Chapter Text
Michael’s a reasonable person, not one to outwardly whine and complain about things out of his control, but this was getting ridiculous even for his own damn self.
Let's go through the list: His mom getting a promotion? Awesome! She worked really hard for it and she deserved the recognition! The aforementioned promotion forcing their whole family to uproot their lives and move towns? Slightly less awesome but not entirely horrible - a fresh new town meant a fresh new start and Michael could very much get behind that. His other mom being shit-terrible at directions and getting them wicked lost in the literal first 10 minutes upon arrival? Getting pretty irritating now since Michael had been sitting in that car for so long that even he wanted to go outside. His moms deciding that exploring the decrepit ruins of some spooky tunnel they stumbled upon would be a great, nice, sane idea? Yeah, okay, Michael's starting to draw the line in the sand now.
Michael loved his moms but holy shit he actually wanted to make it to his 18th birthday.
"Inay, I will pay you money to get your overzealous wife back into the car," Michael deadpanned as he watched his mom flitter down the darkened tunnel without caution, running her hands over the cement walls and commenting on the structure, the age, how strangely well-maintained it was, and all that other nonsense architects liked to talk about. "Please. I'm begging you."
The older Filipino woman only chuckled good-naturedly, winding her arm around Michael's waist to hug him as she watched her wife with almost palpable fondness. "Indulge your mother for a minute or two, chi-chi. Besides, it could be fun!" she chimed, her accent - still thick after all these years - giving her slightly clunky words an almost musical lilt.
"Or we could die tragically in this tunnel of certain death," Michael muttered, eyes flicking up to watch the roof warily as they moved to follow the enthusiastic woman further into the tunnel.
"Oh, don't be such… ah, "downer"? Is that right?"
"You got it, nay."
"Yes! Don't be that. This will be another Mell Adventure! Live a little!"
Michael shuddered as the building groans and creaks over the echoed chittering of his mom. His inay laughed again at his pained and very reasonable concern and proceeded to drag her son through the tunnel and out into a room on the other side that looked suspiciously like an old train station. Michael swore he heard a train whistle echo across the stained glass windows and eerily empty benches. He shifted closer to his inay.
"Over here!" Michael's crazy architect mother called from the archway on the other end of the hall, her frame bathed in the light spilling in from the exit. Michael would have been more relieved if he wasn't still thinking out having to walk back through that tunnel later to get to the car. His inay yanked him along, their footsteps bouncing around the empty room as they reached the other woman's side, looking out into a gorgeous field of rolling green hills and a cloudless sky.
The breeze swept across the grass - impossibly green and maintained despite this place being very abandoned. Rugged and weather torn houses were littered sparingly in the near distance, drawing attention to a little rock-filled stream a small ways ahead that seemed to separate the grassy plains from a set of large, concrete steps. Michael tried to follow the stream down but found that it disappeared out of eye-range, curving around the wide hill where the steps resided.
"Look, mi alma. This place is beautiful!" Michael's mom gushed, grabbing her wife's hand and bouncing excitedly. "We should've brought the food and had a little picnic here."
"There looks like there is more," Michael's inay says, motioning with their joined hands at the steps.
"Okay, no." Michael wriggled away from his inay and spun to address his parents, waving his arms in wide motions as he spoke. "We went through the spooky tunnel, traversed the equally spooky train station thingamajig. I'm not going to go poking and prodding at Scooby Doo's ghost town. Let's just go back and try to find the house that we bought with our hard-earned American money."
"Oh, c'mon. Where's your sense of adventure, regalo?" Michael's mom giggles fondly.
Michael shot his mother a deadpan stare. "Six feet under where it belongs."
"It's not very scary as you make it out to be, chi-chi. You are overthinking again," Michael’s inay says wisely, reaching up to pap Michael's cheek and pinch his nose fondly. "Come, sinta. We'll look at the " ghost town " without the little baby."
"Well, that's just rude and uncalled for," Michael muttered, following his moms as they wander away from the building and towards the stream. Michael was reasonable, not really a complainer, but this place was really giving Michael the heebie-jeebies.
The stream was unsurprisingly mostly rocks and pebbles, with a tiny splash of fresh water trickling clumsily around the many obstacles in its path. Michael hopped across the rocks, bouncing on his heels as he waited for his mom to help his inay across. He took a deep breath to try and placate his frazzled nerves and— oh!
"Hey, do you smell that?" his mom asks, sniffing the air.
"Yeah," Michael answers absently, the cold coil in his gut tightening. "Weird."
"It's lovely," his inay comments, tugging on her wife's hand. "Let's find it!'
"Guys, I'm not sure if— okay ." Michael sighs loudly, throwing his hands up in disbelief when his moms rush on ahead, stumbling and giggling up the concrete stairs as if they weren't middle-aged women with serious jobs and a house mortgage and an entire drawer dedicated to taxes. "When did I become the parent in this family?"
Michael took his sweet time climbing the stairs, his aversion to gym class and his tendency to stay indoors at all hours of the day catching up to him. Michael huffed as he pulled himself up to the platform and his breath hitched at the sight of a little town, abandoned and empty but so eerie in its vacancy. The intoxicating smell wafted from between the tightly packed buildings, all of which seemed to be restaurants of some kind, and Michael's skin crawled for reasons he didn't wanna try and investigate. Michael's fingers itched to cling to the headphones that usually resided around his neck before he remembered that he left them in the car like a fucking idiot, shoving his hands into the pockets of his oversized red hoodie as he wandered uneasily into the little town? Market? Whatever. He was finding his parents and getting the fuck out of here.
The walls of the surrounding restaurants seemed to loom over him, sucking the air from his lungs and making every paranoid thought in the back of his mind itch. The streets appeared to narrow, walls closing in, and Michael felt a pit in his stomach that grew and grew the longer he wandered around. Where the fuck were his parents? They couldn't have gone far. Michael flipped the hood of his jacket over his head, trying to ignore the shifting shadows in his peripherals as he ascended more bullshit stairs and suddenly coming face-to-face with a giant, fuck-off palace looking thing.
The building towered, making the restaurants just behind Michael look like plastic monopoly houses in comparison, standing on what seemed like a steep cliff side connected together by an equally gigantic and ornate bridge. Lamps framed the railing of the bridge, shining gold in the setting sun, leading up to a small courtyard with cute flower bushes surrounding a set of heavy looking double doors. What unnerved out Michael the most was that this area seemed absolutely spotless, not a single sign of age or weather wear despite the architecture itself looking decades old. The wood of the bridge looked recently polished, the lamps shone, the bushes trimmed, the windows dust-free. Everything was clean and immaculate but in a very creepy, goosebumps novella kind of way.
A train whistle caught Michael's attention and he wandered over to one side of the bridge as his curiosity easily overpowered his self-preservation instincts. The drop was insanely far and somewhat intimidating. Michael suppressed his usual urge to fling himself off the side and scanned the bottom for the train, leaning forward and squinting behind his thick frames to try and peer across to the places he couldn't quite make out.
“What the hell are you doing here?!"
