So big man has that paracite in his head, the one that likes commands and is forced to fufill them with unwavering determination untill the body can no longer go. . .
So of course Victor Gideon and orgasm denial is the only logical conclusion to this.
How could you be expected to act any less after this information was made known to you? It was for science really.
For instance could the weight of a verbal command really hold more power then the mounding biological need to ejaculate?
How many almost orgasms could he take before his cockiness droped? Before he was no longer quiping at you? Before he realized you were not going to go easy on him? Before he realized this night would be long indeed and he would have to work for it?
How long before his voice started to show the cracks of need? A hitch here a sharp breath there? Would you be able to catch him mid word and get a high kneen out of him or would you only be able to catch him between sentences? You hoped you could move him enough to mess up his perfectly formed sentences even if just once.
How long before he started to beg for PREMITION to finaly release? Not begging to release but begging for the words to leave your lips for you to allow him to do so? For either your premition or your command to do so? If you commanded it that instant could he refuse or would his body even if against his own wants lock up and cum withough his aproval?
How "mean" were you willing to be to find out how far he could go? How much praise would you give leaving him on the line of just close enough but not allowed to tip over? How many times would you say just 5 more minutes and lie when the time came to pass? How many fake outs were you wanting to give? How much would you tease him for involuntary actions?
Would there come a point where his needs could override that brain worm? Cumming withought your say?
Or could he compleatly break out and would he take out all the that frustration on you, the cruel cruel arbitor of his sweet suffering, afterward? Who would be gentile or kind to the person who just denied him for a couple hours stright under "sciences" name.
Sometimes violence is the answer to your problems- or in this case, Simon Riley’s problems
It’s not as if there had been a particular moment where Simon Riley had sat down and decided that he was done with having sex.
Rather, it was the accumulation of torture over the years that had left damage- nerves misfiring or simply not firing at all beneath scar tissue that had healed wrong.
Then there were the other injuries layered over it across the years: the fractures, surgeries, concussions, medications, chronic pain and the permanent state of low grade readiness his body seemed incapable of leaving even when he was technically safe.
Simon had spent enough time in hospitals to know the human body was less a machine than people liked pretending it was. Things went wrong. Sometimes they healed. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes nobody could tell you why.
His cock, apparently, had decided not to.
He’d noticed it gradually.
Morning erections disappearing first, though he couldn’t have said precisely when- not when his mornings were spent around other people and never actually got the time to wank one out before morning drills or in between dodging gunfire.
Then on the rare occasion he did actually feel enough inclination to do something about himself, it became an exercise in diminishing returns: attraction still existed somewhere in his head, sensation technically existed below the waist, but whatever bridge had once connected the two appeared to have been bombed out.
Simon discovered it through the deeply scientific process of occasionally attempting to masturbate and getting absolutely fuck all for his trouble
He could touch himself and get nowhere. Could want, abstractly, and have his body answer with complete indifference. The first few times Simon tested it, he approached the problem the way he approached most of his failures: with detached irritation, as though persistence alone might force the damaged thing back into service.
Eventually he’d stared down at himself, accepted that nothing was happening, pulled his trousers back up and thought, Right. That’s that, then.
He never mentioned it to anyone, not to a doctor and certainly not to Price, because- contrary to popular belief- there were limits to what Simon Riley was willing to survive and the idea of being waterboarded ranked higher on the list of things he’d want to go through again before having John Price know whether his lieutenant’s cock remained operational or not.
He didn’t make an appointment specifically for it either. Doctors had poked, prodded, scanned, stitched and reconstructed enough of him already, and there was something uniquely intolerable about volunteering this particular failure for examination when he had no real intention of actually doing anything with the equipment even if they did manage to fix it.
Casual sex had never really held enough appeal to justify navigating the humiliation of his body refusing to cooperate halfway through. A relationship sounded worse. Relationships required trust, trust required vulnerability, and Simon had never understood the fascination people had with handing another human being that kind of weakness so openly.
So celibacy became another practical adjustment. Fine. Good, even. One less thing to worry about, one less chemical urge trying to convince him another person was necessary.
Simon’s body already demanded sleep, food, medication, physical therapy and the occasional begrudging acknowledgment that he was not, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, composed entirely of out of spite.
He didn’t particularly mind losing one more demand and eventually he stopped checking whether anything had changed. He stopped noticing attractive strangers beyond the detached recognition that, yes, objectively, they were attractive. He stopped wondering whether there might be some circumstance under which his body would respond differently.
It had been years and whatever part of him had once wanted sex had either been damaged beyond use or buried beneath too much other shit to reach daylight, and Simon had made his peace with that.
Then you arrived and immediately became the most irritating person he had met in recent memory.
Not because you were cruel. Simon could deal with cruel; cruelty was straightforward. You simply possessed a spectacular disregard for the strange force field that usually formed around Ghost.
New recruits tended to give him space. Experienced operators might not fear him, but they understood him well enough not to poke unnecessarily at whatever lived behind the skull mask.
Even Soap, who had elevated testing Simon’s patience into a recreational activity, possessed enough survival instinct to recognize certain lines.
You, however, seemed unaware there were lines at all.
The first time Simon deliberately crowded your space during a disagreement, expecting the usual subtle retreat people made when six-foot-something of masked lieutenant invaded their breathing room, you merely tipped your head back farther and continued arguing. When he leaned down, you leaned forward. When he blocked the doorway afterward because you’d been getting on his nerves for the better part of twenty minutes, you stared at him and asked, “Are you finished?”
“Finished what?” he’d replied, because sometimes Simon could be every bit as juvenile as Soap accused him of being, even if he’s deny it until the day he died.
“This.” You waved vaguely at all of him. “Whatever weird intimidation ritual you’ve got going on. Move.”
He hadn’t and you responded with putting both hands against the center of his chest and shoving him instead. He barely shifted if course, which only seemed to annoy you further.
Your mouth tightened, your boots planted and you shoved again with genuine intent this time while Simon stared down at you in profound disbelief.
Somewhere behind him Soap made the distinctive strangled sound of a man swallowing laughter, and when Simon turned his head just enough all he saw was the sergeant suddenly studying a patch of wall with extraordinary concentration because he valued his continued existence.
By the time Simon looked back, you were already shouldering past the narrow gap you’d created, muttering something about oversized fucking roadblocks.
Deeply irritating. That was Simon’s assessment, and it remained his assessment over the following weeks while you developed an increasingly casual habit of putting your hands on him whenever he was being difficult.
Not affectionately. Never anything he could easily categorize as flirtation.
Rather, you slapped his hand away when he reached for things you were using, nudged his boots aside when he stretched his legs into your path, drove your shoulder into his arm rather than walk around him when he occupied too much corridor.
One afternoon he reached over your head for the exact mug you’d been reaching toward despite three identical ones sitting beside it, and you promptly elbowed him in the ribs.
“Use another one.”
“Wanted this one.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Been told.”
You turned with your mug held against your chest and gave him a look of profound disgust. “Do you wake up every morning and consciously decide to be unbearable, or does it come naturally?”
“Natural talent.”
Something low in his stomach tightened when your eyes narrowed. Simon noticed it only enough to dismiss it. His body produced strange aches, sparks and misfires constantly; one more meant nothing.
The real problem emerged three weeks later over a mission report, largely because Simon had made the decision to edit your wording after you’d already submitted it.
You found him sitting at his desk with the amended copy beside him and launched immediately into an accusation of bureaucratic sabotage.
Simon informed you that he’d corrected inaccuracies. You informed him there had been no inaccuracies. He reminded you that on line of your official report had read, Lieutenant Riley ignored the proposed entry point because apparently God himself whispered a better idea directly into his ear.
“That is an accurate account of events,” you argued.
“Not putting that in an official report.”
“You’re only mad because it makes you sound like an asshole.”
“I am an asshole.”
“Then why are we editing for accuracy?”
You were already moving around the desk while you said it, coming toward him with the particular determined stride Simon had learned meant you were about to invade his personal space as punishment for some perceived crime.
He remained seated though, mostly because standing would have made the whole thing absurd; he was already large enough without looming over you while you complained about paperwork.
You stopped directly between his knees instead, close enough that the fabric over one of your thighs brushed the outside of his. Simon registered it without meaning to and dismissed it.
Then your finger came up and pressed hard into the center of his chest.
“You listen to me, Riley. If you touch my report again without asking, you can take that red pen and shove it so far up your- “
Simon stopped listening.
His body had gone abruptly, impossibly still around one singular point of awareness. There was pressure beneath his pants. Heat. A heavy rush of blood into an organ Simon had, for all practical purposes, considered medically retired.
For several bewildered seconds his brain refused to identify the sensation because it had been absent too long to belong naturally among the catalog of things Simon expected his body to do.
Then his cock gave a distinct pulse against the front of his trousers and every word leaving your mouth vanished beneath one stunned thought.
He was hard.
Not sort of hard, not an ambiguous twitch he could blame on sitting wrong or fabric pressure or some random neurological event.
Simon Riley, who had gone years without getting an erection under considerably more deliberate circumstances, was sitting in his office with a fully functioning cock because you were jabbing him in the chest and telling him to go fuck himself.
You were still speaking, though Simon had no idea what you were saying anymore- although judging by your expression it remained insulting.
He stared at you with such unusual stillness that eventually you stopped on your own, finger still planted against his sternum. “What?”
Simon said nothing.
“What?” you repeated. “Have you gone deaf?”
His gaze dropped to your hand as though it might explain what had just happened. You mistook the look for irritation and removed your finger and Simon waited for the erection to disappear with it. It didn’t.
If anything, the lingering anger in your expression produced another deeply inconvenient pulse.
“No,” he finally said.
“Then say something.”
There were probably several sensible options but Simon chose, “Finished?”
Your whole expression sharpened. “Oh, fuck you.”
You snatched the report from beside him and stormed away, leaving Simon alone in his office with the door swinging behind you and his body apparently celebrating a resurrection.
He sat there for another several seconds before slowly looking down at himself.
The erection remained as undeniable as it was inexplicable. After years of absolutely nothing, his nervous system had apparently located a bypass around the damage because you had yelled at him over paperwork.
Simon stared until disbelief curdled into suspicion, then muttered, “Tha’s fucki’ inconvenient.”
By the following morning, he had explained it away. Bodies were strange. Blood pressure changed. Anger raised adrenaline. Perhaps poking his chest had compressed something in precisely the right way. Perhaps a damaged nerve had fired randomly for the first time in years.
After much deliberation, Simon decided one isolated event proved nothing, and there was absolutely no reason to investigate further.
So it was a completely coincidence, of course, that Simon happened to be standing directly in front of the cutlery drawer the next day, when you needed it.
You’d made tea, reached for the drawer and found approximately two hundred and forty pounds of lieutenant in the way. “Move.”
“Comfy.”
Your hand paused on the mug. “You’re blocking the spoons.”
“Plenty elsewhere.”
“No, there aren’t. They’re in the drawer behind your ass.”
“Sounds inconvenient.”
You stared at him. Simon leaned against the counter with studied indifference, though somewhere beneath that indifference his attention had become embarrassingly focused.
Nothing happened. No stirring. No heat. Simon experienced an emotion dangerously close to disappointment and immediately resented himself for it.
Then you stepped forward, caught a fistful of his shirt at the chest and yanked. “For fuck’s sake, Riley, move.”
His cock went hard so quickly Simon nearly inhaled his own tongue.
There was no ambiguity this time. Your knuckles dragged against his sternum through the fabric, your body crowded directly into his as you tried to haul a man significantly larger than yourself out of the way, and apparently this combination constituted the precise password required to unlock Simon Riley’s long dormant reproductive system.
You succeeded in shifting him half a step, reached around him for the drawer and retrieved your spoon without noticing that Simon had gone rigid for an entirely different reason.
“What’s wrong with you?” you asked when you turned back.
“Nothin’.”
“You look weird.”
“Always look like this.”
“No, you’re acting weird.”
Simon left without making the tea he’d ostensibly entered the kitchen to prepare.
Still, twice could still be coincidence. Simon clung to that argument for roughly forty eight hours before curiosity overwhelmed dignity and the entire situation deteriorated into an experiment he refused to acknowledge he was conducting.
He began noticing variables with the clinical attention he would normally reserve for surveillance. Ordinary proximity produced nothing reliable. Sitting beside you during briefings didn’t do it. Your shoulder bumping his in a crowded transport didn’t do it. You once passed him a weapon and your fingers brushed his glove, and his nervous system remained entirely uninterested.
There was something reassuring about that at first. Perhaps the episodes really were random.
Then he ignored you while you were trying to ask him a question.
“Riley.”
Simon continued inspecting the rifle in his hands.
“Riley.”
Nothing.
“Simon.”
There it was: that warning woven through his name, irritation sharpening the edges. Simon looked up and caught the full force of your glare just as warmth tightened low behind his belt.
“Wot?” he asked.
“I’ve been talking to you.”
“Have you?”
Your eyes narrowed further. His cock stirred harder.
Simon turned back toward the weapons bench before you could notice the slight adjustment in his stance.
Three times constituted a pattern.
After that, his behavior became indefensible.
He discovered that if he deliberately moved one of your things, you would hunt him down to complain. If he blocked your route, you would put your hands on him rather than politely ask twice. If he took the pen nearest your fingers instead of any of the other four available, you would slap the back of his hand. If he walked away while you were talking, you would occasionally grab the back of his vest and yank him to a halt, which produced such an immediate response the first time that Simon had needed to invent an urgent reason to leave the room before you noticed.
He tested other possibilities privately because, despite what his increasingly deranged behavior suggested, Simon was still attempting to establish whether you were actually the variable.
A woman flirted openly with him during leave; nothing. He watched pornography one evening and experienced such profound indifference that halfway through he became distracted wondering whether he’d cleaned the knife he’d used on a security guard earlier. He tried touching himself without any outside stimulus and got little more than the same sluggish response he’d become accustomed to years before.
The following afternoon you stormed into the common room because he’d eaten something with your name written very clearly across the container and jabbed him in the chest, snarling. “I swear to God, Riley, I’m going to kill you.”
His body responded like somebody had thrown a switch, cock harder than diamonds.
Simon stared at you as heat settled heavily between his legs. You stared back, waiting for remorse that was not forthcoming.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
A profoundly defective impulse surfaced. Simon leaned slightly closer. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”
Your mouth fell open before outrage filled the space. “You absolute fucking bastard.”
You attempted to leap at him, spitting profanities and attempting- Simon assumed- to claw his eyes out but Gaz intercepted and kept you off of him. Still, you managed to shove his shoulder and his cock throbbed in response.
Simon stepped back immediately, which only made you look suspicious. “Stay away from my food,” you snapped, throwing Gaz’s hands off of you, before walking out.
Gaz lowered his hands and looked toward Simon.
Simon turned his head very slowly.
Gaz’s eyebrows rose.
“Wot?”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Gaz gave him a deeply searching look- perceptive bastard- before finally settling on. “Not a conversation I’m looking to have, mate.”
Simon went upstairs, shut his bedroom door and sat on the edge of his mattress with both hands dragged over his mask.
It should have been good news. That was the part he could not reconcile. For years he’d assumed the damage was permanent, another small theft committed by men and circumstances that had already taken enough from him.
He had accepted it because Simon understood loss better than he understood recovery; there was peace in declaring something gone and never hoping for it again after all.
Now, against every expectation, his body was proving that some pathway still existed. Something beneath the scar tissue and damaged nerves still knew what to do. Under any reasonable circumstance, that should have felt like getting a piece of himself back.
Instead, Simon was being forced to confront the humiliating possibility that his cock was not broken so much as catastrophically selective.
Apparently lingerie did nothing for it. Flirting did nothing. Attractive strangers did nothing. Pornography had nearly put him to sleep.
But you glaring at him like you were three seconds away from committing an indictable offense? Excellent. You hauling him around by his clothes? Evidently irresistible. You shoving him because he was deliberately standing somewhere inconvenient? His nervous system seemed to consider it practically erotic.
It got worse because Simon genuinely enjoyed irritating you even without the increasingly inconvenient physical reward attached to it. There was something satisfying about the immediacy of your reactions.
Most people behaved differently around Ghost. They measured their words. Watched his hands. Gave the mask more space than it physically occupied. Even people who knew him eventually retained some instinctive awareness that he could become frightening very quickly if circumstances demanded it.
But you treated him like an enormous nuisance.
Simon could stand silently behind hardened soldiers and watch their shoulders stiffen; but all you would do is look over, discover him hovering there, and tell him his breathing was annoying you. People feared monsters but you only responded with irritation at the one who stole your mug.
Simon did not examine why that distinction mattered to him. Instead, he moved your mug again.
The situation finally collapsed when he blocked you in a corridor for no reason beyond the fact that he knew exactly what would happen.
You stopped in front of him with immediate suspicion. “Move.”
Simon remained where he was, arms folded.
“Riley.”
“Hm?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” You gestured at the width of him occupying nearly the entire passage. “Standing exactly where I need to go.”
“Small corridor.”
“Exactly and you’re somehow taking up all of it.”
“Skill.”
You stepped left. Simon stepped left. You stopped and stared at him. He could see realization beginning, he dawning certainty that his obstruction was deliberate. You moved right. Simon mirrored you again.
“Are you twelve?”
“Could ask you the same.”
“Oh, my God.” You tried left one more time. He blocked you, and now your patience broke visibly. Your shoulders squared, your jaw tightened and when you spoke again your voice dropped into that particular warning register his body had inexplicably decided it adored. “Move, Riley.”
Heat tightened beneath his belt.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should have stepped aside then. He had his answer. He had, in fact, accumulated an absurd quantity of answers over the previous week and required absolutely no further data.
Instead, despite being a grown ass adult, Simon leaned one shoulder against the wall and heard himself say, “Make me.”
You went very still.
There was a small part of Simon’s brain, the portion apparently not currently occupied by destroying his own dignity, that recognized he had pushed this into ridiculous territory.
Then you planted both hands against his chest and shoved hard enough to drive his shoulder into the wall.
The response was immediate and vicious. His cock surged against the front of his pants, balls tightening instinctively, breath catching just enough that you noticed. Your hands remained spread over his chest while your expression changed from irritation to confusion.
Simon looked down at them.
You followed his gaze, but this time your attention continued lower.
Silence settled between you.
