondered why he even bothered listening to the quiet voice. It always said something to make him feel uncomfortable.

"... Just one mouthful, Thin Boy. Then you can go back to sleep if you want. It's all I ask. I promise."

It stared at him a bit longer and co*cked its head to the side like a curious puppy. It then stood up and crawled under the bed, leaving his suit jacket behind. What was it up to now?

"Where's it?" a tiny voice spoke from below the bed.

"Where's what, Thin Boy?"

"Can op'ner."

Ah-ha! He knew it had one! Cans didn't come with eye holes punched into them.

"Found it!"

From underneath, the Thin Boy emerged with a lever-style can opener no bigger than half its size.

"You use it to op'n cans."

"... I assumed that's what the name 'can opener' meant."

It let the can opener fall to the floor and took a step back. He, in turn, picked it up and examined it. It was a little rusty but in good condition, all things considered. However, he questioned why Roger would let it have something so dangerous.

Come to think of it, how did it even manage to use it?

Well, he was sure it had its ways. He went to work trying to remember how such a contraption functioned.

Puzzled clanks and meek coughs filled the otherwise still and wretched air.

"... You eat?"

"No, I don't eat food."

"Monsters eat people, not food."

"Well then, I don't eat people either."

He briefly broke his concentration from the can to catch a glimpse at the Thin Boy. It was still looking at him, though he noticed his posture appeared as if it was caught off guard by something.

"You don't eat people?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

That dreaded word.

"They don't taste very good."

"... ... ... Really?"

"Really."

He stopped to get a better look at the can opener. There were two blades: one short, one long. The longer one seemed to be sharper.

Wait, did he have to stab the can with the can opener?

"What do you eat?"

"Nothing."

"You don't eat?"

"Not anymore."

Making sure not to stab his hand, he jabbed the can opener blade into the can top twice. To his amazement, it worked! Now he just needed to carve around the edge. It was hard to get a good grip on it; the only good grip he could get was placing his left hand over the top. He wished the can wasn't so small.

"Why?"

"Because I don't have a stomach anymore."

"Why?"

"Because the stomach is flesh, and flesh is a vessel for Evil."

"Why?"

"Because that's how the world works."

"Why?"

"Nightmare, I can't explain to you why the world works the way it -"

A sudden sharp stab of pain pierced the top of his left palm. He released a high-pitched, scream-like static boom, dropping everything to get a good look at his hand.

Yep, he stabbed himself. The cut, while short, was quite profound. He didn't bleed anymore, but huge bruises would form around wounds, and this case was no exception. Ugly blotches of black and blue swelled around the cut, highlighting the gash and making it appear worse than it probably was. The uncontrollable cramping wasn't helping appearances either.

It did hurt like hell, though. f*cking damn it! f*ck!

At least the cramping was beginning to ease up, making the pain not as harsh. By the end of the hour, no one would ever know he had stabbed himself with a can opener—the many benefits of being more specter than flesh and blood. He firmly held his hand and rubbed over the wound from pure instinct.

The Thin Boy whispered something.

"Thin Boy, if you have something to say, speak up!"

"... you hurt?"

That simple question shouldn't have shaken him as much as it did. Of course, he got hurt! Flesh or specter, he was still mortal.

Did the rest of the world still know that?

He looked down at his protege, only to find it wasn't in its original place on the floor. When he did find it, it fell to the ground in surprise.

It had gotten closer to him.

This was very good.

Without a word, he slowly lowered his left hand until it touched the floor so as not to spook his protege too much. The Thin Boy scooted back a few paces but got closer once it realized what he was doing. When his hand touched the floor, the Thin Boy cautiously approached until it was practically within his left fingers' reach. It gasped in surprise.

"Ow..." it concluded.

"It doesn't hurt too bad," he reassured. He ached more now than being in actual pain, which he would argue was worse. Pain, he could ignore; aching, he could not.

"But monsters don't hurt."

"I'm not a monster," he reminded the Thin Boy again.

"But... you're not human."

It was persistent in its stubbornness.

"Is it because my skin's not made of porcelain?" He should've never made that argument yesterday.

"... Maybe."

Well, that was undoubtedly a peculiar answer. He reached for the can with his right hand. This time, he was going to open it his way. He told the can to open itself, and the can slowly obeyed.

"Maybe? Do you mean there's more?"

"Your face doesn't melt."

Oh no.

It's what he got for not using his own attributes for his arguments against the Thin Boy being human, he supposed.

"That's fair."

"No stuffing."

"That's also fair." He looked down at his cut, the bruising beginning to fade.

"Neck's not a snake."

"You got me there."

"Don't walk on the ceiling."

"You don't know that."

"Do you?"

"... No, I can't."

"Don't wear masks."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did."

"Nightmare, what did I tell you about lying?"

"But you said 'take off face like mask'! My mask is my face! I can take it off, but you can't!"

If that was the logic Roger had to give the nightmare to keep its face hidden, he couldn't argue against it. The mask had to come off eventually but now wasn't the right time. It was still living among paranoid nightmare hunters, whether it realized it or not.

Damn it, Roger.

"Fine. You've made your point. Anything else you want to add?"

"... ... ... Too tall."

...

...

...

Now, what the f*ck was he supposed to say to that?

"'Too tall'?"

"Uh-huh."

No elaboration. Of course.

The sound of a can top popping off surprised both the Thin Boy and Thin Man. A pause filled the air before Thin Man decided to speak again.

"Perhaps my definitions of what makes one human are a tad too generalized." A quick glance at the Thin Boy prompted a hasty clarification. "Or, in other words, I wasn't specific enough."

"Suh-peh-fic?"

"Specific. It means, um..." Whatdid "specific mean? "... You know how you have many titles?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Well, Ispecifically call you 'Thin Boy'."

"Oh! But, why weren't you suh-peh-fic?"

That wretched word.

"Because..." He cursed in dead tongues because he didn't know how to explain it adequately. "Because humans are complicated."

"Coh-pee-ated..."

"COM-PLI-CA-ted. It means 'very confusing.'"

He then realized he couldn't let the Thin Boy eat cold soup. That would completely ruin the whole point! There wasn't a way to heat it, though. sh*t.

Wasn't there something about heat being molecules moving around or something like that? Great gazes, it's been so long! As if he didn't already feel old!

Move, stupid molecules!

"You're complee-ated," the Thin Boy said, stating the obvious.

"You're complicated," he retorted back, that statement more accurate than he wished it to be.

"Everything's complee-ated! Gin 'ummy is complee-ated, s-orks are complee-ated, even Sunday is complee-ated!" A sneeze twice the Thin Boy's size erupted in the room, followed by three weak coughs. "I don't like complee-ated..."

He couldn't help but let his gaze drift to the room's walls. Tally marks covered most of the lower half of the walls. There were tally marks covering tally marks and marks that had worn away by time. He thought about counting them all but decided that would be a fool's errand.

It sounded so tired, and he had a feeling that it wasn't just because it was ill.

Can you blame it?

Shush, he had an idea.

"Things only seem complicated because you don't understand, and you don't understand because no one explains anything to you." He tried to make out any reaction from the Thin Boy, but its mask made it difficult. "At least, that's what it sounds like."

"Roja 'plains things."

"Does he explain them well?"

"... um..."

"Be honest, Thin Boy."

"... not really..."

"I thought so. Well, as my successor, you need to know everything about the world and everyone in it."

"Everything?!"

"Yes, everything and everyone. Otherwise, you will not be able to take care of things when I... am no longer myself. I will not allow you to be confused about anything."

He suddenly caught a new scent, something fresh and healthy. It was almost purifying. He gently placed the can on the ground; steam rose from the reddened broth, lulling anyone nearby to take a sip.

"That's a lot to know."

"And it will take a long time to know them all."

"... Sounds scary."

"Which is why I'm helping you. We had this conversation yesterday, remember?"

"But why?"

"Why what, Thin Boy?"

"Why do you help me?"

Because there was no one to teach him things when he became steward, and it was terrifying. There was no reason why the Thin Boy should have to go through the same thing. It was a simple explanation; that was all Thin Man had to say.

And yet, an ingrained fear wouldn't let him.

"... Is it 'just 'cuz'?" The Thin Boy offered.

"... Sort of, yes," he relented, unable to tell the whole truth.

The Thin Boy looked at him, slowly co*cking its head to the side. It was thinking, and it was thinking carefully, in its own curious way. Not breaking eye contact, it slowly scooted to the opened can.

"You 'plain things?"

"Of course, I will."

"... I eat first?"

A chuckle slipped out. Sometimes the Thin Boy was too child-like.

"I can explain while you eat. "

"Oh, okay!"

Apparently, it liked that idea. Its one visible eye lit up like the starry sky, and it practically bounced onto its feet. It stood on its tip-toes while reaching over the can rim to scoop a handful of soup. All the while, it looked at him with such eagerness.

It was very...

... human.

Isn't that what you want, though?

Ignore it. Ignore it, and it will eventually go quiet. It worked before; it will work yet again.

"Well, I suppose the best place to explain things is the Beginning..."

The Beginning was a long time ago. So long ago, neither I nor the Great Eyes existed yet.

"What's 'Great Eyes'?" The Thin Boy innocently asked, mask and hands now stained with soup. Thin Man was taken aback by its question, though he shouldn't have been too surprised. Roger didn't strike him as one who would talk about such things, especially with the type of people he hung around.

"Um,... don't worry about them right now. I'll explain who they are soon."

"Oh."

"Now, where was I?"

"The Beginning."

"Right, the Beginning..."

There was Nothing in the Beginning. Nothing had no sight, so all was a dark void. Nothing had no sound, so all was deathly quiet. Nothing had no touch, so all was empty and directionless. Nothing had no Time or Space, so no one knows how long Nothing lasted. But this, we do know: Nothing was terrifying.

The Thin Boy stared wide-eyed at Thin Man, hand-full of soup halfway to its mouth.

"I don't like Nothing."

"Neither did the Beginning..."

That's why, at some point, something new happened. No one knows for sure how this new thing came to be. Some say an intelligence created it beyond our understanding. Others say it created itself without any intervention.

"In-er-ven-in?"

"Intervention. Um... it means interference or involvement. What was new wasn't created by anything."

"Oh. So, what was the new thing?"

The Thin Boy's curiosity fueled the subtle grin on his face.

It was a light, constrained in the form of a sphere. Inside the light was All that Nothing Wasn't, and it bounced and swirled within its confinement. No one knows how long this lasted either, but we know it wasn't for too long. For the light, and All that Nothing Wasn't, grew restless. The light started shaking, which caused it to grow and shake even more. All that Nothing Wasn't, meanwhile, started bouncing and swirling faster and faster. Eventually, the light grew so big and shook so much, and All that Nothing Wasn't bounced and swirled so fast that it

"What?! What?! What'd do?!What'd do?!"

Its excitement was contagious.

It EXPLODED!!! All that Nothing Wasn't spread from one end to infinity to another! What once was dark was now bright! What once was quiet was now filled with noise! What once was empty was now overflowing with Space and Time! What once was Nothing was now Everything, and Everything was terrifying.

"It was?"

"Of course it was! Nothing had been Nothing for a very long time! It had no idea how to be Everything."

"Ooohhh..."

"Anyways -"

"Did it know how to be Everything even-tu-ally?"

"Yes, E-VEN-TU-ALLY. Now stop interrupting. It's not polite."

Now with Everything, there came life. And with life, there came Kind.

"'Kind'?"

"What did I just tell you?"

"But what is 'Kind'?"

He glared for a moment before responding.

"First of all, it's not 'What is Kind?', it's 'What are Kind?' Second, 'Kind' is an archaic way of saying 'living things.'"

"'Ar-ay-tic'?"

"Ar-CHA-ic. You know, like, 'really old.'"

It stirred the soup with its finger as it ruminated on the newest word in its vocabulary.

"Roja is ar-CAY-ic."

"He sure is," he responded, suppressing an amused "ha!"

There has been countless Kind throughout the eternities. The first known was the Serifkind. It was said that they formed from the remnants of the light that contained Everything. They walked through Time much like how you and I walk on the ground. They breathed in Space much like how you and I breathe in air. They were musicians, always singing and never ceasing. They were singing the moment they formed, and they continue to sing long after they became no more. They say that if you go to the quietest place in the world and wait until the stars show themselves, you can hear them sing.

"They died?"

"Yes, they did."

"Why?"

"All things must end."

"But how can they sing if they died?"

"Well, some believe that when the Serifkind died, their bodies didn't rot away. The stars that you see at night? Those are their bodies. And even though the souls of the Serifkind no longer dwell in their bodies, they sing anyways. And they will continue to sing until the End."

"... I don't like that."

"Don't worry. It's just a fairy tale. I'm sure the stars aren't actually the Serifkind. Anyways..."

The second known was the Levithakind: dragons stretched as far from the east to the west. They breathed plasma, and legends say their roars would shake the very cosmos.

The third known was the Ophakind. They hatched from meteorites and built sprawling cities, such as Jeru, Nova, and Icho.

The fourth known was the Adnekind. They were peculiar, for they tethered to the planets via a cord connected to their stomachs. It was rumored that a flood of formless water brought their extinction.

The fifth was the Remkind; they were by far the most peaceful. They had no natural bodies, so their forms were constantly in flux. They grazed on nebulas and soaked in black holes. Because of this, some believe they wandered out of sight instead of dying out like all the other Kind.

"Although, if you ask me, I don't think that's true."

"Why?"

"Well, because the Remkind were the behemoths of the universe! Even if one stood at the very edge of eternity, the tiniest of specks in its eye could be seen on every inch of this earth!"

"... Really?"

"Really." It was then that he noticed that the Thin Boy had stopped eating. He wasn't entirely sure whether it was because the myth enthralled it or because it finished eating. "Are you done?" he asked, his protege ruminating on the question.

"Yeah," it finally concluded.

"Very well," he spoke as he sat the can to the side. "Go wash yourself off, and I'll continue the story."

"Wash?"

Of course.

"Yes, wash. Get yourself wet."

From its sole exposed eye, he could see an expression that read, "what the f*ck?"

"Why?"

"Because you're covered in soup! It's disgusting - and filthy!" he added that last part hastily, knowing that it would convince the Thin Boy to be more hygienic. Rather quickly, its expression changed to understanding mixed with anger.

"Aka-nah-may..." it whispered under its breath as if it were speaking the name of its sworn enemy.

Well, in the Thin Boy's world, Akaname probably was its sworn enemy. It did make Roger sick, and the Thin Boy held Roger in some high regard.

"Exactly. Which is why it's essential to -"

"How do I wash?"

"... You go to the sink. You know what a sink is, do you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well then, go wash in the sink."

"Okay, I wash." As it made its way to the restroom across the hall, it stopped and turned around. "No going."

"What?"

It tried to think of a better way to phrase its statement, a sneeze interrupting its train of thought for a moment.

"You... 'plain things?"

"Yes, Thin Boy. I'm explaining things to you right now."

"... Still 'plain things?"

"Yes, Thin Boy. I haven't even finished the story yet!"

"... So... no going?"

"No, Thin Boy. I'm going anywhere right now."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

So many promises. A sign of a distrustful creature. One that can't trust, and one that can't be trusted. Regardless, the assurance he gave the Thin Boy was enough to get it to the sink. It shut the door behind it, but he could hear tiny grunts followed by running water. He debated if he should supervise but decided against it. All it had to do was wash away the red of the soup. How could it possibly mess that up?

"'Plain?" it called out over the water.

"Do you want me to keep explaining while you wash?"

"Yeah!"

He managed to withhold a chuckle that time.

"Alright! Now, where was - ah! I was just getting to the Nephilkind!"

