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## rest like you belong here

|| John gets the Spirit instead.

i.

He does not see the flash of light enter his fingertips and envelop his body, his body shining brighter than comprehension’s touch; he’s too focused on Larry Trainor’s scorched, still-beautiful dead body.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. De—

He can’t be. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It was supposed to end, by divine hands, but not like this. Larry’s skin sloughs off in John’s hand. He cradles Larry’s face—

and oh, oh. The others are approaching. The others, who would sink their teeth into John, rip out his innards wolfish and cruel, because of his love. Only because of their distorted perception of what love should be. So: he places the blanket underneath Larry’s head and pretends that it was his original intention. He has to hide himself. He must bury himself, every living moment.

And now he doesn’t even have Larry.

They cart Larry away and John wonders if it’s worth it; if living alone on a planet that despises him contributes to any greater meaning. He’s never had these thoughts before. He doesn’t want to experience it ever again, this loneliness. This lack of hope gutting him like prey. This—

“John. John. Hey. Hey, John. ”

Someone — one of them — is trying to get his attention. Briefly he considers the idea that they might know, that they realized his mourning for Larry was a little bit too intense, and decides that it just doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore. It was an inevitable occurrence, and he is not ashamed. Not like Larry was.

Was. Oh, God. Was. He was. There are so many things that Larry Trainor was —- cowardly-holy, beautiful-charred. It’s funny; his internal beliefs had been scarred, and now he’s…. Larry’s existence contradicted all that was known to this world, and John had loved him for it. John loves him for it. John loves him.

He wants to whisper it to Larry’s — body. But they’re watching him. Hungry. Predatory. Like vicious birds circling in. Like—

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

He wants to let himself unravel, fuck the danger, again it doesn’t matter anymore. He wants to cradle Larry’s body in his arms and thread their fingers together like there’s some bright star in their future that will shine upon both of them in saviorhood. Like Larry can come back from this.

No. NO. John Bowers is not okay. A piece of him died on this field.

“What?” he asks, and it’s not composed, it falters. He cannot show anything.

Thank God he’s getting out of here.

“I mean, he was on fire and you put him out. Just wanna make sure you didn’t get burned or nothing.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh, uh. No, I think I’m fine.”

A slap on his shoulder. A gesture to Larry’s —- body. “Good, ‘cause this is already a lot to deal with.”

John feels his fists clench, his skin paling into a ghostwhite. So — so nonchalant about Larry’s death. Larry’s — death. He just walks away, even with a grin on his face, and John imagines some aspect of anger and violence he’s never felt before—

like he’s been struck by John’s imagination, he collapses in a shriek. John — did John do this? Has he been changed? Has something infected him?

“Thompson,” he says, bonetired. John, out of obligation, runs over to him. Shakes him. Turns him—

“...Thompson?”

Something is — off. He must be hallucinating this, his grief driving him to madness. Thomspon’s face is mangled. Grotesque. Abnormally bursting.

“Hey, someone help! Someone—”

But the rest of them are in the same position: magnetized to the ground, shriveling and lurching and convulsing. Nightmarish, or perhaps from a fantasy. He wants to think good riddance. He wants to think they deserve it. They do, in a way.

He’s intelligent enough, however, to know that this is his fault. He’s the only one unaffected, the last one standing, the sole survivor of Larry Trainor.

& There’s a flash of blue light—

—and a searing pain in his back—-

and—

ii.

It was supposed to be Larry. I don’t understand what….

This is John. John Bo….

…

…

Larry’s…?

…

…

Yeah.

…

Are you sure this is a good i…

It takes a while for John to adjust to what surrounds him — black, black black walls, one observation window directly in front of him, the restraints around his wrists and ankles tight, the sorrow burrowing inside of him. The sorrow is the worst part. The sorrow is the only unbearable aspect of this, now.

Sir, he’s awake. The speech sounds warped, demonic.

