Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m sure you’ve already been informed that your residence burned down shortly after you left.” You nod at her because you didn’t need to be informed. Somewhere along the way of your memories coming back you vividly remember setting fire to the pile of smuppets you had in the crawlspace. You didn’t stop at Cal that night. “Well then. What are your plans for new residency?” And she’s watching you closely while she asks.

You think it over and give the barest sign of a shrug “I have enough money to buy another building out.” She takes a moment then she nods slowly. She’s still staring at you before she speaks again.

“I think you should stay with Dave. Hollywood.” You open your mouth to tell her fuck no, she cuts you off “Let me rephrase. I don’t trust you Mr. Strider.” You snort because she never did “And after what happened you’re proving to not just be a danger to others but possibly yourself. As your therapist it’d be irresponsible of me to let you go right back to a living situation where that could happen again.” You roll your eyes.

“I know you don’t have a license.” Her eyes glitter at that “And yet you’ve made significant progress, haven’t you Mr. Strider?” You roll your eyes again from behind your shades. “I mean it. I’m not giving you a choice. Dave already offered, and arrangements have been made for your flight.” Hollywood offered? “You’ll be leaving tonight, I asked him to arrange for someone capable to escort you during the flight.” And that makes you tense, because it’s one thing to feign concern over your life, it’s another to put you on suicide watch. “I ain’t going to hurt myself or anyone else during a measly 2 hour flight. I don’t need a chaperone. “ You spit the words at her, she remains unfazed. 

“You are in an interesting situation. You have gotten better in a sense that your memories have come back, and you seem to have developed some remorse for the things you’ve done. But now we’ll be entering a stage of you grappling with any emotions that arise and managing them.” She levels you with a stare, the stare that tells you it doesn’t matter that you have shades on. She can see right through them and right through you. “It is important that whatever feelings of guilt, remorse, or self vilification are kept manageable and appropriate. Lest what happened in that apartment happen again.” She leans back and your hair stops standing on end from the effort of holding her gaze. “It would be irresponsible to leave you alone in what you have already indicated are high stress situations.” You sigh.

“So that’s it then. I’m getting shipped off to Hollywood’s place because I set fire to the apartment.” And for the first time in a long time Rosie snaps at you “You’re getting shipped off because you tried to kill yourself Dirk. You have told me all about what you were thinking. What you were trying to accomplish, and you may not see it that way but I do. You are just as much a danger to yourself now as to others. I take that very seriously.” Her eyes are sharp and her lips are in a thin line. There’s no persuading her. 

Later that night you arrive at the airport. Getting out of your car and walking to the check-in stations you feel… fine. You’re making a conscious effort to ignore all of the other people around you. Don’t stare, don't intimidate, just move through. It helps that people generally move out of your way. You’re dissociating yeah but that doesn’t matter that much. While you walk to the security line you feel like you’re being followed, footsteps behind you. You glance back and see no one except consorts and carapacians walking with you. Hm. You make it through security, hiding your katana with ease. While walking to your gate you notice it again. That feeling of being followed. You decide to ignore it this time because you’re around too many fucking people and surely your senses are just fucked up because of that. It bugs you to resist your instincts but you keep walking. The footsteps get closer. Just keep walking, you can prove the shrink wrong. You’re completely fine with this, this is the easiest shit you’ve ever done.They’re getting closer, you pick up the pace and try to ignore how tense your shoulders are. They match your pace. Fuck this.

You turn on your heel, Katana in your hand and stop just as you’re about to slice his head off. It’s Hollywood. Is what you would be thinking until your eyes wander farther down to see an all black neck, you see from your peripheral it’s arms are black too. The only break in the pattern is bright red lights to highlight what would be the outline of certain muscle groups. It’s eyes really get you confused though. This thing has black sclera, with red eyes that almost look like gears. “What the fuck are you.” It’s facial expression twitches for a moment before it raises a hand to move your blade away from it’s neck. “You should put the katana away. People will start to stare.” You don’t move “Dirk it would be a very big nuisance for the both of us to explain why you snuck your katana past the security check.” It’s voice sounds brassy. Reminds you of some of the better robot voices you’ve heard. You captchalogue your katana again, still facing the robot. Ready to strife still. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

The gears of the robot's eyes tick once to the right before it responds. “Dave refers to you as Dirk.”

“He shouldn’t.” You two stare at each other after that before you decide to ask again “What are you.”

“I’m Brobot. An imperfect copy of the Director Dave Strider.” It sounds rehearsed, similar to when you would program your robots to immediately respond to the ‘state your purpose’ command. You decide to test it.

“What are you.” The robot stares at you blankly. You stare back. “You asked me that already.” You nod “Was just checkin’ something.” You keep staring at it. It stares back.

“So you’re the… thing sent to keep me in check.” It nods “Quit following so closely.” The robot stares at you and the gears in its eyes tick to the left once. “Understood not-Dirk.”  Then he takes exactly one step back. Was that… was that supposed to be a joke? You turn around and keep walking to your gate, ignoring the tall ass robot with Hollywood’s face on it. You take notice of the stares, from all species. Not at you of course, probably at the robot just behind you, still the attention is making you tense. “I know you’re probably an attention whore like Hollywood, but you could at least take that shit farther from me.” there’s silence for a while and you’re expecting he won’t respond. “I don’t enjoy the attention any more than you do.” and it sounds terse. As terse as a voice modulator can sound with a limited range of tone. Interesting. “Didn’t mean to offend your robotic sensibilities. Expected you were coded more efficiently than that.” He responds back quickly and even “I don’t have emotions if that’s what you’re getting at.” You hum because you very much don’t believe it. You can spot another pussy ass Dave a mile away.

When you finally get to the gate you scan your ticket, watch as the robot does the same, then walk to the plane in silence. You take note of his footsteps being surprisingly light, he sounds like he’d be a little lighter than you. Could be the same weight, you aren’t sure. 

