Work Text:
In a forgotten corner of the Welfare Team, hidden beyond columns of azure and boxes of anomalous memorabilia, laid a large, abandoned fish tank.
Originally introduced to alleviate the department's somber atmosphere, it was a hotspot for employees wishing to recuperate after a long shift, offering a sight into a world far more beautiful and tranquil than their own. Even their Sephirah, one Sir Chesed, renowned for his utter dedication to the wellbeing of his employees- often at the cost of relaxation or sleep ("What's another hour, but an hour well wasted," he'd remark gleefully)- had taken kindly to the introduction of the tank, often visiting it with papers in hand, if only to work to the sight of some illustrious scenery.
It was quite the colourful spectacle. He was particularly drawn to the bettas- symbols of fortune and destiny, as a starry-eyed clerk had informed him- who had no reservations in putting themselves on the center stage. He wondered, at times, if they knew the elegance with which they swam; the glory of the shimmers that they created, dancing on the water's surface. Did they know that they had an audience? Or really, did they even care?
The tank remained there, every cycle. Position unchanged, contents still the same, and the attention of the personnel did not waver. Chesed's workload conveniently cleared up, with time, and yet his own visits did dwindle. As its proprietor, he felt obligated to continue his duties, of course, but there was no need to do much else. They would take care of themselves, and as long as he watched to make sure that nothing was awry, there was no reason to fear. Life- it went on, undisturbed.
The Bettas bored him. It was a horrifying realisation to make, but it didn't bother him for too long. And he thanked Lady Angela, at every turn, for her reassurance that the tank was doing perfectly fine. Prosperous, as always.
("Bettas may shed scales due to physical injury. The opportunity cost of removing decor from the tank is too great to consider, Chesed.")
"It's fine, I'm sure they'll recover. They're more than healthy enough~"
("Aiptasia compete for food and oxygen aggressively. Incentivising competition ensures only the most resilient and perfect fish survive, Chesed.")
"They don't seem like too much of a problem, do they? Naw- there's more than enough space to go around, after all."
("A couple of deaths are acceptable when working with tanks of such large sizes. Surely, you do not want overcrowding, Chesed.")
"No, absolutely not... You're right, nature finds its way. It's better I leave things as they are."
("You should have made a feeding plan from the beginning, if you had so much work. Isn't this your fault, Chesed?")
"I gave them extra food. Come on, I'll handle it. There's still a couple left."
("...It seems I didn't have to intervene. You do it to yourself.")
"There was nothing I could do... And I'm sure they'll be fine without it."
Not all was lost, anyways. Peering through the weeping glass, he could still see slivers of life, deep in the bowels of that weathered grave. Two lampreys, who swam around with an air of relief, despite the mass of rotten hosts around them. He hated the beasts, but there was solace to be found in the idea that not all of this had been in vain. That something had arisen from his efforts, however pathetic and weak.
It was comforting, seeing the way they latched onto each other, sucking each other dry of scarlet ichor. Their wounds grew more putrid every day, but they never let go of each other; even as pus infested their eyes, and claret painted their gills, inertia only wrapped their sunken bodies closer together.
"Do you not have other matters to attend to, Lady Angela? Or is my Department really that enthralling?"
She never replied to any of his asides.
Indeed, every word would register as the click of a servo, somewhere in the confines of her body, and yet that would never translate to a proper answer. At times, Chesed wondered what those sparks equated to, if they could not reflect upon her face, her mannerisms, or any outwards intimation. Did she suppress that contempt, out of exhaustion? Hide it far away, as a paltry sign of good-will? Or did she make sure to leave it to rot, somewhere inside of her, so that it could be all the more septic when her utterances finally tore into him?
"Ah~ so sorry to disrupt your focus. My coffee machine is quite the beauty, I'll give you that." A couple remarks, equally as facetious, were usually enough to move things along. To progress her script to the next scene, per se.
