Chapter Text
Pat's first moments of being the official Avatar of Stranger go like this:
They exit the spaceship to a brightness so intense it hurts. As the after image fades, the outlines of other ships slowly become visible. Stranger turns to him, brows pulled together but smile exhilarated, and comments, 'Let's hope that wasn't an omen.'
Pat rolls his still watering eyes. Stranger gives him about a minute to look around the dock and get his bearings before setting off. Pat follows him, and it's only once they are about to set foot into the official station that Pat pauses.
"That was a joke, right?" When Stranger just tilts his head, he motions backwards. "The omen comment. That was just a joke." The god's lips twitch but he doesn't say anything. "Right?"
Stranger's laugh leads them down the street.
Somehow, weeks later, Stranger's laugh still hasn't become annoying.
Pat would have thought it would have. He's over stimulated lately, the sights and smells and sensations so different from the last several years of his life. The small room they got over the stables has two windows that open, and is larger than a cage by far.
It's still unclear how come Pat was allowed to stay. All he knows is that Stranger led him up and down levels and through hallways of all sizes until they came to a large expanse that smelled of earth and animals and life.
There was a woman braiding rope on a rocking chair outside. He repeated the words Stranger told him to — "May the constellation's song dance for you" — and she had blinked, just twice, and then hustled him to a small room above the stables and told him supper would at the fifth gong.
Nobody had explained how that had led to room and work, or why he suddenly had a few new changes of clothes, but there was a worn carving in every stall he mucked out. It was a campfire with two cups.
It was after three weeks that Pat's curiosity boiled over, and as he refilled the hay for a horse named Spicy that he hadn't actually seen yet, he asked. "Is she one of the ones you mentioned, back then?" Back when Stranger had made his offer, and Pat had not known an answer.
'No. Not really. I visited her family once, long ago. Planetside, when planetside was all there was. She knows the ways, though not the whys.'
She knew more than Pat then.
Stranger, sitting on the gate, looks up from clicking his feet together. 'You are safe here. There is time for everything else.'
And it's not like Pat isn't grateful. But safety is still an emotion, a feeling, and he is still raw and scabbed over all at once, and so Pat would rather ignore it.
It's too much, and not enough. How does one restart a life they never got a chance to stop?
"I think we are lost again." Pat muses out loud, his feet steady on the path.
'It does tend to happen.' Stranger looks around, most of his attention on the array of lights that race along the top of the corridors.
Once more, Pat wonders what Stranger looks for, what he sees, when he focuses on the mundane things.
'I do wonder,' Stranger says, catching up from where he had fallen behind to study a burnt out section, 'How it is that I, who wander the stars and dimensions, can fare better in infinite spaces than any human civilization.'
Huffing out a laugh, Pat looks at the small strip of paper that a kind vendor had written directions on. "Yeah sure, blame it on the humans."
'Not blaming anyone. Marveling, rather. The amount of limitations that humanity face and still they build and create a space that is both expansive and complicated, a highway of necessity and community.'
Not for the first time, Pat had to take a few moments to let the conversation sink in.
"So what you're saying is….you don't mind being lost?"
Stranger shook his head. 'We are not lost, we have merely not arrived yet.'
A snort left him. "Oh, so you're one of those kinds." At Stranger's head tilt, he explained. "You're not lost, you're just taking the scenic route. You're enjoying the adventure. You're not late or early, you have your own clock. You know, those people."
'Oh, we are definitely not where we should be, but we are far from being one of the Lost.'
Pat still has no idea what he's doing in this new chance on life, but being around Stranger is easy. "I actually like being lost, I think." It earns a grin from Stranger, who also suggests they backtrack and start anew.
The truth is, being lost around Stranger is infinitely better than being lost in his mind alone. Pat still has no desire to remember anything, but the memories of his coping method is still a blanket draped around his shoulders, carefully held in place with a belt created of his desire to try.
'Watch out.'
Stranger's voice is as effective as a yank on the arm, and Pat quickly jumps to the side.
A gaggle of teenagers streak past on their hoverboards. There's a pixie haired girl at the tail end who is holding hers. She quickly apologizes to him and then takes off after her friends, yelling at them to wait up.
"Those things shouldn't be allowed here." Pat grumps.
'Oh they most assuredly are not.'
"Seem to be pretty popular, been seeing them all over the place. They are gonna hurt someone acting like that."
'Popular, or just the same group?'