"The Nef-eel-kind?"

"Yes, the Ne-PHIL-kind..."

The Nephilkind was a Kind of giant. They towered over the tallest mountain peak and bathed in the deepest ocean trench. Knowledge was their trade; they sought to understand as much as they could of Everything. They were the ones who learned about the Beginning and the Kinds that came before them. They rebuilt the cities that the Ophakind built; they reconstructed the fossils of the Levithakind and Adnekind; they traced the paths created by the Remkind. They even discovered how to turn the bodies of the Serifkind into energy to sail the formless water and to find worlds never seen.

Indeed, the Nephilkind had a curiosity that couldn't be quenched. Even when they learned all that they could know, they still weren't satisfied. "There must be More!" they insisted amongst themselves, so for More, they searched. They began to wander through waters where there were dragons. Beyond that, they came to lands where hills sank, and valleys rose. And beyond that, they found skies where gravity fell. Eventually, they reached the place where east became west. They found the edge of Everything.

And yet, they still weren't satisfied, for they had not found More. "There must be More!" they still insisted, but there was very little they could do! They were at the edge of Everything! All that remained was... well, All that Everything Wasn't. So, the Nephilkind began to hypothesize about where More could be. Over time, their hypothesizes became theories, and those theories were experimented with, corrected, and experimented with again until they finally reached a conclusion: More was in a different realm altogether.

The Nephilkind began to build devices to help them see what lay outside the realm of Everything. They first tried constellations. When that didn't work, they tried incense and pools, mirrors, and circles. When all these things failed, they began work on building a giant gate. The gate was made of all sorts of materials. There was spine from the Tree Whose Roots Hid the Skies; skin from the Rock Who Stopped the Ground from Eating; blood from the Rose Who Slew a Thousand Armies. The gate was constructed within the barrier between the realms. The Nephilkind were very specific where they built it, for they wanted More to find it easily.

He stopped abruptly. The water was still running. What was taking the Thin Boy so long?

"Are you listening to me, Thin Boy?"

No response. He was about to call out to his protege again when a tiny voice piped up.

"I'm lis'ening!"

"What's taking you so long?"

"I wash!"

"It doesn't take this long to wash your hands and face, Thin Boy!"

"... Just hands and face?"

Thin Man suddenly discovered a more dreaded question than "why?" Before he even had enough time for his mind to register what was happening, he found himself standing in the open bathroom doorway and staring down at a half-drenched, startled nightmare.

Deep breaths, Thin Man.

In its defense, you weren't very specific.

Oh, f*ck off.

He heard the Thin Boy inhale as if it was about to say something before swiftly cutting it off.

"Before you even start, no, I'm still not going to hurt you. And, yes, I'm still going to explain things. Now, will you kindly get out of the sink and into bed?"

"But I'm wet."

"You'll dry off."

"But I'm cold."

"You'll get warm."

"How?"

"That's for me to know and you to quickly find out."

From its demeanor, it seemed the Thin Boy was about to say something more but decided not to. Just as he asked, it clambered out of the sink, onto the nearby toilet, and landed feet first on the gross tile floor. As it did so, Thin Man closed his eyes and concentrated on the apartment, its Space, and, more importantly, its Time.

Mortal as he may be, he was still a steward to an immortal cosmic entity, which meant he too shared a handful of their many powers to fulfill his duty. Time to the Great Eyes was merely a form of perception they could manipulate to a degree. In this case, Thin Man imagined twisting the apartment's air so that it simultaneously sped up and stood still. Sped up so the nightmare's body would naturally dry; stood still, so the nightmare didn't progress through time and age into something far more dangerous.

Of course, the results would be instantaneous from the Thin Boy's perspective. The moment its feet touched tile, it was dry as a bone. He opened his eyes and observed as the Thin Boy examined itself, spinning in a circle and a half before finally looking up at him in awe of what transpired.

"Told you."

The Thin Boy began to walk toward its bed at a slow pace, its single exposed eye locked on the Thin Man, before suddenly breaking into a run. The subtle fading of the pitter-patters almost made Thin Man forget that he was exasperated.

Emphasis on "almost."

He followed the tiny pitter-patters with a silent stride, stopping at the bedroom doorway to watch the Thin Boy climb onto its bed. To his unexpected dismay, the bed's bare mattress remained stiff, with no give nor spring to be seen. The Thin Boy patted away the dust accumulated over the past couple of days and sat its legs out, leaning slightly forward with its arms offering support. It stared at him with a renewed sense of awareness, though its posture suggested that it wouldn't last very long.

"Comfortable?" Thin Man asked, left shoulder leaning against the doorframe. He had a strong suspicion that his visit wouldn't last much longer. A weary nod was all he got in response. Better than nothing, he supposed. "Good. Now, where was I?"

"The scary door."

"'The scary door'? Oh, you mean More's Gate. That's right; the Nephilkind finished building More's Gate."

Once the gate had finished construction, the Nephilkind waited for More to find it. Eons passed, eternities even, and the Nephilkind remained, their patience never wavering. Until, at long last, there came the day when there was a knock on the other side.

'Who's there?' the Nephilkind called out.

'More,' More replied.

The Nephilkind were elated. At long last, they had found More! And in their elatement, they opened More's Gate. And to their horror, it was not More that came through, but Evil. Evil saw the Nephilkind and Everything and started consuming it all. Novas swallowed, black holes chewed, nebulas torn to shreds, leaving only their hands behind. It infected the Nephilkind like a parasite, feeding them lies and convincing them to perform acts of vile perversions. All these things made Everything violently ill; indeed, Evil was and still is a wretched disease that intended to kill Everything.

"Like... like Aka-nah-may?"

Of course, it would think that.

"Well,... sort of? Akaname isn't so much evil as he is indifferent. He doesn't intend to hurt people; it's more of a side effect of his presence."

Thin Boy only had to stare silently at Thin Man to get across the fact that it didn't understand a word he said.

"... Akaname isn't evil. He's just dangerous."

"Oh."

It harshly rubbed its eyes through its mask, perhaps in a desperate attempt to stay awake. Although Thin Man wished the reason was for the Thin Boy to hear him "'plain" more, he knew the truth was more disheartening.

It still didn't trust him enough to sleep in his presence.

He didn't want his explanations to end on such a sour note, but rest was more critical now for what he needed to accomplish.

"I have to go, Thin Boy. There are things I -"

All the weariness that weighed on the Thin Boy's shoulders suddenly ceased.

"NO! 'Plain! No going!"

"Thin Boy, as important as explanations are, sleep is even more important. And you and I know you'll never sleep as long as I am here."

"But... but-!"

"But what, Thin Boy?! Use your words!"

Its eye darted back and forth, racked with the inability to try and explain itself.

Don't just stand there. Help it. That's what you're here to do, isn't it?

"Thin Boy, what do you want me to do?"

"... 'Plain."

"And what do Iwant you to do? "

"... Sleep?"

"That's right. So, how about this: I promise to stay and finish my explanations, and you promise to try to sleep."

"I promise?"

"Yes, Thin Boy. Agreements go both ways."

"Ag'ee-men'..."

"Does that aGRee-menT sound good to you?"

The Thin Boy gave no verbal answer. Instead, after much hesitant thought, its tiny head fell onto the stiff mattress with a defeated PLOP. It was no promise or agreement, but Thin Man didn't fully believe it would give such a thing.

"Right then. Now, do you remember when I first mentioned the Great Eyes?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, this is when they come in..."

Now there was a creature among the Nephilkind that you and I know as the Great Eyes. They watched Evil spread within the Nephilkind and Everything and decided to end it. By merging themselves with More's Gate, they obtained the power to stop Evil from spreading to the very edges of reality and beyond. This power was so great and pure that merely glancing at the Great Eyes would cause all Evil that had latched onto the Nephilkind to wither and die. The Great Eyes then journeyed throughout Everything to continue saving their fellow brethren.

"Bre...bre'h'e'n...?" a tiny, sleepy voice slipped behind the mask.

"Yes, or brotherhood," Thin Man explained, "It's a bond between two or more people who share a brotherly love for each other. Sometimes they're related, and sometimes they're not."

"B'o'her'y..."

"Yes,... um,..." Realizing there was no simple way to explain what a "brother" was, Thin Man continued his tale.

But there were those the Great Eyes had not reached and who had heard of what they were doing. Consumed with Evil, they crafted a dangerous spell that would cast the Great Eyes into an eternal sleep and encase them in the blood of those they couldn't save. And as the Great Eyes slumbered in the cold and the dark, Evil consumed what remained of the Nephilkind.

But there was a prophecy that spoke of the Great Eyes themselves. They would awake one day, and with the help of the new Kind that would inevitably come, they will conquer Evil once and for all.

And the universe was silent, cold, and mad with Evil for countless eternities. Until one day, not that long ago, a new Kind arose from the ash and blood of what once was. This new Kind is known as Humankind, and Humankind immediately became Evil's new plaything. Of course, since Humankind was brand new, it didn't realize that pain, disease, and war were not supposed to be here. To them, it was just how the universe functioned. And Humankind believed this for tens of millions of generations. That is until the Great Eyes awoke again.

He paused. It was much faster, but he recognized the distinct sound of deep breathing. He could faintly hear it coming from the tiny, still form on the bed. It lost its battle. Although hard to see from where he stood, he could spot shivering. He released a weary sigh.

"But that's an explanation for another time," he mainly whispered to himself. With great caution, he made his way to the bed, reached for the oh-so-tiny blanket with his left forefinger and thumb, and allowed it to float down onto the Thin Boy gently. The covering wasn't ideal; most of its head was obscured, and the feet were exposed. At least the shivering stopped, and that was all that mattered.

And yet, despite everything, the knotting remained.

It made him feel...

... awful.

He hated it.

This knotting you feel? It's a good thing.

Good?! How could something bad be good?!

How could a monster that hurts nightmares want to help one?

He had no answer to that.

And, to his ever-mounting frustration, the voice said nothing more.

A sudden dull pang of ache rushed into his left hand, snapping him out of his thoughts. He glanced down at his hand and saw that the wound had healed, the bruising still barely visible. He rubbed over his palm with his right thumb in a circular motion, the ache slowly subsiding.

Such tiny hands...

It was time to go. With haste, he made his way to the door frame, pausing only to turn around and check to ensure his protege was asleep. All he found was a slumbering nightmare, dwarfed by architecture and swallowed by filth and chalk dust. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing left worthy of concern.

"... Please rest well," he begged anyways.

All this recent talk of illnesses was doing something to him; whatever that was, he didn't appreciate it one bit. Without wasting another moment, he entered the living room, crawled through the television screen, and found himself in a pitch-black room. The only light source was the harsh analog glow of the television screen just behind him.

Well? What happened?

Never a moment of levity, as usual.

"Well, it ate, washed, and went to sleep."

... ... ... That's it?

"I never said cementing the nightmare's trust would be interesting."

You wasted all that time doing that?!

"Building trust takes time! I need to take things slow, or else the nightmare will try to retaliate! Just be patient!"

I still think you should just accept immortality.

"And I think you'll prefer my solution once it comes into fruition." Speaking of time, he had somewhat lost track of it. He turned the knob on the television set, switching it away from the static hum. A series of sentence splices followed, ranging in tone and context and separated by signal crackles.

" Guess what time it is! " --- " It's a bird! It's a - " --- " Is it something other than -? " --- " The dimension of imagination. It is an - " --- " High-Ho Silver! " --- " The man with seven faces! " --- " One of these days! " --- " Welcome to the eight o'clock news. This morning's forecast calls for a forty-eight percent chance of - "

He already felt drained, and it was only eight o'clock in the morning.

Oh, it was going to be one of those days, wasn't it?

Nowhere-Place looked very different.

The city was still there, but the buildings no longer towered over Thin Boy. Instead, he was floating in the sky above them, making them appear small enough to hold in his hands. Surrounding the city was a purple ring, and surrounding that was something that sort of looked like scales, though he couldn't be entirely sure. In the streets below, he could see the sick man who was far too still, a droning hum spilling out of his gaping no-face.

Surrounding Thin Boy in the nighttime sky were the faint flickering lights that he knew belonged to the street lamps. They circled him from a distance, much like how the birds circled above in the sky. A deafening roar snuck up from behind and crawled up and over Thin Boy's back and shoulders. He tried to see what roared, only to find nothing.

The only thing that hadn't changed was Her.

"... must... never, ever peek... monsters will find you... steal your skin... eat your bones... lick your blood... eyes into marbles... teeth into dice... never peek... understand...?"

Thin Boy was still afraid of Her, but he still feared monsters more. So he will never, ever peek.

Except a monster had already done that for him. Thin Man peeked, and He was going to hurt him.

But He didn't hurt him. Not yet.

He did hurt Himself, though. Nasty splotches covered His hand, and His fingers jerked sporadically. He winced now and again and squeezed His hand firmly. Despite all of that, Thin Man said it didn't hurt much. His friend Roja would say stuff like that too.

He explained "the Beginning," though Thin Boy didn't understand much of it. It all sounded very confusing and kind of scary at times. It made him wonder if Thin Man understood "the Beginning" or if He found it just as confusing as Thin Boy did. He did say the Beginning happened before He existed, which Thin Boy struggled to imagine. At the very least, he better understood what "the Great Eyes" actually were. They didn't sound too scary from what Thin Man said. Not as frightening as the Serifkind. Thin Boy didn't like the Serifkind.

Thin Man also warned him about Akaname and how it likes filthy things and makes everyone around him sick. Thin Boy would have to tell his friend Roja about Akaname so he won't get sick again. He didn't like being ill and was sure Roja didn't like being sick either.

He hoped his friend Roja was okay.

Thin Man also also told him about washing. Washing was very cold and wet and meant only for faces and hands. Thin Boy wasn't sure what to make of it. On the one hand, washing did make him not as filthy. On the other hand, Thin Man had to do... something to not to make him cold and wet, and Thin Boy was pretty sure he didn't like that very much. There was a reason why the grown-ups were afraid of Him, after all.

Thin Man didn't eat. Everything eats something, but Thin Man doesn't eat anything. He said it was because He didn't have a belly anymore. What happened to it? How do you not have a belly anymore? Why would you not want one anymore?

"... eat your bones... lick your blood..."

But Thin Man doesn't eat.

"... eyes into marbles... teeth into dice..."

But Thin Man hasn't hurt him yet.

"... monsters will find you..."

Thin Man wasn't human.

But...

... He couldn't be a monster.

She was very unhappy about that. Nowhere-Place went dark, leaving only the pitch-dark void behind. Her voice rose in volume, almost wail-like in her tone. She was screaming, screaming something important. Something Thin Boy knew he understood years ago, but he couldn't understand anymore. A part of him wished he still could, but a part of him just wanted her to stop screaming.

The deafening roar returned.

She exploded in a screech and a blinding light.

And then Thin Boy was back in his "house."

Silence.

Dimness.

Thin Man wasn't anywhere in sight, and there was no charge in the air. A glance over the bed revealed that Thin Man's suit jacket was left on the floor below. Relief swept over Thin Boy, and he collapsed on his side. And as sleep came to reclaim him, Thin Boy finally came to a conclusion regarding his "helper" of sorts.

Thin Man wasn't human.

Thin Man wasn't a monster.

Thin Man was Thin Man.

This conclusion was admittingly quite worrying. Because while She told him how to stay safe from monsters, Mama didn't tell him how to stay safe from Thin Man.

Chapter 5: In When He Figures What a Thin Man Is

Chapter Text

Thin Boy was not one to do nothing.

To do nothing meant death, so there was always something that needed doing.

