oh yeah must be it looks like he is using bethanys shards name, Cellular Structure, though with all the tech in his head possible he's also linked to bonesaw/hershard as well with the way he is reproducing almost the exact words of her thoughts
i wonder if structure and cellular structure are the same shard or shard and bud, and whose shard are they structure doesn't sound like a name bonesaws shard would have
im not sure on what's happening in the shard pov or when its happening, is it happening in the space between the riley povs or running concurrently with structure moving on as bethany dies to be used a materials? The significance of what's happening in the pov is almost completely lost to me. I've not heard of the tree metaphor before. Are we supposed to know what's happening or will it be revealed in future chapters?
sorry if im somewhere incoherent currently down with the flu
thats shard pov is Bethany's trigger vision. bethany lays dying, and then bonesaw cuts into her and she fears that this will mean she doesnt even get death as an escape, which causes her to trigger. the vision is of her shard, Cellular Structure, and its host in a long previous cycle. the not-tree is the host. Cellular Structure is Jack's name for Bethany's shard, Structure, such as how GU would likely call it Forme's Cohesion or smth. Structure is the shard that is partially tasked with keeping the entities bodies together, physically.
I feel like bonesaw is playing pretend with jack as now jack seem more like a puppet or robot that act on the script and Improv to what bonesaw you know a one man puppet show
"The first time I lied to him was so fri– It was fucking stupid. It wasn't some big betrayal or me striking out for independence or anything like that. I still loved him then, and I still thought I needed him. I barely even had a reason to do it, honestly. I wasn't pushing boundaries or teen rebelling, I just… needed a break."
That choking feeling of bad-weirdness didn't let up over the next weeks. If anything, it got worse. Every moment Bonesaw spent with Uncle Jack – so, every moment – made her feel like she was chewing aluminum foil. It was becoming increasingly difficult to have a conversation with him; every time she tried, she came out the other end more confused than ever, having apparently imagined entire stretches of conversation. She checked herself over multiple times to make sure she actually wasn't hurt like Uncle Jack kept suggesting, and even though she finds nothing wrong every time, every time she has the urge to check again.
She's going mad, and she's not sure if she's dragging Uncle Jack with her or if he's pushing her towards it. She doesn't want to know. She just wants her family back.
"…and so there I am, one foot stuck in a toilet, desperately trying to hold the woman's head still so I can light the candles before Prowler opens the door – and he's about ready to break it down because my falsetto is great but I'm not the best impressionist, so he knew something was wrong – because remember, it's his birthday and– Bonesaw? Bonesaw, are you listening?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah. Prowler's birthday, head cake, fake voice." Bonesaw gestures with her fork for him to continue, then goes back to stirring her collard greens.
"I'm not sure I like your tone, young lady."
She glances up and he's frowning at her, hurt. She shrinks in her seat. "I'm sorry Uncle Jack." She makes herself brighten. "You can keep telling your story, I'd love to hear the rest of it."
"What story?" he asks.
Her bright facade cracks on the inside, held together visibly only due to her tinkering. "The one about turning Prowler's girlfriend's head into a cake for his birthday?"
"Why would I tell you that story? You were there for that. You helped with the fondant, remember?"
"Oh yeah, I remember now. Silly me." She bonks herself on the head cutely, at odds with the scream ripping through her brain, the scream that's been growing in volume since Bethany.
He gives her an odd look, then tut-tuts as he shakes his head. "You should stop playing with your food. I know you don't like spinach, but a growing girl needs her veggies."
She stares down at her plate, then shoots a glance to the can her veggies came from. Collard greens. Not spinach. The screaming gets ever so slightly louder. She scoops and swallows the slimy, stringy slop without chewing, shoveling the food into her mouth. When she's done, a few seconds later, she asks to be excused.
"I suppose you may," Uncle Jack says. He grins sharply. "If you don't want ice cream."
"Thank you." She stands and immediately walks into the other room.
"You have to put your dishes away, dear," Uncle Jack calls from the dining room barely a moment later.
"I'll do it later," she calls back tightly.
"Bonesaw," he warns.
"Later."
"One…"
She squeezes her eyes shut real hard, until she hears a roaring in her ears.
"Two."
She goes slack and re-enters the dining room and forces an embarrassed smile. "Sorry. I'll do it now."
"Do what now?"
She stares at him, face frozen. "…Put my dishes away?"
"Good girl, staying on top of your chores. I know they're not exciting, but you are the newest member of our family."
His praise feels like nails on a chalkboard. That's never been a rule in their family, that the newest does chores… right? Was it? She can't remember. Either way, she hurriedly gathers her plate, cup, and the scattered cans that once held their lunch, takes them to the kitchen and rinses them in the sink. Honestly she's not sure what to do after that, having never washed dishes before in her life, so she leaves them there like that.
She can feel Uncle Jack's eyes on her through the doorway, so she goes back to the living room where she has at least marginally more privacy. She breathes. She just breathes and stares at the wall. The wall doesn't move. The wall doesn't change. The wall stays the same and doesn't surprise her or make her feel like she's losing her mind or–
"There you are, poppyseed," Uncle Jack says as he limps into the room. She's been working hard to fix him, but the heroes have been hotter on their trail than usual since Bethany's town and she hasn't had much time – what time she could spare was more focused on keeping his brain implants working. "Whatcha thinking so hard about?"
"Can I go out?" she accidentally asks.
"What would you want to do that for?"
"...It's been a few days since the heroes found us, and we have some breathing room. I was thinking I could go into town and get some things so I could fix you up?" She wasn't thinking that at all, but it's a good idea. The screaming noise intensifies as she hopes he doesn't call her on the lie; even if she'll do it, she wasn't thinking it. Please, just don't call her on it. Please.