Simon felt the exact moment you understood.
Your eyes lifted slowly back to his.
“No.”
He said nothing.
Your mouth began to twitch. “No fucking way. Is that why you’ve been fucking with me?”
“No.”
The denial came far too quickly.
Your expression transformed. “Oh my God.”
Simon pushed away from the wall. “Don’t.”
“You have been deliberately pissing me off.”
“Have not.”
“You moved my boots yesterday.”
“Safety hazard.”
“They were under my bed.”
“Could’ve tripped.”
“In my sleep?”
“Dangerous business.”
You stared at him for a long second before laughter broke through. Not polite laughter either. You actually bent slightly with it, one hand still braced against his vest while Simon considered every decision he had made since entering military service and wondered which one had placed him on the path toward this precise humiliation and whether he could go find his enemies and beg for the west release of death.
“You ate my food,” you accused between breaths.
“Was hungry.”
“You stole my pen out of my hand when there were three sitting next to it.”
“Liked yours.”
“You stood in front of the spoon drawer for five fucking minutes.”
Simon’s silence convicted him more effectively than anything he might have said.
“You’ve been fucking with me because it gets you off.”
“Wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
He had nothing.
Your laughter returned, softer now but infinitely more dangerous because amusement was giving way to curiosity. Simon recognized the shift immediately. You looked down again, not long enough to be crude, merely long enough to confirm the evidence remained present, then back up at him. Something in your expression sharpened with wicked understanding.
“You’re a fucking freak, Riley.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“That do it too?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Simon caught your wrists when you pressed both hands to his chest again, intending only to remove them. The movement changed your expression instantly. Amusement flashed into irritation at being restrained, your weight shifting toward him instead of away.
“Let go.”
His erection throbbed so hard Simon nearly swore.
Your eyes narrowed.
Simon shut his own for half a second because apparently there were indignities even he required time to process. When he opened them, you were staring at him with a new kind of fascination.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Simon released your wrists.
You didn’t move back.
Neither did he.
The corridor had somehow become smaller around you both, the joking edge thinning into awareness. You watched him for a second, then reached forward with deliberate slowness and hooked one finger beneath the edge of his pants. Simon knew exactly what you were doing now. More importantly, so did you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Bullshit.”
You tugged him half an inch closer.
His jaw tightened as his cock reacted instantly.
That awful, delighted grin spread across your face before cupping your palm around the hard, obvious shape of his cock through the fabric and closing your fingers.
Simon’s entire body betrayed him at once.
His head tipped back against the wall with a dull, undignified thunk. His eyes rolled upward so hard he briefly saw the inside of his own skull. A sound escaped him that could generously be described as a groan and less generously as a whine.
He stayed like that for a second- head thrown back, eyes somewhere in the rafters, cock throbbing shamelessly in the warm curve of your hand- while his brain attempted to process the sheer fucking audacity of the situation.
You gave a small, experimental squeeze.
Simon’s hips jerked forward of their own accord- traitors- and he locked every muscle he still had control over, forcing himself still, which only made the next pulse against your palm more obvious.
“Christ,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice strangled.
You didn’t let go. If anything, you adjusted your grip with the calm curiosity of someone who had just discovered a particularly interesting malfunction and intended to poke it until it made more interesting noises. Your thumb stroked once along the ridge of him, and Simon’s breath left him in a short, punched out sound that was deeply unhelpful to whatever remaining dignity he was trying to cling to.
You tilted your head, still cupping him, and watched the way his throat worked under the mask.
“So,” you said, far too conversationally for someone currently holding a lieutenant’s previously non-functional cock in her hand, “this is the bit where you explain yourself, or…?”
Simon dragged his eyes back down to you with visible effort. The mask hid most of his expression, but the set of his shoulders suggested a man who had just realised he had spent the better part of two weeks engineering his own public humiliation and was now living with the consequences.
“Not explainin’ a fuckin’ thing,” he managed, voice rough. “While you’re still holdin’ my cock in your hand. You’re becoming a problem.”
“I’m becoming a problem? You’ve spent the last week acting like a primary school boy pulling someone’s hair because apparently your dick needs interpersonal conflict to function.”
“Tha’s not what’s happening.”
“You got hard because I shoved you into a wall.”
“Coincidence.”
“I can test that.”
“You fuckin’ will not.”
Your grin widened and your palm pressed down and Ghost nearly saw God long enough to ask why after nearly thirty years of suffering, this was apparently the punchline.
Before he could ask, God apparently decided to throw the poor suffering bastard a bone because Soap’s voice sounded from around the corner. “Ghost, ye seen- “
Simon stepped away from you with enough speed that you nearly stumbled forward.
Soap rounded the corner, stopped and took in the scene. You were suspiciously amused. Simon was standing at an equally suspicious angle with his hands planted on his hips and approximately three feet more distance between you than two people naturally needed. Johnny’s gaze moved from you to Ghost, back to you and then very deliberately refused to travel any lower.
“Aye,” Soap said slowly.
Nobody answered.
He nodded to himself. “Actually, never mind.”
Soap turned around.
“MacTavish.”
His pace increased.
“Johnny.”
“Didnae see anything, LT.”
“You didn’t.”
“Exactly.”
He disappeared around the corner before Simon could decide whether murder was worth the paperwork.
You made it perhaps two seconds before laughter burst out of you again, and Simon dragged one hand down the front of his mask while your amusement echoed through the corridor.
This, apparently, was his life now. He had survived torture, burial, gunfire, explosions and enough bodily damage to permanently alter the way his nervous system functioned, only to discover that whatever remained of his sexual response had crawled out of its grave specifically for the most confrontational person he knew.
The pattern had become painfully specific: you close enough to crowd him, your voice edged with irritation, your hands on his chest because Simon had deliberately made himself impossible to tolerate.
His body had surveyed years of opportunity with complete indifference, ignored every conventional invitation offered to it, then watched you square up against a man nearly twice your mass and apparently made an executive decision.
That one. You need to fuck that one.
The thought arrived so clearly Simon actually glanced upward again as though God might be willizng to throw him another bone.
Apparently he’d used up all this good will because the Almighty wasn’t.
There was only you, still laughing as you pushed past him and deliberately knocked your shoulder into his chest on the way.
“Move, Riley.”
His cock twitched again.
Simon closed his eyes and stood perfectly still in the corridor while the universe continued to punish him for crimes he could not presently recall committing and groaned out. “Fuck’s sake.”
okay now double entity bb and companion. entity entity enemies to forever lovers… meet cute of you got too close to my territory and i almost tipped ur body apart teehee :p but now we are locked forever together ❤️
he's the oldest thing in the backrooms. he knows that. has known it for millennia, alone in his corridors, drifting through levels in a form no human mind could hold. apex. unchallenged. the top of a food chain that never needed a second link.
and then you show up.
you're new. that's the first thing he registers. the startling, impossible newness of you.
entities don't just appear. the backrooms births them slow, growing them in the dark like fungus, layering consciousness over time until the walls spit out a hound or a skin-stealer or a faceling. he's watched it happen a thousand times. it can take years.
you took months, and you came out wrong. wrong in the sense that you're too much, too fast, too bright. a frequency the backrooms has never produced before, burning hot against the edges of his territory like a fresh wound.
one day you weren't there and the next his borders are vibrating with a signal he can't identify, and when he investigates he finds a trail of dead lesser entities with their forms shredded across three levels. the kills are clean. purposeful. a warning posted in viscera.
but you're clumsy about it. that's the infuriating part.
he follows the trail and finds you stumbling through a corridor like a newborn fawn on legs you haven't finished learning, tripping over your own power. bumping into walls. your human shape flickering in and out because you can't hold it steady yet, your true form bleeding through at the edges every time you lose focus.
you're a baby. a catastrophically powerful baby who has been alive for approximately five minutes, and is already causing him constant, relentless, skull-splitting headaches.
because you're growing. visibly. daily. the frequency you emit gets louder every week. the lesser entities that used to test your borders stop testing.
he watches you tear through a pack of hounds on level 3 with a brutality that makes his own hunting instinct prick, and your form is steadier than it was a month ago, your movements surer, the clumsiness burning off in real time.
you're learning faster than anything he's ever seen. at this rate you'll be the second most powerful thing in the backrooms soon and the trajectory beyond that is deeply, disturbingly interesting.
and you're wearing a human shape. a good one. better than it should be for a creature your age. not the sloppy mimicry lesser entities use to lure prey, all wrong proportions and uncanny smiles. yours is crafted. detailed. beautiful in a way that makes him stop and stare, which he has never done for anything in his entire ancient existence.
he's the original shapeshifter, and there's finally someone around who can challenge his craftsmanship.
you're crouched over a group of wanderers when he finds you next, shielding them, guiding them toward a safe level. your body between them and a thing with too many legs that was stalking the corridor. and as he watches from behind a wall, you turn and face the creature and your true form bleeds through, vast and blinding and furious despite its youth, and the thing disintegrates.
and then you turn back to the wanderers and your face is soft again. human. kind. you touch the smallest one on the shoulder and point them toward the exit, watching them leave with tenderness. real tenderness. you feel tenderness for these fragile sparks with their seventy-year lifespans and their breakable bodies. you protect them with a ferocity that makes his corridors hum.
why? you're an entity. you're a predator. you're growing into one of the most dangerous things these walls have ever produced, and you're coddling humans.
he doesn't understand you. he wants to understand you. the wanting is a new sensation and he doesn't trust it.
so he tries to approach, and you snarl at him.
full-body, frequency-shaking, the-walls-leaning-away-from-you snarl. your human shape cracks at the edges and he catches a glimpse of what's underneath, and his form stutters because you are powerful. young and clumsy, still learning but powerful, growing stronger by the day in a way that shouldn't be possible for a newborn. the force rolling off you makes his skin prickle in ways he didn't know he could prickle.
"stay away from me."
your voice is layered in harmonics that say i will rip you apart if you take another step, and he believes you might try. he takes another step anyway because he's an ancient idiot, and also because the threat is doing things to him he doesn't have vocabulary for.
you vanish. slip between levels with that clumsy new grace you're developing. half liquid, half stumble. gone before he can blink.
he stands in the empty corridor vibrating with adrenaline and arousal and annoyance in equal measure.
his body is doing a thing it's never done. not for the hounds, not for the facelings, not for any of the entities he has encountered over millennia, including the ones he could, technically, mate with. he's existed alongside other entities for eons and felt nothing. no pull. no heat. no interest in their forms or their frequencies. they were features of the landscape. irrelevant.
you snarled at him and his whole body lit up.
this is a problem.
so he chases you. as predators do. across levels, through corridors, between the cracks in the walls. you're infuriatingly good at evading him. better every time, your control of the exits improving daily, your ability to mask your scent trail developing at a rate that drives him genuinely insane.
and sometimes (this is the part that makes him want to tear wallpaper off the ceiling) you play.
you let him get close. close enough that he can taste your frequency in the air, that electric sweetness that's become a fixation. close enough that he thinks this time, this time i'll catch her. and then you twist away at the last second and the burst of speed is just a fraction faster than necessary. not evasion. performance. a taunt.
you look over your shoulder and he swears, he swears, the corner of your mouth twitches before you disappear.
you're playing chase with him. and the playing is somehow worse than the evading because the evading was survival and the playing is choice. you're choosing to stay near. choosing to let him close. choosing to dance at the edge of his reach and dart away laughing in frequencies he feels in his marrow.
he's equal parts aroused and furious, and the two feelings have blurred into a single vibrating state he can't shake.
and you're killing things along the way. lesser entities that made the mistake of targeting wanderers in your territory. he watches you tear through them with brutal efficiency that's refining itself daily. the fawn finding its legs, the stumble turning into a sprint.
you're magnificent. you're getting more magnificent every week, and the growth curve is staggering. you fight with a ferocity that has no right to exist in a creature your age, defending humans that could never defend themselves. the contradiction of it (the violence and the gentleness living in the same body) makes him pace, itching with urge to—
he manages to catch you once. pins you against a wall with his full weight, true form pressing against yours, and the contact is electric.
your frequencies clash and tangle, the walls cracking around you. he holds you there, straining, using every advantage his age gives him, and demands answers. what are you. where did you come from. why do you protect them. why won't you TALK to him. he's been here for millennia. he's the first thing the walls ever made. the least you could do is have a conversation.
you scowl at him with flat, cold eyes. and then you twist. your form bends in a direction his can't follow, a trick you must have learned this week because you couldn't do that last time. and you're gone. sliding through his grip like mercury.
his hands are tingling where your skin touched his. your scent is all over him. sweet and electric, layered with that warm undertone that shouldn't exist in an entity, the note underneath the power that smells like... he doesn't know.
he doesn't have a reference point. he's never smelled anything like it. new, like you. dizzying and addictive. he buries his face in his own arm where your frequency lingers and breathes deep, greedy, rolling the scent through his senses until his form shudders with it. he wants to press his face against the source. against the crook of your neck. against the pulse point you built into that pretty human throat. he wants to taste the skin there. find out if the scent translates to flavour.
he roars. the whole of level 0 shakes. three levels away, you hear it. the corner of your mouth twitches.
fine. fine. if you're so fond of the little humans, he can adapt. he starts letting wanderers pass through level 0 unharmed. it goes against every instinct but he does it, because he's noticed that you follow them. you shadow wanderer groups through the backrooms and where they go, you go, and if he makes level 0 safe enough, maybe you'll follow them in.
it works. you trail a group through his corridors and he feels you cross the threshold, and his whole level sings. you're on his territory now. his home turf. every wall, every floor, every flickering light answering to him.
and this time he comes prepared.
he builds a human shape. studies the wanderers the way you study them, maps the features, constructs a face from the best pieces he can find. sandy-haired. blue-eyed. lean. angular jaw. crooked grin.
he puts on the suit and examines himself. rolls the shoulders. tests the smirk in a reflective surface. decides it's very good. if you're so fond of the human form, if you chose to wear one before you'd even finished learning to hold your own edges, then he'll meet you there.
he can play along. he can play along better.
he finds you on level 0 in a corridor that bends only for him. you're crouched beside a sleeping wanderer, adjusting a makeshift blanket over their shoulders with those careful hands.
you look up when his footsteps register and your whole body goes taut, ready to bolt, ready to fight. and then you see him, and surprise flickers across your human face, real and unguarded, because you were expecting the true form, the ancient vast thing that chases you through walls.
you were not expecting a boy with blue eyes and a crooked grin, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, radiating the energy of a creature that has spent three millennia being the most dangerous thing around.
he tilts his head. the grin widens. the suit ripples at the edges, barely held, seams visible if you look too long. he doesn't care. he wears the imperfection openly.
"like it?" drawled. cocky. testing the shape of human arrogance on a borrowed tongue. his eyes raking over your human form with a slow, appreciative drag that he makes sure you catch. "built it just for you. figured if my pretty little territory invader is going to keep slipping through my fingers, the least I can do is look good while she does it."
your eyes narrow. your body is still coiled to run but there's a beat, one beat, where your gaze tracks from his face to his shoulders to the lean line of his waist.
he watches you look. lets you. shifts his weight against the doorframe so the borrowed muscles move under the borrowed shirt because he is ancient and powerful and also, apparently, not above peacocking for a newborn entity he's been chasing for months.
"it's sloppy," you conclude flatly. your human voice carrying undertones that strokes down his spine.
"it's my first try." he pushes off the wall. takes a step toward you. "i'll take notes." another step. his eyes dropping to your mouth. back up. "you know, for a creature who's been alive for five minutes, you're the most infuriating thing i've encountered in three thousand years. won't talk to me. won't fight me properly. just keeps scurrying through my walls helping humans—" he says the word with a fondness that surprises him, "and smelling like that."
you openly bristle. "smelling like what?"
"like i want to put my mouth on your throat and stay there."
and then he's moving and you're moving and the chase through level 0 is different this time because he knows these halls and the halls know him.
every exit you aim for seals shut a second before you reach it. he's herding you. corralling you. using the corridors like a net, and you're fast but he's home, and for the first time your new tricks can't save you.
he catches you at a dead end that didn't exist thirty seconds ago. pins you against the wall with the human body and you snarl, that full-frequency, form-cracking snarl, and he leans into it. absorbs the force of it, head tilting curiously.
his hands on your wrists. his weight pressing you flat. his borrowed hips pinning yours against the wallpaper and the contact...
through the human suits, through the false skin, the frequency of you pouring into the frequency of him. he can feel your power. younger and rawer than his, burning hot where his runs cold, and the clash of temperatures sends a shudder through both of you.
"got you," he breathes, his face inches from yours. eyes pale blue and half-lidded. that crooked grin. "my slippery, pretty thing. finally."
you bare your teeth. your human shape is flickering, your true form pressing against the suit's edges, and the glimpses he catches make his grip tighten. you're beautiful in both skins. the human one with its crafted warmth. the real one with its blazing, raw, impossible power.
"you're so fond of your little humans." murmured. his borrowed nose tracing the line of your jaw. "so gentle with them. so patient. and with me you're all claws and snarling." his lips brush your cheekbone. his scent washing over you at close range. old, cold, vast, the deep mineral smell of something that has existed for a long, long time. and underneath it, a musk you haven't encountered in any other entity. rich and dark and ancient. it fills your lungs and your pupils dilate. "it's not fair. I built a whole face for you."
"i'm not interested in conversation," you hiss, and underneath the hiss, a clicking.
rapid and sharp, rattling in the back of your borrowed throat. a threat display in a register that predates language. sub-vocal. primal.
his pupils blow wide, and a purr rolls through his chest in answer. deep and involuntary, resonating through the wall behind you. through the floor, through the false bones of both your suits.
his body responding to your threat with a mating call.
"no?" he pulls back just enough to look at you, tilts his head. that slow predatory angle. his eyes dark, his grin sharpening. "what are you interested in? because i've been chasing you for months and you keep running but you don't run fast enough and we both know you could. so either you're slower than I think—" he leans in, his mouth at your ear, his voice dropping to a register that makes the lights pulse, "or you like being caught by me."
your frequency spikes. he feels it lance through him, hot and sharp. and he grins against your ear because that was a reaction, a real one, and it tasted like wanting.
