Chapter Text
It's a fine, silvery-white sand that slips from the worn treads of his boots, when he arrives. Infinitesimal bits of broad-reaching desert. Parched, infertile soil. Pulverized steel, plastic, fiberglass. Shedding the Old World's dust, lest he track it in with him. Meager kicks and careful scuffs, directed over a sensibly-placed doormat. Equal parts hardy and polite. As always. Even if the sandy debris lining the floor suggests absolute lackadaisy, on the part of the usual residents.
Now that he's here, though, he may as well give 'em a knock, to let 'em know so. A belated knock being the Tazmily tradition - excuse me, the old Tazmily tradition. Anyone's welcome, come in, come in! Just be sure to announce yourself, o' course. Reaching for the entryway's nearby wall, he intends to do just that. However, his knuckles are greeted with the cold, rigid bite of solid metal. And his ears with only a muted hint of bone-on-steel. ... Oh. Yeah. He forgets every time. Force of right-handed habit. His left'll take to the opposite wall, instead. Which just so happens to be a homely, all-natural, pleasantly-resounding cedar. Knock, knock, knock...
"Hey, uh... It's me. Anyone here?"
To this day, he still isn't known for his volume. A low octave, cast gently across a dim, sprawling room. Trickling into the adjacent halls, maybe, hopefully. Past desk sets and idling computers, all built from haphazard scratch and scrap. Posters featuring lab safety protocol, outrageously complex diagrams for mechanical mechanisms, and post-apocalyptic indie bands. Air vents, gushing cool breezes to beat the relentless heat. Fish tanks. Test tubes. Potted succulents. Wrought iron screws, gnashed right up against wood grain. One's gotta wonder what the chimeric architecture does to the acoustics. Nonetheless, though - perhaps by some miracle - he does get a reply.
"... bOiNg! HeLlo!! ThIs WaY!"
It's a gracious godsend, truth be told. As many times as he's been here, trying his honest to god darnedest, he still can't quite get the lay of the place. I mean. Can ya really blame him? Just now, following the echo has led him down a diagonal hallway. With two or three downward stairs, smack-dab in the middle of it. Claustrophobia and dizziness tickle at the edges of his sensitive nerves, before he's ejected into a... greenhouse? Right. He remembers the greenhouse. Saltbush, milkweed, juniper. Blades, leaves, and fronds, all competing for attention. The slanted skylight ceiling and wide glass wall blast sun rays abruptly into his retinas, prompting a squint. And a protective raised arm.
At his feet, the first of his hosts crawls from the brush. He feels a gargantuan nose bonk unceremoniously against his shin.
"aHaHa! LuCaS! NiCe To SeE yOu! BeEn LoOoOoOoOoOoNg TiMe!"
"Eheh - hey," he chuckles. Reachin' down to give Mr. Saturn a friendly pat on the head. "Hasn't been that long, has it? Only since..." Hm. Actually... No, that was at the Doc's old lab. And before that..? "... Ah. Yeah. It has been a while, I guess."
"A wHiLe! WoRkInG oN sOmEtHiNg BiG!"
"Aw, yeah? What kinda somethin'?"
"HmMmMm... SuRpRiSe!"
"Heh. Alright. Lookin' forward to it, then."
When Lucas rises, clumsily as ever, his elbow strays into the spines of a prickly pear cactus. Yielding a prompt yet remarkably passive "ow."
"CaReFuL, cArEfUl. SpInY sHaRp."
"Right..."
Easier said than done, in the depths of this disorienting labyrinth. He's gotta clamber over sprinklers and collapsed mulch bags, and sets of garden clippers, strewn about the walkway. Admittedly - he can never bring himself to complain. Ain't his place, first of all. They've got a system. It works. Somehow. Good for them. Secondly, though... every hose line or spade he nearly trips over, honestly, just reminds him of the misplaced toys and half-built pillow forts that used to scatter the floors of their bedroom. Like. He's gotta smile, instead. He's just gotta.
The grainy crunch of centuries-old rock n' roll graces his ears, emanating from a beat-to-shit stereo sitting amongst the pots n' roots. One of those ancient artifacts, stranded here by the Pig King himself, not so long ago. Its owner, also a castaway, does not look up to greet him. Bold to assume they've even noticed he's here. Blue overalls draped over their hunched back. A mop of tightly-curled hair, more or less resembling their namesake. Gardener's gloves, tending to wayward branches.
"Hey, Sheep."
"Hm?"
They do cast him a glance, now. But they only strain their neck far enough to catch him in the corner of their eye. Not at all unlike the first time they'd met. Minus the Pigmask helmet, of course.
