Act: 1 – Jin 96,043

Kaur-Kaurth

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The terrain was not like bare muscle or tissue, but rather, riddled with human and animal organs alike— nostrils, mouths, eyes— large, gaping eyes so alive they could fool you into believing they were conscious. They follow his movements back and forth— back and forth— twitching with the precise accuracy of a deadman's reflex. They were not predatory— just empty reflexes, bouncing between stimuli.

Within one of these jaws, called trappers, a creature named Trolley counts his days, oblivious of the litany of horrors just beyond the surface. His trunk was long like a centipede, so much so it was nigh impossible to discern his proper shape.

He hears something—a scuffle just above the surface. A familiar breeze wafts through the nooks and crannies of the trapper’s mouth until finally landing on his nose. The stink. The stink! Trolley could smell the foul odor from six feet under the ground, in spite of being buried within the bowels of a trapper. The scent dances among his taste buds for a few seconds, quelling the rot deep within his brain until finally fading away.

He squirms toward a long stringy muscle along the side of his ceiling, brushing one of its fibers. The walls coil, directing their senses toward the burrowing creature. The trapper’s wide jaw opens, flexing the earth’s skin backward. A flood of dim light baptizes the cave, searing the bits of chitin stapled along his skin. He reaches along the inner walls, and with a bit of strength he hadn't used in nearly two-thousand years, he pulls himself out of his hole.

***

…And it was Ives. Certainly not— with his shriveled carcass, retaining only one out of his five appendages— but it was. Like a parasite, he had pinned what remained of his head to the base of Pan’s shoulder blade, where a second spine branched off. Pan could even feel his heartbeat against the back of his own spine. Something about the manner in which the two were connected allowed Ives some limited control over Pan’s mind and body. This control bruised his mind, cutting out the irregularities and forging his body into what Ives believed to be ideal. Ives. Motherfucking Ives.

Ouch! The soft ground greets Pan’s face as he skids towards the open wasteland. He could barely make out his surroundings from behind his tin mask, let alone with the meat beneath him. It was all too unnatural. He pauses for a moment and turns toward the empty fog. The dust and soot coating the sky and surfaces seemed to float along the air, generating an atmosphere so occluded, it was as though they were underwater.

Pan peels himself off the floor, re-scooping the lost organs protruding from his chest. After the incident, his body seemed to shed the old, foul organs in place of fresh tissue more suitable for wasteland survival. Another splotch of uprooted guts hits the bottom of the bucket, which devours its contents like a wild animal. Ives called it ‘Ut’thru’, a shapeshifting creature domesticated into a trashcan. To him, it was important that all of Pan’s old tissue be disposed of in Ut’thru. Ives had made this abundantly clear. Mechanical implants can go on the floor, but organs must be disposed of in the receptacle. This sentiment didn’t stop the boy from carrying the bucket monster at arm’s length.

“Your legs— I crafted them with the intent to make haste.”

Pan’s head slumps back down toward his newfound appendages. They were repulsive, mutilated legs bearing a shape not dissimilar from those found on cheetahs or other cats of the nature. The backward-facing appendages tingled like pins and needles, adjusting to his newfound blood supply. In addition to all this novelty— they hurt like hell!

He stumbles again.

“Lords above, I didn’t think it possible to be this disappointed. Granted, I am aware of your physical limitations, but your mental fortitude is— well, just look at you!”

Pan hesitates for a few seconds before permitting himself to the floor with a pathetic splash. He was sick, tired, dehydrated, and frankly, it was all too much for his poor heart. The brief reflections of his frail body along the moistened path brought a heavy shock to his heart. He scrunches his face. An overwhelming sense of claustrophobia clouds his mind, unable to escape the disfigurement of his lower half. I don’t want this. I don’t want to be this. He futilely attempts to pull himself upwards, only to slip on the oily coating of his cloak, another postulate enforced by Ives. At last, Pan had finally given up. He slumps unresponsively to the floor.

“OH~! Splendid!” Ives roars. “Yes, yes, you go on ahead and take a nappy. I’m proud of— all you’ve done in a day’s work. You do know that Pablo and all of the lovely residents of Kaur-Kaurth are tracking that seed you just ate, right?”