"that's what I thought."
a low chirr rolls from the base of your throat. involuntary. you clamp down on it immediately but he heard it, felt the vibration press against his collarbone where his chest meets yours. a responsive sound. the vocal equivalent of leaning in. and his purr deepens into a rolling, possessive rumble that makes the plaster behind your head crack.
you twist in his grip. testing. your wrists straining against his hands and your hips shifting against his and the friction sends a bolt of heat through both of you that neither can hide.
his jaw tightens and your breath catches. but you're still trying to escape, still snarling, still clicking that rapid threat-rattle. the trying has changed shape though. the struggling is pressing you harder against him instead of pulling you away. your body arching into the contact even as your mouth promises violence. and he knows it. reads the dissonance between your sounds and your movements.
"there you go," he murmurs, low. his thumbs stroking the insides of your wrists. "fighting so hard. snarling so pretty for me, but pressing closer the whole time." his hips roll against yours, slow and pinning, and a sound escapes you that isn't a snarl and isn't a threat. a high, thin, shaking note that makes his purr stutter and restart louder. "you feel that? that's what you do to me. three thousand years and nobody's made me make this sound. just you. just my pretty, infuriating, impossible—"
he nuzzles your throat. can't help it. can't stop himself. the scent is right there, concentrated at the juncture of jaw and neck, and he presses his borrowed nose into the soft skin and inhales until his whole form vibrates.
a clicking starts in his own throat. rapid, rhythmic, a staccato pulse that means want, want, want in a frequency older than the walls. his mouth follows, lips parting against your pulse, tongue grazing the skin. tasting.
and the taste is. god. better than the scent. richer. layered. the flavour of new power and old warmth and the electric sweetness underneath.
he groans against your throat. the groan cracks into a purr cracks into a clicking trill that no human mouth should produce, and the sound of it vibrating against your pulse and makes your back arch off the wall. involuntary.
your hips press against his, grinding, and both of you gasp. for one second, neither of you is performing. just two ancient things locked together in borrowed skins, clicking and purring in frequencies that make the corridor lights swing on their fixtures.
and you can feel him now. his scent flooding your senses at close range, that deep cold mineral musk that fills your head and makes your thoughts go liquid.
you hate how good it is. how your body responds to it, leaning into the source before you can stop yourself, your nose pressing into the crook of his neck to chase the smell and the clicking in your throat softening from threat into something dangerously close to curiosity.
he smells like the walls. like the deep places. like permanence. and against him, pressed this close, his borrowed body hard and cool and vibrating with that rolling purr. it feels good. it feels so good. and the goodness is a betrayal of every snarl you've ever aimed at him, and you can feel your resistance dissolving in the heat between your bodies.
he feels it too. feels the shift. the snarl going breathy. the clicking losing its sharp edge. your nose in his neck, breathing him in, and the intimacy of it, you smelling him, voluntarily, seeking his scent the way he's been desperately seeking yours, makes his whole form tremble with possessive hunger.
"that's it," he whispers urgently against your pulse. "i'm right here. i've been right here, little one."
"shut up," you breathe into his throat, but your lips graze the skin as you say it, and his hips jerk forward. a clicking trill pours out of him that he couldn't suppress if he tried.
his mouth traces the line of your throat. half kiss, half territorial claim. his purr is constant now, layered, harmonic, and he can feel yours answering. vibrating against his chest through the false skin. an echo. a response. two predators locked in a feedback loop of sound and scent. his canines lengthen for half a second, grazing the tendon in your neck, before he pulls them back.
"you taste even better than you smell." mumbled into your skin. his hands tightening on your wrists. his hips rolling against yours, slow, grinding. his purr deepening as yours answers. "do you have any idea what you do to me? three thousand years of nothing. no one. and then you stumble out of the walls on your fawn legs with your pretty face, and your impossible power. now I can't think about anything except—" his teeth graze your throat again, sharper this time, the mask slipping, "this. right here. the taste of you. let me have one more. just one more. I need—"
and you let him closer.
your wrists go slack in his grip. your head tips back against the wall, baring more throat. the gesture is submission in the language of predators. an offering. a door cracking open. the sight of it makes his vision swim with greed.
he presses in. his mouth opens wider against the exposed column of your neck, tongue flat against your pulse, tasting the frequency of you directly from the source. and your purr is loud now. loud and unguarded and rolling through both of your borrowed bodies and your free hand (he didn't notice your wrist slipping his grip) comes up and tangles in his borrowed hair, tugs, and the sound he makes against your throat is broken and animal.
your mouth finds the side of his neck. his breath catches. your lips part against the false skin, and he feels your tongue trace his pulse point, curious, testing, tasting him the way he's tasting you, and his whole body goes rigid with want.
your breath is hot against his throat. your teeth graze the tendon. he shudders and tilts his head to give you access and the vulnerability of it is staggering. the oldest predator alive, baring his throat to the newest, purring so hard his suit is cracking at the seams.
"yes," he breathes, eyes shut, his hand cradling the back of your skull now, holding you against his neck. "yes, go on, taste me, i'm yours to—"
you bite him.
you lunge forward and sink your teeth, your real teeth, the ones that don't belong to the human face, into the side of his borrowed throat. deep. through the false skin and the false muscle and into the absence underneath. black blood sprays across your mouth. across the wallpaper. across the floor.
a chunk of his fake throat tears free in your jaws and you spit it sideways, and the blood is on your lips and your chin and running down your own borrowed neck in dark rivulets.
and he laughs.
head thrown back, throat open and ruined and pouring black, laughing with a sound that shakes the corridor lights loose from the ceiling. laughing because the pain is extraordinary and the violence is extraordinary and YOU are extraordinary.
you just tore a piece out of the oldest thing in the backrooms with your brand-new teeth. your eyes are blazing with fury and arousal. your mouth is painted black with his blood and your purr is still going, still vibrating in your chest, mixing with the snarl, mixing with the clicking.
you wanted him. you let him close. you tasted his throat and then you ripped it open, and the duality of it, the curiosity and the savagery, the purring and the biting, is the most beautiful thing he's witnessed in three thousand years of seeing nothing worth looking at.
"oh," he manages, between laughs, blood dripping down his chest. his voice ragged and delighted and wrecked. "oh, you're going to be fun."
you shove him off while he's laughing. bolt. disappear through a crack between levels that he didn't know existed, which means you carved it yourself, just now, on the fly, ripping a new exit through HIS level with the brute force of your growing power. and that fact alone makes his ruined throat purr harder than the blood should allow.
he stands in the empty corridor, bleeding and grinning, licking the residual taste of you off his lips.
your scent all over his skin, your teeth-marks open and wet and pouring black down the front of his borrowed shirt. your blood on his tongue, sharp and sweet and electric and new. and underneath the pain and the blood: the ghost of your purr.
the memory of your nose pressed into his neck. the fraction of a second where your tongue traced his pulse and the curiosity in the touch was tender. you tasted him. you wanted to taste him. and then you tore him open because the wanting scared you and violence is the only language you trust.
the wound is already closing. the suit rebuilding. the black blood sinks into the carpet and the walls absorb the spatter and the corridor cleans itself because level 0 is good at keeping his secrets.
he touches the healing wound. presses his fingers into the tender new skin where your jaw clamped down. it's going to scar. he's going to let it scar. the oldest entity in the backrooms, wearing a bite mark from a newborn like a trophy.
and standing there in the empty corridor with your taste on his tongue and your mark on his throat, the decision crystallises.
he's going to claim you. not catch. not chase. not kill. claim.
you're going to be his. his territory. his mate. the thing that shares his levels and his nest and the vast dark silence that has been his only companion for three thousand years.
you with your brand-new teeth and your fawn legs and your tender human hands and your clicking threat-rattle and that one moment, that one devastating moment, where you pressed your face into his neck and breathed him in and your purr went soft, and your body went still and you wanted him.
before the fear kicked in. before the teeth followed. for one fraction of a second you wanted him and he felt it in every frequency he possesses.
he heard you.
he pushes off the wall, rolls his shoulders. fixes the suit's collar where your teeth destroyed it. runs his tongue along his bottom lip one more time, chasing the last trace of your taste.
and goes after you at once.
you're fast. you're getting faster every day. you carved your own exit through his home level with raw power that shouldn't exist in a creature your age.
he doesn't care. he has time. he has millennia of patience and your scent in his lungs and the taste of you on his tongue and a bite mark on his throat that proves you got close enough to touch. and he has the memory of your purr. that one small, involuntary, answering sound that you made against his chest before the fear swallowed it.
you can run. you can snarl. you can tear his throat out as many times as you like. he'll heal. he'll follow. he'll keep coming until the snarling softens and the purr comes back and you let him close enough to answer it with his own.
the hunt isn't a hunt anymore. it's a courtship.
mine, he thinks. the word settling into his frequency like roots into soil.
pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby (bb)
contents/warnings: graphic violence, blood, body horror, self-worth issues, internalised blame/anger suppression, mentions of past emotional neglect in relationship.
notes: This part got very long so if there's crustiness I'm sorry, but this one is vvv important for overall plot and setting up future stuff. Genuinely thank you SO much for the insane amount of warmth and support on the series so far!
📹 better bobby series masterlist.
You wake up still pressed into his chest.
For a moment, you don't remember why, and then you do. All at once. The grin in the dark, the teeth, the wet, tearing sounds. Your whole body tightens. Better Bobby's hand is already on your back, moving up and down your spine, languid and unhurried, like he's been doing it for hours. Maybe he has.
You don't know how long you were out. Sleep here isn't sleep the way you understand it. It's more like your body surrenders to exhaustion while the yellow hum rocks you under, and when you surface, it's never with the feeling of having rested. Just the feeling of having stopped.
You pull back. Slightly. Just enough to see his face.
He lets you. His hand stills on your back but doesn't lift. He watches you with those pale eyes. They’re Bobby's eyes. Exactly Bobby's, the same shade, the same lashes, the same way they catch light and hold it. His expression remains open and patient under your scrutiny, and he doesn't fill the silence. He just waits. Let's you look at him.
You've never studied him this closely before. You've been careful not to. Because looking too hard at Better Bobby means seeing the places where the seams should be and aren't. Confronting how good the copy is, how flawless. The earring sits in his lobe at the exact same angle, and the chain drapes across his collarbone with the exact same weight.
Even the small scar on his jaw from when real Bobby walked into a cabinet door at nineteen is right there, a perfect replica of a wound that happened to someone else's body.
You sit up. Put distance between your body and his. Not much—a foot, maybe less—but enough that the air between you becomes a boundary instead of a shared warmth, and you see him register it. The slight tension at the corner of his mouth. The way his hand hovers where your back was and then settles, open-palmed, on the blanket beside him.
He doesn't chase you. He lets you keep your distance.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asks.
His voice is soft. Bobby's voice is never careful, not even this version, but soft, like someone asking a question they're not sure they want the answer to.
You don't answer that. Instead, you say, “Are you going to hurt me?”
He blinks.
“The way you hurt that thing.” Your voice is steadier than you expected. Flat, almost. The flatness of a person who’s run out of room for new fear and is now operating from somewhere clinical. Survival-practical. “Whatever it was. The sounds it made. The sounds you made.”
There’s movement behind his eyes. He doesn’t flinch, but you spot a shift, a recalibration, like a camera adjusting focus. He remembers what you heard. That low rumbling from his chest that didn't belong in any throat shaped like a human's.
“No,” he says. Immediate. No hesitation, no pause to consider. The word comes out of him with absolute certainty, like a reflex. “No. Never.”
You watch him closely. He looks back at you. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting that flat, shadowless yellow across everything. Better Bobby's face is open and sincere, but you don't believe him. Not completely. Not after what you heard through your closed eyelids. The shrieking and the wet dragging sound and the silence after, the horrible, total silence. The way he'd come back to you without a drop of anything on him. Like unmaking something in the dark was a minor errand.
And not after Bobby. Not after learning what it looks like when someone says I would never and means it and does it anyway. With the slow, grinding, erosive negligence of a man who might have loved you once but still started disappearing while standing right next to you.
Bobby never hit you. Never raised his voice in a way that carried a threat. Not once. Bobby simply stopped. Stopped seeing you, stopped hearing you, stopped reaching for you in the morning, and the absence was its own kind of violence, bloodless and total.
Now you're in a yellow hallway with a thing wearing his face telling you never with the same mouth and you cannot—you cannot—take that word at face value. Not from that face. Not anymore.
And he sees it. The disbelief. He reads it on your face the way real Bobby used to read light through a viewfinder. With instinctive precision, without needing to be told what he's seeing.
Better Bobby reaches out. Tips your chin up with one knuckle. Gentle. So gentle. Guiding your face back to his when you'd started to drift, to look away, to find a spot on the yellow wall that was easier to stare at than his eyes.
“Why do you think I chose this face?”
He says this face with an edge to his voice. Not quite contempt, not quite amusement. But snide. A little sharp. The closest thing to edge you've ever heard from Better Bobby. This brief flash of awareness that the face he's wearing belongs to someone else. Someone who wasted it, and he knows it, and he wears it anyway because—
You're silent.
Better Bobby smiles. Gentle. The sharpness folds back into warmth the way a blade folds back into a handle.
“I heard you,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
“From the other side. Through the wall.” He says it simply, his thumb working carefully over the dip of your chin. “He used to come to the store. Bobby. In the beginning. Before you worked the night shifts alone. He'd come hang out, and you'd be downstairs together, and I could hear you. Both of you. I could hear what it sounded like when he was still—” He pauses, expression twisting. You see him choose and settle on his next words. “When he was still trying.”
The lights flicker. Once. Settle again.
“And then he stopped coming. And you were alone down there. And I could hear that too.”
Your chest goes tight.
“You used to talk,” Better Bobby goes gently, watching your face. “Not to anyone. Not on the phone. Just—out loud. To the room. To yourself. To him, even though he wasn't there. Do you remember?” His thumb traces your jawline, feather-light. “You'd say things like he doesn't listen anymore. And he didn't kiss me goodbye again today, that's the third day in a row, am I keeping count now? Is that what I'm doing? Keeping count?”
Your eyes burn, blurring his familiar features.
“And I don't think he sees me. I'm standing right in front of him, and he's looking through me like I'm furniture. Like I'm one of Clark's display pieces. Something you walk around.”
“Stop,” you whisper.
He doesn't stop, but his voice goes softer. Almost tender.
“You were so lonely.” He says it like it's the saddest thing he's ever learned, and maybe it is. Maybe loneliness sounds different from the other side of a wall. Rawer, louder, the way a voice sounds in an empty room because there's nothing else to absorb it. “And so sad. And so angry, baby—”
You flinch because you don't—you weren't angry. You were hurt. That's a smaller, quieter, more acceptable thing than anger.
Because anger would mean admitting that what Bobby did wasn't just a failure of attention but a choice. Night after night after night, a man choosing the path of least resistance over the person lying next to him, and if you let yourself be angry about that, then the whole careful belief of maybe it's me, maybe I'm asking for too much, maybe love is supposed to feel like this after a while collapses, and what's underneath it is—
“—you were so angry, and you didn't even let yourself feel it. You said it like it was your fault. Like if you could just be more interesting or prettier or less needy, he'd—”
Hot, liquid feeling surges up from your chest to your throat. “Stop.”
He stops. But his eyes don't leave yours, and in them you can see that he knows. He heard it all, you realise. Every whispered self-indictment, every quiet renegotiation of your own worth to accommodate Bobby's shrinking attention.
He heard the thing underneath it too, the thing you buried so deep you forgot it was there.
The rage. The white-hot, screaming, incandescent fury of a woman who gave everything to a man who couldn't be bothered to look up from a television screen, who turned your love into background noise and let you stand in doorways wondering if you were still visible.
You buried it because anger felt like giving up. Because if you were angry, it meant something was wrong, and if something was wrong, it could be over. If it was over, then you'd given your whole heart to someone who let it sit on a shelf and gather dust, and that was unbearable. So you turned the anger inward instead, folded it into self-doubt, and let it eat you rather than the situation, because at least that way the situation could still be saved.
Better Bobby heard you bury it. He heard the burial, and he heard the body underneath it, and he's looking at you now with something that isn't pity or judgment. Isn't the performative concern that Bobby used to deploy in those final months when he bothered to notice you were hurting at all. That tight-jawed what's wrong that really meant please don't make me deal with this.
This is something else. Recognition. The look of a thing that knows what it sounds like when someone swallows their own rage until it poisons them. Until it makes them abandon everything they once knew for a world of yellow, buzzing lights and monsters in the dark.
“It wasn't you,” he says, his hand cupping your cheek. His palm is cool, his fingers curving, and he holds you there. There’s no force, no hard grip, he’s just holding. Cradling. The way you'd hold something you found in the dark that was shaking. “It was never you. You could've been perfect. You were perfect. And he still would've pulled away because that's what he does. That's how he's built. He gets close, and it scares him. So he retreats, and that's his malfunction, not yours.”
It’s then you start crying.
Not like earlier. After the attack. That was shock, adrenaline, your nervous system shorting out.
This is different. This is slow and terrible, coming from somewhere so deep you didn't know the room existed.
It's the crying you should've done months ago, in the apartment in Santa Clara, on the nights when Bobby was asleep three feet away, and you were staring at the ceiling, wondering when you became the kind of woman who measures love in absences. He didn't kiss me today. He didn't ask about my day. He didn't look up. Keeping count. Tallying the deficit. The anger you didn't let yourself feel and the grief you couldn't afford mixed with the loneliness you absorbed like radiation, quietly, invisibly, until it changed the composition of your bones.
Better Bobby pulls you in when the first sob breaks. Slow and careful, his arms folding around you, and your face presses into his chest.
He holds you while you shake apart. His hand moves on your back, but there's more uncertainty in it now. He pauses at your shoulder blade. Adjusts. Resettles his palm. Like he's figuring out the right pressure in real time. Learning the weight of comfort.
His chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel the slight furrow of his brow against your hair, the way his body is holding very still around the motion of his hand. He’s noting each shudder, each ragged breath, trying to understand the mechanics of this. What crying is. What it means. Why your body does it and what it needs from his.
“I love him,” you choke out. Waterlogged. Muffled against his chest. “I love him so much. And he just—he stopped. He just stopped, and I keep thinking if I'd done something different, if I'd been—”
“No.” Firm the way a hand on your shoulder is firm when you're about to step into traffic. “Don't do that.”
