Your name is Cellbit, you are 15 years old, and there is a man staring at you while you eat his corpse raw. You can't look away until your comrade is blocking him from view and telling you to finish your food. He is the first of many, but you don't know that yet. His eyes follow you as you leave.
Your name is Cellbit, you are 18 years old, and the man you just killed is watching you taunt his friends with his body. You have no problems ignoring him, he's just one of many in the audience. You've stopped caring about what they think, it doesn't matter anymore. After all, who cares what the dead think?
Your name is Cellbit, you are 26 years old, and your stepson is asking where his brother is. You don't know what to say to him, and the other three children are suddenly paying attention to you again. It's the first time seeing ghosts has bothered you in nearly a decade, and you selfishly find yourself wishing you couldn't see them at all.
The first time Cellbit meets him, Bobby immediately leaves an impression.
He's at Roier's for dinner, and he showed up early to help cook. Only when he knocks on the door, it isn't Roier, or even Jaiden, who answers.
Instead it's a boy, about nine or ten, with brown hair so dark it's almost black and two purple-blue eyes that are staring directly into Cellbit's.
"You're Richarlyson's dad," it's not a question, the kid says it with too much certainty for a boy his age.
"I am," Cellbit agrees. "I'm here to see Roier. Can I come in?"
The boy smiles, almost sneers, and says, "I dunno, can you?"
But he steps out of the door to let Cellbit in anyway, his tail whipping around behind him and almost hitting Cellbit in the shin. The boy doesn't look back as Cellbit closes the door behind them. Instead he wanders to the couch and sits, right next to a rather large dog.
"Firusflais," the boy states, nodding his head towards the dog.
Cellbit nods, not entirely sure how to continue this conversation. He's saved however, by Roier coming down the stairs just before he's about to speak.
"Gatinho! You're early," he smiles, all teeth, and moves closer to give him a small kiss on the cheek.
"Ah, sim, I just wanted to see you," Cellbit ignores the way he can feel his face heating up.
The boy on the couch makes an exaggerated gagging sound, and Roier turns to face him, hands on his hips.
"You were supposed to tell me when he got here, culero," he states, not sounding mad in the slightest.
The boy shrugs and sticks his tongue out, clearly unbothered by the accusation and turning his focus back onto the sketchbook in his lap.
Exasperated, Roier asks, "Did you at least introduce yourself?" He ignores the boy's groaning. "I'm serious! Play nice!"
"I'm Bobby," the boy, Bobby, says, looking up at Cellbit. "And you're Cellbit. Richarlyson and dad talk about you a lot."
Cellbit laughs and turns to raise an eyebrow at Roier, who looks away completely innocently with a big grin on his face.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Bobby."
"You too. Can you go flirt in the kitchen now? I'm drawing."
Someone's been following Cellbit for the past fifteen minutes. Their first mistake is being so obvious that they're following him. Their second is following him down the street to Casualonas. And their third is not hiding when Cellbit's usual stalker exits the building.
He knows Melissa well enough that he's not surprised when her arm wraps his shoulders and her nails scratch lightly at his scalp. It feels nice, even if she does laugh at him for leaning into it.
"Cellbit," she purrs teasingly, moving her arm off his shoulders and looking him up and down with an appreciative smile. "Hola."
"Melissa," he smiles back, watching as she looks around before her gaze settles on something across the street.
"You're being followed," her tone is light, but the look in her eyes is anything but.
Cellbit just nods. There's not much to say about it, and he knows not to try and talk her out of whatever plan she's making in her head. Maybe, if it were a few months ago, he'd try to convince her. But it's not, and he knows her, and he knows whoever got sent after him tonight isn't going to survive. But still...
"Make it quick, por favor?" he asks, trying to sound more bothered than he actually is. "It's getting late and I'm cold."
He normally wouldn't try and play into her instincts like this but the cold isn't a lie, and he'd really rather go home than wait through it for Melissa to get done playing with her prey. Plus, he knows she's aware of what he's doing, and either way, he can see how her pupils dilate just a bit and she smiles at his request.
"Of course, querido," she agrees, planting a kiss on his cheek and grinning. "They won't even know what hit them, I promise."
