Chapter Text
This meeting could’ve been an email: a phrase Waxwell swears to, lives his life by, and one that perfectly encapsulates how he feels about the so-called ‘mandatory’ morning meetings. Seriously, there was nothing more pointless than gathering every toon in the center just to then direct them with where to go and what to do that day when they had perfectly good technology to send that same directive straight to Veemail—especially considering the fact that everyone knew plans were written out on a week-by-week basis, not right there on the spot at said pointless meeting.
Tolerating the meetings would be easier if he were more like the others: he knew for sure he wasn’t the only toon who felt this way about them, after all, but begrudgingly attending them was much easier for the others. Why?
Well…
Waxwell shakes out his head, blinking firmly at the plain ceiling swallowing his blurry vision. He did not want to think about that. Not now, not ever.
Sprout knew, and that was all that mattered. He knew too much for Waxwell’s comfort, frankly, but it at least allowed him the benefit of being able to skip ninety percent of the morning meetings. However, ninety percent was not one hundred percent.
Another set of loud knocks thrums in his ears, a motion aggressive enough to make it seem like the actioner wanted nothing more than to splinter the wood under their knuckles.
“GET YOUR STUPID FACE OUT HERE RIGHT NOW, OR I’M RIPPING YOUR STUPID WICK RIGHT OFF YOUR STUPID HEAD!”
Waxwell groans, rolls over in bed, and slams a pillow over the back of his head to block out Shrimpo’s unbearable cacophony.
…Yeah. Needless to say, Waxwell dreaded the ten percent days, probably even more than he dreaded forced manual labor days. Oh, and he just hated manual labor, it—
“I’M COMING IN THERE! THREE… TWO…”
“Okay, o-kay, I get it, I’m getting up!” Waxwell shouts back, kicking off his covers and grumbling to himself under his breath. Sometimes he could get away with skipping the morning meetings by pretending to be asleep, but apparently whatever Sprout had to say today was so important, it couldn’t be said without Waxwell’s malevolent presence. He swings open the door and looks down at the angry shrimp, their gazes meeting with matching narrowed eyes.
“I HATE YOU.”
“Yeah, yeah, go tell Sprout I’ll be out in five.” Before Shrimpo can rattle off another insult, Waxwell politely slams the door in his face. It’s only when he finally hears the pattering of Shrimpo’s feet retreating from his doorway that he releases a heavy sigh he’d been holding for just a bit too long. He didn’t have a clock or anything to time himself, but he figured that the best antagonistic thing to do to start his day would be to arrive at the morning meeting exactly one second past five minutes: the perfect degree of rudeness, as Sprout loved to start exactly on the hour. There was only one problem at hand; only one thing that could stop him.
He wasn’t feeling very well. Admittedly, he’d known he was probably coming down with something the morning prior—if the headache and stuffy nose didn’t give it away, the nagging cough that had woken him up in the middle of the night did—and it was definitely starting to get to him.
As he parks himself in front of the mirror, trying to adjust his accessories to look as normal as possible, he can’t help but notice that today the familiar dark circles rimming his eyes only further swallow the glassy amber stare they seem to permanently frame. At this point, he might as well have a giant, flashing sign that read ‘TIRED’ above his head just to make it even more obvious than it already was.
No matter, though, because he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that no one found out about his little weakness. Or… any of his little weaknesses.
Whatever.
To finish off his outfit, Waxwell slips into his prized pair of red hightops—(tying them was a minor struggle, as he’d always had a bit of a tremor)—and finally slips through his doorway, kicking the hinged object closed behind him.
The walk to the lobby was short, but somehow managed to take an embarrassing amount of breath from him. Nonetheless, as he approaches Sprout from behind, he manages to hold his posture straight and forces a cocky, toothless smirk.
Sprout whirls around at the sound of his footsteps, donning a small smile to greet the candle. “Oh, Waxwell! You’re actually just in time, look at that! Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds.”
Waxwell’s face falls flat, and he allows his shoulders to roll forward just a bit in familiar defeat. “Whatever. I—” he pauses, clearing the gravel from his voice with a surreptitious cough— “I have very evil things to get up to today, so let’s get this over with.”
The nervous chuckle that escapes Sprout’s mouth immediately tells Waxwell the strawberry is about to deliver news he does not want to hear. “Actually, you’re needed on the run team today. Might have to move your, erm… evil agenda to tomorrow.”
