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Leonardo DaVinci once said that the height of a man's success is gauged by his self-mastery, and that one would never have a greater or lesser dominion over anything than over themselves. Likewise, Sergeant Nash, in 1974 mixed-appraisal horror movie Black Christmas, also stated that one's calling comes from "inside the house".
(Or something. Pretty sure he said that.)
The self is a powerful entity, in that one never truly understands what happens outside of it. One cannot exist outside of their own head, nor put their thoughts into an exernal, neutral context. Judgement will always be clouded. Your friends will always be skinnier than you. This is simply the nature of sentience. From the moment an individual develops anything beyond basic animal instinct, they are an individual. Their individuality exists within the context of themselves. It is entirely impossible to bring them out into the void of the unknown to float around and attempt to look at themselves critically, without any sort of psychological help, therapy, or an evil organisation wiping their identity from their brain.
Speaking of which, the entity formerly known as "The Brain" is having a great time floating around in the void of the unknown and not looking at himself critically.
With the need to think removed, life becomes infinitely cosier. It's not the ability to think, that he can't think - he can, and he does regularly, but it never has to be about anything important. Getting ready in time for the 11:52 Schmeerskahöven requires thought, of course, and some element of planning in the form of waking up in time. Waking up, however, happens very naturally in his little hat house, for which he has been provided, and logically leads into doing all the other little activities throughout the day. It's all laid out very conveniently, like a shape sorter that, by its very nature, gives far too many context clues about which hole the little blocks go in.
The Top Hat does all of the hard work, and all he has to do is follow. What has he ever led, anyway?
There is something about authority that Pork Pie finds deeply troubling, that he prefers not to think about. He has never questioned the Top Hat, but the thought of leading makes him uncomfortable. Gives him some sort of gut feeling that he can't explain. And yet, he strives to be the best he can, excel above all in... whatever he can. Is that selfish? He wants to do a good job, as do all Hats. Perhaps the motivation behind the act matters less, he tells himself, as the end result will be the same regardless. He respects the Schmeerskahöven, and the Top Hat, and stays out of everyone's way, and in turn they will do the same for him.
Pork Pie finds nothing wrong with this lifestyle, not even the fear.
Pork Pie is happy.
Being unhappy is unthinkable.
~*~
Before Brain knew he was inherently unhappy, he had assumed the source of his malcontent came from elsewhere.
As it is far more difficult to look critically at a problem when it is within oneself, it is also far easier to ignore it or blame it on other people. As Pork Pie is free to retreat to his Hat House once his Hat Activities have been fulfilled, so too, can Brain retreat to his... brain, perhaps, whenever he no longer feels like engaging with the problem.
This particular problem comes in the form of some misshapen oaf with big hands and big teeth, and the way that he babbles incessantly while Brain is trying to focus on the important things.
The world is Brain's whale, as it were. He tells himself that things will be put to rights when he has it. All the little problems that the Earth has will be fixed, because of course he can do that. He doesn't question how he can do that, but tells himself that his time is better suited to figuring out how to take the world in the first place. He can sort the rest once he has it. He knows Rome wasn't built in a day.
Still, he's wondering if Rome was built quite as slowly as this. As the city stays unkempt, cauloseams half finished, so too, does Brain's malcontent grow.
Pinky takes a bite out of some wretched thing he's holding and smacks his lips in a way that feels deliberate.
"What'cha doing, Brain?"
He's revolting. He's obnoxious. Brain thinks, sometimes, about Pinky laying too close to him, cheese breath hot on his skin, awful sweaty hands on his midsection, and it unsettles him in a way that's almost gratutious. It crawls. He wants to pull it out.
He doesn't even like cheese.
"My title is The Brain." he says, instead. "I am constructing a magnet that will alter the rotational pull of the Earth, thus allowing previously-unforseen meteors and other space debris to crash into it."
At least Snowball was an intellectual equal. This guy doesn't seem to understand half of what he just said.
"Well, Mr Brainy-the-Brain--" That is definitely not Brain's name. "I mean, wouldn't that just make everything explode? S'not much--"
Brain cuts him off.
"In the event of noncompliance, sure. In return for the heads of state to turn over their powers to me, I shall reverse the effects and steer the planet away from danger." Or at least, he would, if Pinky would stop talking at him long enough to do it.
"What if you can't?"
That makes Brain stop entirely, a wave of rage and revulsion and something hitting his body.
"What if I can't what."