And then she's gone, across the street before Cellbit can even blink. He follows after a few seconds, just in time to watch her slam one of the Federation's hivemind workers into the wall of an alleyway with a satisfying crack.
He leans up against the wall, watching as she growls and digs her nails into their neck, probably just to draw at least a little blood before she finishes them off.
He thinks that maybe he shouldn't be so fascinated by the scene in front of him, it's probably a little morally fucked to be interested in watching his boyfriend's cousin murder someone for him.
Briefly, he wonders what Roier would think about all of this. But that train of thought is interrupted by Melissa snapping the worker's neck and dropping them to the ground.
She tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear, walking over to him with a smile, "Dinner? My treat."
Cellbit glances at the body for a second. Dinner sounds nice, actually. So does getting out of the cold. He nods and she wraps a hand around his wrist, rambling about her day at work and leaving the body for someone else to find as she drags him off.
There are already ghosts around when Cellbit crashes on Quesadilla Island. He's not too surprised by that. People die all the time, even on tropical vacation islands.
But what does surprise him is the fact that the ghosts are children. Three dead children all standing in a group just outside the swarm of people surrounding him and his friends, completely unbothered by the rain pouring down on them.
Two of them haven't noticed him yet, their eyes on other people in the crowd, but the third is looking directly at him. He's shorter than the other two and wearing a colorful propeller hat on his head. He leans over and nudges the kid in the middle, who tugs on the arm of the third, and then all three of them have their eyes on Cellbit.
He doesn't have time to think about what that means before he's being pulled away by the crowd. And by the time he manages to look back at where they were, all three of them are gone. He doesn't know their names or what happened to them yet, but he has a feeling he will. And he's sure he'll get to know them well.
richas' favorite things about cuddling with cellbit:
the purring! it's very soothing, like a smaller version of dragon rumbles, which richas does when he cuddles his dads
the way his tail curls around his entire little body like some kind of protective fuzzy snake
when he picks him up to hold him closer while they cuddle and he can feel his heartbeat
richas' favorite things about cuddling with roier:
hes so warm it makes him sleepy, and he's very sturdy like another dragon, which makes him feel safe
when they cuddle while hanging from something, it makes him feel like hes in the air and it's awesome
when roier tucks him close to his chest and curls into a sort of ball around him and hums to help him sleep, it works every time
okay now on to the good stuff
richarlyson likes building nests, they're fun and safe and he has one at every dad's house and the hotel. now, obviously, only certain people are allowed in those nests. like at the castle, for example, only his dads can come in, anyone else gets bitten and attacked with the nearest object. nest cuddles are very very special, and usually reserved for days when he feels like he needs the most comfort.
so when roier and cellbit are putting away the dishes from breakfast and there's tiny claws in their shirts, dragging them away and towards the nest room, obviously they go without much argument. they let him arrange the pillows and blankets and stuffed animals, and then let him arrange them the way he likes. which is cellbit on one side and roier on the other with a nice, richarlyson-sized space in between.
richas puts himself in that space with roier against his back and cellbit in front of him, and pulls their arms over him and tugs them a little closer and then closes his eyes. he doesn't mind their hushed whispers to each other, or the worried looks they're sharing over his head. all he cares about is that he's warm and safe and can get some sleep. he'll tell them what's bothering him after his nap.
for @comfymoth because they're not immune to propaganda ^_^
There's a wolf outside Roier's house, he can hear it scratching at his back door. He saw a glimpse of it earlier too, it's bigger than any wolf he's ever seen in his life. Large and brown with a patch of white fur near it's eyes, eyes that are far too intelligent to belong to just an animal.
And really, that's just his luck, isn't it? It's the night of the full moon, he's home alone, and there's a werewolf trying to get into his house. He doesn't even know what a werewolf could want with him, he hasn't pissed off anybody that much, has he?
The werewolf is still pawing at his door, letting out howls and barks and whines as it tries to get in. And that's just confusing Roier more, really. Because it doesn't sound aggressive at all, even though every time it catches a glimpse of him it lets out a bark that shakes him to his core and tries even harder to get in.
Roier lifts his head to look out the window again, watching as the wolf paces in circles and only stops to look at his door again. It lets out a sad whine and lays its head in its paws, staring directly at Roier's door and thumping its tail against the wood of his back porch. It really looks more like a sad, lost puppy than a beast that wants to rip his arms off. So maybe... maybe he can open the door?