A light appears behind the observation window. A man — perfectly put together, his blond hair slicked back and styled with care, a sinister gaze stitched to his face — fills up the light, and then it’s dark again. Always dark.

“Staff Sergeant John Bowers,” he says.

“That’s me. Now can you tell me what the hell this is?”

The man simply smiles. His teeth are sharp; John knows this kind of man well. More invasion. More wolves. “Welcome to your new base of operations. I’m Charles Forsythe, D.O.D.”

“D.O.D?” John asks — it isn’t a question, it’s a lament. Department of defense. Of course. “What do you want with me ? And why am I—” (he tugs on his restraints) “—in these?”

“We’re going to accomplish wonderful things together, Bowers.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

His eyes flutter down, only to lock directly into John’s moments later, a flicker of change, Forsythe peering into his entire essence prepared to consume. “I assume you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Wh—”

“There is a formidable radioactive energy being emitted from your body. Now, we don’t know why or how…. but we’re going to try and harness it.”

Oh. Oh, it all flows together, blood into blood: he killed them ( good riddance) (still they were his friends) (they were Staff Sergeant John Bowers’s friend, they would’ve devoured the truth of him) and he is deadly now, he is radioactive, there is something within him that is focused only on killing, never creating or loving. He is some abomination.

No. No; he’s thinking like La—

No.

“I’m radioactive? Okay. Sure. Can you untie me, or am I gonna accidentally kill you, too?”

“I’m afraid we can’t release you,” Forsythe says, a tone of violence. “Your service here is compulsory.”

“Compulsory?” Oh. “I get it. You’re gonna use me to kill people, is that it? Fuck you. I’m not doing anything for people like you.”

“We’ll see,” Forsythe spits. He makes a gesture towards the bolted door across the room. Still smiling. Still sick.

John isn’t stupid. He knows that this will only end in pain for him, suffering, but that’s -- that’s nothing new. He’s used to it, he’s used to it, he can cope—-

They’re wearing some sort of protective suit, when they walk in, each of them entirely indistinguishable from the others, no individuality, a soaking conformity. Even underneath the suits, he knows, this is the truth. They want to corrupt him — big teeth fables against vulnerability that will not be pried apart.

He recognizes what they’re holding instantly; it’s obviously a torture device, that is how this world functions. This world is against his entirety. John refuses to let it be victorious. It won’t win. It won’t break him. He’s strong, resilient beyond their grasp.

So: he closes his eyes. They pulse their electricity into his flesh — searing pain, but it’s always searing pain. It’s similar to what Larry must have felt, alight and fading. He wonders if Larry screamed. He wonders if Larry’s last thoughts were about him.

These are dangerous thoughts to swallow. He has to let them perish, decay. Like—-

Larry screamed, probably, so John remains silent. Thinks only of Larry, what it would be like if Larry was — was — capable of enduring anything. Would they be here together? Would they—

iii.

The Spirit was supposed to save his life. It was supposed to end beautiful, it was supposed to end with The Spirit staying true to their nature of valiance; they didn’t want to be here, but they recognized Larry Trainor’s pitiful existence upon merging with him. They felt his entire life in their brief connection with him, and had prayed — prayed — that they would be able to fix him. Help him. They have to be here. They don’t know how to get home; it’s becoming increasingly apparent that they are stuck. If they have to be on this planet and its lack of acceptance — they should be able to do some good.

Instead they, inexplicably, got transferred to John Bowers.

(Feeling Larry die like something had been forcefully extracted from their core. They were unaware of their core until they became Larry’s, and the exact second they found a purpose it was stolen from them, existence rabid.

Feeling Larry die, death as a new concept shoved into them. In a way, both John and The Spirit are mourning Larry Trainor.)

John is interesting. He’s different from Larry; when Larry hid himself, tried to rip himself into palatable pieces of body, John refused to feel shame. The Spirit recognizes the strength within him immediately.