You sit down and the bot sits next to you. The rest of the plane is empty. When the pilot starts talking about safety instructions the plane is still empty. Huh. Well guess you got lucky. Still though, that means it makes even less sense for this thing to be so fuckin’ close. “If the entire plane is empty you can move your ass somewhere else.” Wordlessly the bot gets up and moves exactly one seat over. Yeah he’s definitely doing it to piss you off. When the attendant comes over to the two of you, you hand her 50 bucks and take the bottle of whiskey off her cart. You pop it open and take a swig. Enjoying the warmth that makes you less tense about being in a metal cylinder thousands of feet off the ground. You can feel the bot staring, you turn and level it with a glare. “Got something to say tin can?” The gears tick once to the right, he doesn’t say anything and looks away. Good.

When the plane lands you’re drunk, you don’t let it show past the relaxed posture you take on. The bot definitely knows, but doesn’t seem to care. You like that about him. You still aren’t buying that he’s void of emotions, but he is a robot. There’s definitely a lot less human sentiments and sensibilities. He doesn’t try to make small talk like Hollywood, he isn’t fidgety in a typical sense. His presence is easy to keep track of though. The light whir of his fans lets you know how close he is. The constant noise should annoy you, but it doesn’t.

When you get out of the airport you’re greeted with a sleek and expensive red car. You can guess whose it is. Opening the passenger door Hollywood’s signature smile and pleasantries make you annoyed as usual. You grunt at him in response to whatever bullshit he says and sit down. Letting your hat tip over your eyes, you lean back and pass the fuck out.

You wake up to the sound of someone(some thing .) repeating ‘not-Dirk’ over and over. “Shut the fuck up. I’m sleeping” Fuck. There’s the beginning of a headache. “As much as I would like to stand here all day waiting for you to wake up, I was instructed to get you moved in as quickly as possible.” You don’t respond. You’ll be damned if you make this easy for anyone or anything. There’s silence for a while and you’re just getting settled back in the seat when he speaks again. “Are you a big fan of the paparazzi?” You don’t move, doesn’t seem to stop him “I’m not. I think you’ll come to the same conclusion in a couple minutes.” and almost on cue you hear a click. You raise your head slightly and scan the street, you spot him immediately. A man dressed casually, holding a large DSLR camera. There’s more clicks in quick succession while you look at him. You clench your jaw and get out of the car.

You’re in the elevator standing next to the bot, silent. You’re headed for the top floor, the 47th. When the elevator finally dings, and the doors open, you're met with the most disgusting display of wealth you’ve ever seen. It’s a penthouse, that was expected. What isn’t necessary is how shiny everything is. Stepping out of the elevator you step on a welcome rug in the shape of a star. You lift your foot to see the white embroidered ‘D. Strider’ on it. Classy. Bringing your attention back up to the room, you’d be able to take your shades off easily. There’s moody lighting, clearly because of Hollywood’s sensitive ass eyes. The walls have lights in even increments, warm. Providing enough visibility to do most things, like reading or writing. Walking farther into the penthouse, you glance up to see a charcoal-black chandelier. It glitters softly from the lights reflecting off it. The room itself is a collection of maroon, browns, and white. Glass coffee tables, a smart tv, almost shining hardwood, terrace with a pool and hot tub, a second floor, that fucking chandelier…

“Something on your mind?” You glance at the bot and swear you catch his eyes tick. You grunt in response. “Your room is next to Dave’s.” He turns around and heads for the stairs, you follow. Instead of focusing on how uncomfortable this all is you instead focus on Brobot. He’d have to be mostly carbon fiber, he wouldn’t be as light footed otherwise. But his joints look to just be covered by a nondescript elastomer. You’d have to touch it to differentiate between some type of vinyl or something closer to rubber. Silicone? Regardless you spot his fans, or the holes in his design, that allow internal cooling systems to push the hot air out. Something is still off about him though. You doubt he’s like the robots you’ve made where he’s all wires and solid limb groupings. You watch his movement closely while you walk down a short hallway. He stops in front of a door and it hits you while you’re still staring at him. “You have an endoskeleton.” Brobot doesn’t falter. “Yes I do.” and that’s that. He opens the door and the room is standard. The same theming as the rest of the penthouse. There’s a small balcony, ample closet space, and a personal tub with jets. It’s fancy, too fancy. When the door clicks close letting you know the robot-Hollywood left you alone, you’re immediately opening the door to the balcony. You climb out and look up. It isn’t hard at all to get to the roof from here. 

You find empty spaces to put your smuppets. Thankfully there is a crawlspace, almost big enough to be a traditional attic. You put your mini fridge and puppet-supplies there. Then that’s it really. You hadn’t brought much with you when moving. You end up on the roof once you’re done sneaking around. Smoking and drinking while looking out over the greater-New LA area. Smog and skyscrapers reminding you of Houston. The only difference is this city is actively glittering at night. You don’t belong here.

“Hel-fucking-lo! Dirk where the hell are you?” You narrow your eyes, and look down at the terrace. There’s Hollywood, yelling vaguely in your direction. You put out your cigarette with your heel then drop to the terrace. Hollywood spots you immediately. “finally” he doesn’t sound as tired as he looks “wanted to at least see you on move in day.” You watch his body shake lightly. He’s been using again. “You saw me earlier.” He looks at you and blinks. “oh. guess I did.” You two are stuck staring at each other for a moment till there’s a light tapping of the glass to your left. You both glance over to see the bot. “I’ve finished setting up your schedule for the week.” Dave nods and offers a quick thanks. The bot turns and walks off. “You never told me you had a robot-you for a secretary.” D responds quickly “you never asked.” Silence again. 

“Why’d you offer to keep me here.” Hollywood has pulled out a pack of Marlboros while you ask. He doesn’t respond until he’s lit it and puffed a couple times. “I didn’t. rosie practically pushed it onto me. Since you’re my friend.”

“Is that what we are now. Friends.” Hollywood shrugs. “if you don’t agree, I wouldn’t argue. you’re a piece of shit, and i’ve been friendlier with brick walls. but to everyone else?” he lazily sweeps his hand in the direction of the city “we’re friends yeah.”