Like Pinky cares. He takes another bite, and speaks with his mouth full like the unsightly fucking cretin that he is.
"Wha'if you can't stop it?" Carn't, not cahn't. Hideous. "Or they say no, and-- n' then everything does a big kamboomyboom!" He chuckles. "Narf. But no, I was gonna say, Brain, not much point ruling a world that's exploded."
"My--" Actually, he has better things to worry about than his title. "Narf?"
"Narf." says Pinky, or narfs it, like they're having a conversation. Brain feels his eye twitch.
"What is narf." he says. "Do you know that at least?? Can you tell me that?"
"Well o'course I do, Brain!" says Pinky, entirely gleeful, and then almost cartoonishly puts his hand to his chin, like he's thinking. "It's um. Well it's. Yknow, Brain, it's like poit, or troz, or--"
"None of those mean anything--"
"They mean everything, Brain!" Pinky claps his hands, thinking seemingly forgotten. "Narf is whatever you want it to be! Narf!"
Brain picks up his chalk again. Continues his blueprint. What a fucking idiot, he thinks.
"So it means nothing. Got it."
~*~
The Land of Hats comes with its own unique set of rules.
This is fine for Pork Pie. He has always been good at following rules, ever since he was-- well, he's never actually been anything else. He has been Pork Pie since he was designated into creation by the Top Hat. But there's something in him that makes him good at it, anyway.
His Hatoscope describes the Pork Pie Hat as "logical, concise, and able to follow directions", as per What Your Hat May Say About You, Austrian Feather, HY2. One's Hat, as Ms Feather speculates, is inextricable from one's Self, inherently complimentary to the wearer. The hat says all that needs to be said about you. The hat is you.
One such of these rules is that the Self must act according to a maxim by which one can, at the same time, will that it should represent one's Hat. As the Hat is inextricable and complimentary to one's Self, so too, must the Self act in a way that suits and honours the Hat, and what the Hat stands for.
Does that make sense? Pork Pie would agree that it does, by virtue that not understanding that might mean that he is not a particularly good Hat at all.
As this is the standard for the relationship betwee the Self and the Hat, it makes sense that the residents of the Land would keep to a more solitary lifestyle. Nobody understands the Self better than the Hat, and the guidelines that the Hat has set out. While it is imperitive to be polite and welcoming to one's fellow Hats (doffs his Hat in acquiescence, good morning to you too, sir) it is equally imperitave to listen to one's Hat first and foremost. To keep other's at arm's length, or any outside influence that may wish to change the Self, to sway them away from upstanding Hat behaviour.
The Top Hat, of course, is an exception to this, but the Top Hat decides what represents the Hat in the first place. It is a very careful science, which is why they put someone incredibly clever like the Top Hat in charge of it. Thank goodness Pork Pie doesn't have to worry about that.
He is a little more worried when he first sees the mysterious stranger at the Schmeerskahöven that morning, and the worry only amplifies as they bound towards him immediately.
"Oh, Brain! Brain, there you are! Did you see the lovely hat I have? And the lovely hat house I live in?"
He cackles, in a way that Pork Pie finds irritating. He can't place why.
"Oh, I am going to like it here, Brain."
It occurs to Pork Pie that they're talking to him. Brain? He's not sure what a Brain is. He wrinkles his nose.
"Do I know you from somewhere, Sir?"
This new, oddly aggravating Hat looks shocked.
"Wh-- of course you know me, Brain--"
"Why do you keep calling me Brain?" What does that mean? Can he tell him that, at least? "My name is Pork Pie, as you can see by my hat, and you must be--"
He takes in the stranger's face. It fills him with some unease he can't quite place, and doesn't want to, but at least the Hat, as always, is something obvious, easily read. At least something is. Such a reliable indicator for someone's personality.
"Yes, you must be Fez." Pork Pie tips his hat. "Good day, Fez."
"Oh, I get it." says Fez. "We're undercover."
Pork Pie isn't sure what the Hatoscope says about Fezes, but he's pretty sure it's not this. Whatever it is. The other Hats are so clear, and safe, and Fez isn't. He's dizzyingly uncomfortable, in a way that pulls from the recesses of Pork Pie's gut. All of his instincts are telling him this is dangerous.
It's almost gratutious, it crawls, he wants to pull it out--
The bell sounds.
"Morning exercises!" bellows Straw Boater, in the way that he does for every Schmeerskahöven. "Chop chop!" He's always had an eye on Pork Pie, which he assumes is down to his place in the Hatriarchy as a Short, Wide Brim Semi-Formal Variety.
