kinchtheknifeblade's sandbox

Jude never knew what to do with his hands. Pockets. In the air. Sometimes, touching his thigh too much. Maybe it looked creepy? Ran through his hair. That one was good, but it lasted so precious short. A crystalline teardrop of non-awkward time. Composed moments where each syllable in his body didn't tremble and tumble but instead kind of came together for something glorious. Then back to discombobulation. Too much, and it looked like you were digging for weird shit in your hair.

Too much, and you looked like you were fiending. Which he wasn't. Couldn't. The slit eyes said as much.

She was quiet. Tired, small mouth. Sharp chin. Didn't she look like Him? Different eyes. Smaller. Closed, though. He hadn't seen them open. His were green. Hers could have been, too. He couldn't remember genetics. Probably. Her head was shaved. Easier to keep her clean, he figured. Not to say that the Breeder had done very much in the regard.

Sores. Filth. The poor thing. She wore a sack. It hadn't been washed. The smell was vile, and the room was foul. She seemed to know how to go to the bathroom at least. They taught Electric Eye that much. And to wash, and to feed. Only what was necessary, only to make keeping her a little easier.

In here, Electric Eye had presumably spoken. Long, uninterrupted streams of his stream of consciousness. Certainly others, but probably only Jude in recent memory. Just talking. Maybe, like a feral child, language was only a series of sounds to her, barely connected to commands like a dog. Or maybe, there was something else.

And what was even her name?

“Are you okay?” Jude wasn't sure who he was asking. Or what.

“Yeah,” said JJ from his nest in the corner. Long legs splayed out in front of him. He wrapped his hands around his knees. The twink didn't like the dirt, was Jude's guess. Or maybe it was the general vibe of the place. Or maybe, just maybe, it had to do with the bloodstained screwdriver sticking out of his pocket, just a fine fucking how do you do, sir.

Projection, obviously or maybe they were fucking shining light on each other orbiting like twin suns except Jude wasn't exactly sure of course which was the bigger sun and who was feeding whom could it be an equilibrium situation astronomy was never a strong suit. Jude examined his nails.

“I think she'll be okay. I don't know.” Esther bit her lip. “We should take her to a hospital?”

“Then what?” JJ said.

“I don't know. Ward of the state?” Jude wasn't sure what that meant. It meant like how Bruce Wayne was raised by Alfred, except Alfred was the state. Wasn't he a ward? “We could do something better with her, you know.”

“Any ideas?” Esther had knelt down and had cradled the child, but they had found that she disliked contact. But she let them make her a bed. Now Esther just huddled over her. A respectful distance. She could be matronly. Like a badger mom from Redwall or something. Big fucking half-blind warrior queen, except fuck, not really.

Even though Jude could undo the atoms of everyone in the room, she still intimidated him.

But even with her mom powers, even with their luck, and whatever Jude could bring to any child-rearing scenario (a big load of nothing, mostly), they didn't want a fucking child. No one wanted that. But they felt as though they should. It went unspoken, but Jude thought it the hardest. He was sure.

What the fuck kind of parent would any of them be?

“We can always leave her somewhere. In a home, that'll take her. We can, uh, have JJ find one. You write a note. A really, you know, mind grabber. Kind of, you know, that thing you do, Esther. JJ'll make sure it's a good home, and you can, uh, make it easier. Meld her into the life as easy as possible.”

Quiet. Jude looked down at the fast food wrappers. The dead body was still in the room. The bugs, the weird twitching corpses, surrounded him. The wood was scorched, warped around him. There was a lot of blood.

“And then what?” Esther took a seat on the floor next to the girl. Every now and then, one of the Breeder's children skittered across the floor. They'd be dead within hours. She flinched every time.

“We go to him. It's all here. His home. His, you know, vacation place. There's a lot of it.”

“Even with me, it's a little convenient, don't you think?” JJ finally stretched upwards. A blanket had fallen off the girl that had been called Electric Eye. Two blankets covered her from the outside world. She still whispered, but it was impossible to tell what she said. He picked it up and draped it across her, frowned. “I mean,we kind of know he wants you to find him. That's, like, you know. That's the thing. But why is his address with this dumbass?”

“He's crazy,” Esther said.

“I don't care,” said Jude.

“There's easy, and then there's weird easy. That's all I'm gonna say.” JJ was up on his heels, stretching like a well-fed cat. When had he last eaten? Did twinks need to eat? Definitely not as much as a normal person. They fed on self-satisfaction. Their own youth.