It would be worse, with Larry. They know this despite their ephemeral merge. His mind was fractured, separated into different lives that could never touch, and drenched, weighed down by fear. Living with him would have been torturous.

It’s better this way, but Larry did not deserve to die. He deserved to live a life of acceptance, a life where the fear knew how to melt away like his skin. If only The Spirit was capable of holding on, if only they knew how to stay—-

John Bowers also does not deserve this. No one deserves this. Their anger at Charles Forsythe burning sunstar-hot; he dares to touch John with the visceral torture. Electricity injected into him, entirely unlike their electricity injecting itself into him; this means a damning, this means that one day The Spirit must return it and eviscerate Charles Forsythe.

They will. One day.

iv.

John wakes up in a different kind of restriction. This time: a suit. It’s black and feels like rubber, instead of their metallic silver — he wonders if this was on purpose, to distinguish John from the people who are Above him in their eyes. He feels furious. He tries not to feel fury; if he allowed himself to do so, his fury would be omnipresent, there are so many things in this world that can induce fury, it’s better to simply endure it.

Also: a cell. He’s in a cell, another thing to cut him off and away from society. In a way, he already was cut off from society, so it’s not harsh; it’s what happens when you’re gay in a hungry humanity, with their closed-off mindsets and anger towards anyone who deviates from normalcy.

So: he’s in a cell. It doesn’t matter. He will find a way to get out of here. He always finds a way to get out. He always—

Oh. This is something he cannot escape from: his arm, glowing bright and blue like ocean waves. It would be terrifying, if John was not already horribly disturbed. It’s just an addition to the fear. At first he wanted to believe that Forsythe was lying, despite what happened on the field—

but now it is becoming apparent that something in John has shifted. Something about him is different. Something at the very core of him — a core he was unaware of until now, similarity — has changed. Perhaps his entire core. Perhaps it has been replaced. Perhaps when you take Larry Trainor away from John Bowers, things start to disintegrate.

He was going to leave, anyway. He was going to get discharged and leave and be free of the hatred . Well. Well. Be careful what you wish for; isn’t that how life always unravels?

“What the h—”

The door opens and the light fizzles out; almost like it’s frightened, wrapped in ribbons of dread, moving tendons of panic. John feels bad for it, pities this light. Thinks: it’s just like him. He can deal with that later.

For now: he focuses on Forsythe in front of him. Still perfectly composed. Still jarring. Forsythe will always be jarring, and he wonders exactly how far it will extend. Will he be here forever? Will Forsythe die one day, and be replaced by someone equally deranged? His fate is uncertain now. It was always uncertain.

“What do you want now?”

“We need to have a conversation,” Forsythe says. “Come with me.”

“We can’t talk here?”

Two other agents wrap their hands around John’s body. He tries to struggle, to push them away with the strength he still possesses, but they’re too firm, statuesque.

“One day you’ll learn how things work around here.”

v.

The Spirit knows how things work around here. John does, too, and John understands it better than they do, somehow. John has had to face this his entire life, whereas The Spirit’s home was calmer. The Spirit is intelligent, however, and The Spirit understands instantly how insatiable these men are. Insatiable. It all comes down to hunger, hunger past the finish line, hunger seeping into air; they starve for destruction and extermination and they will never be satiated until the entire world is in their image. Illness.

They would despise The Spirit.

The Spirit listens to Forsythe in between the beats of John’s heart. “Your first mission has presented itself. The Red Menace is knocking on our door near Miami.”

John laughs. “And?”

(The Spirit finds it endearing, his ability to stay collected despite the horrors of the situation. Oh. It’s -- admirable. Even beauti—)

“ And this is your chance to prove yourself. To be a real man.”

“I am a real man.”

“Are you sure about that? Because to us, it seems as if you’ve struggled with normalcy your entire life.”

John’s fists burn. “That might work on someone else, but not me. There’s nothing wrong with me. Go to hell.”

