Work Text
Joe is deep in the archives, not trying to avoid Cleo, but certainly sat out of the way of her. Yesterday's revelation was troubling. You see, Joe has a little something called morals, and he thought that Cleo had them too. But evidently not.
And while Joe has maintained something close to a friendship with monsters before. He’s just a little blindsided that Cleo is one of them. He thought that he knew her, and he thought that she would have told him about supernatural experiences, considering their jobs.
So while her mutilating people is something he takes issue with, the lack of trust hurts him far more. Especially considering he’s never been her victim.
Joe is reading the first sentence of random statements into his phone and seeing if they play back. This is how he finds the real stuff in this sea of untrue stories. Not that all statements aren’t True on some level.
Many things exist in a state between “Real“ and ”Fake“ or ”Imagined.“ In fact, Imagined is the trickiest type of thing. Because while you do experience it, it’s not ”Real“ in a tangible manner.
But Joe’s always believed strongly in the intangible, and that belief has served him well in his job at the institute.
”Statement of Harris E. Regarding a set of stolen clothes.“ Joe reads out, and his phone parrots his voice back clearly. He sets this statement aside, marking it with a red pen as ”Unproven“
That’s his polite way of saying fake. He’s sympathetic to whoever made it, but it hasn’t reached the level of being ”Real“ that constitutes him giving it a proper recording. He’d like to give it the time of day, but there are actual monsters in the world and he can’t pursue every lead.
Actual monsters like the woman who Joe can hear open the door of the archives to start her shift as his assistant. Now Joe doesn’t actually want to avoid his best friend Cleo, but he’s not sure if the person making their way through the walls of filing cabinets is the same person he met and grew to love all those years ago.
There’s been plenty of statements where people get replaced, and not even the ones closest to them know. Joe would still feel guilty if that’s what happened and he didn’t notice, but he’d understand that Cleo is gone. And that the person who kidnaps and tortures people in their closest isn’t really her.
But a part of Joe that he doesn’t want to acknowledge knows that that’s her. That’s the same Cleo he’s always known. That their creativity and artistic skills have led them down some twisted road. That she’s never been a particularly kind person.
Joe doesn’t want to know certain things. Which is probably not a great trait for an archivist to have. But he doesn’t care, this job doesn’t matter to him as much as the people in his life do.
”Hi Joe.“ Cleo says, rounding a corner to corner Joe. Maybe he shouldn’t have set up in a dead end.
”Cleo. How are you?“
”Not too bad today, how about you, Joe?“
”Oh you know, could be better, could be worse.“ Joe replies. He glances around. Yep, Still a dead end.
”That's good. Just hiding here for fun or are you avoiding me?“
”Uh. Well,“ Yes. Joe is avoiding them because he’s still not sure how he feels that they kept this from him. There was a betrayal here. ”I was just looking over the statements here, we don’t go to this side of the archives very often. Just checking if any of them need to be recorded.“
Which was true, but also a lie. It’s unfortunate that things are always more than one thing. That real and fake and lies and truth can coexist in the same scenario. That two people can experience things as complete opposites and both be right.
That Cleo is a monster who kidnaps and mutilates people in the name of art. And that this is the same Cleo that Joe’s always known. That the woman in front of him is his closest confidant, and the person he trusts most in this world.
”Cool cool. Avoiding me then.“
”I’m not trying to,“ Joe protests. Trailing off slightly guiltily with the lie rolling off of his tongue. He doesn’t like lying, and this one has very little truth behind it.
”Really? That’s what you’re going with? Starting with a lie, trying to get even with me for mine? Cause I'll argue I never lied to you. You never asked if I kidnap people.“ Which, fair point. Joe didn’t. He made an assumption and that’s on him.
”One wouldn’t think it’s that big of an ask.“ Joe turns back to his pile of statements. There is work to be done, not that it matters in the face of his best friend.
”Come on, Joe. Are we going to talk this out like adults, or just sulk alone in a corner.“ Cleo tauntingly inquires. And to be completely honest, Joe did want to sulk for a bit longer. But Cleo, as always, is right. And Joe has to face her and her evil deeds.
Perhaps that is too harsh a judgment. Evil. Joe knows that Evil doesn’t exist, there’s no absolute wrong or right, just situations to take one at a time. But kidnapping and mutilation would be really hard to justify.
”Let's take an early lunch, and go discus, alright?“ Cleo asks, holding out her hand to pull Joe from the floor.
”It’s not nearly lunch time.“ He protests, it’s not a good argument, he knows.
”Right. So we’re not taking our lunch breaks, and let's call this a staff meeting and charge the company for the cafe.“
”Fine, but only if we go to the far cafe.“ Joe agrees. Asking for the further cafe was an olive branch. Joe wants it to be okay between them. She claims that the barista at the nearest has it out for her, but Joe likes the scones better at the closer one.