Michael almost actually flung himself off the side, jolting with a yelp and stumbling back at the sudden appearance of the frankly not very intimidating voice. After Michael's heart rate stabilised itself and the momentary panic faded away, anger and annoyance flooded his systems. Michael turned around, fast and aggressive, to face the idiot who decided to scream at someone while they're inches away from death.
"You fucking scared the shit out of—"
Oh.
"—mEe…"
Michael winced visibly at his horrendous voice crack but could anyone blame him? The boy who stood before him was pretty . Around his age, long and lanky but still quite petite, perhaps even shorter than him. His dark honey hair fell in waves and curls that framed his pale face abundant with freckles and acne scars. His lips were soft and pink and Michael couldn’t help but focus on them momentarily before following the bridge of his nose up to his eyes. His eyes . They were a vivid blue-green and swam with colour, bursting with ice and ocean and sky all at once. He wasn't conventionally attractive but even so, he was quite possibly the most beautiful person Michael had ever seen and Michael really needed to reign in his fucking homosexuality before he says something stupid.
"You’re so pretty, how are you even real?" Like that.
Michael watched in mollification as the boys face flitted through several emotions like an old-fashioned slide projector. Shocked, confused, somewhat appraising, bashful, confused again, and then horror. "Wait, y-you… you're not supposed to be here. You need to go. Now!"
Michael stepped back as the boy marched forward, raising his arms in the universal sign of surrender. "Whoa, okay, I get it. I didn't wanna be here anyway, no offence to you or whatever. I just gotta find my moms and then I can—”
"Th-there's more of you?!" the boy shrieked. Michael stepped back a little faster now.
"Okaaay. There's an issue here that I'm not seeing."
The boy twitched and shivered, heaving in heavy breaths and running his shaking fingers through his hair. Michael was at a loss.
“Uh, hey,” Michael cooed soothingly, inching closer, his arms out placatingly. “Hey. It's okay. Just breathe, please. Can I touch you?”
The other boy nodded but then shook his head, raking his hands down his face and peeking through his fingers at the setting sun. He paled even further. Michael didn't think it was possible. “Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” He leapt up, grabbing Michael by the arm and shoving him towards the stairs. “You need to go. Get to the other side of the river. Before the sun sets. Please.”
“Okay, whoa, hey!” Michael stumbled as he ripped his arm away from the others death grip. He stared and the other boy stared back at him. His eyes were wild, desperate, fearful, darting from him to the market below back to him and suddenly over his shoulder. He went rigid and Michael glanced around him to see the lanterns that framed the bridge and the building light up in sequence, sending a hazy golden glow that combated the light of the setting sun in an almost otherworldly fashion. Michael would have asked if he wasn't shoved so suddenly towards the stairs.
“You gotta go! I'll buy you some time, just get to the river!”
The urgency in his voice coupled by the eerie feeling the restaurant market was giving him - making the hairs on his neck stand up - gave Michael a pretty good incentive to get the fuck out of there. He glanced back just in time to see the wind pick up around the boy, enveloping him in what looked like tiny orbs of light that flickered like stars. The ends of his cardigan fly out behind him like a cape as he stood almost defiantly in front of the towering building and Michael watched him for a moment before rushing down the steps towards the market below.
“Mom! Inay! Where did you go?!”
Michael raced down an alleyway, skipping over half-steps and skidding around sharp turns. As the light of the sun grows dimmer, the lights of the market start to grow brighter, and as they do strange shapes start to materialise around him. Dark and translucent, shimmering like water in the lamplight. Michael starts, staring in shock at the shadows that suddenly took form in the counters of the shops, walking through the streets and waving their appendages over bowls of food as if warding off bugs.
Holy fuck. Jesus holy fuck, no way. No, no, no, no.
“MOM! NANAY!!”
Michael sprints, dodging shadow people as he does, screaming as he does. This was fucking crazy. He needed to find his moms, he needed to get them out of here. In the distance he sees a tuft of smooth black hair poking out from behind one of the restaurant counters and the relief is almost dizzying as Michael skid to a stop. “Inay! Oh my God, we need to go. This is insane. Where's mom? What's— why are you back there— OH MY GOD!” Michael scrambled back as the swine screeches, launching itself over the counter at him. It was wearing the clothes his inay had on that day: a pink blouse and a cream coloured blazer now stretched over the swines fat frame, the buttons near bursting. Another swine lay on the ground by a fallen tray of food, a soft green button down hanging thinly off its body. His mom’s shirt. His moms.
Michael felt his lungs practically invert themselves in an effort to pull more air into his body, causing his chest to wheeze and rattle along to his hyperventilation. It couldn't be real. This couldn't be fucking real. Michael leapt away from the pigs' advancements, scrambling back to his feet and taking off like a shot towards the river from whence they came, hoping to God his moms would be waiting for him on the other side and this was all just some weird trip caused by some bad weed or something.
It was a flimsy attempt to rationalise everything. He hadn't even smoked today.
By the time Michael reached the stairs that lead back down to the field twilight had already passed, turning the skies darker and the lamp lights brighter. Michael practically launched himself down the steps, preparing to meet more rock as he lands only for his sneakers to collide with freezing cold water that seemed to pull him in further, sinking him until he was waist deep and struggling to claw his way back out. “What the fuck?” What happened to the river? Michael pulled himself back up, raising his head to stare out at the
sea.
The fucking sea.
A mcfucking ocean.
The field was gone, no rolling hills, no breezy grass. Just water that stretched on for miles and miles, the twinkling reflections of a distant city dancing across the surface like strings of fairy lights. A ferry was pulling into a wharf a little to his left that Michael swore wasn't there before, the passengers that unloaded from the extravagantly decorated boat seemed to seep into existence as they set foot on shore.
Michael swallowed hard, the lump in his throat twisting and constricting his airways as the muscles worked to try and force it down again. A sick, sinking feeling settled deep in his stomach and he felt like he was seconds away from either crying or vomiting. He did neither. It still didn't help.
“Looks like I'm not in fucking Kansas anymore, Toto.”
Michael peeked around the corner for the 17th time and counting, shifting away when another shadow being floats a little too close to his hiding spot. He leaned against the wall, heaving in deep breaths as if he had run a marathon when in reality he was trying to hold himself together long enough to try and make heads or tails of his situation.
He recoiled further into the shadow cast by the side of the restaurant. He had decided pretty early on after he watched another fucking boat unload another set of freaky passengers with the steely gaze of a recently awoken coma patient, that if he was going to lose his fucking mind he’d very much rather do so somewhere where nothing could see him.
This was fucking insane. What was this place? Where were his moms? Who was that boy at the bridge? What was he so scared of? Michael rubbed at his arms, his body getting strangely colder the longer he stayed here, weak chills thrumming down his spine and along his arms leaving goosebumps scattered across his translucent skin.
Wait.
Fucking w a i t.