Forsythe shakes his head. He pushes a button, and the doors fly open again, the agents invade again. He screams, this time, when they shock him. Oh. It’s understandable. One can only be resilient for so long.

It takes The Spirit a few seconds to parse his true intentions. These horrid people want to use John as a weapon, to utilize him to bring forth continual misery and suffering. They would despise The Spirit. The Spirit cannot allow them to hurt anyone else. They would despise The Spirit. Both The Spirit and John could not cope with being the catalyst to pain. They would despise—-

It doesn’t matter.

The Spirit rises from John’s body and watches as John falls unconscious; interesting, they think, any hope of recognition they may have held melting away. The agents stand back in shock. One of them tries to place the torture device into The Spirit’s being. Stupid, stupid man. Stupid, stupid humanity. Below humanity. Divergent from anything human and especially divergent from their kind.

The Spirit grabs him and pulses their electricity into his heart. The light in his eyes, barely visible behind the protective suit, slowly dims into a void.

They throw him to the ground with their fury manifesting true, and they keep going.

vi.

John wakes up to a pile of dead bodies littering the room, sick abandoned creatures. It’s -- it’s deserved. He can only think that there must be someone out there protecting him. It’s dangerous to believe in things like that, but… he couldn’t have done this. Could he? Is he capable of something like this?

There’s a small television screen in front of him. Something isn’t right. None of this is right, but — something is eclipsing to make the situation truly unfortunate, its trepidation rising and reigning over him.

“What happened?” he asks. He doesn’t want to know, but he has to know.

Forsythe, from behind the window, waves something in the air. “You took me by surprise,” he says. “I thought you were nothing but an arrogant degenerate mechanic, but it seems as if you are so much more.”

He presses a button on the object, and the television turns on. He sees his own body, being tortured into a compliance they’ll never get. He sees himself lose consciousness. And—

And—

Oh.

He sees a being, some humanoid creature made of transparent blue light. John thinks back to his cell, the way his arm lit up like a calming fire. It almost makes sense. It’s terrifying. It makes sense.

He’s adjusting to it. There’s something inside of him, something using his body parasitic. But it —

It’s killing them. One by one. He watches the agents fall dead from its hands and he watches its swift movement through each of them as it slaughters. It’s bright and chaotic. He wonders what sparked its anger. He analyzes it; he was being tortured and it emerged to end the torture. Was it trying to protect him? He was going to be weaponized, used to brutally destroy in the most disgusting way possible. Was it trying to protect them? Was it trying to accomplish both aspects of protection?

“What… is that?”

He tries to fear it. He truly tries.

He can only manage fascination.

“That… is what’s really inside you,” Forsythe snarls. “That is who you really are.”

Most likely he expects John to cower. He should know, by now, that John is smarter.

“Okay,” John says. “If that’s true, then what I really am is powerful, and it’s gonna kick your ass one day.”

vii.

They leave him alone for about two days. No food, no water — John doesn’t need it now, but most humans need this to survive. They’re denying him everything. Freedom and autonomy and the respect of humanity. The Spirit mulls it over in their mind: what would have happened if they had been able to make it out of that room? What would have happened if The Spirit was able to end Forsythe’s life, the ultimate conquering? It’s beautiful to daydream. It helps. They dream of home. They dream of Larry. They dream of John. They dream of all three concepts merging together. Larry survives and John survives and they go home—

John dreams also, about Larry also. It’s funny how similar The Spirit and John are; this has occurred to them multiple times. His dreams mostly involve the soft curl and curve of Larry’s mouth against his, his fingers through Larry’s hair, the way Larry laughed and flustered…

Larry’s beauty. He had so much of it.

John tries talking to them on the second day. He’s - hm - bored. It’s harrowing, waiting around for the next moment of inevitable physical torture. It’s boring; there’s nothing to do but wait. Yesterday, John half-way through a prayer before realizing that it’s as empty as the space Larry fell from. It’s pointless, to hope.

