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gigiree · 7 years

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Distortion (2)

Part 2 of the Disconnect series.

Part 1

Distortion is a pretty girl with bright butterscotch eyes and soft brown hair. Distortion is a girl with too big a heart, and too heavy a weight on her shoulders.

He used to be scared for her. Now Seven is scared of her.

Scared of what she brings.

He still thinks himself a dangerous man. No matter what she decides, he’s a little glad she hasn’t tried to get closer to him. Namely because he’s still embroiled in a storm of espionage and his fate had been marked many times over for a disappearance.

Any slip up, and the agency would make sure of it.

But still, he never thought that he’d see all of his problems as mundane. And now that he’s aware of time twisting into something unrecognizable, he really wants to find that space ship and sail away into the stars.

But he’s not alone. Not entirely.

The first time he had realized that time had spun in circles was on a strangely familiar trip to a small church in the middle of the city.

Everything had been overwhelming, the niggling doubt, the thought that he might just be going insane. His jokes feeling old and cracked and tired, but everyone reacted to them like they were brand new.

His reality had become a thin, transparent thing. Sometimes he would even take off his glasses and squint up at the flaring traffic lights just to convince himself that he was in outer space and not in a world where he thought he was going insane.

And he’s a decently religious person. He hadn’t gone to church in years, but he says his prayers every night, he wears that cross around his neck…and so it’s not so strange that he had gone to church at midnight.

It’s not strange that it had been raining and the priest had stepped out for a bit.

It’s strange that there had been a delicate little envelope, a letter written on fairly plain stationery. But it was the words that had cut him quick. Words that had pelted at his already thinning grasp on reality and placed spiderwebbed cracks in it.

“What path do we follow tomorrow, 707?”

The words had blurred, turning into flaring black stars as he read them again with tears in his eyes.

He kept the letter tucked away in his jacket pocket all the way, smiling in the face of Distortion and finding his love for her twisting into something a little less defined…something laced with pity.

The route had ended, and he’d almost screamed in horror to find that with it, the letter was gone.

Only to go to the church once again on a rainy night and find a different envelope on the pew.

Over and over, the pattern repeats. The messages are different. Encouraging and kind.

He’s still trying to find the person that leaves them behind.

Unfortunately all he has to go on is the footage from the hacked CCTV cameras that ring the church property and that line the main street.

He’s watching the footage from last night again, trying to pick up some defining clues about the person’s identity.

But the little figure in the grainy feed is covered head to toe. Their yellow raincoat is horrifically distracting and he can’t really make out any features underneath the hood.

The red scarf wrapped around the lower half of their face is tucked neatly into their jacket, and what hangs over sways jauntily with their purposeful steps.

He feels something like a smile curl across his face, something that’s almost so small, so real. It’s been so long since he’s smiled so small. It’s a relief. It’s a scary thing, this newborn hope that rests in the hands of a complete stranger.

He finds it strange, their movements are confident and practiced. Their steps go faster and faster, the soundless rain bouncing around the heels of their rainboots as they cradle that familiar envelope to them. Their dark umbrella spins lackadaisically over them, almost like a wheel of fortune and it takes him a while to notice that they’ve stopped just across the street from the traffic camera.

And if he looks close beyond the grainy footage, he can just make out the wry smile that peers over the edge of their scarf. They seem to hesitate for a bit, before adjusting their grip on their umbrella and the letter to free up a hand. They curl their fingers into a fist, bend their hand at the wrist in mimicry of a cat swiping a paw. Then they make their way down the hidden lane that leads to the little white church.

Their shrinking image is distorted as his laughter overtakes him, and the tears well up in his golden eyes.

He doesn’t know if it’s relief or fear that he feels.

—

You’re not entirely sure how this arrangement came to be. You’re not entirely sure it’s even a good idea.

But here she was again, sitting across from you in the quiet little cafe. The decorative cat made of foam on your latte is already dissipating by the time you look up from your phone and decide to acknowledge her.

You’ve never been a very angry person. You’re slow to boil, slow to react. It’s easier to plan out a course of action when your world isn’t colored in red.

(But that’s not a lie, because red is the color that makes your heart race and makes you do stupid things.)

She’s lovely. Again. Dressed in a cream colored sweater. Again.

Her eyes are wide and their flecks of gold shift subtly with her emotions.

But you’ve long since mastered jealousy. It’s the one weed you’ve been good at choking. The one bad emotion you’ve managed to circumvent.

So politely, just like last time, you move the plate of chocolate chip cookies in her direction.

This time she doesn’t take one.

She opens her mouth to thank you, but then the tears bead over and you quickly offer her a napkin.

She accepts it with a sweet smile and dabs at the corners of her eyes, before apologizing.

“I’m really…I’m really sorry for all the trouble I put you through. I just…this last one, I wasn’t…”

She stills, her eyes widening until they seem to swallow her face whole.

