Shaun barely sleeps, and when he does, it’s because he’s nodded off in his chair, his body refusing to take the exhaustion any longer. Every second spent awake is used for research.
Rebecca thinks he’s crazy – that too little sleep is making him confuse a strange dream with reality, but Shaun knows, is absolutely positive, it was real. Now to prove it.
It isn’t until the next night that he stumbles upon the beginnings of an answer.
There’s a rumor about something called the Midnight Channel originating in Japan. It’s slow going, as he has to rely heavily on translators that produce gibberish more often than not, but Shaun is determined, and eventually he has enough of a picture to base a theory on.
A series of kidnappings occurred in a town called Inaba in Japan just the year before that coincided with a rumor about people appearing on this Midnight Channel – a program that only comes on when the viewer is alone at midnight on a rainy night. The interesting thing, and what Shaun is hoping is relevant, is that each of the people reported missing appeared on the Midnight Channel.
If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he’d think it was nonsense.
Most importantly, it is nearly midnight, and as it had been the night before, it is raining.
Shaun stands in front of the blank TV, admittedly without a plan outside of confirming his theory, and waits. Right on schedule, the screen brightens, Desmond’s glowing eyes burning right through him.
“Holy shit!” he hears from the other room, but he doesn’t have time to gloat just now, as the dialogue is all the same, which means he has a time limit. For what, he’s not sure.
The image really does look disturbingly like Desmond apart from the eyes, though the expression is off enough to be alarming. Absently, he reaches out to touch the screen, as if tracing the likeness will tell him what he’s missing.
When his fingers sink into the image, Shaun takes a moment to consider he’s gone completely bonkers before he jerks back like he’s been bit. He adjusts his glasses with shaky hands and looks at his fingers. They don’t look or feel any different, and the Desmond on the screen continues on like nothing happened.
What else can he do? He reaches out and does it again.
His hand disappears to the wrist, and Shaun takes several deep breaths. He flexes his fingers, and though he can’t see them, he can still feel them, and they appear to be following his commands. It takes a moment of courage gathering, but he bites his lip, sends a prayer off to a God he knows doesn’t exist, and presses his face to the TV.
It goes right in, like pressing his face through lukewarm water only to find there’s air on the other side. He can’t see anything, though – it’s just a mass of gray in all directions.
He wonders what would happen if he climbed in.
He doesn’t, though, instead extracting himself from the inside of the TV just as ‘Desmond’ finishes his little speech. When the TV goes black, he touches it again lightly, and it ripples under his fingers.
He sets his jaw, returns to his desk, and starts to plan.
---
“You’re not real,” Desmond says, more for himself than for the carbon copy staring at him across the room.
“On the contrary. I am a Shadow; the true self. I am more real than you.” Desmond’s Shadow leers, unfolding from his perch on the Animus to stand straighter than Desmond ever does, staring down at him with amused malice. “After all, you can’t even think for yourself, can you?”
“You’re not real,” Desmond repeats, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll disappear just like every other time. This is not happening.”
His shadow chuckles. “Afraid you’re going mad, me? Yes, we are quite mad, aren’t we? But do we do anything about it? No, we don’t. We get back into the Animus like the good boy that we are.” Desmond can hear his Shadow’s footsteps, but he doesn’t look, doesn’t acknowledge it, just wills it to go away. “We’re their savior, their little test tube of First Civ DNA, rendered unimportant as a person, because what are our thoughts and feelings when weighed against the whole world?”
Desmond opens his eyes and glares up at his Shadow. “This is my choice. I chose to do this.”
The bark of laughter makes Desmond jump, and he ineffectually tries to push himself up to stand but his legs won’t cooperate. “You didn’t choose shit. You tell yourself that to make yourself feel good, but I know better.” His Shadow crouches down in front of him, yellowed eyes boring through his brown ones. “You’re a coward.”
“I am not a coward,” Desmond spits, face contorting with rage. This is not real. This is not real. He tells himself over and over, but it feels real, it feels different from every other bleed he’s had, and underneath the rage grows a very real fear.
“Yes, you are. It’s why you ran away from the Farm all those years ago, and it’s why when they use you as their guinea pig for their Animus, you don’t say no. You’re terrified of going crazy, but you’re even more terrified that they’ll kill you if you prove to be useless.” His Shadow grins, shrugging nonchalantly. “And hey, maybe they will. It’s not like you actually matter. If it weren’t for your DNA no one would have even bothered looking for you. You’re that insignificant, and you know it.”
Desmond feels the color drain from his face, but before he can do more than sputter, his Shadow cocks his head to the side.
“That was fast.” He looks to a sealed door that Desmond hadn’t noticed before. “He’s coming.”
“Who is ‘he’?” Desmond asks tentatively, but the sinking feeling in his chest tells him he already knows the answer.
A dark sneer twists at his Shadow’s lips. “More proof of your cowardice. It looks like your unrequited love interest wants his lab rat back.”
Shaun. The thought of Shaun meeting his Shadow makes bile gather in the back of his throat. “No,” he says weakly. “This isn’t real.”