With the outside of his index finger, Pan rubs wax along the lip of his forehead, utterly defeated. The two had stumbled into the remains of an old crypt or town, perhaps. The lot in question appeared to be an old, abandoned cottage. It had been gutted entirely, only retaining one of its walls and a somewhat overgrown base. Remnants of old fence posts are scattered about with no pattern, as far as thirty or so meters outward. For some reason, they reminded him of home, despite lacking resemblance.

He orients himself to the left and sticks his hand down his trousers. The pain returns. He feels the tinge of atrophy along his thigh eating its way toward his heart. He sifts around for a moment before catching the foreign object poking his left leg. It was a crumpled envelope with illegible, smeared writing. The seams of the paper easily tear from the accumulated sweat, revealing a colorful card underneath. Images of poorly cropped dogs litter the page.

“It looks like you had a ruff day today…”

He peels the card’s spine apart.

“…But I’m paws-itive you’ll feel better soon!”

…

Pan’s stomach felt sour. A nauseating sense of clarity hits him like a truck. For the first time, possibly in his life, he felt naked and unbearably lonely. Why now, of all times—? God—! He clutches his eyes tightly, thinking that if he’d squeezed hard enough, the tears wouldn’t flow.

Ives glances at Pan, then at the card. When he directs his attention back to Pan, his pupils disappear behind his mask’s shadow—an epiphany.

“Ho ho~! So that’s the ticket. You aren’t from around here, are you? Hell— I’m willing to bet you aren’t even from this realm!

The lenses of Ives’ mask glow with a sense of accomplishment. “Well, don’t get your hopes up. Your kind isn’t exactly special here. If you’re still alive, it merely implies that someone else is in need of you— and when that need is fulfilled, well— then let’s see how long you last.”

Pan sniffles, exhaling a mixture of pain and loathing out of his tear ducts. “Can you— just shut the fuck up…”

“Wooow~! Look at you, all talking and shit! You should be proud of yourself. Y’know, when you get over your dead Meemaw, maybe we can— WUMPF!”

A soft crunch sounds. Pan kicks backward, slamming through the brittle wall. The resounding impact creates an explosion in the atmosphere like the crack of a whip, flinging the two several meters across the ground. Shrapnel from the hardened slate punctures their skin as they sprawl across the floor, racing to regain their bearings.

Ives coughs, lifting his head from the muck. “ I swear— I will impart the worst suffering upon your feeble—!”

Pan snatches Ives’ lingering head by the nape, strangling his esophagus against his shoulder blade. Ives desperately flails his malnourished, boney fingers, reaching his way toward Pan’s eyes before getting forcibly diverted back into a poor attempt at a headlock. Pan fastens his grip to the head with his forearm and palm before pulling the parasite’s head off his neck. The skin stretches, tearing the brachial plexus shared between the two like thousands of little rubber bands snapping one by one.

“GET OFF—” Before he can finish, a sting pierces Pan’s mind, like a thunderstorm of neurons firing off between his brain’s hemispheres. Pan slumps to the floor like a ragdoll, shaking uncontrollably.

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The frail ground gives way to their momentum, sending the two down a small ravine along the cliffside. Ives’ head slumps backward from Pan’s shoulder, catapulting the two into the ground once again. As they strike the floor, Ives’ skull smashes against a foreign object, obliterating the entirety of his face. In an instant, Ives’ heartbeat slows against his back.

…But his heart was still beating. Pan turns toward the mutilated head on his shoulder.

“Not so loud now, are you? Huh?” He presses the head into an upright position.

Pan attempts to push himself up from the floor but to no avail, instead opting to scoot himself toward what remained of a bend in the gravel. Despite his numerous injuries, he felt hardly any pain due to the adrenaline fueling his weak heart. He rolls around on his stomach, peering out from under his dusty mask. The tendrils along the ground, which once eagerly accepted his tissue, now seemed to flounder aimlessly around him like blades of grass, or opposing magnets, avoiding his every movement.