"What?"
But Stranger has had his attention captured by something else. Pat is starting to get use to conversations that fade away. He prefers it, honestly, to an egomaniac who waxes about every detail and fact of science and crime they want to practice.
'Let's go here.' On anyone else, it would be called power-walking, but Stranger just looks like he's found a way to saunter while skipping.
There's not enough time to read the plaque and arrow if he wants to catch up with his god, so he doesn't.
Once he's in the metal kiosk, he knows immediately what it's for. There's no mistaking a shrine, and Pat has been sucked into the gravity of death to not recognize the sensation. Stranger is paused next to an offering bowl, and beckons him over with a glance and a waggle of fingers. Pat hesitates, not because of the god, but because Stranger isn't alone.
The man turns, not quite startled but in the neighborhood. Clearly he expected privacy, and Pat wants to give it to him, but Stranger has told him to come closer. Pat has a choice, and that's is why he moves closer and takes a look at the man.
He's pale, and the bleached hair makes him appear even more exhausted. The glasses that give him deeper shadows than came naturally to his face completed the look. His transit uniform that was clearly issued years ago was the most put together part of him. The man had turned to go back to what he was doing, but then does a double take and turns fully to him.
"Er…Hi." Despite being the god of greetings avatar, Pat is still extremely awful at them. It's to be expected, what with the fact that he didn't speak for a very long time, but it's still a glaringly obvious deficiency of his. Usually, after an attempt he can feel Stranger's amusement flood through him, but right now there's nothing. Stranger is oddly still beside him, not reverent or scared, but calm.
"Hello." The tired eyes were intelligent, studying him.
Pat wasn't sure how he liked it, but Stranger wasn't worried, and so this was going to be okay. Pat lets him look, turning his attention to the offering bowl. It's semi filled— there's a good mix of texture and patterns in it. He spots the corner of a picture frame peaking out from under some flowers, and there's a memory card laying flat on wood carving of a sleeping cat.
"I don't know you." The man's voice was confused. "You're new to the station, then."
That could be true. Pat wasn't sure how long they had been docked before Stranger had come to him. But he didn't count that anymore. "Yes, I've only been here a few weeks." Trying to remember how conversations went was hard. Was he supposed to keep talking? "I actually arrived right after the solar flare."
The man's eyebrows pulled together. "Is that right? That is interesting."
Oh no, was he in trouble? Maybe he shouldn't have said that to the Transit officer. He was technically without papers or identification…
"Who is your god?"
"What?" Pat felt chills break out. "I…I don't know what you mean."
The man held up his hands and took a step back. "It's okay. Apologies, that was abrupt. I just, I know you're an Avatar."
It was Pat's turn to take a step back. "Oh."
"Let's start over. I'm Lovedie, Priest to the King of Darkness." He gestured, almost embarrassed. "I usually have a cloak when I do this but I just stopped in for a moment…"
"It's, uh, it's okay." Pat looked at Stranger for help, but Stranger just raised an eyebrow at him. Oh so he was on his own for this. Was it a test?
Suddenly he remembered his words from leaving the spaceship. I think I know what kind of Avatar I can be. Stranger was just letting him call the shots.
Straightening up would feel awkward, and bowing would feel awful, so Pat inhaled and exhaled, just once, and then drew upon the weird calm Stranger always seem to have, and stated, "I'm Pat, Avatar of Stranger."
It takes Lovedie half a moment for recognition to show on his face. "I didn't know he had one."
"As you said, I'm new to the station."
'Tell him I have something to pass on to his alter ego.'
What? Pat glances at Stranger, and out of the corner of his eye sees Lovedie follow the motion before looking away.
"Uh. Stranger says he has something for you to tell your god."
Lovedie doesn't seem to change, not physically, but there's a shift in his demeanor, slight as it is, that makes Pat wonder how he didn't see it either. There's a sense of self there that was missing before — the difference before and after wiping away the fog from a mirror before finding your reflection.
He wonders if this is how Lovedie knew he Stranger's.
"What is is?"
'Not something to tell him. I need him to pass it on, exactly.'
Pat isn't able to get any emotion from Stranger, and it's unsettling. This must be important.
"He wants you to pass it on exactly."
Lovedie nods. "I will."
'Good.' Stranger turns to Pat. 'Here is the message.' He raises his arm and makes a gesture.
Pat stares, unimpressed. I'm not giving him that.