"Oh. Hey, Lucas." A pollen-induced sniffle, as they adjust their Very Mysterious shades. A gloved, pointing hand. "Claus is back there. Don't get lost, this time. I won't hold it against you, if you do. But still. Try not to."
Lucas grins, unoffended. It's a fair concern. "I'll do my best. Thank ya."
He'll leave the lab techs to their work, heeding Sheep's directions. The rightward hall. Got it. There's a few more stairsteps, which he'd probably have tripped over, if not for the residual sunshine. And a sturdy door - gotta keep the heat in. Sweat gives way to a sudden chill, when the air conditioning overtakes him once more. See, even the temperature's inconsistent. Whatever poor architects his brother'd enlisted to manifest his erratic schemes, they must've had one hell of a time. Don't get it twisted, the guy's a fuckin' genius. Jack of many trades. Master of disparate fields. But an architect he is not. Lucas' boots clatter over wood panels. And beneath iron arches.
Their presence precedes them. Like always. It's a sibling thing, as much as it is a psychic thing. Case in point - Kumatora claims the same. Lucas, though? He can feel it in his bones. The same way they always filled a room or an afternoon with their boisterous aura, since forever. Brash, booming shoesteps. Beaming laughter. Missing teeth. Or how their muted turmoil could choke the air itself, once upon a time. Ionized wavelengths. Clinging static. Incomplete, half-constructed sentiments, made nonetheless so tangible. Or. How their absence, in contrast, felt like a gaping hole. A heaving, yawning wound, blasted all the way through the very Earth itself. If Claus was ever any one thing, they've always been larger-than-life. Brimming right to the edges. Stark. Undeniable.
Conversely - when the smothering warmth and blinding shine of a second sun grace Claus' periphery... he turns to greet it with eager haste. Left eye first. A piercing gleam. Right eye next. A perking brow. Standing tall. Both welcome arms, strewn broad and wide.
"Heyyy!! What's up, Luc!!"
They glide past illuminated flasks and dim fluorescence with grand, swiveling steps. Caught in intervals of teal glow. Before Lucas can even grasp for the latest room's bearings, he's already enveloped in a great big hug. Which, well. He's Lucas. How could he possibly protest? He squeezes back, cracking a huff of his fondest laughter. Head-over-shoulder. Feeling the one-sided pressure of metal beneath a lab coat sleeve. An ever-reliable anchor.
"Hiya, Claus," he answers, in the voice they share. Albeit, with all the brash edges sanded down.
"Glad ya made it, great to see ya! How ya doin', man? Whatcha been up to?"
"Aw, y'know. Same old, same old..." He knows he needn't bore his brother with the mundanity of boats, tree ring counts, and pasta bakes. "How 'bout yourself?"
"Great! Better than ever! Busy as all hell, though, heh..." Claus' gaze strays abruptly toward one of those flasks. Only for a second.
"Yeah? Mr. Saturn mentioned y'all were workin' on somethin'."
"Agh - aw, god, she didn't spoil it for ya, did she?"
"Heh. Nah. She just said it was some kinda big surprise."
"Haha - Phew! I mean. Awesome, awesome!"
If Lucas hadn't noticed that split-second glance, he sure does notice the psychic hiccup, here. And the bead of sweat Claus brushes from their forehead, with a slick, shimmering right hand. His smile falters, ever so slightly. Mutual static prickle.
"I, ah. I wanted to show ya, myself. C'mon! This way."
"Sure."
The two of them proceed (Claus leading the way, in classic fashion) through what's revealing itself to be somewhat of a corridor. Rows of glass containments, to either side. Liquid suspension. Various sizes. Precise tools, littering the countertops. Hunkered microscopes. Sharp, pinprick gleams. Dim and cold, both of which seeming less arbitrary with each bootstep. Lucas' expressions, increasingly dubious, flicker by in the teal backlight. Squinting, he notes that the larger tubes appear - perhaps graciously - vacant. The smaller ones, though... The shapes contained within, tiny and knobbly and strikingly helpless, almost look like...
"Don't worry, Luc. You're gonna love this. I promise."
Lucas' breath catches in his throat, for a brief instant. The fond, homesick reassurance of his "older" brother, welling up right alongside his wholly exposed nerves. There's no hidden sentiments, between them. No use in bold cloaks or shadowy masks. They can conceal words, if they want to. For a little while. At least. But where love, grievance, and jitters are concerned? They may as well wear 'em all on their sleeves.
Thus, Claus' unspoken apprehension doesn't slip past Lucas, either. Those ionized wavelengths.
"I'll take your word for it," Lucas assures him. He'll try to, that is.
Even if it means he's gotta stifle the hellish memories bubbling in his guts.
Animal flesh, sundered and stitched.
Torturous forms, suspended in sludge.
Lime-green glow, casting mutilated shadows upon steel-gray walls.