Waxwell presses his hands to his chest when a particularly intense, sudden series of heart palpitations starts to make his lungs ache, and he squints at the berry through his mildly swimming vision. “What?”
“We’re down a distractor for today’s team, and—”
“How?” Waxwell interjects, tugging at the bottom of his sweater with an air of mild distress, “Aren’t there, like, a dozen other toons capable of distracting? Sprout, why me?”
Sprout tucks his notebook into his bag, shifts his stance to the side, and looks the candle up and down with a small frown. “You’re perfectly capable, aren’t you?”
The wick atop Waxwell’s head briefly flickers with frustration. “Answer my question.”
“Pebble has an injured paw, Looey and Blot are on break, Eclipse—”
“That doesn’t explain why I have to do it.”
Sprout’s emerald gaze scans their surroundings, bouncing from head to head and making dozens of split-second observations about every toon’s preoccupations within a fifty foot radius. Only then does he lower his voice, avoiding meeting Waxwell’s gaze, and utters, “You asked me to cover for you. You’re still crafty and quick on your feet, so when you don’t take run shifts, the others start to have questions.”
Waxwell swallows hard, the action leaving a lingering stinging sensation in his sore throat.
Sprout continues, though not before taking a deep breath, “Listen, Waxwell.” He places a hand on the candle’s shoulder, ignoring the resulting expression of minor disgust. “If I really didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t schedule you. Speaking of, though, how is your—”
“No.”
“What?”
Waxwell huffs, shrugs Sprout’s hand off his shoulder, and crosses his arms, his foot tapping anxiously against the tile. “I’m fine. Just tell me what I have to do.”
Sprout busies himself with fixing his scarf, the only thing he can do at the moment to override his caretaker instincts, and explains, “Ginger has the run plans, meet her by the elevator and she’ll explain.”
Before Waxwell can get much farther than a couple steps away, Sprout’s voice calls out to him:
“Hey, Waxwell?”
Waxwell just barely glances over his shoulder, acknowledging the berry one last time.
Sprout offers an encouraging smile and thumbs up. “...Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”
The elevator groans and rumbles under Waxwell’s feet, his back digging into the cold metal wall and his gaze trained with similar intensity on the floor. Internally, he was still grumbling to himself about Sprout’s prior statement, completely ignoring Ginger’s slow, shaky attempts to read off the run plans. Don’t be afraid to ask for help… Who did that stupid strawberry think he was? A weakling?
“...Waxwell. Waxwell?”
Ginger’s thick accent draws him out of his pouty mulling. He sniffs to acknowledge her without looking up, swiping the back of his glove to the bottom of his nose.
“Sprout requested that I, uhm, catch you up on our team today…” Ginger self-consciously brushes off the front of her dress, then tries to raise her head a bit higher as she continues, “I’ll be your healer, of course. Glisten, Rodger, and Vee will be our extractors, Astro and Bobette will be our support, and Goob is your lovely backup distractor!”
Goob immediately perks up at the sound of his name and lifts his chunky hand with great effort to greet Waxwell with a cheerful, friendly wave. Waxwell greets him in return with a deadpan stare.
“Ooh~ looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of bed today!” Glisten snaps his compact mirror shut and approaches Waxwell with quiet laughter through his nose. “What’s the matter, Waxy? Finally incinerate your pillow in your sleep?”
The sound of Glisten’s continued laughter sends a concentrated heat through Waxwell’s cheeks and straight up to his sparking wick. “I— I hope your makeup smudges while you’re on a machine!”
Glisten jams a hand to his hip and sassily cocks his weight to one side, looking Waxwell up and down with an offended scoff.
Before he can spit out another tease, however, Rodger places a hand on Glisten’s back and quietly mumbles, “He means nothing by it; this is not worth your energy.” The two turn around to face the elevator door once more, but not without a small “hmmph!” from the mirror first.
“Waxwell, dear?” Bobette’s warm, steady voice pulls the candle’s attention in another direction once more, and her peaceful demeanor subconsciously brings Waxwell’s flame back down to a more steady flicker. Beside her hovers Astro, who offers a small smile despite the obvious tired sway in his stance. “I just wanted to let you know that we are very happy to help today… Sprout told us you had some troubles that make this role a challenge, and—”
“Bastard!” Waxwell nearly chokes, his eyes snapping wide open, and he lowers himself to meet Bobette at eye level and jam a finger in her direction. “What did he tell you? ‘C-Cause, whatever he told you, it isn’t true!”