He won’t let himself lose hope so easily, in his subconscious, which makes him stronger than The Spirit in their decimated hope, the ruins of their optimism.

His strength is, again, admirable. How can The Spirit ever match it?

“Hey,” he whispers. “Are you listening?”

The Spirit debates responding. They - part of them is indecipherable and wants to remain silent and unknown. They also want to envelop him in light again, to scream their existence loud despite knowing he cannot hear them. They want to make a difference. They—

“If you are,” he continues, “thank you. I don’t know… what the hell you are, but I feel like you want to keep people safe, so thank you.”

The Spirit cannot help themselves; they allow a manifestation, a bright loud glow in John’s chest that sings louder than their normal blue, the (fleeting) flutter of happiness. Someone understands them. Someone can slither inside of them, in the way they slithered inside of John through touch. He feels their all. They feel his all.

Oh. And his all is smiling. In adoration. Like The Spirit is endearing. It’s all so endearing. John’s mind wraps around a new concept, a fresh thought: I’m not alone anymore.

Forsythe, of course, ends the intimate moment. The Spirit forgets to hide themselves; he can see their glow for a few moments before they recoil. He looks disgusted. He looks wholly disgusted.

“Ah,” he says. “Well, that’s perfect for our treatment today. Follow me.”

John knows the punishment — they both know the punishment, The Spirit admires him for fighting back but it’s only going to make things worse, suffocate them further — and he remains seated. Crosses his legs. Whistles. Makes a show of disobedience.

This does not get him anywhere good.

viii.

The Spirit’s fear chimes in when they don’t undress him. Usually they undress him, remove his protective suit so they can watch him bare as his body convulses with the eternal shocks. It’s maddening. The Spirit has never seen a hatred that digs this deep.

They leave the suit on today. John notices it too, can see the monster that lives in Forsythe’s mind fields. They don’t want John anymore.

“What today?” he asks. “I thought, you know, as sick as you are, you’d probably want to see my face when you torture me to death.”

Forsythe nearly roars his laughter out. “No. In fact, we’re taking a break from that treatment to focus on something — some one — new.”

The Spirit knew that this was the only logical outcome. They want to tear The Spirit apart, now, to ruin them and debilitate them until they’re a shellcreature, nothing remaining of the spark that once fueled them. They want to drain The Spirit of all that composes them.

But. They aren’t hurting John. So.

“That thing inside me….”

“Precisely.”

John pulls at his restraints, crazed in sudden anger. “It didn’t do anything. Leave it alone.”

(Inside of his body The Spirit imagines a world where they remained inside of Larry Trainor. This would be different. He would be advocating for their torture, but it would be understandable. John should be advocating for their torture. John should want the pain to be redirected.

But—

But he cares about them.

He cares for The Spirit in a way that would take Larry Trainor decades to discover.)

“That being has refused to evidence itself since that first encounter. Until now, it seems. Were you two getting acquainted?”

John remains silent.

“Seems as if I was correct. Tell me, Staff Sergeant, do you really think that it views you as anything besides flesh? Do you think you mean anything, beyond just being the body that hosts it?”

The Spirit shatters. Yes. Yes, they think. Yes, John is important. Everyone on Earth with pure intentions is important.

Forsythe doesn’t understand The Spirit or the colossal nature of their caring. He could never grasp their sensitivity, the utter mass of their emotion.

There is nothing left of The Spirit when John looks away. He’s considering it, The Spirit knows. He’s foolish to think that anything above humanity would care about the unknown. The Spirit craves the ability to be heard, tries to push the message into John’s mind: don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him get to you.

And, miraculous: “I’m not letting you get to me.”

