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"Name one thing I'm bad at. Ha-- you can't, can you?"
"No, I can't name a single thing." Dark scowled. "I can name several."
Wilford's smile dropped, and he went back to flipping his knife over in his hand. "It's not as if you're perfect yourself, Darky."
"Sorry, what did you just call me?!" Dark rose from the pile of boxes he was sitting on, as elegantly as if from a throne. The TV droned on in the background, sending flickers of light across the room. The windows were dark-- it might have been 9pm, might have been 3am.
"Calm down," Wilford said, not even looking up at him. "You've existed for what, four months? Seven videos? A livestream?" He scoffed, running a careless had through his hair, turning the fauxhawk into a careless mess. "You're still a figment. No match for Wilford Warfstache, because Warfstache don't take no shit from nobody."
Dark scowled. "That's rich from someone whose existence has lasted all of a week."
"I'm a successful journalist and serial killer," Wilford said, still reclining on the couch, obnoxiously spread over the three available seats, lit only by the light from the TV. "You? The fans love you," he chuckled, catching his knife, voice suddenly darkening. "But you're nothing."
Dark growled, fangs flashing, advancing. Gray smoke began to swirl around the room.
Dark, and for the past week, Wilford, lived in a tiny apartment on the ground floor, under Mark. Dark doubted that Mark was smart enough to figure out that the two of them had been given physical forms, and for the moment, staying close by seemed the most prudent. Keeping Wilford contained was also of the utmost importance.
After all, the saying went, "Keep your friends close, and enemies closer."
Dark had been steadily gaining power with each day, each video; but was nowhere near close to becoming permanent, much less overpowering Mark. He needed the element of surprise, needed to live in shadow and secrecy until he was strong enough. So far, everything was going to plan.
Well.
Wilford had waltzed past his window a week ago, dressed vividly, talking loudly, tiny firecrackers exploding in the air behind him. Dark, seeing yet another version of himself attracting attention, had little choice but to pull the other figment into the apartment and lock the door behind them. They had the same face-- what else could he do?
Wilford, despite having been corporeal for less than a week, was already as powerful as (if not more powerful than) Dark. Dark nursed a healthy amount of jealousy, and couldn't help but give Wilford a measure of grudging respect; even so, the short week they'd shared together had been one of the worst of Dark's short life.
And now...
Dark stood over Wilford, still infuriatingly comfortable. On his couch. In his apartment. Watching his TV. (Never mind that he'd possessed the landlord in order to get it. It was his.)
Anger wiped out every other emotion in his mind. The ceiling trembled with the force of his aura whipping around the room, light gray smoke gradually darkening, obscuring the still-playing television. This had happened before, and from vaguely within him came a strand of conscience. Holding him back. Reminding him of the destroyed rooms he'd left in his wake, of chances missed, of control lost.
Control. The word echoed in his mind, but it was already too late. The strand snapped.
"Get out."
Wilford's eyes widened a little, seeing Dark standing stiffly above him, rage in every line of his figure, casting a shadow over the couch.
"Woah, boy, there's no need to get so--"
Dark screamed in fury, pure black smoke emitting from his mouth. Wilford, to his credit, recognized the danger he was in and stumbled: first to his feet, then backing towards the door. The knife now useless on the floor at Dark's feet.
"Dark--" he was almost pleading now. He had nowhere else to go.
Dark's figure was changing. His shoulders hulked, nails lengthening into claws, black smoke obscuring his outline. The light of the TV flickered and went out, leaving Wilford in absolute, unnatural darkness.
With a monster.
Wilford screamed, scrambling back towards the door. A fumble. A click. The door was thrown open, and Wilford fell out into the night.
Dark's laugh echoed out after him, a sinister, maniacal giggle; the door slammed violently closed.
Lights began to flick on elsewhere in the building, and Wilford heard the murmurs of humans stumbling out of bed to check on the noise. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the pulse in the tips of his fingers, in his back where it was pressed into the rough concrete. A gust of wind blew over him, cold, and he shivered.
Dark woke up on the floor of his apartment, cheek pressed into the carpet. He blinked, lifting himself up with a groan. Every muscle in his body seemed to have its own kind of ache, and the shirt and jeans he usually wore were in tatters.
A look around the room confirmed his suspicions: the couch was overturned, the TV screen cracked, and smears of black gleaming in the rays of sunlight on the walls. A hurricane had hit the room, and Dark sat on his heels in the eye of the storm. Alone.
A few moments passed, and Dark gathered the presence of mind to stand up. He walked around the tiny, three-room apartment, checking first the bedroom, then the kitchen. No Wilford.
Dark took a minute to curse himself. Standing in the bathroom, stained with the anger of past late nights, he stared down his own cracked reflection. Wilford was gone, doing who-knows-what, probably too scared to ever return on his own. As much as Dark hated him, Wilford couldn't be left to his own devices. He was a danger to others, a danger to Dark's plans. Maybe even a potential asset-- but he was gone, and Dark avoided his own eye. This was his fault. Everything was his fault.
He couldn't help it. He looked up. And there was Mark in the mirror, smirking back at him. Laughing. Mocking. Pitying.
Another crack added itself to the mirror with a noise like a gunshot, and Dark forced himself to turn away. There were other things he had to do just now, and quickly.
Dressed in a clean black shirt and whole jeans, Dark stepped out of the apartment. He locked the door quickly, and looked around. No one had seen him. Wishing he'd perfected the technique of turning invisible, Dark slipped out towards the center of the apartment complex, Wilford's knife stuffed in his back pocket.
He rounded a corner, still in the shadows, and heard someone call his name.
No, not his name.
"Mark!"
Dark's heart pounded in his chest-- what he figured was the equivalent of a heart, anyway-- as someone rounded the corner. Someone tall, taller than him, and in cargo pants.