Mercifully, impossibly, he just smiles and says, "Good thinking, poppet. You're always looking out for your dear Uncle Jack. I appreciate that. I think everyone in our family appreciates how much you care for us."
…
…
…
It's not a long walk into town: a small, one stoplight sort of place. Bonesaw is grateful to have the chance to breathe and sort out her thoughts, and thankful for the disguise she wears. She meanders. She knows she should find someone about the same size as Uncle Jack so she can easily transplant the muscles to fix him up. She knows she should do what she said she wanted to do and then return.
But…
She passes a park and sees kids her age, playing, and can't help but stop. She doesn't mean to, but it's like her legs are being controlled by someone else and refusing any commands that move her away from the park. There is no other parahuman controlling her legs though, she's certain of that. She'd know if there were. Still…
She comes to a stop under the shade of a pine tree, its low branches trimmed away. There are almost twenty people at the park. Parents – mommies, mostly – are grouped in threes and fours at benches, relaxing and chatting while keeping eyes on their children at play. A couple of the younger kids are in the sandbox, making, flattening, and remaking piles. Another three are on a swing set, one pushing the other two.
Most of the kids though, the older ones nearer her age, seem to be screaming and running around, chasing each other. Are they playing a game? It doesn't look like a complicated game. There looks to be one special person who gets to chase all the rest. When the chaser catches and touches another, the touched person stops fleeing and starts chasing.
It's weird though. It looks like the game Sibby liked to play with people, but the chaser doesn't take anything or bite anyone, even though that would help the previous chaser avoid the new one. There's no blood at all, Bonesaw notices. Weird. The chaser touches, but that's all. The stakes for the game look to be becoming the chaser, but that's the one with the power, so why would anyone flee? They should want to be the one with the power, right? There don't seem to be any ill effects of being the chaser.
It doesn't make sense.
Bonesaw considers taking a closer look, to gather experiential data instead of simple observational data. But how does she join? If she starts fleeing, the chaser doesn't have the knowledge to prioritize chasing her over another. The chaser wouldn't even know to chase her at all; if the chaser could chase anyone, one should have gone after one of the kids in the sandbox by now, since they're immobile or unsuspecting. Bonesaw can't just start chasing someone, can she? There's only one chaser, and if she's not that, then her chasing would mean nothing. Maybe she could touch the chaser, and then start chasing?
She nods at the plan. It should work as a way to join in. Bonesaw runs into the group, straight at the chaser. The boy sees her when she's no less than ten feet away and freezes. She slows to a halt and taps him.
"Okay, now you run," she says.
"Who are you?" he asks instead of running.
"I'm the chaser. So you're supposed to run, and I'm supposed to catch you." Right? Isn't that how this works?
"You're not playing with us," he says, insulted.
The other kids congregate around Bonesaw and start to talk. Mostly they ask each other questions about who she is and if anyone knows her.
"She's weird," one says.
"She's so old," says another.
"Is this stranger danger?"
"She's ruining our game."
And on the comments go. When the consensus is reached that no one knows or particularly likes her, they start to move away from her. Bonesaw smiles. Finally, they flee. She runs one down, a different boy than the one she took the designation from and touches him. He stumbles to the ground, then gets up and turns on her.
"What'd you do that for?! Jerk!"
"What a creep!"
"She was watching us. Creep! Creeper!"
"Creeper, creeper," one starts to chant and the others join in.
Bonesaw stares at them uncomprehendingly. These aren't the same shouts from earlier, and there's much more cohesion and unity than the game's previous chaos.
"You're playing wrong," she says, but no one listens. She frowns and stomps her foot. "You're not playing this game right. Play it right!"
They continue to chant at and ignore her. She grits her teeth, not understanding why they won't do what they were just doing. She didn't break the rules, and if she did it was barely. She didn't even hurt anyone that bad. No one is getting any help, so why does it matter that she joined in?
She gasps in realization. This is just like what Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer went through. She's about to show them why it's not okay to bully someone just for being different when a woman comes over and calls for the kids to stop. They scatter and slowly group up elsewhere, casting glances at her.
"Hey sweetie, I don't think I've seen you around here before," the woman says, squatting down to get on Bonesaw's level.
"I'm new in town," she explains.
"Oh, well welcome. My name is Clarise; what's yours?"
Bonesaw knows she can't say 'Bonesaw.' That tends to not go well. So she says the second name that comes to mind, the same one she fell back on with Muriel as well: "Riley."
"Where's your mama, Riley?"
Be a good girl. "…She's dead."
Clarise blinks. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's okay. It was a while ago. Thank you though."
"What about your dad? Is he here?"
Just let me die. Please. "He died first."
Clarise looks panicked now, even though I'm not doing anything to her. "Who takes care of you then? Somebody has to."
"My Uncle J-ake does. Uncle Jake took me in when I was little."
"And where is he?" she asks with audible relief. She stands and looks around. "Is he here?"
"He's at home."
"He left you here?"
"No, I walked."
"You came here alone?"
"Mhm! I like parks; they're fun. Or at least they're supposed to be. This one hasn't been much fun at all." She scuffs the ground with her shoe. Sometimes parks have bunnies and squirrels, which are cute, but the woods are better for that, and zoos are even better than the woods, usually; they have more diversity in bigger animals and they're so kindly caged. This park just has meanies.
"Why don't we get you home, then? I'm sure he's worried about you disappearing like that."
Clarise stands and holds out her hand for Bonesaw to take, and the choking feeling suddenly returns. Bonesaw didn't realize it had left her.