At least the Schmeerskahöven is safe.
He follows Straw Boater, as a Pork Pie is wont to do.
~*~
Scientists are of the professional opinion that there is no other sentient life within the galaxy, and anywhere that may have it is so far removed from the Earth that it makes travel incredibly difficult.
To that end, it's probably a miracle that Brain was born in the one place where he would have anyone to rule over at all. (Slightly less convenient that he was born as one of the most insignificant creatures there, but, in the words of William Shakespeare, aye, there's the rub.)
(Or it might have been Hamlet himself, actually. Is Hamlet a real person? He's never been entirely sure.)
Perhaps he was predestined for it. There are a vast number of laboratory mice in the United States. He can only assume there are that many in other countries, too. (Surprisingly, not a lot in the United Kingdom, which doesn't offer any explanation for certain lab-mice with inexplicable British accents that he might know.) Even in this country, he is part of a homogenous mass. Those like him are a dime a dozen. While he may possess as much sentience as the average person-- he's not sure how many other mice do, actually. There are definitely mice who aren't on his wavelength, but most of them he's been able to communicate with just fine. Even rats, for all of their more negative qualities, are easier to talk to.
He can't help but wonder what possible difference he could make to the world, under these conditions.
He has big ideas for it, and far better ones than he used to. The more that Brain has grown, the more his efforts have grown into improving the state of things. For all the injustice he may face as a mouse in the hands of humans, humans in the hands of humans have endured far worse. Poverty and war and a constant state of disagreement - he can see clear as day that it would be better for everyone involved if they were all on the same page. One person telling them what was right and wrong. One person who could look at each individual and plan the best case scenario for them.
Wouldn't people be so much happier if they gave him a chance? Looking up, he can see stars in the sky.
It's not a usual view for the middle of Los Angeles, where the sky is more yellow than that, but perhaps there was some national holiday that required everyone turning their engine off for a bit. Or maybe the forest has just stopped being on fire. Either way, he's glad for it. Each star is beautiful, and a hundred million light years away. He can barely comprehend how large the universe must be, to fit that many stars in it that are so solitary, so far away from each other.
It's vast. And, as Pinky would say, also really big.
He's been through a lot with Pinky, he thinks. He's not sure how long they've been working together, now - at least three years, to the best of his recollection, but he's also noticed that time doesn't seem to mean that much to him. He knows logically he's far older than he should be. Perhaps a side effect of his genetic alteration. He's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth about that.
(Not a fan of that phrase, actually. He's sure Pinky would be.)
But regardless of exactly how long, every single attempt up until now has lead to failure, and probably more in the future, if his previous attempts at looking into it have anything to say. He feels so confident when he's planning, and explaining, and putting the pieces together, but the moment they get out there and try to do the damn thing it seems the universe succeeds in fucking him over. On a nightly basis, it's exhausting, and yet not trying is worse. When he's not planning, he can barely sit still. It's something he can't have but something he can't bear to live without.
(He has no idea why Pinky puts up with it, either.)
Perhaps he's the problem, he thinks. Too insignificant to make any kind of lasting change.
"You look sad, Brain."
At some point, while he was debating this with himself, the aforementioned Pinky has wandered over. Brain sighs.
"Perhaps a little." He's not strictly uncomfortable with the idea of admitting this to Pinky any more. They've been through enough together that occasionally, in an ill-sighted, vulnerable moment, he's willing to extend a hand of truth. It's still rare, but not as unthinkable as it was. There's something about Pinky that is so inherently trustworthy that Brain finds it difficult to lie to him. Not impossible, but... he almost makes him anxious. He's fully aware he can't take over the world in any way that inconveniences Pinky - Christmas taught him that much. He feels a compulsive need to be honest with him.
He doesn't want to do this for Pinky, because that would make not doing it worse.
"Just taking in the night, Pinky." he says, instead. "So vast are the heavens, this... starry canopy... to contemplate the endless nature of the universe is to acknowledge one's own insignificance. Sometimes it seems so.. burdensome, so feckless.... words have no meaning. I don't know what to say."
"Don't worry, Brain." says Pinky. "I always know what to say."
~*~
"Come on, Pork Pie!" shouts Fez, cheerily. "It's time to walk the sponge!"
He's been oddly close with Fez for... the last couple of days now. It had worried him at first. He's still disturbing, in a way that Pork Pie still can't quite identify, but he seems to know an awful lot about what a Pork Pie should do, and it's only natural that Pork Pie should follow his guidance.