Bobette laughs nervously, holding her hands up like a human being held at gunpoint. “That’s all he told us, sugar. No need to get heated, now…”
Waxwell pulls himself back up straight, his expression contorted with general frustration. He scoffs loudly and turns his head away, insisting flatly, “Well, he— he was lying. I don’t need any help. I can do this by myself, p-probably even with my eyes closed.”
“Alright… we believe you, dear. If by some super small chance you run into trouble, though, just give us a shout.” Bobette politely dips her head to end the conversation, and Astro slips from the bauble’s side to rejoin Vee at hers.
Mere moments later, the elevator screeches open. Vee taps her microphone-tipped tail as soon as the floor comes into view—the device possessed an odd ability, as the soundwaves it emitted when activated could seek out the specific chemical properties of ichor—briefly highlighting the uncompleted machines and roaming twisteds before them.
“Twisted Poppy, Twisted Boxten,” Vee calls out, casting Waxwell a sideways glance over her shoulder when he… does not move. “That’s your cue, Waxy-Boy! Get outta here!”
Pace yourself. Taking a deep breath, Waxwell finally pushes free of the imaginary wax gluing his feet to the floor, heading off in the direction he’d seen the twisteds wandering in an awkward jog. Twisted Poppy’s ripped, ichor-stained bow catches his eye from behind a shelf, and to his surprising luck, her purple comrade was just around the corner. He shouts a quick and confident “Hey, hey!” to draw their attention straight to him, pivoting clumsily on his feet to lead them into a back area, away from his teammates and the machines they needed to complete.
As a concept, distracting was easy enough; grab the twisteds’ attention, loop them around in one place for a while, then run them back to the elevator for any needed research or tape collection before the doors closed. For most, it served as a great way to help out the team. Others found it to be a good workout or challenge. Some odd few (cough, Looey) even found it fun.
Waxwell fell under none of these categories. Sure, the first couple floors were easy—a more uncommon twisted here and there, maybe one rarer twisted—but as both twisteds and machines began to climb in numbers, requiring him to hold a loop for increasingly longer periods, those ‘issues’ he spent so much energy trying to hide became virtually unmaskable.
His vision would swim, his head would spin, and his heart rate would refuse to drop beneath zones normal toons could only rarely reach when sprinting. A general unsteadiness would flood his being, finding refuge in weak joints, shaky steps, and a flickering flame that he couldn’t quite keep lit. Sure, he bore an unshakeable fatigue in his day-to-day life already, but the fogginess that came with such an exertion left him feeling sick. Not the kind of sick feeling that afflicted him currently, but something more painful; like his body was trying to destroy itself from the inside out.
Back when the toons were still under the care of humans, his handler had forced him to pay a visit to the nurse when, whilst at a marketing event, he could not keep his heart rate down. His physical examination returned remarkable results though, which left them stumped for quite a while.
It was around 1993, however, when the nurse finally had a breakthrough while conducting research: a study had recently been published, detailing findings surrounding a peculiar human condition that caused abnormal heart rate increases, dizziness, and fatigue. There was no cure, but symptoms could be eased through heavy consumption of fluids and salt.
Waxwell recalled his handler stupidly trying to argue with the nurse on the benefit of salt, as they could not seem to grasp the idea that salt had the ability to help make hydration more productive, but no matter. The point is, as soon as the words chronic illness, dysfunction, and weakness left the nurse’s mouth, it seemed Waxwell’s fate was sealed.
His symptoms were easier to keep under control back then when he had a human managing his fluid and salt intake for him, even though he always complained about being bossed around and told what to do. Nowadays, though, not so much. There wasn’t as much inclination to take care of himself when he wasn’t engrossed in public business from sunrise to sunset.
Waxwell’s reminiscing comes to an abrupt end when the elevator’s panic mode alarm begins blaring, signalling the last machine had been completed. His tolerable speedwalk picks up pace to become more of a rhythmic run, especially as he makes his way down the final stretch of empty room, sliding into the elevator with a comfortable amount of seconds to spare.