Sunday was when Thin Boy was at his busiest. He would leave his "house" to be with his friend Roja. Roja was very good at finding food, which made Thin Boy's belly happy. Roja would also find "forgotten things," which, while Thin Boy didn't understand, he knew were important to Roja. While they searched, the pair would come across other homeless people. Some of these people, Roja knew to some degree. They didn't usually talk to Thin Boy, though they always gave Thin Boy the impression they were staring at him. If they did speak to him, it was always something about Thin Man and what he should do to keep him away. The other people Roja didn't know were the "funny people." Thin Boy wasn't sure what made them "funny," but he knew Roja didn't like them very much. Whenever a "funny person" came by, Roja would hold Thin Boy in his hands and make a "shhh" sound.

While more complicated to do so than on Sunday, Thin Boy was also busy on the other days. On the other days, he would wake up, make marks, and eat food. After that, he would either pace around his "house" or sit on the floor and rock himself until the world outside grew dark. All the while, he would repeat to himself all the things he needed to remember:

Don't be too loud. If you're too loud, funny people will find you.

Don't eat too much. If you do, there won't be any food for you tomorrow.

If you need to use the loo, use the loo. Make sure to flush it only once every day, or else you'll be too loud.

Don't leave the house unless it's Sunday. It's too dangerous to go outside by yourself.

Don't go near the Idiot's Lanterns. Where there are Idiot's Lanterns, Broadcaster is close by.

Don't ever say His name. If you do, He'll come for you.

If He finds you, leave Him an offering and pray. After that, run.

Never, ever peek. Monsters will find you.

Don't say, "What teddy bears?"

Today it seemed no different than those other days at first. Thin Boy woke up not feeling as achy and tired, but his nose was still very stuffy and runny. He was cold, but not like that deep chill he had felt the past few days. After rubbing his eyes until they accidentally hurt, Thin Boy sluggishly slid down from his bed and went to the bathroom sink. With his mask still adorned, a quick splash of cold water was all he needed to be fully awake and ready for the long day ahead.

Returning to his room, Thin Boy examined the cans of food Thin Man brought. Based on their pictures of not-rotted tomatoes, they were all the same soup that Thin Boy had eaten the day before. He didn't enjoy the taste of the soup very much, but food was food, and any food made his belly happy.

Don't be wasteful, Roja had told him once.

No starving allowed, Thin Man said yesterday.

He figured he might as well finish the can Thin Man opened since he didn't before. These cans were bigger, after all, much bigger than what he was used to. To his dismay, however, the soup no longer felt warm as he swirled his hand in it, nor did he catch its faint aroma that made his belly beg. Instead, it felt cold and slimy and didn't smell like anything. Thin Man must've done something to make it better than what it actually was.

Thin Man made food better.

... Perhaps he should wait for Thin Man to come.

He removed his hand from the soup, dripping with the now icky liquid. Disgusting and filthy, Thin Man called it. Thin Boy agreed. It was very filthy. Akaname liked filthy - no more Akaname. Must wash to make filthy and Akaname go away. Just hands and face, though. That's what Thin Man said.

Just as Thin Boy was about to head back to the sink, he noticed a stain of red on the floor. Remains from his meal the day before. Filthy. There were stains from other meals he had earlier in his room. Filthy. There were mud tracks and other nasty things from when he returned from his Sundays with Roja. Very filthy. There was everything that was under his bed. Very, very filthy. He then remembered the living room nearby. Very, very, very filthy.

The sudden realization of how filthy his "house" was nearly overwhelmed Thin Boy. Had his "house" always been this filthy? Had Akaname been there longer than he thought? This revelation was very distressing, and Thin Boy didn't enjoy it one bit. But what to do?!

Wash. Thin Boy must wash his room. But how could he wash if he could neither bring his room to the sink nor the sink to his room?

I am here to help, Thin Man had said.

Would Thin Man help wash the room? There was nothing that told Thin Boy that he wouldn't. Besides, Thin Man didn't like filthy things, and he didn't like Thin Boy being near filthy things either. But Thin Boy wasn't sure when Thin Man would return, and he wasn't sure how long he wanted to stay in his filthy room.

Must stay in the house, however.

... Washing was just getting wet, right? All he needed to do was get his room wet. Roja taught him how to hold water with his hands once; he could carry the water into his room. That, at the very least, sounded feasible.

Well, it did until he found himself very high up, unable to climb down without his hands. It took Thin Boy a few minutes to collect his nerves and jump onto the toilet lid. He momentarily lost his footing but quickly recovered and hopped to the floor below. He then dashed to his room, splashing the teaspoon of water he held underneath his bed.

It then occurred to Thin Boy that this endeavor might take a little while.

He went Back and forth, collecting water from the sink and splashing it on anything deemed filthy. Once he considered all the filth was wet enough, he went on his hands and knees and began rubbing the filth away. However, he made sure no water touched the chalk marks; marks were good things, not filthy.

Except the filth didn't go away; it spread instead! And not just on the floor, but on himself too! No! No more filthy! Akaname likes filthy! Why was washing not working?! Thin Boy desperately continued his treks to get more water for washing. Whenever he thought he had enough water, he would try washing again, only for the filth to spread. This, in turn, filled Thin Boy with even more distress.

He must get rid of the filth! Akaname likes filthy! Akaname brings sick! He didn't like sick He didn't like Akaname He didn't like filth Must wash to make filth go away Must make Akaname go away Don't like filth Don't like sick Don't like Akaname Must wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Whas Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash Wash

"THIN BOY!!!"

The sudden presence of charge caused Thin Boy to jump up onto his heels in fright, and the volume of the normally quiet, croaky voice caused him to fall backward onto the floor. His vision was now restricted to the ceiling above; he saw the upside-down face of the Thin Man looming over him. His face was cast in shadow as always, though his eyes glowed ever slightly, revealing that they were bulging out.

"... ... ... hi?"

"Hello, Thin Boy! What are you doing?!"

What was he doing? Wasn't it obvious?

"Washing."

His eyes bulged more.

"Washing?!"

Apparently, it wasn't obvious.

Thin Man had difficulty understanding simple things.

"My room is fil-tee. Aka-nah-may likes fil-tee. Aka-nah-may brings sick. I don't like sick. Don't like Aka-nah-may. Don't like fil-tee. I wash, so fil-tee go away. And Aka-nah-may. And sick."

Thin Boy couldn't determine if Thin Man was sad or angry, let alone if it was either. Whichever emotion it was, it caused him to drag his face across it, from the eyes to the chin. As he did so, he released a long breath.

"Well," he finally spoke, his voice quiet once again, "stop it. You're making it worse."

"Ok."

A long silence permeated the room as Thin Man and child stared at one another.

"... ... ... So, you help?"

"Oh, I'm going to do more than that," he answered as his fingers unleashed a sharp, crisp SNAP. Thin Boy wasn't sure if he moved without moving or if his "house" moved around him. Whichever one it was, it resulted in him lying on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. Still looming over him, Thin Man moved to the side, revealing the never-used bathtub.

"Get in the tub," he commanded, pointing to the object in question.

Never, ever, get in that tub, Roja told him. He'd get stuck, and Roja couldn't help him.

"No."

Thin Man didn't like that response very much.

"I don't care. Get in the tub."

"But why?"

"Because I told you. Now get in the tub."

"Roja said no."

"Well, Roger isn't here."

"He said I'd get stuck."

"You won't get stuck because I'll be here to get you out."

"But why?!"

"GET!!! IN!!! THE TUB!!!"

The next thing Thin Boy knew, he was suspended in the air, a tight clutching clasped around the ribs. A moment later, he was inside the tub Roja told him not to go in. His bottom felt sore, and his chest stung. He was shaking, not from cold but from surprise.

What happened?

Whatever it was that happened, sitting around wouldn't get him anywhere. At the very least, he should adequately observe his surroundings.

All Thin Boy had to do was stand up in the tub to realize why he wasn't allowed inside it. It was very slippery, and the sides were too high up for him to reach. Stuck, just like Roja said. Over the sides, he could see the Thin Man leaning over something, most likely the sink. His head hung low, and his shoulders lifted and fell rapidly, though they quickly slowed. All the while, he spoke strange words that Thin Boy couldn't understand. At one point, he swore he heard Thin Man say Roja's name.

When the shoulders slowed enough, Thin Man turned his attention back to the Thin Boy. He approached the tub, kneeled, and peered inside. His gaze fell on one end of the tub, which had a strange-looking "sink spout" and a small hole. Using his fingers, he inspected the hole, measuring its width.

"Now listen to me carefully because I'm not in the mood to repeat myself. I will clean your room and the mess you made there."

"I was washing -"

"You -" He gave one of the "sink spout" handles a little squeak, allowing a small trickle of water to pour out. "- are going to bathe yourself. That means everything gets wet. Your head, arms, legs, everything."

"But I'm stuck -"

"I'll get you out and dry you off when I'm done cleaning. I expect to see you completely soaked when I come back."

Thin Man had placed him in a tub that he couldn't escape and wanted him to be cold and icky.

"Have I made myself clear?"

Not really.

"Ok," was what Thin Boy said instead. Thin Man didn't seem to like no's today. Besides, Thin Man was washing his room, which meant he was helping. Helping meant he would leave, and Thin Boy wouldn't have to worry about Thin Man doing...

... whatever it was Thin Man was going to do.

The expression on his face didn't change, but he left the bathroom regardless in the blink of an eye. Thin Boy couldn't see anything over the sides but could hear many things. Plaster cracking and peeling. Wood snapping and screaming. Thin Man yelling his strange words.

All the yelling reminded Thin Boy that Thin Man wanted him cold and icky. Deciding it best not to rile up the Thin Man any more than he had already had, Thin Boy stood under the spouting water. To his surprise, the water wasn't as cold as usual. It was warm. Thin Boy didn't even know water could be warm. It was still very icky, though this didn't hinder his amazement as he watched the water, dark and sludgy from pouring over him, gurgle down the hole.

Suddenly, he heard a hissy sound from above. Thin Boy turned his attention to the source and immediately regretted doing so. Sitting on the edge of the "sink spout" was a monster. It was a shiny blackish-brown color, with two long antennae that reached halfway down into the tub. The antennae twitched at an unnatural speed, and then the abomination moved. Six legs, spiny and contorted, slowly crawled away from the "sink spout" and down along the side of the tub. All the while, it unfolded a low, droning hiss. Just the sight of it made his limbs freeze, his chest churn and his face twist into disgust.

Akaname.

Although this situation was quite concerning, Thin Boy figured he wasn't in too much danger. After all, he was bathing. Bathing meant not filthy, and not filthy meant no Akaname. Akaname hates clean things, after all. He wouldn't want to go near Thin Boy. It was a somewhat comforting thought, at the very least.

That is until Akaname started crawling down into the tub.

NOPE.

"Thin Man?" Thin Boy called out.

No response. The sound of washing and ranting continued without pause.

Akaname had reached the floor of the tub.

"Thin Man?!" He called out again, much louder than last time.

The cleaning stopped.

"What?!"

"Help!!"

"I'll help you when I'm done! It won't be much longer now, so be patient!"

Akaname's antennae twitched toward Thin Boy's direction.

"But-but Aka-nah-may!!"

"What about Akaname?!"

The legs crawled in his direction.

"He's in the tub!!!"

"What do you mean he's in the tub?!"

The antennae TOUCHED HIM FILTHY FILTHY GET AWAY GET AWAY FILTHY HISSY FILTHY GET AWAY ICKY FILTHY BITY BITY HISSY GET AWAY GET AWAY GET AWAY GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF

He felt a sudden rush of air under his feet, and a strong force of pressure around his chest, though not enough that it was painful. He was disoriented for a moment until he got a better sense of his surroundings. He was in the bathroom, hovering over the tub, water running, Akaname still inside. Thin Man was to his right, their eyes at the same level. Speaking of eyes, Thin Man's were the widest Thin Boy had ever seen. He couldn't tell if the look on his face was that of anger, but he definitely wasn't happy. Three squeals of static were unleashed into the air; each time these squeals appeared, Thin Man stomped his left foot aggressively.

The first time occurred, and Akaname turned into a nasty filthy stain.

The second time occurred, and the tub cracked.

The third time occurred, and the tub broke.

Thin Man and child stared at the carnage before them, water beginning to puddle onto the floor. The pressure relaxed somewhat, enough to rub the base of his neck gently and around the shoulder blades. Meanwhile, Thin Boy clutched onto the pressure, fearing what would happen if he let go. It took a moment or so before Thin Boy looked all the way down and realized what the pressure actually was.

Before he could respond, however, he had fallen onto his bed face first with a stiff PLOP, not a drop of water to be felt or seen. Once Thin Boy extracted his face from the mattress, he found the Thin Man standing in the doorway of his room. He was too tall to stand straight up inside, so his shoulders hunched and his head lowered. His face lifted so he could still see him; brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, and mouth frowned.

Thin Man was angry.

Although he had no idea why Thin Man was this way, Thin Boy knew he somehow had something to do with it. Roja had talked to him about these situations before and told him exactly what to say if this happened.

"I'm sorry. I did a bad thing, and I won't ever do it again," Thin Boy recited the best he could.

What happened immediately after wasn't what was supposed to happen. Thin Man wasn't angry anymore, but He looked as if his hand had been stabbed by the can opener again. His breath hitched, and then he disappeared in a flicker and a twitch.

Thin Man was supposed to say, "That's ok; I forgive you."

At least, that's what Roja had told him was supposed to happen.

With no Thin Man to focus on, Thin Boy noticed his room was different. No stains or filth were to be seen; all was washed, just as Thin Man said. But something didn't feel right. The walls were now randomly patched with wallpaper, each with different colors and patterns. The floor was riddled with wood planks of different shades of brown and rate of age. Some were darker and more rotted, while others were lighter and appeared almost new.

It then occurred to Thin Boy that some of his marks had gone missing. Indeed, the strange wallpaper was now on the lower half of the walls, where once were marks. Marks were good things, though! Marks weren't filthy! Thin Man washed his marks when he wasn't supposed to! A spark lit itself inside Thin Boy, giving him the courage to launch himself from the bed and run after the Thin Man!

That spark quickly exquinished once he reached the living room doorway. Thin Boy rarely went into the living room, if ever. Apart from a filthy rug that was there when Roja first brought him, there wasn't anything to stay for. Where once was nothing, there was now an "idiot's lantern". A room already quite dark was now darker, thanks to the harsh white light that glowed from inside; it shrieked and hissed as its open orifice swallowed Thin Man whole.

The "idiot's lantern" ate Thin Man!!!

A sharp, quick gasp escaped Thin Boy's lungs, and he ducked behind the wall, away from the "idiot's lantern's" sight. This wasn't good! There was an "idiot's lantern" in his "house"! Beware of "idiot's lanterns," Roja told him! Don't get too close! And now there was one in his "house," and it ate Thin Man! How did it even get in his "house"?! It was going to hurt him; Thin Boy just knew it!

But "idiot's lanterns" came from Thin Man, and Thin Man promised no hurting. Will "idiot's lanterns" not hurt too? Besides, "idiot's lanterns" wouldn't hurt Thin Man, would they? Right? No hurting? No hurting Thin Man?

"Whadda doin' up here? I thought you were downstairs boxing cho'lates?"

... Who was that?

"Oh, they kicked me out of there fast!"

"Why?"

"I kept pinching them to see what kind they were!"

There were two of them?!

How did they get into his "house"? Thin Boy would've known if someone had come inside, and he didn't see anyone besides Thin Man.

"This is the fourth department I've been in!"

"Oh? Well, I didn't do so well either."

Although Thin Boy knew they had to be in his "house," they certainly didn't sound like they were. In fact, they sounded far away and a little static-y. It almost reminded him of the voices he'd hear inside the -

"LET 'ER ROLLLLLL!!!"