Dark jumped over the hedge between him and safety and let his aura engulf him, a ringing in his ears, fading into a shadow against the wall. The darkness of his aura was comforting, a deep, reassuring pressure surrounding him. Nothing could find him in here.
A human he recognized as one of Mark's companions-- Wade-- walked past him, looking confused.
"Mark?" he said again, tentatively. He looked around again, staring right at Dark, but seeing nothing.
Finally, Wade shrugged, and Dark, hidden, breathed. As Wade walked away, presumably upstairs to see Mark, Dark held his breath and sidestepped along the wall until around a corner and out of sight.
With a gasp, he let his aura dissipate. Too close. Too close. Dark shook his head, still trying to fight down the panic in his chest. Control. With any luck, he wouldn't see anyone else that recognized him, and neither would Wilford.
"Oh, there you are! Hey, Mark, what's with the pink?"
No such luck.
Wilford had ran as fast as he could through the night, desperate to get away from Dark, from the sweeping flashlights of the neighbors. The farther he'd gotten from the apartment, the weaker he'd felt. He had reassured himself: it was cold, he was tired; but eventually, he fell to his knees, too spent to keep going, the gate of the apartment complex in front of him. He'd breathed heavily, battling for consciousness, but lost. His head had hit the ground, his body falling behind a bush, and all had gone black.
Now, he was woken by barking dogs and bright sunlight through the leaves above him. Wilford jolted awake, remembering, and scrambled to his feet. He shuddered, and the dirt staining his clothes disappeared.
His first thought was that he should get back-- his second, that he should keep running and not stop. Uncertain, he brushed his hands together.
A flash of light, a puff of pink smoke, and Wilford held a pistol finished in pink chrome. He almost dropped it in surprise, blinking.
A voice was talking to him. Telling him to run as far as he could with his newfound power. Another voice, warning of Dark, of the person Dark called Markiplier. Another voice--
"Oh, there you are! Hey, Mark, what's with the pink?"
Wilford whipped around, stuffing the gun hurriedly behind him. A human, someone he thought he should recognize. His eyes flicked up and down.
Slenderman?
"Mark, what's up? I was on my way--" The man stopped, looking Wilford up and down. "Are... are we shooting something?"
Not Slenderman. But, a solution had immediately presented itself, and Wilford smiled.
The man-- Wade, it clicked-- stepped back a foot when Wilford pulled his gun. The handle sat snugly in his palm, as though it had been made for him. The weight, the way the light shone off the barrel, everything about it was perfect. Undeniably Wilford's.
He drew the gun level with his eyes, pointing it at Wade's chest. Wade threw his hands up, shaking his head, frozen to the spot.
Wilford squinted and squeezed the trigger.
Dark was running, tennis shoes hitting the pavement at top speed, not even bothering to stay in the shadows. He was getting farther away from Mark, and weaker. The sun was too bright, too hot, and combined, he felt faint.
Just one more push.
He saw something glint in the sun, saw Wade raise his hands in surrender.
Just one more leap.
With a thump of his shoes and a tiny, imperceptible swirl of smoke, Dark launched himself into the air towards Wilford, knocking the two of them to the ground, the gun clattering as it fell.
Wade staggered back in shock. His best friend just pointed a gun at him. His best friend had just been tackled by a monochrome version of himself. Mark--
Dark sat up, panting, on top of Wilford. Wilford looked up at him, dazed. Recognizing Dark, his eyes widened.
"Dark--"
Dark glared, poisonous, brandishing his fangs in a grimace that warned Wilford to be quiet. "Shut up. You're messier than I am, Warfstache."
Wilford, for once, fell silent. Dark got up quickly, looking at Wade. He was backing up slowly, shaking his head.
"I'm going crazy. This isn't happening. No, no, no."
Dark didn't bother explaining, only sprang forward to stop Wade from getting away. He closed Wade's wrist in an ice-cold grip.
"Now," Dark said, mustering his strength, leaning up to stare Wade in the eye, "where were we?"
"Dark," Wilford panted from the ground, shaken, "you can't kill--"
"Oh, I can. But I can do it a lot cleaner than you can, don't you think?" he crooned at Wade, his aura muting the human's cries for help.
Wilford finally staggered to his feet, the gun back in his hand, hanging limply at his side. "No, Dark." His voice was fainter than before, but more controlled. More commanding.
"And who's going to stop me?" Dark sneered, pulling Wade's wrist, cruelly, as he struggled, soundless.
"There's a better way," Wilford said, stepping forward. He grasped Wade's other wrist in his free hand, bringing the gun up to his forehead.
Dark smiled at Wilford for what felt like the first time. "I like your style--"
The sickening crack of a pistol whip, and Wade fell unconscious to the ground. Wilford tucked the pistol back into his waistband, avoiding Dark's eyes. "Let's get him back to the gates. I have a plan."
Dark, more curious than angry, helped Wilford pull Wade's body towards the gate.
"Of all people," he sneered, needling, "I didn't expect Wilford Warfstache to be afraid of killing a harmless human."
"I'm not afraid," Wilford muttered, propping Wade up against the gate. "Just not bloodthirsty."
Dark afforded Wilford a snort, stepping back to watch his 'plan' unfold.
Wilford squatted in front of Wade, almost nose-to-nose. He snapped his fingers, and Wade jolted awake, babbling in incoherent fear.
"Hey, hey," Wilford said, holding his chin in place. "Look at me."
Dark craned his neck, curious despite himself, trying to see what Wilford was doing.
There was a flash of magenta light, and Wilford spoke soothingly, still holding Wade's face inches from his own. Dark gasped a little, watching Wade's limbs go slack.
Wilford snapped his fingers, and the light disappeared. He straightened up, a little wobbly on his feet. Wade sat, slumped, eyes closed. Dark caught Wilford, steadying him, and looked down at Wade.