“I’m scared, ___.”

Confusion sweeps through you, a churning mix of pity and hurt and bitterness and confusion twists your lungs and makes it harder to breath.

You’d always thought she was confident. Immortal in a way that could easily make everything…all of them…seem like a game.

But MC is also just a girl. A girl made of smiles and tears and distorted time.

And you’ve never hated her, but you’ve hated that she never seemed to care about her actions, flitting about between the routes, saying I love you to different people over and over.

But MC is also human, and though you may not understand her, there’s always room in a person’s heart for many loves. Still, it scares you just how much she seems to know. You’ve never quite figured out how she realized you remembered things.

She’s always quiet. Always sweetly confident and cheerful…except for today.

“Scared?” You ask. “I don’t understand.”

MC’s expression shifts into one of mute horror, her hand drifting to cover her eyes as she shudders.

“I keep losing myself. I’m starting not to feel like me…I just…sometimes I say the worst things. Sometimes the bad parts are my fault. Sometimes I get bored…or sad…I can’t change it all.”

The words lance cold through your chest and for a moment, you want to run. Her words remind you that being human means being capable of both incredible kindness and horrific amounts of cruelty. You don’t know if you’d do things differently if you were in her position, but you’ve had your fair share of boredom with the loops.

You’ve had your fair share of enjoyment at predicting things your coworkers and friends would not expect.

It is a frightful prospect. But MC only trusts you with the sort of trust you’d give to a stranger you met and who you had told your life’s woes to. The kind of trust engendered by unfamiliarity, and you know she won’t let you pry further.

“I…I think you mean well.” You say, but somehow the words come out montone. Dry.

You cup your hands awkwardly around your lukewarm drink, and tap your fingers nervously.

MC drops her hands with a shattered resignation. Her eyes are melancholy as she appraises you, and her smile is kind and a little bitter.

“You should make friends with them. They’d like you. You’d like them.” She says quietly. She begins to pick at the cookie you offered her earlier…not quite eating it so much as reducing it to a pile of crumbs as broken as your sanity.

She doesn’t seem to remember that you have on occasion made friends with a few of them. But you’ve gone out of your way to avoid them, and much to your chagrin, you’ve started to notice the RFA members cropping up in places you’d never seen them before.

Or maybe they’d always been there and you were just looking for them. Looking for people with images distorted into all sorts of wavering light from behind your aching loneliness. Eleven days is hardly enough to get to know someone, much less become friends with them.

And maybe that jealousy isn’t as controlled as you would like because the question tumbles out from your mouth, leaving your mortified.

“When are you going to pick 707?”

MC’s head snaps up, eyes wide and tear tracks shining in the warm golden light.

“Wha…I…I don’t understand…”

And then something in your face probably tells it all. It’s written in your expression, in the way your hands grip tightly to your mug, in the way your cheeks redden.

“Oh.” She says delicately, surprise lining her mouth. “You love him too.”

You look away from her, unable to stop the tears that sting your eyes and leave you feeling raw and exposed and ugly.

—- You don’t go to that coffee shop again. —-

You bond with Jaehee over coffee, of all things.

Your 48 hour shift is only half way done. You are exhausted as you lumber past the plastic surgery ward and waiting room. You are looking for the surgeons’ break room where all the high end coffee was hidden with a nearly humorous zeal.

So much stronger than the watery lukewarm concoction you could buy from the vending machines in your unit.

In the brief haze of your thoughts, a face in the crowded waiting room stands out. A tired, fairly pretty face framed with short brown hair. The old ugly brown chair next to hair is occupied by a gift basket about the size of your torso, wrapped in a very ornate gilded cellophane.

You stiffen a little. You’d been doing such a great job of avoiding all of them. You think for a second or two that she might recognize you, beyond the messy style you’ve shoved your hair into and beyond the permanent dark circles that ring your eyes.

It’s your long pause a few feet away from her that drags her weary attention from the paperwork on her lap to you.

But there is no familiarity in her gaze. No subtle warmth or invitation to talk that you would have experienced in timelines where you did save MC.

You feel awkward. Out of place, out of sync. This isn’t supposed to be a place of meeting for any of them.

You resist the urge to tuck your hands into pockets of your white coat. Instead you settle for fiddling with the stethoscope you have around your neck.

You notice that she holds a cup of the vending machine coffee in her hands. She follows your gaze, and you note the quick disgust that flashes in her expression as she looks at her coffee.

“It sucks, huh?” You say quietly, your lips quirking into what you hope is a warmer expression than shock.

She blinks wide eyes at you, before it hits her just what you’ve said.

“Pardon me, but yes. Yes it does suck.”

The awkwardness of her decisive opinion makes you laugh a little. You worry that she thinks you’re making fun of her, so you offer her a bit of salvation.

