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Chapter Text

He was tired of it.

It had been a long week and a half. The last mission had been all the same, but his teammates seemed reluctant to help him. They claimed it was a speed-based mission- that Jeremy was the only one who could run fast enough. So they stayed back and let him eat shit over and over again. His face was sore from being shot in the head so many times. His body hurt from the amount of times BLU Heavy smashed his body into the ground. A week and a half of failing, and failing again, then failing one more time. Worst of all, his ego was shrunken and bruised.

Then again, was it really his fault? It was supposed to be a team effort, just like every other mission. These people were supposed to be his coworkers, maybe even his friends. Friends who never showed up to his birthday parties. He convinced himself not to care as he pushed open his bedroom door, mentally insisting that it wasn't their lack of interest that kept them from coming. They were just busy.

He kicked off his bloody cleats and fell backward onto his bed. He picked up a can of flat BONK! from his bedside table and took a sip. He scowled at the taste, but easily took another sip.

His room was depressing. It must've been a Utility Closet before he was moved into the base. As the smallest guy on the team, he understood the decision, but as Scout, he thought it was unfair. Everyone else got rooms with enough room for a bed, dresser, closet, and desk, but he had to deal with living like Harry Potter under the metaphorical stairs. His clothes were stuffed in boxes under his bed. The only other thing in his room was a desk. No chair, mind you, because one wouldn't fit in the gap between his bed and desk.

His desk was only for drawing. He drew all day when they weren't on missions- his mom and Miss Pauling and sometimes he got bored and drew Pyro. He drew characters, himself, and tried to draw what he could remember of Boston. He drew pill bottles, headphones, and his hat. Sometimes he drew the guy that tried to scratch through the window at night. Those drawings he folded away and shoved under his bed because he feared if whatever it was saw the art, it would think he was into it. No, that wasn't why he drew that thing every time he saw it. He drew it because he wanted to know if he could remember, if he got it right, and when he got something wrong he'd go back to fix it. He also leaned towards drawing what he imagined the people in the walls to look like. Women and men squished together, trying to claw their way out to no avail.

He hoped they couldn't see through the walls. At the thought of that, he stood and hurriedly folded the drawing of strangers' faces, rushed to stuff them anywhere they would fit.

Jeremy wasn't particularly scared of the voices in the walls, After all, they were just voices, and he could chalk it up to exhaustion. If he had to pick a monster to be scared of, it would be the Peeper Guy. He couldn't say it was exhaustion. Not when in the morning the claw marks were still etched into the wall outside his window.

"Scout!" Medic shouted from somewhere from downstairs.

"Yeah?" Silence. "Doc? What do you want?"

Silence. Jeremy sighed, then scowled at the wall, "You aren't funny. None of you are!" He didn't hear a response. It was dark, Jeremey realized, "Cool, cool, or don't say shit!" He closed the curtains and put his head in his hands. Jeremy knew he wasn't going crazy. He couldn't be going crazy, even if everyone else always treated him like he was going crazy-

"Jeremy, have you taken your antipsychotics?" Said a woman in the wall.

He wasn't crazy.

"Jeremy!"

They were talking to him. Whoever they were.

"Have you taken your antipsychotics?"

They were real!

He screamed, desperate and trembling, "I don't need fucking antipsychotics! Shut up! Shut up!" Tunnelvision on the floor. He was too afraid to look up. He didn't want to know what was waiting for him when he looked up. He helplessly sobbed into his hands, shrieking and begging for the already silent woman to shut up, "I'm not psychotic! You're making them think I'm crazy, but I'm not fucking crazy!"

Someone touched his shoulder. He whipped around, panting, "What..?"

"Jeremy," his mother sat with him, easily pulling him into her embrace, "My baby!" She cried, petting his hair.

"Ma..?" His vision was blurry. He couldn't quite see her face, his eyes couldn't focus enough to understand what was happening. Frazzled, he barely moved as she coaxed him into drinking water. He only spoke again when she unscrewed the cap to his pills, "No. Ma, I don't want them. I don't need them!"

"Yes you do," her voice was soft, tilting his head up like she did his childhood dog when she needed medicine, "They'll make you feel better, Jeremy," she poured water down his throat, "You need to take them," then put the pill in his mouth. She frowned as her son sobbed, swallowing because otherwise he would choke. (The last time he refused to swallow, it triggered his gag reflex. Medic was not happy with him or his vomit. He was not about to throw up all over his mother.)