“Oh, I assure you, this is very real. Just sit back and relax, me, because the fun is just getting started.”
Re: Wonderwall [2/?]
Rebecca thinks he’s crazy – that too little sleep is making him confuse a strange dream with reality, but Shaun knows, is absolutely positive, it was real. Now to prove it.
It isn’t until the next night that he stumbles upon the beginnings of an answer.
There’s a rumor about something called the Midnight Channel originating in Japan. It’s slow going, as he has to rely heavily on translators that produce gibberish more often than not, but Shaun is determined, and eventually he has enough of a picture to base a theory on.
A series of kidnappings occurred in a town called Inaba in Japan just the year before that coincided with a rumor about people appearing on this Midnight Channel – a program that only comes on when the viewer is alone at midnight on a rainy night. The interesting thing, and what Shaun is hoping is relevant, is that each of the people reported missing appeared on the Midnight Channel.
If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he’d think it was nonsense.
Most importantly, it is nearly midnight, and as it had been the night before, it is raining.
Shaun stands in front of the blank TV, admittedly without a plan outside of confirming his theory, and waits. Right on schedule, the screen brightens, Desmond’s glowing eyes burning right through him.
“Holy shit!” he hears from the other room, but he doesn’t have time to gloat just now, as the dialogue is all the same, which means he has a time limit. For what, he’s not sure.
The image really does look disturbingly like Desmond apart from the eyes, though the expression is off enough to be alarming. Absently, he reaches out to touch the screen, as if tracing the likeness will tell him what he’s missing.
When his fingers sink into the image, Shaun takes a moment to consider he’s gone completely bonkers before he jerks back like he’s been bit. He adjusts his glasses with shaky hands and looks at his fingers. They don’t look or feel any different, and the Desmond on the screen continues on like nothing happened.
What else can he do? He reaches out and does it again.
His hand disappears to the wrist, and Shaun takes several deep breaths. He flexes his fingers, and though he can’t see them, he can still feel them, and they appear to be following his commands. It takes a moment of courage gathering, but he bites his lip, sends a prayer off to a God he knows doesn’t exist, and presses his face to the TV.
It goes right in, like pressing his face through lukewarm water only to find there’s air on the other side. He can’t see anything, though – it’s just a mass of gray in all directions.
He wonders what would happen if he climbed in.
He doesn’t, though, instead extracting himself from the inside of the TV just as ‘Desmond’ finishes his little speech. When the TV goes black, he touches it again lightly, and it ripples under his fingers.
He sets his jaw, returns to his desk, and starts to plan.
---
“You’re not real,” Desmond says, more for himself than for the carbon copy staring at him across the room.
“On the contrary. I am a Shadow; the true self. I am more real than you.” Desmond’s Shadow leers, unfolding from his perch on the Animus to stand straighter than Desmond ever does, staring down at him with amused malice. “After all, you can’t even think for yourself, can you?”
“You’re not real,” Desmond repeats, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll disappear just like every other time. This is not happening.”
His shadow chuckles. “Afraid you’re going mad, me? Yes, we are quite mad, aren’t we? But do we do anything about it? No, we don’t. We get back into the Animus like the good boy that we are.” Desmond can hear his Shadow’s footsteps, but he doesn’t look, doesn’t acknowledge it, just wills it to go away. “We’re their savior, their little test tube of First Civ DNA, rendered unimportant as a person, because what are our thoughts and feelings when weighed against the whole world?”
Desmond opens his eyes and glares up at his Shadow. “This is my choice. I chose to do this.”
The bark of laughter makes Desmond jump, and he ineffectually tries to push himself up to stand but his legs won’t cooperate. “You didn’t choose shit. You tell yourself that to make yourself feel good, but I know better.” His Shadow crouches down in front of him, yellowed eyes boring through his brown ones. “You’re a coward.”
“I am not a coward,” Desmond spits, face contorting with rage. This is not real. This is not real. He tells himself over and over, but it feels real, it feels different from every other bleed he’s had, and underneath the rage grows a very real fear.
“Yes, you are. It’s why you ran away from the Farm all those years ago, and it’s why when they use you as their guinea pig for their Animus, you don’t say no. You’re terrified of going crazy, but you’re even more terrified that they’ll kill you if you prove to be useless.” His Shadow grins, shrugging nonchalantly. “And hey, maybe they will. It’s not like you actually matter. If it weren’t for your DNA no one would have even bothered looking for you. You’re that insignificant, and you know it.”
Desmond feels the color drain from his face, but before he can do more than sputter, his Shadow cocks his head to the side.
“That was fast.” He looks to a sealed door that Desmond hadn’t noticed before. “He’s coming.”
“Who is ‘he’?” Desmond asks tentatively, but the sinking feeling in his chest tells him he already knows the answer.
A dark sneer twists at his Shadow’s lips. “More proof of your cowardice. It looks like your unrequited love interest wants his lab rat back.”
Shaun. The thought of Shaun meeting his Shadow makes bile gather in the back of his throat. “No,” he says weakly. “This isn’t real.”
“Oh, I assure you, this is very real. Just sit back and relax, me, because the fun is just getting started.”