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seeminglyunconcious · 2 days ago

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A Session with the Reader

Newt goes through with his memory wipe operation with Bad, but finds himself in a situation. He's sitting in a room with someone, something... is this therapy?

Thank you to @mikaikaika for giving this a first read through and for all my other works!

Full read here or below!

“Mortals could never imagine the hoops one has to jump through to find a therapist as an immortal. Before you ask, yes, they are just as human as you. They even experience the same emotional spectrum too, fascinating is it not? The only thing that separates you from them is lifespan.”

At first, New didn’t have to think about it— forgoing any thought about his feelings towards his childhood friend and throwing them into the deepest parts of the abyss his corruption-addled body had created. Then, he found himself saving him: breaking that glass prison he had put him in and guiding him forth through the door to the world they had abandoned before. Most recently, his mind— no, his heart—simply couldn’t bear it and found another soul to confide in which he thought he had found the ultimate solution: a memory wipe.

Which led to this warming scene: Newt was laying in a sofa with cloud-like cushions and across from him sat an unknown being wearing a tweed suit, a book open in hand as the crackling of fire could be heard echoing throughout the room.

The being looked to be wooden, carried no facial features, and only wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses that sat atop where the nose would be. A faint glow tinted the lens, taking in what seemed to be scripts of various styles from the open book in hand. From this distance, Newt couldn’t make out the cover or any text, but he could feel something within him recoil.

“You’re finally awake, welcome.” A magnetic voice spoke into his mind, it was one that held the confidence of authority and the calmness one would expect in a tranquil lake. Mixed together, Newt couldn’t help but feel relaxed.

“You have a very interesting story so far.” Their tone was languid as if taking in a rare artefact. “Innocence. Disruption. Hope. Love. Ascent. Downfall. And most recently- regret.”

With each word, Newt’s mind was shaken. Each quake invoking memories long gone— either forgotten by decision or swept under by time itself. Yet, under the voice, they came shooting up from the depths with clarity as if they had been experienced yesterday. He reached out, a withered hand extending from the dark robes he wore, as if trying to grab them and caress the fools who had no idea what awaited them. It was for naught though, memories are just that.

“Very few come wandering into my adobe with such a rich background. Even fewer come here experiencing a lifetime's worth of slop.” Disdain, and it dripped off those words like ink from a broken pen.

“It would make sense. Those who pretend to be gods, can never be gods.” The figure on the other couch set the book down on the table that materialized to their right. Their head now fully turned to him, watching— somehow— through those glasses. “You don’t have the right nor the indifference of one. You care too much about things, about these toys that you consider a source of calamity.”

They stood up, their form in full view. It wore a tweed jacket with matching pants and shoes— all of it was made of paper. Newt was sure he read the title of “The Realm Today” on the exposed inner shirt. A quill-shaped pin was attached to its lapel collar, a symbol or just an accessory?

It walked over to a section of bare wall where a bar and cupboard full of different bottles, of what could only be assumed to be liquor, materialized from flashing gold lines. “You’re quite an erudite fellow. Tell me, what do you think of ants?”

The sound of gurgling liquid filled the air. Ants?

Newt knew of them, but never bothered besides the occasional spritz of the pest solution he once mixed in the boutique many years ago. By the time the calamities became the norm, creatures that didn’t have a direct impact on survival rates were directly ignored. He wasn’t even sure if some existed in the Realm today. Perhaps it was time to check, were they important?

“And that’s the only similarity you have with being a god.” The voice boomed in his head, once again shaking his mind bringing up memories of the time he stood within the research spires of the Null- overlooking the vast emptiness that was.

“Otherwise, a pitiful waste of a good story you were. At least— I thought so–- until a single name kept floating back up from the unending filth. Lucas.”

The name brought a chill down Newt’s spine and he unintentionally massaged his chest as if there was a wound there.

“Lucas. Lucas. Lucas…” It repeated the name, each recitation shaking him to his core and bringing up once foggy memories in Newt’s mind.