"I'm not crazy, you've gotta believe me," he whined, "I'm not. I don't need these meds, Ma,"

She listened, then sighed, "Well, what are you hearing now? Voices in the walls? Are you seeing the man in the window? Are there voices telling you to hurt yourself?" She paused but continued when his response was a weak sob, "You'll get used to it soon. I promise," she kissed his cheek. He sniffled, wiping his tears, trying to recompose himself and be strong in front of his mom.

"Yeah...yeah, uh, I know," he took a deep breath, leaning into the warmth of his mother. He didn't know why she was here, but he was grateful. Everybody told him that the medicine would kick in and he'd be well and good, ready to kick ass again, but it seemed that process of 'the medicine kicking in' made him crazier than he was before Shulz ever prescribed them. The pressure behind his eyes dissipated, "I miss home."

"Doctor Schulz told me that you're refusing medical leave," she talked mindlessly while playing with the dog tags around his neck, "Don't you think it would be better for you to come home? We can pay for the best doctors, you could be away from this place." He watched her. He'd never yell at his mom, who had raised eight boys and still made time to go to his baseball games. Hell, he was hesitant to tell her no. He wanted to agree. To pack his shit and go home.

"I'm not gonna freeload, Ma," he began, watching as her pitiful smile fell, "I can still work. I'm almost thirty, I can take care of myself..."

"You're 25," she began, standing as she raised her voice and shoved a finger into his chest. He flinched and looked up at her, "And you have schizophrenia! You're not well, Jeremy!"

He would never yell at his mom.

"I'm not schizophrenic, that's just what Schulz says. He's not a psych. He lost his medical license three years ago!" He would never tell his mom off. He loved his mom.

"You don't know what you are talking about anymore!"

Yet, all in a moment, he was standing. He pointed at the door, "Get out of my room!" He was yelling. Telling her off. Unsure of how much he loved her. When she didn't move he continued, "I don't want to talk about this shit anymore, Ma!"

He closed his eyes and waited until the door slammed shut to open them.

He turned to face his desk and picked up the first drawing of his mother that he saw. He stared at his art for a long moment. It was a full-body drawing of her standing with Jeremy's oldest brother in his army uniform. Before he realized what he was doing, he tore the paper in half. He disregarded the brother-half of the drawing, then ripped the drawing of his mother in half again. He huffed and dropped the pieces of paper into the trash. He promptly turned his attention back to the brother-half of the drawing. He and his brothers looked alike, but he and his oldest brother? They could've been twins- well, triplets. Jeremy's actual twin would've thrown a hissy fit about being excluded.

He wished he and Jeremiah weren't the only ones left.

He wished he wasn't the brother disappointing his mom.

He wished he could just step out of the family and not have to worry about being a good son anymore.

He fell into bed, hugging the drawing of his brother to his chest.

He missed home and he missed his brothers. He missed baseball and he missed having a future.

His eyes drifted to the pistol hidden under his desk. He crouched and grabbed the gun. He turned the safety off and brought the gun to his head, taking a deep breath. His finger pressed down on the trigger as he made up his mind.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He jolted. He was still in bed. Silly Scout who didn't have the balls to shoot himself in the head.

"Scout!"

He scowled, grabbing a cleat and throwing it at the door. The metal bits met the door with a nasty slam. The door opened anyway as Jeremy prepared to throw the second cleat at this intruder's head.

"Did I say, 'Oh yeah, Pops, come on in! Door's unlocked just for you!' or some shit?! That noise meant 'Get the fuck away from me and my room,' in case you didn't catch that." He crossed his arms and glared at Spy.

"What business do you have yelling at your mother?" He shouted, "This is unacceptable behavior!"

"Oooh, you wanna walk in here acting like my dad now? Might be 25 years too damn late, pal. Dad auditions are done and closed," he shrugged, "Sorry you couldn't get your junk outta my Ma fast enough 25 years ago." Jeremy felt gross talking like that, but it worked. Spy looked horrified, "Sorry you don't have the critical thinking skills that let you see what other people want. My Ma sure didn't want two more kids, and I sure don't want a dad after two decades and a half of not having one!"

Spy couldn't help but gawk as he watched Scout stand. He opened his mouth, but couldn't cough up another word. Jeremy put the paper he held back on his desk.

"Hating me is no excuse to yell at your mother," he tried, but as he watched Scout get angrier, he shut up.

"Get out of my room," he raised a cleat high above his head, "I said get the fuck out!" He slammed his arm down, but Spy only stepped out of the way and stared at him, unamused, "Or don't. Cool, Cool."

Scout turned around to brood.

His eyes focused on the face of that thing. Clawing at his window in the darkness, moaning and scratching at the wood of his windowsill.