Forsythe ignores him, enters the room — John growls — John feels his defeat —

Oh. He’s got a gun. He’s pressing the gun against John’s head, John’s eyes closing — preparing—- The Spirit can’t let this happen---can’t let him die, can’t be responsible for another casualty—-

They emerge, shedding John’s body. He’s so close. They could kill Forsythe here and everything would be over.

“If you move… well, what do you think will happen to you if your host dies, hm? Don’t persuade me to conduct that experiment. The next time I ask to see you, I expect to see you.”

The Spirit recoils.

“Good.” He turns a dial on a nearby machine, walks out. The Spirit feels confusion—-

1. THERE’S A NOISE A NOISE A NOISE A SCREAMING A WAILING AN INVASION OF NOISE INSIDE OF THEM ROOTING INSIDE OF THEM TO SPILL OUT OF THEIR FORM AN INVASION OF FREQUENCY THAT WILL SHATTER ANYTHING LEFT OF THEM BUT ATLEASTIT’SNOTJOHN ATLEASTIT’SNOTLARRY WILL The Spirit EVER ESCAPE The Spirit UNDERSTANDS NOW WHAT IT IS LIKE TO BE PUNISHED FOR LOVING AND

AND THEY

AND THEY

…

AND TH

AND THEY DESPISE IT THEIR HATRED BURNING THROUGH REALITY ACIDIC THEY SHOULDN’T FEEL THIS WAY IT SHOULDN’T BE THIS WAY A NOISE A NOISE IT HURTS THEY HAVE NEVER FELT A PAIN LIKE THIS BEFORE AND THE PAIN IS HOLISTIC THE PAIN IS SEEING JOHN BURY HIMSELF BUT STILL BE SO BRAVE DESPITE EVERYTHING THAT THEY CAUSED THE PAIN IS KNOWING THAT THEY CAUSED THIS THE PAIN IS REMEMBERING LARRY THE PAIN IS THE CAPTIVITY THE PAIN IS

A N O I S E

UNBEARABLE UNBEARABLE UN BEAR ABLE

U

N

H

O

L

Y

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

It’s time to give up.

ix.

John finds his consciousness back inside of his cell & bursts awake. “What happened? What did they do?” A long, desperate pause, and then: “Are you still there?”

The Spirit wants to affirm their presence. The Spirit wants. It’s dangerous to exist here. It’s—

“Hey, pal, you okay in there? Sounded like you were screaming bloody murder.”

John stands up. “You can hear it?” He realizes the possibilities of the situation; “Who are you?”

“That wasn’t you screaming, I take it? I’m Flex Mentallo, man of muscle mystery.”

“I’m John Bowers. No, that wasn’t me, it was probably from….”

“Is something in there with you?”

“Maybe. I -- I’m not sure.”

Yes. Yes. Always.

“Well,” Flex Mentallo says, “I can get both of you out.” There’s a grunting, loud and visceral, until a hole rips into the wall. He can see Flex now. There are cords restraining him, his bare body held and kept.

“How did you do that?”

“That’s the muscle mystery part,” Flex says, and winks. “Now, if you can reach through and pull out some of these cords, I can open up a door and get us out of here.”

John obeys. There’s nothing he wants more than an escape. He craves it. Neither of them deserve this pain. Flex doesn’t deserve this pain; they’re undoubtedly torturing him too, it makes John shift inside with disgust.

The wall disappears.

Flex flexes a muscle, and the rest of his restraints fall away to crumble on the floor. He takes a very, very long look at John that makes John shiver slightly. “Don’t like showing yourself, bud?”

“I’m only wearing this because I’m lethally radioactive.”

“Oh,” he says, “okay.” John expects some confusion or hesitation, but Flex seems to accept his difference immediately. “When I open up this door, you’re gonna have to stay behind me. They will attack you. I can fend them off, but… you’ll have to be careful.”

“Got it,” John responds. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Let me just make sure—” he looks down at his chest, taps it—”you’re still in here, right?”