Once, when they were on the run from the pillagers that had raided their village, Newt had badly twisted his ankle. It was on Lucas’ shoulder he had clung to the whole night as they trudged along the riverside and it was because of his thoughtful care the swelling went down faster than expected. That night the blond boy tore up a part of his shirt and used it as a pad to hold the cold water from the river and applied it to his ankle, by morning he was able to walk on his own again.

Another time, they had both gotten sick due to the combination of malnutrition and cold. It was Lucas, that unrelenting guy, that nursed them both back to health. Although he tried to hide it from Newt, he saw the blond head leave their makeshift shack in the morning and come back by noon with blackened bread and tossed aside food. He did this for the whole week—coming and going—bringing back food, rags, and other things to improve their livelihood until they had gotten better. Newt knew, only he escaped unscathed, he saw on occasion the consequences of his friend’s behavior— a permanent cough. One eventually proved to be deadly if he overexerted himself.

Finally, it was that time… when he had come home with a poppy and Lucas with his amethyst. When their hands intertwined in unspoken promise. When that deep red burned scars across his heart. The memory he had thought he’d rid of, the one he fed to a demon.

A sweet smell wafted over from beside his head. Newt turned to find a new table propped up next to him with a small glass filled with what could only be wine.

“Come. Drink with me. Isn’t this what Lucas likes to drink?” He watches as this thing puts the glass near where its mouth would’ve been and tips the liquid forth; however, instead of spilling, the liquid slowly disappears not even leaving stain on the wood. It utters a satisfied sigh before the glasses are pointed his way again.

“Sweet. A tinge of bitterness, but it mellows out near the end. Addicting. I see why he keeps turning up throughout the pages of your story. It would be a shame if he did vanish forever.”

It gestures towards the glass beside him, “Go on. Didn’t you always want a taste of your Lucas before he became another’s? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, I assure you.”

The voice filled with temptation brought about visages of memory in his head: all of it of him. Newt didn’t say anything but his eyes were already on the clear goblet. The liquid inside carefully reflected the light of the fireplace, shining in conjunction with the crystalline structure of its container. It was like a show of temptation.

It called for him. A sip wouldn’t be bad…

A shaky, withered hand stretched out towards the table. And it's not like it's actually him or any of the sort, it’s just wine. Only wine.

Just before his fingers made contact with the enticing burgundy fluid he stopped. The trembling had stopped as well.

“Oh?” The being leans back on its chair, book in hand once more. “You don’t believe me or no— you do believe me, just you don’t trust yourself. Is this Lucas that important to you to warrant so many boundaries? You’ve done your equal share of taking care of one another, watching the other’s back, and even shared moments alone and you STILL don’t want to grasp a single opportunity.”

It voiced its question and accusation to his mind without any remorse. Newt took back his hand, enveloping it into the folds of his robe and sat up. He shouldn’t waste time here, wherever this even was. Yet no matter where he looked, it was like a blank page. Besides the four walls, only the fireplace and the sofas they sat on were filled in with exquisite detail as if drawn in by pen.

Even the bar where the being had just visited left no evidence of existing except for the wine glass next to him.

“Don’t bother.” The thing spoke, turning a page in the book.

“You can’t rationalize anything here. It is beyond your scope, but it all might well be within your ability. After all, you are the author of your story are you not? Or are those god-like platitudes only for show?”

Silence, except for the occasional crack of embers.

Newt was lost. He didn’t know where he was and this thing seemed to exactly know who he was. Exposing his feelings, reading him like…

His eyes dilated and focused on the book the being was holding. It was dark and quite thick, probably bound in leather, and looked well maintained. It was too far to see the lettering or title to prove his revelation.

“You’re right. It’s exactly what you think.”

“And before you start spiraling into some boorish conspiracy— no. I don’t want anything from you, have nothing to do with you being here, and can’t send you back. I simply read. That’s all I do.

Passing stories come by here and again relieving me of my boredom. And that’s just what you are— a book.” It pats the pages of the book in his lap. “Rather boring I might say, for someone who’s been alive for so long. Those 34 odd or something million years were truly wasted on you and your compatriots. That’s why I disdain you calling yourselves gods, it’s simply an insult to those with the power and creativity of them.”