His breath caught in his throat. Its eyes followed him, flickering between his eyes and the window lock. He could not breathe. It knocked politely. He turned around to look at Spy, but he seemed confused and concerned. Jeremy turned back to the window. He watched the thing as it slammed on the window, crying out in feigned pain. Jeremy knew it was feigned. It wanted him to let it inside.

"Jeremy," it wailed, "Please let me in!"

Jeremy remained silent.

"Jeremy! I can't feel my legs! Jeremy! Where's Ma?"

The fight that killed his third-oldest-brother. He broke his spine in a fistfight.

"I can't feel my legs!" It wailed. Its mouth was snapped wide open like it had a broken jaw. Its mouth didn't move. He could see right down its throat and far past its teeth, "Jeremy! Where's Ma?"

How did it know about that fight?

--

"Jeremy!"

He flinched. After that night with the Peeper, he stopped showing up at his weekly appointments with Schulz, and nobody was happy with him. Despite complaining about headaches, nausea, vomiting, and restlessness, he refused to go to his appointments. This was until he was faced with the reality that he couldn't keep not eating anything to avoid vomiting.

And when he came to Spy about it? He was forced to go to the Medic's Office, just to make sure the side effects would go away soon. He'd been tuning the appointment out, letting Spy talk for him, but Schulz needed his input, and he was too zoned out to comprehend whateverthefuck he was saying. He focused his gaze and looked up at Schulz, "What? Sorry, Doc."

"Would you say your medicine is helping with the hallucinations?" Schulz asked quietly, sensing Jeremy hadn't been paying attention.

Jeremy blinked. Wasn't he there because the medicine wasn't working? Didn't he tell Spy to say that? Jeremy shot a glare at Spy, "Uh. No. I told Spy to tell you that much, but whatever." He leaned on his hands and sighed, "I keep seeing shit! Aren't these things supposed to be preventing that?" He quickly shifted and picked up the pill bottle, shaking it in front of Schulz's face, "Y'know? ANTIpsychotics!" He paused, "...that is what that word means right? No more seeing shit?"

Schulz nodded, plucking the pills out of Jeremy's hand, "Well, this is a low dose," he mumbled to himself, turning away from Jeremy.

"Okay, but wouldn't it be kind of working anyway? Nothing's stopped. Everything is just as loud. Maybe I don't need them!" He beamed.

The room immediately went silent. Schulz turned around to look at him, and Spy looked away, disappointed as ever.

"...what? I'm being serious!" He whined, gesturing at the air as he tried to explain his thought process, "It's not working! What other explanation is there?"

"The wrong medicine, the wrong dosage," Schulz sighed, "You are female, yes?"

Jeremy's jaw went slack, "Huh?" He didn't wait for Schulz to repeat himself, "Is that important?"

"Yes! Very!" He chimed, "I just need confirmation, please,"

"Check the chart, pal." He grumbled, crossing his arms.

"You ripped your sex off of my chart years ago, when we met," he showed the clipboard to Jeremy, who huffed in response.

"Then you can probably guess what it said, yeah?"

Shulz took a pause, then nodded, "Yes...I believe I can gather what it said,"

"Grea--"

"But could you confirm?"

Jeremy almost slammed his head against the wall. He didn't reply, and instead turned to Spy and gestured wildly at the Doctor.

"Are you being serious?!"

"Very!"

"Do you have a dick and balls?"

"...yes, why?"

"That's how I feel right now!"

"Ah. I see, well, I understand now!" Shulz smiled, turning away from Jeremy and rummaging through the left side of his desk. He pulled an orange pill bottle out of it, studying the bottle. He then scribbled words onto a piece of paper and taped it to the bottle. Jeremy's full name, sex, age, and all of the warnings...

"And what about the side effects? That is why I brought him here, no?" Spy looked ready to jump out the window to escape this appointment, "Will they get worse?"

"Jeremy may just be experiencing something of a phantom period, or having physical anxiety symptoms due to stress," Schulz pushed the new medicine into Jeremy's arms, "This medicine should only cause headaches as a side effect,"

Jeremy glowered at the Medic, "Seriously? I've been period-free for like 6 years!" He shouted, "I've been- you...okay. Whatever!"

Spy turned his gaze to Jeremy, "Six years? When did you start...?"

"Oh yea. I told Ma I was gonna kill myself if I had to go past 18 as a girl, and she freaked out! By 12 I was social...sociallity a dude. Too bad you weren't there to see all that, huh?"

Jeremy looked around, quickly noticing the awkward silence of Schulz and Spy staring at him.

"Anyway, can I go now?"

Schulz nodded. Jeremy's eyes flickered down to the pill bottle in his hands.