... Thin Boy never considered the possibility that "idiot's lanterns" could talk.

Bit by bit, his curiosity was piquing.

"Well, this is easier!"

"Yeah! We can handle this, ok!"

No! Roja told him to beware of "idiot's lanterns," so Thin Boy would stay beware! "Idiot's lanterns" were dangerous! It couldn't see him as long as he couldn't see it. He just needed to keep out of its sight, and he'd be fine.

"I can still see you, little nightmare~!"

Something slipped past his lips, and he made a mad dash back to his room. He climbed up his bed as quickly as he could and curled under his him-sized blanket into the tightest ball he physically could. His marks were gone, Thin Man was eaten, and now the "idiot's lantern" was talking. Thin Boy's chest felt like being squeezed from the inside. He didn't like it, and he wished it would just go away.

He missed Roja.

No loud sounds.

Don't eat too much.

No leaving the house.

No going near Idiot's Lanterns.

Never, ever peek. Monsters will find you.

Over and over, he repeated these things to himself. All the while, tears, and snot ran down his face, despite his hardest to make it stop. At one point, he thought he heard someone below angrily shouting. He couldn't make out everything they said, though it was something like "Who feared Chris all over my moors?!" It didn't make him feel any better.

Eventually, the "idiot's lantern" was shrieking and hissing again.

A static charge filled the air.

Heavy footsteps echoed throughout his "house." They were quiet at first but soon grew louder.

Thin Man?

Never, ever peek, Mama told him. And so, despite wanting to see if it was Thin Man, Thin Boy remained hidden under his him-sized blanket.

The noise of running water abruptly stopped.

A few more echoing footsteps and then a pause.

"... Hello? Thin Boy?"

It sounded like Thin Man. Quiet, croaky.

Never, ever peek, though. It may be a monster; monsters would find Thin Boy if he peeked.

The footsteps sounded a little louder.

"Thin Boy, what happened? Why are you hiding?"

Never peek.

"I need you to answer me, Thin Boy! Are you alright?!"

"IT-ATE-YOU!!!" The squeezing wouldn't allow him to remain quiet any longer; his words slurred together to sound like one. There was a moment or so of silence, and then there was the faint sound of fabric folding and wood quietly creaking.

"Something ate me?"

Thin Man didn't know?

How could he not know?!

"The idiot's lantern! It ate you! I saw it! You were in its mouth, and it ate you!" The squeezing made his throat hurt and almost made his eyes wet again. He didn't want to cry. Not now.

"Oh no no no - Thin Boy, the TV didn't eat me! It - " There came his strange words, spilling out in barely audible whispers. " - it's my house! The TV? The 'idiot's lantern'? It's my house! I live inside it! It's not going to hurt you, Thin Boy!"

His "house"?!

"TV"??

This was all very confusing, and he didn't like it.

I'm here to help, Thin Man said - no confusion allowed.

"... ... ... 'TV'?" Thin Boy meekly asked.

"Yes, TV. It stands for 'television.' That's what the glowing boxes are called."

"Why?"

"... I don't know, that's just what they're called."

TV, not "idiot's lantern."

"An - ... And 'house'?"

"Yes, the TV is my house."

"But... you're too tall."

There was that weird sound Thin Man made.

"It's bigger on the inside."

"... really?"

"Really."

The squeezing was slowly pittering away, eyes dry though a tear or two quietly escaped.

"How big?"

"Oh, I'd say it's as big as the building we're - actually, it's much bigger than that. Probably three times as big."

"Is that big?"

"It's very big, Thin Boy."

Try as he might, he couldn't picture "very big." He needed a better idea of what "very big" looked like.

Never, ever peek.

But Thin Man wasn't a monster. Thin Man was Thin Man. No hurting, He promised.

And so, despite the warnings engrained in his head, Thin Boy allowed his sole exposed eye the tiniest of peeks from behind his blanket.

Thin Man.

He wasn't as tall as usual, probably sitting on the floor. He was neither angry nor... whatever that expression he had when the can opener hurt him was. He also couldn't tell if Thin Man was happy or not.

"Hello, Thin Boy."

Thin Man liked saying "hello."

Confident that this was definitely Thin Man, Thin Boy gradually unfolded himself and fully emerged from under his him-sized blanket. Sitting straight up, he positioned himself to face Thin Man, who in turn watched him in silence.

"Your house, is it this big?" He held his hands and spread them far apart enough for Thin Boy to consider the length "big."

Thin Man didn't answer, but he did raise an eyebrow.

"Or this big?" The hands were now a little further apart.

Still no answer, but his head was now slightly co*cked to the side.

"Or this big?" Hands further apart again.

Yet still no answer until Thin Man's brows relaxed and the tiniest smirk showed itself.

"It's this big," He finally answered, stretching his hands as far as possible. Thin Boy observed the size, focusing on one hand, the other, and then back again. Eventually, he reached a conclusion.

"It's too big."

There was that bizarre look again.

"Wha - eh - it has to be 'too big,' Thin Boy! After all, I'm 'too tall,' remember?"

That made sense.

It was still too big, though.

"Have you eaten yet today?"

"No, I was washing."

"Washing?!"

Didn't Thin Boy already explain this?

"My room was fil-tee. Aka-nah-may likes fil-tee. So, I wash, so fil-tee go away. But fil-tee didn't go away! And I got fil-tee! So I wash in tub. Roja said no going inside, 'cuz he said he couldn't get me out. And then - "

"Thin Boy, did you break the tub?!"

Didn't Thin Man remember?

"No, you did."

Thin Man looked angry again.

"How could I have broken the tub, Thin Boy? I just got here!"

That wasn't right.

"Yes, you have!"

"No, Thin Boy, I haven't!"

"You wash! You wash my room - " He suddenly remembered something. " - you wash marks away!"

"I haven't done any of that, nightmare! Your room has always looked like this!"

"But you did!"

"Nightmare, that's enough!" Before either could speak another word, a strong aroma filled the air around them. It reminded Thin Boy of the soup he ate yesterday. Thin Man and child turned their noses to the source; sure enough, the opened can had "smoke" spilling out. For a brief moment, Thin Boy forgot his spat with Thin Man. Meanwhile, a low rumble verberated in Thin Man's general direction. "Nevermind. I'll fix the tub. You - " He pointed a wrinkly finger at Thin Boy for emphasis. " - are going to eat your breakfast."

"'B'ea'f'st'?"

Another low rumble.

"... Eat your food."

"Oh, ok."

And with that, Thin Man moved without moving into the bathroom. Meanwhile, Thin Boy waited a moment before sliding down his bed and onto the floor. Approaching the warmed can of soup, he almost dunked his entire hand inside to scoop up a handful until he remembered how filthy such action was last time. Not wanting his room and himself to get filthy again, Thin Boy opted to dip his fingers and suck the soup off them. All the while, he ruminated over the new things he learned.

Washing is very hard. Let Thin Man do washing.

"Bathe" is being cold and icky in tub. It wash fil-tee away.

TV is Thin Man's house. It talks and sees. Is very scary.

Thin Man forgets.

"B'ea'f'st" is hard word for "food".

Thin Man, Thin Boy found, was not one to do nothing either.

Every day he would come, help, explain, and leave. Thin Boy was never sure when he would come, but he knew Thin Man would come eventually. He never missed a day, not like his friend Roja.

He missed Roja.

For the most part, however, every day was the same. Thin Boy would wake up, make ma - draw marks, and eat food. Then, at some point, Thin Man would come and stay before going. After that, Thin Boy would walk in circles and rock himself until the world outside went dark. Oh, and the wallpaper would blink. As these things would happen, Thin Boy would repeat to himself everything he had to remember:

Don't be too loud. If you're too loud, funny people will find you.

Don't eat too much. If you do, there won't be any food for you tomorrow.

If you need help, ask me. That's my job, after all.

Don't leave the house unless it's Sunday. It's too dangerous to go outside by yourself.

The TV won't hurt you. Trust me.

I won't hurt you, I promise.

You are my successor. That means you will take care of things when I am no longer myself.

Never, ever peek. Monsters will find you.

Stop staring at me with those big ol' eyes.

Lately, Thin Man had been trying to explain a concept that made little sense to Thin Boy.

Heavy, heavy emphasis on "trying."

"That's it?! That's all you did yesterday?! You sat on the floor and did nothing?!?!"

No, he didn't do nothing. He remembered important things. That's not nothing.

"What did we just talk about yesterday?!"

"Toys."

"And what do you do with toys?!"

"Play."

"So why didn't you play with your toys?!?!"

Why would he?

"Why?"

"That's what I'm asking you, Thin Boy!!"

"Yeah, but why?"

A low rumble emitted from Thin Man's direction. He was sitting on the floor, criss-cross and elbows on his knees: a familiar position for the too-tall Thin Man. His left hand raked across his face, stretching it almost unnaturally, a standard action that Thin Boy had seen in more frequency lately.

Thin Boy, as always, sat across from Thin Man and far enough away that he was out of arms' reach. In his hands was half a loaf of bread, a break from the canned food Thin Boy had grown accustomed to. "Something special," Thin Man called it before revealing it from behind his back. Indeed, it was special; it tasted better than the last time Thin Boy had bread! Thin Man remarked no stuffy noses were the reason or something like that.

Thin Man spoke Thin Man Words before continuing to talk about confusing things.

"Thin Boy, do you even understand what 'to play' means?"

"No."

More Thin Man Words.

"Thin Boy, have you ever been bored?"

"'Bored'?"

"Don't you get tired? Don't you wish you could do something besides sitting in your room all day?"

"Bored"...

Truth be told, it was much harder to do things on the other days when it wasn't Sunday. More often than not, Thin Boy would find himself falling asleep when the world outside wasn't dark yet. Sometimes, he wished it would be Sunday so he could go out safely in Roja's presence.

He missed Roja

"... Yeah." Thin Boy, indeed, got bored.

"Well, 'to play' means you do something fun, and 'fun' is the opposite of 'bored.' You play with toys to have fun. Does that make sense?"

"Play". The concept did sound familiar, the more Thin Boy ruminated on its meaning. It made him think of singing and hands for some reason. He also couldn't help but think of Mama as he did so, though he couldn't figure out why.

But what made toys 'fun'? They don't do anything. They just sit there and get filthy, and Thin Boy hated filthy.

"How?" Thin Boy asked, to which Thin Man looked as if he was about to say something but ended up staring at nothing instead. Whenever Thin Man was staring at nothing, it meant he was trying to make something confusing, not so confusing.

Thin Man wants to help, after all.

"Stay there a moment," he finally said, glitching into a standing position and move-not moving to the box with all his toys inside. He used his right index finger to move the toys around until, with the tips of his finger and thumb, he pulled out the "choo-choo". "Now, where's that - ah! There it is." Thin Man spotted the piece of chalk and picked it up from the floor, bending down in a manner Thin Boy was sure wasn't normal. He then returned to his spot on the floor, each hand holding one of the objects.

He drew a large oval with the chalk, filling the space between them. He then drew a smaller oval inside the large oval and connected the two of them with many lines. Finally, next to Thin Boy, he drew a rectangle with a row of three small lines at one of its corners. Once finished, Thin Man placed the "choo-choo" on the ovals next to the rectangle.

Already, Thin Boy was very confused.

"Do you know what this is?" Thin Man asked, pointing to the "choo-choo".

"Too-too."

That got Thin Man to make the weird noises for a moment.

"Yes, it's a choo-choo train. Do you know how to play choo-choo trains?"

"Nuh-uh," Thin Boy responded, shaking his head in emphasis.

"Well, I'll show you. See this?" Thin Man pointed at the ovals. "These are called 'railroad tracks.' It's how the choo-choo train goes from one place to another."

But the "choo-choo" didn't need "railroad tracks" to move around before. Why did it need them now?

"And see this?" Thin Man pointed at the rectangle. "That's the train station. It's where the choo-choo train stops to pick up passengers."

"'Pass'n'ers'?"

"Pass-En-Gers. It's what you call people who ride in choo-choo trains. But before the passengers can get on, the conductor comes out."

"'Co'du'tor'?"

"CoN-duC-tor. The conductor comes out of his caboose and shouts - " Thin Man cupped his hands around his mouth before shouting, " - 'AAAALLL AABOOOAAARD!!!'"

But what was a "conductor"? What was a "caboose"? Why did the "conductor" have to shout "AAAALLL AABOOOAAARD!!!", and why did he have to shout it that way?

"The passengers step inside the choo-choo train and take their seats." Thin Man continued, his voice a little more lively and rushed than usual. "And then the conductor asks, 'Tickets, please! Tickets, please!'"

"Tickets"?

"Why?"

"Because passengers need a ticket to ride the choo-choo train."

But what was a "ticket"? Why did "passengers" need them? And why did they have to be called "passengers"?

"Once the conductor collects all the tickets, he shouts something like, oh, 'Next stop, Chihiro Station!' And that's when the choo-choo train starts moving."

Thin Man grabbed the "choo-choo" and moved it forward at this statement. It started slow but then picked up a little speed. It followed the ovals, going around and around in a loop. All the while, Thin Man, eyes alit and smirk spread, made new strange noises.

"Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga, choo-choo!"

In Thin Boy's short life, he had never been this confused.

After what felt way too long, the "choo-choo" finally stopped in front of the "train station."

"And everything starts all over again. Alright, you try now."

Thin Man wanted him to...

...

... "play choo-choo."

Thin Boy pondered long and hard about the complexities of "play choo-choo" and all the confusing elements. "Railroad tracks" didn't make sense; "passengers" didn't make sense; "tickets" didn't make sense; "AAAALLL AABOOOAAARD!!!" didn't make any sense. It was all very complicated, and Thin Boy didn't like complicated things very much. Yet, despite being complicated, Thin Man seemed not to mind. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it!

Thin Man liked to "play choo-choo."

And so, Thin Boy responded to Thin Man's invitation with these two simple words:

"You're weird."

It was then, at that moment, Thin Boy noticed that his hands were slightly filthy. "I go wash now," he informed Thin Man, leavingto the sink to wash his hands. Filthy wasn't a good thing, after all, and washing made filthy go away. After a quick climb onto the toilet lid and a short jump to the sink's edge, Thin Boy found himself inside the sink. As the cold water washed the filthy away, Thin Boy could hear Thin Man move-not moving.

"Thin Boy-it's-come-to-my-attention-that-I-have-to-do-something-I'll-be-right-back." What? Was he leaving? Already?! But he just got here!

"No! No going!" Thin Boy protested. But it was too late, for he could hear the TV shriek and hiss.

TV was still a little confusing for Thin Boy. How could something so arguably small be too big on the inside? Furthermore, how could TV have so many people inside, yet Thin Man didn't know any of them? Didn't they live together? At any rate, he didn't mind the TV people talking to themselves as much as he used to. Their chatter made his "house" not feel as lonely. He still didn't like it when they talked back to him, though.

However, Thin Boy could hear Thin Man talking inside the TV this time. He couldn't identify specific words, but he knew that voice anywhere. Curious, Thin Boy finished washing his hands and stood beside the living room doorway to get a better listen. Thin Man may have told him that TV wouldn't hurt him, but he didn't still didn't trust it. After all, Roja told him to stay away from it for a reason.

He missed Roja.

" - weird! Me! Weird! That kid, who would rather sit on the floor than play with his toys, had the nerve - the absolute gall - to call me WEIRD! What kind of child prefers to sit on his ass all day?! And he thinks I'm the weird one! I can't believe - "

Thin Boy could only recall two instances when Thin Man yelled, both of which, while not scary per se, were a bit startling. However, this time, Thin Man's yelling wasn't as unexpected as it was...