“—if I'd been less”—”
“No.”
His arms tighten around you. You feel his jaw clench against the top of your head, a brief flash of what might be anger.
At the sentence, at the shape of the thought, the idea that you would carve yourself smaller to fit inside Bobby's shrinking attention span. His hand on your back goes still and then resumes, slower, like he's reminding himself to be gentle.
“You did nothing wrong,” he says into your hair. “You loved someone. You loved them well. And they couldn't hold it. That's not a flaw in the love. That's a flaw in the hands.”
You cry until there's nothing left. Until you're just breathing, wet and ragged, against his chest. The sobs eventually thin to hiccups, then to shudders, finally settling into a deep, wrung-out stillness, the exhaustion that comes after.
Better Bobby holds you through all of it. Doesn't shift. Doesn't pull back. Doesn't ask if you're okay, which is a kindness in itself because the answer is obviously no and being asked to say it out loud would be one more weight.
When you finally pull back, your face is swollen, and your eyes are raw. Better Bobby looks at you with an expression you've never seen on Bobby's face. Open and bewildered, creased with tenderness in a way that seems to be happening to him without his permission. Like he reached for the right emotion, grabbed something bigger than he expected.
He touches your face. Thumbs the tears off your cheekbone, one side and then the other, careful, methodical. His brow furrows. Curious. The furrow of a thing encountering a phenomenon for the first time and finding it far more complex than anticipated.
“Sad,” he murmurs. Almost to himself. Almost wonderingly.
You sit together in the yellow light for a long time. The hum fills the silence.
Then you reach out and touch his face.
Your fingertips on his cheekbone. Tracing the line of his jaw. The scar from the cabinet door. The corner of his mouth where real Bobby's grin always starts, one side before the other, that lopsided asymmetry that used to make your heart stutter.
Better Bobby goes still.
Then he hums. Low in his throat. Warm. A sound that starts in his chest and travels up through all of him like a vibration through a struck bell. His eyes close. His head tips into your palm like a cat pressing into a hand, like he's been waiting for this, this specific thing, your skin on his skin, voluntary and gentle, initiated by you.
The difference matters; it matters enormously, you can tell by the way his breath changes, goes uneven, almost delicate.
His lips part, just slightly, lashes fluttering against your thumb.
“That feels good,” he whispers huskily. And then, quieter, with a note of genuine wonder, “How odd.”
You watch him lean into your hand, and the expression on his face is unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. Bobby's face, but not Bobby's expression. It could never be Bobby's expression, you realise suddenly, because Bobby would've turned it into a joke by now, would've kissed your palm or made a quip or done something to break the sincerity before it got too heavy.
Your hand stills on his cheek. He opens his eyes. Looks at you.
“I need you to make me a promise,” you say.
There’s another ripple in his expression. The tilt of his head. That almost animal curiosity, the slight cock to one side that doesn't quite track as human body language. “A promise?”
“Yes.”
He studies you. Processing. “What is a promise?”
The question is genuine. Not rhetorical, not evasive. He's looking at you the way he looked at your tears. With concentration, focus, and a desire to understand. You can almost see the gap between knowing the word and understanding the weight, and he's standing at the edge of it, waiting for you to build the bridge.
“It's—it's a commitment. Something you say that you can't take back. Something you keep even when it's hard. Even when you don't want to. Even when circumstances change.” You swallow thickly. “When you make a promise, you don't break it. That's the whole point. It's the one thing that's supposed to be unbreakable.”
Better Bobby is quiet. Considering. His eyes move across your face in that precise, reading way.
“I understand,” he says carefully, solemnly. Like he's holding the concept in his hands and turning it to see all sides. “An oath. A contract between two beings that supersedes circumstance.”
You blink. “Something like that.”
He angles his face closer, attention fixed and unblinking on you. “Then ask.”
You drag your eyes over his face. Bobby's face, Bobby's eyes, Bobby's scar. The face of a man who loved you and couldn't say it and showed it by looking away until you forgot what it felt like to be seen. The face of a thing that isn't that man and chose to wear him anyway because it heard you through a wall and wanted to be the version that stayed.
“Promise me… you won't hurt me,” you say quietly. “Not the way he did.”
The words hang in the yellow air. The hum shifts. Not louder, but denser somehow, as if the walls themselves are listening, as if the promise is being registered by something larger than the two of you.
Better Bobby's expression changes. Curiosity dissolves. What replaces it is—
You don't have a word for it. Not solemnity, a gravity older than language. It rises from the part of him that isn't Bobby: the vast and ancient thing beneath the boy’s face. The part of him that understands what you are asking is not a small thing. That the promise you want is, for a being like him, a kind of architecture. A structure that, once built, holds.
“I promise,” he says. No hesitation, no charm, no Bobby-grin to soften the weight of it. Just the words, low and clear, carrying the same absolute certainty as his no earlier. A reflex, a law carved into whatever he is at a level deeper than the face, deeper than the voice. “I will not hurt you. Not the way he did. Not any way.”
His hand covers yours on his cheek. Presses it there. Holds it.
“I don't know how to break a promise,” he tells you, quieter now. “But I think that's the point.”
You nod, unable to speak. Your hand is on his face, cool to the touch, and his hand is on your hand. You watch each other for a long time, unwilling to move first.
He breaks the stalemate first, taking your hand into his.
“Come with me,” he urges with that restrained excitement in his eyes, barely contained behind Bobby's careful coolness. Something almost boyish in its sincerity. “Somewhere that's not yellow.”
You look at his hand, using your other to wipe the tear tracks off your face. “Is it safe?”
And then it returns.
Not the gentle Better Bobby who strokes your hair and says I've got you. The other one. It surfaces behind his eyes like a shape moving under dark water. Vast, amused, ancient. His chin dips slightly. His mouth curves.
And for a half-second, the thing looking out at you from Bobby's face is not performing warmth or mimicking tenderness. It's something that has walked these hallways since the beginning. Something that heard you through a wall and chose to want you rather than simply take you, and the distinction between those two things is the only reason you're still breathing.
“Baby,” he drawls, and his voice is Bobby's, but the tone is deeper, older. “I am what's safe here.”
It lasts a second. Less. Then he blinks and the ancient thing submerges and Better Bobby is back, warm-eyed and easy-mouthed, holding his hand out to you in the yellow light like nothing happened.
“Come on,” he says, lighter now. Normal. That crooked half-grin back. “Trust me.”
You take his hand, and he pulls you up.
He leads you through the hallways. Different route this time. Sharper turns, narrower corridors, and Better Bobby moves through them with liquid confidence, his hand secure around yours, his pace unhurried. You pass through a section where the carpet gives way to tile, and the tile gives way to something that feels like packed earth beneath your feet.
The walls shift from yellow to grey, and you tense, your grip tightening, and he squeezes back. Once. Reassuring.
Then the hallway opens.
You stop.
It takes your brain a moment. Several moments. Because what you're looking at doesn't belong here, can't belong here, is fundamentally incompatible with everything you've experienced in this place so far, and yet here it is: sky. Actual sky.
Not blue exactly, but deeper and richer. The colour of late afternoon, easing toward evening, a gradient of gold and amber, close to violet at the edges. And beneath it, trees. Dense, old-growth, the kind of towering canopy you'd find in the Santa Cruz Mountains, all ferns and filtered light and the rich, complex smell of living earth. A path winds through them, beaten dirt, dappled with sun.
You can feel it on your face. Not quite the real sun of your world, but it’s not fluorescent.
You stand in the threshold between the hallway and the forest, and you don't breathe because if you breathe or blink, it might disappear.
“Level 14,” Better Bobby announces behind you casually, tracking your reaction. “Some people call it Paradise.”
“How—”
“Doors.” He shrugs. “Everything here has doors. Entrances and exits. You just have to know where they are.”
You step forward. Grass. Real grass, or something so close you can't tell the difference, and the sensation is so overwhelmingly normal after the carpet and concrete and yellow that your eyes fill again, and you press your hand over your mouth.
Better Bobby steps up beside you. He's watching the trees with that curious expression, head slightly tilted, but underneath it, there’s satisfaction. Quiet pride. He found this, and he brought you here because you were crying on the floor, and he didn't know what else to do except find you somewhere beautiful.
You grab his hand.
Hard, sudden, fingers lacing through his, knuckles blanching. Because there are trees and you don't trust anything that looks like the real world, because the real world abandoned you.
Better Bobby looks down at your joined hands, and his lips part. That smile appears again. The new one, the one still taking shape on features designed for smirking, learning in real time how to hold something softer. Slow. Almost shy.
He doesn't comment. Doesn't tease. Just holds your hand back and starts walking.
“It's safe here,” he tells you, feeling the tension in your grip, the coiled readiness. “This level is safe. Nothing hunts here.”
“You said the yellow—Level 0 was safe.”
“Level 0 is my territory. Things occasionally wander in.” He says my territory without emphasis, but the words land heavily anyway, carrying the weight of what you saw behind his eyes a few minutes ago, the brief flash of the creature that owns these hallways. “Here—” He gestures with his free hand. The amber light moves across his skin, and he looks different in it, softer. More like Bobby at golden hour on the fire escape back home, and the resemblance hits you like a fist. “Nothing wanders. Nothing wants to wander. It's peaceful. Even the things that live here are gentle.”
You walk. He leads you deeper, and the canopy closes overhead like a ceiling, green and gold, light falling in shafts through the leaves and landing in warm patches on the path. You hear birdsong. Birdsong. You haven't heard birdsong in… you don't know how long. The sound cracks something open in your chest that you thought had scarred over.
Your grip on his hand loosens. Slightly.
The path winds along a stream. Clear water over smooth stones, the sound of it gentle. Nothing like the dripping in the pipes on Level 2. Simply water moving over rocks because gravity says so.
The path opens into a clearing. Tall grass. A meadow ringed by trees, the canopy breaking to reveal that impossible sky, and in the centre a fallen log covered in moss, the kind of thing you'd find on a trail in Big Basin or Castle Rock. The kind of thing you and Bobby used to perch on when you went hiking in the early days and kiss until your mouths went numb.
Better Bobby guides you to the log. You sit. He sits beside you. Hands still joined.
A bird—small, brown, ordinary—lands on a branch above you and turns its head and looks at you with one bright black eye, and you stare back at it, your chin trembling. Because it's a bird, just a bird, and you'd forgotten how much of the world you were missing.
“I didn't think this place could be beautiful,” you say quietly, looking at the amber light filtering through the canopy, the way it falls on the tall grass in warm pools. “I thought it was just… yellow. And carpet. And things with teeth.”
“Most of it is,” Better Bobby replies honestly. Not sugar-coating it.”But most of anywhere is. The trap of this place, if you can consider it one, is that you’d never want to leave. How could you? When everywhere else there’s death.”
“This is different.”
“Why?”
“Because it shouldn't exist. Because this whole place is wrong. It's not supposed to be here. None of it. And somewhere inside all that wrongness, there's this—” You gesture at the meadow, the sky, the bird, the stream. “It doesn't make sense.”
Better Bobby is quiet for a moment. Watching you the way he does—full attention, total focus, the listening that feels less like politeness and more like study.
“Maybe that’s exactly why it exists,” he says. “Maybe it was built by mistake. Or maybe it exists because nothing is ever just one thing.”
You turn to look at him. He's sitting beside you in amber light with his earring catching gold instead of fluorescent. And his face is Bobby's face, but the expression on it is something Bobby hasn’t worn in a long time, if ever. Patient, present, content with simply being here without reaching for a camera, without filtering the moment through a lens, or needing a barrier between himself and the thing he's looking at.
“I don't want to call you Bobby anymore.”
He goes still.
The uncertain one. A brief, visible tension through his shoulders, his jaw, the hand holding yours tightening by a fraction. His eyes flick to your face, and the light in them is guarded in a way you haven't seen from him before. Wary. Like you've touched something unexpectedly tender and he's bracing for what comes next.
You see the calculation, the quick processing, and you understand. He thinks this is the beginning of something else. A rejection. A pulling away. You're not Bobby, you'll never be Bobby, and I don't want the reminder. He's already building the wall behind his face, that smooth, easy mask he can slip back into, the charming nonchalance to protect himself.
“You're not him,” you go on quickly. Before the wall finishes closing. “That's—that's the point. You're not him. You're something else. And it feels wrong to call you by another person's name when you're your own—” You fumble. Gesture at him, at the clearing, at everything. “Your own being. Your own person. Or—whatever you are. Whatever the word is. Entity?”
His jaw loosens, shoulders dropping a fraction. The wall stops building.
“What would you call me?” he asks quietly. Like the answer matters more than he wants to show.
“Maybe… BB?” You say it, and it feels right. Simple. Still him, still connected, but his. Not borrowed. Not a copy of a copy. “If that's okay?”
He's quiet for a long moment, simply gazing at you. The light shimmers on his face, and his expression shifts through layers. The careful architecture of Better Bobby rearranging itself around this new information, this small, enormous thing you've just given him. A name. His own name. Not the one he stole. The one you chose.
You lean your head against his shoulder lightly.
You can feel it through the contact between you, through the place where your temple rests against his shoulder. Something in him settles. Deepens. A satisfaction so total it's almost palpable, like a beam slotting into place.
He likes it. Being seen as separate, being known as his own being. Not the understudy, not a replacement, not the better version of someone else, but simply a version of himself. You can feel how much he likes it in the way his thumb resumes its slow circuit over your knuckles, in the way his head tips to rest on yours, in the breath he lets out that sounds like it's been held for centuries.
“BB,” he repeats, testing it. His voice comes in a low, warm rumble. Bobby's timbre with something deeper underneath, and the two letters sit in the balmy air, small and perfect.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “BB.” A beat, then, “Thank you. For hearing me.”
A hum starts low in his chest, a thrum you feel before you hear it. It travels the length of his arm to where his fingers are laced through yours. He squeezes once, and when he speaks again, the easy charm has drained out of his voice, leaving it quieter, almost reticent.
“I was lonely too,” he admits.
Your heart squeezes, quick and helpless.
You sit together for a long, long time, the light pooling thick and lazy around you. And for the first time since you fell through the wall, what settles in your chest isn't fear, isn't confusion, and not grief.
It's peace.
The walk back is different.
BB leads you through the same threshold, and the yellow returns, followed by the buzz that resettles on your skin like a coat you forgot you were wearing. But something in you has shifted. Loosened. The meadow is still sitting inside your chest, warm and quiet. You carry it back into Level 0 the way you'd carry a cupped handful of water.
And you're talking.
Actually talking. Not the halting, guarded exchanges of the past weeks. Or the questions that go in circles, the silences that stretch like hallways.
You're talking, and BB is listening. Somewhere between the threshold and the familiar territory of your room, you say something about Clark—about the time Clark tried to assemble a display bookshelf himself and got the shelves in upside down, and you'd had to redo the entire thing at midnight while Clark stood behind you insisting it looked fine—and BB laughs.
It's a good laugh. It's Bobby's laugh. Low, surprised, that huff through the nose that real Bobby does when something catches him off guard, and it makes you smile. Actually smile. Your cheeks ache with it.
You can't remember the last time your face did that.
“He sounds like an idiot,” BB remarks, grinning. That cocky half-grin, the one that crinkles one eye.
“He's not—okay, he's a little bit of an idiot. But he means well. He’s just going through a rough patch right now. He doesn't know how to—”
“Accept help?”
“I was going to say read an instruction manual.”
BB snorts. “Same thing.”
He bumps your shoulder with his. Easy. Playful. And you bump him back, and the normalcy of it—the sheer, stupid, ordinary normalcy of walking and talking and bumping shoulders with someone—is so sweet it makes your throat tight with a different kind of ache. An emotion closer to joy, which is worse because joy in a place like this is borrowed.
“You know,” you begin, squinting at him, “for a—” You stop, gesturing vaguely at him. “You're not bad company.”
“Not bad company.” He puts his hand over his chest. Bobby's mock-wounded face, the one real Bobby used to pull when you beat him at cards. “I'm overcome with emotion.”
“Shut up.”
“No, no, I'm serious. I'm going to treasure this moment. Not bad company. I'm getting that tattooed.”
“Can you even get a tattoo?”
His mouth hooks into that infuriating half-smirk that unfailingly warmed your blood for years, “Baby, I can do whatever I—”
He stops.
Mid-word. Mid-stride. His body goes rigid so fast it's like watching someone get hit with a current. Every muscle locking at once, his hand tightening on yours hard enough to hurt. His head turns. Not the way a person turns their head. The way a thing turns. Too sharp, too angular, his chin cocking to one side at a degree that doesn't belong on a human neck with a faint click. His eyes go flat and dark, and the creature behind them surges to the surface, breaching deep water.
You suck in a breath, eyes snapping around you, searching. “BB?”
He doesn't answer. He's listening. Every line of his body orients toward something you can't hear, his nostrils flaring slightly, and the hum in the walls shifts tone. Barely. A semitone. Like the whole level just inhaled.
“BB, what—”
He moves.
He doesn't explain. His hand releases yours and both of his are on your shoulders, turning you, walking you. Fast, with an urgency you haven't seen from him before, not even with the strange thing in the hallway. His jaw is set, eyes scanning the corridor with a focus that's mechanical, inhuman, processing information from sources you can't perceive.
“Please talk to me—”
“Shh.”
It’s not BB's voice. But an older rumble. Something that's done calculating, moved on to acting, and doesn't have the bandwidth for warmth right now.
He takes you to your room. The warm nest. The blankets. He guides you down with one hand on the back of your head, the way you'd ease someone into a car, pulling the blankets around you, and you grab his wrist because his eyes are wrong. They're flat, black, and old.
The thing in the hallway, whatever it is, has made him become the thing he was in the dark with the Smiler, and that version of BB is a version you can't reach.
“Stay here,” he instructs sternly. His voice is low and tight, thrumming with that sub-frequency that vibrates in the walls. “Don't move. Don't make a sound.”
“What's happening? What's—”
“Stay.”
He looks at you. One second. A flash of the warmth—buried deep, almost submerged, but there, still—and then his expression closes like a door slamming. BB straightens and turns toward the hallway.
You blink, and he's gone.
Just gone. Between one blink and the next, the space where BB stood is empty. The air where his body was is settling, displaced, like water closing over the place where a stone sank.
The hum holds its earlier shifted note. That slightly wrong semitone, tense and high, like a held breath.