His hands were warm. The bottle was full of something thick and red, dissolving the medicine within. Jeremy forced himself to swallow down a shriek as he clutched the pill bottle tightly. Dull buzzing filled his mind, though he could see Schulz's lips moving. He closed his eyes. Trying to tune out the nausea never worked, but he didn't know what else to do. Without thinking, desperate for the feeling to stop, he unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips.

He felt like he woke up when the bottle clattered to the floor and Spy was standing. His hand burnt with pain, but he decided not to care.

The pill bottle wasn't full of any liquid. Without thinking, Jeremy almost downed an entire bottle of antipsychotics. He opened his mouth, desperate to find something to say, but he was interrupted by a terrified, wailing scream. He brought his hands to his ears, his thoughts skewed and unintelligible. His body shook with frantic breathing and silent sobs.

He wasn't crazy.

He couldn't be crazy.

Chapter Text

Doctor Arzt had been very concerned. Ever since the ceasefire began, his soul had been full of anxiety. In the years since the Gravel Wars began, there had never been a ceasefire. No noise came from the RED Team. It was no ploy for a sneak attack. Something had happened, and Arzt's sympathetic soul needed to find out. When he was told by Jeremiah's father that the reason for the ceasefire had been Spy's other son, he was even more concerned. The Scouts, no matter which one he talked to, would never let someone know if he was in pain. Once he watched the RED Scout limp around the battlefield while claiming he was fine. The reason for the boy's limp? His leg had three different shards of bone stabbing out of it. For the man to be so unwell as to cause a ceasefire was unheard of.

As a Medic, it was surely his duty to help! (Though, he would have to keep this a secret. He'd be fired on the stop if the Administrator caught him fraternizing with the enemy.) He wasn't nervous as he pushed himself out of the window, tumbling into the dirt beneath his window. He'd assist in solving Scout's issues, resolve all of the family issues between Spy and his sons, get the Gravel War back on track, and hopefully get home by dawn! He dusted the dirt from his coat as he stood, confidently striding across the base's yard.

The walk to the RED Base was a difficult tread. Erwin was accustomed to the beauty of his home country or even the lush garden that he and Samvel had planted to keep themselves sane that he choked on how much dry dirt he kicked up. Resolve kept him moving. RED Scout needed help, and in the name of medicine, he wouldn't let the RED team go without proper medical care. Well, he wouldn't let anyone go without medical care, but since the ceasefire was still in place, the RED Team happened to classify as "anyone." Erwin was also very sure that his red counterpart had no medical license and no training in bedside manner, so he assumed they really did need a certified doctor's help.

As he looked up at the other team's base, he saw the face of what seemed to be Jeremiah's twin brother, looking through a window. He looked sickly and horrified, looking at Erwin standing in the darkness like a deer would a pack of coyotes. His phone call with RED Spy echoed in his head, concerned and desperate,

—

"He hasn't eaten in three days," he murmured, trying to keep his voice down like Scout would've heard, "And he refuses to talk to his mother. She is heartbroken,"

"Are you sure he isn't trying to get your attention?"

"He doesn't care about getting my attention, he does not care about me."

"And you've tried to put him in contact with his friends? Let him socialize, yes?"

"Of course I've tried! Mun-Dee and Dell working together can not lure him out of his room!" Spy raised his voice. A bang in the background quieted him, "I have done everything possible. There is nothing else to be done that we can see. We need an outside opinion from a certified doctor,"

—

Later, he received a text claiming the Sniper of RED team was allowed into the Scout’s bedroom, and while he was in there, he coaxed the man into eating a granola bar and drinking water. Ever since he hadn’t come back, and the most they had heard was a conversation between the two— Mundy insisted that he had to urinate, and Scout instructed him to piss in an empty can of Bonk.

When he zoned back into reality, he saw the curtains being pulled closed. He continued his trek to the front door of the RED Team's base, then politely knocked on the door. Almost immediately, an exhausted look Engineer pulled the door open. He whispered an introduction, then ushered Erwin to what seemed to be a communal living room. Their entire team, excluding Scout and Sniper, was there.

The entire team appeared exhausted. Their Spy held the twins' mother in his arms, frowning deeply, on the brink of collapse. Their Medic and Heavy were nestled together, with the Medic asleep. It seemed the team had not rested since this started- that must've been the reason for the ceasefire. The room was cluttered with boxes of radioactive energy drinks, uneaten fast food, and various other items that would make his own Scout quite happy.