... "fun", for lack of a better word.

Although Thin Boy could've listened to Thin Man until the world outside went dark, another pair of voices caught his attention. These were coming from his room, which he didn't like very much. But curiosity got the better of him; and when Thin Boy crept up to the doorway to his room, he discovered that the voices were coming from under the floor. They weren't as clear as Thin Man's, but he could make out most of what the voices were saying.

" - since that lanky faster came here, this wielding has gone to this!"

"SSSSHHHH!!! Keep your boys down! You don't want to sting Him here - "

"I don't give a prying duck about the itchy witch! First, I find an entire ducking hall covered in fist, then I keep peering screams from fathom parts of the bucking filling, and now my lucking walls are lucking blinking!"

Nothing the voices said made sense to Thin Boy, so he ignored them. After all, no good came from confusing things.

But Thin Man liked "playing choo-choo".

...

... Maybe there was something Thin Boy was missing. Thin Man did tell him to try it for himself. Perhaps if he "played choo-choo," it wouldn't be confusing. Staring down the toy, Thin Boy approached the "choo-choo" and sat beside it.

"aaaalll aaboooaaa'," he whispered. Don't be too loud, Roja warned. "Funny people" would find him, and the voices sounded a little too "funny" for Thin Boy's liking. "tickets p'ease, tickets p'ease." Once Thin Boy was sure the non-existent "passengers" made it on the "choo-choo," he pushed it with all his might around the ovals just like Thin Man did." tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga, tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga, too-too." And then, he stopped the "choo-choo" at the "train station."

He still didn't get it.

Thin Man made confusing things not so confusing. Perhaps if Thin Boy took out the confusing parts of "play choo-choo," then it would make more sense. No more "train tracks"; the "choo-choo" didn't need them anyways. No more "passengers" or "conductor"; they didn't exist. No more "tickets"; they were unnecessary. There was just the "choo-choo," and wherever Thin Boy wanted it to go, so Thin Boy pushed it out of his room.

"aaaalll abboooaaa'. tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga, tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga, too-too."

Down the hall, Thin Boy and the "choo-choo" went. Without thinking about the consequences, the two entered the living room and stopped in the middle of the space. The "choo-choo" went somewhere this time, but nothing significant changed. All Thin Boy could think of doing at that point was stare at the perplexing toy.

How could something confusing be "fun"?

"Thin Man's weird," Thin Boy stated to himself, confirming his previous conclusion.

"So I've been told," the TV spoke in response.

Thin Boy forgot about the TV. Come to think of it, the TV had strangely gotten silent not long after he decided to give "play choo-choo" a try, though he didn't recall it turning itself off and on again. And after all that time staying out of its sights too! Why wasn't he more careful?! He was better than this!

Never, ever peak.

TV won't hurt you, Thin Man had told him ad nauseam. I won't hurt you, I promise.

Thin Man hadn't lied yet...

Inhaling as much air as he could, Thin Boy covered his sole exposed eye with both hands and lifted his head so he would be looking straight at the TV. Then, very slowly, he parted his hands just enough to make the tiniest crack for him to see through. The TV was nearly blinding, and yet there was darkness. Within this darkness were little white dots scattered about, along with objects Thin Boy had never seen and oddities that frightened him. Obscuring some of the dots and others was a suit belonging to a slender man.

Thin Man?

"Thin Man...?"

"No, not quite."

Thin Boy didn't like that.

"Fear not, little nightmare, and allow me to explain. If Thin Man is 'the Broadcaster,' then I am 'the Broadcast.'"

The... "broadcast"?

"I'm the TV people."

Oh.

"I can observe that you're playing with your toy; tell me, little nightmare, are you having fun?"

No, not really.

"Oh, that's quite a shame! Why is that?"

... How did the TV know he didn't like "playing choo-choo"?

Regardless, it asked him a question, and so he should answer. Not answering questions was rude, that's what Thin Man told him.

"'Play too-too is co-foosing."

"Indeed, for how can one play a game about a steam engine when one has never seen it?"

Huh???

"Ah, but of course, you know it as a 'choo-choo train.' Would you like to see a real choo-choo train, little nightmare?"

A "real choo-choo"?

Before Thin Boy could process what the TV meant by "real choo-choo," the screen clicked and flicked. There was white, mainly blocked by a dark, LOUD blob. It made horrendous sounds; heavy clangs and scrapes, two-toned screams. It made something inside Thin Boy jump, and his legs carried him out of the living room and under his him-sized blanket he left lying beside his bed. Through the walls, he could still hear those awful noises. And then, without warning, all went quiet.

"... Perhaps you're not ready to cross over just yet. But you will one day. One day, little nightmare, you will unlock this door."

The silence that followed was deafening.

At least he learned a few new things.

"Bored" is not good.

"Play" is "fun," which is not "bored."

"Play choo-choo" is confusing and unnecessary.

Thin Man likes "choo-choo."

TV is very scary and not nice. Stay away from the TV.

The TV shrieked and hissed.

Static charge filled the air.

Heavy footsteps echoed, quiet at first but soon grew louder.

Thin Man.

Thin Boy threw his him-sized blanket off of himself. Sure enough, standing in the doorway was Thin Man. His face was neutral, though his eyebrows were raised ever slightly. He hid his hands behind his back, much like how they were before he gave Thin Boy the bread.

"Hi?"

"Hello, Thin Boy."

"You back?"

"Yes, I'm back. Was there a reason why you were hiding?"

Thin Boy didn't know where to begin to explain what occurred moments ago.

"... TV," was all he managed to say.

Thin Man muttered Thin Man Words to himself.

"The TV isn't going to hurt you, Thin Boy. And anyway, I've thought of a new game you can play."

A new game?

"Game?"

"Yes, well, more like an activity. Something I think you'll enjoy far more than your toys." Thin Man revealed what he had hidden behind his back with this statement. In his right hand, there was a stack of skinny rectangles. In his left hand was a tiny yellow box with different shapes and patterns.

"What's it?" Thin Boy asked, unsure what to make of these new things.

Thin Man, in response, did something Thin Boy had only seen once.

Thin Man smiled.

Thin Boy found it very difficult to do nothing nowadays.

Every day started the same as it always did. He would wake up and draw marks - tally marks. Only a short time after, Thin Man would come and warm up his breakfast. After that, the activity would vary, though it usually consisted of Thin Man trying to explain confusing things to Thin Boy. One day, Thin Man drew various animals and explained which ones were nice and which were not. Another day, he drew numbers around a circle and explained how each number represented different parts of the day. Thin Man would warm up lunch and clean any filth away during these explanations. Once he finished explaining, Thin Man would leave to do "the many things he had to do."

Thin Boy would feel... something whenever Thin Man would leave for the day, but he didn't understand what he felt and why.

But that was only half of Thin Boy's day. Once Thin Man had left, Thin Boy would start to play.

First was "hopscotch"; ten squares were drawn out in chalk, and Thin Boy had to throw a "lucky" on the squares. He then had to pick the "lucky" back up, but he couldn't just walk to it. Instead, he had to jump on the squares to get it back, jumping in the order of the numbers.

"Sometimes monsters will find you," Thin Man explained, "even when you're hiding. If hiding fails, you must run. And when you run, you have to jump and keep your balance. This game will help you jump faster and balance better."

Indeed, the longer Thin Boy played "hopscotch," the more manageable the game got until Thin Man created a new rule that made the game hard again. Where once were ten squares, there were now twenty and thirty. Where once two feet could be on one square, now only one was allowed. Thin Boy didn't mind, though. "Hop-scotch" was boring when it was easy.

Second, there was "wall ball"; a him-sized ball had to be thrown at a wall. The ball would then bounce off the wall and floor, and he would have to catch it. "Catching and throwing are very important," Thin Man explained. "You must throw things to scare away monsters and catch things to keep monsters from hurting you." As important as "wall ball" was, it quickly got boring. So, Thin Man was constantly changing the rules to keep it fun.

Thin Man liked rules.

Third, there was "Simon says"; Thin Boy would be given a series of commands. If the commands started with "Simon says," he had to listen; if the commands didn't start with "Simon says," then he was to ignore it.

The TV taught him this game.

Thin Boy wasn't sure what to make of it yet.

But Thin Boy's favorite activity, by far, was "drawing." "Drawing" was, admittingly, a little confusing at first, especially when Thin Boy couldn't make the drawings look real like Thin Man could. But Thin Man showed him a much easier way to draw, even if it didn't look as good.

"The point isn't to make it look real," he explained, "it's about getting the idea across. Here, let me show you. If you draw a square, like so, and if you draw two lines through it, one top to bottom, and the other left to right, you have a window. And if you draw tiny squares inside the window, you have the windows in the building from the other side of the alley. Does that make sense?"

At the time, not a lot, but it was just enough that Thin Boy no longer cared about making his drawings look real.

He drew all sorts of things, mainly about the objects in his room or the activities he and Thin Man would do together. Thin Boy was always very tiny and wore his mask. Thin Man was always too tall, sometimes too tall for the paper Thin Boy would draw on. His friend Roja always had super long arms and super short legs.

He missed Roja.

And so Thin Boy would play these games and activities, and the wallpaper would blink and follow until the world outside went dark. As he would lay in his bed, Thin Boy would repeat all the things he had to remember to help him sleep:

Please don't sit on the floor all day. It's not good for you.

Slow down! If you eat too fast, you'll choke!

If you need help, ask me. That's my job, after all.

If Roja told you to stay inside, you should stay inside.

The TV won't hurt you. Trust me.

I won't hurt you, I promise.

You are my successor. That means you will take care of things when I am no longer myself.

Never, ever peek. Monsters will find you.

For the last time, I'm not that tall!

But something wasn't quite right today.

Thin Man hadn't come yet.

"Some days are busier for me than others," he had once explained. "I may come later than usual, but I'll still come. Don't worry, and be patient."

Usually, that's precisely what would happen. Thin Man wouldn't appear at his usual time but would come later.

Except the world outside had gone dark, and Thin Boy hadn't seen Thin Man.

Not to mention, the TV wouldn't stop talking to itself. All day, the people inside argued amongst themselves, each new sentence derailing the sentence before it. None of it made sense, so Thin Boy gave up listening to its rantings very early on. However, these rantings were incredibly loud, making it difficult for Thin Boy to sleep. And after much tossing and turning, along with a few tears of frustration, he finally had enough. He might have been afraid of the TV, but at that moment, he was more tired than he was scared.

"HEY!!!" he yelled. "BE QUIET!!! I'M SLEEPING!!!"

To his amusem*nt and relief, the TV went quiet.

To his shock and horror, it shushed him in the most ear-piercing manner imaginable.

It was moments like this that Thin Boy wished his friend Roja wasn't sick anymore. He wished Roja was all better and that he would come back on Sundays. He wished the Thin Man and the TV would go away, despite merely thinking of such a thing made him feel funny inside. He wished that the TV, monsters, and funny people would go away and leave him alone.

The trouble was Thin Boy hated being alone. And with the Thin Man nowhere in sight, that was precisely what Thin Boy was.

No longer was he afraid, nor was he tired.

Now, he was just plain angry.

In his anger, Thin Boy screamed back at the TV. He jumped off his bed and loudly stomped on the floor, snatching any object within arm's reach and throwing it as hard as he could.

More violent shushing.

More unbridled screaming.

And then, something happened that hadn't happened before:

There was a rapping at the door.

"Hey!" A voice cried out. "What the f*ck going on in there?!"

Both child and TV went deathly silent.

"I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but you have neighbors trying to f*cking sleep!"

The rapping continued, and the doorknob jiggled and clanked.

"Even worse, you're not even one of my tenants! You're a f*cking squatter! And I know you're a f*cking squatter because none of my tenants live in that f*cking room you're in!"

The rapping quickly turned into banging.

Hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide hide

Simon says, hide under the bed, a deep androgynous voice whispered, his eardrums tickling.

NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE HIDE HIDE NOPE HIDE HIDE HIDE HIDE NOPE NOPE NOPE HIDE

The sound of wood cracking and door knobs failing grew all the louder.

"Squatters are not allowed in my f*cking building! Unless you're willing to pay rent, you must f*cking leave!"

SIMON. SAYS.

Thin Boy obeyed. He dove under the bed just as he could hear the sound of a door busted open. He crawled back to the wall and hugged it for all it was worth.

DON'T BE TOO LOUD DON'T BE TOO LOUD DON'T BE TOO LOUD DON'T BE TOO LOUD HOW HE FORGET DON'T BE TOO LOUD

"Where the f*ck are you, you f*cking squatter?!"

Heavy footsteps echoed throughout his "house," though not the kind Thin Boy had grown accustomed to.

"I know you're still f*cking here, squatter! There's nowhere for you to - What the f*ck?!"

More footsteps, fainter and fainter by the step.

"How the f*ck did this get in here?! Did that lanky bitch bring this inside my building?! MY f*cking building?!?! No wonder this place went to spooky sh*t for the past month!!"

Simon says, run out the front door.

A loud scraping came out from the living room.

"These hunks of sh*t are not allowed in my f*cking building!!! My tenants are scared to death of these f*cking things!!!"

Simon says run out the front door NOW.

HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T HE COULDN'T

Simon says you MUST run.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

"Daichi?" the TV spoke.

The scraping stopped.

"Yū...?"

Simon says you can't hide.

"Daichi! Baby brother! Where have you been?"

Simon says you're not safe here.

"I haven't seen you in so long, baby brother! I've missed you!"

Simon says RUN.

If hiding fails, you must run. That's what Thin Man said. So that's what Thin Boy must do.

The sudden sound of the TV being CRUNCHED was the last bit of convincing he needed to dash from under the bed and out the now wide-open door.

"NEVER!!! SHOW!!! ME!!! MY!!! BROTHER!!! AGAIN!!!"

RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN

"SQUATTER!!! GET BACK HERE, YOU f*ckER!!!"

LONG HALLWAY VERY LONG HALLWAY SO MANY DOORS DOOR OPEN RUN THROUGH DOOR RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN DEAD END DEAD END WHAT TO DO WHAT TO DO WHAT TO DO HOLE IN THE FLOOR JUMP IN HOLE FALLING FALLING OW OW OW OW

"DON'T THINK FOR A f*ckING MOMENT YOU CAN EVADE ME, PIECE OF sh*t SQUATTER!!!"

MUST RUN NEED TO RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN DOOR CLOSED DOOR LONG HANDLE LOW HANDLE MUST JUMP JUMP JUMP DOOR OPEN RUN THROUGH DOOR

"WHERE DID YOUf*ckING GO, SQUATTER?!?!?!"

LONG HALLWAY RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN STAIRS STAIRS GO DOWNSTAIRS GO UP

"There you are, you little f*ckING BITCH!!!"

GO DOWN GO DOWN GO DOWN DOWN DOWN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN ALL THE WAY DOWN DOWN UNTIL THERE'S NO MORE DOWN MISSING STAIRS MISSING MUST JUMP MUST JUMP QUICK JUMP JUMP JUMP MADE IT JUST MADE IT RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN

"THAT'S NOT GOING TO STOP ME!!!"

RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN NO MORE STAIRS NO MORE STAIRS RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN NO RUNNING NOWHERE TO RUN NO RUNNING NOWHERE TO HIDE NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

"Now I have you, little f*cker."

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

"Wait a f*cking minute..."

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NONO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

"... The f*ck is wrong with your face?!"

MAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPYMAMASNOTHAPPY

"Daichi Yoshioka."

Whatever spiral Thin Boy's head seemed to be going down, he was pulled out of it by those two simple words, spoken nearly above a whisper and in a cold tone he had never heard before. Once he felt more grounded, he was made aware of three things.