“So… Newt.”

This was the first time it called out his name and Newt didn’t have any appreciation in the way it said it.

“You share a name with a billion other existences out there, but that’s where any similarities end. Moreover, you’re a bore! Even the amphibians that share your name lead more interesting lives on the day to day. Hell, there’s even another who bears semblance to your struggles but isn't so cowardly!”

The being’s hands undulated this way and that expressed his distaste for himself. On more than one occasion, the lens caught the light of the fire and Newt swore he saw angry eyes that couldn’t exist beneath.

“Oh if I could write and alter your story I would. Alas…” It slumped back on the chair, arms falling to the sides. “I’m only allowed to read.”

They sit there in silence once more for a time. Newt couldn’t really do anything. He had tried, many times from the moment that drink came out earlier, to teleport away as he usually could. He was stuck. So he chose to sit here, waiting, until they got bored and set him free.

“You STILL don’t understand!?” The voice once again boomed in his head driving a sharp pain into his mind. It felt like fingers, digging into the crevices of his brain, clawing dully into the gray matter. Newt wanted to shout, but nothing came out.

“Pride has eroded your confidence! Your high and mighty self are a mere husk of what you were all those years ago when you were caught and interrogated.” It turned into sharp whispers, each word like a whip upon his flesh— tearing and exposing the falsehoods he had layered upon himself. He fell to the floor and hunched into a fetal position, trying to protect himself.

“You want to yearn and love— for WHAT?! Lucas!?” Another tremor shook Newt’s mind, this time it was when he was watching over Lucas’ imprisonment. A memory he chose to hide deep within his mind, the day he sent in that snail.

“Oh dear, perhaps he saw what you truly were when you set him free. You weren’t his Newt anymore, even you knew this right— Keeper #2812?!”

Newt was on the floor, his eyes glazed over with the memory of that day.

It was engraved in his mind forever: the pain he saw, the disgust, the fear. Everything was painted on Lucas’ face as he hobbled over to the exit he had left open. He corralled him towards the portal— rationalizing all the way and attempting to comfort the person he loved about his new beginning, a new chance at life as Lukey. He was mourning, but he didn’t shed tears. Because that was the worst part, Newt was never there.

Time flew backwards. The colors faded until all that was left was the pitch black darkness of the Null and the white glow of the endstone rods.

Newt—no, it was Keeper 2812— was standing before his own agenda for the day and it was filled with excitement. They were working on Project SNAIL, today was an attempt to extract the memory fragments it stole from the long-term scientific subject simply dubbed “L”.

He was responsible for collecting the physical copies of data that recorded skulk research and cross-reference them with any successfully extracted memory fragments. Only he had access to the physical stuff for reasons he had long forgotten, but lately he was given the green-light to take over the project in full capacity allowing him to bring forth everything he had. There were talks around the other Keepers recently that High Keeper candidate positions would be available soon, and he was eyeing the spot.

Being a High Keeper meant more insight on their other projects and being able to transfer manpower around. It dissatisfied him greatly when they overlooked him before considering his apprenticeship under Epsilon themselves, bless the Seven. Project SNAIL and the cure would be his breakthrough!

2812 walked to his office wondering about the ways he’d have to attempt to make the scientific department more efficient. Currently, the way resources and personnel were distributed made breakthroughs almost impossible— he couldn’t even remember when the last one was. Regardless, this time it would be his team!

Upon entering his office space, a sense of nostalgia assailed his withered senses. It was clean, only a small pot of withered poppies decorated the lone desk in the room. 2812 rarely came here, preferring to spend time steeped in research, the driving force for that lost on him. He walked over and pulled out the box hidden beneath the desk, trepidation filled his body as he leaned down to open it. What was inside?

It was him. Newt.