That is what a Good Hat does, after all, and Fez seems like someone with authority (his Hat is taller, after all) so he pushes his discomfort to one side.
He is... definitely quite uncomfortable now, as it happens. Fez yodels, with the same infectious joy, as he drags the sponge along the road, before he stops, turning to check if Pork Pie is following. And he is, just about, but--
"You don't look so good." says Fez. Pork Pie doesn't feel so good. He pulls some stray something off his tongue.
"I must have overindulged." he says. "I guess that was one too many linoleum tiles."
"Yes," says Fez, "But they are tasty!"
Pork Pie follows him down the steps. He does trust Fez, of course-- and that's the bizarre part. For how uncomfortable Fez makes him, he's also eerily drawn to him. He's tense and uneasy in his presence, but when he's not with him all he can do is think about him. It's maddening.
He shouldn't really be thinking about other Hats in the first place, when his sole priority should be living true to his Hat, and his place in the Hat Hierarchy, and the will of the Top Hat, of course. There's a reason the Schmeerskahöven is a solitary dance; done with the community, but entirely within the Self. Bringing other Hats into it just gets messy.
"You know, Fez." Should he be asking this? He feels like his Hat is filled with fog. "It's nice to be reminded of the things I love to do, but... I can't help thinking there's something missing-- something that I used to have a real passion for."
Fez doesn't say anything. And really, Pork Pie shouldn't be saying anything either, but he can't really not, now that he's talking about it, and he looks around, to make sure nobody else is listening.
He trusts Fez and he has no idea why.
"It was something, I don't know... bigger. Like I had some great destiny to fulfill--"
He knows he sounds crazy. Maybe Fez thinks he sounds crazy. He's giving him one hell of a blank look.
"Hm. Um." Or nervous? God, he'd hate to get Fez in trouble. "I wouldn't-- I wouldn't know. Really."
"Oh." says Pork Pie. Of course he wouldn't. What the hell is he saying? There is no great destiny for a Pork Pie. He is logical, concise, and able to follow directions. What has he ever led, anyway?
"Well, let's keep going, then. Come along, Spongie." He takes the sponge by the lead and skips away, merrily.
Shoves it down even further, sings a happy little tune--
And grinds to a halt as Fez grabs him, by the lead, knocking him backwards onto the sponge. "Oh, I can't take it!" he cries. "Oh, I've been very bad, Pork Pie -- you don't like gelatine baths, or licking the linoleum, or any of it!"
Pork Pie shuffles around, to look at him.
"I don't?"
"No!" wails Fez. "I just wanted you to have fun! And do all the things you'd never do when you had your mind!" When he-- "But now I see it's totally wrong! It's not you! It's scary! There's only one thing you have a passion for!"
Fez can hardly talk about scary, when Pork Pie feels like his Hat has fallen right out of his ears. "Yes?" he says, weakly.
"The only thing you've ever wanted to do, is--"
The bell sounds.
"Time for the evening Schmeerskahöven!" bellows Straw Boater, as he tends to do. "Chop chop!"
Oh. Of course! "Yes!" Now it makes sense. "The only thing I've ever wanted to do is dance!"
But Fez grabs him. Sweeps him right off his feet and runs, sprints down a back alley with him, and Pork Pie feels the fog coming back.
~*~
Brain practically falls back through the letter box of Acme Labs on a particular night.
Pinky follows, though he does actually fall through. No sooner has Brain got off the floor than Pinky lands on top of him, with a "Haha!! Zort!", flattening him back down on the tiles almost immediately. He makes some sort of involuntary grunting noise.
"Oops." says Pinky. "Sorry, Brain." He climbs off from on top of him, and very gently pulls Brain back to his feet. It feels like he's some sort of floor pancake, and Pinky is gently unsticking him. Brain almost feels himself snap back to his original form.
"And, erm, sorry about the plan, Brain."
Brain dusts himself off. "Not your fault, Pinky. I should have known the Welsh Embassy would be able to identify an invasive species."
Once upon a time he would have never admitted that a plan could fail because of something he did. Historically, he's always found a way to blame it on Pinky - for times when it hasn't already been Pinky's fault, of course. Weirdly, being able to admit his mistakes makes him almost feel better about the plan. Perhaps it's the flexibility of it, he muses. If there's something he's done wrong, then there's something that can be changed. The universe kicking him up the arse is less controllable, as is Pinky occasionally doing something random and killing the whole process. If it's Brain, however, than Brain can fix it.