Hm. He’s right, your instinct is to disagree with him. You don’t make friends. You haven’t had friends since Roxy as a teen. Your relationship with Hollywood is nowhere near as ‘friendly’, but when compared to your interactions with others at this point in your life… Hm. “you look like you’re thinking real hard there.” He’s glancing at you sideways while he takes a drag. Maybe he is your friend? You don’t constantly want to slit his throat, and you do… feel… relaxed? It’s not true relaxation at all, but it’s still something. You let your facial expressions show, you sigh and tap your fingers sometimes. Maybe he is your friend. You’ve just been staring at him and he’s given up trying to talk to you.

“When’d you make him.” Hollywood turns to you slightly “The bot.”

“I didn’t make him.” You keep staring at him, he sighs “management made him for while I was in rehab. needed profit margins met, and I wasn’t pulling myself together for the scripts.” He drags his cigarette, flicks it off the terrace and lights a new one. “obviously it didn’t take them long to make him, the money came out of my pocket” He stops abruptly, no signs that he plans to continue. You can tell there’s more to the story but you aren’t one to pry.

“You've been using again.” Hollywood doesn’t even flinch at your statement. “yup. It’s red carpet season. I’ve never done this time of year sober, and I ain’t about to start now.” You watch him closely. If he is your friend shouldn’t you be helping him or some bullshit? Tell him he should get clean or something. That isn’t the type of friend you are though isn’t it. You never were and especially now. Still though you want to try something. See if you really think he’s your friend.

“Want to drive to get pizza or some shit.” He’s looking at you sideways, his face is unreadable. Then after a beat he brings his hand to run through his hair. He sighs, and says something to the effect of ‘fuck it why not’. You nod and turn around. “who’s driving?” You don’t even turn around because he’d be stupid to think you’ll let him drive like this.

When you get down to the garage you’re given the keys for a shiny red mustang. You try not to wrinkle your nose and just get in. When Hollywood slides in next to you he pops open the glovebox, and promptly does a line off the dash. You ignore him and just drive.

You eat the pizza in the parking lot in silence. The music from a shared queue playing in the background. When you’re done you take the long way back to the penthouse. He doesn’t seem to mind or care, just thrumming his fingers on the dash to the beat. It takes you a second to realize you’re doing the same. You stop once you realize. “didn’t expect you’d take your shades off to drive.”

“Why the fuck would I keep them on during a night drive.” He shrugs “you just don’t strike me as the driving safety type.” You don’t offer him a response and thankfully he doesn’t seem to be expecting one. Before getting back inside he does one more line off the dash. You watch him.

Once you’re in the penthouse you watch him pivot towards his office (you had snuck in there earlier). You briefly think about sleeping in the pristine room offered to you. Nah. That night you fall asleep in the laundry room on top of a pile of smuppets you had kept captchalogued. It’s uncomfortable as fuck but it reminds you of home. 

Chapter Text

It starts off with a hunch, that’s proven only an hour later. Brobot is made of durable and expensive material. For him to just be a robot secretary is a waste. So of course you find out he isn’t by testing his combat capabilities. It starts off with reaction time. When you cross him in the hall you flash step and slice at him. You don’t even graze it, and he’s at the end of the hall. Staring at you, the gears in it’s eyes tick to the right four times before it speaks. “What was that for.” You shrug “I got bored.” You watch it’s eyes tick to the right again before it walks away.

So you do it again, and again. Baiting for a reaction. The bot stops saying anything to you about it pretty quickly. Just flash steps out of the way and ignores you. You’re starting to genuinely get bored with the game of dog and bird when the bot finally gives you what you’re asking for.

That’s how you end up on the roof laying on your back, breathing heavily in a way you haven’t in over a decade. The bot stands not too far from you, posture seemingly unphased. You look at the slashes on his carbon fiber ‘skin’. You smile. The bot’s eyes are ticking rapidly clockwise. But if you watch closely you can see sometimes it’ll switch. Counter-clockwise. You’ve been trying to figure that out about him. You’ve gathered so far counter-clockwise or left is when he’s fucking with you. Some type of coding to endorse ‘humor’. Probably to match Hollywood’s style of scriptwriting. Clockwise and right ticks are more common. Some type of general processing is all you’ve gathered. It also doesn’t seem to be a coincidence that his eyes tick that way when you do shit that would piss someone off.

He opens his mouth and you hear a light hissing noise over your own breathing. Shortly after steam comes out of it’s mouth and you can’t contain a breathless laugh. Even during your strife he didn’t do any unnecessary movements. Only the constant clockwise tick in his eyes. That plume of steam is the most you’ve ever seen the bot do. The whir of it’s fans is loud. You want to keep fighting but your body doesn’t respond and it makes you laugh even more. You haven’t felt this satisfied after a strife in… ever . You keep breathlessly laughing while the bot watches on. Eyes alternating between clockwise and counter-clockwise.

It’s been a couple weeks since then, and Hollywood is ass deep on a bender. He hasn’t been coming home consistently and sometimes you catch the bot in the living room. it’s seemingly just sitting there waiting, but when he notices you he turns in your direction. The red gears reflected in the night throw you off more than you’re willing to admit. Especially now that you know just how fast and bright they can really get. You leave it alone. Why would you care if the movie superstar is out doing lines off some hooker’s ass.

You don’t strife Brobot again, not for lack of desire, but timing. He’s formidable, not unbeatable, but he can match you. He’s designed to keep Hollywood sharp, and you know he can keep up with you too. It’s thrilling and satisfying. Not like with the kid where you could just take any, and every, opportunity to fuck with him because he’s weaker. You have to wait for a good time when it comes to Brobot. And given he hasn’t been ‘sleeping’, instead waiting on that couch for Hollywood to come home every night, you haven’t had an opportunity to get the jump on him. So with that out of the question, you’re left to your own. Fine by you.

You litter the apartment with your puppets, normally the bot would move them out of sight but it’s stopped doing that lately. Hm. you could probably get into Hollywood’s room without anyone caring. This place still doesn’t feel like home, you still haven’t slept in that bedroom, but something compels you to know every part of this place. The shrink would probably call you territorial.

It’s with that in mind that you find yourself in his room one night. You had checked to make sure the bot was in it’s usual spot. Sitting dutifully on the couch waiting for Hollywood to stumble in through the door and start yelling about how bright everything is.