But this time, the dreadful silence persisted. He appreciated that Angela always kept him guessing like this. It was amusing, having to stare into an impenetrable abyss, all the while clinging onto the notion that- one day- he'd figure out what enigma laid at the very bottom. In a way, though, he preferred that it stay perfectly hidden under those endless veils of silicone. Just so he could excite himself with the prospect of figuring out the unknowable, only to get beaten down to his usual apathy at each and every bend.
Having an excuse for his disinterest made his job far more trouble-free, if nothing else. There was a reason he submitted to her whims so easily.
"When will you fix this, Chesed?"
The question caught the Sephirah off guard. He had already commenced the daily ritual of burying his head into a trench of paperwork, and had expected some peace and quiet in the process. Of course, Angela was not averse to intervening in his duties-
("How many times do I have to repeat myself? No the first time, and no yet again.")
- but he usually had to push her, further than usual, to be the recipient of such snide remarks. Acting as though he was anything more than a peon, or pretending to be somebody that had ceased to exist, cycles ago; such contraventions deserved a firm shove back onto the right path, until he could return to a life of comfort and luxury. A placid Nest, of his own creation- perfect for those that had surrendered their wings willingly.
Life as a miserable Cuckoo had never been more enticing.
"I didn't think you cared for such trivial things." His ring finger clicked against the porcelain mug on the table; once a tool of actual use, now a decorative fixture. Yes, he had somehow convinced himself that he did not require its company, just for this cycle, and with all of the restraint a broken record could muster, he had shown that his sangfroid could do better, without that usual dosage of warmth to melt it. Perhaps his gaze appeared to emanate from other places at times, because of it, and the faces of his colleagues did not have that same lustre; but that could just as well have been his fault, really.
Not that he preferred that option. He employed a similar policy, as to that which he used with Angela; an opportunity to decry something else was worth it for the extra hour of sleep it would get him.
"Are things too slow for your liking, these days? Not enough bloodshed?" Somewhere along the way, the purpose of their discussions had undergone a lingering change. Everything was merely a game of rhetoric; a race to see who could expend the other's lines the fastest. In Chesed's eyes, this was another of their impregnable games. After all, there was no hope of victory: she was the guardian of his poison, a god whose soliloquies sat in glands of venom, ready to spew forth and efface his hubris. Nevertheless, as a man who once spoke so highly of his freedom, being subsumed into the tedium of stage conventions was a past-time he held even higher, at the precipice.
"Not at all. And I thought you did care. It's not my fault if I know you, better than you know yourself."
He could hardly suppress the pinpricks upon his face, and was promptly forced to feign detachment instead. "I don't try to make myself a mystery, ma'am. I just act how I'm supposed to."
The façade was of no use to his appraiser. Her mere technical prowess would not suffice in dissecting the mind of a man, who could not realize a single one of his own emotions. But enough repetition, and enough torque, could break even the most complex of systems. She did not prefer brute force, when far more elegant options were available, but cracking a cipher whose key was lost to its very creator required more endurance, than it did ingenuity.
It was a shame that Chesed hadn't the courage to join her in this struggle. He'd be useless, but at least she'd have proper feedback to go off of, each time she reached too far into his cortex.
"Then I advise you to act proper." She had opened her eyes, now, golden billows of spite surging from the engines locked within. He could see, quite clearly, the way in which her lips turned upwards at the ends now, each a hook ready to sink into his coarse flesh. He would be lying if he said that the sudden tension it elicited in every tendon of his body was not somewhat stirring.
"Your employees revere you. I hope you understand this. I've heard many claim that you are quite the role model, for them." His back arched, an involuntary impulse that was more human than any illusory body could ever claim to be. Fingers clamped down on the side of his chair, clinging on for life that they knew they would not be afforded. And his expression, in the incomprehensible tempest of emotions that swarmed him, could only muster that obnoxious simper, the equivalent of meandering down the rails of a freight train, inbounding with its all of its might and power.
"Do they now?"
It was a cowardly response. He recognized that, fully, but it was all that blessed the spittle that came out. He hated the sight of it; how it would follow the seams of his outfit, leaving cursory trails in its wake, only to bleed into his innards at the first cavity available to it. It lacked the resilience to leave him, and so his scars continued to weep. "Maybe my approach is working after all. You know, letting things simmer."