The first was that the space he was currently lying in submission was much more spacious than what he was used to. At the very least, the ceiling was nothing but a sea of darkness—metal and glass containers littered around the floor, which gave off a faint orange-ish glow.

The second was the monster that was currently looming over him. Its face was sagged and misshapen. Its hands were the size of its face. It was angry.

The third was Thin Man, who was currently looming over the monster. His face was shrouded in shadow, but his eyes were glowing pin-pricks. He was angrier.

Sensing Thin Man's anger, the monster slowly turned to face him.

"You," it spoke with venom in its voice. "You have some fu - "

"What did I tell you about nightmares, Daichi Yoshioka? Hmm? Do you remember, oh, benevolent landlord?"

Thin Boy felt a tug in his chest, almost lifting him to his feet.

"Let me take care of it."

Next thing Thin Boy knew, there was a sudden rush of air, followed by a slight pressure wrapped around his chest. He was now closer to Thin Man's height, peering down at the monster below.

"I had everything under control until you poked your nose in something where it didn't belong. And now, because of you, you nearly invited the North Wind inside your precious building. Both you and your tenants would have been summoned away."

The pressure relaxed just enough that it began rubbing his neck and shoulders.

"Oh, but you didn't just stick your nose in things where it didn't belong, Daichi Yoshioka. Oh no, you desecrated a television: a sacred item tied to the Great Eyes. That alone should be enough for me to pull your intestines inside-out and outside-in again, right here where you stand."

The monster - Daichi Yoshioka - merely stared in response, eyes wide and face pale.

"But not right now. I'd much prefer to do so when you least expect it, when your guard's down, when it's most inconvenient for you. Just like how you inconvenienced me. Good night, Daichi Yoshioka."

Thin Man and child then move-not moved inside a large box, the walls made of iron bars. Thin Man, much too tall for the small space, hunched so far over that he was practically an arch. To the side of the box were strange circles, one of which Thin Man pressed. When he did so, the box began to rattle and rise. Thin Boy could hear splintering, moaning, shrieking, and screaming as the box rose.

Thin Man left him alone all day.

The TV kept him up all night.

A monster found him.

He missed Roja.

He missed Roja so much.

In the midst of all of this chaotic and annoying noise, something happened inside Thin Boy. Everything - fear, confusion, frustration - merged and crashed down, causing tears, snot, and wailings to spill out. His chest heaved, his throat choked, and his eyes and head hurt. And he couldn't stop it no matter how hard Thin Boy tried.

The pressure pressed deeper into its rubbings, but just a teeny bit. An object Thin Boy was unfamiliar with began to stroke his head, uncertain of its movements, but quickly found a rhythm.

"Breathe, Thin Boy," Thin Man spoke, his voice back to its quiet and croaky tone. "Everything's alright now. You're safe."

"Safe".

"Safe"...

While still sobbing a storm, Thin Boy turned to look at Thin Man, hoping he would explain what he meant by "safe."

He didn't expect Thin Man to don the same look he wore when Thin Boy apologized.

The box stopped moving, and the noise ceased.

Thin Man and child stared at one another.

"... ... ... I'm sorry, Thin Boy. For everything."

...

...

...

Was Thin Man sorry?

Why?

Thin Man walked out of the elevator and down a long hallway. Thin Boy, meanwhile, managed to hold back his sobs to whisper a simple question.

"Why?"

They reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of the door on the right. Or, rather, what remained of the door on the right.

"... Why what, Thin Boy?"

Thin Man was always asking, "Why what?"

"Why... you sorry?"

They were back in his "house" now. Despite being smashed in, the TV still glowed and hissed.

"Because all of this is my fault." Thin Man looked off to the side to see the TV before continuing. "I... ... ... did a bad thing, and I won't ever do it again."

But what did Thin Man do that was so bad? All Thin Man did was bring food, explain things, and teach games. He never once hurt him; if anything, all he ever did was remind Thin Boy that nothing would hurt him. What was so bad about all of that?

Thin Man was weird, after all.

"It's ok, I forgive you," Thin Boy responded as they both entered his bedroom.

"... You really shouldn't," Thin Man insisted.

"But I wanna."

"... ... ... Why?"

"'Cuz I like you."

That last thing slipped out before Thin Boy even had time to realize that he was saying it. Everything in Thin Man seemed to... freeze in response. It only lasted a moment, and then he placed him on his bed.

Yes, Thin Boy liked Thin Man. Sure, Thin Man had difficulty understanding simple things and forgets, and was weird. But, at the same time, Thin Man wanted to help, explains, and was -

It came to him in a rush, a realization so apparent he was almost mad he didn't see it sooner.

Thin Man was safe.

And as the pressure - Thin Man's hands - released their grip around his waist, Thin Boy firmly latched on.

"No going," he begged. "Stay."

Thin Man... stared at him.

And then, without another word, Thin Man's hands gently tightened their grip.

And it was there, sitting on his bed and cradled in Thin Man's hands, that his sobs died, and Thin Boy fell asleep.

It wasn't until the following morning that Thin Boy realized he hadn't worn his mask the previous night.

Chapter 6: Whose Hands Dogs Wouldn't Eat

Chapter Text

"Why did you inform me about my protege last night?"

I noticed you didn't return to the Signal Tower. Was there a specific reason you -

"Why did you inform me about last night?!"

He wasn't in the mood for this nonsense. Not now, not after what happened the night before.

Although, he probably wasn't in the mood for this nonsense for the past month. On top of his other duties as Thin Man, he had to keep a close eye on both the Thin Boy and Roger Cecil. Tasks that, to his frustration, required more time and energy than he expected, especially the Thin Boy.

Rather quickly, it became clear that his protege required more attention than he presumed initially. The nightmare - the boy - was a paranoid creature. His ability to distinguish between dream and reality seemed hindered, though he couldn't determine if that was due to age or some other underlying factor. Regardless, this usually led Thin Boy to ramble on about things Thin Man couldn't tell were terrible dreams or legitimate concerns.

So, to continue solidifying the boy's trust in him and keeping his promise by proxy, Thin Man made it a daily routine to check up on the Thin Boy. It took a little bit to get into a groove, but it wasn't too bad once he did. At the very least, his protege seemed happy to see him every morning. However, he couldn't stay with him the whole day, so he asked the Great Eyes to keep an eye on the boy.

They outright refused at first.

They were still reluctant when he told them this was an opportunity to understand children better.

They relented when he reminded them the end goal was to turn the nightmare into a human child.

Of course, there was still Roger Cecil, but Thin Man didn't want to think about him. At the present moment, he was staring down the half-bashed television, sparking and flickering with difficulty. It was the only source of light found in that dark living room besides the gloomy light that poured out of the hallway window nearby. Through the static and noise, he could make out the faint outline of an eye; it was too cryptic for his ever-thinning patience.

Your plan requires -

"You despise my plan! You wanted my protege dead from the very beginning! Last night was the perfect opportunity to get rid of him. Why did you warn me?!"

He did not like the silence that followed and lingered.

Remember when you pleaded with me to watch the nightmare while you fulfilled your sacred duties as steward?

"... ... ... I do recall."

I did as you begged. I observed the nightmare's every action, from waking to sleeping.

Another bout of silence.

Are you sure it's orphaned?

"What?!"

The nightmare, your "protege," are you sure it's orphaned?

"Of course, he's orphaned! They all are! I ensured it!"

Are you positive?

"What are you implying?!"

It's not alone.

Thin Man couldn't even process what the Great Eyes were saying.

Every night, I've noticed another presence in the room, not a man or animal. I fear it was something Evil, far worse than a mere nightmare.

"That's not possible!! None remain on the Isle of the Eye, let alone in the Pale City!! There can't be - "

And yet, there is! Do you doubt my vision, humble steward?

"NO!! Never!! But - !!" He dragged his hands down his face in frustration, the surrounding walls groaning with him. " - Why wait until now to tell me?!?!"

As I said, it only occurred at night. I couldn't know for sure if it was something worse or if it was simply a bad dream. It's best not to stress out my already stressed steward.

Oh, how thoughtful.

It wasn't until last night that I knew without question. Had you arrived any later, Daichi Yoshioka would cease to be. Perhaps even more would've befallen a similar fate if it made it out of the building.

"Which one is it?"

I don't know.

"How can you not know?!?!?!"

Because, oh knowledgable steward of mine, such creatures are not under my gaze.

"Well, GREAT!!! My protege is being stalked by one of his parents, and I have no way of knowing who!!!"

There is still hope.

Oh?

Roger Cecil may know something.

Oh, hell no.

No, no, no! There was no way in all the lands under the Great Eyes' gaze that he'd ever ask Roger Cecil! That man - that bastard - had been a pain in his ass since the unfortunate day he met him! Every routine visit he made to the man, in keeping his agreement, was met with snark and vitriol; this was combined with rhymes he knew had to be derogatory, but he couldn't figure out how or what made them so.

And Roger was stubborn. Boy, howdy was that man stubborn! Every attempt Thin Man made to uphold his end of the agreement turned into an unnecessary uphill climb! No, he wouldn't accept the new clothes. No, he wouldn't look into a possible custodian position at a boarding school. It took Myrt's infamous guilt-tripping to get Roger to wear his new face, and even then, she was barely successful. Roger Cecil made him reach levels of rage he didn't even know he had!

"I'm not asking him sh*t! You can't make me, no way, no how!"

The television released a skull-splitting screech, the speakers popping from the feedback. He felt an unpleasant sensation as if something inside his chest was pulling his ribs inward. His eyes also felt like they'd grown too big for his sockets, making it incredibly hard to see.

I have put up with your attitude for too long, my steward. What I have spoken to you was not a request but a command. You will talk to Roger Cecil. You will learn who the nightmare's parent is. You will kill that parent. And, most importantly, you will neutralize the nightmare. Fail in any of these endeavors, and I will terminate your poorly thought-out plan. Have I made myself clear?

"I understand," he managed to sputter out, as the current sensation he was feeling made it complicated for him even to think.

I sure hope so. You've sacrificed much to not only drive Evil out of these lands but to protect these lands from any future Evil. It would be a shame if all of those sacrifices were for naught.

And just as sudden as it came, the sensation left, along with the light and sound of the television. All that was left was an indescribable pain that left his head feeling like mush.

The Great Eyes were right; he really stretched their patience this time. He was walking on eggshells from this point onward. He needed his plan to succeed. He spent far too much time and energy to fail now.

But, first things first, he needed to focus on breathing.

Deep breaths, Thin Man. Deep, controlled breaths.

He didn't know how long it took him to realize that, firstly, he was lying on the floor on his side, one arm clutched around his chest and the other supporting the crown of his head; and, secondly, the Thin Boy was also laying on his side, staring down the Thin Man. Not only did his protege don a look of uncertainty, but he was completely unmasked.

Ah.

Well.

This was a new development.

Perhaps he shouldn't draw attention to it, though. It was best not to spoil any progress he was making.

He couldn't help but recall that tiny face, tear-soaked and fear-filled, from the night before, however.

"Good morning, Thin Boy." He tried not to sound like he was in too much pain, but the strain still slipped through despite his efforts.

"Hi," his protege replied. "Hurting?"

"Well, um, yes," he reluctantly admitted. But he added in haste, "It's not as bad as it looks. It'll go away any second." He hoped so anyway. He couldn't afford to lie on the ground all day. He had a command to fulfill, after all.

"TV's not nice," Thin Boy commented.

Oh. Did he witness that?

"It has its moods," he assured his protege. Couldn't have him believe televisions were terrible things.

Well, he already did, but he couldn't let him think they were worse than what Roger had already warned him about.

He needed to change the subject.

And get off the floor.

"But enough about me," he grunted, pushing himself up with his arms. "How about you?" Did you sleep well last night?" His attempt was successful, and Thin Man sat as upright as was comfortable, legs crossed and arms resting on his knees. His chest and head, however, ached as hell. Thin Boy, amusingly enough, mimicked his movements.

He gave no response to his question, however, though it seemed less of his protege not wanting to say anything and more that he didn't know what to say. That lost expression that the boy donned told Thin Man so.

A part of him wished his protege was wearing his mask.

Perhaps some prompting may help find the words he wants to use.

"What's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?"

He hugged his legs close to his chest, but there was no verbal answer.

"Is it Mr. Yoshioka? He won't find you again, I promise." Although, it would only be a matter of time before the Landlord had the stairs and elevator repaired. As much as Thin Man wanted to ensure the Landlord couldn't reach his protege again, it would be unfair of him to punish the other tenants by blocking their only exits. He destroyed the elevator, but all he could do to the stairs was uproot some steps here and there. Thin Man hoped the damage he created would distract the Landlord long enough for him to figure out what to do with the Thin Boy.

Thin Boy tucked his chin in, hiding his face somewhat—still no verbal answer.

Right. Not bad dreams, not the Landlord. What else? Who or what could be on the Thin Boy's mind?

Who is always on his mind?

"... Are you thinking about Roger?"

Finally, a nod.

"Do you miss him?"

Another nod.

Of course.

Not a day would go by that Thin Boy would be somewhat cheerful and attentive one minute, then sullen and distracted the next. Not a Sunday would begin without the boy asking Thin Man if his friend would be coming, only to be given the sour news. Not a lesson nor game would end without him pointing out what Roger would or wouldn't say or do.

Thin Boy, at the very least, cared a lot about Roger, which was shocking, considering the man in question was a colossal pain in the ass. But then Thin Man would recall his first encounter with Roger: lying on a pile of newspapers, surrounded by junk in a dilapidated warehouse, apologizing to the boy through sickly sobs. He may have been obligated to care for the boy by an obscure code, but even a blind man could see that the care he had went above and beyond a mere obligation. Why? Who knows. Perhaps he forgot the boy's true nature?

"I miss Roja..."

It was so tiny, so choked, and faded away as quickly as it emerged from the small curled form on the floor. His eyes were a glistening wet, and his face was twisted in such a downcast expression it almost felt like a mask within itself.

Well, f*ck.

...

...

...

He had a realization.

No, something better; he had an idea.

An awful idea.

A wonderfully awful idea.

"... I suppose you were due a visit to him anyways..."

Almost instantaneously, Thin Boy's sour mood turned curious.

"Visit?"

"Do you remember our agreement? The one we made when we first met?"

"You mean, suh-sess-or?"

"Yes, well, that was your end of the agreement. My end was that I would make sure Roger got better. Do you remember that part?"

Thin Boy nodded, though a tad too delayed and uncertain for his liking.

"Anyways, I've been keeping an eye on Roger since then, making sure his illness went away. He's much better now but not well enough to visit you. So, you'll just have to come and visit him - "

"I visit Roja?!" The boy's full attention was on him now, eyes wide and entirely focused, almost as if he was staring him down.

"... Yes, you're going to vi - "

"I VISIT ROJA!!!"

Like a rocket, Thin Boy launched into the air and zoomed toward the hallway window, forgoing any sense of self-preservation.

His protege was unmasked, which was a good thing, albeit without the boy's realization, most likely. That said, it wasn't the wisest idea to allow him to go outside with his true nature exposed for all to see. Although he feared that the mask would never come off again, Thin Man feared finding a new successor even more.

"Now, hold on a minute!" He called out, teleporting himself in front of the window and causing the Thin Boy to bump into his legs. The aching in his head and chest suddenly worsened, but he tried to ignore it. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

After regaining his bearings, Thin Boy donned a genuine look of confusion.

"Your face?"

More confusion. The boy gave his cheeks a few light pats, and then it hit him.

"Oh."

...

...

...

He expected more fanfare out of that reaction.

"... Anyways, don't you think you should wear your mask?"

"Why?"

Why?