Hollywood’s room isn’t much different to the rest of the penthouse, with exceptions. The self-absorbed motherfucker keeps memorabilia from his own films in his room. There’s also skulls on his nightstands. You regard the room with relative disinterest (it reminds you of the kid’s room.) and instead poke around for the perfect place to hide things. Just out of sight and just not. You settle underneath his bed, the tub, and the corners of his closet. By the time you leave his room there’s at least four different stashes of smuppets in there. You walk to his office next because you’re bored and you’ve already been in there once. You place some smuppets at the top of his bookshelf. Two touching tips in his chair, and for good measure one right on his desk. 

When Hollywood finally notices the piles of strategically placed smuppets in his room and office. The entire penthouse knows. It’s his first night and subsequent day home in over a month, and it’s finding the pile of smuppets in his tub that seems to send him over the edge. You’re on the couch when you hear a muffled yell. It’s followed by his door opening and then he’s next to you. Impressive. Flash stepping down the stairs in his state without stumbling or throwing up had to have taken some effort. Then again the way he’s shaking with anger is probably keeping him pretty grounded. You’re looking at him, and he’s looking back, jaw clenched.

“Put. Them. Away.” His teeth almost click together whenever they meet. You've really got under his skin now. “Put what away.” You watch his hand twitch at your playing stupid. “your retarded sex puppets. get them out of my fucking room, get them out of my sight.” You take a swig of the Modelo next to you before you respond. “Nah.” and just as quickly as you respond you have to flash step off of the couch because it’s sliced in two. You look at him, assessing him. He’s breathing hard, shaking too. Even knowing that it’s from anger and coke combined, it’s still strong shaking.

You don’t have time to worry about him though, your katana is in your hand to match his next strike. He’s inches away from you, it’s nothing like the first time you fought him in that shrink’s office. His face is colored with anger and he’s pale as a ghost. His teeth are bared at you like he’s a goddamn animal, you should be worried for him but you're thrilled . You flash step towards the terrace and he follows. He’s fast, you already knew that, but like this he’s relentless. Between strikes he lets out words about how he knows what you’re up to. How you have no right to judge him. How he’ll never just let you kill him. It’s incoherent rambling and you know it must be him coming down from the coke. You don’t fucking care, you haven't had a strife like this in ages. When you strike back it’s with force, your blades make a horrible screeching noise when they meet. It’s music to your ears. You smile back at him wolfishly, and his face gets impossibly angrier. You flash step backwards to prepare for his next strike. He’s flash stepping all around you, using his speed to his advantage. It reminds you of Cal. It reminds you of Cal. You breathe in and close your eyes, focusing on the movement of the air around you. In front of you, to the left, right, in front, behind, right, above, left- BEHIND YOU.

You open your eyes, and it’s like time slows. The pivot to slashing behind you was an easy one, it won’t sacrifice the power in your strike. You’re looking at Hollywood, if he doesn’t dodge you’ll slice his head off. You’re smiling, and he is too. He’s enjoying this in some way. His sword is going to strike you right through the chest if you don’t dodge. (Blood in your lungs you can’t breathe, hot vinyl on your cheek, the kid in front of you. It’s not your fault it’s not your fault it’s not) Neither of you are going to dodge. You can see it in his eyes and surely he can see it in yours. This is it, this is finally what you’ve hoped for. All those years when the fucking kid wouldn’t do it, you’ll finally

Something’s wrong. His stance has changed. you can see that there isn’t as much drive in his strike, you could dodge too easily now. He might only graze you if you committed to dodging now. Is he fuckin’ stupid? Why does every version of him have to be like this, why won’t he just set you free. You look at his eyes and they’re glazed over, his lucidity is gone. What the fuck is wrong with him? You watch your blade meet the skin of his neck and

Something slams into you, all the air knocked out of your lungs. You’re thrown to the side. Your katana clatters into the pool, and you wheeze twice to get the air back into your lungs. When your vision clears you look over to see Brobot cradling Hollywood. He looks painfully rigid, you watch the muscles in his arms strain with the effort. The bot is keeping his head slightly elevated, it’s eyes tick rapidly clockwise. 

After that Hollywood stays home for a couple days. You cross paths often, but he doesn’t offer you any words. Your smuppet piles get moved, contained to your room and the crawlspace. He’s still not clean. You know it in the barely contained paranoia he shows. You catch him on the roof looking down at the terrace. You catch him staring into his room from the hallway. You watch him watching you. He doesn’t even seem to trust Brobot some days. It doesn’t keep it away though. The bot is practically glued to his side now. You walk into the living room to catch Hollywood cutting lines on the coffee table. His hands shake and the bot watches him closely, doesn’t even glance your way. 

Then there’s a knock on the door. You’re in the kitchen, and you pause to look at the door. Hollywood doesn’t, he keeps trying to cut a line. The knock comes again and he sniffs his imperfect line. He doesn’t even flinch, just reaches for his baggy in preparation for his next one. Brobot reaches down and grabs his wrist. Hollywood flinches hard. Knock. He looks at the door and finally seems to register what’s going on. He pockets his coke and sweeps the table. He brings a maroon handkerchief to wipe his nose, runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to make it look kempt. You walk into the living room to get a better view of the door. Lay yourself across the couch and crack open a Lone Star. You watch Dave open the door and

“hellooooo!” Fuck. “long time no see dave! I’m tagging along to check how dirkie is doing.” That same shrill voice from all your memories. You watch Dave flinch at her volume and it’s exactly how you feel. Standing next to her silently is your shrink. Rosie is staring at Hollywood. Her gaze is cold. He steps to the side and they walk past him. Roxanne looks around the penthouse and whistles. Then her eyes land on you and Brobot. She blinks “is that a robot??” Her voice is a mixture of barely contained surprise (excitement?) and confusion. “It’s Brobot. A relic from a time when managers were blinded by their greed.” Hollywood snorts “they still are.” Rosie doesn’t smile when she responds with a flippant “I suppose so.”