“Boring. Cliche. A little touching, but the details need some work if you want to lie to someone who’s read stories even longer than yours dear 2812.” A voice cut through the memory with a sneer. “Lies, no matter how perfect and seamless they may seem, will always have a tell. You couldn’t be two places at once, 2812, don’t you remember? You were already assigned to help the Outworlders during this time…”

“You escaped. You wanted a promotion. You used a friend. Be honest!”

Time flowed backwards again, the colors losing themselves, the light becoming more dull. He was back—standing before his agenda for today and it was filled with excitement.

“Again!” The world shook, tearing apart the room 2812 was standing in back into an abyss.

Time flowed back, the colors lost themselves, the light losing its meaning in a place of darkness. There he stood, standing before his agenda again. It was filled with excitement. A tear fell down his face.

“You can’t lie forever, deceit in the face of all recorded time is at most idealistic. And when one checks out the book with your name written all over it, don’t you think it’s easy to tell when you fib?” The voice boomed, with a gentle caring tone, yet it reeked of scorn. “A new page writes itself when the story progresses—sorry to be blunt, but you’ve just written two pages of absolute garbage.”

“Come on, you wanted this. Just remember!” The voice thundered.

Newt was on the floor, staring up at the blank ceiling.

His hood was moist with the tears that had gushed out when forced to face the truth of it all. On the chair nearby, the being watched, as the book in its lap started to slowly turn the pages— backwards.

He was… afraid. Chosen as a High Keeper candidate because of his connections to the late Epsilon. His friend tucked away in a corner of the Null research institute like a lab rat and was unable to do anything. For millennia it was like this, always making attempts to try and save him, always ending in failure.

Until that fateful day when he let the SNAIL in and he received a missive to participate in Project Outworlder. When he had reached his limits— his patience. The observers were a chance, unintentional and probably ruined any possibility of a future, but it meant he could let him free. Newt was meant to die then. Obliterated when found out by the others, but fate was cruel—Stultus found him.

He never liked him, a devil in Keeper’s clothing. In a weird way they were kindred spirits that held different ideals that weren’t compatible with the current regime of High Keepers. Stultus longed for chaos, entertainment. Newt just wanted a home with Lucas. They’d agreed to stay out of each other’s way.

Keeper 2812 is his name now—Newt, was stolen away by that devil—all for a chance. And a chance he did get. The observers came, Stultus made a fuss as his forte bearing the identity and fate of Newt, a deceiver locked in the stage of pretend. So he took his leave to find him, to give one final gift.

2812 remembered the glass shatter. Liquid gushed everywhere, the cold body of his most cherished, and the hazel eyes that looked back at him with confusion. He drew out the hoodie that “he” once knit for Lucas, it was pure white, made from the finest threads “he” could’ve ever afforded as a research apprentice. It fit him well. 2812 made sure the dimmed light fled towards the direction of the sky where he would be appreciated.

2812 hurriedly shoved a piece of paper in Lucas’ hands, “Even if you never remember me, I am happy with the life we shared. I will be there for you, you won’t know, but I will…”

He watched as the boy went into the portal back to the realm, the hazel eyes moistened by reluctance and acceptance.

“Don’t look back.”

He waited. The High Keepers should’ve found out by now, they were never one for staying their hand. Instead—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

“What a performance Newt~! I would have almost believed it if I wasn't the one taking the fall for the things you’ve done.” A sleazy, sarcastic voice broke the sad atmosphere that was penetrating the ruined hall and from shadows a robed individual walked out. From them he felt the air charged with chaos wanting to be unbound, it was like a beast in skin, an out and out devil. Stultus.

“Or rather… Keeper 2812? Newt is my name now, a fate that you’ve given me, unless~ you want it back?” The devil spun himself around and looked at the spot where he’d gone invisible, a smile only he could see faced him with an arm outstretched.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” He was tired. The fate of being nameless was a cruel one and it starts off with an unending exhaustion.

“A game! A bet—if the bond of childhood sweethearts can overcome time, space, and the menaces that are the Outworlders.” Stultus’ clenched his outstretched hand into a fist as the grin he saw before twisted into a terrible scowl before returning into the devilish smile.

