.⋆♱ Synopsis: The Batter has always found the tram a peculiar way of travel: filled with strange Elsen, filled with strange thoughts. Unfit for him, unfit for His Player, for they have a duty to fulfil: crusade until collapse.
Strange as it is, slow as it is, he takes his quiet chances to glimpse The Puppeteer, and in his restlessness, is gifted a reprieve, and he decides purification may wait a little bit longer. Just long enough to wonder what Players dream of.
.⋆♱ Oneshot requested by anon || The Batter x gn!reader || Word count: 1.6k || Ao3 || Masterlist || Request rules
.⋆♱ Warnings: none.
Rattling; moaning; undead metal. A clunky conduit built for timid Elsen: that is what The Batter has always thought of the tram. Peculiar in the least, impractical at its most. Cart that trembles along the track, zones that slide past the windows in sluggish, indistinct blurs. Creeping, inching, towards nowhere and everywhere.
He almost feels misplaced. Ill-fitted in his waiting; back straight against the stiff seats, hands clasped around his bat stood tall between his legs. Going somewhere. Eyes forward, silent, unlike the shivering Elsen.
There are three of them today. Two huddled to his far right, half hidden behind one of the grey stanchions, and the third across the aisle and a few seats left of him, tie dishevelled and head turned to the far wall with a familiar sort of determination in their eyes. Not many–there’s never many this time of day. If he’s brought here later, the carriage is often crowded to near suffocation, though, even then, most of them seem to prefer standing over sitting in a three seat radius of him.
One of them coughs into the stale smoke, and he watches as their shoulders tighten. Fold inwards like paper. Make themselves disappear.
A peculiar in the least, indeed. A far cry from the susurrus of The Nothingness; his flesh pulled and contorted in milliseconds, before he finds himself in the midst of a new zone. Passage he barely even registers–the feeling of being cradled, born anew, even, gone in an exhale.
Exhales. Inhales. Milliseconds. Time that drags in the tram. Perhaps he is too used to The Nothingness. In comparison, even more a curious, tedious way of travel–something his Player knows, and his Player knows how to make good use of excess time.
So, he is patient. So he waits. Waits for that emptying absence, for weight alleviated like an arm taken from his socket, for ineffable extremities to press down on his eyelids, for a hush to swell in his mind.
Rest. Recuperate.
Even if it is the one command he will dispute–after all, he has a duty to fulfil; it is the bare minimum that he crusade until he collapses–he would be a liar to say it is not a pleasant feeling. Not the temporary removal–he despises that–but the wordless, incommunicable touch. Warmth in his stomach like fresh meat: cold on his face like wind: serotonin to his prefrontal cortex so sweet he could burn up on it. While he may ignore his Puppeteer’s pull with all his might, he still gives in, for the touch of such a creature is absolute.
And so, he endures.
Light streams through the dirtied windows onto his face.
Like he should.
Restlessness bubbles where his heart may be.
And yet, it does not come. No complete lack, no paucity; the heaviness stays with him, just to his left; on him, inside him. Squirming in his viscera.
If he were to turn, he knows he’ll see nothing. Will just be alone with the sense that he isn’t.
The Player is a quiet thing, after all: not to be heard, not to be seen. Yet, he has an allowance. Sometimes, after a battle, he hears–in the way one’s internal monologue echoes what has already fallen out of the mouth–Their praise between his heavy breaths and the ringing in his ears. Sometimes, when he turns from unlit corridor to unlit corridor, in the corner of his eye, and in the static of the darkness, spies a face.
It feels wrong, often. Reverence for the guide must be blind lest he doubt his faith–for what sort of Purifier would he be if so?
Even then, he takes his glimpses. No retribution is given, and he argues each time that They wouldn’t offer such a sight if They did not want to be seen.
So, patient, waiting, waiting, waiting, he makes the quiet decision that now is the time for one of those glimpses. Perhaps something is wrong, or, maybe, this is his Player’s silent way of getting his attention.
The tram jolts slightly, rocking him.
Carefully, he lets the view before him blur, looking without looking to his left, and focuses on the outline beside him: vague strands of what may be H/C hair, the dip of a neck and flutter of eyes not unlike his own–details blurred, more impression than form. They’re ‘sat’ in the seat beside him, lingering, head tipping forward…before retreating again, drifting in and out of what could barely be called his field of vision, as if drawn down by a heavy weight.
They seem tired. He’s never seen The Player tired before.
He refocuses his eyes to the front of him.
Did not know they could be tired.