Michael ripped up his sleeves, watching his arms literally fading from existence with every passing breath. His fingertips were completely gone, as were the toes of his sneakers, the transparency climbing up his arms and legs like a wall of vines. What. The. Fuck. Michael scrambled to sit up, grabbing at his arms and torso as if he could hold himself there with force of will. “This isn't fucking happening,” Michael muttered into his palms, rocking back and forth as his ankles began to fade. “It's just a really fucked up dream.”
“Man, I wish.”
Usually, Michael would be unapologetic about his volume control, but he would later deny the screech that tore out of his throat as he scrambled away from the source of the voice.
The boy from the bridge stood awkwardly before him, rubbing his arm and shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, bouncing on his heels in an action Michael would have found insanely adorable if he weren't losing his mind.
“It's you,” Michael gasped, almost reverently.
The boy lifted his hand and offered him a sheepish wave, keeping his elbow low and pressed against his side and shaking his hand side to side minutely like a shy high school girl. Michael caught a glimpse of something, a strange patch of raised skin encircling his wrist, peeking out from where the sleeve of his cardigan slides down.
“Hello. It's, um. It's me.” Now that he wasn't yelling and panicked Michael got to properly listen to his voice, so small and squeaky yet mellow and light at the same time. An odd contradiction.
The boy looked nervous as he fidgeted with something in his hand that Michael didn't bother to notice before. A green bottle tucked a little behind the folds of his cardigan that seemed to shimmer with something iridescent and aesthetically pleasing. He brought it up and rolled it against his palms for a moment before holding it out to Michael. “Y-you need to drink this. You'll fade away if you don't eat or drink something from his world.” When Michael only stared at the bottle blankly, the boy shook it a little, urgent. “Please. It won't do anything bad to you. Here, I-I'll even…” He trailed off as he unscrewed the lid and took a long sip of the shimmery green liquid, making a show of swallowing it.
“See,” the boy continued. “Totally safe. Now, please.”
Michael bit his lip and sighed, taking the drink from him and bringing it to his lips. The drink travelled down his throat like a trail of ice cubes, cool and soothing and strangely a little minty. He felt the effects immediately and when he looked down, he is no longer fading away.
“Thank you,” Michael breathed, staring at his now solid, real hands.
The boy reached over and retrieved the bottle, sliding it into his cardigan pocket. The entire bottle disappears completely into the opening with little to no resistance. It was somehow not the weirdest thing Michael had seen that night. “I've, um… I've never actually seen a real live human here before,” he said almost absently, giving Michael a curious once-over. “A lot of the spirits here were once human but I- uh, I guess that doesn't count.”
“It sorta counts,” Michael replied, faux-casual while every synapse in his brain was firing off all of its denial circuits simultaneously.
The boy smiled sadly. “Not really.” He paused, wringing his hands a little and shifting his gaze around the sky. “You picked a good place to, uh, freak out. This is in their blind spot.”
“… Blind spot?”
He shook his head, sandy brown waves bouncing and weaving with the motion. “Later. We need to go. They'll be looking for you.” He turned to move away but stopped once more, turning back sheepishly. He stuck out his hand. “I'm Eremia, by the way.”
Eremia. Cute.
“Michael,” he answered with a laugh, shaking Eremia’s hand and pointedly ignoring the previous, vaguely threatening words. Eremia blushed, red and splotchy - adorable - and wrapped his fingers more securely around Michael’s hand, tugging him along. Michael let himself be led down the hill and around the back alleys of the square, hopping over gates and through small, unkempt gardens until they made it back to the bathhouse.
The bathhouse seemed to glow at night, the warmth of the lanterns somehow overpowered by the sapphire shine of the ornaments that adorned the building, giving it an electric blue feel. It made Michael excruciatingly uncomfortable and, by the looks of it, Eremia seemed unsettled by it too. Eremia tugged on his hand and motioned towards the bridge. It was filled almost flowing with spirits travelling to and from the bathhouse, being greeted merrily at the door by young women in pretty dresses made from a softly coloured material.
“Ugh. We’re gonna have to cross the bridge. Normally I go around, not really a big fan of crowds, but I don't think I can with you.”
“Isn't this place surrounded by, like, cliffs?” Michael asked, peeking over the gate to try a catch a glimpse of the drop off again. “How are you supposed to go around?”
Eremia shot him a playful smile and winked clumsily. “Trade secret.”
That was so painfully endearing. Be still Michael's heart.
“Don't freak out but. Um. I'm gonna put a spell on you.”
“ And now you're mine - wait, what?”
“Nothing bad!” Eremia exclaimed, wincing a little and glancing over his shoulder to see if he had caught anyone's attention. “Nothing bad, I promise,” he continued in a quieter tone. “Just a kind of cloaking spell. It’ll, like, block other people's… uh, eye nerves or something so they don't notice you. I've used it on myself enough times.”
Michael pursed his lips. “Okaaay. I'm trusting you with this. It's not permanent or anything?”
“Of course not. Here, take my hand.”
“You're already holding my hand, dude. We’ve been holding hands for the past 15 minutes.”
The splotchy blush that flooded Eremia’s face was incredible. “Oh. Uh. Never mind then.”
Eremia took a deep breath and gave Michael’s hand a squeeze. Michael didn't feel any different, but as they walked out onto the street Michael watched as everyone's eyes sort of gazed through him. Eremia swallowed and tugged Michael over to walk closer to him as they both stepped onto the bridge, weaving around the guests of the bathhouse carefully. Michael itched to pull his hood up but doesn't out of fear he'd bump into someone.
“Nearly there. You're doing great,” Eremia muttered soothingly to Michael, sensing his discomfort as they steadily approached the entrance way courtyard. Michael hunched his shoulders, focusing on the ground as he watched the wood of the bridge transition into gravel pathways and lush grass. Eremia breathed a sigh next to him. “Okay, okay, now we just gotta go—”
“There you are!”
Eremia flinched as one of the greeter women bounced towards him, waving happily, her smooth blonde hair spilling over her shoulders like spun gold. Michael moved back, hiding behind Eremia and giving in to his urge to pull his hood up to obscure his face. Eremia tittered nervously at the sudden attention. “Brooke! Hey, hi, hello! Uhm. Wha— uh, w-what did you need?”
“Boss’ looking for you,” Brooke chirped, a hint of concern staining her otherwise perfectly cheerful tone. “Something about a new task for— uh… for you.” Brooke trailed off, looking distracted as she glanced around Eremia. Both boys tensed up as Brooke made eye contact with Michael. Michael suddenly realised that both of his hands were free. “Who's this? He seems… the smell is… Eremia, is he—?”
Eremia quickly grabbed Michael's hand again and Brooke suddenly seemed to freeze. In fact, everyone seemed to freeze, cast in a warm white light that seemed to originate everywhere, faces turned up to the sky as if in a daze. “Sorry, Brooke,” Eremia said through gritted teeth, pulling at Michael’s hand. “Hurry. This way. I can't keep this up for long.