"What's that supposed to mean, Thin Boy?"

"Why... s'ould I wear my mask?"

Where the hell did this come from?!

"Thin Boy, your mask is to keep you safe from monsters! You don't want monsters coming after you, do you?"

"But you keep me safe!"

...

...

...

Well, this was an unforeseen predicament.

It was far from the worst predicament that could have occurred, but it was definitely inconvenient.

You didn't think this far ahead, did you?

... ... ... no...

Be honest with him. Explain why he should hide his face, even when you're with him.

Deep breaths, Thin Man. Deep, controlled breaths.

"... Have you ever heard of the old saying, 'Better safe than sorry'?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Well, it means it's better to be careful even when safe than to be not careful and find yourself in trouble. I'll keep you safe, but I still want you to wear your mask outside. Do you understand?"

Thin Boy's face clearly said 'no,' but he nodded in response regardless, picking up in speed as he felt more confident about his answer.

"Ok, I wear my mask."

And off he went to grab his mask, tiny pitter-patters growing fainter. As he waited for the pitter-patters to grow louder again, Thin Man focused on breathing to lessen the ache. Great gazes, did he ache! He lowered his head and clutched his temples, rubbing them in the vain hope that the ache would subside. Meanwhile, the ache in his chest seemed to start decreasing, though it was hard to tell.

And then he felt a slight pat-pat on his knee. Looking up, he saw a still-unmasked but very concerned Thin Boy. He never got this close to him, even when his opinion of him seemed softening.

"Hurting," was all his protege said, though Thin Man noticed it wasn't phrased as a question. It was a statement based on an observation.

So much for reassurances.

"Yes, Thin Boy, I'm very much aware..." He paused to breathe before continuing. "... that I'm hurting. But - "

"TV not nice."

Oh, not this again.

"No, the TV wasn't very nice, but... I wasn't very nice to it, either. What the TV did to me... was fair."

"But, hurting."

He would not let this go, would he?

Of course, he won't.

Said as if it was apparent.

Where there is trust, there is care, and the Thin Boy trusts you.

...

...

...

Oh.

OH.

He didn't consider that.

As you do with most things.

"... ... ... Alright. Fine. You win. I'll rest for a few minutes... then we'll see Roger. How does that sound?"

"Ok..."

Good.

Good...

He hung his aching head, clutching at it in desperation. Such a deep, agonizing ache! It would go away eventually, but what was taking it so long?!

No! Don't panic. Breathe.

Deep breaths

Deep, controlled breaths.

Look at me.

Watch my finger.

Up - one, two, three, four.

Hold - one, two, three, four.

Down - one, two, three, four.

Hold - one, two, three, four.

That's it. Just breathe slowly.

You're ok, kid. You're going to be ok.

Thin Man didn't know why, but those words made his chest ache worse.

Great. Now his eyes stung.

At least the headache was tolerable now.

"Alright, time to go." He had already wasted enough time; he had no more to waste to see if the aches would completely go away.

"I see Roja?"

"Yes, Thin Boy. It's time to see Roger."

"I see Roja," Thin Boy whispered primarily to himself, slipping his mask over his head. Some excitements couldn't be contained in mere thoughts, it seemed.

Some excitements, however, could be hindered by a high-enough window. Thin Man watched as his protege hopped up and down, attempting to push the bottom window pane up just as gravity took over. It was amusing for a second or so before he decided to intervene. His ascent to a standing position was a bit slow, but he made up for it with a quick SNAP, which was immediately followed by the window opening itself with a brash THUMP!

"Need a hand?"

Thin Boy didn't answer, but he did stare at Thin Man with startled surprise. Once the shock ceased, he gave one or two tiny hops, followed by one big jump. He managed to get a good grip on the window ledge and could lift himself halfway. But halfway wasn't all the way, so Thin Man imagined lifting Thin Boy's feet just enough that he would make it through the window.

The boost may have been a tad forceful, considering his protege practically flew through the window and smacked into the metal fire escape with a yelp.

"I visit Roja!" he exclaimed in response, cheerful as ever.

A snort escaped Thin Man's breath but nothing else.

The moment he got back up, Thin Boy zoomed down the fire escape stairs, neglecting how slippery they were due to the sprinkling rain. And yet, he always retained traction and grip. Meanwhile, Thin Man teleported in segments down to the alleyway below, next to the fire escape ladder. Once Thin Boy climbed down the ladder with ease and landed on the ground with a tiny splash, Thin Man led his protege to the main roads. All the while, the child in question sang an out-of-tune melody to himself:

Visiting Roja!

Visiting Roja!

I'm visiting, visiting!

Visiting Roja!

It was amusing to listen to.

However, the innocent little melody suddenly stopped when the pair reached the end of the alley. Turning back to see what caused the sudden bout of silence, Thin Man saw Thin Boy frozen in place, arms folded into himself and eyes apprehensive.

"What's the matter?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly. "Afraid I won't keep you safe?"

"Uh-uh," Thin Boy answered, shaking his head in emphasis.

"Then what is it then?"

No answer this time, though one wasn't needed. Instead, Thin Boy ran up to him, stopping once he was half an inch from his right shin, and held firmly onto his pant leg.

"Stay toget'er."

He didn't quite know how to respond to that.

It might be easier to "stay together" if you held him.

He really didn't want to do that. Every time he held a nightmare in his hands, it always ended in said nightmare not living to speak of the encounter. Bones cracking, eyes popping, bodies becoming squishy like mush. It had become second nature, at this point, to kill any nightmare that ended up in his hands.

The fact he hadn't done so to his protege already was a miracle within itself.

He recalled the night before, how his mind and body screamed at his hands to NOT SQUEEZE.

That said, he couldn't have him hanging off his leg the whole walk to the hospital, even if he changed the address again to make it closer.

He took a deep breath.

"... ... ... Agreed. Although, it might be easier... ... ... if you didn't hold on like that. Just... ... stay close... I won't walk too fast. I promise."

His protege looked so...

... he couldn't find the word to describe it.

Can't find it, or don't want to give it a name?

"This way," he instructed the Thin Boy, prompting him to follow, and he obeyed after a moment.

The streets in this part of the Pale City were quieter than usual. Everyone was probably still asleep, as the world was bright enough to see without the assistance of street lights but not bright enough for said lights to turn themselves off. It was a rarity in the Pale City for the clouds to be thin enough for sunshine to bleed through; gloom and rain had haunted it since its reconstruction in days long, long forgotten. Puddles were skewed across the pavement, and he could feel a slight sprinkle of rain whenever a breeze blew. Overall, the weather was tame and perfect for a short stroll to the hospital, even if it was cold as hell.

Thin Boy kept close to Thin Man despite his hesitations, trailing behind him. He didn't speak much, apart from the excited whisperings of seeing Roger again, but now and again, Thin Man would catch him humming a three-toned melody, as the notes were never the same twice. There were also moments when Thin Boy would feel a little brave and walk side by side, only to start trailing again when bravery failed him.

At one point, though, his protege ran ahead, stopped after a couple of feet, and turned to look at Thin Man. Thin Man, in turn, stopped as well as to not step on the tiny nightmare.

"Where's Roja?"

It suddenly occurred to Thin Man that, in all the time he spent with his protege, he never told him where Roger was.

"Oh! Oh, he's at a hospital! That's where people go when they're sick. There are doctors there: people who take care of sick people until they're better again. It's a safe place."

Well, it was safe as long as one wasn't a nightmare.

"Roja's there?"

"Yes, Thin Boy."

"Docta help Roja?"

"Yes. His name is Dr. Herbert Frank. He's an acquaintance of mine."

"'A-kain-dance'..."

"... Yes. Ac-QUAINT-ance."

"'A-KU-AINT-ants.'"

"AC. QUAINT. ANCE."

"ACK. KI-U-AIN-TU. ANTS."

"... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... yeah, that'll do."

Thin Boy's abysmal pronunciations were horrifying, to be sure, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Teleporting past his protege, Thin Man continued toward the hospital, Thin Boy trailing close behind.

Eventually, the desolate streets of the homeless and forgotten transitioned into more lively hassle and bustle, though not enough for there to be crowds of chatter and bodies. Closer-knit communities resided here: the family-owned businesses and niche establishments, the outcasts and misfits, "The Sotomago," as the more bitter individuals referred to some of the residents of this particular area. He hated that name with a passion.

None of these sparse crowds overlooked the Thin Man's presence, strolling down their streets as he abnormally did. They would bow their heads out of respect whenever he passed them, addressing him as they did so. When they did bow their heads, their attentions would be drawn to the nightmare that followed closely behind him. They would give a look on their faces that showed they found the sight odd but wouldn't speak aloud about it.

And although none tried to keep his protege away from him, which Thin Man was grateful for, Thin Boy was greatly bothered by the unwarranted attention. Every stare made him coil back in fear, causing him to lag a step or two behind. While hardly a bother at first, it gradually became a slight problem. The further away his protege was trailing, the easier it would be for them to separate, and that was the last thing Thin Man wanted to happen.

At the same time, however, he didn't want to stop and wait for the Thin Boy to catch up. If he did, it would make it evident to everyone that this child wasn't just randomly following him. Right from the start, he knew there would be those who wouldn't be too fond of a successor, the Great Eyes included. Despite all the good he did, some people were wary of him and did their best to avoid him. He didn't want the same thing to happen to his protege, and the best way to do this was to keep him hidden for as long as possible. That way, his protege's reputation would be fresh and free from any negativity his own garnered.

He at least thought that part of his plan through.

"PST! Hey! Kid!"

A voice. Quiet, just above a whisper. Young, but not too young. Possibly a teenager. Clearly, they were trying to get his protege's attention.

Thin Boy's pitter-patters stopped.

He wasn't too concerned. Thin Boy was afraid of strangers, or "funny people," as he called them. He would presume he would be trailing shortly.

"Get over here!" the voice continued, commanding in their tone.

"I - But -"

"That's the Thin Man! Stay away from him!"

The pitter-patters were not resuming, and the voices started growing faint.

Almost instinctively, he turned his head around to see behind. There was his protege, slightly turned away from him in an unsure posture. Not far from his protege was the owner of the voice: a teenager, just as he assumed. They appeared masculine, but their presentation made it hard to tell for sure. Hair was cut at the ear lobes but was full and pampered instead of slicked back. They wore a cream-colored blouse but tan dress pants and a black belt. Their feet were feed dogs, and most of their fingers were scissor blades. But what stood out to Thin Man the most was their face. It was angler but soft, as their skin was patches of fabric sewn together. Needles were pinned into the right side of the face, and threads of all sorts of textures and colors overflowed from the right eye socket.

Ah, he recognized this kid. Sakura Taylor was his name. And living up to the family namesake, he was an amateur couturier. He was a decent kid, though he tended to associate with the wrong people. More than anything, he just wanted to be left in peace, which made his current behavior very strange.

"You need to stay back," Sakura insisted, reaching for the Thin Boy. "You don't know what he might do -"

"Might do what, Sakura Taylor?" Thin Man intervened, sacrificing secrecy for safety.

Fortunately for Thin Man, however, merely addressing the teenager was enough to scare him off. Sakura froze, stumbled back, and then ran into the closest building his eyes locked onto in fright. Satisfied, Thin Man continued his way to the hospital. He wagged his index finger once to tug the Thin Boy toward himself, jumpstarting the pitter-patters again.

"Whatever happened to 'stay together'?" he muttered to his protege, trying to make his tone light. After all, Thin Boy probably wasn't used to strangers addressing him.

"'M sorry..." was all the nightmare could respond with. Thin Boy looked up at Thin Man with apprehension, only to relax when he saw the look on Thin Man's face: a teasing smirk that he allowed to show long enough to notice.

At long last, they arrived at their destination: that tumorous monolith of a hospital. Not wanting to draw more attention than his presence already did, he led his protege to the same waiting room he brought Roger the month previous. And just as the month prior, Myrt sat at the nurse's desk, absorbed in her crosswords.

"You're early today," Myrt commented, not breaking her gaze from her book.

"I brought a visitor," was all Thin Man responded with.

That caught Myrt's attention.

"A visitor?"

"Yes."

"One of Roger's acquaintances, who are incredibly superstitious, mind you, agreed to come with you to a hospital to see a man they barely know."

"Yes."

Myrt's face scrunched up in disbelief.

"Those men may be irrational, but they're not stupid."

"Well, this one is a special case."

"And what's so special about this one?"

"He's someone Roger cares about."

That really caught Myrt's attention, and she instantly leaned over the desk to see Thin Man's feet. Sure enough, hiding behind Thin Man's legs was his protege. Myrt's demeanor immediately softened once she saw the nightmare in question.

"You must be Roger's Little Buddy," Myrt spoke with fondness and a hint of relief. Upon hearing Roger's enduring nickname for his protege, the Thin Boy peered halfway from his hiding spot.

"Roja?"

"Yes! He's - here, let me take you to him!"

Thin Man was about to object since he had memorized the path to Roger's room and didn't want Myrt to get too curious about the boy, but he reconsidered. Roger was indeed blind, but his other senses were greatly heightened. Not to mention, he refused to believe the Thin Man when he told him the boy was alive and well. If he and the Thin Boy were to enter together, Roger might mistake the visit for a cruel ruse. It is best to let the boy enter first and then himself.

The only problem with that plan was Thin Boy's wariness.

"You two go on without me. I'll stay here a little bit."

Thin Boy whipped his head upward.

"Stay?!"

"Yes. You'll go with Ms. McGee by yourself."

"Myself?!?!"

"Yes."

The fact that he clutched tightly onto his pant leg told him that his protege disapproved of this plan.

The ache in his head suddenly worsened.

Where there is trust, there is care. It may be the same the other way around.

He had a possible solution.

"... I'm hurting again and need to rest a few minutes. You've waited long enough to see Roger, so go with Ms. McGee to see him. She won't hurt you, I promise. She's an acquaintance of mine, after all."

Thin Boy looked down, processing the information before him, until finally looking up again.

"Ok, I see Roja." And with that, Thin Boy left Thin Man's side to join Myrt. Myrt, in turn, held out a hand for him to take. He thought about it but ultimately refused, as was his cautious nature. Unbothered by his refusal, Myrt opened the double doors that would lead them down the hospital's bowels. As she did so, she shot Thin Man a look. She definitely heard him when he said he was hurting, and she would interrogate him about it when she found the opportunity.

"Oh, Myrt!" Thin Man called out before the nurse and his protege disappeared. "Keep a very, very close eye on the boy! Don't let anyone else near him; take him straight to Roger!"

"You don't have to tell me twice!" Myrt called back, and the pair were gone with the closing of the doors.

Right. Time to work.

He went straight to the television set in its lonely corner in the waiting room. Kneeling before the screen, he pressed his head against it and breathed deeply.

In and out.

In... and out.

In... ... and out.

In... ... ... and out.

Eyelids grew heavy, and Thin Man fell into unconsciousness. But rest was restless, and unconsciousness was merely awareness at a greater compacity. For Thin Man was one with the Transmission, and the Transmission was simply a more comprehensible name for the Great Eyes' power and influence. Everything the Great Eyes saw, the Thin Man could see as well.

After all, televisions weren't just transceivers; they were transmitters as well.

Every face, every voice, every name, Thin Man knew all but one. They continued their monotonous days, working, schooling, and running errands. There was so much noise: the bus driver, the train, the massive crowds, the whispering of forbidden things. There were many sights: the buildings, the docks, the apartments, the man-faced bear. So many conversations: talks about the weather, what was on the television last night, and what Myrtle Honda was doing behind locked doors.

Oh, Thin Man knew precisely what Myrtle Honda was doing, and it wasn't as juicy as Meredeth Jones and Naomi Yamanaka thought it was.