.....Or, he supposes, if it's his actions he can fix it. If it's just that he's doomed by the cosmic narrative, then there's a fat lot of fuck he can do about that.
"You did really well with the plane though." says Pinky. "Narf."
An eventful flight it was indeed. Brain scoffs. "I think the gentleman boarding with us provided more than enough of a bureaucratic distraction."
Pinky scratches his head.
"I would have said he was more from New York, actually."
Brain opens his mouth to say something, and then, almost immediately, decides he doesn't want to know.
"Regardless," he decides, instead, "I can use this time to think of something better. Get ahead of tomorrow, shall we say-- and hopefully that one won't be as much of a catastrophic failure." By now, he's climbed onto the table - Pinky follows him. (Far more athletically, he notices, and decides not to be annoyed about it.)
"Oh, they're never catastrophic failures, Brain." he says. "More just regular failures. Narf."
Brain's just sat down, and Pinky is too far away to hit, so he compromises by yanking his leg, in a direction he hopes will make Pinky trip over. And.... he does, but he lands directly on top of Brain again.
He lets out another involuntary grunt of some kind.
"Oops. Oh dear. Sorry, Brain." Pinky moves, into a sitting position that is thankfully less on top of him, and pulls Brain up, too, so they're sitting together, before he continues. "But-- well, it's the taking part that matters, isn't it, Brain?"
Brain quirks an eyebrow. "In the failures?"
"Yes! Well--" Pinky falters. "Well no. But! It's that you never give up, Brain. Even if it doesn't go so well, you just-- get back out there! Like Albert Einstein, or Colonel Sanders--"
Brain picks up some chalk and stares at the blueprint paper. The grid stares back. This is where it begins every time, he thinks. What angle hasn't he considered before? Wales wasn't an easy target - could he do something else? Something with a Wonder of the World, or something else with geographical significance? Not voice, he's tried that-- carvings? Maybe he could convince archeologists he has a divine right of rule? He writes "CARVINGS?" down on the blueprint.
"It's not easy, Brain." says Pinky. "Yknow. It, erm. It makes me happy."
Brain puts the chalk down. Pinky keeps going, though a little more nervously.
"I mean, it doesn't make me happy that you, um--- poit, I mean, that you do keep going, and--"
"You're right." says Brain. "It's not easy, Pinky." He leans back, lays down, puts his hands behind his head as a sort of pillow to stare at the ceiling with. "I don't suppose it's easy for you, either."
Pinky lays down next to him. It's worryingly intimate. "Well, I don't like seeing you sad." he says. "But I think you'd be more sad if you, yknow, gave up, and just started doing something else. It's not you, Brain--"
"No--" But? "But I do wonder sometimes if I am just making it harder for myself, for the sake of-- nothing. If I were to just be a laboratory mouse, what would change?"
"You would, Brain. You'd lose that part of yourself." Pinky rolls over, to look at him properly. "You're not a lobotomy mouse, you're you! With all the you that comes with it, Brain, you're smart and snarky and like to build big funny robots that kick people. Yknow. If you gave up you wouldn't be you any more, and that would be sad."
"My robots don't kick people." says Brain, though he does... consider that a little more. He's always considered that he was rebelling against his destiny, that he was doomed to be nothing and was fighting that path every step of the way. He's not sure what to make of the idea that he was destined for greatness, even from humble beginnings. It kind of makes him feel like he's failing even more. Or is it supposed to be a tale of resilience, where trying so hard makes the end result more satisfactory?
He kind of wishes he could get to the end, already. He would like some peace.
"Your human one did." says Pinky. "All over the place."
Brain pinches the bridge of his nose. "My human suit kicked people while I was in court, yes, because you kicked them, Pinky."
Pinky cackles.
"Oh, they went everywhere, Brain! Zort!" And collapses, dramatically, back onto the table. "Power to the people! Narf!"
What a fucking idiot, he thinks. "Yes, yes, you sure told the police where to go." Brain sits back up, picks the chalk back up. "Now if you'd please, Pinky, I must concentrate to think of the next plan."
Pinky yawns.
"Well alright, Brain. I s'pose I'll take a nap." He wriggles to a stand, and pauses. "I'll go, ah-- count some sheep, shall I?" A pointed attack. He cackles again, with a "narf".
"Don't make me throw this at you." says Brain, and Pinky laughs harder as he leaves. Stupid.
Idiot.