You sit in the blankets with your knees pulled to your chest, heart in your throat, and stare at the empty doorway and beyond it, listening intently.
Nothing. No tearing. No shrieking. No sounds at all. Just the hum and the buzz and your own breathing and the silence so total it frightens you more.
You wait.
The meadow is still inside you: the bird, the stream, the warm light, the way BB laughed when you told him about Clark's bookshelf. The stupid, gentle joke about the tattoo, the way his shoulder bumped yours, and you bumped him back, and for thirty seconds, you forgot where you were and what he was, and the whole impossible situation felt like a walk home from somewhere good with someone you liked.
You press your face into your knees. You wrap your arms around yourself.
You wait.
BB comes back eventually.
You don't know how long it's been. Time in the Backrooms is a broken clock. Sometimes the minutes stretch into hours; sometimes what feels like an afternoon is over before a thought can finish forming.
You've been sitting in the blankets, knees to chest, listening to the hum slowly, slowly settle back to its normal pitch, the tension of Level 0 releasing one degree at a time. You didn't sleep. You didn't move. You just sat and breathed, holding the meadow inside you like a candle flame in cupped hands.
You hear him before you see him. Footsteps. Slow. The particular rhythm of his walk. Bobby's gait, but smoother, more intentional, the way a predator moves even when it's not hunting. Then his shape appears in the doorway.
Something's off.
He's standing the way he always stands—one shoulder against the doorframe, hip cocked, that easy lean—but the details are wrong. Slightly. His edges are too sharp. The line of his jaw looks as if it were drawn rather than grown. His skin has a quality to it, like wet paint, freshly applied. And his eyes.
BB’s eyes are settling. That's the only word for it. The flat, black depth that swallowed the warmth when he left is receding, draining away, and Bobby's eyes are rising to the surface again. You watch it happen. You watch him reassemble himself.
He was something else, you realise. Whatever he went to do, wherever he did while away, he dropped Bobby's face to do it. And what you're looking at now, standing in the doorway, is the process of putting it back on. Climbing back inside the shape of a person. Buttoning up the human suit.
“BB.”
He blinks. The last of the darkness drains from his eyes. He looks at you, and the warmth returns. In layers, like watching a photograph develop, his shoulders relaxing at the sight of you. The too-sharp lines of his face soften into the Bobby you know, and his mouth does that almost-smile, the one that says I'm here without words.
“Hey, baby.”
“What happened?”
Not a question. A demand. You say it flat and steady, holding his gaze, and you don't let him do the easy-grin deflection, the don't worry about it. You've had enough of that for one lifetime. You made him promise.
BB reads it on your face. The refusal to be contained.
He exhales through his nose—Bobby's habit, the one that means I don't want to talk about this, but I'm going to—and pushes off the doorframe and comes to sit beside you on the blankets. Close. His knee touches yours.
“There's something new,” he says after a pause. “In the Backrooms. Something I haven't encountered before.”
You stare. “An… entity?”
“Yes.” He turns the word over like he's not sure it's sufficient. “It’s been… circling. Mainly the perimeter of Level 0. Not entering. Not yet anyway. Just... moving along the edge. Testing it.” His jaw works. That muscle at the hinge, the one that flexes when Bobby's thinking, when Bobby's holding something back. “It's been doing it intermittently. Coming close, then retreating. Like it's taking measurements.”
A shiver skitters down your spine. “What does it want?”
“I don't know.” And you understand that BB doesn't say I don't know often or easily. BB is the thing that knows this place, that moves through it like blood through a vein, that owns Level 0. Admitting ignorance is not in his nature. It sits wrong on his face, like a shirt buttoned crooked. “It's different from the others. Not like the Smiler. Not like the Howlers, either. Not like anything in my experience. It's very new.” A tense pause, then, “And very, very powerful.”
The way he says powerful makes the hum in the walls dip. Just for a second. A brief, almost subliminal drop in frequency, as if Level 0 itself heard the word and flinched.
You stare at him, your heart thrumming in your chest. Bobby's face, creased with a concern that doesn't quite fit the cocky architecture of it. BB in a rare moment of honesty about his own limits. Something new, he said. Something powerful. Something that makes a thing that unmade another entity with its bare hands sit next to you on a pile of blankets and admit it doesn't have an answer.
You exhale, turning to stare at the yellow wall instead.
“I want you to teach me,” you tell him after a moment.
His head turns. The dog-tilt. Quick, surprised.
You look back towards him. “About this place. The levels. The entities. The doors, the rules, whatever—I want to understand it. I don't want to just—” You gesture at the blankets, the room, the warm patch you've been sleeping in for however long you've been here. “I don't want to be something you put in a nest and guard. I want to know what's out there. How to move through it. I don't want to be helpless whenever you leave.”
BB studies you. That long, reading look, line by line, extracting meaning. You expect resistance. Protectiveness. The instinct to keep you in the soft, warm place where nothing can touch you, where he can fold himself around you like armour and pretend the world ends at the walls of this room.
Instead, slowly, he nods.
“There are rules,” he insists. The caution is audible. Measured, considered, a thing that’s used to absolute control, negotiating the edges of a concession. “I go with you. Always. You don't wander alone. Not until you understand enough.”
“Okay.”
“And there are levels I won't take you to. Places where my presence doesn't offer the protection it does on 0. Places where—” He pauses, choosing his words the way you'd choose a path through uneven ground. “Places where going would be… foolish.”
“Okay. Deal.”
You watch him watch you, just like earlier in the sunlight. “Okay,” he says eventually. “I'll teach you.”
Time passes.
You don't know how much. The Backrooms don't have seasons, don't have sunrise and sunset. No reliable Monday into Tuesday into Wednesday that structures a life on the other side of the wall. What you have is rhythm—the rhythm of sleep and waking, of walking and resting, of BB's hand on yours as he leads you through doorways you're learning to see.
You miss the real world.
It hits you at strange moments.
Not when you'd expect, not during the long stretches of yellow or the nights when the hum shifts pitch and BB goes rigid and watchful beside you. It hits you in the quiet. In the nothing moments.
You'll be sitting in the nest sketching a corridor layout, and the pen will skip, and you'll shake it the way you used to shake the pens at Clark's register. And the muscle memory will drag the whole world through.
The smell of the showroom, lemon polish and particleboard, the radio playing low from the boombox behind the counter, the particular quality of California dusk through the front windows when the strip mall parking lot emptied out.
The apartment. The couch. The sound of Bobby's camera clicking in the other room.
You miss rain. Not Level 14 rain, or drizzle of the Poolrooms. Actual rain, East Bay winter rain, the kind that hammered the apartment windows and turned the parking lot at Clark's into a shallow lake and made Bobby curse because he'd left the car windows cracked again.
You miss the smell of wet asphalt. You even miss traffic. The dull boredom of a slow Tuesday shift with no customers, leaning on the counter with a magazine, watching the clock crawl toward closing.
You miss cereal. The specific crunch of it, dry, eaten by the handful out of the box at midnight because you were too tired to make real food after a close. You miss the weight of your own blankets on your bed, not the gathered nest-pile BB assembled for you. You miss the answering machine clicking on. You miss the phone ringing at all.
You think about going back.
Not the way you thought about it in the first weeks. That was rantic, clawing, animal desperation to find the wall you fell through and push back to the other side. That's burned out. What's left is quieter. More deliberate. A slow, circular calculation that runs in the background of your brain like a programme you can't close: Is there a way? If BB knows the doors, if the doors go between levels, if levels connect to each other in ways that don't follow geometry, could one of them connect back? Could there be a threshold that opens onto Clark's storage basement, onto the real world?
You don't ask BB. Because the calculation always stalls at the same place, the same, indestructible wall.
The wall in your chest. The one built from the last six months of your life in Santa Clara, from every unanswered question and unfinished sentence and cold sheet and blue TV light and grunt.
The wall that asks one simple question: Go back to what?
Go back to the apartment where Bobby looked through you like glass? Go back to the doorway where you stood with your keys in your hand and your heart in your eyes, and he didn't look up? Go back to being the woman who measures love in deficits, who keeps count of kisses the way she keeps count of inventory, watching the numbers dwindle, knowing exactly what the shortage means, and not being able to stop counting.
Bobby is probably relieved.
The thought arrives fully formed, mid-step, on a walk through Level 4, and it stops you so completely that BB turns back, his hand sliding to the small of your back, his head doing that quick, concerned tilt. You wave him off. Fine. I'm fine. But the thought is there now, lodged behind your sternum like a splinter, and you can feel it every time you breathe.
Bobby is probably relieved. Bobby is probably sleeping diagonally again. Bobby is probably eating cereal over the sink, leaving his bowl on the counter. Watching TV with his feet up and the apartment is probably messier, quieter. Less cluttered without your books and your magazines and your shoes by the door.
Your presence in every corner asking to be noticed.
Bobby is probably lighter, breathing easier. Maybe he looked up from the television one day and realised the doorway was empty and felt—what? Guilt? Or the guilty cousin of relief, the exhale of a man whose obligation to pretend has been finally lifted?
You haven't felt needed in months. Not once.
The realisation surfaces slowly, a gradual saturation of a truth you've been standing ankle-deep in since before you fell through the wall.
Bobby didn't need you. Bobby needed the idea of you—the girlfriend, the warm body, the person in the apartment who made it feel less empty—but he didn't need you. The particular, inconvenient you who wanted to be talked to and looked at and held and kissed goodbye every morning. That version of you was too much work.
That version required maintenance he couldn't be bothered to perform.
But the ache—god, the ache. It hasn't faded. You thought it would. You thought time and distance and the sheer alien absurdity of your circumstances would erode it the way the Backrooms erode seemingly everything. Until the original shape is unrecognisable.
But the ache for Bobby sits in the centre of your chest like a second heartbeat, stubborn and alive, and it doesn't care that he let you down.
It doesn't care that the last thing he gave you was a grunt. Love has no quality control. Love doesn't audit the recipient and adjust its intensity based on merit.
You still love Bobby with the same enormous, stupid devotion you loved him with on that Thursday morning when the sun was on the sheets and he ignored the phone and pulled you closer and rasped stay. That love has not diminished by a single degree despite every reason it should have, and the persistence of it is the cruellest thing about being here.
Because it means you’re aching for a man who made you feel invisible while standing in front of a being who has never once looked away.
You cry about it. Once. In the nest, in the dark, turned away from BB, muffling it in the blankets.
He doesn't say anything. His hand finds your shoulder. His thumb moves, once, twice, a slow circuit over the curve of bone. He doesn't ask what's wrong because he already knows—he's always known, he heard it all through the wall—and the kindness of his silence, the restraint of it, the choice to hold space instead of fill it, makes you cry harder.
You stop crying. You wipe your face. You pick up the notebook.
And you start mapping instead.
BB finds the notebook for you. God knows where, god knows how, a composition book with a mottled black-and-white cover and pages that smell like basement storage.
You hold it and the weight of it in your hands feels so familiar it aches. The pen he gives you is a ballpoint, blue ink, the cheap kind that skips if you press too hard. You uncap it and the click of the cap settles something in your chest. An old reflex. The same one that used to kick in when you opened the inventory binder at the store.
The satisfaction of a system, a structure, a way to organise chaos into a shape you can hold.
If you can't go back, you'll go forward. If you can't be needed there, you'll be needed here. Anything but the slow decay of being unwanted. And then, one day, when you're ready, you'll ask BB to find you a door back.
One day.
Level 0 comes first. The hallways you know, the ones BB takes you through, the turns and junctions and the places where the carpet changes texture and means something. A border, a threshold, a shift in territory.
You draw diagrams. Floor plans. Rough, imprecise, the proportions wrong because the proportions are wrong. Because the hallways don't obey geometry in any way you can verify. But the act of drawing them—of putting pen to paper, using the things Clark used to tell you about rendering shapes and rooms—makes it less vast. Less formless. Containable.
The pen moves and the world shrinks and for the first time in months you have purpose.
BB watches you work with undisguised fascination.
He sits beside you while you sketch, his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck, and sometimes he corrects you (that corridor turns left, not right or there's a junction there you haven't found yet) and sometimes he just watches your hand move and hums in his throat. That low, warm rumble that you've started to associate with contentment.
His chin digs into your shoulder when he leans in to see your shorthand and you flick his nose without looking up and he huffs—offended, amused, delighted, nosing closer—and the exchange is so easy, so thoughtless, so much like two people who’ve known each other long enough that the edges have been worn smooth by repetition.
Half the time you forget he's not human.
That's the truth you don't examine too closely. Because it would mean confronting what it says about you, about your standards, about how broken your idea of normal has become.
But BB sits beside you with his chin on your shoulder and his warmth against your side. He asks about your shorthand, remembers the answer, asks follow-up questions. He brings you food without being asked.
The line between an inhuman entity wearing a man's face and a person who cares about me blurs until it's less a line and more a smudge, a gradation, a slow dissolve from one thing into the other.
He cares for you. Genuinely. Not the way you care for a pet.
You see it in the small things first. The way he checks the temperature of the carpet before he lets you sit, and how he positions himself between you and the corridor when you sleep. His head turns toward you when you shift in the nest, tracking your movement the way a compass tracks north.
Most of all in how he says your name. Not baby, not the endearment—your actual name, the one he uses rarely, carefully, like he's holding it in his mouth and tasting each syllable. When BB says your name, it sounds like a discovery. Like a fact he's still pleased to know.
“You're organising it,” he says one day. Amused. Impressed. “The way you organised the inventory at the store.”
“It helps me think.”
“You're applying human systems to a place that doesn't follow human rules.”
“Is that a problem?”
He considers this. His head tilts. “No,” he replies slowly, like he's arriving at a conclusion that surprises him. “No, I think it might be… useful. No one's ever tried to map it like this. Most wanderers are too busy surviving to catalogue."
“Well,” you say teasingly. “I've got you for the surviving part.”
He goes quiet. You glance up from the notebook. His face is going through layers again, rearranging, the cocky default giving way to the newer expression underneath. The one that showed up when you named him. A door opening inward.
He catches you looking, and the default snaps back, the half-grin, the raised eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he drawls lightly. Entirely failing to conceal the sudden warmth radiating off him like heat from a furnace. “Yeah, you do.”
You add to the notebook every day. Layouts, landmarks, and the sensory details that serve as navigation.
BB takes you exploring.
Not every day. Some days the hum is wrong, or BB is tense in a way he won't explain, or you can feel the level holding its breath the way it did the night he disappeared and came back wearing a freshly assembled face. On those days, you stay in the nest. You write in the notebook. You read the pages you've already filled and trace the paths you've already walked and commit them to memory because memory is the only filing system you've got.
On those days, the ache comes back—Bobby's hands, Bobby's mouth, the way he used to drop his forehead against yours in the dark and whisper your name, just your name, over and over—and you let it sit in your chest and you don't fight it. But you don't follow it, either.
You just write around it. Inventory the grief the way you inventory everything else. Label it. File it. Move on to the next entry.
But most days, BB takes you out.
Level 1, first. BB walks beside you, and his posture changes here. Subtly mostly, the ease tightening into a coiled attention. His head on a swivel, hand at the small of your back with a pressure that says I'm tracking everything in this room and nothing will get within twenty feet of you.
You sketch the layout in the notebook while he stands guard. You mark the exits, the supply caches, the places where other wanderers have left graffiti on the shelving units. Messages, warnings, crude maps of their own.
You get braver. You ask questions. About the Smilers, the Howlers, about the hierarchy of things that live here. How they relate to each other and what makes some dangerous and some merely present.
BB answers. Not always fully, not always clearly. There are concepts here that he doesn't have a human language for. Mechanics that exist in the gap between what he perceives and what your brain can hold, but he answers, and you write it all down, and the notebook fills.
You develop a routine. You wake up, eat whatever BB has found or produced, and you walk. You explore together, map, and come back. You sit together in the nest afterwards and talk.
And the talking is easier now, less charged, less careful. You tell him about your life. The books you loved. The way you used to organise your bookshelves by colour rather than by author, because it made you happy to look at them. The hiking trails in the Santa Cruz Mountains, Big Basin and Castle Rock, the way the redwoods smelled after rain.
He listens the way he always listens. Total attention. Full presence. The thing Bobby couldn't do. The thing BB does like breathing.
And you catch yourself, one evening, doing something unthinkable.
You’re sitting in the nest with your notebook open, pen behind your ear, telling BB about the time you got lost on the Skyline-to-the-Sea trail. You had to navigate back using a park map you'd annotated so heavily it was more your handwriting than cartography. BB’s laughing. That low huff through his nose, his shoulder pressed against yours.
You're laughing too, and the yellow light is warm, and you realise, suddenly, that you haven’t thought about Bobby in three days.
The guilt is instantaneous.
A hot, lurching, physical thing that grabs you by the sternum and pulls. Three days. You went three days without the ache, and the absence of it feels like a betrayal so total it makes you nauseous. As if the love you carry for Bobby is a fire that requires constant tending, and you let it gutter, and that makes you—what?
The kind of woman who forgets? The kind who moves on? The kind who finds comfort in a pair of borrowed eyes while the original owner of those eyes is somewhere in Santa Clara, probably sleeping diagonal, probably relieved?
You go quiet. BB notices.
His shoulder presses against yours (a question, not a demand), and you shake your head, picking up the pen. Start sketching a corridor you mapped that morning, but the lines are slightly too hard, the ink pressing dents into the page.
BB watches your hand and says nothing, and the nothing is the right thing, the exact right thing, and you hate him a little for being so consistently, unbearably right.
You grow comfortable.
Not comfortable like safe, or comfortable like home. Because this place is neither of those things, and you know it. The notebook full of entity classifications and danger ratings is proof that you know it.
But comfortable the way you get with a person—a being, entity, a whatever-he-is—when enough time has passed that their presence stops being a question and starts being an answer.
You stop flinching when he appears in doorways. You stop tensing when his hand finds yours. You lean into his shoulder when you're tired, and he holds steady. The meadow on Level 14 becomes your Sunday, your weekend, the place he takes you when the yellow gets to be too much, and you need to remember what sky looks like.
You stop keeping count.
You don't notice it happening. It's quiet cessation of a habit so ingrained you didn't know it was still running until it stopped.
