Chapter Text
He could feel it, The-Thing-That-Is-Not-Paul, toying with him inside his head. A slow takeover, his self suppressed so that That-Which-Is-Not-Paul could puppet his body in time with the tune in his mind that was gradually growing stronger with each dying pump of Paul’s heart.
Paul could feel it watching him, in the part of his brain that was becoming aware of the other members of the Hive. He could feel them too, and how empty they were. He was frightened. Paul knew how quickly the others had been taken over; could see the memories from the Hive in his mind’s eye. Each citizen of Hatchetfield taken over and hollowed out, now echoed along their connection.
And It-Is-Not-Paul was holding back.
It was entertained, watching him try to resist the infection. Teasing him with control even as it pushed its own words through his mouth.
“No!” Paul broke through. Not-Paul stretched Paul’s mouth into a malicious grin, mocking him as it repeated his words. And the Hive sang around them.
The music lulled. Paul could feel the alien mind focus on him, probing into Paul’s deepest memories and fears. Paul’s life was flashing before his eyes and it was clear Not-Paul didn’t think much of what it saw. A query floated across their connection- why did Paul resist? How could he want to hold onto this life so tightly when- “~I’ve never been happy.”
Not-Paul- a click, a shift in his brain and Paul knew- Pokotho offered him a way out. Pokotho whispered his deal in Paul’s weakened brain. Paul’s life was boring- safe, but dull. No great despair or tragedies in Paul’s life, but no joy either. Paul existed in a life that happened around him and never a part of him.
Pokotho could fix that, could fix Paul. Paul, who never quite fit right with everyone else. Paul, who never could figure out the right thing to say or do- who struggled to pick up the cues left by the people around him. With Pokotho, Paul would never have that problem again. Under Pokotho’s guidance, as part of his Hive, Paul would always know what to say or do or act in every situation, every time. And everyone else would understand Paul too.
Except, Paul didn’t think he wanted to be fixed.
Everything comes with some sacrifices, Pokotho reminded him. Giving himself to the Hive was such a small price to pay for everything Pokotho could give him in return.
No, Paul knew he didn’t want to be fixed. He wasn’t broken. Not yet.
Paul felt Pokotho’s rage as its grip on Paul’s mind tightened. The demongodLordinBlack monster was furious but it felt so cold. How could Paul know what he wanted? Paul’s brain never worked right anyways, Pokotho told him, a silken truth it forced on him. It was clear to Pokotho that Paul had never really known himself at all. And if Paul didn’t know himself, then how could he know that he would “Hate!” joining the Hive?
If he would just give it a chance he could see how wrong he was. If he just wasn’t too stubborn to try new things!
Paul wasn’t convinced.
But the Hive was buzzing now. They knew he was close, that he didn’t have long left. And Paul could feel Pokotho too, receding from the forefront of Paul’s mind to conduct its chorus.
He had been backed into the meteor. Ground zero of Pokotho’s infection. Right where he needed to be.
Paul could feel the words to the song tumble from his lips before he could even register what he was singing. The electric blue of the Hive was humming through him now. He knew them all and they knew him and they were Pokotho. Pokotho, who was content to allow Paul this last resistance because they all knew it was too late. It was futile. Paul was dead and theirs and all that was left was for Paul to catch up to that fact and admit it.
But he knew. Even before he pulled the grenade off the bandolier he knew. He knew the moment he left Emma at the wreckage of the helicopter that he would never see her again. He knew when he stepped foot into the Starlight Theatre he wouldn’t come out alive. The best he could do would be to bring them all down with him.
He was scared, and he was alone.
The Hive reached for him, their pull in his mind tearing him apart as they tried to draw him closer. They were his friends, he could join them and be happy! Except in every way they weren’t. That wasn’t Bill, or Mr. Davidson, or even Ted. Paul could feel it now, as plainly as he could sense himself. His friends, his real friends, were gone. Nothing remained of them in their bodies. Each member was just Pokotho, reflected upon itself thousands and thousands of times, playing at being a person just enough to move the story along like dolls.
Like he would be soon, if this didn’t work.
If it was his last chance to say it…
His last chance to be him…
“I don’t like musicals!”
He pulled the pin.
The Hive screamed.
Paul faded to black.
The track skipped.