Dark battled to keep the awe out of his voice. "What did you do?"
Wilford huffed a little, recoiling from Dark'a touch, but so unsteady that he leaned on Dark's arm anyway. "He won't remember anything."
"How--" Dark succumbed to a wave of emotion. Anger? Hatred? ...Jealousy?
"He'll wake up in a minute," Wilford said, shuffling. "We should go."
Dark turned away from Wilford and stalked back down the sidewalk. Wilford staggered, but caught himself, then followed. As he got closer to the apartment building, closer to Mark, he felt his strength returning in waves. He watched Dark's back straighten in front of him as they walked.
He'd only existed for a week, a handful of days, but there was something he enjoyed about having a body. It was grounding, and held endless promise. Wilford smiled to himself, mustache twitching. Endless promise, but for what?
Dark had made it very clear that he was out to get their creator, and his influence. He was all about control, Dark. Wilford took the sun-soaked walk back to the apartment to think.
By the time they'd reached the door, Dark fiddling with the keys, he had an answer. He remembered the fear in Wade's eyes when he'd pulled the gun, the rush of exhilaration at seeing both Dark and Wade angry. He reached a hand back to brush the beautiful pistol in his waistband, and his face broke into a smile. Chaos. Murderous, sensational, bubblegum-colored--
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"You're getting ideas," Dark leered, finally opening the door. "Dangerous ones."
Wilford scoffed, brushing past Dark into the apartment, lit by the light filtering through the windows. The door swung shut behind Dark as he followed, leaving the room dim.
Wilford had to admit, as micromanaging as Dark was, he was growing on him. It had been a short week, but Wilford felt as if they were falling into a kind of camaraderie, an easy back-and-forth.
Wilford's eyes gradually adjusted from the brightness of the outdoors, and he stifled a gasp, seeing the destroyed room. Dark walked up behind him, his proximity sending a shiver through Wilford.
"I suggest you don't anger me again," Dark said, voice smooth, a step behind fury.
Wilford swallowed his misgivings. "Not likely, Darkipoo." Ignoring the sudden chill in the room, Wilford clapped his hands, concentrating.
Dark, behind Wilford, stopped to stare. Illuminated by slanting rays of sunlight, Wilford stiffened, tensing. A beat, a rustle. The couch, with a groan, righted itself; the TV's screen flickered on, a low drone filling the room; the black smudges over the walls, like desperate handprints that Dark had never been able to scrub or bleach away, faded to nothing. The room smelled like spun sugar.
Dark actively chose to be annoyed, rather than impressed. "How," he growled, jaw clenched, "did you do that?"
Wilford relaxed his shoulders, suddenly tired. He limply flopped down onto the couch, digging for the TV remote. "No problem, ol' buddy, ol' pal." He tried impressively to be flippant, but came off instead as strained. He flicked lazily through a few channels, pointedly avoiding Dark's glare.
"I prefer to be called 'Dark,' thank you," Dark finally snapped, stalking over to his abandoned pile of boxes, now stacked neatly.
"What, we're not buddies?" Wilford raised an eyebrow, addressing the television screen.
Dark sat on one of the boxes, dropping his head into his hands. When he looked up, it was with a cool intensity that managed to catch Wilford's full attention.
Wilford struggled to keep his eyes on the TV as Dark spoke, struggled to appear as if he wasn't hanging on Dark's every word.
"No," Dark said, voice like flint. "You and I are not buddies, Wilford. I--" he pressed an elegant hand to his own chest, and Wilford was forced to look, "--am perfectly honed malignancy, the de facto counterpart of our creator, the lawful evil that drives the curiosity of my pawns until they succumb to my bidding."
He cracked a smile, eyes glinting dangerously. From where Wilford sat, facing the TV, Dark was lit from behind. His face was lost in shadow, eyes and teeth reflecting in glimmers. Wilford waved his hand, doing an impressive job of appearing nonchalant.
"You," Dark continued, smile dropping dangerously, voice rising bitingly, "are nothing more than misdirected chaos."
The words echoed around the room, the murmur of the television lost in the ring of Dark's aura. Wilford tore his eyes away from Dark's, sunken in shadow, and repressed a shudder.
"Why am I here, then?" Wilford said, finding a desperate kind of bravado.
"Oh, that's the best part," Dark said, still smiling silkily. "Directing chaos is my specialty." He'd leaned back, looking far more comfortable balanced on a cardboard box than Wilford felt sprawled across the couch.
Dark was less than satisfied, looking across at Wilford. This vividly pink figment was a wrench in his plans, even if he could be of some use. Obviously, Wilford was getting used to living here. Getting used to him.
He was more of an asset than a liability, Dark conceded. The sheer speed at which Wilford had found, and now, learned to use, his powers was astonishing and if nothing else, promising.
Wilford hated the way Dark looked him over, like a tool waiting to be used. Even so, his presence was almost amicable. Dark had made empty threats before, and he wouldn't hurt Wilford, especially if he was planning on working with him, would he?
Besides, Wilford mused, he himself wasn't entirely helpless. As new to existence as he was, he already had a few tricks up his sleeve.
Wilford lounged, lapsing into boredom. Dark sighed, seeing his words sink into Wilford's thick skull, and clasped his hands behind his head. It had been a long week of push and pull between him and Wilford. Between forcing Wilford to take the couch, reminding him that his corporeal form needed both food and a toilet, and somehow finding time to corrupt Mark's videos in the midst of it all, Dark was tired.
"Tired?" Wilford looked over at Dark, wiggling his eyebrows, fingers now carelessly caressing his gun.
Dark scowled back, examining his fingernails with altogether too much interest. "Bored." He suffered a glance at Wilford, eyes lighting on the weapon. With a sigh, Dark unraveled a little, stretching out his feet. "Where'd you get that, anyway?"