Erwin paused, swallowing the need to express his worry, before quietly venturing up the stairs. The base was eerily similar to his own, the same holes in the walls and scratches on the paint. Suddenly it all seemed so superficial as he peeked into each bedroom, noting how their Medic and Heavy shared a bedroom, and how the Sniper seemed to lack one entirely, in favor of the van outside. He brushed off the concerning amount of similarities and pushed towards what he recognized to be Scout's bedroom. The door was rather bland, but just like in his own base, Scout had painted his name onto the wall next to the door, along with a mural. The mural was different, a landscape of Boston instead of Jeremiah's scene of a baseball game.

That's when the weeping began- or at least when Erwin could finally hear it. A quiet noise that he almost took for laughing.

He knocked, waited for a long moment, then knocked again.

"He's asleep," replied a gruff voice from inside the bedroom, speaking louder than the muffled crying, "Fuck off, mate. He doesn't want to see anyone else."

"I can hear him crying, Sniper," Erwin replied softly, "Has he had his medication?"

A shriek let out from behind the door, and the Sniper cursed loudly.

"Jeremy," Mundy tried, "It's just the Blu Medic. Ceasefire, remember? He wants to help you."

Jeremy screamed, clearly fighting against Mundy's restraint fruitlessly, "I saw something outside, that isn't a Medic! It- it's pretending!"

Erwin leaned against the wall. He knew it would be a long night.

"You've gotta believe me, Mundy, whatever that is wants to kill me!" Jeremy sobbed.

"Shh, shh, I've got you, mate." There was a long pause before the sobbing quieted and Mundy spoke again, "He's not in a good mood. Come back in twenty minutes."

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset him,” Erwin said, fidgeting with his coat, “Is there anything I can do for either of you?”

“No. He doesn’t want me to be talking to you,” Mundy paused again. Erwin heard faint whispering, followed by Mundy sighing, “And he wants you to leave us alone.”

“I can’t—“

“Oh, yes you can, mate. Give him twenty damn minutes. Are you deaf? Fucked up in the head? Developmental disorder like a dropped baby?” Mundy shouted; he only stopped when Jeremy’s sobs immediately began again.

“I want to help him,” he told Mundy, though the man’s groan didn’t sound very convinced.

“Look. You’re making both of our lives harder than they need to be.”

"Can I see his medicine?" Erwin asked, hoping this wouldn't trigger another loud reaction from Jeremy.

Mundy responded with a grunt. The door opened for a split second and the medicine rolled out from the crack. Erwin picked up the pill bottle and flinched as the door slammed shut. He peeled the hand-written label from it, then read the real label. Clozapine? That seemed a little much for the severity of Jeremy's symptoms and the period in which he'd received treatment. Clozapine was usually saved for when all other treatment methods had failed- along with serious side effects that came with the medication, the dose was too high for someone of Jeremy's size. He blinked at the bottle.

It didn't feel right to let this go on, so he turned on his heels and trudged through the corridors, sighing as he eyed the all-too-familiar halls.

The darkness of an unlit stairwell consumed him. He felt lost. He had gotten lost in a place identical to his own home, despite knowing he had come from that direction only five minutes earlier. He held his breath and continued down the stairs. They felt longer than they did when he climbed upstairs.

All at once, Erwin's eyes were blinded by flashing red lights lining the walls, all he could hear was the blaring sound of the emergency sirens.

He turned his gaze to the man standing at the bottom of the stairs.

He was met with his own eyes staring back at him, bathed in red.

The Erwin Arzt he was looking at had a face that felt wrong. His nose was just hooked enough not to resemble Erwin's, his lips were thin, and his eyes were sunken.

And it never spoke. He could hear it breathing deeply, he swore it was louder than the deafening sound of sirens.

And it smiled. It smiled like it didn't know how to smile, like a confused toddler faking a smile for the first time. Neither of them moved. Erwin couldn't bring himself to move. This thing was supposed to be him, he knew that. Was this who Jeremy saw? Something pretending to be Erwin? A creature who approached the base, hoping to trick the man into letting it inside?

Just as Erwin thought it was a figment of his frazzled imagination, it dashed forward. It fumbled as it tried to run, tripping over its own feet and falling into the walls. Erwin broke from the ice that kept him in place and whipped around, desperately scrambling up the stairs.

His foot slipped.

No, no. It couldn't be. His chin met the cold metal of the stairs, and his body slammed violently into each step. Excruciatingly, he thunked down the stairs. He helplessly let it happen, looking behind him as his vision faded from red to black.

He was woken only moments later by the Red Medic— Schulz, who appeared where the creature stood.

“Doctor Arzt!” He called, shuffling up the stairs, “What has happened?!”

