2083

It didn't take much convincing to get P.T. to leave him alone in the room.

She'd been a pretty constant presence since they'd met, but being alone was, well, freeing. Even if Ash was stuck in these two rooms. Probably. Last he checked, she was standing outside of the door in the hall. If he stayed in here long enough, there was a chance she'd wander off. She didn't get bored, but she didn't like being 'non-productive.' In the past, that meant cleaning up whatever mess he might've left hanging around and organizing things that didn't really need to be alphabetized. He didn't know what that would lead to her doing here.

About twenty minutes into fucking around with his new chainsaw, and trying to figure out why they'd bothered with a arm brace and insert for his wrist when there was technology here to give him a replacement hand, when he found out the hand could fold into itself. And either A: his suite was soundproof, B: P.T. had wandered off, or C: she trusted the security of this place that she didn't come running in to check on him when he made a--very manly--yelp at that discovery.

Ash tore his eyes away from it. He knew it wasn't real flesh and bone. He knew it had just... sort of... roll folded into itself, and he could probably get it back to how it was easily, but for a second, it looked like it was melting and he--

He stared at the wall, trying to focus on the details of some random sword. Of the etchings of the blade. Anything other than the memories threatening to push their up up to the surface. Cheryl and Scott. The fireplace poker falling from her hand. The sound of it going through the floor. It was so close to his face. And then she was decaying and melting and he couldn't stop watching it. He couldn't stop it. He didn't want to stop it. She wasn't his sister anymore. But she was. And then she was gone. And Scott was gone. And there was just blood and puss and-- and--

His stomach twisted, and he dropped to his knees, dry-heaving. He could feel the acid burning his throat but nothing came out. He could see her. Her skin white and peeling, the flesh hanging from her cheek where he'd shot her. He could smell it. The smoke when the Book caught on fire. When he threw it in the fire. Blood and bile and burning skin. He could see her twitching and rotting disintegrating coming apart until there nothing left, it was all his fault. Her blood splashed on him. He could see it staining him, his hands, his clothes, taste it, it'd never come off--

Why them? What did they do? What did he do?

Why did he deserve this?

These knights... If they'd been keeping tabs on him, if they'd been watching him... Why didn't they stop him?! Why didn't they do something back when it mattered? Why did it have to be him? Who was he?

The idiot who got his friends killed and chopped up his own girlfriend with a chainsaw and-- A broken sob ripped itself from his throat as he dug his fingers into his hair.

How did anyone expect him to save the world when he couldn't even save them?

He couldn't save anyone. He could barely save himself.

He couldn't do this.

He just wanted to go home.

He wanted his friends back.

He wanted his life back.

P.T. wasn't still outside the door when he finally opened it, which meant there was no one to comment on his red eyes and the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He didn't know his way around, but he didn't really care at the moment.

He needed something to do.

Ever since the cabin, he hadn't had much opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. There'd always been something more immediate to deal with. Even in the quiet moments in Arthur's castle, he'd been too busy planning his next moves to think about what had happened before.

His little breakdown had just reinforced what he'd already known: he couldn't give himself time to think about it. No thinking about the past until... until he was--Until he was home. Then he could cry it out all he wanted.

Dad would tell him to stop crying and man-up.

Ash had no idea where P.T. would've gone, no idea how to find her, or even out to get out of here. He remembered some of the turns they'd taken, but there'd been plenty of intersections to confuse him. What kind of place didn't have maps? Or marks? Or literally anything to distinguish where you were?

It didn't stop him from trying to follow the hallway, taking the turns he was pretty sure he'd used to get here, checking the doors he passed. Most were locked and stayed unresponsive when he tried the scanner. A few opened to empty rooms, other to suites similar to his. Nothing interesting.

Nothing to tell him anything about these... knights or why they'd never helped when it mattered.

He pressed had hand against another scanner, ready to pull it away almost as quick and keep going when it beeped.

Ash stopped, backtracking a step as the door opened.

"Well, that's something you see everyday." It didn't make it any more expected. With all this high-tech, sci-fi bullshit, he expected the theme to reach into every part of the building. Finding a rather ordinary, low-tech filing room was just... weird.

He walked in, eyes running across the first rows of cabinets. They were labeled. In a way that was very unhelpful.

Really, he'd seen some bullshit origination at S-mart, but what the ever loving fuck did '1A-2M' mean?

Ash pulled the file draw open and tugged the first folder out. Balancing it on his arm, he opened it.

Seeing his own birth certificate gave him a second's pause. He paged through the rest of the file, lips pressing into a thin line the further he got. It wasn't like he hadn't figured out these Knights had been stalking him, but God, this was record of his whole life. Report cards and school photos. They had a copy of the DnD character sheet he made when he was ten, what use was there in that?

Pages from the Kenward County High School newspaper and yearbook, pictures of him in music club and vo-tech. His Michigan State acceptance letter. A cut out article from Lakeside News from when he and Chet had crashed into the 'Welcome to Elkgrove' sign.

The next pages were photos. Candid ones. Him at work, him at classes, him with Linda, Chet, Scotty, Shelly... Cheryl. He stopped on one of the picture of him and Cheryl. He'd never seen it before but there was something about it...

The outfit she was wearing or something. It was clearly taken where she could see who was taking the photo. And he vaguely remembered the position-she was sitting on him as he laid in the grass and it--

Shelly had taken this. The realization hit him hard enough that he almost dropped the folder. It'd never seen it because she'd taken it the day they went to the cabin. They'd been goofing around after unloading their bags, and she'd gotten her camera out.

Someone must've found the it and developed the film.

The Knights or... or the cops? It wasn't like they'd told anyone exactly where the cabin they were going to was, but Scotty had found out about it from someone. 'Course that someone had also said the place would be empty because the professor and the wife weren't supposed to be back from England for another month. Guess no one had accounted for him coming back early.

Sooner or later, somebody would've reported them missing. Or notice the bridge was out or something.

What would have looked like? Annie had jumped to conclusions, but he'd been there, drenched in blood, and he had shot at them. He probably would've thought the worst of himself too.

What if they thought he killed them? It was his hand that drove the knife into Annie's back. He's the one who chopped up Linda and Ed. He'd attacked Jake. He'd shot Bobby-Jo. He'd helped Scott bury Shelly. Cheryl and Scott's blood was everywhere in the cabin, even their bodies were gone.

His hands shook as he freed the photo from its protective sleeve. What if he got home and everybody thought he murdered them? What if Dad believed he did? He'd just figured he'd get back before anyone else found out about what happened and he could explain, but what if he couldn't?

No.

No. Dad would believe him. He'd help him. They might not have the best relationship, but Dad wouldn't believe he could do that. Not to them. Not to Cheryl. If Dad told them it was demons, they'd believe him. 'Cause Dad might not be the most upstanding person in town, but he didn't lie. He wouldn't lie to protect him, and they'd all know it.

And everything would be fine.

It'd all be fine.