"This beauty?" Wilford lifted it, the mid-morning light playing across its shined barrel. He waved a finger at Dark, teasing. "I never give away all my secrets."
"Hmmph," Dark grunted, an indignant response.
Wilford flipped the gun over and over in his hands, almost proudly aware of the way that Dark's eyes were drawn to it. He tossed it a little, catching it by the handle. As if he were a performer of some sacred art in a darkened, hushed theater, rather than himself, sprawled on Dark's couch, Wilford tossed it again, a little higher, letting the chrome finish catch the light. For all that Dark stared, he might as well have been on stage.
It was a beautiful gun, really, and Wilford's fingers itched for the trigger.
"What is it that you want?" Dark broke the silence with a low question, letting it hang in the air. Wilford might have plausibly refused to answer, but Dark's tone was not questioning, not friendly. Rather, the simple query hung as if a rhetorical question.
"I could ask you the same," Wilford said finally, eyes still on his own fingers.
"I've made it very clear what I want," Dark said, almost snapping. "The channel. Influence. Power."
"Mm." Wilford nodded disinterestedly. "Perhaps it's too early for me to know."
"Ridiculous. What were you created for?" Dark had perked up a little, showing interest in a conversation with Wilford for what seemed like the first time.
Wilford blinked, unsure. "I'm a performer," he started, tone wavering.
Dark stopped him with a wave, now leaning towards him with the look of a hunter examining weakened prey. "What were you made to do?" he repeated, looking Wilford fully in the face.
Wilford squinted, gaze hard. "Chaos," he finally said. "But none of this 'misdirected' nonsense. I want things. Power. Influence. A platform."
Dark smiled, looking satisfied. "Then," he said, standing, "providing you are bored enough, I have a proposition for you."
Of all the plans Dark had had, deciding to team up with a week-old figment had to have been the worst. Wilford had been enthusiastic to have something to direct his seemingly boundless energy towards, and Dark restrainedly excited for the potential the future held.
This, of course, lasted less than a day.
"Hold still," Dark snapped, reaching his free hand into his pocket for his keys.
"I caaaaan't," Wilford whined, stumbling under the weight of industrial-sized cables and wires, piled high in his arms. "I have to go to the bathroom!" He danced from foot to foot, shadow lengthening in the setting sun.
Dark shifted his own, smaller bundle of cables under his arm and sighed, fumbling with the doorknob. "Shut up."
The door opened, and Dark ushered Wilford through first so he could lock the door carefully behind them. Wilford dumped his package of twisted metal onto the couch and ran, nearly tripping on his way to the restroom.
Dark followed more slowly, sitting down in the center of the floor. They'd been to the dump at the edge of the apartment complex twice, collecting bits of metal and wire, finally uncovering cables and rebar from a nearby construction site. Now, Dark picked up a few bits and pieces of their treasure and began to wind them together.
By the time Wilford had returned from the bathroom, night had really fallen, and Dark was nearly done with his creation.
"What're we making?" Wilford exclaimed, sitting cross-legged across from Dark. "Frankenstein?"
For once, Dark didn't reply scathingly. Instead, he held up his creation with a kind of cold pride. "Close," he drawled, inviting Wilford to examine it.
To Wilford's eye, it seemed unimpressive. Dark had twisted together several couplings and cables into a messy Y-frame-- on each end, a sprig of loose wires and clamps.
"What is it?"
"You'll find out," Dark smirked. Outside, right on schedule, it was beginning to drizzle.
A hour later, Wilford, too, was rethinking his decision to ally with Dark. He stood on the roof of the apartment building, soaking wet, lugging Dark's contraption. Dark, equally wet, was bent over something on the side of the roof. Wilford staggered over, afraid to drop something.
"What're you doing?" he yelled over the pounding rain, struggling to stay upright. The drizzle from earlier had evolved into a storm, complete with lightning and thunder. Looking up, Wilford could see the clouds swirling, a familiar sight near Dark's gray aura.
"We're shorting out Mark's power!" Dark laughed, high-pitched and insane, and Wilford shivered-- It had nothing to do with the November chill in the whipping air.
Dark took the Y-frame he'd built from Wilford, hooking one end to the exposed wiring that he'd identified as Mark's.
He looked at Wilford, mischievous, even with rain pouring down his face. "D'you trust me?"
"Not in the slightest."
"Well, you're going to have to." Lightning shot through the air, close by. Dark grinned, taking a moment to look up at the tumultuous sky. This was, he acknowledged, dangerous. This was borderline insanity.
But then again, what did he exist for?
Deftly, Dark looped the other two exposed wires around each of his arms. Wilford stared, mustache dripping. A crack of thunder.
"What I need you to do," Dark said, quickly, "is to unhook this as soon as the power goes out. That is, unless you want to room with a pile of ash."
"I-- What?" Wilford sputtered, shaking water out of his face. He wasn't sure that he'd heard Dark over the howling wind. "But-- You said you planned this ages ago! When I didn't exist!" Wilford crouched next to Dark, eyes flashing between the wires and Dark's smile. "Who would unhook you then?!"
Dark laughed, and there was a close flash of lightning to illuminate his face. Mania in his eyes. "This is what i was made to do."
The following thunder sent Wilford reeling back, away from both Dark and the steadily sparking contraption he'd hooked himself to. "Are you sure about this?" he started to yell, but it was too late.
The next strike of lightning hit Dark's outstretched arms, and Wilford could see the flash of light move through him, to the wires, to the apartments below.
The power wasn't out, but Dark was screaming. Smoke-- not his aura, but real smoke-- rose from his arms, and even crouched in safety, Wilford swore he'd never eat barbecue again. He watched Dark spasm wildly, limbs jerking, but never breaking free of the wires.
The power still wasn't out, but Dark-- Wilford realized, with a jolt-- was dying.