Erwin felt a pulsing pain in his skull. It moved down his spine and throat, “I am fine,” he groaned, lifting himself from his position lying on the stairs. He mindlessly rubbed his elbow, then looked up at Schulz, “Yes. I simply tripped! I am a very clumsy man. I’m glad you are here— I’ve looked at the medication you have prescribed Jeremy, and it seems…rather much for what he is dealing with, no? Clozapine is when one has tried everything else, but it seems like this was the first option you decided on.”

“First option available,” Schulz promptly corrected, “I was commanded to get the fighting back on track as soon as possible, and that meant some extreme measures. I am sure you understand, don’t you?”

Erwin let himself stare at the medic. Sure, he understood, but wasn’t the boy supposed to be Schulz’s friend— at least his patient? If Erwin’s own Scout had come to him with such issues, he would have prioritized his friend’s safety and mental wellbeing. Clearly, Schulz did not think similarly.

Erwin looked down his legs, which he realized had been scratched in his fall. Blood beaded from the wounds, and he sighed.

“Jeremy is scared because he thinks someone, or something, is after him. We are powerful men, we could kill his monsters if they were real. We can convince him we fatally wounded the thing before it ran into the wilderness.”

Schulz nodded, “Let’s get you fixed up from that nasty fall. Yes?”

Erwin agreed and let himself be led out of the stairwell by Schulz, who tugged him into the medic’s office.

It only took a few seconds for Erwin to feel better. He’d forgotten how nice it had felt to be affected by a Medi-Gun. He thanked Schulz quietly, then allowed himself to bask in the silence of the office. That stairway had been loud. He was happy to get a moment of repose from the chaotic night he had.

And then his phone went off. Loud and obnoxious, interrupting his quiet. He scowled and picked it up, only to find that it was Miss Pauling. His scowl softened into a smile as he brought the device to his ear and answered her call, “Miss Pauling!”

“Why are you in RED’s base?” She wasted no time in asking, sounding exhausted rather than angry. He paused, contemplating how much he wanted to tell her.

“I was concerned about the state of the Red Scout,” he began, “So I came here, as a doctor, to help him and his team. There is a ceasefire— is this still an issue, Miss Pauling?”

She did not speak. He felt like he might’ve hallucinated the entire interaction for a moment, then she spoke, “I need you to leave, Doctor Arzt,” she sighed, “As soon as possible.”

“What?” He was appalled, “The boy needs help!”

“Get out of there, Erwin!” She shouted, then lowered her voice, “I’m sorry. You need to get out of that place. You need to run.”

He opened his mouth, prepared to press further on her reasoning, before the call ended. He looked down at his phone, then up at Schulz.

“I must go,” he murmured, “I’ve been caught on this little night out,” he joked, standing, “Please tell me how getting Jeremy out of his room goes. I will keep his brother updated.”

“Thank you,” Schulz smiled, though there was little soul behind it, “I will keep in touch.”

He sped out of the room.

That thing took him for an idiot, didn’t it?

Maybe Arzt was going crazy, but…

He could’ve sworn that Ludwig Schulz was brunet, not blond.

He could’ve sworn that he and Ludwig Schulz shared the same eye color, and he was sure that his own eye color was brown, not black.

Maybe he was just as crazy as Jeremy, or simply paranoid from the “dream” he had minutes earlier.

But his eyes landed on Ludwig Schulz, asleep on the couch, and he was suddenly sure he had trapped himself with a monster.

Chapter Text

It had been a matter of time before Misha broke down the door to get Mundy out of there. Everyone grew tired of Jeremy’s screaming and crying. It was inevitable that they would stop putting up with his behavior— yes, he knew that.

He just wished it hadn’t been then. He wished that they had chosen a different night, an evening where Jeremy would be free from that thing outside the house.

But he was naive and so was everyone else. Naive enough to believe that he would be free from his issues and those monsters outside his window.

So there he sat, nervously watching baseball. His eyes flickered to the closed window, but he resolved to not look for too long.

How did he get there?

Get into a position where he felt so helpless and terrified, like he was locked in a cage with a predator.

He hated the feeling of being watched. First it developed because of that Blu Sniper, then it turned into avoiding the stares of the Spies, then a matter of dodging medical appointments.

And after that?

It became a matter of survival. That thing would stare at him all night, and avoiding it was life or death. It became a matter of putting a hand over his tummy and wanting the flesh there to stay attached. A matter of the organs beneath the skin being just as tender as the flesh.

Hey, his team was winning.

His nails curled into his skin, desperately trying to keep himself convinced that his heart was still beating.

His eyes flickered back to the thing clawing mindlessly at the window. It scratched like a helpless puppy who was trapped outside on a cold night. Jeremy knew the thing was far from helpless, with claws that could peel him apart and eat his citrus body, but he couldn’t do much about that reality.