No more tallying. No more, he didn't today, that's the fourth day in a row. Because BB doesn't generate deficits. BB doesn't create gaps to count. He’s present the way the hum is present. Woven into the structure of your days so thoroughly that his attention isn't an event anymore, it's an environment.
You live inside his attention the way you live inside Level 0. It's just where you are.
But the ache for Bobby doesn't go away. Only migrates from the centre of your chest to somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter, a room in the back of you where it can sit with the memory of your first kiss and his arm around your shoulder by the ocean and the way he used to say stay and mean it.
You don't visit that room every day anymore. But you know it's there. You can feel its weight when you lie down at night, BB's arm around your waist, his breath on your neck.
The ache says remember, and you say I know, and you close your eyes, and you stay.
Your handwriting fills the notebook. Page after page. The careful, slightly messy script. A system. A structure.
A way to survive.
“It's circling again.”
You look up sharply.
BB is standing at the edge of the nest, head tilted, that almost-human listening posture—chin cocked, eyes unfocused, his whole body oriented toward a frequency you can't hear. His jaw is tight.
You set the pen down. “How close?”
“Closer than last time,” ee says evenly, too evenly. “It's running along the edge and then pulling back. Then running a little further.”
Ignoring the sudden chill at your nape, you say, “Like it's looking for a gap.”
His eyes flick to you. A beat of surprise follows. Quick and subtle, the kind he still has when you demonstrate that you've been paying attention to the lessons, that the notebook isn't just busywork but comprehension.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Like that.”
You pull your knees up. Wrap your arms around them. The notebook sits open on the blanket beside you, the page half-covered in your shorthand. A corridor map, danger annotations, the new symbol you invented last week for an unknown entity, and behaviour unclassified. You used it for the first time yesterday. The ink is still dark.
“What are you going to do?”
“I need to check the perimeter. See if anything's shifted. If it's been probing a specific section or moving along the full boundary.” He's already calculating. The ancient one surfaces behind Bobby's eyes, not all the way, just enough to sharpen the edges. To give his posture that predatory geometry that doesn't belong on a twenty-something in a crop top. “I want to understand its pattern before I kill it.”
“BB.” You say his name, and he stills. Focuses. The ancient thing recedes a fraction, and the warmth returns to the surface. You hold his gaze and say, carefully, gently, “Be careful.”
His mouth parts.
He crosses the nest in two steps. Drops into a crouch in front of you, his knees on the blanket, and his hand finds the side of your head. His fingers glide over one side of your face slowly. He strokes, long, gentle, from your temple to the nape of your neck.
“Stay here,” he says gently, his thumb tracing the curve behind your ear. “Stay in the nest. Don't go into the corridor. Not even the first junction.”
“I know the rules.”
“I know you know.” His hand stills in your hair, cupping the back of your skull. He dips his head until his forehead is close to yours, not quite touching, his breath warm on your face. His eyes are darker, layered, and the thing behind them is looking at you, too. For a moment, both of them are present. BB and the creature he's built on top of, and both of them are saying the same thing. “I'll be back.”
“You better be.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. Just barely. The private curve that's his and not Bobby's, the one you named into existence in a meadow on Level 14. He presses his lips to your forehead. Holds them there for a beat. You feel the hum vibrate through the contact, that low sub-frequency that lives in his chest and transfers through skin, settling behind your sternum like a second pulse.
Then he straightens. His hand slides from your hair. The softness drops from his posture in a single clean motion.
What's left is the thing that walks these hallways, silent and certain and very, very old.
He rounds the corner, and the yellow swallows him.
You pick up the pen. Open the notebook to a fresh page. You write: Entity X — perimeter — closer. Testing the boundary for gaps. BB checking pattern. Unknown motivation. Unknown capability.
You underline unknown twice.
Eleven minutes.
You know this because you've been counting.
Your brain just does it now, keeps a running tally of the seconds since his silhouette disappeared. Because your body has learned that when he's not here, the math of your survival changes.
With him, you’re the safest thing in this strange place. Without him, you’re a girl sitting on a damp carpet in a place that eats people. But BB always comes back, you remind yourself. Always.
You're sketching the rough map of the corridors you explored yesterday, trying to get the proportions right on a hallway junction that you're fairly sure had five walls, when you hear the footsteps.
Not his. His steps are almost silent, a predator's tread, weight distributed in a way that isn't quite human. These are boots. Multiple sets. Heavy, deliberate.
You close the notebook slowly.
Six figures come around the corner.
Not researchers BB warned you about. Wrong uniforms, wrong insignia, a logo you don't recognise stitched onto black tactical gear. They're armed. Not with the improvised weapons most wanderers carry. Real weapons. Professional grade. The kind that suggests funding, organisation, a chain of command that exists somewhere outside this place.
The one in front spots you and signals the others to stop. He says something into the radio on his shoulder, clipped and fast, and you catch the words “confirmed,” and “companion” and “entity absent.”
They waited for BB to leave.
“Ma'am.” The lead one steps forward. Voice flat. Professional. “You need to come with us. We're here to extract you.”
Your body tenses at those words, coiling, and you stand at once. “No.”
It comes out sharper than you expect. Hard-edged. The backrooms have made you harder than you realise.
“Ma'am, that's not—”
“I said no,” you repeat firmly. “I'm not going anywhere with a bunch of strangers.”
His jaw tightens. He glances at the others. Some signal passes between them. A shift in posture, a nod, the silent language you’re not privy to.
He reaches for your arm.
You hit him.
A closed fist, fast, driven by weeks of survival instinct and adrenaline and the specific, white-hot fury of being grabbed by a stranger in a place where the only person who touches you has earned it inch by inch.
Your knuckles connect with his cheekbone. The man’s head snaps sideways, and for one bright second, you feel savage satisfaction.
Then three of them are on you.
You kick. You bite. Drive your elbow into someone's throat and hear someone choke behind you. You're feral with it. No technique, no training, just the scrappy, vicious fighting of a girl who's survived the backrooms and is not going to be dragged by men who couldn’t even bother to introduce themselves.
Your nails rake across someone's forearm and draw blood. You wrench free of one grip and slam your heel into a kneecap. Someone swears, loud, furious.
“Fucking—hold her, HOLD HER—”
A hand fists in your hair. Yanks. Your neck snaps back, and your eyes water. Someone wrenches your arm behind you hard enough that the joint screams. You thrash, snarling. Your free hand catches someone across the mouth. You feel a tooth cut your knuckle.
The lead one is in front of you again. There's a red mark blooming on his cheekbone where you hit him, and his professionalism has curdled into something uglier.
“You want to do this the hard way?”
You spit at him. It catches his vest.
He hits you.
Open palm across your face. Your head rocks to one side. The world around you whites out for half a second, and then there's carpet under your hands and knees. Your lip throbs, burning numb, and you can taste copper in your mouth, dribbling. A boot slots between your shoulder blades, pressing you flat, and your cheek presses against the damp fibres.
Your wrists get pinned behind you roughly at an angle that sends bright, screaming pain up to your shoulder.
“Stay DOWN—”
You’re on the floor, bleeding. There’s a boot on your back and hands pinning your wrists. You’re away from the only safe thing in this place, and the carpet is wet against your split lip. You’re afraid. For the first time since your encounter with the Smiler, you’re terrified. Immediate, animal fear of being held down by someone stronger than you.
You open your mouth. You fill your lungs.
And you scream.
“BB—”
One word. It tears out of your throat raw and desperate, hitting the yellow walls, and the walls absorb it, and the walls move.
The fluorescent lights don't flicker. They detonate.
Every tube in the hallway blows simultaneously, glass raining down like ice, and in the darkness that follows, the hum of level 0 drops—drops—drops into a frequency that you feel in your teeth, in your ribs, in the boot on your back that suddenly isn't pressing as hard because the man wearing it has stopped breathing. Not dead. Frozen.
The way an animal freezes in terror when it smells something at the top of the food chain.
The walls crack. Clean fissures running floor to ceiling, splitting the drywall in deliberate, surgical lines, as if something were tearing its way through the building's architecture. The carpet ripples under your cheek. You feel it. The backrooms responding, contracting, the whole of level 0 seizing like a body in pain.
The boot lifts off your back.
Not because the man chose to move it. Because the floor tilted. Subtle. Just enough to shift his weight. Just enough to free you. The backrooms—him, it, the thing that is both—clearing the path.
You hear them before you see them react. The soldiers. Breathing fast. The click of weapons being raised. Someone screaming “what the fuck what the fuck what the—”
He comes out of the dark.
Not through a door but from the dark itself. Like the darkness peeled open and someone stepped through the seam.
He’s not fully human-shaped.
The Bobby suit is slipping. Shoulders too wide. Arms too long, hanging at angles that make your hindbrain scream. His fingers have too many joints—you can see them in the fractured emergency glow of the one tube that didn't shatter—long and wrong, curling like they're remembering a shape that predates hands.
His face is still Bobby's face but the geometry behind it is pressing outward, cheekbones like blades, jaw too sharp, too angular, the skull beneath rearranging itself into something that was never meant to be looked at directly. And his eyes are black. Fully, completely, endlessly black. Two holes in the front of his skull that open onto something without a floor.
He sees you on the ground.
The blood on your lip. The bruises on your skin. The tear tracks cutting down your face.
BB sees the boot print on your back.
There’s a sound.
It booms from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling simultaneously. From every surface of level 0, because he is level 0, and every square inch of it is snarling.
The remaining fluorescent tube doesn't shatter.
It melts. The glass softens and drips. The carpet under the soldiers' feet goes wet, soaked, saturated, as though the floor is turning into a swamp.
You press your face into the carpet and close your eyes.
It takes less than a minute.
You don't watch, but you hear it. Screaming that starts human and ends keening. Wet sounds. Heavy sounds. The particular acoustic signature of a body being opened by something that doesn't need tools. That horrible, snarling, clicking growl of pure rage.
One of them manages to fire a weapon, and the sound of the shot is enormous in the enclosed hallway. It cuts out, followed by a crunch of bone, and another, and another, and another—
Then there's nothing.
Silence.
The level settles. The hum reasserts itself, climbing back up from that sub-basement frequency to its usual buzz. You can feel it in the carpet against your cheek, scratchy and too warm.
One fluorescent tube fizzes back to life overhead. Yellow. Sickly.
You feel the air change. The temperature drops, and you know he's close before anything touches you.
When it does—a hand on your shoulder, delicate, so delicate—it's not quite a hand yet. Too many joints. The fingers too long, still retracting to Bobby's proportions, still remembering how to be the thing that strokes your hair instead of the thing that just—
You turn over.
He's crouching over you. Still wrong. The proportions haven't settled. BB’s arms are too long, and his spine is curved at an angle that doesn't work with human vertebrae. His face is a rough draft. Bobby's features sketched over the older, sharper one. Black fluid coats his hands. His jaw. His chest. Not all of it is black.
His eyes are still dark, but the blue is bleeding back in around the edges. Like ink dropped into water, spreading, reclaiming.
You reach for him.
Your hands are shaking so badly that you miss the first time.
Your fingers slip against the wrong texture of his jaw, the skin too smooth, too cool, still settling back to its bony configuration. You reach again, and this time you get his neck (too long, the vertebrae too prominent, sharp ridges under your palms where Bobby's neck was smooth), and you pull.
You pull yourself into him, and you cling.
Arms around his neck, face buried in his throat, legs curling up, making yourself as small as possible against his chest because if you can get close enough, maybe nothing will ever reach you again.
You wrap yourself around him with a muffled sob. One sob, then another, then a third that breaks open into something ragged and ugly and not at all brave.
You’re shaking and bleeding, crying into the neck of a monster, and you don't care. You don't care about the wrong temperature, the wrong shape or the black fluid soaking into your shirt.
You don't care.
BB freezes. One second. Two. The violence still running, the gentleness needing a moment to boot up. You feel it. The exact instant the system switches. His whole body shudders once, and then his arms come around you.
Tight. So tight. He scoops you up like you're nothing—one arm under your legs, one around your back—and pulls you into his chest and holds you against him like he's trying to absorb you. Like he could fold you into his body and keep you there where nothing touches you ever again.
His chin comes down on the top of your head. His whole body curves around you. You feel the strength in every inch of him. The same strength that just did what it just did, repurposed. Every ounce of force that tore six armed men apart, now calibrated with impossible precision to the exact pressure of holding without breaking.
“I'm here.” His voice. Rough. Not fully Bobby's voice yet. There's an edge underneath it still, something vast and deep, like hearing someone speak from several floors down. “I'm here, baby. I'm here.”
You press closer. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. Bobby's jacket. Your face is against his throat, and you can feel the absence of a pulse under your cheek. No heartbeat. Just the hum. His hum. Vibrating through his chest and into yours.
“They—” Your voice is thick, muffled against his skin. “They grabbed me, they were trying to—I fought, I tried to—”
“I know.” His hand finds the back of your head. Cradles it. His fingers—the right number of joints now, almost fully Bobby-shaped again—thread into your hair the way they do in the nest, slow, gentle, the careful repetitive motion that means safe, you're safe, I'm here. “I know. It's over.”
“There were six of them and I couldn't—”
“You don't have to.”
His other hand finds your face. Tilts it up. His thumb traces your split lip with a touch so light it barely registers. Just the ghost of contact, the pad of his thumb skating over the cut, and you watch his jaw tighten. The blue in his eyes flickers. Darkness swims underneath it, surfacing and submerging, and you know he is looking at the blood on your mouth, and memorising who put it there, and the fact that they’re already dead is not enough. Will never be enough.
“Does it hurt?” Quiet. Bobby's voice now, almost entirely. That specific soft register he uses in the nest, the one that makes your chest ache.
“A little.”
His thumb moves to the bruise on your cheekbone. Traces the edge of it. Down to your jaw. Along the finger-shaped marks on your wrist, and the sound he makes is barely audible. Low, tight snarl. A vibration caught behind his teeth.
“I should have been here.”
“You came.”
“Not fast enough.”
You almost laugh. What comes out instead is a wet, clogged sound. “You came very quickly, BB.”
“Not fast enough,” he repeats, and means it.
You put your head back against his chest. He holds you tighter. He hums. Shaky at first, the frequency wobbles. Then it steadies. Finding its rhythm. His song. The one that doesn't exist anywhere outside of him.
You feel the backrooms settle around you both. The lights dim softer. Temperature rises, degree by gentle degree, until the air feels like a room in a house instead of a hallway in purgatory. He’s doing that. Rewriting the space around your body because you’re shaking, and he can't make you stop shaking, but he can make everything else softer.
“BB.” Your voice is small. Muffled against his chest.
“Yeah?” Immediate. Soft.
“Don't leave.” You swallow. Press your face harder into the fabric of his jacket. “Just—for a bit. Don't leave.”
His arms tighten, cheek pressing against the top of your head. You feel him breathe—not because he needs to, but because you need to feel it, and he knows what you need, even before you know it yourself.
“Never,” he whispers.
One word. A law. Written into the fabric of this place. Never. As in: the sun will come up. As in: water runs downhill. As in: I will be here.
You close your eyes.
The shaking ebbs, not all at once but in increments, your body releasing its grip on the panic the way a fist unclenches. One finger, then another, then another. His hand keeps moving over your hair. Rhythmic. Patient. He will do this for as long as you need.
He will do this forever if you let him.
You stay like that. On the floor. In the hallway. Curled in the lap of a thing that’s just killed six men.
The backrooms are changing. You can feel it beneath you, a shuddering grind. Hallways folding. Routes sealing shut. The architecture of level 0 quietly, methodically, permanently rearranging itself around you both. Doors that used to lead here now lead nowhere.
He’s taking you somewhere no one will find you.
And you let him. Eyes closed. Face against his chest. Listening to the hum.
On ██/██/199█, at approximately ██:██ hours, a six-person tactical unit operating under the authority of ██████████████████████████████████ (hereafter "the Agency") conducted an unauthorised extraction attempt on the individual designated "the Companion" in M.E.G. Entity 0 documentation.
M.E.G. had no advance knowledge of this operation. We were not consulted or informed. We were not given the opportunity to do what we have spent the last eighteen months doing, which is explicitly and repeatedly recommending against exactly this course of action.
Our recommendation, stated in Section 7.2 of the Entity 0 dossier and reiterated in no fewer than six inter-agency memoranda, was as follows:
"Do not intervene. Do not extract. Do not, under any circumstances, threaten the Companion's safety within Entity 0's perceptual range."
The Agency disregarded this recommendation.
All six members of the tactical unit are dead.
RECONSTRUCTION OF EVENTS
The following timeline has been assembled from recovered equipment (three body cameras, one partially functional radio unit) and corroborating seismic data from M.E.G. monitoring equipment on Levels 0 through 3.
██:██ — Six-person tactical unit enters Level 0 via access point ██████. Equipment and insignia consistent with ██████████████████████████████████. The unit is armed with ██████████████████████████████████. They are equipped for a hostile extraction. This was not a rescue. This was a retrieval.
██:██ — Unit locates the Companion in a hallway junction on Level 0, sublevel ██████. Entity 0 is not present. Body camera footage confirms the unit waited for Entity 0 to leave the Companion's immediate vicinity before approaching. This indicates prior surveillance. The Agency was watching. We did not know they were watching. This is itself a security failure that is being reviewed separately.
██:██ — Unit lead makes verbal contact with the Companion. Instructs her to comply with the extraction. Companion refuses. She states clearly, on camera, that she does not wish to be removed. Her exact words are "No" and "I'm not going anywhere."
██:██ — Unit lead attempts physical restraint. The Companion resists violently. Body camera footage shows her striking the unit lead in the face, drawing blood from a secondary operative, and disabling a third with a knee strike before being subdued by multiple operatives simultaneously. She fought like someone who has been surviving the Backrooms for ██████, and it shows. The Companion is subsequently struck across the face by the unit lead and forced to the ground. Bruising consistent with forcible restraint is visible on both wrists.
I will repeat that for the record: a civilian who had clearly, verbally, on camera refused extraction was beaten to the floor by a six-person tactical unit.
██:██ — M.E.G. seismic monitoring stations on Levels 0, 1, 2, and 3 register a simultaneous anomalous event. The reading does not correspond to any known geological or structural phenomenon. Dr. ██████ has described the waveform as "an earthquake." I am including her analysis verbatim because I do not have a better description.