Wilford didn't think, rushing forward. He had to unhook him, had to get there before it was too late, shorting out Mark's power be damned-- almost unnoticed, his skin began to glow with a soft pink light. Wilford had a split-second to realize what he was about to do, laying his hands on the sparking, shaking metal.
The second passed, and he held the Y-beam in steady hands, the cables warm, but not hot. Electricity-- or something like it-- flowed through him, and Wilford suddenly understood Dark's lust for power.
For the moment that Wilford held the lightning-sparking rod, he felt something akin to adrenaline spike through him. For a second, just a second, he felt that he had the strength to move mountains.
With the screech and creak of ripping metal, Dark's creation fell apart in his hands with the ease of wet tissue paper. Dark had the strength to scream in agony one last time, arms still tangled in wires, but not attached to the building anymore. He fell back, and Wilford caught him with a free arm, pink glow fading as the cables fell from his hand.
Wilford stood on the roof of the apartment building for a moment, holding Dark's limp form in a French dip, rain still pouring down on them. The wires, abandoned, sparked sadly, fizzling against the raging wind and water. Thunder clapped above them. Wilford, looking down at his friend, had never felt more alone.
Dark came to consciousness slowly, his senses returning one by one. As he remembered the night before, the light and pain, he clenched his eyes shut-- almost afraid to witness the aftermath.
The first thing that he noticed was the bed beneath him: his own, of course, head pillowed, blankets softly pulled over him. Wilford must've brought him back.
He was in his bedroom, then. Through his closed eyelids, he could tell the room was dark. He couldn't guess at the time-- how long had he been out? What had happened on the roof? His mouth tasted like metal.
Dark heard a quiet shuffling enter his room.
Wilford had dragged Dark downstairs in a blind panic, still tangled in cables, feet thumping at every step. Dark was unconscious, and it seemed that his control over his aura was gone-- the gray mist had darkened to black, swirling and biting at Wilford. There was a ringing in his ears.
On the last flight of stairs, just as Wilford had been thanking his stars for not running into anyone, he'd heard footsteps. Wilford had frozen on the spot, envisioning the end. Dark's aura, still snapping like a rabid dog, had enveloped them.
Wilford couldn't breathe, then, trapped in inky blackness. Dark's aura was like a straitjacket, squeezing, suffocating. As if though a veil, he saw a gaggle of humans rush past them, heading for the roof, dressed in blue.
Maintenance. A voice, not unlike Dark's, had whispered in his ear.
The humans' steps receded, and Wilford gasped for air. The stairwell was suddenly too bright, Dark's skin too pale. The rest of the wires gently fell to the floor. Wilford, coming to his senses with the air of being dunked in cold water, had thrown himself down the remaining stairs and down the hallway to their apartment. The aura had followed like a cloud, trailing, ringing diminished.
Finally, Wilford had had the luxury of setting Dark unceremoniously on the ground to rifle through his pockets. The keys, hot to the touch, had burned his fingers when he found them. Wilford hadn't noticed, intent on getting Dark home.
He'd been surprised that he'd had the presence of mind to relock the door once getting them inside. Safe, Wilford had taken a moment to breathe. Dark, crumpled on the floor, had gasped for air in short, shaky breaths, and Wilford had remembered the danger he was still in.
It had been to bed with Dark, then, Wilford re-ripping the black shirt and jeans as he'd wrestled Dark's prone form into a comfortable position. With a cold rag on Dark's forehead and the door barricaded with several chairs and boxes, Wilford had collapsed on the couch.
Wilford woke up, feeling as if he'd just run a marathon. He took it upon himself to blink the sleep hastily out of his eyes and run to check on the apartment-- first Dark, now breathing steadily, aura back to its usual gray; then the kitchen, innocuous; and finally the living room, sofa still indented from his sleep, door still barricaded by a chair and a few haphazard boxes.
Wilford took a second glance at the door to make sure it was locked, and saw a square of paper, folded and torn, shoved underneath. He looked around despite himself, his knife still loosely held in his hand. Wilford huffed, finally, and picked it up.
NOTICE TO ALL RESIDENTS:
A POWER SURGE OCCURRED LAST NIGHT BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11PM AND 2AM. THE POWER DID NOT GO OUT: HOWEVER, FOR YOUR SAFETY, MANAGEMENT SUGGESTS THAT YOU ENSURE THAT ALL PLUGGED-IN ELECTRONICS ARE IN WORKING ORDER.
THANK YOU.
MANAGEMENT.
Wilford crumpled the paper in his hand. Dark's failure was an issue for another time. Right now, Wilford just had to be sure that he'd be all right, and have a talk with him about his recklessness.
Speaking of Dark...
There was a slight movement from the bedroom, and Wilford shuffled over to see Dark beginning to stir. He'd be angry, no doubt-- Wilford figured he'd might as well fave the music, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind him.
The room was dim, curtains drawn over the afternoon light slanting through the windows. Dark wasn't nearly as pale as he'd been last night, and Wilford almost smiled, sitting down on the bed beside him.
Dark's eyes opened slowly, reluctantly, at the weight on the mattress.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Wilford teased, wiggling his mustache.
Dark said nothing, looking blearily at Wilford, eyes narrow.
"You slept for a while," Wilford said, trying to sound confident. "I-I was worried." He lapsed into silence, watching Dark's chest rise and fall, avoiding his eyes. "Are you hurt?" he asked, gaze flicking up to meet Dark's.
Dark took a deep breath, finally conscious. He began to sit up, and Wilford sprang to help him, genuine worry finally springing to his eyes.
Dark scowled. "I'm fine."
Wilford stepped back, uncertain, as the ringing in the room rose to a peak. Dark shifted, bare chest and arms slipping from the covers. With a barely-concealed wince, Dark settled himself against the headboard.