"No!" she shouts. "I'm not supposed to go places with strangers." A lie. No one cares if Bonesaw is alone with someone strange; usually the opposite is what causes concern.
"I really think we should get you home, sweetie. You shouldn't be out without supervision."
She reaches for Bonesaw and she dodges out of her way. Clarise reaches again and Bonesaw dodges again and– It clicks! This is the game! The other kids said Bonesaw was too old to play with them, so that must mean she's playing with this adult!
Just as soon as Bonesaw realizes this, Clarise huffs and leaves, and Bonesaw's smile falls. They weren't playing, it seems. Or!, – she smiles again – maybe she was trying to steal the designation from Bonesaw so she could be the chaser? Bonesaw was the last one to touch the designated chaser.
She runs up and taps Clarise on her back. She stumbles forward a step, and turns to Bonesaw. An angry look passes over her face and she leaves, quicker than before. She's not chasing Bonesaw. No one is. And now she's not allowed to chase anyone else.
After a few minutes of standing there in the field, staring at nothing much at all, she returns to her place under the pine to watch the other kids play. It's not as fun this time, and the group who was playing chase has moved on to a different game. Bonesaw doesn't bother trying to decipher the rules. She knows she won't be allowed to play anyway.
Twenty minutes later, a man stops next to Bonesaw.
"Riley, right?" he asks.
She looks up at him. He's dressed in blue with a bulky vest and a belt of gadgets: a policeman.
"I got a tip that you were here unsupervised. You should know that's illegal."
"It is?" she responds obligatorily as she takes further stock of him.
"Mhm. City ordinance says minors need to be supervised by their legal guardian, to keep you safe. It's a five hundred dollar fine or six months in jail, abandoning a kid like you like this."
"Oh," she says. He's about the right height for what she needs, though it's hard to judge muscle definition and quality through his current clothes.
"Now, you seem like an alright kid, so I'd be willing to let your parents off with a warning, but I need to escort you home."
She stares blankly at him, wondering if he knows how funny this is.
He frowns. "Riley, it's either that, or I'll have to take you to the station and we can wait for your mom and dad to pick you up there. And I don't want to throw the book at them, but my Sergeant isn't quite as understanding. He's all about making sure negligent parents know what the cost is. So I think it's best you let me take you home and have a talk with your parents, okay?"
She smiles up at the current owner of Uncle Jack's new legs. "Okie dokie! We can go home and talk to Uncle Jack if you want."
States in the US have varying laws on at what age a child can be left unsupervised without it being deemed child abuse and neglect. In some, it's as high as 14, and means that a 13 year old cannot play in their own front yard without an adult/parent physically there and actively watching them. Over the last 15 years or so, many cases have arisen of parents being fined, jailed, or separated from their kids due to things as innocuous as letting them play in the park alone, or play basketball outside alone, or stay home alone for a weekend. So while the cop probably means 14 and under, Earth Bet USA has slightly different laws than real live USA, and it could mean 18 and under. Either way, it's fucked up that it's even a thing. Thanks Reagan.
those kids got very lucky. i can imagine how hard it is to get private time with jack like that without her there as a touch stone he must just keep zoning back in to a house he doesnt know then immediatly go looking for another memeber of the 9. Cop sounds sus as fuck would not follow, immediatly opens up with threats, and false choices backed up with more threats to force down one option. dont think hes going to be the one to convince her to breakaway from jack.
"The last time Jack… The last… I… I'm sorry. I don't want to talk about that."
Bonesaw works quietly, suturing Uncle Jack's arm closed. He cut himself when they were introducing themselves to the other campers at the campground, and she knows that that means something. Something important. She continues her stitching.
"You know, it's a shame we're not in Montana," Uncle Jack says. "You can really see the stars out there."
Her face holds a smile because she doesn't know what else to put on it. Even though she feels like she should rather pout, she's with her Uncle Jack – with family – and that's supposed to be happy. That's supposed to make her happy. She's supposed to smile. So she smiles.
"Not like here. Too much light pollution to see any around here. Wait, no, I think I can make out one." He points at it and tears the stitch loose.
"That's the sun," Bonesaw murmurs, not bothering to tell him to look away. There are plenty of other eyes around here that she can use to fix his if he burns his retinas again.
"The sun's a star," Uncle Jack says smugly, like it's some grand revelation. "It's a big one too. The biggest one in the world."
He lowers his arm and she starts to cut the aborted stitches free so she can try again. He starts to fidget with his butterfly knife, and it mixes well with the background noise of the forested campground: crows cawing, bugs chirping, squirrels chattering, and bare branches scraping against each other in the wind.
The knife clatters as he drops it. Bonesaw glances at it and then him. He doesn't seem to have noticed it left his hand; his fingers continue to twitch in the familiar pattern, spinning an absent knife. It's scary, but not in the right way. Jack Slash isn't supposed to be scary like this. He's not supposed to drop his knife.
She pulls the last of the ruined stitch from his arm and smiles over a suppressed sigh. She's fixed him so much lately and it's getting boring. She hasn't had a chance to let loose and make any art; ever since the tea party, she's really only had the time and opportunity to tinker on Uncle Jack and herself, and that's almost exclusively to pull them back into working order just in time for Uncle Jack to antsily declare they're going out to find new family and get himself hurt in the introduction, starting the cycle anew.
He's not right anymore and she can't figure out what's wrong.
"You know, this reminds me of when I was young. I was just starting out– Or, no, it was before then. I hadn't even joined the Nine yet," he says, still spinning a dropped knife.
She hums, just making noise because that's what she's supposed to do when he talks.
"I was cutting up my dad too," he says wistfully.