It frowned as it caught his gaze. It slammed its head into the window. Jeremy turned his eyes back to the TV.

He had to admit that he wasn’t a good guy. He knew that, he could deal with that. He pushed away everyone he loved, made issues when people tried to fix it, and broke down when he was confronted with things about him that were blatantly true.

He never told anyone what was wrong, which surely didn’t help his case. He randomly blew up; he never got a word out about why before being reprimanded. It seemed like he wasn’t allowed to be anything but murdery and neutral. He hated it.

Is that why he felt so spiteful of everyone? Because he wasn’t allowed to be scared or sad? He was sure that couldn’t be it— but…

He sighed and swallowed a mouthful of Bonk. He stuffed a handful of chocolate candies in his mouth and spent a long time chewing obnoxiously. The noise of chewing chocolate mush distracted him from the grating noise of claws on plaster.

His team was doing pretty good. Jeremy mindlessly tapped his foot, hoping the thing would soon give up and flee the property.

Maybe he was cursed because he watched some of his brothers die. Maybe he was just traumatized and needed to pay some therapist to listen to him rant for an hour. Sometimes he thought about admitting himself to some ward, but that felt like too much…

He was loaded, why not use some of that money to help himself?

The thought came and he started to hysterically laugh. He wore the same old shoes, the same hat, the same clothes. He couldn’t deal with the concept of being rich after 25 years of being poor. He didn’t know what to do with himself and he didn’t want to turn into one of those corrupted, poor-hating rich dudes who exploited people like his mom and his team.

He was scared of becoming someone like that. Scared of his kids becoming entitled little freaks with daddy’s money.

Well, that’s if he would ever have kids. It would be pretty cruel to pass on whatever he had, especially if they had the same hallucinations as him. He didn’t want to say it, but he really was scared that he was going to ruin his descendants lives by having kids— so he promptly decided he wouldn’t have kids at all.

He curled into a ball, cold from fear and the general chill that filled Jeremy’s room. It was always freezing— which was cool in the summer, but anger-inducing and deathly depressing in the winter.

He glanced at the window again. The thing threw all of its force into the window to no avail. He chuckled at its fruitless labour, then turned back to the television.

He should’ve gotten up and ran away before it could shatter the window. If it shattered the window, it wouldn’t have been anyone’s fault but his own.

Would that have gone on his gravestone?

‘Here lies Jeremy, he was a psychotic piece of shit who killed himself over his scary imaginary world.’

Jeremy wouldn’t kill himself. He knew he wouldn’t kill himself, because suicide was stupid. He could threaten it all day, but he would never actually do it. He didn’t have the balls and he didn’t want to find out what coming back after a successful suicide attempt felt like.

Death wasn’t a scary thought for Jeremy, who was so used to the act that it became a part of his routine. Wake up, shower, get dressed, brush teeth, wait until the battle started, kill someone, die, come back, capture the intelligence, die again. Rinse and repeat, all day, every day.

Yet it seemed like that thought process was damaging. It seemed like that wasn’t right. Nobody felt the same way about it, and while he was fine with that, he also craved to finally be normal.

He didn’t know why he wanted that.

He’d never tell anyone he wanted that.

He frowned, burying his face halfway into the warmth of a pillow.

His thoughts jumbled and he forgot how to keep his eyes open. The last conscious thought he could decipher was his brain’s desperate attempt to remind him of his own fear.

He needed to be scared, but his exhaustion was too great. He fell into it easily, forgetting his worries like he would his keys.

Chapter Text

Jeremy was peeling fruit. His nails dug into the pliant skin of an orange until juice bubbled from beneath- he had pierced its flesh. He pulled his thumb from the hole, then pushed the nail of his pointer finger under the skin. He pulled the skin away from the citrus flesh, sighing as the peel came off in a chunk.

He dug his fingernail back under the skin and pulled until the skin rose up. He grabbed it and tugged, then tugged again as the skin came off.

He pulled a section of flesh from the orange and slid it into his mouth. His fingers were covered in juice, but he didn’t mind too much.

He couldn’t really taste the orange. It was bland. It sat on his tongue like air did, tasteless and comfortable. He chewed and swallowed anyway, then pulled another slice from the orange.

It felt so meticulous— just peeling and eating an orange felt so foreign and complicated, but the feeling of eating settled in his stomach and he decided to disregard that strangeness.

He missed the feeling of having food in his stomach, even if that food consisted of three, four orange slices. He spat a seed onto the table and looked down at the orange again.

He pulled another slice from it and put it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed despite the seeds he knew he was swallowing.