Wilford didn't bother to hide his emotions, cringing as he saw Dark's arms. The wires had left their mark, scorched black lines winding their way up his pale arms, ending in tell-tale lightning-bolt veins. Wilford's eyes followed the intricate lines, burned skin already peeling to give way to oozing, inky blood.
Dark scowled, again, folding his arms into the sheets. "I'm fine," he repeated, challenging Wilford to meet his eyes, defiance in every line of his body.
Wilford sighed a little, remembering himself. "You're obviously not fine," he snapped, looking straight at Dark, eyes burning with an intensity to match his. "You nearly died, that was such a stupid idea--"
Dark interrupted. "I said," for the third time, "I'm fine."
Wilford looked at him, a little hopeless, a little incredulous. Determination renewed. "What kind of reckless idiot," he started, swinging his hands in the air, knife nearly flying out of his grasp.
Dark reached for the crumpled square Wilford had dropped as he ranted, muscles shaking with the effort of lifting a sheet of paper.
"...bring you home," Wilford was saying, volume increasing, "and put you to bed, and see my friend nearly die-- what is WRONG with you?!" he finally finished, arms dropping.
Dark was staring down at his lap, and in the dimly lit room, Wilford could barely see.
Wilford leaned forward to shake Dark's arm, scolding him. He jumped a little at the unnatural warmth of Dark's skin, the wounds gaping beneath his hand, and drew back.
"What is wrong with you?" he repeated, squinting. "You risked everything, it's like you don't care if you--"
Dark raised his head, cutting Wilford off with a glare. Suddenly, the room was darker, vibrating with a strange ringing--
"Was it something I sa--" Wilford stopped, looking at Dark's lap. A white square of paper, folded and torn from someone stuffing it under their door.
"Now, don't get upset," Wilford started, doing his best to prepare for the storm, "but--"
"What did I say?" Dark's mind had gone white-hot with fury, and he had the strong impulse to incinerate Wilford on the spot. Something familiar held him back. A thread of conscience, a voice not unlike his own murmuring, "Control, control."
Dark breathed as Wilford stumbled for an answer, excusing himself. "You were dy--"
Pathetic.
"I said," Dark leaned forward, sheets slipping down his chest again. Cold. Aura ringing. "'Unhook this as soon as the power goes out.' Now, what did you do?"
This was much more satisfying, Dark decided, watching Wilford shrink and fumble like a scolded child. His anger felt cool in his chest, more like a keenly honed blade than a flailing mace. This was better, yes. He could work with this.
"You expected me to wait until you were reduced to a pile of ash?" Wilford was saying, glaring under a furrowed brow. "You're hurt enough as it is, what would've happened if--"
Dark's mind slipped a little in anger, and his aura spread out around him, a writhing mass of tendrils and smoke.
"'If?'" Dark sneered, drawing breath. His chest burned as if on fire, and arms ached, but he pulled himself up against the headboard like a king on a throne. "It is not your place to wonder if. You were given directions--"
"As your partner in this crime, I think I can damn well--"
"Partner?" Dark almost laughed, fangs flashing in a grin, and his aura pulsed around him, swirling and snapping: as if laughing itself. His chest tightened with the effort. "This is not a partnership."
The words were meant to bite, and Dark watched their effect with satisfaction.
Wilford, reeling in hurt and confusion, found his voice. "What are we, then?" he demanded, knowing full well that he was hanging on Dark's words, wrapped around his finger.
"First of all," Dark said, sitting back, "there is no 'we.' Second, what do you think we are? Equals?"
Wilford was taken aback by the cruelty of Dark's sneer. His heart hardened a little, and Wilford gestured to Dark with the tip of his knife. "I thought we were friends."
The darkening room reverberated, a low chuckle. The walls were beginning to swirl, closing in on Wilford.
Dark adjusted himself, gritting his teeth, and the curling smoke picked up speed. "We are not friends."
"What, then?" Wilford had to raise his voice against the whipping wind.
The darkness was swirling, bringing a wall of smoke closer and closer to Wilford-- for a long moment, the room was obscured, the air sucked out of his lungs, waves of fear washing over him.
Pinpricks of light. Two, where Dark's eyes should've been. Gleaming fangs. A palpable rush of disgust.
The voice echoed eerily, the ringing now nearly drowning it out. "Consider this a warning, Warfstache. This... relationship... that I've so graciously facilitated only exists insofar as it benefits me." The lights blinked, slowly, seemingly smiling. Wilford struggled for breath.
"Consider yourself an ant," the voice echoed, the room going black. "An ant on the chessboard, desperately trying to understand the game--"
Wilford looked around frantically, eyes straining against the blackness. The hurricane parted, suddenly-- he and Dark sat in its eye, Dark glaring at him steadily.
"--without being crushed."
The room went black.
The rush of power that Dark had felt controlling his hurricane followed him for the next week. It had been his anger: but at his fingertips, like a tool, rather than a chaotic force. At the center of the hurricane, he'd felt in control of not only himself, but the whole world. It was a good feeling to have.
Being a figment, he healed at a supernatural rate-- the winding burns healing over quickly, the faint, radiating lightning-bolt scar never really fading from his chest. He was up and walking in a matter of days, without Wilford's help.
Wilford, with the air of someone who'd been sitting on the branch they were sawing off, was shocked and confused. For the next week, he carefully avoided Dark, who was sweeping about like a king in the three-room apartment.
Instead of helping Dark with his latest hare-brained scheme (or even being in the same room as him, really), Wilford dedicated himself to getting stronger.
Dark had explained this all when he'd pulled Wilford through the door. They were figments, given corporeal forms by the belief of Mark's fans. Mark, as their creator, was their life force, and they had to stay close to him. The fans were much more important, at least to Dark. Mark's subscribers' perceptions of them dictated the way they were, and how much power they had.
Dark, in the beginning, didn't even have fangs. Some artists decided he did--as the idea was popularized, Dark's teeth lengthened.