The Spirit allows a faint glow. This could end horribly. They could all end up dead. Forsythe would have no qualms about killing them if they tried to escape.

They have to try. They cannot drown here any longer.

John considers the idea that he’s been tricked; there’s no one outside the wall when they step through it. They’re alone. The entire building looks deserted. This isn’t right. This is too easy.

“Something’s wrong,” he says. “It shouldn’t be this easy.”

“I was thinking the same thing—”

They both turn at the sound, a slight mechanical noise. Oh: a wheelchair. Flex doesn’t push him away; the man looks old and frail. He doesn’t resemble an agent at all, but he freezes when he sees them. Looks in every direction. Almost like shock.

“Staff Sergeant John Bowers…?”

John tucks himself behind Flex. Do what you have to.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I was, um…. I was… I was actually coming to see you. I’m Dr. Niles Caulder, and I’m here to take you home.”

A light shines in John’s chest. A yes. An indicator of safety.

“Go,” he whispers.

“What, you believe him?”

The being does. The Spirit likes the sound of ‘home’. It’s good enough for me. “Just go,” John says. “And be careful. Good luck.”

Flex runs, and John approaches Niles Caulder. “Home, huh?”

“Just trust me.”

x.

Niles says his home isn’t very far. He describes it as a big, bright manor, and that he’ll be “surprised” by the other guest. It sounds calming. It feels safe. John really wants to believe that there’s still safe places in the universe, that good people still breathe here.

He’s right. They arrive at midnight. The manor is indeed vast and bright. The manor does feel like home.

And Rita Farr is standing in the hallway. Actress Rita Farr. The Rita Farr. It is indeed surprising.

“Follow me,” she says. “Don’t be shy. Chief — um, Niles, as you know him — has to go off, but you’re in perfectly capable hands with me.”

Niles waves. He follows her, his suit clunking loud against the hard floors. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, your room.”

“My room?”

Her smile is wide, but it melts. For a moment, down to her collarbones, until she brushes it off and the skin molds back to her face. John refuses to let it startle him — he’s different now, he is eternally different, he can’t judge others.

“Yes,” she says. “Niles spent a while on it. It’s radiation proof.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “And he has a few gifts for you inside.”

“Gifts?”

“You’ll see.”

He expects the room to look like the Ant Farm. It looks, instead, almost like a normal bedroom — like his own, before. It’s perfect.

She hands him a box, pink and wrapped perfectly in magenta ribbon. “Go on, open it.”

It feels wrong — to be here, to be accepting of such a suspicious kindness — he forces himself to shove down his skepticism, maybe there are pure souls, maybe Niles Caulder and Rita Farr are pure souls, maybe. Maybe he needs to stop being afraid. Maybe he’s more like Larry than he thought.

He opens the box regardless.

“Bandages?”

“Wrap yourself in those, you’ll never have to wear that suit ever again. It looks awfully heavy, and it isn’t very aesthetically pleasing.”

“These look like regular bandages. Are you sure?”

“I trust Niles.” She stops for a moment, looks as if she’s recovering an old decrepit memory. “Go. Get dressed. There are some clothes for you underneath the bed.”

And she leaves, and he’s alone again—-he isn’t alone, but he is alone. The door locks behind him. He isn’t alone. He has — whatever it is. His guardian angel.

It’s hard to get the bandages on. He keeps wrapping them with uneven gaps, and leaving this room with even the smallest inconsistency would prove disastrous. He can’t do it. His hands are shaking too much. His body is shaking too much. He can still feel the ghost of electric torture encompass him.

So: he throws himself down on his bed. “Little help?”

xi.

The Spirit does obey. John asked them to, John needs them, they can be useful. They wrap John’s body in a perfect harmony of bandages, wrapping each digit of his fingers precise, his limbs and torso so easy to touch. They’re helping him. They’re helping someone. They’re helping. Does this resemble a purpose? Does John Bowers look like rebirth?

Y—