She pauses. His… dad? Uncle Jack has a dad?
"I guess I never mentioned him. Not the funnest time for this one, you see? I'd just realized everything was fine when it was supposed to be broken. It's not fair; nothing is the way it should be. It was all right as rain and wrong because of it. My dad was so angry at me. I don't know if I'd ever seen him angry before then. So I picked up my knife and I cut him."
Bonesaw blinks, uncomprehending.
"I guess you don't call me 'dad' though, not like I did him," Jack says. "You're not allowed to call me daddy by the way. There's no need to think about your dad, okay puppet? Uncle is good: close, but not too close."
She… Uncle Jack is being weird. He's playing his new game of nonsense. He's not… Bonesaw re-sheathes her scalpel in her finger and picks back up the sewing kit she found to restart the sutures. For not the first time, she misses her real tools, broken or lost in fights, unreplaced and unrepaired. All she has left is the scalpel that rests in her index finger.
"I always liked kids. Never wanted to be a dad though. Too much work, and I could never coach little league. What is that even? Basketball? Tennis? I don't actually know. I was homeschooled: never got out to play sports with the other kiddies. But an uncle? Now that's where it's at: all of the fun, none of the responsibility. Bonesaw's a good replacement for Nicholas, don't you think? She's got potential."
Bonesaw continues to work despite the rising tide of noise in her head. Just one stitch after the other, and then, eventually, Uncle Jack will be fixed and things will be normal and everything will be alright and her family will come back together.
"Another forever-child, like those boys from that book. Would that make me Captain Fishhook or Peter, do you think? If I'm Hook, you can be gay cook with a lisp. What was his name? Sméagol? Bonesaw is more fun though. She's mine in a way Nicholas can never be. He was already… complete, when I met him. I can guide him, and we're buddies, but it's the difference between… buying art and painting something yourself. Nicholas is fun, don't get me wrong, but I made Bonesaw."
Just one stitch, and then the next. Bonesaw closes the gash in his arm and then moves to the next. His forearm's sub-dermal mesh is ruined. When did she last replace this? She can't remember; her last month has been a flurry of the same work repeated. Bonesaw starts to pull the skin up to get at it.
"I always wanted to think of you as my magnum opus," he continues. "My greatest project. I conceived you at your beginning, and I never let you go. I even named you. When I was done with you, you were going to be something irrevocable, something that I could unleash and have everything break like it's supposed to. You were supposed to be something that nothing could recover from."
He chuckles depreciably and Bonesaw has to purposefully keep her hands steady.
"But you were never finished," he says coldly. "You never broke quite right. You broke, of course. I broke you again and again, piece by piece, and eventually I didn't have to break you anymore; you would do it yourself. But you never broke right. You never saw things how I see them. You think you do. You'd say you do. But I know you. I know everything about you. I can see into your soul, and there's one difference between us, my sweet summertime~ bap-bap-bahhh."
"Stop," Bonesaw breathes. A whisper as she fails to pull the sub-dermal mesh free: it catches on muscle and she can't bear to rip it out. She can't hurt her family.
"You always wanted to make everything better. I wish it was your passenger to blame, but that's putting the cart before the horse that swallowed the… Oh wait, she's dead of course. Heh. You could never bring yourself to break something for the sake of breaking it. You were always looking to build or fix things. You could never just let things be broken." He sounds disgusted. He sighs, and his tone changes to disappointment. "I wanted to break you of that habit. I made it one of my projects. It was like a game I played with you. You're Surgeon, and that's just not okay. You like games, right Riley?"
"Please. Uncle Jack. Stop it." Her words scratch against her throat.
"Yeah, you like games. Monopoly. But I could never figure out how to play you. I had fun on you. I'm having fun now." He laughs again, sharp and abrupt and quickly silenced. "But you never stopped wanting to make things better. I'm sure no one else would agree with me on that, but no one else knows you like I do. No one else ever will. I was there when you attached, and I'll be there when she dies and you move on, and I'll be the one to tell Him what you learned. But you were never okay just letting something be broken. I suppose I shouldn't blame you for being what you've always been, but I do. I blame you for all of this, Riley. You wanted to fix things, but you can't. Some things will always be broken, and you just have to accept that."
He hums and looks out across the clearing at the murder of crows picking at the scraps: remains of those killed for fun. He looks serene despite, or maybe because of, the things he says.
I– Bonesaw shakes. Her hands retreat to her lap and she can't make them move or still. The mesh hangs out of his arm, messy, red, and wet. She doesn't get it. This doesn't make sense. It's a game, right? It's a game, like he just said, another game, that's all this is. She just has to bear it and then… She just has to bear it.
A minute or two later, he continues. His voice is cold, at odds with the kindness in his eyes as he looks at her.
"You never figured it out, you stupid bitch."
"Language!" Bonesaw chastizes before she can think, and faster than she can react he hits her, knocking her to the ground.
She blinks up at him and he smiles down at her, now standing. He's still smiling so kindly, looking to the world like nothing happened. And maybe nothing did happen. Maybe he didn't hit her? She could be imagining the stinging in her cheek, right? Just turn it off.
"Why are you on the ground, silly pants?" he asks with a chuckle. "Come on, up up."
He holds out his hands and there's no use hesitating. So why does she hesitate? His smile dips a little and Bonesaw takes his hands and he lifts her to her feet and brushes off her dress. She stays still and silent, uncertain of what to do. He's never hit her before. He had cut her dress or her hair or broken something of hers, but he never hit her. So he didn't just hit her now, right?