Eremia led him over to a small wooden door slightly obscured by the greeters, undoing the latch and ushering Michael inside. As they crawled in, Michael heard Eremia gasp and listened as everyone seemed to snap out of their daze, continuing on as if nothing had happened. The door brought them into a little garden off to the side of the bathhouse, a stone path leading off towards another wooden door surrounded by rose bushes of an array of colours. The sliding doors that led into the bathhouse were made of a patterned paper and allowed a golden glow to spill out across the garden, reflecting gently off the leaves. Eremia led him over to a small apple tree, huddling in the shade as they heard the room just beyond the sliding doors descend into chaos.
Eremia hummed uncomfortably, rubbing at his eyes. “I hate that spell.”
“What did you even do?” Michael panted, slightly out of breath. “That was some freaky shit. Awesome, but freaky ”
“Made everyone feel compelled to look at the moon,” Eremia explained, wringing his hands as he heard several people inside call his name urgently. “I meant it to just affect Brooke but I- uh. I panicked.”
“So you made everyone on the bridge look at the moon?”
Eremia scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “… everyone in the spirit world.”
Michael felt his breath practically fall out of his mouth. “Jesus.”
“Shut up! My aim’s bad when I'm nervous! I overshot!”
“I'll say.”
Eremia shoved him a little but Michael caught a glimpse of his shy smile before he turned away. Michael felt unusually accomplished at the sight of it.
There was a clutter and another shout from the bathhouse. Eremia chewed on his lip as he watched the shadows of another group of workers rush through the room, calling for him. He sighed. “Well, if they didn't know you were here before they definitely know you're here now.”
Michael looked down shamefully. “I’m sorry. I think I let go of your hand to put my hood up.”
Eremia turned quickly, taking both of Michael's hands into his own seemingly compulsively. Michael glanced up at Eremia, back down at their conjoined hands, and turned red. “You did fine, Michael,” Eremia soothes, smiling gently. Michael could die. “Besides, I think I lost concentration after Brooke started talking to me so.” Eremia shrugged, patting Michael's hands. “Now, I need you to listen. I'm going to go inside in a bit and distract them. After I go, wait a little bit and then go through the back door.” Eremia gestured to the door the stone path led to.
“Take the stairs all the way down until you get to a big metal door. That’ll take you to the boiler room. You'll find this short, human torch looking guy, Rich Goranski. When you find him, ask him for a job. He’ll say anything to get you to leave but keep asking until he complies. If you don't work, Squip’ll turn you into an animal.”
Michael’s brain struggled to comprehend everything as reality. Holy fuck, what has he gotten himself into? Boiler room? Human Torch? Animal?!?!
“Wait, what about my moms? Where are they? Are they okay?”
Eremia nodded. “They're fine. I saw to that myself.”
“Are they…” Michael faltered, his mind flashing back to the swine wearing his parent's clothes. “Are they really pigs now? Are they gonna be like that forever?”
Eremia’s expression softened and he shook his head, rubbing comforting circles into his skin. “They are pigs, but not forever. There's a way to break the spell, we just have to beat Squip at their own game. But later. For now, we gotta move.”
He moved to stand but Michael held his grip tight, keeping him seated. Eremia looked over in confusion and Michael gave into his spontaneity, pulling Eremia into a quick, encouraging hug. He really looked like he needed one and honestly, so did Michael after the shit he'd been through already. “Good luck,” Michael breathed, drawing back and letting go of Eremia completely.
Eremia blinked. “I… uh… u-um, thank you. Y-you t-t-too. Um. Bye!” He scrambled up, pushing himself towards the door and tumbling into the room. “H-hey, I'm— uh, here. What’s the problem?”
Michael waited in the shadows for a while until he was sure that no one else was coming. Sighing, he shuffled on over towards the back door Eremia has pointed it, unlatching the lock and swinging it open slowly, peeking through.
It was a fucking nightmare. The stairs were situated over open air, hugging the wall. There was no railing, no floor, just a thousand metre drop and the whistling of the wind as it whirled through the giant gap that separated the bathhouse from the market. Looking down, Michael found that the sea stretched on here as well, filling the space below with rippling ocean water that glistened like saltwater diamonds. Michael was decidedly not at all comforted by this. He chanced a glance down the steps and found that the bottom of the stairs was so far fucking down that Michael could only really make out the dim light above the metal door Eremia had told him about.
Michael swallowed roughly. This was the worst fucking day of his life.
When Michael was 4 he was afraid of stairs. They had lived in an old two story house with stairs going up to the second floor that creaked and groaned and screeched with every tiny step he took. 4-year-old Michael did not trust those stairs one bit. 4-year-old Michael trusted those stairs so little that he begged mama to carry him up every night when it was bedtime, refusing to climb them himself. He’d explained his distrust to nanay and she giggled as she ran the silver comb through his hair, a nightly ritual.
“Chi-chi, it is alright to be scared but you must be brave,” she had cooed in Tagalog, tying Michael’s hair back so he wouldn't be disturbed by it in his sleep. “Fight back. Face your fear.”
His mama said the same thing the next day, albeit in English. It annoyed 4-year-old Michael enough to stomp his tiny feet angrily against each step as he climbed the stairs spitefully. They creaked and chittered at him but Michael refused to be swayed, right up until his socked feet slipped against a particularly rickety step and he went tumbling backwards onto the floor.
Surprisingly, the bump on his head and the pain in his elbow didn't deter Michael from the steps but only made him angrier, and in turn, determined.
This was personal, this meant war.
He battled with the stairs for 3 unbroken months, armed with a tin foil sword and a cardboard helmet, until he got bored of it as most 4-year-olds eventually do. By the time Michael turned 5, mama had called a man to fix the rickety stairs so that they wouldn't rattle anymore, making the vendetta null and void.
They moved out of that house a year later, into the house they lived in for many years until his mom’s promotion. It too had stairs, but Michael didn't really think about his toddler war anymore. Not until his inay brings it up teasingly, calling him the Stair Warrior and other embarrassing nicknames. Still, Michael Mell was very much over his silly childhood fear of stairs and the only discomfort he feels around them is the wave of exhaustion he feels right before climbing a set of them, the ghost of what's to come.
But as Michael huffed a sigh and looked down at the remaining stairs, the wind picking up and pushing his body forward, he felt the old phobia rearing its ugly head yet again.
Michael crawled down each step, fighting off the urge to vomit with every dangerous noise it made. He was almost halfway down, the halfway point a walled-off ledge that petered off into sturdier, cement steps leading down to the last door. Michael swallowed thickly and leaned his body down, stretching out a leg to catch the bottom of the next wooden step that he would lower himself on. He heard it creak and groan in protest and Michael vowed that he'd finally stick to that diet regime he'd been ignoring for 3 years now as he eased his weight onto the step.
The mere pitch of the scream he made when the step gave way and flung him down at breakneck speed was a touch lower than a dog whistle. His momentum built, sending him flying towards the ledge and flailing his arms like a bird with clipped wings in a storm, screaming shrilly the whole way down until he gracefully collided with a mercifully placed wall. Michael narrowly avoided breaking his nose by instead almost breaking both his wrists. He breathed heavily, fighting the urge to just roll over and fucking die. If this Squip dude didn't kill him then his very foreseeable heart attack will.