The two Elsen are mumbling something to one another. He doesn’t know what they’re saying. Maybe talking about their dreams. Those are a peculiar thing, too. He does not dream, at least, he does not remember ever doing so, but, they sound amusing in the least, otiose at their most. The Elsen dream of their work, promotions, endless piles of sugar, and, as he registers his Player’s head still appearing and disappearing in the corner of his eye, he wonders what They dream of.
If they dream at all, that is.
Perhaps they guide other Purifiers in their slumber; through other zones, through other worlds drowning in the shadow of their own sin. The thought sparks something in him that he does not have a name for.
He re-adjusts his grip on his bat.
Another thought follows–the idea that they may dream of him.
His spine stiffens. Calcifies.
Focus. The window. Look out the window.
Beside him, Alpha hums. Warbles the same tune as the tram.
Focus. Focus, focus, focus.
There’s a crack in one of the windows. Just where his face is in the reflection, splitting across it–a double of himself sitting in place of The Player. Machine of the ghost, gone in an instant–The Batter finding himself one again–just as the carriage judders over a piece of track, and a sudden weight lands on one of his shoulders.
His muscles pull themselves taut, hands clamping tighter around his bat–first instinct to swing, pummel, wrists one command away from doing so, but, when his eyes shift to his left, he finds no spectre, no nothing, and realises.
Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes shift forwards, the hazy outline of his Puppeteer appearing once more.
His tired Puppeteer, with Their head resting on his shoulder.
He blinks once.
Then twice.
Thrice, and an odd sensation comes over him. Something scalding in his mock veins, something molten that makes his alabaster body feel more like liquid plastic than it does meat. Heat claws its way up his skin, swirling around the muscles of his face. Reminds him of when he’s been injured: body one large bruise–one endless ache–that he’s afraid could not be eased by any rest, any luck ticket, any meat. Not painful, though; just warm. Just boiling. Weight. Contact that his strings don’t offer, contact he didn’t know he could have.
Mon Dieu, he feels like an Elsen. Burning up. How pathetic.
He swallows.
The window. Look out the window.
…
His eyes let themselves focus on his Player. He takes another glimpse. Feels l'appel du vide, feels like Heaven. The longer they linger, the better They come into focus. The Player’s eyes–would he call them eyes? Are they like his? What colours do they see in? What colours do they dream in?–are closed, lines that make up their facade relaxed. Palpable, almost.
It does not feel how he expects it to feel. Does not know whether to call it a feeling at all. Just…just like smoke. Like liquid plastic, dripping down his shoulder. Like nothing at all.
Different.
And not, he admits, a difference he minds.
Though, he’s still taut. Still alert. Manages to become more rigid, eyes snapping forward, when the carriage rattles again. When his Puppeteer shifts themselves further upright. When They nestle Themselves into the crook of his neck with a sigh he doesn’t hear, doesn’t feel.
He takes one sharp inhale, and holds the smoke in his chest. Thinks the wood of his bat will splinter soon.
He has never seen his Player tired before. Never seen them asleep before.
Never been touched like so. Never been trusted in this way.
The Elsen are still muttering to each other.
He’s worried to breathe. Worried that the pulse of his organs is too loud. Worried that the slight jittering of the tram is too much movement. Worried that this will be a task failed, and his Puppeteer may deem him unworthy. Will leave their exchanges to naught but directions, will choose some other vessel.
The ache in his chest grows, and, carefully, ever so carefully, he exhales once more, left shoulder lifted in order to keep Their head as it were.
The Player stays unmoving. Stays silent.
Focus. Look out the window.
Mignon.
Eyes on the outside, thoughts elsewhere.
He wants his mind to quiet itself–
Could...could he rest his own head? Balance it atop Theirs? He’s seen Elsen do that, when they’re close to one another.
–never wants to think again.
Mentally, he shakes the thought away. Not worth the risk. Not what he’s made for; creature of The Nothingness; a purifier; not a dreamer–simply his Player’s hands, his Player’s mouthpiece.
Not what he’s made for, mind not made for wondering, but his mind still does. Wonders if They dream, maybe he may, too.
He thinks, quietly, that if he were able to, he would dream of Them.
————————————
Touch-starved, hypocritical, holier-than-thou; God I love him. My scrungle.
I also realise this is like, my first time writing something close to fluff? Ever?? I hope it doesn’t read too weird.
Hope anyone who celebrates had a happy Christmas, and hope you all have lovely new years, too. Thank you for reading <3
Translations:
Mon dieu: ‘My God’
L'appel du vide: ‘Call of the void’, aka a saying that relates to the subconscious feeling of wanting to do something dangerous, like swerving into traffic