“The cafeteria burns their coffee, so I wouldn’t try it from there either. Now the surgeons…they’ve got the best brew…for hospital coffee anyway.” You tell her conspiratorially, and then you shrug. “Hold on, please.”

You leave Jaehee with a hasty apology.

The sneaky trip to the break room and back is thankfully met with little suspicion. You think a nurse knows exactly what you’re up to, but she merely gives you an understanding laugh and lets you go on your merry way with two cups of hazelnut coffee in your hands.

She seems just as surprised as you were before to see you return, better coffee in hand.

“They can’t keep it hidden from caffeine addicts like me.” You joke, before handing her the cup and watching in glee as she throws away the vending machine coffee with vindication.

“That’s…well, I suppose the same is true for me. Thank you so much.” She says with good humor.

Her smile is small, but genuinely sweet and grateful as she accepts your token of shared misery.

She seems like she’s about to say something more, but then decides against it.

There isn’t really an awkward silence. It’s hard to circumvent noise when that’s all there is in the waiting room. The quiet humdrum of visitors and the occasional conversations in the background are distracting.

You take a few sips of your coffee, wrinkling your nose because it’s a little bit too bitter, but the subtle nutty flavor is pleasant and rich. It helps you wake up a bit.

You jolt. Realization striking you with a small heated shame.

“I’m so sorry! I gave it to you black! I can go get you cream and sugar.”

You’re about to list of your usual litany of apologies, but she shakes her head vigorously and for once you can see that her eyes have brightened up behind her glasses.

A touch of real happiness in the midst of a tiring day for her, you can sort of understand.

“It tastes better this way. I can catch the little bit of hazelnut and the hint of cinnamon all combined to make it a perfect blend.” She says in a rush, and clearly she feels a bit doubtful when you look at her with more surprise.

She settles back into her chair, adorably flustered as she pushes her glass back up her nose.

“It is a nice blend for a drip brew. Personally I prefer sweeter flavors, but this one is great.” You say, hoping to relieve some of her embarrassment.

“Oh? You like coffee?” She asks quietly, a bit amazed and partially wary. She thinks you might be making fun of her again.

And you’ve never been one to make others feel bad for their interests.

You look at the cheap clock hanging overhead and note that you still have a few minutes for your break.

“Yeah I do! I mean I’m not an expert by any means, but I know the basics. I really like hand pressed coffee, but it takes so much time.” You lament, taking another sip of yours with an almost reverent expression.

That prompts a full blown discussion then. It’s the smallest of small talk, and you’re sure her knowledge of the drink far outpaces your meager interest. It gets to a point where you’re the one asking her questions, and she answers. A bit unsure, but then with an excitement that makes you rethink your earlier preconceptions of her having been an organized, working woman with very little interests outside of said work.

By the time you get around to asking her who she’s waiting for, you realize with a pang of worry that you hope it’s none of the RFA members.

(Too attached, you’re getting too attached.)

You try and subtly gather more information, but Jaehee is so much more astute than you give her credit for.

She looks at you with amusement, before telling you outright.

“I’m happy to see you are following privacy protocols, Dr.____, but I’m not here for family or friends. It’s a…work arrangement of sorts.” She says with a bit of a bitter expression.

(You have to work so hard to hide the genuine relief that threatens to send you weeping to the floor.)

You quirk your head in silent confusion, before she looks around a little warily.

“My boss’s boss asked me to wait for…one of his friends as she recovered from her surgery. And to give her a get well present.”

You assume this is information given in good confidence that you will not talk. And really who are you going to gossip about this to? Youre sure that everyone in your ward would already know by the time you get back.

Gossip spreads fast here. It’s just that the staff knows how to hide it behind skillful small talk.

You nod your head at her anyway, giving her a sympathetic smile, before noting the time.

“I’ve got to go. My break is unfortunately finished. No rest for the weary.” You say quietly, lifting your empty cup to her in a commiserating gesture.

“Thank you again!” She says as she returns the gesture with a pleasant laugh, before turning back to the rest of the paperwork Stacked on her lap.

A small sense of regret fills you, but you shove it away. You’ve done your good deed for the day. This was just a one-off thing anyways…at least for you. You hope the Chairman’s new wife won’t be one of those who depended on plastic surgery for a sense of validation.

Because that would mean more late night hospital visits for poor Jaehee.

But then what’s the whole point of this…what’s the point of discussing coffee and making friends when she’s just going to forget that you even exist in eight days or less.

You don’t cry. You want to, but you don’t. The world is already too distorted, it would only get harder to see behind all those tears. —-

The rain softens the edges of the city. It dribbles down the sides of building and runs down cold windows and distorts the lights until you find yourself comfortable in it.

If you can see this place as just a little bit different, it helps alleviate some of the stagnant pain that aches within you.