"Everything is already broken, and it will be broken forever, and there is no fixing it," he says kindly. Mockingly. "There is nothing at the end of the mission. Everything we've ever done is a joke. There is no solution to the problem, because everything is the problem. And no one gets that. Even I barely get that, and only because of me. You certainly don't. And that's why I've always, always hated you, Surgeon. Riley. Bonesaw. You're my greatest work now, and you're a failure. I thought you could be better than Nicholas, but you're only more useful. You're a tool, just like him. Not an heir. Not something to be unleashed, but something to be shelved. You disappoint me, my love. She was never able to put it together, Kurt. Stupid girl."
He sighs and pats her on the head patronizingly. She wants to tell him to stop, to beg him to be quiet, to pick a different game to play – any other game. But she doesn't have the words. She doesn't know what to say to get him to do what she wants, not like he can. She's never been able to predict him, only ever able to go along with his games how he wants so he'll keep playing how he does, but now she doesn't even know the game he's playing – she doesn't know the rules, doesn't know the stakes, doesn't even entirely know who's playing or why – so how can she even try to fit the role?
"It's not like I could just come out and I'm a homosexual, Kurt. It's pretty funny how Shhhhhhatterbroad never figured it out. Because saying it ruins it, like a good joke. You have to make them realize it themselves to get them to internalize it right, otherwise they'll think it came from you and dismiss it later. Make them think it, slow and patient. There's time before the end. Not much, and never enough, but some. And with Bonesaw around, we can make it all the way to the end, just stay close to her, stay close to the fun ones, the powerful ones, the broken ones. They're where it's ripest.
"Hey. Riley. I want you to listen closely." With a gentle hand on her chin, he raises her gaze to meet his. He's staring at her, serene and seemingly present. She can taste bile in the back of her throat. "Good job, sport. I'm proud of you, and it's not your fault."
She blinks and suddenly things are clear to me. I understand.
"You're not Uncle Jack," I tell him in barely a whisper. Louder, "You're not Jack Slash."
"That's a stupid name," the flesh in the shape of family says. "King said to call me Sever. Pretty wicked, don't you think?"
"Jack Slash is scary," I tell the thing. But it's not true, I realize. There's something off about that statement. "Jack Slash was scary." That's the truth. This fleshy thing hasn't been scary in the Uncle Jack way for a long while. "You're not scary. You're not Jack Slash."
"You're such a disappointment, Bonesaw. I'm glad I took you in. You're a fun girl. A bad girl, but a fun one," it says.
I reach out to touch the thing's arm, where there's a gap in it, with a piece of something poking out. I grab the piece and tug, and it comes loose, pulling out from the thing's protuberance with a squelch and a spray of warm liquid. I look down at the pale layers of pre-treated leather that remain attached to the part I took. I drop it.
The fleshy, foreign thing takes a step back and flaps its rubbery opening at me. It makes noises, but they wash over me without meaning or recognition: white noise to join the roaring in my ears. What else is inside of this ill-proportioned thing? I have to know.
I reach out to take another piece. I wrap my hand around a growth at the end of its upper growth and pull. Internals shift, but it doesn't come loose. The thing hits me again, lashing out with its other upper growth; the piece in my hand comes free of the rest of it as I fall but it's not enough. I need to see what else is inside this thing: what and who it really is.
I leap at the thing and tackle it to the ground. I dig my hands into it, finding purchase in bloody, red gaps and topological handholds, and it tries to throw me off, hitting and pulling and tearing at me in turn. I pull, and I can feel my muscles scream and tear as I work them harder than ever before.
It has answers. It has to have answers. Its insides can tell me where Bonesaw's Uncle Jack went. It can tell me what's real and not. It can tell me everything if I can just get inside of it, see what's wrong, and fix it.
A CRACK! and I'm holding strips of flesh and a piece of clavicle. The thing that isn't family makes more noise as it throws me off of its body, leaving behind more of its meat. This piece in my hand isn't enough. It doesn't tell me what I need to know.
I get up off the ground, and the thing bends to grab its discarded knife. A dozen cuts open up across my body as it swings and I charge. It buries the blade hilt-deep into my gut as I bring it bodily to the ground. The blade wiggles and twists as it dances across and through my organs, but it can't get through my augmentations to the immediately vital ones.
I clamp my teeth down on the thing's shoulder and dig into it, reaching through the breach to the rest of it. I dig, and I tear, and I rip and shred and do anything to pull it to pieces. There is no precision. There is no art. There is only the the burning need to get at what is hidden within this thing that took my family.
The thing lets go of the knife to try to push me off, but we're one at this point. I'm buried up to the elbow in its chest cavity. It changes tact and does the same, pulling free the knife to root inside my abdominals with its hand, widening the gap.
The thing's cries change pitch and tenor, and I can recognize the repetitive noise through the roar-scream in my head. He's laughing. I pull my teeth free of its collar and sink them into its neck, and when that doesn't stop the laughter, I rip out the thing's throat, snapping muscles of my own to do it.
A spray of blood shoots out from the new holes. Red spills from us and soaks into the ground. It's such a pretty color, with many positive associations. It's the first color word most languages come up with, after light and dark, Shatterbird once told me, before this still-laughing thing around my hands and beneath my teeth took her from me. It tastes like a blade.
I scream to drown out the noise it makes and break my fist against its head when that doesn't work. My knuckles break, then my metacarpals, then my carpus, until I'm bashing a meaty, ruined knob at the end of my radius and ulna against the thing's head, and only then does the skull finally cave and I can break my bones against its insides.
I don't stop. I can't stop until I know. So I don't stop.
this entire fic is in first person btw. isnt that fun?
frfr this chapter might be one of the best things ive ever written. the jack slash monologue is just so... *chef's kiss*. i learned so much about who Jack is while writing this chapter.