Slight traces of hair had just begun to form along the top of his head, catching the golden light from behind the thinning clouds. The sunset… How could I forget? He hadn’t realized it before, but Pan had just reached the summit of a large mountain skimming the clouds. Each patch of clouds rose and crashed like waves against the border of the hill. The milky void he had grown accustomed to had finally shed its veil, soaking his fresh skin under the warm glow of dusk. Like a beautiful tapestry, the sky’s transparency revealed every star, constellation, and celestial body for billions of light years. At the far edge of the horizon, a faded asteroid belt orbited the planet like a white dish. On some patches of open earth, the bits of orbiting rubble and debris cast a white glow running contrary to the sunlight. Such a paramount beauty acted as a hook for his psyche, drawing him from the abyss of his own skull. In some sense, the world, and all its terror, was beautiful.

He climbs up his weak body and fumbled legs until his chest hurts. The limp head clinging to his shoulder is disorienting, offsetting his balance drastically. When he reaches the top, he staggers for a bit before planting his foot back into the meat again. His eyes were dry. His skin burned. His legs— while he couldn’t quite understand them, they certainly bore immense power. So much so he could hardly feel the floor exerting pressure back into him. The two were pried apart like sticks from his torso, clumsily trodding around like a baby taking his first steps—

He plants one foot into the ground— one after another. Then two steps, then three— four— five— until he had lost count. He could barely feel the wind wearing away the nerve endings sprouting back out of his skin. He was growing back without scar or recollection— and not as he were— but still, specks of hair, nails, and strange appendages would reveal themselves now and again. A new scent— a different color or sound— something vibrating within his eardrums, deep down along the slope of the mountain— but at the expense of his mental clarity. His moral fibers grew thin. The pain and exhaustion meant less to him. He takes another step—

—Before tumbling back to the floor. The bucket flings itself out of his hand and down another small cleft in the mountainside. No, no, no way in hell. The horizon is long, and not a soul could be seen in any direction. At his pace, he would sooner starve than make it to the Great Sea.

…damn it. What now?

Suddenly, the mimic snaps its teeth, surprising him and directing his attention elsewhere. The momentum of the bite shakes its body, rolling toward his direction. In all honesty, he had entirely forgotten about the existence of Ut’thru until now. That’s strange. At first glance, it could easily be mistaken for an ordinary old bucket. Its body looked so pristine that he could almost see his reflection off the ‘metal’. Its hinges, however, were noticeably worn and rusty— most likely the only real thing about the creature. The snapping had stopped entirely. Its teeth dissolve into the bucket’s base, preparing for its next victim. Pan sniffles, muddies himself with a quick slap on the cheek, and then rises carefully off the ground on one foot.

What a peculiar creature, he thinks. It acted like a blind, rabid dog, snapping at anything in arms reach. Its mouth was conveniently positioned at the bottom of the pale, allowing meat inside the bucket to be eaten, like a living trash can. But— where did it all go? He had been feeding this ‘thing’ for days without any sign of it growing or excreting. With a sudden fit of inspiration, he tosses the bucket onto the floor and begins to scavenge. From what appeared to belong to a colossal ribcage, he spots a spear-like bone jutting up from the meat. He hobbles toward it and yanks it off of the ground. The bucket remains on the floor, unresponsive. He pokes at it once— twice— then cocks the bone behind his head.

…

Suddenly, with all his might, he thrusts the bone into the canister’s base, spewing blood back up at him. The creature writhes in agony, violently shaking and chomping at anything nearby. It snaps back at his weapon, tearing at the cartilage like paper. He steps back to strike again, aiming for the ‘gums’ above its teeth.

*Squelch!*

A tooth is sliced right out of its mouth, falling into the abyss of its open jaws.

*Wham, wham, wham!*

With each strike, the mimic flails more angrily until he is forced to pin it down using his weak foot. With the bucket loosely secured to the ground, Pan continues to chop at the demon’s insides.

*Wham, wham, wham, wham, WHAM!*

…

The creature stops moving. Its corpse twitches for a moment before relinquishing its soul. The bloodied muscles dilate, revealing the empty chasm below. Exhausted, Pan collapses on his mangled shovel, catching his breath.

Ow, ow, ow—! Fuck you, adrenaline…

It had spared him from the pain in his face and leg for too long. He glances back down at his hard work—a disfigured, bloody mouth inside a bucket with a deep hole leading to an empty void. For a minute, he questions if he has gone mad. The metallic fumes certainly had a strange, suffocating effect on his lungs— could that be the cause?

