Work Text:
Rage was having a wonderful dream. It was back home, the Fade's soothingly twisted, shifting structures floating all around it in their patternless dance. In the distance, the great black blob hovered, providing the misleading anchor so many mortals insisted on following whenever they wound up in Rage's demesne, stumbling ever deeper and coming ever closer, frustration wafting off them in delicious wisps. Just now, one such wayward snack was making its way to where Rage lay in wait. It was hot, with an enticingly incandescent red center which, Rage knew from experience, would flare to life from the mildest provocation on Rage's part. It would be crunchy on the outside, Rage mused, and hot and gooey and just a little spicy once you bit into it.
Rage had been quite hungry. It could not remember why it was so hungry, because most of the time, it did not lack in meals, but something had happened — it could not exactly recall what — and now the gnawing pangs were its constant companions. Rage did not like Hunger very much — it would talk your tendrils off with its endless lists of mortal recipes, and it was greedy about sharing sustenance... But none of that was relevant for the moment, since the delicious red glowing orb was coming closer, almost within reach now...
"Did you eat the last of my Almond Crunch?!"
Rage sputtered awake. The meatsack it occupied reacted as it always did to surprise — with an accelerated thumping on the inside, and a cold sheen of moisture on the outside. It was vile. Rage had learned that forcing it to suck in air and then expelling it repetitively through the two holes in the middle of its face seemed to get the accursed meatsack under control. It did so now.
The rectangular hole that led out of Rage's box — Room, Rage reminded itself — excreted a pink blob. The blob went by Tony.
Rage bared its teeth. "Good morning," it offered, even though it had grave doubts as to the veracity of that statement.
The reason behind Tony's existence in Rage's new life was not a matter of choice on Rage's part. Tony was brought on by necessity. Rage had been on passably good terms with Necessity. (Sure, Necessity whined a lot, but of all of its cousins, Rage rather enjoyed its company — much like one enjoys biting the head off an unsuspecting pigeon. Also, Necessity was very good at sharing.)
It did not take Rage very long to realize that its new world was even more miserable than it had originally thought. The local meatsacks had arranged themselves into a complicated and, in Rage's opinion, stunningly stupid configuration, which rotated around something called "Money." "Money" was, as far as Rage could tell, not something that actually existed. Not, say, like Rage itself existed, or Hunger, or Boredom. Or even Valor, insufferable ponce that it was. No. Money was the way in which the meatsacks kept track of Time. Rage was still a little hazy on Time. It was, from what it could tell, broken into self-similar chunks, and then assigned a value in Money, though it was beyond Rage's understanding why some meatsacks' Time accrued more Money than that of other meatsacks. As far as Rage could tell, they all lived equally short, pitiful lives before their allotted meatsack began to fall apart, so if there was a logic to why some meatsacks obtained more Money for their Time than others, it was lost on Rage entirely.
They called it "Earning a Living," and from this Rage had drawn the only logical conclusion: a meatsack's right to exist had to be purchased.
Among other indignities, a meatsack required shelter, otherwise it would freeze. Shelter was traded for Money. It was called Paying Rent. Rage learned that trading the Time it spent baring its teeth at meatsacks and outfitting them with the black sludge they all guzzled did not earn Rage enough to secure shelter without sharing it with other meatsacks, who also had traded their Time for Money, and were also in need of a place to hide when they weren't... well. Earning a Living.
Which is how Rage came to share a box with Tony.
Tony, the blob who now gangled in the doorway, was not, as far as meatsacks went, the worst of them. Most of the time, it kept to itself and did not ask Rage questions. Rage wasn't sure when it slept — when it was not busy Earning a Living, it was hiding in its own box and staring at something called Computer, which Rage had decided was something similar to Phone (Rage had learned that neither Phone nor Computer were considered Persons), except that it was larger. Sometimes, Tony smashed its appendages on a small black frame while giving off pleasant effluvia that were familiar to Rage, and which Rage had learned to glean surreptitiously when the hunger pangs had gotten especially bothersome. The meatsack appeared none the wiser. At other times, it would watch other meatsacks grind together and make alarming noises, while it tugged at another appendage with glassy-eyed concentration. This, Rage found less useful. Rage had observed that its own meatsack did not come equipped with such an appendage — a fact for which Rage experienced something like Gratitude (simpering numpty, that one, but what can you do).
In any case, after some thought, Rage had worked out a way to discourage Tony's behavior. It had discovered that the bottom of their box — the very large one in which their smaller arrangement of boxes was contained — housed a demesne called Butcher. Rage would then go down to Butcher, and purchase a small dead non-Person feathery meatsack, haul it back, and dismember it in the part of their box called Kitchen. It would time this activity perfectly, and something about the association of dismemberment with Tony's tugging activities was objectionable to the blob, because it quickly learned to close its door. Oh, it had tried to protest initially — but Rage had bared its teeth, and stated that it was "Just Cooking Dinner. And would it like Potatoes or Broccoli with that?" (Rage found itself sort of liking Broccoli).
After that, Tony had kept its activities to its own demesne.
Rage was becoming wily.
Now, the meatsack called Tony was looming in the doorway, and exuding delicious tendrils that Rage quickly absorbed with that part of itself that was most like them.
"My Almond Crunch," Tony repeated and simmered with... well, rage, Rage supposed.
"I think it was probably Linda," Rage lied. It bared its teeth. "I don't like Almond Crunch."
"Yeah, well... I pay money for that shit, you know?" But Tony had quieted down, and Rage felt vague disappointment that there would be nothing else to glean for the moment.
It watched the meatsack amble off to commune with Computer. Once the door to its box was closed, Rage got dressed and tried to arrange the fibers growing out of its top into something that did not resemble a Fearling. It did not succeed, so it pulled on a hat.
Rage pondered what to do with itself. It had A Day Off. It left the small box, locking the door behind it, then proceeded outside of the large box, and across the Death Trap — the thing the local meatsacks called Street. Streets, Rage had learned, were dangerous, but rewarding. Sometimes, when a Death Trap had accumulated enough of the wheeled boxes the locals called Cars, and everything came to a standstill, Rage could stand on the Curb and feed.
It walked its meatsack around the large square space called Park. Meatsacks, Rage had discovered, needed to be exercised on occasion, otherwise their backs would start hurting. After it deemed the exercise sufficient, it found a bench, and sat. The winged meatsacks — Pigeons, Rage thought with relish — waddled closer.
Rage extracted the bag of Almond Crunch from its pocket. "Here, birdy birdy. Look who has a snack for you!" Rage crooned. It threw a small handful into the throng. Tendrils of itself rose from the mass of feathers and wings, and Rage inhaled deeply.
The big yellow disk shone warmly on Rage's container, and the breeze from the nearby Business District carried tendrils of Despair.
Rage bared its teeth and squinted into the light. It was beginning to acclimate.