With each video, they were cemented further into the fans' heads. Dark relished the spotlight, constantly trying to get into new videos and get more powerful. Wilford, having just the one video, was still figuring out how to edge himself into Mark's life. As far as he knew, Dark just showed up in the form of nightmares and blackouts, making Mark's life a living hell. He got videos out of it, and power-- but at what cost?
Wilford took to watching Mark's old videos, trying to learn more about Dark as well as himself. Mark seemed like an okay guy-- boring, sentimental, if anything. Wilford didn't dare ask Dark why he hated Mark so much, at least not now.
"Where're you going?"
Dark didn't respond, shouldering his backpack with an air of finality. Wilford stood up, standing between Dark and the door, the closest they'd been in days.
"Move." Dark pocketed his phone, finally, and looked Wilford in the eye.
"Not unless you tell me where you're going." Wilford slipped his knife out of his pocket, holding it behind his back. It didn't go unnoticed.
"What're you going to do," Dark drawled, "stab me?"
"I might." Wilford's fingers twitched.
Dark scowled with the air of a teenager caught sneaking out. "I'm going to see a friend," he said, finally. "Out in the woods. I'll be gone a few days. Happy?"
"I guess." Wilford stepped aside, an odd sense of loss filling him as Dark tied his shoes. "What about being close to Mark?"
Dark didn't bother to turn around. "As if you care."
"Of course I care," Wilford snapped, before he could stop himself. Dark was his roommate, if nothing else, and the two figments were alone in the world.
"I'll manage." Dark shot back, opening the door. Closing it behind him, he paused. "You can call me in an emergency. The number and spare keys are beside the phone." A harsh ring to his voice, and the door slammed behind him.
Wilford was left in the dark, staring after him.
Wilford was beginning to doubt if Dark was ever coming back. It had been days, and there was no sign of him. Nothing had happened, nothing to warrant calling, but Wilford eyed the phone every time he passed it, just the same.
Somehow, new videos were showing up with Dark in them, and Wilford inwardly marveled a little at Dark's power. Out in the woods, wherever he was, he was still apparently strong enough to haunt Mark's dreams.
Wilford, taking advantage of Dark's absence, started experimenting. He teleported himself from the bedroom to the kitchen, the kitchen to the living room, and the living room to, accidentally, a small town in the middle of nowhere. He'd teleported back in a matter of seconds, ignoring the screams.
He appeared in the bathroom in a puff of smoke, blinking in confusion. He took a moment to breathe, examine himself in the mirror. His mustache, usually a vivid pink, seemed paler. He wrote it off as a trick of the light, and 'poofed' back to the living room.
He got braver.
Wilford was juggling knives through dimensions, or as he termed it, interdimensional kn-uggling (the name needed some work), when there was a knock on the door. The lone knife that hadn't been 'poofed' away slipped, and Wilford held his breath to stop from cursing.
He was bleeding, a gash on his hand, blood seeping through. Unlike Dark's blood, which was black, or human blood, which he knew from movies was red, his blood came out a translucent pink. Wilford didn't have time to marvel, wrapping his hand hastily in a napkin and rushing to the door, knife in his uninjured hand.
Whoever had knocked was gone by the time Wilford pressed his eye to the peephole, but he spotted a magazine on the ground outside. With a quick glance around to see if anyone was watching, Wilford poofed outside to pick it up.
It was some kind of cult, he decided, turning the flyer over. Symbols, few of which he recognized, and text asking him to 'appear before the light.' Wilford shrugged, tucking it in a pocket.
He turned on the spot, concentrating-- a wave of fatigue crashed over him, and Wilford staggered. Suddenly, he was weak, too weak to stand, let alone phase himself through a solid door.
Wilford leaned his back against the wall, struggling to breathe. Thinking quickly. Was this an emergency? Could he call Dark? The phone was inside, anyway, along with Dark's number and--
The keys.
A jolt of adrenaline, and Wilford looked through his pockets. Finding nothing but lint and a bit of hard candy, he began to panic. He was locked out. Trapped outside, where anyone could see him. Dark was going to be upset if he came home and saw Wilford slumped against the door, throwing secrecy to the wind.
Wilford popped the candy he'd found into his mouth, breathing finally under control. With the sugar, some strength to his limbs, even his still-throbbing hand.
All he had to do was break in, right? Dark had done it to Mark's apartment before, how hard could it be?
Wilford gathered himself up, knowing he made a sorry sight with a bloodstained rag around his hand, face pale and sweating. A window. He had to find a window. There were two in the living room, he knew that much. Slowly, he shuffled around the side of the building, a hand on the wall, breathing hard.
A window. Their apartment, no doubt.
Now what?
Wilford leveraged a palm against the glass-- it was locked. Obvious, obvious. He looked around for another solution, scanning the ground, then the sky for divine intervention.
A rock.
Wilford gave himself the benefit of hesitating. Messy, a voice like Dark's whispered.
Wilford mentally shook himself, reaching for the rock. He looked around one last time, looking for anyone around, looking for a sign he shouldn't be doing this.
SMASH.
Glass flew everywhere, and Wilford grinned. Seeing windows shatter was a special kind of satisfaction, even if it was a bit messy.
Holding his hurt hand gingerly, Wilford slid through the open window. Glass crunched under his feet, and he made a mental note to clean it up before Dark got back. For the moment, he stumbled haphazardly towards the sofa, kicking boxes aside.
This, he thought, settling down, was life without Dark. He existed, figuring life out through trial and error, making his own way. He could get used to this, just as soon as he felt a bit stronger.
The question of his sudden weakness never crossed his mind.
He was trying to transform the apartment into something more livable-- Dark, even having moved in months ago, had left boxes everywhere, the walls bare. The apartment existed in simple lines of black and white, and Wilford was profoundly bored with it.