Already, he was panting, hands on his knees and smoke puffing from his wobbly flame while he caught his breath. A couple of stray coughs scrape his throat, and the annoying contents of his nose threaten to dampen his philtrum until he returns them with a strangled sniff, finally having gathered enough air to straighten himself back up and look around. To his surprise, no one was paying attention. Everyone was too busy talking amongst each other and arguing with Dandy about the ‘ethics’ of selling a medkit on the first floor to notice his condition.
Good. They didn’t need to know.
He shakes the blooming fog out of his head, adjusts his headpiece to sit more comfortably against his wick, and kicks his pant legs back into place above his shoes. If everyone else could manage to look put-together on a run, so could he.
The elevator door rumbles open once more, and the cycle repeats: Vee reveals the twisteds and the machines; Waxwell strides out as confidently as he can, support following closely on his heels; and finally, the extractors split to either side to quickly cover as much ground as possible.
One foot in front of the other, he gathers, parades, and loops, all the while persistently shrugging off his teammates’ attempts to help with snappy comments or disgruntled stares. For the most part, no one talks to him, but whether that was because of his attempted antagonistic demeanor or simply the fact that they were busy with supply-hunting, he couldn’t tell.
One step after the other, he dodges, paces, and retreats, fighting the growing ache steadily snaking from his feet to his head. His teammates were quick and could complete machines at breakneck speeds, which was certainly squeezing more floors into his energy budget than he expected.
Still, the floor numbers tick by much too slowly. The elevator flickers its taunting red numbers at him, practically whispering his insecurities to him through its pixelated screen.
Only through 13 floors, and you’re already this tired?
How pathetic.
A hand touches his back. He shoots upright—much to the dismay of his poor, dizzy head—barely catching the soft sound of Ginger’s apology behind him.
“Waxwell… I don’t mean to bother, but—” her single blue eye rests timidly between his own, and she takes a shaky breath inward before continuing— “you’re dripping wax down your sweater. Is… Is that… normal for you?”
Waxwell’s heart skips a beat, and his face contorts into a grimace as he twists around to try and survey the mess on his back she was drawing attention to. “U-Uh, it—”
Before he can come up with a lie, the door to the elevator opens once more, and adrenaline carries his sore legs right back out toward the highlighted twisteds. Gift shop. Four chasers. Just pace yourself.
It was difficult to think when his heart was thrumming so hard he could feel it beating in his ears, but even with his limited cognition, there were only two scenarios he could recall in which he had literally started melting: the first of which being a rather brutal week in the summer of 1998 when, during a heatwave, the Gardenview Center’s air conditioning unit broke down. Deep in Gardenview’s abandoned floors, however, the temperature remained relatively stable and comfortable.
However, the second scenario proved to be much more feasible once he’d mulled it over in his head for… about sixteen seconds. No, it wasn’t his flames; that wick was kept alight by nothing more than magic, thanks to the strange properties of ichor. What it probably was, was…
Was…
But he never quite finished that thought.
Oh, shit.
In all his preoccupation with puzzling over his reason for melting, he’d managed to run himself right out of stamina. He was crashing.
Before he could even take a fraction of a second to panic about it though, something bearing both cold and warm sensations all at once wraps around him, and his eyes snap back open, a new reserve of energy allowing him to return to his much safer looping speed. Just in time, too, as he definitely would’ve lost a foot to Twisted Toodles without the stamina replenish. But where did it…
He turns his head to stare down one of the many side rooms’ doorways, right as Astro slips a sparkling hand back under his blanket, disappearing as quickly and quietly as he’d appeared.
…Oh.
Waxwell stumbles into the elevator just seconds after the last machine is finished, still mid-coughing fit as he interrogatively jabs a finger into Astro’s chest. The moon jumps frightenedly, immediately drawing Vee’s watchful, protective gaze right over her shoulder.
“I— hh!— t-h’old you I didn’t n-need help…” He aims a couple more coughs—albiet uncovered—toward the floor, his hand dropping from Astro’s blanket to better steady himself against the wall. Astro does not respond, instead choosing to back away toward the safety of Vee’s right arm.
Glisten turns away from Rodger to shoot Waxwell a dirty, disgusted look, and scoffs. “Euck, Waxwell, if you’re coming down with something, you could at least be courteous enough to not give it to the entire elevator…”
Waxwell’s complexion burns, his head reels, and his next breath seethes painfully through his teeth. “I’m not sick, stupid. Mind your own.”