The only thing you can do is change up your own actions. You refuse to rely on MC’s uncanny abilities. She’s the one who has put you in this conundrum in the first place. Youre not even sure why you’re the only one who remembers.

She had said it could have been anyone. She had said that she could have been anyone.

She had said that all the possibilities and all the algorithms of the universe had lined up and had presented you and her with this situation.

She had said the he remembered too. You hadn’t wanted to ask who he was.

She had said…she will say…she says…

You’re being selfish again. You know you are and you still can’t bring yourself to get out from under your umbrella and go home.

It’s after work again. It’s nearly midnight again, and here you are waiting to put another letter on Seven’s seat in that lovely little church just down the lane behind you.

But you can’t move. The water feels heavy as it bounces off your umbrella. The world is pleasant and still and you feel some form of comfort when you look at the CCTV camera and behind all your doubts, you hope he can see the cheerful wave you give.

(He can hack almost anything…including security cameras. Surprisingly, another tidbit of information freely and mysteriously given by MC. You wonder if she’s just pitying you.)

You’ve taken stock of the way he subtly, quietly takes possession of certain things. The way he quietly protects them and clings onto them in past time lines.

This church is most likely a place he’s put a claim on. You don’t know if he’ll see your message. Don’t know if it will make any sense. Don’t know if he even will remember…you just want to hope.

So you make sure he can’t see your face. Your new yellow raincoat is such a contrast to your usual gray one, that you’re sure he wouldn’t recognize you if he ever met you in passing.

You hide the rest of your face under your red scarf, and have finally gathered enough courage to head inside before someone steps up behind you.

The sloppy sloshing of careful steps alerts you to his presence.

You try your best to control your breathing. Try to control the ridiculous beating of your heart that threatens to leap from your threat and straight into his hands if he offered.

You would do almost anything to stop his hurt. Whatever it is. Almost anything, save breaking yourself to do it.

You don’t speak. Just focus your eyes on the eerily still camera across the street.

And much like with Jaehee, the silence is filled in. Filled in with rain and wind and gentle chiming bells and his footsteps.

You feel his warmth up close. You tuck your umbrella close to you, and lucky for you, he’s tall enough to be blocked by it.

“Hey…don’t you think it’s a little too cold to stay out here?” He says warmly, curiously.

You don’t answer.

You let your eyes dart quickly to the side. Just beyond the edge of your umbrella, you can see his hands shoved into the pockets of that black jacket he loves to wear. Can see the pale skin of his arm pelted with rain.

(He remembers. He doesn’t. He remembers. He doesn’t. You play the petal game with the rain drops. Never ending.)

The letter sits heavy in your pocket. You hadn’t expected this. He was always already inside by this time. This doesn’t make sense.

“Hmm. Giving me the silent treatment and I haven’t even made the bad jokes yet.” He ventures. “Water the odds.”

You smile, but he can’t see it.

He shivers, and guilt prompts you to lift up your umbrella higher. You still don’t look at him, but he hums with surprise as you edge it in his direction.

A silent invitation to find mutual shelter.

He takes it with a strange little breath, something like broken laughter. He’s still a little too tall for the height you hold the umbrella at, and he ducks in awkwardly with shoulders hunched.

You nearly shriek when after a sigh of annoyance, he places his hand just over yours on the umbrella, an impatience that you’re not used to coming from him.

“Please. I can hold it for the both of us.” He says quietly.

You childishly push your cheeks out, but still let go, slipping your hand away from the handle.

You could run now. You’re free of the umbrella.

But the letter sets as a heavy reminder. You need to give it to him. You’re almost shaking with the surety of your conclusion. He remembers.

“Why are you here?” He asks quietly, and you can feel his gaze and the rain and the letter all weighing down on you.

You want to talk, but you are fearful because it doesn’t matter. Does he remember always? Will you remember? Maybe one day, she resets and one day you don’t remember and one day he marries her and one day you’re back to your everyday life.

Staying still is so much more safe than moving.

So you don’t let your mouth move.

You let your words drown in your sorrow.

You quickly take out the letter, and crumple it into his empty hand while jerking the umbrella from his loose hold. You let out a slight squeak with your effort, but that’s the only sound you make before you run off into the rain.

Your hands are numb and filled with puns, but still you hold the wobbling umbrella in front of you, fighting against the wind.

He doesn’t chase after you. You notice a bit sheepishly after the first few blocks.

You lean against your knees and pant, your hood already fallen around your shoulders and your hair plastered wet to your head and face.

You’re not sure if he remembers anymore.

It hurts. —

He doesn’t follow. He doesn’t need to. He just has to wait for you again.

And if you don’t show up again, he will find you. Because maybe…just maybe you can help each other break apart and see past this distortion.

Because beyond all the rain, you’ve brought clarity. He wishes for your happiness as he gazes at the flaring red stoplight in the rain.

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger 707 #jaehee kang #MC

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