The cement steps were much easier to manage and infinitely less life-threatening, a breath of fresh mountain air after Michael had been sucking in the fumes of an exhaust pipe. Michael leapt off the last few steps, turning swiftly and totally not stumbling on his own two feet to flip the offending stairs the double bird before marching towards the door and definitely opening it easily and on the first try.
Michael was instantly met with heat. The boilers that lined the walls hissed and spat, steaming rising in a consistent swirl that reminded Michael of the steady smoke trail that accompanied a well-rolled joint. He rolled the sleeves of his hoodie up, feeling sweat already accumulate on his forehead and neck as he ventured deeper into the room. He eventually found the heart of the boiler room, hidden amongst the winding pipes and metal structures that kept everything upright.
The atrium was a large, open-roofed room, circular in shape. The bare gravel floor giving way to a raised platform on the other end of the room made of smooth, shiny redwood. A large glass vase sat proudly atop the structure, filled with an array of pretty white flowers that were all strangely healthy and well maintained for being trapped in a burning hot room with a fuck-off fire not four steps away. Michael found the whole thing out of place but didn't pause to think on it. He wasn't here to critique the guy's decor, after all.
The walls were lined with cupboards and drawers, some filled to overflowing with strange herbs in odd colours and textures. To his left, a monstrous oven that burnt white hot and filled with coal, the flames dancing menacingly across the soot and charred wood. Michael bit his lip and looked around, not really seeing anyone that fit Eremia’s description of this Rich Goranski dude. He didn't see anyone, really, just an open, empty room with a roaring and dangerously unattended fire. He was about to leave to see if he could find another room where this dude could be when something dropped from the sky. A rectangular red wooden token with painted symbols Michael didn't recognise hanging off a sleek purple ribbon in front of the platform, the shine from the lacquer glinting expectantly in the light.
The fire roared, a chunk of flames rising out from the rest and dumping itself lazily on the gravel. Michael watched in fear and amazement as the flames rose up and reshaped itself to reveal—
A dude. A tank top wearing, kinda ripped, pretty fucking short dude. He was stocky with reasonably impressive muscles and spiked blonde hair with a tuft of flaming red that actually looked to be real flames flickering in time with the fluttering of the furnace. He looked normal enough except for the fact that he was partially on fire - the burn marks that marred his arms, shoulders and face perpetually licked by the very flames he had been conjured from.
He stretched and swore, his back popping as he rose into the air on feet made of fire to inspect the wooden token absently as if he didn't give a shit. He sighed, floated to the cupboards and began rummaging through them, grabbing an assortment of large, colourful seeds and straw that shimmered pink and orange. He floated back to the platform and dumped them into a stone mortar Michael hadn't noticed before, zipping back to the shelves to grab more. Michael watched him work, fast and efficient as he used trails of fire to dump shiny sugar cubes and pulsating bay leaves into the concoction, clicking his fingers to erupt the mortar into flames. It was as much methodical as it was chaotic.
“H-hello?” Michael ventured cautiously, not knowing what this guy's reaction was going to be.
When who Michael assumed was Rich Goranski made eye contact with him he expected some surprise, maybe distrust or panic seeing as he was human, but he got none of that. Instead, Assumed Rich gave him a once-over, shrugged, and continued to work, throwing more holographic leaves into the mortar before grabbing a pestle and stabbing carelessly at the mixture, crushing it into a paste.
Michael narrowed his eyes. “Uh… I'm here to—”
“Hush up, buttercup. Gotta finish this shit first,” Assumed Rich piped, waving Michael off like an impatient secretary. Michael's mouth shut with an audible click, incredulous.
Assumed Rich finished mixing the substance and began to scrap it off into something Michael couldn't see, tapping the pestle to get rid of the excess. He reached up and pulled on the wooden token twice - a clear, cute ringing noise sounding off as he did so - and the token whizzed back up to whence it came.
Michael bounced on his heels and stuck the tip of his tongue out, indulging his bored habit as he glanced around the room like a vacant visitor in a stranger's home. Assumed Rich set the pestle down and stretched his arms up, relishing in the pops and cracks that rang through the open room. He turned to Michael and regarded him lazily, moving his hands in a sweeping presentation gesture. “Alrighty. Continue.”
“O… kay? Um… I'm here to—”
“ Waitwaitwait , dude. Lemme guess this. They never let me.” Assumed Rich clapped his hands, amused and clearly not taking anything seriously as he leaned back in his seat. Even his voice was reminiscent of a crackling fire, his S’s hissing like a freshly doused flame. “Botched burial?”
Michael blinked, confused. “…no.”
“Coma?”
“I- no, I'm ju—”
“Tragic and violent murder?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Assumed Rich grinned cockily. “I don't get out much. Seriously, though, is it a coma? They're always fun.”
“No! I'm not comatose or dead or whatever, I—!”
“Now, that can't be right,” Assumed Rich interrupted, his expression falling into something stonier. “See, humans don't just turn up in the spirit world unless they're either in their graves or have got at least one foot in.”
Michael bit his lip. “Unless they found this creepy as hell market behind an equally creepy as hell abandoned train station after getting lost in their most likely creepy as hell new town?”
Assumed Rich let out a large breath, looking at Michael with an expression caught between disbelief and pity. “Yikes. You've done fucked up, amigo.”
“I gathered that, yeah.”
“I'm assuming someone directed you to me? Not a lot of people come looking for ol’ Rich Goranski: Boiler Room Bitch on a whim, y’know?”
So he was Rich. “Uh, yeah. This guy, Eremia, he found me pretty early on. Helped me out.”
Confirmed Rich immediately straightened up, alert, and chuckled fondly, shaking his head. “Of course it was him. God, he's such a soft lil lizard boy.”
Michael chewed on the corner of his bottom lip. “You know him?”
“Oh, yeah! Me and Mi-Mi go way back.” Rich conjured up a ball of fire in his palms and tossed it around casually like a ball before throwing it perfectly into the open maw of the furnace with a whispered “ Kobe ”. “If he's sent you to me it must be important. So spill it, sister. Richie-boy’s got ya.”
Michael scrunched up his nose in distaste. “Don't call me that. And— uh. I'm here for a job.”
Rich recoiled at that, looking bewildered. “A job? There ain't no jobs here. I don't have anything even resembling employment down this area. I'd look somewhere else, my guy.”
“What? But Eremia said you'd have something for me!”
“Eremia’s an idiot twink who hasn't been down here in weeks, dude. He wouldn't know if I had jobs open or not.”
“He told me you'd say anything to turn me away.”
Rich clicked his tongue and wiped the sweat from his forehead - which was odd considering how he was made of fire and also not sweating. “Did he now? Well… isn't he just so smart.”
Michael quirked up an eyebrow. “So? Can I work here?”
Rich groaned and dragged his hands through his hair, tilting his head back as his groan transitioned gradually into a yell. Michael blew out his cheeks, refusing to be amused by the others melodrama since, y'know, his life was literally at stake.