██:██ — The Companion screams.
██:██ — Entity 0 arrives.
The gap between ██:██ and ██:██ is approximately 1.3 seconds. Entity 0's last confirmed position was ██████████████████████████████████, an estimated █████████████ meters from the Companion's location. It covered this distance in 1.3 seconds. We do not have a theoretical framework for this. We are not going to develop one. It doesn't matter. What matters is what happened next.
██:██ (CONCURRENT) — What we did not understand at the time—and what has only become clear through post-incident analysis—is that Entity 0 did not move through the Backrooms to reach the Companion. It moved the Backrooms.
Temporal monitoring equipment across Levels 0 through 266 recorded simultaneous, catastrophic time distortion events at the moment of Entity 0's displacement. On Level 1, clocks ran backwards for approximately 3.7 seconds. On Level 2, a monitoring team reported experiencing the same eleven-second interval twenty times in succession. On Level 49, two operatives aged approximately 6 years in the space of 1.3 real-time seconds. Medical examination confirmed accelerated cellular turnover consistent with temporal compression. Both operatives have been placed on medical leave.
Entity 0 tore through the temporal fabric of the Backrooms to close the distance between itself and the Companion. It did not navigate. It did not transit. It ripped a hole through the structure of the intervening space.
The damage on the lower levels was temporary. The damage on Level ███ was not.
Level ███ is gone.
Level ███—a fully mapped, documented, and intermittently populated level of the Backrooms—no longer exists. It was not sealed. M.E.G. operatives who attempted to access Level ███ via three separate confirmed entry points found nothing. Not empty corridors. Not blank walls. Nothing. The space that Level ███ occupied is simply absent. As though it was never there at all.
Entity 0's transit path between its last confirmed location and the Companion passed directly through Level ███. The conclusion is unavoidable: Entity 0, in the 1.3 seconds it took to reach the Companion, annihilated an entire level of the Backrooms as collateral damage. The way a bullet destroys the wall behind the target. Level ███ was simply in the way.
We do not know if there were casualties. Level ███ was classified as intermittently populated. Wanderers passed through; some may have been sheltering there at the time of the event. We will likely never know. There is nothing left to recover. There is nothing left to examine. An entire level of reality was erased in 1.3 seconds.
Dr. ██████ has requested that this section of the report be classified as Level 5. I have denied this request. Everyone needs to read this. Everyone needs to understand what we are dealing with.
██:██ through ██:██ — Body camera footage for this period is partially corrupted. What remains has been reviewed by myself, Dr. ██████, and Dr. ███████████. Dr. ████ has declined to review it. Her decision is respected.
Entity 0 was not in its standard manifestation. I am not going to describe the specific deviations in this report. The footage is available for personnel with Level 4 clearance and a strong stomach.
The engagement lasted approximately 42 seconds.
Entity 0 did not use weapons. Entity 0 is the weapon.
All six operatives were killed. Cause of death for four: ████████████████████████ Cause of death for the remaining two: ██████████████████████████████████. Recovery of remains has been deemed inadvisable at this time, as Entity 0 ██████████████████████████████████.
██:██ — Final body camera footage shows Entity 0 approaching the Companion. It is partially restructured to its usual template, but not fully. The Companion does not retreat. She reaches for it. She clings to it. Entity 0 gathers her. The word "cradles" appears in three separate reviewer notes, and I am allowing it despite its lack of clinical precision because nothing else is accurate, and assumes a protective posture. Audio, though degraded, captures the Companion's voice saying something indistinct, and Entity 0 responding with a single word. Audio analysis has been unable to confirm the word. Dr. ██████ believes it was "never." The camera fails shortly after.
ASSESSMENT OF CONSEQUENCES
I said in Section 7.2 of the Entity 0 dossier that I did not want to see what it does to us. I have now seen it. I was right not to want to.
But the killings are not the primary concern of this report. Soldiers die. Operations fail. This is the nature of work in the Backrooms. The primary concern is what this incident has done to years of carefully maintained observational neutrality between M.E.G. and Entity 0.
Entity 0 tolerated us. That is not an exaggeration or a simplification. We have operated monitoring equipment on Level 0 for eighteen months. Entity 0 knew it was there. It knew we were watching. And it allowed it, the way a homeowner allows a bird to nest in their gutter. Not because they approve, but because it doesn't bother them enough to act.
That tolerance is, as of this incident, in question.
Within 48 hours of IR-0-27, the following changes were observed:
Level ███ remains nonexistent. Repeated attempts to locate it via all known access points have failed. Dr. ██████ has formally recommended that it be struck from the Backrooms cartography index. The level is not missing. It was unmade. The temporal scarring along Entity 0's transit path shows no sign of healing or regeneration. This is, as far as we can determine, permanent. An entire level of the Backrooms has been permanently destroyed as a byproduct of Entity 0's emotional response to a threat against the Companion.
M.E.G. monitoring equipment on Level 0, sublevel ██████ through ██████, ceased functioning. Not damaged. Removed. Every sensor, every camera, every seismic monitor. Gone. No debris. No evidence of destruction. The equipment is simply no longer there.
Three M.E.G. personnel conducting routine observation on Level 0 reported that the hallways they had used for months had "rearranged." Routes that previously led to confirmed Companion sighting locations now terminate in dead ends. Level 0 has been restructured. We believe Entity 0 has deliberately altered the architecture to prevent future observation.
The Companion has not been sighted since IR-0-27. She is not at any previously confirmed location. The blanket nest—documented across seven sighting reports as Entity 0's primary base of operation with the Companion—is empty. Every blanket, every scavenged item, every trace of habitation has been removed. As though no one was ever there.
Entity 0 has not been sighted on Level 0 since IR-0-27.
The implication is clear: Entity 0 has relocated the Companion. To where, we do not know. Dr. ██████ has proposed that they may have moved to a sublevel of Level 0 that is not represented in our current mapping. A level beneath the level, a space that Entity 0 has carved out or always possessed and simply never used until now. Until it had a reason to hide something it could not afford to lose.
We have, in the space of one unauthorised operation conducted by an agency that ignored every warning we provided, lost the single greatest research asset in the history of M.E.G. entity studies. The Companion is gone. Our access is gone. Years of carefully accumulated observational data has been rendered functionally useless because the subject has moved to a location we cannot find and sealed the door behind it.
FORMAL OBJECTIONS
I want the following on the record:
M.E.G. explicitly, repeatedly, and in writing recommended against any attempt to extract, contain, or engage the Companion. These recommendations were provided to the Agency through proper inter-organisational channels on ██/██/198█, ██/██/198█, ██/██/198█, ██/██/199█, ██/██/199█, and ██/██/199█. Each was acknowledged. None were followed.
The Companion was not a hostage. She verbally refused extraction, clearly, and on camera. The Agency proceeded with force. This is not a rescue. This is an assault on a civilian by a government-adjacent organisation operating without jurisdiction inside a space they do not understand.
The Companion was injured. She fought back and was beaten to the ground for it. She bled. And the thing that has been protecting her heard her scream its name. We told them what it does to things that threaten what belongs to it. We told them. They didn't listen. At least six people are dead because they didn't listen.
Entity 0 has, until now, operated within a framework that M.E.G. was beginning to understand. It was predictable. Perhaps not in its actions, but in its priorities. The Companion was the variable. The Companion was the key. And now the Companion is gone, and Entity 0 has demonstrated that its response to perceived threats is not merely violent but architectural. It didn't just kill the threat. It restructured its entire domain to prevent the threat from recurring. It sealed Level 0. It erased its footprint. It took its Companion, and it disappeared.
An entire level of the Backrooms was destroyed. Gone. Erased from existence as collateral damage during Entity 0's transit. If there were wanderers sheltering on Level ███ they are dead. Or worse. Or something we don't have a word for because the space they occupied no longer exists in any meaningful sense. We will never know. The Agency's unauthorised operation may have cost lives far beyond the six operatives they sent in, and we have no way to calculate the true body count because there is nothing left to count.
We do not know where Entity 0 is. We do not know if it will allow future contact. We do not know if, the next time an M.E.G. operative enters Level 0, Entity 0 will distinguish between us and the Agency. We may have inherited the consequences of someone else's stupidity, and we may pay for it in personnel.
RECOMMENDATIONS
All M.E.G. operations on Level 0 are suspended indefinitely pending reassessment.
The Agency is to be formally censured and barred from independent Backrooms operations until further notice. Their response to this censure is noted and disregarded.
No further attempts to locate, contact, or extract the Companion are to be conducted by any organisation, under any authority, for any reason.
If—and I stress if—Entity 0 re-establishes contact with M.E.G. personnel, the interaction is to be treated as a diplomacy scenario, not a research scenario. Entity 0 is not a subject. Entity 0 is, functionally, a sovereign power that we have just watched an allied agency declare war on. We will conduct ourselves accordingly.
Someone needs to tell the Agency what "apex predator" means. I have included a dictionary to help and clear the confusion.
Filed: ██/██/199█
Operations Director ██████
Addendum, handwritten:
She screamed his name, and the level cracked open.
I've been doing this for eleven years. I have never seen a response that fast. 1.3 seconds. It wasn't travel. He didn't cross the distance. The distance stopped existing. She called, and the Backrooms folded to put him where she was. And everything between them—every hallway, every corridor, every room, an entire level—ceased to exist because it was in his way.
The body camera audio from the aftermath is mostly static. But there is a moment, mostly degraded, where you can hear humming. And underneath the humming, faintly, a voice. Hers. Saying "don't leave." And then his. One word.
We are not dealing with an entity that lives in the Backrooms.
We are dealing with the Backrooms. And it is in love.
God help us all.
▓▓▓▓▓▓ END OF REPORT // FILE STATUS: OPEN — NEVER CLOSED ▓▓▓▓▓▓
Victor Gideon drives a motorcycle because no car fit him even pre-implantation. Every car he drove prior to his bike he could have drove with his knees as they sat just under the wheel even with it adjusted as high as it could go.
From getting a bike he eventualy ended up finding the leather/biker sceen and this social outcast had an awakening.
Shout out to Creators who have made waves with their Victor Gideon content!
They are wonderful artists, writers, and overall contributors to such a beloved character, this isn’t a full list, just a few that come to mind for their awesome work :) If you make fanart, write fics, or any other creative contributions, give yourself a shout out in the comments! Let’s give a spotlight to those both established and beginners in this space❤️
Coming out the gate swinging are those amazing individuals who provide artists such as myself with spectacular references! They do so much heavy lifting and freely give to those of us who are always on the hunt for the right pose or lighting; you guys are amazing, and I hope you know how appreciate you are, from both me and fellow artists :)
@alexwlwesker is an OG in the space, amazing close ups, fantastic angles, overall one of the best creators to go to’s for tricky poses and details!
@nostalgiaclown where do I begin??? Their screenshots are not only peak, but they are always clever and funny as hell with their captions and tags; if you want not only a stellar reference, but need a good laugh too? It’s gonna be them every time! :)
@greenhearteye They got you covered for environmental refs! Angles, rooms, their pics are also amazing for material textures; they have a master list I highly recommend!
@alphagravy If you want ambiance, momentum, and skilled virtual photography, this is the GOAT! Not only do they cover RE, but they have done fabulous stuff with other games like the SOULS series too :)
@gideonsexperiment They have been coming in CLUTCH with their recent pictures holy cow! The lighting and quality is out of this world!! Definitely excited with how they’ve progressed and can’t wait to see their future stuff, their efforts reflect in their skills :)
This is only a small pool of some of my favorite creators/accounts for references, so many more keep coming up and I cannot be happier with how cool everyone’s screenshots/virtual photography is. Artists would struggle much more without folks like your fine selves, your content is invaluable and you deserve every bit of recognition for it!
I might not as versed in fanfics or writing, however! I sure as heck will read and support anyway I can! Here’s a list of writers for both fics, AUs, drabbles, and game analysis/evaluations!
@acapelladitty If you want spice, Carolina Reaper with no milk levels of spice??? Ditty delivers in a way you come back for seconds. There’s smut, then there’s Ditty smut- Great narratives, solid voice, and never skimps on the details~ ;)
@didireadthisright Great work across the board, they know how to build both the world and traverse the story within it. There’s hooks in the narrative that shape tension, and is beyond skilled at how diversely they can branch out between fandoms! If you haven’t read their stuff, go do it! :)
@ninjacat1515 Unique and creative AUs, they can write both fun and serious snippets~ Their work has been so fun that I’ve just had to drop whatever I was doing and draw it! Love their stuff and their presence in the space :)
@sickly-dollie The doves may be dead but their writing is alive and well; this is a creator whom knows how to properly label and give CWings for those who dabble in darker themes or is curious about them. While I myself might not always partake in some of these themes, I have the utmost respect and appreciation for those who not only do, but do it well and safely for a viewers discretion. If you’re looking for darker fics or dabbles, this writer provides the exact kind of transparency so you know what you’re getting into.
@blueberry-bastard-boy I appreciate their snippets of writing, and I am so here for the inclusivity of it! They branch out from main stream and have provided thoughts/headcanons that include Trans/Queer representations. Some of the work has spice and some of it has anecdotes; with all of it, I cannot stress enough how much I appreciate the unapologetic declaration it has. There’s nothing more badass than being true to yourself and identity; I said it once and I’ll do it again, however you exist is valid and you are loved no matter who you are or who you aren’t. Keep on creating friend, you’ve got folks and support in your corner!
Smaller list, because my LORDY there are so many creative writers!! I kept finding more and more😂 Seriously, there is such talent among us, like I said at the start, shout out yourselves in the comments! Let’s find new creative friends to hold up and support! :)
Now I wanna give attention to some more unique and diverse creators! They’ve been really ramping up their personal projects and I think they’re wildly cool!
@bitternightshade-exe To say their Case File project is just ‘neat’ would be a egregious understatement; their work is so refreshing, it’s brilliantly unique, creative, and so well composed! This is a creator that takes a fans ‘interactive’ approach to the next level, I can’t stress enough they are just as cool as their work. 10/10 and I personally cannot wait to see their project come into full fruition! :)
@giddy4docgideon The AU? The writing?? THE EDITS??? Their crossover content is so fun, I love the blend of media with such dichotomies, and they’ve recently been cosplaying??? The growth of creativity in such a short time is worth a round of applause!
@rootbeeraddict69 Such a skilled artist, they have been working on super cool merch available on ACCgoods! They have a fun approach on character designs and has the ability to translate that so well into super cute stuff :) They got keychains and do commissions, definitely check them out if you’re interested in adding to your Gideon collection!
@vankyrakissa Most vibrant and delicious art!! They have such a wonder compositions, colors, the cross hatching??? Simply beautiful work, truly it is a delight to see such personal flair show through someone’s skill and talent :)
New creators are coming to the space all the time, projects starting out, finding their footing, or veer from main stream means of craft is so under appreciated; you guys are rad as Hell, y’all push creativity to new heights and show others that passion is more than fitting a mold.
This one’s special shoutout: these are artists that are coming into their own, have such individuality in their style, or are just plain awesome. Whether it’s for ship art (Yumes/OCs/Canon characters) or just illustrations of Victor, these artists are spectacular and this is to shine a deserving light on their fabulous artwork! :)
@junkkey Their OC Joanne?? So damn cute, I love her and Victor! Junkkey always has the best drawings of scenarios, silly or dramatic, their art is so uniquely ‘them’. I adore their headcanons and character lore, it’s so well thought out and always a treat when they show up on my page! :)
@doctoroctopuslover UM HELLO??? Their recent art is STELLAR!!! Such potential and I cannot wait to how they progress~
@phantoy Without a shadow of doubt one of the best Gideon artist out there; their ability to render is outstanding, they recently made a short into comic and I got to say, it’s amazing. Their application of color theory knows how to push a visual narratives ambiance, it doesn’t just tell you a story, you are practically in it! It pulls you in with a grip, and this is only 1 page. AMAZING! :)
Both @dekujinsart and @jennoirwolf Got wickedly adorable Vice art, I love their styles and comics! They do a phenomenal job of storytelling, and are very cool artists all around :)
@burrowingdweller THE LEADING CHAMPION OF VICTOR X LEON!!! This person is as amazing as they are talented, only talked with them in passing once or twice, but they are a super chill artist; their art is so beautiful, its got warmth and such gravitating emotions in character expression. 10/10, I can’t hype it enough :)
@ivane-embraces-the-weirdness Such lovely designs, amazing concept art and such vibrancy~ I love the balance of pastels hues in combination of body horror! Its whimsical, bubbly, all while has elements of cosmic terror??? The aesthetics are a tastiest morsel I can’t get enough of!!
@corpsman-of-arts Gorgeous illustrations, both of Gideon and animals! They’ve recently been through the wringer so please show them some love and support, their art is great and I hope the best for their health🙏
@lakritze4013 Such beautiful forms in their renders, they have such an eye for the lighting shifting over the figures forms; incredible talent and it has really been popping off lately with their recent works! :)
I might do another post of this section alone, I’m blown away at the craft of all these people and so many more! Small artists, I encourage you to join and post in the Victor Gideon community; your art deserves to be seen, and this is a sure fire way to fight the algorithm, its not a popularity contest or pushes posts via platform activity. I want to see your art, no matter your skill or craft, you will always have a place in that space.
I haven’t nearly included all those who support by reblogging, interacting, or being an overall joy to share this space with. If it wasn’t totally glaringly obvious, I give more than a damn. I care probably more than I should, but if I didn’t I wouldn’t be me. Community is more than a fandom or character; I care about the people who gravitate toward my art or share this space, I want to and will hold up others as they have held up me. If I have been worthy someone’s time, then they are more than worthy of mine. So please, shout yourselves out and go follow these amazing people. If this post gets momentum, I want it to be for others to use and get connected. You are all amazing and deserve the world❤️
My magistracy exams have been eating away at me lately, so I decided to honor this academic torture by drawing Victor as a student! Isn't he a cutie? Leon would die laughing if he saw these photos…
S.T.A.R.S. Wesker: heh…no one here knows I’m actually strange and evil…they all respect me, he who will be their downfall…I’m so good at pretending to be normal.