Roxy walks at you and observes the bot closely. “he’s expensive ” She turns to Hollywood “who made him?” He says management and Roxy turns to look at Brobot again quickly. Nodding to herself. “fascinating… may I touch him?” Brobot’s eyes tick to the right “You can touch me.” Roxy brings her hands to her mouth in an exaggerated expression of surprise. “I’m so sorry dear! I didn’t mean to offend.” Brobot nods. You watch Roxy tentatively reach a hand out, then she’s reaching all over. Muttering about carbon fiber and silicone. When she gets up to his face Brobot stops her with his hand. Roxanne gets the message and steps back. “well this is already shaping up to be a good visit!” She turns to you and smiles wide. “now how have you been di-stri!” You hum and swig the lone star. Roxy scoffs. “you always were a man of many words” You just stare at her. Out of the corner of your eye the bot’s eyes tick “Yes he’s a talker. I surely couldn’t get him to stop talking even if I tried.” Prick. Roxy seems to like that though and starts asking Brobot things. His parameters, his code, how he upkeeps himself.

Your eyes wander to Hollywood and Rosie. Who are speaking in barely hushed tones. Hollywood shuffles nervously on his feet. Rosie’s posture is cold, closed off. Her lips are pulled into a thin line. Hollywood says something and your shrink narrows her eyes, then she nods curtly. You watch them walk away and up the stairs. Either headed for Hollywood’s office or his room. Hm. “rosie isn’t too happy with him right now” Roxy sighs next to you, seems like she took notice of your observing “to be fair I wouldn’t be happy either. he’s been dark for more than a month now, and in public it’s obvious to anyone how much the makeup is adding color to his skin” There’s the distant sound of a raised voice from upstairs. Hollywood’s probably.

“I want to be mad at you too.” You turn your head towards her “we were best friends, inseparable for years. then that puppet showed up and I lost you in just a week.” She looks tired “but I moved on. I had to prepare for my little Rose, I didn’t have time to reach for someone who was going to push me away.” There’s a wistful look on her face and she laughs again “I loved you Dirk. I earnestly loved you, and I lost you.” A pause “it hurt. it hurt bad.” She shakes her head “but past is past yeah? you’re here now, and rosie even tells me that you remember me now.” You stare at her, sensing a catch “but I’m not sure we can be as close, not with your wounds still so fresh. your head is still all banged up. I’m still trying to help myself too, you know? being close to you again I might lose myself, like I did back then.” She looks nervous, like the girl you grew up with in your memories. There’s an ache somewhere in the back of your chest. “I get it.” She looks up at your words and you just stare back.

She laughs suddenly, it’s a clear noise like wind chimes on a fall day. “dirk you really suck at making a gal feel better you know that?” She laughs again and wipes a fake tear from her eye. “I’m glad you understand.” and that. That makes you… feel good.

The door opens upstairs and you watch Rosie walk down the stairs briskly. Her face is ice and her eyes glare at you “We’re leaving.” Roxy walks towards her quickly, she turns around to blow you a kiss and wave. Does the same to Brobot and you watch him raise a stiff arm and close his hand. You’re dumbfounded for a second watching this robot mimic catching a kiss. The door slams closed. It’s not long after that Hollywood comes down the stairs. He’s glaring at you too. You bristle. What the fuck did you do? He comes to stand in front of you and Brobot, he’s still glaring at you. 

“you’re going to fucking help me.” You raise your brows “Help you with what. And why can’t the tin can help.”

“I don’t have to convince brobot to help me. I need to get you to cooperate. you’re going to fucking help me convince rose I don’t need to be in rehab.” You snort because he has to be out of his fucking mind. You look at him again and he’s still glaring. Holy shit he’s serious. “Holy shit you’re serious.” His jaw ticks “I can’t go to rehab right now. there’s three more scripts scheduled for the end of the season, and I’m already half done with one.”

“Why can’t your robot-self do that shit for you. Let him be in the spotlight for a bit while you do lines in the club.” Hollywood has barely even let you finish before he says “no.” and that’s it. He’s really not fucking budging here. “And the shrink let you go through with this plan. She thinks I can help with your crippling addiction and your seizures?” He finally looks away from you and at the terrace. “she doesn’t know about the seizure.” and you almost groan because this idiot has dragged you into his mess. “look you fucking owe me alright. I’ve let you stay here for a month rent free” It doesn’t matter to either of you whether he charges you or not “so the least you could do for me is make sure I can do my work without getting shipped off to fix an addiction I’ll never break.” He looks tired now. He’s shivering. He pulls out his cigs and lights one. He normally doesn’t smoke right in the living room. That conversation with the shrink must’ve gone really poorly.

You look at Brobot and he’s looking at Hollywood. It’s eyes tick once to the right. It looks down at you “You should help.” and you’ve never felt more annoyed in your life. You don’t know the first fucking thing about helping someone with addiction. This asshole is shoving this on you like you’re his live in nurse. “I’ll do most of the work. But this process lasts for months. I need to go into rest mode occasionally. Maintenance. When I’m doing that you’ll be watching him.” You sneer at the bot “When the fuck did you care. If you actually wanted to help him you’d step the fuck up and send him to rehab while you do shit for the masses.” It’s eyes tick to the right in rapid succession. It says nothing.

“seriously. dirk.” His face scrunches up for a moment “bro. just help me. just this once.” You look at him. Assess his frame and remember what he looked like at the end of that strife. So thin, small , cradled by Brobot while he seized. You remember feeling something. You clench your jaw “Fine.” He sighs in relief and offers a weak “thanks”. You look at the bot and it’s looking back at you. Expression unreadable.

You’re going to regret this eventually.

Chapter Text

He looks like shit and you both know it. He can’t go out like this, but he has to go outside. He’s made that very clear. Still. Having to cut his fucking hair for him is the last thing you wanted to ever be doing for anyone. Even just having the scissors in your hand, you have a morbid urge to stab into the place where his brain stem and spinal cord meet. 

He straightens and is looking at you expectantly in the mirror. Fine. You start with his bangs, remembering how you cut your own bangs before you discovered hair gel and hats. Pulling down the hair in front of his face you cut experimentally just above the tip of his nose. He watches the scissors attentively, almost cross eyed from how hard he’s staring. You cut, and cut, then go in for a third cut when he leans back. You take the hint and continue on to the other side. When you finally get to the back of his neck again you feel that urge. Get rid of him. You cut away the scruff at the back of his neck. He scoffs when you put the scissors down. Raising his hands to the back of his head to tug at the hair still poking out.