He was getting too bold. Angela's glare wandered across his form, like a surgical lamp illuminating its operative site. Every gash, every incision, became all too bright under her intemperate gaze, reminding him further of why he chose to shroud himself in wilful gloom. The umbral corners of Welfare could not hide him from anybody, but himself. And cerulean skies, well- they never were honest, either.
"Your office has gotten disorganised, your paperwork is lacking, and you've embellished your days with yet more wallowing. "
("You’re such a loser. In the past, and even now.")
"Please, give your employees something to admire, if nothing else. It would be a shame if they started to see you the way your fellow Sephirot do."
He could sense the end of the game, any second now. A few more verses, and caesura was inbound. It was moments like these that taught him the joys of defeat. The vitality of being a remora, cleaning the jaws of a bull shark, even as blood becomes thicker and crimson paints its frenzied eyes. It will thrash, it will convulse, and eventually, it will bite into the greatest treat of all: his Ego.
"With indifference?" He clinged onto its remnants, nevertheless. Indeed, he was convinced: all that he needed was another round, and he'd muster enough force to finally light that ignition. Another second. Another instant. Another word, phrase, clause, verse, bite or rheme. Anything for his finger, dangled precariously over the button, to get the signal, at long last- and press down.
Velds of amber and carmine spew forth, taking everything with its ebbs and flows. Everything. His employees, too, who deserved nothing more than to rest, while they suffered, together. With each pang of pain, he would curse her name a hundred more times, stripping it of all but connotations of vice. No longer did he have to toil with sacrilege, burning bodies whose every aperture had been melded with the larvae of aberrations- the real disease would be dealt away by his very hands.
He clung onto her arms. Nails of acrylic shredded through his outer casing, reaching tangled masses of blue and black wires, yet he held on even tighter, until spools of his viscera could wrap around her legs, bringing her down to the floor with him. Pieces of his face came off- hundreds of shredded reams- until even that fear could not last. For once, just once, he'd know what he felt. And with that clarity, his smile would be stained in purple, as she ripped through his neck, tugged at the cords, severed his lifelines, and-
...his eyes came out, last.
She throws his head onto the floor. The coffee dripping from his compartment smoulders, leaving ashen fractals upon charred floors. He can't see her, but he can feel her loving touch. The way her skin melts into his, like an amalgamation. Is this what it feels like to be whole?
Blind. Deaf. Feeling. Another second; a single revelation. Angela's memories are his, and Chesed's sorrow is hers. They were never so different after all. Each venial in their own ways, but everlasting in others. It all made sense now- there was no deity.
("Daniel.")
There was no God.
("Daniel.")
Only two parasites, who had found in each other the pain they desperately needed
("Hang up the intercom, Daniel.")
To feel like bastards again.
Habitual repentance
Painted on their arms
Their legs
Their bodies
And their words.
(A faint crackling.)
(A strained cough.)
(A blur.)
"With indifference?"
"With ignominy. You're as sickly as ever, Chesed." It was such a blessing to hear her laugh. However inhuman the inflections made her seem, it was the closest she ever felt to true improvisation.
It was too bad, really. He was slow on the draw, yet again. Just couldn't bother to make a move. But there was always next time. And if the cup's gone so cold, best to pour it down the drain with no hesitation, wasn't that right?
He forced a brilliant grin. Who could blame him? She was cold, calculated, and as magnificent as always.
"And you've peered inside of me too many times, Lady Angela."
The dignity leaked from his face, and collected as a puddle on the floor, ready to join the rest of his vigilance. Among amorphous goo, and crimson residue, he found it to be the most putrid sight of all in this facility.
("Though amazing he once was, there is no doubt he died in despair and regret, cursing his choice.")
Oh~ but who was he to bemoan his decision? The source of his despair- by any other name-
("You knew I was coming.")
could not mangle him quite as sweetly.