'It is important.' Stranger does it again, then nods emphatically. 'Tell him.'
Are you serious?
Stranger nods.
Pat sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry about this."
Lovedie frowns. "It's that serious, then?"
A weird feeling is crawling around the back of Pat's neck, and if he checked, it might be turning red. "So he says."
The priest nods. "Then you must convey it."
Sighing, Pat looks around, then reaches out. With one finger, he solidly boops Lovedie's nose.
Pat waves as he quickly flees the shrine.
Running errands for Dione is starting to become familiar. There's some parts of the station that start to look familiar. The feeling of people watching with Stranger is now familiar. The vendors that Dione does business with most recognize his familiar face.
Familiarity breeds contempt, the Doctor sneered sometime after the trap was sprung and before the new victim was selected. Back then, Pat had started to believe it—he certainly felt that way towards the routine that was thrust upon him.
But now was fine. It was fun, even, finding out that he knew things — could guess the cost of something by holding it in his hands, can turn some corners on autopilot without it freaking him out, can even sometimes anticipate what would catch Stranger's attention.
He had finished the shopping early today, so they are on their way back to the stables.
Physically, Pat is in a weird position — he's been experimented on, but he's also been in stasis. Most days he is fine, but some days he feels as though he's wiped out, as though he should be resting even though his legs and arms will keep moving without a care in the world.
On those days, Pat will take a shower and lay down for a nap. Stranger will sit on the bed and run his fingers through his hair—and Pat is still confused if it's all in his mind or if he can feel Stranger's body because of being an Avatar.
It's unclear. Pat doesn't mind. He refuses to obsess over questions and answers, doesn't care for the scientific method, isn't on a timeline.
Being able to be confused and himself is more than enough.
That's the plan for today, back to the room, maybe a shower, and then rest.
It is not the first plan of Pat's to go awry.
They are taking a path near the Gables when Stranger pauses. 'This way.'
I'm not even lost this time. Pat jokes, and feels Stranger roll his eyes.
'You are not Lost. You're Mine.'
Pat barely has time to puff up with emotion at that before they are in an alcove. It's an architectural mess; worn out brick and spare metal woven together by people who knew what they were doing but didn't care to do it. The singular bench looks like it might not be able to hold the weight of a feather. There's some planters that have seen better days. Oddly enough, the flowers seem to be in good health.
Those are what Pat thinks Stranger was drawn to — they are weird enough, a bumpy tip coming straight from the tip, cloaked by a white triangle shape. Wait, that one has a dot…is that paint? Pat is about to kneel to look closer when Stranger laughs.
It's a different laugh than usual. Softer, unbelieving, and the emotion Pat gets is not amusement or joy, but a nostalgia and softness than almost chokes him softly.
Pat draws closer to where Stranger is hovering a hand over the wall. There's a starscape with a seven-pointed star in the center.
"Your mark?"
When Stranger finally touches it, it reminds Pat of the warmth that first time Stranger scraped his fingers through his hair. It's a touch given to soothe, to comfort.
"I'm assuming you didn't leave it here?" At Stranger's headshake, Pat looks at it again. "It doesn't look like it's been carved or drawn." It had a shimmering gleen to it, an otherworldly sense. "It's not human is it? Or at least not completely?"
'It's God touched.'
"But you know who did it?"
Stranger nodded. 'I met him a long time ago.'
"A friend?"
'I…don't know.' Stranger doesn't even blink, staring at the message. 'I feel I have scarcely met him, and yet this is not the first time he has greeted me like this.'
This side of Stranger is unfamiliar. He looks touched, and slightly confused, bewildered even. Pat's heart aches a little at the sight.
"Do gods have friends?"
'Yes. No. It is much like humans and their complications, only on a different scale. I have journeyed, and now I am…unsteady. In what is absolute, and what is not.'
Pat steps into Stranger's space, hopes it takes some of the weight off. Since that first meeting, Stranger has never inhabited his self again, preferring to manifest next to him as they went about their day. Pat would let him now, take him inside and shield him from the uncertainties he faced. But he doesn't know how to offer and doesn't want his words to ruin the delicate honesty whispering between them
"What are you going to say back?"
'Pardon?'
"It's a message, right? So, usually the etiquette is to respond to those."
'Oh.' Stranger touches it once more and lets his hand fall. 'I wouldn't know what to say.'