“you know how to use clippers?” You stare at him blankly and he sighs. “forget it then, this’ll do.” 

During the drive Hollywood is eerily silent. Only when you pull up to the venue does he make a huffing noise. “coke me.” It’s a stupid way to say it, but even in the face of this slow motion comedown he doesn’t lose the ironic humor. You wordlessly pull out the baggy, barely enough for two lines. It’s how much he’s being allowed a day, until Brobot decides to lower it to one. You raised the question that you’re pretty sure that’s now how getting sober from cocaine works. Brobot responded by saying the task isn’t to get him sober. Hollywood takes the baggy from you greedily and makes two perfect lines on the dash. They’re gone in record time. He leans back and closes his eyes for a couple seconds. When he opens them again it’s to step out of the car. You turn the engine off and follow. 

You think back to the rundown Brobot gave you. Escort Hollywood when it couldn’t, you’d be a bodyguard of sorts. Sounds easy enough. Then it presented you with a suit, all black, tailored to your measurements, and you pulled out your katana.

You adjust the tie around your neck, cursing to yourself over how stuffy this shit is. Dave doesn’t pay any attention to you. You both round the corner of the venue, and you stop in your tracks. There’s so many fucking cameras and microphones. Some assorted celebrities talking into mics. Hollywood looks back at you with a glint in his eye, hands leisurely in his pockets. You clench your jaw and walk forward, falling in line slightly behind to his left. The cameras seem to smell the bastard coming. Before you’ve even gotten to the steps of the venue there’s flashes and microphones being held out, a chorus of ‘Dave’ rising from the hungry reporters. Hollywood smiles and waves while walking. He slips easily past the security detail at the entrance.

Stepping into the building you’re met with a sea of well dressed men, women, trolls, consorts, carapacians… Dresses, suits, robes, diamonds, glitter… You blink realizing that you’re a full 10 paces behind Hollywood.

“Enlighten me as to what the hell this is for” You say to him once you’ve caught up. He doesn’t even look your way when he responds “it’s just a formal party, fans get to see us interact with eachother and gossip about who’s fuckin’ who. we get to speak to the only other people who understand how much the media deserves to be burned at the stake.” You snort “Aren’t you the most famous guy in this room. Unless the president is here anyways. What point is there for you to be here.” At that, Hollywood turns to you like you just asked him what 2+2 is. Then his expression turns icy “I haven’t made a media appearance in almost 6 months. people are wondering if I’m committing career suicide.” He turns away from you and only tells you ‘don’t speak and don’t react’ which is half of what you’ve been doing all your life.

You watch Hollywood throughout the noon into the afternoon. Interview after interview, celebrity after celebrity. You don’t hear a word of what he talks about, just watch him. He’s all glittering smiles, expressive and practiced hand gestures. His cadence is different, his face is cool, every expression reserved. Just enough that even an idiot could tell how he feels about something. Smug most of the time, amused the rest of the time, confident all of the time. An entertainer through and through. People flock and pull away from him in waves, like he’s the shore and they can only stay for so long before the tide pulls them back. You wonder distantly if the kid would ever be like this. You remember the pain in his voice on the rooftop when you tried to apologize. There’s a pit in your gut for a moment and you ignore it. 

Two(?) hours later and Hollywood hasn’t broken a sweat. His answers have been more curt, but aside from that he’s still all sparkling smiles and elegant body language. You watch while he finishes up talking to a particularly excitable troll (lime blood if her dress was anything to go by) and he lets his shoulders sag for a second. You sidle up to him “How long does this shit usually take.” He doesn't even look your way when he says “the formal event should be done in about 30 minutes. we’re going to the afterparty too.” You get an urge to punch him. Instead you resign yourself to scowling for the next thirty minutes. Which seems to do a good job at keeping those with a weaker will away from Hollywood. If he cares he doesn’t let it be known.

Hollywood’s in the middle of an interview when his expensive watch (who are you kidding, everything on him is expensive) goes off. He makes a show of looking at it and ‘tsk’ ing before offering a half assed apology to the interviewer. Dave stands and so does the interviewer. They shake hands, and the poor blueblood breaks out in a sweat. He stutters his way through a goodbye and thanks Hollywood for his time, to which he simply nods and turns on his heel.

Once you’re back in the car you hear the muted thump of Hollywood’s head hitting the headrest. He’s thrown his head back and is looking at the roof of the car, eyes unfocused. “You going to tell me where we’re going next or-” “please shut the fuck up.” You clench your jaw. You can hear your own heartbeat. “What’s the address.” He doesn’t respond, acting as if he can’t even hear you. You’re seconds away from just driving the damn car home when he says “starfucker”. You continue to stare at him like you’ll strife in the car. He sighs “it’s a club called starfucker, you won’t be able to miss it. just follow the most expensive car.” Then he takes his shades off and brings his palms up to his eyes. You pull out of the lot and spot a Bugatti Veyron. Cliche, but definitely expensive.

During the drive Hollywood is silent, his breathing even and shallow. You should be worried but as soon as the thought crosses your mind the Bugatti pulls over to park. You follow and look around, you don’t see anything that would be a celebrity club. Hollywood steps out after you, his posture is more relaxed. He’s still hiding how tired and paranoid he is (poorly) and you let him take the lead. He walks into a nearby sports bar, mostly empty since it’s still around sunset. He nods to the bartender who nods back. Then he walks to a door with an ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ label. He pushes it open, and you follow behind him to see a staircase. It’s only a floor or two down. When you end up at a steel door with muffled bass coming from the other end, you’re reminded of foggy memories from when you were a teenager. Hollywood walks forward and there’s a moment’s hesitation, then he brings his hand up to the doorknob and turns it. 