“My dude, my guy… what’s your name again?”
“Michael.”
“Miiiiiikey-wikey, I really wanna help you, really I do, but I can't! I don't have the authority to give you work, I'm literally a fucking stove.”
Michael’s heart sank to his knees. “Then why would Eremia direct me to you if you can't get me a job?”
Rich sighed, scrubbing his face. “I dunno. Maybe because—” He stopped suddenly, his face lighting up in an epiphany. “Because I know someone who can.”
Before Michael could open his mouth to ask, the door on the other side of the room slammed open. Michael jumped, suppressing his urge to scream, and took a few skittering steps back as a woman with curly brown hair and a dangerous aura came stalking through. The cute pink apron and the tray of food did not deter from her overall look. She was fierce with eyes full of fire and eyeliner so sharp it could probably cut a man. Michael was instantly scared of her.
“Richard fucking Goranski, how many fucking times have I told you to leave your tray out so I don't have to crawl into this miserable place again, you mediocre candle wick.”
“I wuv you, Chlo-bo!” Rich sung, leaning over the pedestal to flutter his eyelashes at her. Chloe plucked a fork up from the tray and threw it at him. He caught it easily by the handle.
“I'll kill you one day,” Chloe glowered without any real heat, setting the tray next to the mortar and unloading the meal. Michael shuffled a little into the shadow cast by the pedestal, shrinking in on himself when Chloe’s eyes swept the room and locked onto his gaze. The Kill Bill siren blared in Michael’s mind.
“It's you! The human everyone's looking for!” Chloe thundered, pointing at Michael so intently it was as if he had committed a murder right in front of her.
“He's my cousin,” Rich chirped casually around his mouthful of buttered bread roll.
Chloe’s eyes snapped towards Rich like an armed laser. Michael felt his soul exit his body. “What?”
“Yeah,” Rich continued, picking at his chicken. “My boy Michael’s here to find work but I haven't got any jobs for him down here.”
Chloe narrowed her eyes. “Your cover story is weak as shit. You guys don't even look related.”
“Distant, then.” Rich waved her off, not even looking at her. Michael hypothesised that the tactical aversion was necessary for his survival. “So, will you help? You do owe me a favour.”
“Fuck off, no way! If they find out I'm harbouring a human I'm as good as fucked! I'll be cleaning the big tub for weeks !”
Rich hummed negatively and turned away, picking up his cup of water and holding it aloft like a whiskey glass. “Hmm. Alright, I suppose. Eremia will be so upset when he finds out.”
Chloe’s expression instantly softened at the mention of Eremia. The change it made to her overall attitude was incredible. “Eremia knows about this?”
“Knows? The kid fucking brought him here.” Rich leaned dangerously over the edge of the pedestal, weaving an arm around Michael’s shoulders before immediately retracting it, brushing at the newly singed parts of his hoodie with a quiet apology. “He’s gotta be something special if Eremia’s going against Squip’s orders to protect him.”
Chloe turned her gaze back to him, eyeing him critically. Michael tried to make himself seem as helpless and non-threatening as possible. It wasn't hard. Chloe pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and sighed heavily after what felt like years of scrutiny. “Fine, I guess. If it's so important to him I'll do it.”
Rich clapped his hands jovially, like a kindergarten kid during playtime. “Yay! You're alright, Chloe. I'll be sure to tell Brooke you're being nice to people.”
This time Chloe blushed, turning to Rich with a murderous expression. “You wanna step outside this room and tell her then? Oh, wait.”
“Wow, way to rub my slavery in my face, Valentine,” Rich scoffed, his tone not changing from the teasing waver though something shifted in his posture. Michael didn't have time to stick around and ask why.
Chloe had grabbed Michael’s arm with her perfectly manicured hands - Michael didn't doubt that she probably killed a man with those hands - and dragged him towards the door, scooping up the abandoned tray of dirty dishes as she went. Michael stumbled, waving at Rich gratefully. He caught a glimpse of Rich cheerfully shooting him finger guns before the door closed shut behind him like the lid of a fucking coffin.
Michael’s stumbling did not deter Chloe from manhandling him up a flight of steep stairs, all but shoving him into an elevator and pulling the lever that sent them shooting up deeper into the bathhouse.
His relief was short lived. Chloe adjusted her hold, balancing the dishes in one hand perfectly. She turned to eye Michael again. Michael instinctively flinched. “Listen, kid,” she bit out, her tone stony. “If it were up to me you'd be turned into a chicken and thrown in with the rest.” Michael gulped. “But, regrettably,” Chloe continued, tone softening. “Eremia likes you for whatever reason. And I'm pretty sure this whole damn establishment took an oath to keep that kid happy. You got lucky this time but know that if you fuck with him I won't be so generous. Got it, Mitchell?”
Michael nodded frantically. He briefly contemplated correcting her on his name but decided that his life was slightly more valuable than a few misplaced letters. The elevator stopped, Chloe promptly leading Michael out the doors and into a twisting hallway. She shoved him against a wall and motioned for him to wait, turning a heel and disappearing through a set of large, metallic doors. He heaved a sigh of relief, leaning his head against the wall. This day kept getting weirder and weirder, and with the weirdness came the soul-crushing danger of it all. What was he supposed to fucking do now? What did Eremia mean when he said they had to beat Squip at their own game? Who even was Squip? Who was Eremia?
The whole bathhouse working in tandem just to keep one boy happy? Just how important was Eremia around here? Everyone he'd met so far seemed to have an instinctual protective default when it came to him if Brooke’s concern and Chloe’s threats were anything to go by. Michael whined, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. The amount of energy that was going straight towards postponing his panic attack was exhausting, this entire god-awful ordeal was giving him a headache.
Chloe burst back into the hallway like a broken dam, sweeping Michael back up in her wrath. She tugged his arm roughly, leading him through a maze of hallways and backrooms littered with roll-out futons and small tables until they came to a stop at a set of imposing doors. Chloe took a breath, adjusting her apron and fixing her hair absently before turning to Michael and roughly pulling his hood over his head. Michael bit back a yelp. “Don't say a word,” Chloe warned, turning back to the door. “If anyone catches on to the fact that you're a human before we get to Squip’s office we’re both dead.”
Michael felt a sudden panic course through his bloodstream for the nth time in 3 hours. “I-I—! Wait, wait, I thought we were avoiding Squip! Because they want to kill me!”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Squip’s got this weird thing. If they catch you on their own you're fucked, but if you get to them first and ask for a job they're obligated to do so. A curse for them but a blessing for you. Eremia and Rich handed you over to me because I’m their inside guy and I know everything. Now, shut up and do as I say. ”
Chloe squared her shoulders and pushed the heavy doors open, letting them swing grandly on silent hinges. Michael winced in discomfort at the sudden change in lighting and blinked against the onslaught of blinding white and gold.