Still, if at least one idiot believes in him, he supposes, it's only another 6 billion or so to go. He starts to develop a specialised machine for drilling underground and carving into the base of Stonehenge.
And he's not sure why, but he feels a tune coming on, stuck in his head, and he hums as he goes.
"Badadadadadadada life isn't fair, get up on the wheel and you don't go anywhere--"
~*~
The fog is roaring in his ears. There's a horrible screeching sound bouncing around his Hat.
Fez says something. Pork Pie knows he does, but he can't hear him. There's something scrambling him. He can see the light. He can see something melting. He can try to take over the try to try to take the try to take to take the try to take try to try try try try try try try try try try try put your fingers in your ears and stick them in your belly don't be afraid if it jiggles like jelly yeah schmeerskahöven
"Pork Pie! I mean-- Brain, what are you doing?"
put your hands in the air like you've won a big prize bop yourself on the head and try try try try try try try try try try try try to try to take the try to take to take the try to take try to e = m c squared the hypotenuse of the quadrangle is infinite in tonight's plan hippocampus neural node
"It's me, Pinky!"
just say zort just say poit wear a hat kiss a fish call detroit so what if the numbers don't make sense on a chart who said you've got to be smart paint your nose, chill some flan and remember to pre-grease the pan
"I'm not really a hat! See!"
i'm going to have to hurt you p p p p p p p p over here over here
He's running so fast but he doesn't know where.
what do you want to do tonight tonight tonight tonight tonight tonight the same thing we do every night night night night night
Fez is pulling him along, yelling at him, and the words bounce right off his Hat and melt into the floor.
try to take over the try to try to take the try to take to take the try to take try to try to try to try to try to try to
"Brain! I'm your only friend!"
there are several formulae to use for domination and to get the maximum effect out of a helpless nation crab meat or magnetic shoes mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling mind controlling
"Don't you remember?"
at least you didn't end up being married to married to married to married to married to
"Oh, narf."
For a split second, the world stops. The screaming stops. The fog lifts.
Pork Pie feels different. Smaller. He feels like he was floating in a gelatine bath and Fez just pulled him out. His face is beautiful. His eyes are beautiful. There's something clawing at him and he feels like he's going to throw up if he doesn't pull it out first.
He's dizzy.
He would die for Fez and he doesn't know why, yet somehow, it makes sense, all of a sudden.
"Narf?"
~*~
"You are very naughty little hats." says the large, towering computer in the centre of the torture room. (Not a sentence he thought he would think, today.) "Prepare to be reblocked."
Brain is only just getting used to not being a hat. An hour ago, that statement might have killed him. For now, it just makes him angry.
"Show yourself, Top Hat!" he yells. "I want to give you a piece of my mind!"
The computer whirrs in a way that could be read as unimpressed. "The Top Hat already has a piece of your mind. In fact, I have all of it."
"The Top Hat is a computer?"
The Top Hat being an artificial intelligence means that the symbiotic relationship between Self and Hat was equally artificial. A social construct. Brain tries to process this, and then decides he can do that later.
"More than a computer. I know everything. Everything you once were. Your entire past is stored in my hard drive."
It's a terrifying concept to be delivered so nonchalently. Brain looks at pictures of himself hitting Fez on the head. That does feel good to do, he thinks.
"I don't remember any of that."
"Of course not. I removed every last memory from your fat little cranium."
Every last--
Well, it's not wrong. He definitely couldn't remember anything before. He can still barely remember anything now. He knows, theoretically, that his name used to be Brain, and maybe still is, and Fez is.... Pinky? And they've been... working towards something. He's not sure what, but he knows it's bigger than himself.
All of the pictures are of him hitting Pinky, actually. Yelling in his face. Brain still doesn't remember any of it, though staring at them makes him wonder why the hell Pinky puts up with him. He looks back over, beside him. Pinky is tied down on the same table, but he's not looking at the pictures. He's just staring up at Top Hat, like he's frozen.
There's something inside of Brain that makes him want to ensure Pinky is never hurt again.
It's almost gratutious, it crawls, he wants to pull it out--
"Every memory but one." he says. "Something no one could possibly know."
The discs skip, for a moment, almost as if the Top Hat is shocked.
"What is it?"
An hour ago, there was nothing he wanted more than to satisfy the Top Hat. To wake up every morning in his little hat house, engage in his hat activities, and keep to himself. Living true to his Hat, and his place in the Hat Hierarchy, and never letting anything get too close.
Leonardo DaVinci once that said once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward.
"Narf."