That dissociation near the end between Bonesaw and herself gave me goosebumps. Also, the line "King said to call me Sever. Pretty wicked, don't you think?" made me laugh, even though it wasn't funny. Nothing about this was funny.
Thanks for the chapter. You really nailed Bonesaw's character here.
I think I happen to agree. That gave Jack Slash more depth than I've maybe ever seen; said more about him than most fics featuring him do in their entirety, even though he was talking about Riley half the time. Put a lovely little bow on the end of his slow, shambling, and long-deserved death. Nicely done.
(Wonder where the chapter countdown goes from here.)
Really enjoying this story. I'm glad I only found this today, because I got the buildup and the catharsis in a single reading session which was just perfect. I'm not really engaging super deeply with the story (stopping and puzzling things over) because I'm a bit tired right now, but the simpler read was very nice.
It's that she's been referring to herself in the third person in her own internal dialogue up to this point, so yeah some level of dissociation or distancing herself from things.
She's covered in boo-boos. Everything hurts, from the bottom of her toes to the top of her head to the tips of her fingers. She tries to push herself from a lay to a sit, but fumbles the ground. Her brow furrows as she looks at the failing arm, and then pouts at her mangled lack of a hand. Something pulped it to the wrist. Her other hand works, and on the bright side, that means there are only five fingers that hurt, even if they're not in the best condition.
One-handedly, she makes herself sit up, wincing at the stinging and using her spine more than her abdominals. They're not responding, and when she looks down, she realizes why. They're not there. Instead of a tummy, she has a hole, and out of that hole spills minced guts, looking like the warm chili from one of Manny's meat buns. That's… not good.
She jerks to coherency and looks around, scanning the area for who might have done this. She got into a fight – obviously – and it was a rough one – again, obviously – but she doesn't see anyone who might have done this. The only people around are corpses, a dozen of them, laid out across the campground without care or order. There are also bird bodies around, looking like they dropped dead mid-flight. All of the trees are leafless, even the coniferous.
It's quiet. Too quiet. The only sound Bonesaw can hear is the wind. She looks again at her abdominal cavity and finds that the bladders holding her plagues, serums, and enzymes are all busted. She killed everything.
She looks around again. She did this? That doesn't feel right. She didn't do this alone.
"Where's Uncle Jack?" she asks the wind.
She calls his name, then does it again when she hears no response. On her third call, her voice cracks painfully. She tests it, reaching her hand down her throat to finger her vocal chords. They're damaged: a clean cut that speaking only aggravated. The cut came from below, weirdly.
She pulls her hand from her mouth and pushes it up into her chest from the other end to poke at the damage: hundreds or even thousands of lacerations, from her neck to her pelvis and all along her muscles. Her heart, lungs, and most of her intestines are unhurt at least – She'd reinforced those the most because they're the most vital or annoying to replace.
She looks around again. Few things other than herself could have survived the hell unleashed by her popped bladders, so whatever attacked her should still be around, either dead or to finish her off. She can't think of a reason to inflict this much hurt on her and not want her dead.
But she sees nothing, not even a suspicious dead body. Then Bonesaw looks where she's sitting. She's intimately familiar with how much blood and mass there is in a human's body, and she's on top of much more of both than can feasibly be explained by her minced insides.
She's on top of a body, she realizes. It's almost as mangled as she is, torn rather than cut. Where her insides feel like they held an angry baby Hooky – she thinks that's what his name was: one of Shatterbird's prospects – this body below her looks like it was attacked by a chimpanzee: relentless, blunt, and just shy of mindlessly aggressive. It's ripped into pieces, and those pieces were bluntly brutalized.
Oddly, she can see evidence of her art mixed in with the mush. There's subdermal mesh still intact in places, and some of the slightly scattered organs are similarly reinforced. But it's been a month since she made anything worth calling art, and longer still since she made something with anywhere near this amount of care. Could one of her earlier ones have somehow survived and come after her? That doesn't sound right, but her head hurts so much it's hard to think of anything else that might explain it.
And then she sees the knife in its hand.
She blinks.
I blink again.
She looks around, and then back at this destroyed body and its knife.
I recognize this knife.
She doesn't recognize this knife.
I got it wrong.
She can't be right.
…Can I?
"Uncle Jack?" she croaks.
He doesn't respond. How could he, with his head caved in and his brain and all of the gizmos she painstakingly crafted and installed to keep him alive and functioning spread across the dead grass?
He's dead.
Uncle Jack is… dead. That doesn't sound right, but it feels right. Staring down at this opened lump of spread flesh that was Jack Slash, Bonesaw feels… something. It's hard for me to tell if it's a good feeling or bad feeling, but it is a big feeling. It's a feeling that takes up all of the emptied space in her chest and abdomen and then some.
I… She… I have to go. I have to do… something. Somewhere. Somewhere that's not here. I can't be here. There are no answers here. I can't do this again. I can't.
I pick myself up off the meaty lump and tumble to the ground beside it on barely functioning legs. I push myself up again and stumble away, into the woods.
Bro knowing that the entire fic is first person is so damn mindbending.
I should have said this in the last chapter but Jack's monologue to Bonesaw was amazing. Like as good as that one author who used to be around on SB with the username Jack Slash and as far as I was concerned could write the definitive Jack Slash. This was as good if not better. Just phenomenal stuff.
Damn, I'm glad I finally got around to reading this. Very good fic, I look forward to the next arc.
Its interesting seeing Broadcast portrayed as so nihilistic. I'm trying to parse out what's Jack and what's Broadcast, what's being said to Bonesaw vs Chirurgeon, but it's hard to tell.
