Chapter Text
A boy walks out of Lake Oblongata.
Ford Cruller’s passive psychic sense goes off like a piece of Psitanium being dropped a mile away. Nothing he reasonably should have felt or even noticed given the distance, but small and significant enough that his tattered mind latches on to it anyway.
It’s not a mind he knows. Tones of orange and green bob with the boy’s steps, dulled, almost as if algae has grown over them. The aura dips in the center. It’s uncomfortable to feel, the sensation cold and empty like a well, or a whirlpool, or the pull of gravity.
Or a wound.
A boy walks out of Lake Oblongata bearing a psychic wound left raw and yet to heal. A hole dug into the very concept of himself.
It’s not a mind he knows, but there’s a familiar feeling to it anyway. Maybe it’s Ford’s own shattered mind, hanging on only in the presence of the massive Psitanium boulder, which he sees reflected in the boy’s wound. Maybe something else—the glitter below the dull outer surface. The slow bob, which, upon closer inspection, feels less like footsteps and more like the lull of the tides. The weight. The hum of determination. The loss.
A boy walks out of Lake Oblongata. The founder of the Psychonauts’s mind skips and skips and skips. He can’t figure out the punchline.
The boy’s mental walls are up hard and hold fast. They’ve been built up for a few years at least, an impressive feat dampened only by the quality with which the walls were build. Rough gouges line their exterior. They push up and in—not an intrusion, but an indication of the desperate nature under which they were built. When Ford reaches out, he gets the impression of the tiny handprints of a child.
He recoils. The boys mind tries to fling him back just a second later. Ford trips backward and stumbles. His back hits glass, and he groans.
Ford Cruller lays on the floor of his sanctuary and mourns a broken boy he’ll never be able to meet.