He kicks the bucket. No movement. It twitches once or twice, but indeed, it was dead. He runs his fingers along the remaining teeth of the beast, inspecting their sharpness. Its mouth was circular in shape, with muscles along the edges allowing it to protrude slightly from the base of the bucket. What interested him, however, was that most of the creature’s body existed inside its mouth— a portal of some sort and, if all went well— a means of escape.

What the hell am I thinking?

The wind picks up speed. I mean— There must be something down there… right? He positions himself over the pail. Placing one foot over the bucket, he begins his descent. The mouth twitches once again as he slowly declines into the bloody mess.

Now for the second leg. He clutches the edges of the bucket and lowers his other leg in, straining his upper body. This would be easier— if I had a workout routine or someth—

A sharp pop. The sound of teeth and meat clash for a split second. Pan looks up at his wrist, draining like a used sponge. In an instant, all his energy fades, sending him down the thin coating of mucus along Ut’thru’s mouth. When he hits the floor, a bit of his cleaved palm strikes his face, if not only to add insult to injury. He wasn’t so lucky this time, landing directly onto a tough bone jutting up from the surface, knocking out three— maybe four teeth. The pain comes as an instant shock, freezing him in place for a few seconds as the tsunami of blood escapes his mouth.

Pan rolls himself over, clutching his stained mug with his remaining hand.

“Why did you do that…?” he mutters to himself. The words, even in their softness, sting his gums. Pan chokes and squirms a bit, suffocated by his tears.

…

“...Ives? Are you there?”

Something shuffles within the cave. It scuttles along until finally perching on a flap hugging the upper bend on one of the walls.

"...Oh. It’s just you. I thought I smelt something— funny."

Pan jerks upright, scanning the dark innards of the cave. His eyes dilate, desperately adjusting to the darkness. A pair of pearl-like beads the size of baseballs glance back at him. Trolley huffs away at the empty air, twitching his stiff face in Pan’s direction like an insect. His teeth crept upwards along his face towards his eye line, grinning wide like a crescent moon. It was not like he could help it, as his gums, among other facial features, had all but withered away, only retaining essential biology. Pan stands there— for millennia, unsure of just what to say or do. For a moment, reality eluded him.

Trolley, now clinging to the roof, patiently waits. "...I do not understand— Why do you keep coming back—? Here— To this place?".

Trolley doesn't move. He doesn’t breathe. He’s like a stone pillar, yacking his empty mouth while alien sounds escape his breath. Whatever voice he speaks with emanates deep from within his throat, somewhere between his mouth and the fumes he breathes.

Pan stumbles on his words before puking out a desperate, "W— w— Huh?"

Trolley drops his jaw again. "...Were you expecting things to end differently—? This time—?”

Pan stands still within the soot. He fears any movement would spell instant death. "W— wha—” He gathers his bearings, adjusting his footing. “Are you going to eat me?"

Trolley opens his mouth again— a slow, methodical process that seemed to take centuries for every utterance. “...What good would that do?”

Pan’s heart— which had been frozen in place for what appeared to be an eternity— beats once again.

He staggers towards one of the walls. “Th— Thank… you.”

“...Oh, dear.” The creature drags his long, serpentine body out of its hole and scuttles toward him with frightening speed. With one of his mandibles, Trolley makes an incision along his sternum before reaching inward and retrieving an artery. The wire spits blood around once every five seconds— a peculiar rhythm for such a quick thing. With the artery, he drapes blood over Pan's left arm, shoulder, and along the neck and chest of Ives, still clinging lifelessly around his neck.

The beast stuffs the organ back into his chest. With two mandibles, he reaches out delicately for Pan's arm before—

Snap!

He breaks it apart like the bark from a twig, cleaving flesh and bone alike. The sound made him flinch, but it didn't hurt— much rather like a scalpel removing a bit of numb tissue. The creature sharpens the stubble of bone into a sharp spear fashioned towards a fine point along his forearm.

“...I fear— this will not help you. Pablo doesn't like to hunt, but you— like to bring out the worst in others— don't you?"

Pan lifts his arm like a weapon. The blood had clotted entirely, leaving only clean, pointed bone.

“...Well—?”

Pan readjusts himself. What should he say? What should he do? He backs off one of the walls, confronting the creature within the pale blue cave under the soft light of the bucket’s mouth.

“My name is Pan. I need to kill myself.”