It's a crazy idea, one that even Roier wouldn't ever think of doing normally but... he's got a soft spot for dogs. And the wolf looks so defeated, and he doesn't think it'll move from its place in front of his door all night. Oh, fuck it, he might as well.
Roier stands up and stretches, a small groan escaping his throat as he makes his way from his spot next to the window to the door. Well, if he dies here, Cellbit's gonna make fun of him. He can hear his voice already, telling him not to open door when there's a werewolf outside, blah blah blah. Whatever, he can handle himself. Plus this one's cute.
He opens the door and takes one step onto the porch before he's tackled to the ground with a surprised yelp. There's a tongue lapping at his face, and a tail hitting his legs as it wags, and Roier has to push the wolf back as he sits up. Okay, so it's not going to murder him, that's cool.
He wipes at his face with his sleeve, making a slightly disgusted noise as the wolf steps back and stares at him. It seems very happy to see him, judging by the way it immediately tries to nuzzle him again and butts its head against Roier's hands for pets.
"Oh, you're just clingy, huh pendejo?" Roier laughs as he scratches it behind the ears, bringing up both his hands to squish its face.
The wolf, obviously, doesn't say anything but it does bark as if it takes offense to Roier's name-calling. It headbutts him again and then takes a step back, lowering onto its front legs again as it looks up at Roier expectantly.
Now that he's up close, Roier can get a good look at its face. More specifically, he gets a good look at its eyes. They're blue, very blue. So very blue and so very familiar. He blinks a few times, reaching forward to run his fingers over the white fur near its left eye. It's funny, really, it's in the exact same spot it would be on...
what is a minime if not some kind of monster? it's arguably alive in some way, it's made to look like you, to follow you, to do as you do. it's not human, it might be a machine. so what better word to use than monster?
but it's not a monster by any actual definition of the word, though, is it? perhaps it's just easier to refer to it as such because that way you won't feel bad when it dies or when you cause it pain just to see what it does. you don't need to feel guilty for dealing with monsters. nobody ever does.
nobody ever feels bad about prodding a monster to answer their questions, so why should you? can it even feel? does it know pain or love or is it just copying you? is it some kind of species made with the intention of blending in? is it even organic? or is it a robot? what is it for? why is it so damn important?
perhaps it's simply a monster because you can't understand it. it's just a monster because what else could it be? but is that fair to it? why does it matter if that's fair to it? it's just a thing, right? why do you care so much? it's not going to replace him. it's not going to bring back your son.
it's just some cheap replacement made to mock you, to look at you with your own eyes and remind you of what you lost. it's not you as a child, but it might as well be. it's you, smaller and dumber and relying on someone else to survive. why shouldn't it suffer the way you have? it's only fair. if it's really meant to copy you then it should feel what you've felt. it should experience the fear that molded you.
so why do you feel bad when you see that fear on its face? why do you recoil at the hate its lover feels for you? why do these things keep you up at night? this is what you wanted, isn't it? these are the answers you've been asking for, aren't they? so why aren't you happy with them? why are you guilty? why do you care?
why do you care, cellbit, when nobody cared for you?
Now let's say you're a federation worker, and you're being murdered in the middle of the street. And as you look past your killer, you see the ghosts of children you've only ever heard the names of. You've never even seen their files, you don't (didn't?) have clearance for that, you just know that's who you're looking at.
They don't look all that surprised at your death, or at your staring, you think they've probably seen this happen before. (You kind of hope not, but you're not naive enough to believe it.)
You suppose it makes sense that if you're about to be dead, you'd be able to see those who already are, right? You don't get much more time to think about it, though, because the man on top of you is snarling and forcing you to look at him as the knife digs into your flesh.
Death kind of sucks, actually. You've never really thought about it much until now, even if it always seemed to loom over you and your coworkers. But it's here now and it hurts and it's a lot and you kind of hate everything that lead you up to this point. Your job, this island, the higher ups, the man cutting you open.
You hate. You hate and you hate and you hate. But at least it's over soon, and you don't have to think about much after that. You don't have to think at all, really.
You even don't do much anymore, not when the children try to speak to you or a woman shows your friends your mangled body. You only act when you see him again. And you scream.