“Do you need a break yet, Waxwell? I can help!” Goob bounces away from Dandy’s closing shop, still clutching his most recent purchase—a large bottle of soda—to his chest. “I’m a really good backup distractor!”
“No…! Seriously, what part of ‘I don’t need help’ do you guys not understand?” Waxwell snaps, and a slight pang of guilt stings in his chest when Goob’s ears flatten dejectedly to his head. He needed to make a point, though, and if repetition wasn’t going to hammer it in, maybe force would. Therefore, he turns around to face the elevator door, and he definitely does not feel bad watching Ginger offer Goob comfort from over his shoulder.
He had to keep going. It didn’t matter that his body ached down to his bones, that his lungs were crying from the strain of breathing, or that his head was nothing more than a foggy, congested mess. No one could know. Not about his sickness, not about his condition, not about anything.
The next two floors pass by at a speed akin to Shrimpo’s fastest walking speed. The team was hit with a particularly messy ichor spill—dodging the sticky black puddles proved to be a major hindrance on machine completion—followed by a dark, cold warehouse floor completely lacking in power.
Waxwell’s unreliable flame thankfully left him with just enough light to see his immediate surroundings, but it provided him no heat, and even the warmth generated from running wasn’t enough to keep him from shivering the entire time. He was glad no one could see him, because between his jaw being clenched from the cold and the contortion on his features from the pain, he was pretty sure his expression had a chance of being something laughable. Obviously, that was unacceptable.
It only takes a couple more minutes for the panic mode alarm to start echoing menacingly against the metallic walls. Internally, Waxwell was sighing in relief, but realistically, he didn’t have enough breath left in his tank to actually complete that action. He knew the floor just well enough to path himself back to the elevator with confidence, and for a moment, it seemed like it was going to be another near-perfect success to tuck in his back pocket.
Something twitches in the corner of his eye. Something dark.
Inky.
Black.
The creeping hand allows Waxwell no time to dodge. Its claw, cold and calculated, slices through the tenderest part on the side of his head, only recoiling once it had finished drawing its ichor prize from its victim. And oh, ichor did it draw.
A pained cry bypasses the candle’s filter as he stumbles forward on his own weight, hand flying up to cup the seeping wound. An unbearably loud ringing in his ears drowns out the noise of the world around him, and while the injury was far from fatal, it was certainly still painful enough to nearly stop him in his tracks.
Although Twisted Blot’s hand was quick, Goob’s were even quicker. His rubbery claws get a firm grip on the back of Waxwell’s sweater before any of the pursuing twisteds can even come close, and just as swiftly as his arms had left the elevator, they return Waxwell to its safety without skipping a beat.
The door slams shut behind Waxwell, and the floor tips him unkindly to his knees. He could breathe through the pain, all he needed was a second… Just one second…
“...Ginger, he’s pretty roughed up. Can you spare him a heal?”
Waxwell cracks his eyes open, but the ichor pouring down his face forces the left one to stay closed. Through his blurry, swimming vision, he barely meets Bobette’s worried gaze. Her fingers gently loop the small of his wrist to pull his hand away from the injury so the two Christmas toons can examine it. The gesture is delicate, tender, and grossly too vulnerable.
“My apologies, Waxwell… I don’t have enough tapes to heal you on this floor, although I should be able to heal you on the next,” Ginger reassures, politely tucking her hands behind her back.
“If we even make it through the next floor, at the rate this is going.”
Waxwell’s stomach lurches. His wide-eyed gaze falls self-consciously to the floor, while Vee’s bitter tone draws in the attention of everyone else.
“Oh, yeah?” Glisten snaps back, his bow ruffling with surprising discontent, “Enlighten us then, Vee, and tell us what makes that so!”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Vee looks up from fixing her outfit with a sideways frown and gestures toward Waxwell with her head. “Our distractor’s clearly not in top shape, can’t you see? This is already our second near-miss, and we’re only through sixteen floors. He’s not going to be able to take us to floor fifty. It’s just not happening.”
Just not happening?
Without a second thought, Waxwell whacks Bobette’s hand away from his face, and the bauble stumbles backward in surprise. His hand white-knuckles the elevator railing to pull his violently trembling lower half back onto his feet, and his amber eyes bore flames of their own into everyone who falls within the path of his travelling gaze.