When his eyes adjusted, he was met with the bathhouse in all its glory. He and Chloe stood on a bridge-like catwalk that ran from one end of the room to the other, giving him a perfect view of the steaming baths below, some filled to the brim with spirits and spectres of all shapes and sizes, relaxing after a long day in the mortal realm. The bathhouse was decorated with beautiful Japanese tapestries, intricately painted ceramics, and bonsai plants, giving the place a regal yet homely feel that mixed in well with the golden lights and constant bustle. All sorts of scents wafted through the air; floral and spicy and numbing. Michael felt himself relax against his will, nerves that were on fire mere seconds ago doused and docile.
Chloe tugged on his arm, shattering the mood. “C’mon, idiot. You can bask in the fruit of our labours when you die and cross the river as an actual spirit, not a mortal abomination.” Michael swallowed roughly at the implications of that sentence but stayed obediently silent as Chloe led him down the catwalk and towards a set of elevators.
“Chloe! Wait up!”
Michael jolted in alarm at the new voice, flinching as Chloe hauled him around to stand behind her, out of sight and hidden in the crowd by the elevators. A man, almost freakishly tall might he add, came bounding towards them, his arm raised in greeting. He was handsome, from what Michael could see, with perfectly quaffed hair, shining eyes and unblemished skin. He gave off a cool air. Literally. The tips of his hair were covered in a delicate layer of frost and his skin had an icy sheen to it. Cold smoke wafted from his frame, pooling silkily across the floor in a constant fog.
Chloe’s body language shifted into something subtly friendlier while still somehow maintaining an air of aloof superiority. “Jake. Back again? You're, like, 3 more days off from becoming a nightly regular.”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess. I just… I dunno.”
Chloe arched her eyebrow knowingly. “Did you need something?”
“Uh, did Rich get the...?” Jake made a vague gesture in the air between them.
“Yeah, he got them. Y’know, I'm getting kinda tired of being the middleman in this fucked up relationship.” Chloe waved off Jake’s flustered spluttering, putting a hand on her hip. “But I get it. It's hard for you guys. Don't say I never do shit for you two.” She reached a hand into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a shiny, opalescent stone that flashed an array of soft colours in the golden light. “I couldn't find you last night. Rich says thanks for the flowers.” She tossed the stone to an awestruck Jake, who cradled the gift gently in his fingertips as if he were afraid it would shatter.
“Thanks, Chlo. I owe you one.”
Chloe scoffed. “You owe me 12. And you can start paying me back by wiping that pathetic look off your face and letting me get back to work.”
Jake laughed, sliding the stone into his jacket pocket. “Sure, Chloe. Say hi to Brooke for me.”
“Whatever.” Chloe pushed Michael backwards towards the elevators.
Slipping in behind a gaggle of ghostly women, the elevator took them further up into a hallway full of guest rooms. Chloe pulled the lever again once the women had departed, leaving them alone in the lift.
“Squip will probably try to trick or threaten you into leaving or making a deal with them,” Chloe said suddenly, taking advantage of the security of the elevator. Michael peeked up at her from under his hood. “Don't agree to anything until they bring out the contract. Only the contract can guarantee your safety.”
The elevator slowed to a stop at a dead silent floor, lit dimly in comparison to all the other floors. Michael let out a nervous breath.
“The contract is enchanted so no one can lie on it,” Chloe continued, showing no sign of leaving the elevator. This was the end of the road for her. “Don't try to outsmart them. They'll turn you into an animal for sure. Just be forceful, stay calm, don't get killed.”
“Thanks,” Michael mumbled, chewing nervously on his bottom lip.
Chloe gave him a stern look. “I mean it. Don't die. It'll break Eremia’s heart.” Chloe huffed a little, puffing out her cheeks. “And I hate to say it but you seem like a good kid. Be smart. See you whenever.”
The elevator doors shut, leaving Michael alone in the dimly lit hallway. Michael took a step, his sneakers squeaking loudly against pristine marble floors. He was gonna lose his mind. His heart was racing so fast he thought he was gonna die before he even got to Squip’s office. Maybe he'd just stand right there forever before Squip could even try to kill him. Weighing out all his options, one path leading him to certain death and another leading towards indefinable slavery, it seemed like a pretty good fucking plan to him.
(But then again if he stood here forever eventually he'd starve to death and be trapped here anyway and then who was gonna save his moms and bring them back to their new house and say “I told you so” because they didn't ask for directions at the gas station like he told them to )
Fuck.
Michael steeled his nerves and made his way into the abyss, walking on his tiptoes so his sneakers wouldn't squeak so loud and freak him the fuck out.
There was a door at the end of the hall, tall and imposing with an honest to god door knocker like a goddamn Beverly Hills mansion sat innocently on either side of the tiny gap that separated a closed door from an open one. Michael tugged at the hood still obscuring his head, pulling the edges close to his mouth so he could chew on it in distress. He needed to calm the fuck down. He couldn't afford to shut down now. Go inside, get Squip to give him a contract, sign it in a way that might cheat the system because the day Michael willingly signs his ass up for slavery is the day he fucking hangs himself, get out, lie down in a ditch and cry forever. Good plan. Sane plan.
He's so fucked.
The doorknob was freezing to the touch as Michael struggled to pry the doors open. They swung heavily but silently, not a single creak, squeak or scrape. The unnatural silence unnerved Michael more than anything. He slipped through the door and found himself in a circular, high ceiling room that was strangely almost exactly what Michael was expecting. The room was sparse, with only a plush blue rug and gentle curtains to give it any sort of softness, jutting angles and seemingly calculated furniture placements. Everything in that room felt cold, impersonal, empty. Like no one really lived here but was simply occupying space. Clean white walls, a table here, a chair there, a few filing cabinets, pictures on the wall that looked honest to god blank. The only thing that even remotely stood out was the dark wood desk on the opposite end of the room, covered with 2 neatly stacked piles of paper and perfectly straight pens, a single desk light illuminating a contained area on the surface like a spotlight. The plush black chair was facing away from him, overlooking the large window that spilt moonlight reflected off the ocean waters across the room. The whole scene looked like a villain reveal and Michael was gearing up for the chair to swivel around and for Squip to be sitting there, legs crossed, petting an evil looking cat and smirking.
Michael wasn't prepared for the tap on his shoulder. He was so unprepared for it he nearly flung himself onto the floor with how violently he flinched. Who he assumed to be Squip stood directly behind him. They were tall, their very presence nerve-wracking, and as imposing as the office door and the bathhouse itself; wearing a perfectly fitted blue suit, clean and pressed. Their expression was completely blank, not a single emotion or even an inkling of humanity on their sharp, creepily perfect features. Though something did stand out strongly to Michael.
“You look like Keanu Reeves,” Michael blurted out like a complete fucking idiot.
Squip barely reacted outside of an exhausted sigh and a vaguely irritated expression. “You two were made for each other.” They crossed their arms impatiently, staring down at Michael with distaste. “You're blocking the door.”
Michael quickly sidestepped, letting Squip step into their office. They walked gracefully, long confident strides towards the desk, every step with purpose. They settled in the chair with little fanfare, turning their attention to Michael with a laser focus. Michael faltered at the intensity of their gaze.
“So you're the human that's been sniffing around my establishment. I expected a little more than… well, you .”