Damn, I'm glad I finally got around to reading this. Very good fic, I look forward to the next arc.
Its interesting seeing Broadcast portrayed as so nihilistic. I'm trying to parse out what's Jack and what's Broadcast, what's being said to Bonesaw vs Chirurgeon, but it's hard to tell.
I think it is both, I don't think broadcast is nihilistic and the situation is them bleeding into each other kind of like Khepri here, if less, he definitely seem to be switching freely between talking to the shard and Bonesaw.
I think it is both, I don't think broadcast is nihilistic and the situation is them bleeding into each other kind of like Khepri here, if less, he definitely seem to be switching freely between talking to the shard and Bonesaw.
"Everything is already broken, and it will be broken forever, and there is no fixing it," he says kindly. Mockingly. "There is nothing at the end of the mission. Everything we've ever done is a joke. There is no solution to the problem, because everything is the problem. And no one gets that. Even I barely get that, and only because of me. You certainly don't. And that's why I've always, always hated you, Surgeon. Riley.
I don't think Broadcast was nihilistic before having Jack as a host, but it certainly seems to be now. Maybe nihilistic is the wrong word, but it doesn't think that there will ever be a solution to entropy and it just wants to see the world burn.
It hurts to be. Even after more than… a week?, two?, more?, subsisting in the wilderness, the pain remains, like an open wound. Unlike a wound, there is no cure, no treatment, no fix, no betterment. The body can be fixed, but this…
A road is found, and along that road is a town, lively despite the late evening hour. Fireworks burst overhead, and music can be heard even from this dark and lonely park on the edge of town. The center of the festivities is too scary to be alone in. Even the edge is scary without someone, but being alone near others is ever so slightly easier than being completely alone.
The Slaughterhouse Nine is dead. That's the news that everyone is celebrating. It's printed on every newspaper and magazine in sight, and even one billboard.
It's not true. But it could be. Or maybe it already is. But it isn't. It could be proven false, and easily. A walk into town is all it would take. But what would be the point? The Slaughterhouse Nine is dead. It's not fair.
The sat-upon swing is still. Is it still a swing when it does not swing?
A boy walks into the park, kicking a stone forward as he moves. He's alone, which is almost the oddest thing about him; the actual oddest thing is that he doesn't look happy. Everyone else is happy. But this boy is mad. He picks up a stick and beats it against a slide until the stick breaks. Then he throws the stick.
It's kind of nice watching someone else be not happy tonight. He's not not-happy for the same reasons, but it's still a bit of a balm, like how desert wind is a relief from the heat, despite the stinging sand it carries.
The boy looks to be about twelve years old, with short hair shorn close on the sides and heavily freckled skin. He picks up something else and throws it at the plastic slide: a stone, judging by the sound.
"Hey."
The boy startles and looks at the swing set. The darkness is keeping him from seeing more than a shadow in the shape of a person, otherwise he would certainly flee.
"Why are you mad?"
"What?" he asks.
"You're mad. Everyone else is happy. Why is that?"
"Everyone else is stupid," he spits. "I don't even get what the big deal is. If Jack Slash was actually scary then Eidolon would have pulped him years ago."
"Hn. But why are you mad?"
"Why do you care?"
"If it's not a big deal, that shouldn't make you mad, should it? Is that all it takes to make someone mad?"
"I'm not even mad," the angry boy snarls angrily. "It's just stupid that my parents dragged me out to go to this stupid party about a stupid dead guy."
"Oh."
"They said it was a chance to 'make friends' or some bull crap like that, but it's so stupid! I already have friends. It's not my fault they're back home and their parents didn't drag them to this stupid hick town. It's my stupid dad's stupid job's fault. We were fine, and then he just decided to move and ruin everything and now they want me to just forget my actual friends, my real friends, and 'just make new ones' like I even want new ones. I don't care about any of these stupid kids in this stupid town. I'm supposed to be playing Protectorate Fighter Three with my friends. They're playing without me and my parents wouldn't even listen. They're ruining my life and they don't even care! It's so stupid!"
He seems to really like the word 'stupid.' Even though he's not using bad words, his language doesn't feel very clean.
"That sounds not very nice. Losing friends isn't good."
"And that's not even the worst part," he says, joyfully angry now. "The stupidest thing is my little brother is such a baby about it. And he's a hippogriff about it too! He keeps whining and crying about missing home and like, yeah! Me too! But I'm not waking everyone up in the middle of the night to cry about it. And he won't even back me up like he's supposed to when I try to tell our parents to take us back home. He just– He takes their side! Can you believe that? He cries to me about it and then he's like 'maybe we can give it a chance. Maybe it won't be so bad'," the boy mockingly whines. "And he's ruining everything. If he just stayed on my side, we'd be able to convince our parents to move back home out of this stupid town. Mom said I'm being selfish but Dad's the selfish one. His job was fine and if he didn't like it he didn't have to ruin everything and drag us out into the middle of nowhere. He could have come here alone if he really wanted it. And Mom always takes his side even though it's so stupid! She won't even admit that I'm right."
The boy rants and raves, seemingly endlessly angry, even though it doesn't make sense. He's mad that he has a family that stayed together? He's mad that his little brother needs him? He's mad his dad provides for his family?
This boy might be the worst boy in the world. He calls everything else stupid, but he's the stupid one if he can't see how good he has it. He doesn't deserve these things that he can't appreciate: his loving brother, his two loving parents, the safety, security, and support of a family.
Hate wasn't something known before this moment, not really. There was frustration, anger, and dislike, but never hatred like there is now. But this boy brings it out like nothing else ever could.
"Hey. What's your name?"
"Aron," Aron says.
