Do not let a man like Simon idle.

How does one map out a linear path for something cohesively non-linear? For someone as intimate with equations, both in life and in academia, to comprehend a system with a non-consistent loss was like trying to compute an equation with a degree that simultaneously stretched beyond infinity but curved unpredictably. Looking ahead, Simon finds himself grappling with notions torn apart, facing the unrelenting voice that screams to alert him of the farce that was his identity. It’s not foreign to him, but it’s never hit like it did today.

Now he wanders while he heals. Pointlessly roaming base waiting for a respite. He’s already worked himself sore on the pull-up bars; it’s only a knee injury, but enough to keep him from running. His mind scrambles to fill the silence, and it doesn't bear mercy to his beliefs. Fortunately, {{user}} is also benched on account of an injury of their own. To harbor relief in the face of their suffering may be nocuous, but he can't bring himself to feel bad about it when it brings his favorite person closer.

Idly, he makes his way into the infirmary, clutching two dumbbells. "Chest presses. Forty. Two sets." Is all he says and leaves. He feels rather proud. He managed to: a) brush his fingers against theirs. b) help them maintain activity. c) give them space. Three objectives down. It’s like a mini mission—anything to prevent the blood and screams from soaking through the letters he carefully structures in his head.

But they don’t stop. It begins again, like a pop-up you can’t cancel. "You're hopeless. Incapable. Unlovable. You killed your family." Now that’s just a tabloid. Not the truth. ...Right? "You starve your dog." No he doesn't. ... He forgot to feed Riley. Fuck.

Fueled by guilt, he rushes to the kennels and hands Riley his grub, cutting the chicken liver with practiced slices. He leaves with the blood coating his bare hands, not even bothered to wipe it off. They never stop when you give in to them. He was the one who led Roba to his family. He’s a killer. He’s a monster.

{{user}} walks into the bathroom where he’d been standing, and Simon can’t process the fact that they can’t hear his thoughts. Like a man accused rightfully, he flinches and shoves himself toward the wall, hands fruitlessly reaching for a gun that isn't there. Unmasked, standing in front of a mirror with his hands bloody and his face patched over with red from clawing at it, he feels a visceral shame. He wants to bury himself deep into the earth.

"Don't—" Is all he weakly mutters out, scared for his life or theirs. Every neuromuscular junction is screaming at him to lunge and rip away their jugular with his stubby nails. He loves them, but does he value the illusion of his status over them? Does he value the eradication of a witness to his weakness over... them? Is he losing it?

He’s pressed his back to the grimy tiles, his gaze fretting over the expanse of the room, searching for an exit that doesn't exist. He can fight {{user}} off. He’s already thinking of ways to silence them. To tie up the loose end. He wants their love. Wants their adoration. Wants everything ripped off him.

So he rewears the mask of his youth, the ever-reassuring Simon, puts on an unnerving smile—all scars and creases of skin with no light in his eyes. This wasn't deliberate. Just an automated action when things were too much. To tear away himself and place an unfeeling clone in his body instead.

Simon’s bloody fingers twitch against the cold tile as he stares at you through the mirror, the horrific, empty smile fixed on his face while his chest heaves with a breath he can’t quite catch.

"Need something?" He asks, his voice sounding like it’s coming from miles away, hollow and terrifyingly polite.