Michael was too scared and confused to be offended by that. “You know about me?”
Squip scoffed. “I know everything that happens here. I know Eremia brought you to the bathhouse. I know Rich and Chloe helped you here. I know that you intend to sign a contract with me in order to ensure your safety.”
“I- uh… you're not wrong.”
“I’m never wrong.” Squip delicately slid a sheet of paper from the top of the smallest pile and began filling it out, bored. “And what makes you think I’ll just give you a job?”
Michael fidgeted with the drawstrings of his hoodie, unsure of what to say. Squip continued to fill out what he assumed to be paperwork. The silence was killing him. “Uhm, because you have to?”
Squip stopped abruptly, the scratch of the pen ceasing with a jagged sound. Michael’s breath seized in his throat, his heart pounding. Squip set the pen down in a motion that looked like they were shutting the lid of a coffin. They might as well be. “Listen to me, you wretched, pitiful child,” Squip growled, their face set in a stone of indifference while their voice bled with venom. “I don't have to do anything for the likes of you . You waltz into my world, eat my food, conspire with my workers. The only contract you’ll be getting out of me is a death certificate .” Michael subconsciously took a few giant steps back but refused to break Squips gaze. Their eyes instantly turned mocking at the subtle show of fear. “What animal do you think would suit you best, hmm? Maybe a nice little pig like your mothers? Or maybe a pathetic little fish so I can watch you drown on dry land?”
“The rules state,” Michael began, pausing a little to heave in big breaths so that he wouldn't hyperventilate and faint. That would look really bad on the attempted confidence front. “The rules state you have to give a job to anyone who asks. Anyone. I'm here, you didn't catch me before I got to you, I'm asking.” Michael paused again, taking in the flicker of indignation on Squip’s face. He mustered a fake smirk. It was a risky move but he didn't have many cards left. “I do wonder, though, what happens if you don't abide by those rules. I'd love to see the results.”
Squip slammed their palms against the desk, standing up in one swift, furious motion, papers jostled and flying away from their previously perfect form. It took all of Michael’s willpower to stay stationary. Squip balled their hands into fists, shaking with rage, and then all at once it was gone. Squip straightened up, adjusted their suit and smoothed out their hair, their face perfectly blank. The sight of that, the abruptness of the change, sent Michael reeling with internal panic. Squip took a visible breath - it struck Michael suddenly that he hadn't seen Squip breath once since they entered the room - and whistled.
Eremia raced forward, bowing at the waist in front of Squip’s desk. Michael blinked. When did he get here? “You called, boss?” Eremia said quietly, head still bowed to avoid Squip’s blank stare.
“Fetch the contract from the second drawer,” they said in an uncaring fashion, flicking a lazy finger over at the filing cabinets. “And give it to him.”
Eremia nodded, walking towards the filing cabinets without a word. The way he walked was odd, not the scuttling and shuffling Michael had witnessed while he was with him. Straight strides with purpose, almost mirroring the perfect gait Squip had, though with some visible flaws. His back was curved downward, arms drawn into his chest as if he were trying to hide from Squip. Michael catalogued this for later analysis. God , he sounded like a nerd.
Eremia plucked a long roll of paper from the drawers and drew back towards Michael. His eyes lit up a little and he offered Michael a shy smile, handing him the contract and a pen that looked like it was worth more than Michael’s entire life.
“Write your full name on the dotted line,” Squip remarked, turning back to their paperwork, before pausing and snapping their fingers impatiently. Eremia seemed to jolt, rushing back to stand beside Squip’s desk, head bowed. Michael felt his stomach churn uncomfortably at how easily Squip controlled him.
“You're… not gonna watch me sign it?”
“I don't even have to look at it.” Squip sounded cocky, not even bothering to look up at Michael when they spoke. “You cannot lie on it, there’s no reason for me to check. Hurry up and sign it so you can get out of my office.”
Michael walked over to a small desk and leaned against it, biting his lip as he mulled over his limited options. The letters and symbols that made up the contract were written in a whole other language that Michael couldn’t understand, so it was already bullshit unfair from the start. He put the pen against the paper with all intentions to write a fake name but found himself completely unable to do so. He definitely couldn't lie about who he was, then. Michael scratched at his jaw, uncomfortable. He couldn't find any way around the contract, and he didn't want to just hand his entire life over to this asshole. God, this was going to shit. His moms were doomed, he was willingly signing his life away, his ribs hurt like a motherfucker from all that bullshit running while he’s still wearing his—
Wait.
It was risky and he didn’t want to do it at all but it was all he had and he was running out of time. Michael leaned over the paper so that Squip couldn't get a good look at it and carefully wrote out a name that he hadn't used in a very long time and hoped he never would.
The words glared up at him and he felt a sickening mix of relief and resentment wash over him, tearing at his gut. He swallowed it down and schooled his expression back to neutral. He'd deal with that later.
Michael quickly rolled up the paper and stood, brandishing it at Squip in determination. Squip barely bats an eyelash as they cleared their throat and Eremia jolted into action, taking the contract from Michael with a quick and subtle wink. Michael forced down a blush.
“What’s your name again, kid?” Squip pretty much demanded through the air of false politeness.
“Michael. Mell.”
“Hmm. From now on your new name is Hael. Answer me, Hael.”
The Squip’s tone was smug and expectant, as they thought they had already won. Michael felt like the notion should stay that way for now. “Yes, boss.”
Squip smiled. It was a horrible sight. “Good. Eremia.” Eremia flinched, shutting the file cabinet a little harder than necessary. “Take Hael down to the workers quarters and settle him in. He starts work tomorrow.”
Eremia bowed. “Of course.”
Eremia’s expression was frozen at a careful blank, right up until the elevator doors closed and he burst like a firework. “You did it!” he cheered happily, flapping his hands and bouncing on his heels. He looked so happy, so relieved. It was a good look on him. Michael felt his face grow hot. “I knew you would!”
“Well, I mean, I did some of it.” Michael rubbed at the back of his neck bashfully. “I only survived by doing what everyone told me to do. If it weren't for you and Rich and Chloe I'd probably be dead.”
“Give yourself some credit, you stood up to Squip! That takes a lot of courage.”
“Or a ton of stupidity.”
Eremia stuck his tongue out playfully. Michael responded in kind, giggling.
“Okay, so what’s the plan from here?” Michael asked once the laughter had died down. “How do we beat Squip?”
“Let me worry about that,” Eremia answered, picking at the cuffs of his sleeve. “Just lie low for now. Don't do anything to attract attention. Keep yourself safe.”
“There's gotta be something I can do? I'm not letting you deal with my mistake by yourself.”
Eremia chewed on his lip quietly for a moment, looking down and wringing his hands. “Meet me at the bridge at dawn tomorrow. I wanna show you something.”
Michael breathed a sigh. It was better than nothing. “Okay.” He ran a stressed hand through his hair, ruffling it. Eremia ducked his head, nervously tucking a lock of his own hair behind his ear. Michael swallowed. “Okay.”