“W-Waxwell!” Ginger anxiously tip toes after him as he attempts to limp out the elevator, her voice wavering nervously as she calls out, “Why don’t you take a break? Just for this floor, and then I can heal you!”
Her words fall on deaf ears, and for a split second, all Waxwell feels is an unyielding determination to prove everyone wrong. Then, he pauses in his tracks.
Vee’s heat map ripples across the floor to reveal what lay ahead of them.
Twisted Astro… Twisted Sprout…
Goob.
A lump forms in Waxwell’s sore throat, and a pit forms in his uneasy stomach.
If there was one thing he didn’t have down, it was complicated combinations. Keeping an eye out for Goob’s attack was one thing, but trying to do that while balancing Sprout’s tendrils…? And fighting the soul-sucking energy drain Astro inflicted?
“Ooh, let me take twisted me!” Goob skips up to stand beside Waxwell, already trying (and struggling) to grab his stashed box of speed chocolates out of his bag. “Come on, Waxwell, pleeease? Let me help!”
Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Sprout’s words ring through Waxwell’s head like an untuned bell, and ichor continues to drip annoyingly down the side of his face, messily mixing with the melting wax clinging to his flushed cheeks. He surveys the floor ahead of him—a large warehouse room—and his eyes fall on a far shelf, one he had faint memories of watching Looey loop difficult combinations around with ease.
But this isn’t about Looey. This is about you.
He’d already made up his mind.
“No. Just— J-Just get on a machine, I’ll do it myself!”
“Waxwell—”
“I said I’ll do it my-self!” Before Goob can further protest—further offer a near-guarantee of the candle’s safety—Waxwell’s thumb slams the button of an airhorn. Six pairs of red eyes fall on him in an instant. Six entities, with no intention other than to take his life, charge toward him.
If he could get into a rhythm, he would be fine. That’s how Looey always described it, after all: count your steps, count your seconds, and you’ll never be caught off guard by an attack. Twisteds functioned on patterns. Learnable patterns.
It was all just one big game of cat and mouse. Anyone could be good at a game, though, right?
Right?
…
He was lying to himself. He’d been lying to himself about his capabilities for forever. He’d heard the questions. The comments. Seen the stares.
But this could change that. This could change everything. So he persists.
Persists through the pain. The doubt.
The—
One misstep. That’s all it took.
Twisted Goob’s cold claws grip Waxwell’s midsection, yanking him forcefully back into his coarse, ichor-clumped chest fur.
“H-Hey! Let me go!”
Waxwell kicks helplessly in the air for only a couple seconds, Twisted Goob’s tight hold on his throat rapidly stealing his breath, his cognitive abilities, and with it, his dignity. All he can muster is a strangled whimper, his tunneling gaze fixed on Twisted Sprout looming menacingly in front of him, before his strength gives out completely.
This was it, wasn’t it?
Twisted Sprout’s claws slice crudely through Waxwell’s side with a sickening crack, and somehow, the adrenaline from the hit allows him to draw in just enough breath to scream. The amount of ichor his prior injury cost him was nothing compared to the sheer volume soaking into his sweater and slowly trailing down into his shoes. He briefly catches the muffled sound of an airhorn off to his side before he tumbles to the ground, his body making harsh impact with the cold concrete below.
His breaths come sporadically in shallow, wheezy puffs—expanding his chest much past slightly only heightened the stinging, throbbing pain trailing down his side. Instinct begs for him to get up, to run, to save himself, but he retains no control over the body he resides in.
A pair of strong, yet gentle arms gingerly scoops him up from under his back and legs. The pain of cold air brushing his exposed wounds brings fresh tears to his eyes, and a feverish shudder racks his weak frame, prompting the rescuer to hold him just a bit closer to their chest.
“It’s okay, sugar, just try to stay with me now,” the voice attempts to lull, but Waxwell doesn’t recognize it, nor does he recognize the blurry, red face that comes barely into view when he cracks open his rheumy eyes.
His head lolls to the side, looking back to the ichor staining the floor at the site of his injury. There, confidently and effortlessly looping the same twisteds that threatened everything he had, was Goob.
Oh, Waxwell… Why did you ever think you could be anything but a waste of space?
The words slur in his head, ringing menacingly between his ears.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
He splutters on one last wet cough before darkness completely tunnels out his vision.