You’re assaulted with a wall of noise. He walks in not even bothering to hold the door for you. Prick. There’s dim neon lighting, at least four different types of smoke mingling in the air creating a nasty fog of secondhand smoke. Strippers dance on assorted poles, with three on the center stage. The DJ is somewhere to your right, his setup empty for now (Later you’ll know why he won’t come back). You survey the room some more, taking in the people seated and dancing in sections. Hollywood’s already at the bar. You try to follow him and get halfway there before someone touches you. Holds you actually, by the arm. It’s a white carapacian in a black cocktail dress. She smiles up at you. Your blood runs cold, your face feels hot. You flex instinctively and she feels your arm up. She starts to tug you in the direction of what you can now see is a table of other bodyguards. You look at them and see one of them, a troll, wave you over enthusiastically. She’s still touching you and without thinking you grab her wrist and detangle her from your arm. She makes a noise that you’ll only later recognize was surprise mixed with pain. You walk away towards the bar but Hollywood’s already gone. You can hear your teeth grind (or maybe it’s the bass) and keep looking around for the asshole you’re supposed to be protecting. Your arm still burns from where the carapacian touched you. You spot him on the other side of the club floor, sitting in a booth. Stepping forward onto the floor you walk towards him while people bump into you. Distantly you wonder if Cal was with you, maybe they wouldn’t. The places where people brush against you burn like branding. You aren’t entirely sure it isn’t actually burning you. By the time you make it to the booth your entire body is on fire, and your blood is cold. Hollywood says something and the table of trolls and humans laughs. There’s baggies and flasks laying haphazardly on the table. On one end there’s a couple of used needles.

“Yo.” He doesn’t even turn your way. He keeps prattling on about some story about one of a kind statues he littered the planet with. You watch him haphazardly pop a pill into his mouth. He’s laughing again. You’re reminded of the way he looked, rigid in Brobot’s arms. You reach out to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Yo. What have you been takin-” then he fucking decks you. Right in your jaw. You step back bringing a hand slowly up to your jaw, your vision is blurry. You blink a couple times and focus on Hollywood, he’s looking at you. He blinks. “oh. sup dirk.” Your jaw aches, it’s somehow preferable to the burning touches. “don’t sneak up on me like that. I still don’t trust you, yunno?” And now you do want to punch him. He turns away from you, and you decide then and there to fuck up his night. 

You turn to the troll at the end of the booth “Give me a cigarette.” She looks at you bleary eyed and a small smile on her lips. Through gritted teeth you ask again and she finally starts to move. Reaching into her purse and pulling out newports. She seems to be about to light one of them for you, but you take the entire pack and her lighter. She doesn’t even make a noise of protest, just looks confused. You light a cigarette then blow the smoke into her face. “I’ll kill you if you don’t leave.” She blinks. You drag the cigarette, tap the ashes out onto her lap. “You heard me. Leave.” She smiles nervously at that, starts to turn to the man next to her. You reach out to grab her by the jaw. “Don’t look at them. Look at me. I’ll kill you. Leave.” Just to hammer the point home you take the cigarette out of your mouth and hold it inches away from her eye. Before moving down, putting it out right on her cheek. You let go and watch it drop into her lap. She looks terrified now. Good. The burning touches across your body are paling in comparison to how good you feel right now.

She stumbles away from the booth as soon as you let her go. You look at the rest of the table, various expressions of disbelief, anger, fear. Hollywood stands out with a completely perfect poker face. It pisses you off. Your katana is in your hand, you feel even better now “You heard me. All of you. Leave.” then you make a show of stabbing your sword into the center of the table. It doesn’t take much effort but it’s enough to scare everyone away from the table except Hollywood. You don’t even look his way when you captchalogue your katana again and leave too. 

You end up outside, behind the sports bar in an alley. Smoking the newports and trying to ignore the broiling feeling in your gut. The burning touches are still there, and the satisfaction from earlier is dimming. You’re frustrated, but no one’s around to be on the receiving end of it so you keep smoking.

“Yo.” It’s a guy, about your height, headphones around his neck. There’s an unlit cigar on his lips. “You got a light?” His voice is hoarse. Black hair, the roots grown out to show his lighter brown hair color. Dark eyes, bags under them. Baggy clothes. Not a lot of weight to him, probably addicted to something like everyone else in this city. You regard him for barely a moment before you ignore him. Some time passes in silence, thankfully the guy takes the hint and doesn’t keep trying to speak to you. You finish your cig and get your lighter out for the new one. Then you hear shuffling and he’s right in front of you. His eyes glittering with mischief while he leans his face forward near yours to light his cigar. When it’s lit he leans back but not enough, he’s still in front of you and far too close.

“Thanks man.” You grunt and he smiles. “You from around here? You’re not one of Dave’s usual bodyguards.” You keep staring at him. “Speaking of, he looks like shit doesn’t he? I heard this is his first time being out and about in half a year. What do you think’s up wit’ him?” Silence. “Yeah I should’ve guessed you wouldn’t gossip.” He drags his cigar and taps it out. He doesn’t stop looking at you though. Looking you up and down. “Those shades are an interesting style choice. Almost looks like you’re matching with him.” He looks at your hair and your hat. “You two could pass for brothers if the director wasn’t albino as fuck.” He chuckles to himself like that was funny. 

“You’re pretty freaky you know that, just brooding and staring.” Good. You don’t want to come off as inviting anyways. “Most people would stay very far from you.” Then he takes a step forward, the tip of your cigarette touching his cigar. His eyes are half lidded and your face runs hot. “I ain’t most people though. I can see right through you…” Then you feel something warm on your cheek. Burning. It’s his hand, holding your cheek. Against your better judgment you lean into it, it burns so hot it hurts. He smiles.

“How about we go back to my place once this is all-” and then he stops abruptly because there’s a sword blocking his vocal chords. He gurgles and reaches up to his neck, feels the blade that enters from one side of his neck and exits through the other. His eyes are wide and bloody spittle dribbles from his mouth. You stare at him while he stares back, then pull your katana out of his neck with a shlip and he drops to the ground. Blood oozes from his neck while he tries to stop the bleeding, both hands wrapped around his own neck. His eyes turn to the sky while his mouth flounders open and close. You just watch him for what feels like an eternity. Your body burns from the touches on the club floor. Your cheek is on fire. Why did you do that? There’s a tightness in your chest. Your vision blurs. No fucking focus, you can do this. You look at the body, he’s still now. The puddle of blood makes you dimly think that red wasn’t his color. How to get rid of a body. Think Strider. Think. Your brain feels like it’s on fire and your body isn’t faring much better. Every nerve on edge, ready to strife. You close your eyes and try to imagine felt arms around your neck, what would Cal tell you to do? A body is easier to dispose of in pieces.. The voice is barely a whisper, but you cling to it anyways. You raise your Katana and decapitate him. It’s easy. You repeat the process with his arms and legs. Now you’ve cut him into six pieces. Okay what now. 