"That's no excuse." Pat reaches out and touches it, wonders if the maker had left any of their energy on it. "You said this isn't the first time they've done it. Does this mean you never responded?"
The god is silent.
"Well, that's just rude." Pat keeps his tone light. There's something happening to his god, some memory— memories— playing out in his silence, and Pat knows he must tread carefully. "You could mark back. Or change the color. Make the size different. Anything to make him know you see him."
'See him…' Stranger shuffles, partly into Pat's space, and Pat feels a weight settle against his heart and off his mind. 'Make him know I see him…'
"Yeah. Acknowledge him. Let him know you are here, or around, or whatever. Or you know. Just a boop."
That earns him a chuckle. 'You're right. I can do that.'
Stranger steps in and covers the mark with his palm. He slides it across the wood, and Pat sees two distinct glows.
When Stranger is done, the mark is still there. Next to it is burning heart, and between both of them are two glasses touching.
One of Pat's new hobbies is asking someone directions to a place he hasn't been and then seeing what he finds once he's on his way. Often done under the guise of asking for a new place to eat, or to buy new clothes, he will take the paper they kindly provide that list how to get there, and then do his best to get there in a timely matter.
The doctor had often complimented his competency, but it appears that for all of his many skills, wayfinding is not one of them. He does his best to stay on track, but while chatting with Stranger, he will miss a turn. He feels sensation overload or numbness depending on the day, and not see the landmark listed.
It becomes their new habit, and they discover twice as many places to revisit on these days. On their way to a recommended tailor, they find the best sandwich Pat's ever tasted. While heading to the highly praised pasta spot on the station, they stumble into a bar that has music lively enough that Pat almost taps his foot.
They are doing that today, Pat squinting at the smeared ink that should lead them to a bookshop, when they pass by a corridor surrounded by maintenance rope.
Later, Pat would realize that he and Stranger heard it at the same time — the muffled, echoed sobs coming from the dimly lit path. Pat looked at Stranger, who was doing his usual head tilt in an unusual way — angled to a different side, chin almost tilting down. Deferring? Avoiding?
Pat looked side to side and then jumped over the simple barricades and set off into the gloom.
Stranger walked just behind him, but it felt like he was being guided anyways. Left, right, straight for twenty paces, duck under a low hanging mass of cords, squeeze between a door not quite closed. It appeared the hallway opened to a section of the station that was in the process of transformation, the walls half demolished and rigging set up in the rafters.
It wasn't long until Pat could hear the crying coming in loud and clear, but he still didn't see anyone, even if he turned in a circle.
With a sinking feeling, he looked up.
There was someone curled in on themselves there, crying while curled into themselves where they sat precariously on a barely there scaffold. The wires holding it in place were so thin it was invisible in some areas.
Carefully, Pat called out, hoping he wouldn't scare them into moving quickly.
The cries cut off immediately, and the person did scramble up, clutching something to their chest. "Shoot!" They began to wriggle their way, and Pat was horrified that they were trying to scramble further through the rigging and away from solid ground, where Pat was standing.
"Wait! Stop! I'm not security!"
It worked, somehow. The person stopped, and there was silence as Pat was once again studied.
"Yeah…you don't look like it. They'd never dress like that." And with that, the person quickly — faster than Pat would feel comfortable with— made their way off the rigging. They jumped the last few steps of the ladder that they must have used to initially crawl up and landed with a thump.
There was just enough lighting to see their face: It was a teenager, eighteen or nineteen at their oldest. They had artfully done their eye make up, not that it mattered anymore because most of the colors were smeared. Some of it was from the tears, but with how the teen's hands were also covered in make up, it seemed wiping away the tears was also a culprit.
Stranger circled him, gazing at the sketchbook under his arm. 'This one is quite troubled.'
Yeah, even I could tell that. Pat looked at him, and for a minute was transported back home, to when he had been the one crying and they had —
He shoved away the memory and stuffed his hands in his pocket. "So you know you're not supposed to be up there, I'm guessing."
The teen scoffed, but considering his nose was still slightly running, it didn't give him the badass vibe he was so obviously going for. "It's not that dangerous, I come here all the time and I've never been hurt."
That was not a good argument, but Pat didn't care enough to push the issue. "That's good. So you're okay?"
There was an obvious attempt to play off a sniffle, and Pat had to school his face quickly. "I'm not okay, but it's not because of that."
"So what's wrong?"
The teens face fell faster than a shooting star. "My life is over."