Mean. Jude grinned stupid and wide, and Esther cocked her head then sat at the Breeder's filthy table.

“It's like a magnet. I don't know why I want to go.”

“He tried to kill you,” said JJ.

“He tried to kill you two, too,” said Jude. “Don't you kind of feel it? I wanna go.”

JJ said nothing.

Esther knocked off the knick-knacks and the corny old-timey microphone and the dozens of fast food cellophane wrappers onto the floor. A piece of paper. One sheaf. Folded, but clean. Her pen hadn't broken in the scuffle. Of course it hadn't.

Esther drew Electric Eye a new life and a new name.

You sweat. The air conditioning hums. Hyperhidrosis. Cold air blasts you in the face. A thirty-seventh view, and it's falling down your face, your big, stupid face. No matter, you'll sweat. You get used to the smell. Antiperspirants might give you cancer, but what's a little cancer when there's so much life?

It's easy to deal with when you're older. Children see it as weakness. You can smell a lot on someone's sweat. Diabetes. Tumors. Or maybe it was just something you saw on an episode of Hannibal. Shame they canceled it, really. Nice to fall asleep to.

In your room, there aren't a lot of decorations, which you suppose must be surprising to your visitors. You've always found that art is made better when unreflexive. When it isn't a moon taking another star's light.

But you know a lot about that, don't you? Lunar perversions, nocturnal diversions. Wasn't that a song? It had a good beat. You thought it could have been a song some time, maybe.

There is only a desk. A bed. An easel, with paint. Three brushes. A notebook, open. A pen. An ashtray. There are no windows. There is one door.

The walls, truthfully, are what you're most proud of. The ambiance gets to you without them. A little bit of jive and voodoo, and you don't wake up every morning feeling so satiated. You like to think of yourself as a guided missile. Can't just scoop it from the top or even shove it down inside like a ravenous child rifling in a bag of cereal for a prize and a handful of the marshmallow bits.

You wait. And it's better that way.

It certainly hadn't always been like this. You take a long hit of the marijuana cigarette. It is oddly sweet, and it isn't like it was when you were young. They had specialized everything now. Stratified. Only the perfect bits. More crystal than plant.

Hardly any seeds now. The old joke. How are they growing the seedless watermelons?

You know he's coming, because he has to. It's how he wants it.

Your way wasn't always the predator's. Maybe you had been mean, once. Maybe you had been a little rude in front of him.

The boy wanted what he wanted.

Once, you thought you wanted him to replace you. Like some old wizard giving away his spellbook. But now, you only want to be free.

You want to stop the world from being the way he likes it. You want yourself. You want your daughter normal and untouched.

Your hands don't tremble as you spritz yourself with the spray. The cologne fills your nose, thick like syrup.

JJ had asked Esther to tell the story about a dozen times now. For more details, more interpretations. He wanted her to paint a picture for him that was complete, that was more real and intense than having been there. But JJ knew that he already understood what he needed.

The story of Alexander had touched him. He wished that he had been there, but he knew that it was good that he hadn't.

If it would have been good for him to be there, JJ would have been there. Sometimes, things were as simple as that. It had never bothered him like this before.

He thought, maybe, that JJ could have understood Alexander. Maybe, the Architect didn't need to die. Maybe the weird Pagan could've been with them. Could have been a friend. His friend. Their friend. In Alexander's love for Jude, platonic nearly with a capital P, JJ had found a kindred spirit. Only his kindred spirit had died in some weird high concept stand fight.

In one iteration, Jude's fixation was upon Hunter x Hunter. They say, in that world, he was the developer of a great game. A great and winding game that imprinted upon reality but hovered just above. They say he died soon after it was created, locked away in a secret room or within a loading zone never meant to be accessed. Some say he put himself into his creation at the end, that Jude became more game than man.

In another, Jude loved Evangelion, more than anything. In that iteration, Jude tried his hardest to be a normal man. In that world, he fell in love with another. They had children and a home. They were happy. Their child was like Jude in all ways but his love for others. The boy murdered his father, late in both of their lives. His husband, long dead, Jude died while only thinking of his love for his son.

In another, Jude's passion was Puella Magi Madoka Magica. In that, he became a blocker of a false God. In that, his pain was eternal, or so is thought.

But, in this, the iteration of Jude that became so enraptured by Jojo's Bizarre Adventure? Those who study the lives of reality benders rarely agree on much. But all worth reading will say that out of all possible Judes, his jokes were the best.

This is old shit don't read from here on when I ask you to read my scp I'm probably asking you to read for me, which by the way thanks for.