"Do you want to see something cool? It might change your mind about this town."
"Don't be stupid. Stupid."
"If it doesn't change your mind, I promise it will help convince your parents to move back home."
"What? How? What is it?" For the first time, Aron doesn't sound angry. He sounds intrigued.
"Follow me, and I'll show you."
Off the swing and into the woods. A moment later, Aron follows, away from people and into the darkness. Four feet trudge through the woods in the early autumn night. The leaves are only just beginning to turn: a spot of orange or red lit up by the occasional firework. The booming overhead keeps the forest quiet, everything that isn't and wasn't human is too scared to come out. Maybe the humans should be scared too. They are the architects of this world's suffering, and no less vulnerable to it for being so.
"Where are we going?" Aron asks.
He receives no answer, yet he continues to follow, deeper into the darkness.
"Ugh what even is this thing you're showing me? It better not be stupid or lame. It's stupid, isn't it? Well? Say something!"
"Here."
He stops a pace away. He looks around and finds nothing of interest. His face scrunches up in a scowl. "Where is it?" he demands. "What is this thing that's going to get me home?"
He receives only the boom of a firework as a response.
"Agh I knew it! This is some stupid hillbilly prank, isn't it? Are you so stupid that you think this is a joke? This is kidnapping, stupid. I could get you arrested for this. I knew this whole town was a stupid waste of time."
"You're not very nice."
"What did you just say?" Aron takes a step forward, angry. "I'm not the one who's going around lying about cool stuff in the woods."
Another firework goes off, higher. Its light breaches the canopy. Aron blinks, and then squints as he tries to see through the darkness.
"What's wrong with your face?" he asks.
He takes a step back.
"Hey, quit it."
He takes another step back.
"Stop. I'm serious."
Another step away, but no distance is gained. He's come too far into the woods, too deep into the darkness, too near to escape.
"Quit it! Stop– Stop chasing me! Go away!"
A pair of hooves pin him to a tree before he can run, and a fist buries itself in his gut, knocking the wind and sense out of him. He falls to the ground and curls in on himself. He tries to suck down air but can't. A rock is used to break his leg, then the other, and he cannot scream, only whine breathlessly. He's trapped.
A poor imitation of a spider box limps out of the shadows. Made mostly of deer, fish, possum, and wood, it's useful as a materials bank, in the same way a campfire is useful as a chemistry lab. It drags itself over to the sobbing, fallen boy.
Work is done, and it is slow without tools, equipment, or a lab, but soon enough a liquid is synthesized. Aron's mouth is pried open, gently, and the solution poured in. He's forced to swallow despite his best attempts to expel it by gagging and coughing, and a minute later it begins to take affect. His struggles slow, and after a few minutes, his body is slack and numb. His mind should be slow and pliable too.
"What's your name?"
"Aron Jay Carpenter," Aron murmurs.
"What's the J stand for?"
"Jay."
"It's just… J?"
"Yeah."
"What's your little brother's name?"
"Ketlan."
"How old is he?"
"Seven."
"How old are you?"
"Eleven and three quarters."
"Where do you live?"
"143 Kennedy West Street, Indianapolis." That's his old address. Indianapolis is far, far from here.
"What's your new address here? In Burgess."
"186 Nightingale Drive."
"How long have you lived there?"
He answers, and he continues to answer all of the other personal questions asked of him. He speaks of his family, his new home, his hobbies, his likes and dislikes, his daily routine, and more. He's questioned until the drug runs out, and then when he's dosed again he returns to answering.
He speaks calmly and comfortably, even as his body is stripped, taken apart, and lain piece by piece into and onto another. His arm is taken in its entirety, and replaces the pair of juvenile hooves that were attached and used as a facsimile. Skin is taken and transplanted as well, flayed and unflayed. Pieces are removed as Aron talks, and not all are from him.
The boy's body is the blueprint, and everything that doesn't fit into his shape is cut or scraped away, until eventually, hours later, Aron dresses in his clothes and stares down at the doomed body. Everything important has been ripped from it: appearance, clothing, information, and personhood. The only things left to it are its spark of life and its place in society. A moment later, only one remains, and Aron leaves to take that as well.
I'm not done fucking with the POV yet! it's too fun, to do this with such a depersonalized and dissociative character. If you missed it, this chapter was from Riley's POV as well, but without any direct reference to Riley herself bc she can barely bear to be herself in any form. She doesn't know who, how, or what to be, so she mostly isn't. Until she decides to be Aron. That'll turn out great, right? ...Right?
I'm not sure I'll be following this for much longer. And don't take it as criticism, it is in fact a compliment because of how well you've managed to portray Riley's utterly damaged mind and the result of that. I just might not be able to stomach it much more.
This story is a rather amazing exploration of Riley's character.
I'm not sure I'll be following this for much longer. And don't take it as criticism, it is in fact a compliment because of how well you've managed to portray Riley's utterly damaged mind and the result of that. I just might not be able to stomach it much more.
This story is a rather amazing exploration of Riley's character.
i'll take that as a bittersweet compliment. Sorry to see you go. If it keeps you around for a while longer, this is probably Riley's lowest point. She's lost everything and everyone and now has to forge a new identity basically from scratch. It's all uphill from here, but in like a hopeful way. So i think you should give at least the next chapter or two a try, but i understand if you dont. Thanks for reading thus far, either way!
I'm not sure that I've read psychological horror as good as what you write before, @R3N41SS4NC3 . I read Charity Begins at Home the other day and was really chilled. This is doing the same thing. The interplay between characters and the way that your use of pov shapes the narrative here is really amazing.
I'll definitely be on the edge of my seat every week till this finishes.