“You will be my entertainment, the new star that replaces the falling one! How about it?”

Newt hesitated, staring at the outstretched hand as it called out to him. In it was his name, his fate, his story… he’d never met a devil, but Epsilon and Lucas had stories of them. They both warned him of the liars with tongues dripping with silver lies, how it would be like trusting a betrayer. What he never understood was—how would they know?

Clap. Two blackened hands met; one withered, the other as dark as obsidian, an oath made, a fate exchanged.

“Was it so hard to accept the truth? To realize that you almost wiped yourself, your entire existence, just for a chance? Tsk sk tsk. AND you made two deals with a devil to boot.” The being was standing over Newt, slightly leaned over, their glasses staying put despite having no ears, nor nose for it to be perched on. Strings of letters in various scripts flew out of his head straight into the lens as it shook its head.

“Did it ruin your fantasy of how you would’ve gotten back together— his Newt, your Lucas?” Its voice echoed with disgust in Newt’s mind.

“All of it was because fate deemed it so, but you didn’t account for the pangolin did you? Didn’t take it to heart what that other fellow said, how Outworlders would affect your little play?”

It stood straight and headed back to his chair, picking up the book once more, carefully holding it up for its guest to see. Newt got a better look now, only the covers were intact, but the binding looked like it was stitched together haphazardly. This was him— put together on the surface, but barely holding together using threads of falsehoods and ideals of love.

“Outworlders. Trading of Names. Disgusting filth, all of it.” The flames grew hotter in the room.

“Only devils would spoil a perfectly naturally made story. And the Outworlders…” The fire dimmed allowing shadows to dance across the empty walls. From his view, he saw the being clench a wooden hand over the lapel pin.

“Imagine having to write a story in conjunction with multiple authors—all of which are children; the once clear path has become muddled with refuse and fifteen different roads that can lead a perfect character down the path of mediocracy or worse!”

“And those in charge of it all-! Keepers.” The voice spoke the word with more than disgust, contempt—maybe. Newt felt the spectacles look towards his direction. “How far they’ve fallen…”

They sat there in silence, the anger and regret that had consumed them both ebbing away in time with the dying flame in the fireplace. Newt wasn’t sure how much time had passed, maybe hours or even days, before the other spoke again.

“You can leave whenever you know… I’m not keeping you here. As I said, I only read.”

No response.

“I’ve read your whole story already, up until this moment. Nothing more can happen here and I can assure you that staying here is not a sanctuary.” There was a trace sense of reluctance in its tone, the hands that held the book came up to its face and hovered before the spectacles it wore.

“This is a prison. Unless you’ve got something to atone, I believe you should be able to figure a way out.”

Newt still stayed on the floor, examining the ceiling, marvelling how much it reminded him of Lucas. It was pristine, yet held the fine texture of crumpled paper. Not absolutely perfect, but it held the hallmarks of potential. Potential he never grasped.

In the end, Newt chose a way out that was suited for him.

As he stepped into the embers—his body screamed in silence—withered tendons, necrotized bones, and threads of purple corruption burned away until all that was left was ash. The being watched, unperturbed, as the book he’d been holding the entire time slowly ignited and disintegrated into dust.

A clove-like smell reminiscent of the carnations a young boy once took care of in a small boutique filled the room.

“I have no idea what you have gained here, but I hope some clarity in remembering your story was enough. If it wasn’t… the Reading Room has never been kind enough to let a story pass through without a price.” The lens of the glasses kept staring into the fireplace, waiting for something.

He woke up in a field of poppies, a meteor brew in hand, with no recollection of how he got here. He felt something was missing, but how do you remember something you never had?

Pieces of paper flew out of the ashes onto a small table by a lone, empty chair. They stacked themselves onto a nice pile before a beautiful pair of gold-rimmed glasses landed on top. As if a pen, a title emerged from the first point of contact:

Childhood Sweethearts =Newt=

#tr!newt #tr!lukey #therealm #trsmp #character study #i dont know how to tag #fanfic #i wrote this in protest for not getting newt angst on stream yesterday #angsty

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