Speaking of Myrtles, he caught sight of Myrtle McGee. "Myrt", she told him to call her. It is a highly casual form of address, but Thin Man learned quickly never to deny what one wanted to be called by others. She walked briskly through the hospital halls, keeping his protege close by her side. Good. Very good.

Of course, the topic of hospitals and nurses made him think of Dr. Herbert Frank. What was he up to? Behaving himself, Thin Man hoped.

To Thin Man's surprise, he was. More specifically, at his desk, with a patient sitting across. Elias Wormsley: a principal at a boarding school. He's been looking for a new custodian since the old one -

Roger Cecil! That son of a - where was Roger Cecil?! He was somewhere in this hospital still, but he couldn't see him anywhere!

His eye! Someone removed his eye, and now Roger was outside his gaze!

No matter. He supposed there were the lesser eyes that, while not as powerful, still fulfilled their purpose. And unlike his greater eyes, Roger Cecil couldn't hide from these. And how could he? He'd have to see to notice the wallpaper's design or the hospital's emblem.

Sure enough, his lesser eyes didn't fail him, and he found Roger Cecil sitting upright in his bed. Far from the feverish, delirious mess he first found him as, the stubborn man now only suffered from a runny nose. The only reason he remained in this establishment was the application of his new face, to ensure it would remain attached for a good long while. However, if his drumming fingers and twitching foot were of any indication, impatience would win out before his face could adequately set.

So, so infuriating.

Before his temper could rise once again, he could hear Myrt right outside the doorway.

"Roger? It's Myrt."

"Myrt! Good to hear ya voice again, birdie! Da doc ain't boferin' ya, is he?"

"No, Roger, he hasn't yet."

"And he better not! Else, I'll give him a knuckle sandwich, dat Kyber Pass!"

"I can handle him myself, Roger."

"Bah! Chivalry is dead!"

Thank the Eyes, those two got along so well. Thin Man was confident he would've had a more challenging time if they didn't.

"You have a visitor, by the way."

"Is it da walking whistle n' flute?"

"Actually, it's someone you like."

"Really?"

"Really."

"I don't Adam n' Eve it."

"Well, you better. He's standing at the doorway, and I'm sure he's missed you terribly."

"Alroight, which one o' ya's is it? Paul? Sakura? James?"

"Roja?"

He couldn't quite make out the look on Roger's face, but he could hear his voice hitch.

"... Who's dat?" Roger spoke. His voice was just above a whisper and softer in tone. "Myrt, birdie, who's at da door? I - I don't -"

"ROJA!!!"

Tiny pitter-patters fiercely made a mad dash to the bed Roger sat in, nearly crashing into one of the legs. From there, the boy struggled to climb onto the mattress.

"Roja! Is me! Is me!"

"... Laddie...?" Roger asked, disbelief lacing his tone. "Is dat... no, it can't be. Broadcaster, he -"

Before denial could set in, Thin Boy finally made it up the bed and hugged Roger around the abdomen. Anything Roger was about to say died in his throat, and instead, he gasped in surprise.

"I thought you died..." The boy's tiny voice sounded muffled through the fabric of Roger's clothes and degraded into sobs of relief. Thin Man hadn't even realized his protege had been crying.

From Roger's posture, Thin Man could tell he didn't want to believe this was the nightmare he did his damnest to protect. But, eventually, Roger gently pressed the boy close, embracing him in an awkward hug. Thin Man could hear the blind man taking deep, controlled breaths, possibly to prevent himself from crying as well. Myrt, not wanting to ruin the moment, departed from the room and closed the door behind her.

Watching the tender scene unfold made Thin Man's chest and arms ache, and he didn't know why.

After a few minutes, Roger carefully pried Thin Boy off of himself and cradled the child in his hands.

"Ah, Little Buddy, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean ta worry ya so!" While holding the boy in his right hand, Roger reached for his tattered shawl from a nearby chair with his left and offered it to his ward. "Dere now, dry dose tears o' ya's." Thin Boy slipped off his mask and grabbed a section of the shawl, wiping his entire face with it.

"I missed you," Thin Boy said through still-shaky breaths.

"I missed ya too, laddie. But... uh... lad, how'd ya find me? How'd ya even get 'ere? Ya 'aven't been by ya'self dis whole time, 'ave ya?!"

"No, Thin Man's with me."

He could feel Roger's face fall in horror.

"Broadcaster?!?! Wot he do ta ya?!?! Oh, when dat Hampton Wick comes back 'ere, I'm gonna -"

"HE'S SAFE!!!" Thin Boy blurted out before Roger could go on another of his ravings. "Thin Man's safe, Roja!"

"Broadcaster?! Safe?!?! BULLOCKS!!! Broadcaster ain't 'safe,' laddie! He wants ta 'urt ya!"

"But he promised no hurting! And he 'plains! And helps!"

"Little Buddy, the only person Broadcaster wants to 'elp is 'imself. Every good ding he does is anyding but! Remember wot I told ya about idiot's lanterns?"

"But TV hurt Thin Man."

"I don't care if it - ... wait, wot?"

"TV not nice. It hurt Thin Man, make him sick."

Thin Man didn't expect Thin Boy to say that.

Roger didn't expect his "Little Buddy" to say that either. He fumbled with vowels and consonants until his mouth managed to find words again, lowering his voice to a near whisper and holding the boy close to his face.

"Laddie, I need ya ta listen very carefully. Broadcaster told me ya made a deal with 'im. He said ya wanted 'im to make sure I got better. Wot did he wanted ya ta do?"

sh*t!

sh*t! sh*t! f*ck!

Of all the people to know about his plan, Roger Cecil was someone who absolutely should not! And knowing Thin Boy, he'll tell him without hesitation! He mustn't know! Where was the closest television set?!

End of the hall, other side of the floor. It would have to do.

His head felt like swimming through molasses and tar, but he managed to swim back into consciousness, and his eyes snapped back open. Thin Man crawled into the television set without hesitation, arriving on the desired floor on the other side. He recovered from tripping over himself and teleported in three quick spurts before finally arriving at Roger's door, Myrt standing guard nearby.

"Before you go in -"

"Not now, Myrt."

"What happened this -"

"Not now, Myrt!"

One last teleport and he was inside Roger's room. It was bare, sterile, and depressing as it donned the dull, dim shades of grey and blue. The wallpaper was so old the patterns could barely be seen, and the floor was that awful heat-sucking tile. Roger's bed, a simple side table, and a solitary chair furnished the room. A pitful lamp sat on the side table, barely making a difference in the light level. And at the end of the room was the window, where Thin Man could see the weather had changed.

The demeanor of Roger and the Thin Boy shifted once his presence was made known. Roger stiffened, shoulders hunched and face twisted in a feral-like snarl. Thin Boy, shawl still in hand, perked up and beamed with a pleasant surprise.

"You," Roger spoke darkly.

"Thin Man!" Thin Boy exclaimed happily. "Is Roja! Is my friend Roja! I'm visiting him!"

"I can see that," Thin Man responded.

"Is better! See? All better! My friend not sick! Akaname go away!"

"I can see that," Thin Man repeated, almost adding the boy's title but withholding his tongue at the last minute.

"Is Roja."

"Yes, I know."

"Is my friend."

"Yes. I know."

"Is not sick."

"I am aware."

"Is Roja."

"You have already told me that."

"Is my friend."

Not once through this entire maddening conversation did the Thin Boy's smile fade. Roger's snarl, on the other hand, softened to curious confusion.

He couldn't tell how much Roger Cecil knew about his intentions with the Thin Boy, though he figured it probably didn't matter anyway. The man was fiercely protective, like a sheepdog protecting a lamb. Whether he knew the whole plan or not, he would never let the Thin Man near the boy again, especially now that he knew the boy had been with him the past month. Any attempt to get any information out of Roger regarding the enigmatic parent would end in his bothersome rhymes.

But not all hope was lost. Not yet. His wonderfully awful idea could still work.

He just had to make some inconvenient altercations.

"... ... ... You're thrilled to be here, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Happy to be back with your friend?"

"Yeah."

"You missed him that much?"

"Yeah."

"Would you like to stay with him?"

Thin Boy's smile fell slightly, confused about what Thin Man meant. Roger donned an expression of bewilderment.

"Stay?"

"Instead of Roger visiting you every Sunday, you and Roger would live together."

"Gravel n' grit," Roger whispered in low rumbles.

"Really?!" Thin Boy asked, eyes lit with excitement. "I stay with Roja?!"

"Laddie!" Roger exclaimed in disbelief. "Wot did I tell ya?! Don't listen to 'im! He lies!"

"No, he doesn't! Thin Man hates lying!"

"'Cause he's not da one doing it, Little Buddy!"

That's a lie.

That's a vicious, wretched lie, and Roger knew it!

The lamp's lightbulb exploded.

"See? He doesn't like it."

That's it. Enough of this nonsense. Time to get down to business.

"Roger Cecil," Thin Man spoke, venom dripping from the tongue. The man in question jumped when he heard his name spoken. "We need to talk." He turned his attention to his protege, who now donned an uncertain expression. "Alone."

Roger held the Thin Boy close to his chest, expression dark and uncorporative as he usually was. But then, to Thin Man's surprise, Roger took a deep breath; as he exhaled, his face fell into relentment. With much reluctance, he gingerly placed the Thin Boy onto the floor.

"Lad, Little Buddy, 'ow about you wait outside with Myrt."

Thin Boy's eyes began to fill with panic.

"But - no - I - Roja - !"

"It's all roight, lad! Myrt's a good bird; she'll treat ya well!"

That wasn't what was upsetting Thin Boy. Applying Thin Boy's very simplistic logic, Thin Man was angry. And when Thin Man is angry, Thin Man hurts.

Where there is trust, there is care.

Thin Boy cared about Roger Cecil.

"Besides," Thin Man added. "I couldn't hurt Roger even if I wanted to. I made a promise that I wouldn't."

"You did?"

"Come again?"

"Yes, I did. After all, you wanted Roger to get better, not worse. Right?"

Relief washed over Thin Boy's face.

"Ok, I wait outside."

"With Myrt. Roight, lad?"

"Yes, with Myrt."

Thin Boy only managed to take a few steps to the door before Thin Man stepped in his way.

"Are you forgetting something?" He asked his protege, holding his hands before his face to mask it. Watching Thin Man's motions, the needed realization came to Thin Boy.

"Oh! My mask!"

With a quick swipe of the teddy bear's head from off the bed, Thin Boy pitter-pattered toward the door. Thin Man snapped his fingers, the door obeying by opening a crack small enough for his protege to slip through.

Once the door clicked shut, silence dominated the atmosphere between the two men.

"... ... ... I don't???"

"Well, da lad told me ya wanted 'im ta be ya intercessor."

Thin Man couldn't believe he would actually be happy about Thin Boy's poor pronunciation.

"I assure you, Roger Cecil, that I don't need an intercessor."

"Then WOT do you want da lad for?!"

Ah, there was that foolish bravery Roger was infamous for.

"None of your business."

"BULL-sh*tE!!! AS DAT LAD'S GUARDIAN, I 'AVE EVERY ROIGHT TA KNOW!!!"

"No, you don't, and no, you're not."

That sparked something inside Roger, for the man went deathly quiet, breaths slow and wrathful. Then, gradually, Roger turned his body so it faced Thin Man and then positioned his head so he perfectly looked straight at him. Thin Man hated it when he did that. It unnerved him, and the eyeless sockets didn't help.

Next thing Thin Man knew, spindly fingers clutched his neck and dragged him down so he was at eye level with the blind man.

"Why did ya bring the lad 'ere?" Roger spoke in dark tones.

Oh, now things were getting interesting.

"He missed you. Isn't that enough?"

"No, 'cause ya don't get anyding out of it. Ya want someding, so ya brought the lad 'ere. Wot is it ya want?!"

Straight to the point. All is going according to plan.

"I need to know what the nightmare's parents are."

The dark shadow cast over Roger's face vanished momentarily, then returned just as quickly.

"Wot makes ya fink I know anyding?"

"You're the only one who would; if you don't, the Eyes will terminate him."

The grip around his neck tightened.

"And why do dose mince pies care so much about da lad's mum and dad?"

"At least one of the parents is stalking him."

Roger's face blanched, and he loosened his grip.

"One o' dem's alive??"

Oh, he wished. He wished that was the case. It was better than the alternative, so he needed to determine the parents' identities. Apprehension swept over Roger's features as he whispered "finger and thumb" under his breath, his grip tightening and loosening as he processed the information.

"... Apart from needing 'im for someding, why not just send the lad back ta 'is parents? Surely it would be better for everyone if he was returned ta where he belonged."

An interesting, unexpected question, and from Roger, of all people, no less. It certainly added a new layer to his protectiveness over the boy.

He wondered if he should let Roger know the full gravity of the situation.

Tell him the truth. You know you must.

"Roger, tell me: Did he ever mention his mother or father in all your time spent with the boy?"

Roger inhaled with deep thought, then exhaled a response.

"No. Never."

"Because he has no memory of them. The boy is more human than he is a nightmare; to return him to his parents will bring him no good. And if they're of the more dangerous type, and there's a strong case that they are, then there's a high chance that they're dead and are using him as an anchor to the land of the living. They'll use that tether to break through the barrier that shouldn't be broken, and who knows what havoc that'll bring to both Mankind and the boy's sanity."

The full gravity of the situation was beginning to fall on both men. As Thin Man spoke, Roger's grip on his neck completely loosened. Thin Man, meanwhile, gripped the edge of the bed after almost reaching for Roger's shoulders.

"Roger, I beg of you! If you know anything about the boy's parents, you need to tell me, and you need to tell me now!"

The silence of the room nearly drove Thin Man crazy.

"... ... ... ... ... ... When ya told da lad he would stay with me, were ya lying?"

"No."

"... ... ... When ya find dis parent and do wot needs ta be done,... never come ta see 'im again."

Inconvenient altercations...

"... ... ... It shall be so."

His protege didn't need to know everything now, anyway. Roger couldn't interfere forever.

"... I know nofing of da dad, and I only met da mum once. It was during the Mass Extermination, a couple o' years back. I was hiding in da warehouse with all me fings, waiting for everyding ta quiet down. I heard someding break inside, and dat's when I smelt dem: dat scent of iron and calcium. She found me and was saying fings, but I, for da life o' me, couldn't understand 'er. But by 'er pleading tone, and by placing da lad in me hands,.. ... ... I understood. Den she left. She never came back. I assumed da worst."

Roger swallowed before continuing.

"I never intended ta care for da lad as long as I 'ave. Me intention was ta find someone who could take 'im away from 'ere - someone much like 'imself. But, alas, I couldn't find anyone. Ya made sure o' dat."

Thin Man chose to ignore that last venomous statement. He needed more information.

"Do you remember anything else about her? Anything more descriptive? Sound? Touch? Smell?!"

A moment passed, though it felt like an eternity.

"... ... ... Plasma... She smelt o' burning plasma. Dat's all I remember, I'm sorry."

Plasma.

Burning plasma.

Oh, of course. Of course. Of all those creatures, the mother had to be the worst one.

Thin Man could feel his lungs trying their damnest to break through his ribs. The walls recoiled back, for anything that made Thin Man panic was worth being afraid of.

"Broadcaster?"

"Consider yourself lucky, Roger Cecil. Apart from myself, you're the only man to face her and live to speak of it."

"Ya know 'er?! Who is she??"

Without warning, a scream erupted in the hall.

Then, the room plunged into a deathly dark.

The wretched stench of plasma filled the air and stole Thin Man's breath away.

A new wave of panic set in, and his mind emptied until only one name remained:

Hon-björnen.