-
Taking their usual lunch spots a few hours earlier than normal, Cleo gets comfortable in the chair. Waiting for Joe to either start the conversation, or go order for them.
Joe knows how this goes. This isn’t the first serious conversation between them to happen here. He orders first; hot chocolate and a earl grey tea. Ham and cheese sandwich and a blueberry scone.
He takes his seat across from Cleo, takes his jacket off and carefully drapes it across the chair. Joe doesn’t want to have this conversation, but there’s a lot of things that he doesn’t want to do that he does. That’s how being a person works.
”So.“ Cleo asks, getting impatient with Joe’s deliberate delayals. She starts laying to him, all the people he’s hurt with his growing supernatural powers. The lack of accountability that he’s faced.
”Do you really think you’re that much better than me? That you haven’t caused equivalent harm?“
Joe isn’t often speechless. And he disagrees on principle of comparing people’s hurts, everyone can take different amounts and no one's trauma is more or less significant. But Joe has caused harm.
To a lot more people than Cleo has. She maybe hurts two or three people per year. But Joe takes statements from four or five people per month. He stalks their nightmares and drinks their horror.
Sure he has the defence of not starting it on purpose. But he’s never tried to stop. He knows that he can’t leave his position normally, however there must be a way. Nothing is truly inescapable, and if there was no real way then isn’t it the moral thing to just let himself starve?
What is a moral when it comes down to the matter of self preservation? Isn’t everyone just an animal trying to survive?
Joe takes a sip of his tea. He doesn’t want to agree with her. Because he likes his illusion of morality. It’s a pleasant framework to live in. ”I suppose you’re not wrong.“
”And that’s halfway to being right.“
”Not quite, but I can't fully disagree.“
”Because I’m not wrong.“
”Well. I think there are degrees of wrongness that you do engage in. But I can’t argue that I’m completely innocent. I guess I really don’t have any moral high ground to stand on here.“
”No, you don’t. And I would appreciate you not looking down on me from it. Besides, some of my art pieces were willing, do you know how many people out there just want to be pretty? To be admired and seen?“
”You get volunteers?“
”Of course, who doesn’t want to be a work of art?“
”I suppose that makes sense, how do people know how to find you?“
”How do people find out about the institute? We don’t advertise, we don’t have much presence, but they’re drawn here when needed.“ Cleo answers. It’s not the best answer, but really, there’s no ‘real’ right answer when it comes to these supernatural occurrences. It’s a very vibes based system of horrors they work with.
Joe sits with that answer, and sits with his considerations. Does he need to do more? What is his responsibility as a human being in this situation? Is he still human?
”So do you want to come and see it in action?“ Cleo asks. And on one hand of course he wants to know, but on the other maybe it’s better to let this stay a mystery.
But ignorance cannot help him in this scenario, a threshold was crossed a long time ago, and Joe’s just been in denial. He liked the denial, but it wasn’t helping anyone but himself.
”Sure,“ Joe replies, an attempt at nonchalance was made, not an effective one.
-
Joe’s been to Cleo’s house a thousand times before, and he’s never seen a human corpse here. Not that they’re corpses, statues Cleo insists he call them. Besides, apparently they’re not even dead; which might be worse than keeping dead bodies.
”Can I demonstrate on you?“ Cleo looks Joe dead in the eye, a neutral smile on her face but he can see the gleam of a predator in her posture.
”Of course,“ In for a penny in for a pound. Cleo’s face sharpens as she takes his hand, stretching his arm forth across the table. She studies him as an object. And Joe’s been in a few situations like this, but never by choice.
He’s faced monsters, he’s outwitted and outplayed them. Joe’s never volunteered to be the canvass that the fear is painted on. His role has always been as a witness.
”Great!“ Cleo grins, ”I’ve always pondered what i would do to you if i got the chance, you have such a great shape already.“
”Can I make requests?“
”Of course, consider this a commission piece. I’ll work with your specifications.“
”Great, great. I really like having hands. Opposable thumbs are fantastic, I don't know what I would do without them really.“
Cleo laughs, ”Of course Joe. I won’t go avant-garde with you. I don’t know that I’d want to change your silhouette. I do enjoy the structure that the human skeleton gives. I like twisting it, but it’s the expectation that comes from a human shape that lets the deviance from it shine, you know?“
”So what are you thinking? And can I get a sample first? Before committing myself to your whims?“
”Well it won’t be much of a surprise if I show you what I’m going to do. But for you Joe, I’ll agree.“
”Thanks,“ Joe tries to smile, but as Cleo lays out her instruments of torment, of artistic glory and human pain. He’s nervous.
Joe wants to think that Cleo won’t hurt him. But he also wants to think of himself as a good man. As a moral human. But he is neither, and at least he’s not alone in that. At least he has a monster by his side to confide in.