…

There’s static in your brain and you feel frustration creeping up on you. Okay fine you can do this by yourself. You decide that you’ll bring the car around and put the pieces of him into trash bags that you had stolen from the sports bar. It’s all simple enough. You’re trying to fit his leg into one of the bags when the door opens. You flash step over to it ready to strike down any witnesses.

“dirk what the fuck was that earlier, you di- woah.” He blinks, you don’t lower your sword. He looks past you at the gorey scene and blinks again. “what. the fuck. did you do.” You don’t respond. “ dirk .” It’s a warning, even through his high you know a strife right now would take too long. You don’t have time. “What does it look like.” Against all your instincts you turn your back to him and keep trying to fit the leg into the bag.

“it looks like you just dismembered the fucking dj, are you insane? did someone give you something. jesus christ I liked that guy too.” You hum as you fit the leg into the bag and tie it. You get started on the other leg which already looks like it’ll go smoother. “I didn’t take anything” a beat of silence. “Not sure he liked you, he wanted me to gossip about your raging coke addiction.” You catch a glimpse of Hollywood’s face, jaw hanging slightly open in awe(?) You don’t have time to focus on it while you throw the head into a bag.

“is this about me punching you? I’ll say sorry or whatever the fuck but I meant it when I said not to sneak up on me." You look at him “You think I would’ve killed this guy because you punched me.” 

“well I don’t fuckin’ know! you’re not giving me much to go off of! why did you kill him?” He sounds exasperated, you’ve definitely killed his high. You think about his question and your cheek burns. The imprint of the DJ’s hand is like a branding on your cheek. Then all at once, all the touch from the night feels like the same branding. You shrug. Hollywood’s eyes bulge “you’re telling me. you don’t know why you killed him.” You grunt in affirmation and go back to stuffing parts in bags then into the trunk. You hear Hollywood muttering under his breath about paranoia, how this was all a bad idea.

Something petulant and immature pushes you to say “I don’t know why you’re freaking out. You’re not any better than me considering you decked the guy who’s supposed to be protecting you. We’re both prone to doing shit for no reason.” It’s a nothing argument. Doesn’t even make any fucking sense. It seems to get under Hollywood’s skin anyways.

“you think I should just let my fucking guard down around you? you really think this is just about a paranoid comedown or some bullshit?” You roll your eyes hard and focus on the dead body and fitting it into the trunk.

“you’re insane . you walk around like anything you’ve done couldn’t possibly have any affect on anyone else. I have an insane motherfucker in my penthouse who doesn’t even sleep in a bed . I’d be suspicious of you with or without being high.” You don’t doubt it, but just to get on his nerves you say “I doubt that.”

“speaking of, what gives you the right to constantly judge me for my addiction?” He’s projecting now. That’s fine. “I can’t remember the last time your breath didn’t smell like beer and I notice when my liquor bottles get emptier you fucking retard.” Now that one you doubt. He’s not fuckin’ sober enough to care. “you want to talk about me so bad let’s fucking talk about you for once.” Ignore him. 

“so let’s get to the bottom of it, yeah. some family bonding .” You sigh loudly “Let’s not. Busy right now.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you.

“I rely on coke because I have the pressure of billions of eyes on me when I so much as let the sun grace my skin. there hasn’t been a moment of my life for decades that wasn’t subject to some sort of public scrutiny. to top it off I still have a fucking job to do, theres profit margins to be met and interviews to do.” He’s pacing in the alley, his hand gestures exaggerated, it’s more reminiscent of the kid than the superstar from earlier. “once upon a time there were assassins too! because I was facing an intergalactic dictator, what were you doing at my age? don’t answer that, we already know don’t we? just have to look at the ‘ lil man ’ to know.” Ignore him, he’s just being fucking retarded because you ruined his high. 

“and what’s your excuse? you had a fucked up puppet in your head for a couple years? rose tells me that it was the most evil thing in the universe, but I don’t think it would have mattered. you would have fucked that kid up anyways and we both know it. you don’t have an excuse, and even if you did it would never justify the type of person you are.” He sneers that last bit at you, it should hurt you. It doesn’t.

“this isn’t my first comedown and it won’t be my last. but you? you haven’t even tried at anything .” That makes you bristle. You swallow down the feeling and put the last trash bag in the trunk. “so don’t say shit to me until you can go more than a day without drinking.” He blinks for a second. A calm expression on his face as his posture straightens. He looks like he did during those interviews.

“that might be bad advice actually you’d probably fucking kill someone.” You can’t feel your face or your hands. You walk away from him. He curses you out between his own laughs. Calls you a coward and says it’s about time you left him alone. You ignore him, you’re good at ignoring Daves.

When you make it back to the penthouse you’re still wearing your bloody suit, you don’t know how long it’s been. You truthfully don’t remember much about where you disposed of the body. You’re exhausted. Brobot is waiting on the couch and it looks you over. Eyes ticking to the right in a steady beat. “What happened.” You shrug hopelessly because you’re too tired to save face and this thing isn’t a person anyways. “Where’s Dave.” You’re tired and just opt to ignore him, just another Dave in your way. Always in your way. The bot is in front of you, imposing height and glowing red eyes. “Where’s Dave.” You sigh “Club called Starfucker- can I go to bed now?” The bot is gone, you hear the door close shortly after and make your way to the room you’ve never slept in. In front of the door to your room you remember what Hollywood said.

‘I have an insane motherfucker in my penthouse who doesn’t even sleep in a bed.’

You turn and walk into Hollywood’s room instead. You take off the suit until it’s just the loose dress shirt underneath. Take off your shoes and place them at the foot of the bed. Then lie down on his bed. Before sleep takes you, there’s one last spiteful thought.

‘Now I’m sleeping in a bed motherfucker’