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“I’m horrified, yet… impressed.”
“You should always be impressed with me, Darky boy.”
“Shut up.”
Wilford chuckled, bending back over the body of his latest victim. The last installment of his TV series, “Interviews With Warfstache,” had gone about as well as predicted. Luckily enough, the recording rooms were soundproofed. This interviewee was particularly troublesome, however, because they were well-known. People would notice if they turned up missing.
All Wilford could do was swallow his pride and ask Dark, the only other being as powerful as him, for help.
He’d popped into Dark’s office in a puff of pink smoke, making him jump. “Hey, Darkipoo, could use a favor.”
“Is that… blood?”
“…I can explain.”
An hour later found Dark watching Wilford clean the last of the blood off of his carpet, the body safely dismembered in a bag.
Dark examined his nails closely, ignoring Wilford huffing as he scrubbed. “You did quite well with the body, I must say.”
“Y’think so?” Wilford straightened up, the front of his shirt, pants, and hands soaked in blood. He moved to rake his hands through his hair, but saw the crusted blood on his fingers and thought better of it. “Well, you erased the memory of them ever existing pretty well.” Wilford blew upwards, trying to move the lock in front of his eyes.
Dark looked up to see Wilford standing, looking up at his own hair in fury. “It’s a specialty. You may want to, ah, take care of that.” He gestured vaguely to Wilford’s layer of gore.
“What, you don’t want a hug?” Wilford smiled, spreading his arms and taking a step towards Dark, who sneered in response.
“One more step, Warfstache, and it’ll be your blood on the floor.”
“Well, I did just clean up.” Wilford frowned, snapping his fingers. The blood-stained clothes disappeared, replaced by an identical yellow shirt, with gray suit pants and suspenders. He self-consciously adjusted his pink bow tie.
“Charming.”
“It’s colorful,” Wilford huffed, putting a clean hand through his hair. “Much better than your outfit, Monochrome McGee.”
“That’s a new one.”
Wilford and Dark both fell silent, looking around the room. Dark’s eyes stopped on the body bag.
“I’ll assume that you don’t need any assistance with… that.”
“The body? Nah, I’ll put it in the fridge. Makes for some good soup.” WIlford picked up the bag, grinning cheekily over his shoulder and heading for the stairs.
“You know as well as I do what Mark would say if he found it,” Dark scoffed, following.
“What, is the great Darkiplier afraid of Mark?” Wilford said it lightly, but flinched as the light above them flickered violently.
“At least I’m not content with being his puppet,” Dark said behind him, voice suddenly poisonous.
At the bottom of the stairs, Wilford turned to set the body bag down with a wet squelch. He glared up at Dark, whose smoky black aura was almost visible in his anger.
“I’m not the one getting upset every time Google gets a video,” Wilford snapped, somehow, suddenly angrier than he’d ever been. “And I’m not the one ruining life for Mark.”
“Then what, exactly, are you useful for?” Dark was fuming, staring down as miasma began to whip around his fingers.
“Making sure that the rest of us,” Wilford was shouting now, sweeping his hand in a wide arc towards the rest of the building, “don’t get killed because of your temper tantrums!”
“Since when have you exhibited loyalty?” Dark whispered, bitter, angry.
“Since… Since…” WIlford stuttered, his sentence fading. Dark looked at him with a level of smugness that shouldn’t have meant anything– but, for Wilford, it pushed him over the edge. He roared, “don’t you have any interest in not getting killed?!”
The lights wobbled dangerously, and Dark’s cloud of smoke became a small hurricane. Dark screamed in anger, trying not to lose control– Wilford shielded his eyes, looking away. When the smoke cleared, and he was able to breathe again, Dark was gone.
The patter of feet sounded from down the hallway, and Dr. Iplier burst into the stairway.
“Wilford, what–” Wilford scrambled to cover the bag, but the Doctor had already seen it. “What is that?!”
Wilford stumbled over his words, trying to stutter an excuse, still trying to shove the bag out of view.
Unnoticed by the two of them, Dark’s door slammed. From the crack under the door, black smoke curled out in tendrils, warning the rest of them to stay away.
Oliver passed the door later, pausing to hear the sounds of ripping, tearing, screaming from inside. He knocked, but there was no response. The door rattled ominously, and Oliver thought better of forcing his way in.
Dark didn’t emerge from his room until, days later, Mark opened the fridge to find–
“WILFORD?!”