Jill talking to Brad in the break room: Chris is taking bets on what everyone thinks the captain’s diagnosis is and if you wanna make easy money I’d put a 20 on any of the personality disorders
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
Nobody ever talks about body masculinization surgery I mean ok top surgery is great but body masculinization surgery is genuinely super baller and nobody talks about it. The results are great also. It gets talked about less than phalloplasty and that’s already a lot to say
Transmasculine procedures that you might not know are an option:
Facial Masculinization (FMS) . Which includes:
Tracheal Augmentation: Creating an Adam's Apple.
Rhinoplasty: AKA a "nose-job" , while many people get these to make there nose smaller, transmasc people can also get them to make ther bridge and the overall structure larger, wider, and more prominent.
Brow Bone Augmentation & Hairline Repositioning (this usually involves adding an implant)
Jaw and Chin Augmentation (this usually involves adding an implant)
Buccal Fat Removal: Removes fat from the cheeks, to make the face less round.
Dermal Fillers: Temporarily builds volume in the chin, cheeks, or jawline without major surgery.
Beard implant: Moves hair follicles from a donor area (usually the back of the scalp or under the chin) onto the face to create a thicker or fuller beard
Vocal masculinization. Which includes:
Type III thyroplasty: lowers the pitch of someone's voice by relaxing the vocal chords.
Injection laryngoplasty: adding volume to the vocal folds using derma fillers or autologous fat. Derma fillers are temporary and fat grafting is significantly more long lasting.
Direct vocal fold testosterone injections: Exactly what it says in the tin, they inject testerone directly into your vocal chords and it lowers the pitch. This is a new procedure and we're unsure if it's temporary or permanent.
Body Masculinization. Which includes:
Body Sculpting Liposuction: Removes fat from the hips, flanks, thighs, and lower back to straighten the waistline and square the torso.
Top Surgery or chest masculization. Which includes:
Double Incision mastectomy: This is the one most people know. Two long horizontal cuts across the chest; used for medium to large chests or extra skin; nipples are typically resized and grafted back on. You can leave the nipples off if you want. There is a small chance of loosing nipple sensation.
Inverted-T (Anchor): Uses a horizontal cut plus a vertical drop down to the nipple; keeps the nipple attached to its blood supply/nerves; good for larger chests wanting to save nipple sensation.
Buttonhole: Similar to the inverted-T but without a major vertical skin removal; keeps the nipple attached on a stalk to preserve sensation.
Peri-Areolar (Circumareolar): A circular cut around the outer edge of the areola to remove tissue and extra skin rings; best for small chests with good skin snap-back.
Keyhole: A tiny cut along the bottom edge of the areola; used for very small chests (A-cup or small B-cup) with no loose skin; leaves minimal scarring.
Bottom Surgery or FTM/FTX SRS:
Phalloplasty: Builds a full-sized penis using a skin and tissue graft from the forearm or thigh, done in multiple stages and often including urethral lengthening and erectile implants (see more on erectile implants in the next section). The natal neo phallus is typically buried at the root of the phalloplasty shaft. There is unfortunately a lot of fear mongering and misinformation about Phalloplasty. Most Phalloplasty images you see shared are either mid stage (not completed) and/or haven't healed yet.
Glansplasty: This surgical procedure creates the look of a circumcised penis. A crown is added after phalloplasty for a more aesthetically typical phallus.
Glans Implant: silicone ridge added to Glansplasty to prevent flattening. To my knowledge currently only Dr. Curtis Cane performs this.
Metoidioplasty: AKA "Meta". Uses the natal neo phallus growth that develops from being on testosterone therapy to create a small (2-3 inches typically) penis, preserving full sensation, the ability to have erection without an implant or external device, and has a shorter recovery time.
Scrotoplasty: Shapes labial tissue into a scrotum and places silicone testicular implants. Avaliable with both phalloplasty and metodioplastly.
Urethroplasty: lengthen and reroute the urethra, which allows you to stand and pee. Possible with Phalloplasty, metodioplastly, and non phallus constructive vaginectomy.
Vaginectomy: Removal of the vaginal canal and labia and the the vaginal opening is sutured shut. This is not required to have Phalloplasty or metodioplastly. It is also possible to get a vaginectomy without constructing a phallus, resulting in a smooth transition from the abdomen to the groin, without any genitals. A hysterectomy is required to get a vaginectomy.
Erectile Implants for Phalloplasty. Which include:
Inflatable Implants: Fluid-filled systems (available in 2-piece or 3-piece configurations) that use a scrotal pump to inflate cylinders for an erection and a release valve to return to a flaccid state.
Malleable Implants: Aka "semi-rigid rods". Bendable silicone or wire rods laced inside the phallus that can be manually moved up for use and down for concealment.
The ZSI-475 FTM: This is the only implant designed specifically with transgender men in mind. It is an inflatable implant and has a single piece configuration. It provides an incorporated anchorage plate, in the proximal part of the cylinder, composed of stainless steel and silicone to be sealed with four non-absorbable stitches to the pubic periosteum. The pump is testicle-shaped to improve aesthetical appearance of the scrotum. It is a relatively new implant and less data on it is avaliable in comparison to other erectile implants.
Non Surgical Erectile Devices for trans men post bottom surgery:
The Elator: Consists of two silicone or expandable bands connected by plastic-coated rigid or flexible metal support rods, which hold the phalloplasty in an erect position.
Erectile Sleeves: Hollow silicone or cyber-skin shafts worn over the phallus to add girth and relative firmness. There are ones made for phalloplasty and ones made for metodioplastly. Metodioplasties are able to become erect on their own since they are made from the natal neo phallus (bottom growth), but typically they don't have enough length to penatrate, so their are ribbed suction erectile sleeves that fit over the post-metodioplastly phallus to give additional length.
Man what wierdo would fall for a large man with a questionable exsistant doctorate that experiments on people for mind control reserch that somehow develops electricity powers and has a unconventional laboratory on and stricking eyes and strange voices and laughs.
How much more of a wierdo would that person be if it happend twice...
Victor x OC fanfic lovers, I have some bad news for you.
You can't kiss Victor because he is contagious.
3D Render: van_vindigo
He’s infected with the T-virus, right? And the T-virus is transmitted in several ways, including the entry of the infected host's DNA through blood, saliva, and other bodily fluids. Meaning, if Victor kisses someone or sleeps with them and comes inside, he could easily infect that person with the T-virus through micro-wounds in the oral cavity, etc. It’s like HIV, but worse.
I mean, you can kiss him, of course, but it will most likely be the last kiss of your life.
If he wanted to kill Leon, he could have just made out with him right there on that chair.
It's also known that the NE-α parasite produces a secretion capable of infecting anyone who comes into contact with it with the T-virus. I don't know how much this applies to the NE-γ, but just to be safe, physical contact with him should probably be limited too.
So, if you are seriously determined to sleep with Gideon, here are the basic rules:
No kissing
Condoms only
Hazmat suit (optional)
In fanfiction, he’s constantly portrayed as some kind of ladykiller who can’t keep his snake in his pants. When in reality, his sex life is probably an absolute nightmare. He hasn't had a proper kiss in a continuous eternity. Maybe he had some hookups before the mutation, but after? If he ever laid anyone, it was probably just escorts at The Connections' corporate parties.
It's a good thing Grace is immune🥰. I can't even fathom how absolutely flabbergasted Victor would be if Grace suddenly laid a massive kiss on him out of nowhere (hey, you never know?). I really love his reaction in this fanart.
Out of the canon characters, the only other person who could safely kiss him is probably Zeno.
Damn no wonder Gideon was propositioning Grace the seccond he was able to the only other person he can have sex with he's in a divorce case with (zeno).
(Darker realization under the cut)
If this is true then from the moment he was infected sex would be off the table for him. Like sure he could just fuck and turn someone but then your dealing with something that cant consent and is trying to attack you and you technaly killed them too.
So the sceen where he (maybe) propositions Grace is alot more scary if your reading it as him asking if she wants to have sex, her runing off, and then him running after at first with a mask of playfulness before losing it in rage because that is a grown ass man (and biowepon) who has probbly been sexualy frustrated for a while getting rejected and then getting pissed.
This also brings in the possibility that he is only asking her not because he likes or cares about her but because she is the only option being immune. (zeno probbly has oroborous so that probbly wins against the zombie paracite but thoes two hate eachother and are actively manipulating/scheming against eachother hes not gonna let gideon hit nor would Capcom let it happen)
Victor's backstory is completely unexplained in the game. It's no surprise that the fandom is forced to invent their own headcanons about his former life and how he got to his current state. And as long as we don't have a canon biography for Victor, any theory has a right to exist, but in my opinion, not all of them fit his character. So today, I’d like to share my vision and address two very common headcanons, namely:
Victor never actually knew Spencer.
Victor implanted the parasite into himself.
I completely disagree with these claims. And here is why.
The in-game files don't give a clear answer as to why Victor calls Spencer his "Master." It’s unknown whether Gideon worked directly under him, if Spencer was his mentor, etc. But the tone Victor uses when talking about him, and the specific word he uses—"Master"—must imply a personal connection. I mean, wouldn't it be incredibly weird to call someone your "Master" if you'd never even met them? It is far more likely that Spencer mentored Gideon and served as a role model for him. Otherwise, I don’t know how else to explain this fanatical devotion.
Given that Victor used to work with the T-virus at Umbrella, it’s easy to imagine that that’s exactly where he could have met his future mentor. But what if I told you his connection to Spencer might have been much closer? What if Victor didn’t just work at Umbrella, but was actually one of the researchers at ARK, working on memory transfer experiments?
In ARK, there’s a file written by a new employee who is thrilled to soon begin experimenting on orphans. The author isn't named, but the writing style and the breathless, reverent way they speak about Spencer clearly hint at Gideon. On top of that, you can find the exact same kind of notebook, filled with bookmarks, belonging to Victor in Rhodes Hill.
So from 1990 to 1998, he worked at ARK on preserving his master’s memories, which could also explain his attachment to Spencer. But then September 1998 happened, and Victor, sensing things were going south, managed to escape the city. However, this meant he had to abandon all the research he had worked on for so many years. The memory transfer experiment was never finished, meaning he now had to become the torchbearer of Spencer’s ideas himself.
As you know, practically the entire Umbrella staff was eventually killed off due to Spencer's paranoia. Yet, Victor survived the employee purges. It’s highly possible he’s the sole survivor of the entire ARK research team. What if that wasn't an accident? Victor might have seen this as a sign that Spencer chose him to carry on his work.
And the next headcanon flows naturally from the last one.
Could Victor have implanted the parasite into himself? For some reason, the fandom collectively decided he did. Probably because he radiates those mad scientist vibes, the type who experiments on their own body. I don't know.
In my previous post, I broke down in detail what the Nemesis parasite is and what its primary function is. The whole point of this thing is to mind-control the host. Why on earth would Victor voluntarily implant a parasite in himself that turns him into a compliant puppet for The Connections?
But maybe he did it for the strength and the upgrades the parasite granted his body? In that case, mind control is just the price to pay for evolution.
Well, let’s look at what these "upgrades" actually are. Due to the mutation, Victor acquired a massive list of health issues. Because of the T-virus, he is literally rotting alive, and his cracked skin looks incredibly painful. Let's not forget his ruined eyesight, destroyed joints, and sterility. The next step of evolution, clearly. Apparently, this is exactly what Spencer's "master race" is supposed to look like.
If Victor did this to upgrade his body, why doesn’t he use the advantages the parasite supposedly gives him? Strength and regeneration? Sure, Victor is highly efficient when dealing with unarmed people. Strangling a young girl? Easy. Tearing his own staff to pieces? No problem! But the second a slightly more serious threat like Leon S. Kennedy appears on the horizon, Victor immediately turns tail and runs. He's a Nemesis, an unstoppable killing machine with boosted regeneration – he should be engaging in combat without a second thought. Imagine Mr. X seeing Leon with a handgun, getting scared, and running away. It's absurd.
Victor isn't stupid, and he understands this perfectly. Any severe injury carries the risk of irreversible mutation. So, he isn’t going to take unnecessary risks. In his encounter with Leon, he wanted to avoid hand-to-hand combat, and during the motorcycle chase, he tried to stick strictly to ranged weapons.
He's a doctor first and foremost, not a fighter. In terms of physical strength, he's clearly inferior to a regular Tyrant, who doesn't have the parasite inside him. Even when Leon is sick, he easily kicks Victor off himself. It's hard to imagine something like that happening with a Tyrant, who would slam Leon into a wall with a single strike.
So what advantages does the Nemesis parasite actually offer? Boosted regeneration at the risk of losing your sanity and mutating into an amorphous blob? Highly questionable. Mind control? That’s a plus, but for the handlers, not the host. And other than that, the parasite doesn’t really do much. I don’t quite understand what kind of "evolutionary perfection" the fandom is talking about when describing Victor’s Nemesis.
Most likely, these perceptions were shaped by Wesker's line in RE1 when he called the Tyrant the "ultimate lifeform." Meanwhile, the ultimate lifeform: has no dick, and all its weak spots are completely exposed.
So why would Victor need to implant a parasite in himself if it doesn't offer any positive effects? It's simple: he didn't. The Connections did it to him.
First, let's figure out how such a devoted Spencer fan ended up working for The Connections. For the very people who did everything in their power to bankrupt his beloved master's company. Shouldn't Gideon absolutely hate them?
After the Raccoon City Incident, he was called as a witness in the Umbrella trials, but the court couldn't track him down.
So, we have a gap of several years from 1998 to 2003. It's not clear what happened to Victor during this time, but the next time he surfaces in the story, it’s as the director of Rhodes Hill. And that immediately raises a question for me: where did an ordinary scientist get the money to acquire such a building? It’s obvious that The Connections appointed him to that position.
So my version of events goes like this:
For a few years, Gideon was hiding out from prosecution somewhere, until The Connections tracked him down and told him he was working for them now. The Connections were desperate to get their hands on Elpis, and Victor – as a former (and likely only surviving) ARK employee – was the perfect fit. He had experience working with clones and knew everything about blood factors, making him an incredibly valuable specialist.
Victor himself might have been glad to return to his research, but helping the very organization that bankrupted Umbrella and hijacked his master’s life's work? He would never submit to such humiliation. To which the people from The Connections would clarify that this wasn't an offer. He was going to work for them, and his consent was completely irrelevant. So, Victor is sent to get the Nemesis parasite implanted, after which he becomes far more cooperative and compliant. They hand over a building from the former Spencer Foundation for his use and set him up with everything he needs, just so he can make the key to Elpis for them.
He spends the next 22 years under Zeno's supervision, unsuccessfully trying to recreate Spencer’s key. He can't run away; he has to do exactly what he's told. Siphoning funding out of them for his meaningless clone experiments while actually spending some of that money on jewelry and snakeskin coats – that is about the only thing he can get away with. His own little rebellion against his captors.
The Connections treated Victor strictly as a tool to achieve their goals.
What I'm trying to say is that in this story, Victor is a victim of forced labor. This by no means excuses his crimes – he would have done the exact same experiments anyway, probably with great pleasure, if the hand of The Connections hadn't been looming over him.
His attitude toward The Connections shows in everything. Even down to how he keeps his lab coats. Here is a relic of his past at Umbrella – clean, pressed, kept under glass like a sacred artifact. And then, the polar opposite of his attitude toward his work at Rhodes Hill, which was forced upon him by The Connections: a completely tattered, stained lab coat.
Source
So, as soon as he finds Grace, he easily discards Rhodes Hill and slaughters its entire staff. He doesn't need this place anymore.
All these years, he remained loyal only to Umbrella and Spencer’s ideas. Victor never considered himself part of The Connections. He draws a clear line between himself and them.
Yet he outwitted you all.
There is "me," and then there is "you."
He doesn’t give a damn that Zeno and The Connections no longer need him. He is finally free; he no longer has to dance to their tune.
In character analysis videos, people often claim that Victor is such a blind Spencer fanatic that it doesn't matter to him what Elpis actually is – he will accept any reality and follow his master’s vision. But in doing so, nobody looks at the situation from Victor's perspective. For him, Elpis is, first and foremost, a way to put an end to The Connections. At first, he thought it was a mind-control virus, and perhaps he pursued it not just because of his ideas on evolution, but also to regain control over his own life.
What? Elpis turned out to be an antiviral agent rather than a weapon? Even better! Now all virus-based weapons will become useless, meaning bioterrorists are in for a rough time. What an excellent way to screw over the people who have kept you on a leash all these years.
That is what the Nemesis parasite is for. Not for strength or regeneration, but for control. To keep Victor on a chain and force him to work for the benefit of the very people who were his master's enemies. And once he does his job, to dispose of him by sending him on a suicide mission.
But if even that wasn't enough for you, here is the final and most important argument for why Victor could not have infected himself. The NE-γ is listed in The Connections' product catalog. It is a biological weapon for sale. Here is how its description reads:
Code: CM-NE-γ-001 (Nemesis-γ)
Price: Negotiable
Product Specifications:
Based on the Umbrella Corporation's parasitic "NE-α," this mass-produced model focuses on cost reduction and performance enhancement.
Repeated improvements have resulted in a significant boost to physical ability and recovery, regardless of the host's durability.
This isn't an ad for a body-mod surgery like in Cyberpunk, where you can get an implant to make yourself stronger. Like: "Hey, come to us, we'll turn you into a new, perfect being." No, this sounds more like: "Hey, want a personal slave/bodyguard/mercenary? Price negotiable."
So I find it hard to imagine anyone voluntarily undergoing this procedure, whether for a load of cash or for free.
This is why my eye starts twitching every time I see posts claiming that Victor implanted the parasite into himself to become "perfect."
Have you noticed that both main villains in RE9 are cosplaying – one as Wesker, the other as Spencer? Victor even wears the same hairstyle as his master. Just like Spencer, he wants to trigger evolution using a virus and become the leader of humanity.
If we take this thought further, I feel like if these two had reached the ARK together, Victor would have ended up completely repeating Spencer's fate. Because it's doubtful Zeno would have shared Elpis with his old colleague. Just as Wesker considered Spencer unworthy of becoming a god, Zeno despised Victor and saw him as unworthy of the power Elpis could offer. A new world can only have one god. Before administering the injector to himself, Zeno would have aimed a revolver at Gideon. And Victor, under the influence of the Nemesis parasite, wouldn't have even been able to put up a fight.
(I wonder if Victor had considered this scenario, and whether he had a backup plan for a case like that?)