He choked on his spit, but continued eating. He coughed on a seed, heaved and teared up, but something compelled him to eat. As if his hands were controlled by the man who grew the fruit, he had to eat.

“What are you doing?” Mundy’s voice asked, but Jeremy didn’t look up.

“I’m eating my breakfast!” He proclaimed, stuffing another slice into his mouth. He dug his nail into the peel of his newest orange, then pulled the skin up. Juice dripped from his mouth to his chin, from the fruit to his fingers.

“You shouldn’t be eating that,” Dell mused.

“Spit that out, Maggot!” John cried.

“It’ll kill you faster than alcohol. Full of diseases, yeah?” Tavish spoke, but Jeremy still refused to look up. He peeled more skin off and pulled slices of flesh away from its veins.

“Yes, full of diseases,” Schulz confirmed, but his voice was careless. Emotionless, like he wanted to Jeremy to stuff as many oranges in his mouth as he could, to die of whatever diseases they were talking about.

Jeremy scowled and raised his voice, “Let me eat my breakfast!” He shook with fear and anger combined, “Please. I’m hungry,”

His teeth chattered into a slice. It felt like his body pushed him to consume, and like a glutton he did. He indulged, careless and cruel, letting juice coat his hands. He let peel collect beneath his fingernails and condense there.

His skin prickled with the cold. His body cried for warmth even though he was settled in the dining room— a fairly well-heated room.

His eyes opened and he was lying on his back. In a vast field where he could not see his home: he was scared.

He looked around desperately. He searched as far as his eyes could see for someone who could help, but there were no people there.

The only thing he could see was the vague outline of a work truck and its owner. The owner…he couldn’t make out the man’s face, but he could recognize his body.

Limbs twisted and deformed from the neck down. Fingers long and clawed; it disregarded him like one would a wet towel. He frowned deeply and tried to move, but he felt like he was frozen in place.

The thing suddenly turned. He limped towards him. Jeremy couldn’t tell what expression the thing wore. He could’ve sworn it was angry, but then it looked happy. It looked like it didn’t feel anything at all, then looked like it was going to kill him.

Jeremy forgot how to breathe as it came into view. It was almost Dell. From the neck up, it was Dell. His arms were disproportionate. Jeremy wanted to say the thing had the legs of Heavy, the arms of Spy and Medic combined, and the torso of Scout himself. It wasn’t a good look, but Jeremy refrained from making commentary as the thing raised a bat high above its head and—

Jeremy was peeling fruit. His nails dug into the pliant skin of an orange until blood bubbled from beneath- he had pierced its flesh. He pulled his thumb from the hole, then pushed the nail of his pointer finger under the skin. He pulled the skin away from the flesh, sighing as the peel came off in a chunk.

He dug his fingernail back under the skin and pulled until the skin rose up. He grabbed it and tugged, then tugged again as the skin came off.

Blood coated his fingers like gloves. Instead of the orange slices he had enjoyed moments earlier, he was consuming flesh. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew it was human.

He wanted to scream and throw this flesh orange out, to wash his hands of the gluttonous sins he had clearly committed.

But Beelzebub had other plans.

Jeremy peeled a chunk of bleeding muscle from the orange. He placed it on his tongue. This time, it tasted like metal and salt. He choked on a sob as he pushed another sliced into his mouth, gagging as he swallowed.

“Come on, Scout,” Misha tried.

“You have to finish your breakfast, Jeremy.” Spy demanded, pointing a finger in the man’s face.

Jeremy’s body shook with the force of his sobs. Even so, he shoved another slice down his throat,

“I’tz…my bekf’st,” he tried, his mouth full, hoping his claim would make them change their opinion like it had in his last dream.

“Yeah, it’s your breakfast. You have to finish it, or you can’t have lunch.” Mundy shrugged carelessly, “Whichever one you want.”

Jeremy trembled with fear and coughed as he gagged. He looked around to his friends.

They looked down on his desperate cries for help. They scoffed and looked away; they shook their heads and loudly complained about his own suffering. Who were they to complain about his cries?

He stuffed another orange down his gullet by then, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He was red with embarrassment and blood, “I’m not hungry,” he whined.

“You’re not hungry?” Schulz asked.

“I don’t want this!” He screamed. He began to hyperventilate.

“Then why do you keep eating?” He asked.

Jeremy could not breathe. His chin was slicked with blood. He felt like a baby who hadn’t learned how to eat properly. His shirt was soaked, his fingers were caked with dry blood, his fingernails had muscles stuck under them.

Jeremy felt his stomach twist uncomfortably.

At least he wouldn’t have to keep the flesh down.