Any normal person should have abandoned Joe when they found out he ate the nightmares of the innocent. But Cleo was likely a monster before that.
”So,“ Cleo starts, pulling a ream of blue felt from her storage closet. ”I want to do something with puppetry.“
”To represent me falling to the whims of higher powers?“ Joe asks.
”And I think you have the soul of a Muppet. Both of those.“
Joe nods. Muppet is a soft comparison to all the things he could be accused of.
”I’m going to start with a small fabric swatch, and then I’ll let you look at it. Okay?“ Cleo asks. She doesn’t wait for a response before pushing his head back, and placing her hand on her Statuary book.
Joe feels his limbs abandon him, a cold numbness creeps up his extremities, leaving him bereft of autonomy. He already feels like a puppet.
Cleo takes a measuring tape, and stretches it around his arm. They mark down numbers, and make a few more measurements. Before she pulls out a scalpel, and makes some small marking cuts. Just testing the waters, dipping her knife into flesh.
The metal is cold and Joe’s arm feels heavy, as blood reaches up to the precipice of the mark, he can feel the warmth of the burgeoning blood spill over. The contrast between the metal and blood feels familiar in ways that he doesn’t like to recall.
”I hope this doesn’t hurt you too much, but these things have to be done, you know how it is, Joe. Don’t you?“ He does.
Cleo wraps a measuring tape around his arm again, a few inches down from his wrist. He can see his veins protest the tight wrapping of the tape. Cleo aligns it carefully, before taking a larger knife to it.
This is no small scalpel made for precise cuts. This is an outdoor knife; the kind you skin a deer with. He’s pretty sure he knows where this is going. Cleo lines her blade with the tightly wrapped tape. On the inner edge of Joe’s arm, and the inner edge of the tape; the one further away from his vulnerable wrists.
Cleo gives Joe a reassuring glance, or at least he thinks it’s meant to be reassuring. The carnivorous glint in her eyes as she readies for bloodshed aren’t the most comforting. But at least he knows that this is the same Cleo he’s always had.
She finally presses the blade down. Joe thought the anticipation would be worse than the cut but it wasn’t. A cascade of red floods her worktable, the river threatens to stain the fabrics piled up in the corner.
A part of Joe’s mind shuts off. He hoped that if it started to fail it would be the pain receptors, but he’s never had that luck. Flashes of colour bloom across his eyes, but he can still make out the knife sawing through his arm. He can still feel Cleo manipulate his arm, twisting it to cut all the way around the bone, but not through it.
If he could see, truly See what's going on, he could spot muscle detaching from bone, as Cleo uses the knife to dig under the flesh. Removing the next few inches of skin all around his arm. The motions almost remind him of peeling a carrot, instead of just the skin, if you knifed it down to the core.
Joe tries to stay present through it, but by the time the knife clatters against the stained wooden table, he feels a good bit of flesh lighter. The white of bone gleans in the brightly lit room. The red strands of muscle are still hanging on like the pith of an orange peel.
Cleo’s hands are red, and the table is red, and the dancing lights across Joe’s eyes are red as well. He trusts her artistic vision, but red’s not quite his colour. He prefers more bluey-greens. A nice teal or a vibrant chroma key.
Joe hopes that this is all going well. His mind is blurred with the heat of the blood and the cool air touching his bone. He’s not felt a breeze on his bones before, in fact this procedure is letting Joe learn a lot about his body.
The limits on what he can handle, and a first hand demonstration of how those veins and tendons look when they’re being torn out. You don’t get an education like that in many places.
He’s musing on how the connection points of his radius and ulna bones must look like. Cleo’s left his elbow and wrist covered up so he can’t see them. Joe’s taken his joints for granted. He’s taken his skin for granted. Truly, losing something is a fine way of realising just how under appreciated something was.
Cleo picks up her knife again. Joe couldn’t move his eyes, he couldn’t see what she was doing, but her blade is approaching his arm. There’s not much flesh left to cut through, and Joe specifically requested to keep his arms. So he really hopes that she’s not about to cut through those two bones.
She pokes between the bones, clearing out the slight sinew that remained on them. Then she puts her knife back and takes a cloth to dry the bones, she has to keep re-wiping the edges as more blood pours out.
Next she takes a pair of tweezers and some thread. Cleo pokes around in his remaining wrist-flesh, and pulls a tendon a bit further out. Joe’s hand twitches as his internal strings are pulled, and Cleo ties the thread to it.
She ties more string to each and every tendon and vein, all the little ropes the body uses to move and live, extended with rope, then tied back together to the matching string up near his elbow.
All the useful veins are no more than yarn, and tendons twine. Cleo pulls each string and watches how Joe’s hand dances. She gives a slight tsk, and cuts two strings, retying them to the other. She approves of the way Joe’s hand moves after that.