A pop of pink here, he was thinking, screwing up his face in concentration to make it so.
Fatigue had been gnawing at him for days, but had never hit him quite like this. If the falling gray mustache hairs in the bathroom weren't sign enough, this certainly was.
Wilford gasped, falling to his knees. He knelt in semidarkness, fingers digging into the carpet. He didn't understand-- Dark was gone, and with him, his horrible ringing aura. He should be stronger, especially experimenting with his powers. He should--
With horror in his eyes, he saw his hands beginning to turn transparent.
Dark was thinking of heading back to the apartment soon. He couldn't leave Wilford alone forever, but these few days without him had been a much-needed respite.
He had expected Wilford to have called by now, panicked over a broken water heater or something similar. Honestly, Wilford's bumbling impetuousness was something he missed having around, if only to make himself feel superior by comparison. Dark smiled to himself, watching the trees rustle overhead. He'd go back, then, maybe even talk to Wilford a bit. Let him feel comfortable. For a while. After all, they had all the time in the world to be enemies.
Dark's phone buzzed in his back pocket, and he didn't feel it.
It was only once he'd said his goodbyes and gotten in his car (that he'd gotten completely legally, of course) that Dark checked his phone.
3 Missed Calls.
From-- Home
Time-- 12:37pm
Dark cursed under his breath His aura, so well under control these past few days, reared up, a coiled snake. Dark waved it away, squinting at the car's clock.
1:59pm
Dark felt a deep-set panic start to rise in his chest, and forced it down. Wilford had probably stubbed his toe or something equally insignificant. Probably.
He must've called the house phone a dozen times as he sped towards home, knowing that the car was trailed by the smoky cloud of his aura. A police car might've started following him at one point, but was lost in the shadow. At this point, he didn't care.
No one picked up, leaving him with a dial tone and the prompt to record a message. More angry than scared, Dark left a few choice words on the answering machine.
"Fuck you, Warfstache."
Eventually, the swirls of his aura receded in the rear view mirror. Dark drove in concentrated silence, swerving around other cars. Wind whipped around him, engine rattling, but his mind was on the tiny apartment that he called home.
The drive seemed to take forever. Finally, finally, he skidded to a stop in front of their building. He flung the car door open, cleaving neatly into another car, and bounded out. Dark made sure to lock the car-- glaring at the neighboring vehicle as if it had attacked him, rather than the other way around-- before hurrying up to his own door.
The cloud of his aura seemed to have not caught up to him yet-- Dark was for once, alone, not even the ringing of his own power to comfort him. He pushed the thought aside, fumbling with the keys. His mind was oddly clear, emotionless besides the nagging fear that Wilford had somehow blown their cover.
Stepping inside, the first thing he noticed was the window. Broken: shattered glass and a guilty rock on the carpet. Someone had broken in, maybe. A kid playing, maybe. Dark's brain worked through the possibilities.
The apartment was a crime scene as Dark stepped through, footsteps muffled by the carpet. He looked for every detail, trying to find the missing piece: the victim. Wilford.
Everything was, as far as he could tell, the way he left it. A few boxes were shuffled, the couch pushed against the wall, showing signs of life. It was as if he'd never left, as if Wilford had never lived here.
Dark tiptoed through to the kitchen, shoes echoing against the tile, looking at the spotless countertops. Wilford had been trying his hand at cooking, but only a few stray pots and crumbs remained in the sink. Dark scanned the counters, then the floor, in pindrop silence.
A spray of blood. Not his, and not human.
Dark knelt to look, examining the rusty pink drops and scratches in the kitchen tile. Wilford had been hurt-- but not badly enough to explain three missed calls and a silent apartment.
Well, nearly silent.
As the echoes of Dark's footsteps faded, there came a weak shuffle from the bedroom. The same nagging panic pulled hard at his throat, and Dark crossed the apartment in quick, measured steps.
He threw his bedroom door open and gasped, despite himself.
The floor and walls were nearly covered with pink splashes that hurt to look at, like residue from a faulty bomb. At the center of the explosion, Wilford.
Dark picked his way over to Wilford as fast as he could, careful not to touch the pooling pink splatters, so unnervingly like blood. Wilford, in stark contrast to the rest of the room, was a washed-out version of himself: mustache gray, skin pale. He looked up at Dark with sunken eyes, silent.
If Dark didn't know better, he would've sworn that he was looking at a mustached version of himself.
"Warfstache," Dark said, voice as hard as he could make it, kneeling down.
"Dark." Wilford's voice was horribly weak, horribly faint. "You're back."
"Of course I'm back," Dark found himself well enough to sneer, looking down at Wilford. "Did you really think I'd leave you to your own devices?"
Wilford didn't respond, struggling for air. The room was silent, and Dark detected a distant ringing.
"I didn't think you cared," Wilford finally managed, chest heaving with the effort of cracking a smile.
Dark ignored the sentiment rising in his stomach. "What happened?"
Wilford gathered enough breath to speak, a pause between words. "I haven't had... a video."
Dark knew then, a horrible twist in his gut. "They've forgotten about you." The words came out quickly, bluntly.
Wilford laughed, a dry, terrible sound. "Yeah. Yeah they have."
"You're..." Dark half didn't want to speak the truth, sentence Wilford to his fate.
Wilford did it himself. "...fading," he finished, a whisper.
Silence again, Dark sitting on his heels, Wilford listlessly staring up at the ceiling. The ringing was getting louder.
"I've always considered you a friend," Wilford started, sickening emotion in his voice. Dark stopped him, an angry hand on his shoulder.
"Shut up. Just, shut up."
"Dark--"
Dark turned on Wilford, eyes flashing. "You are not dying." The statement betrayed a harsh depth of emotion, and Dark turned away.
Wilford reached out, arm trembling with the effort, to put a hand on Dark's knee. Dark looked down, seeing the fabric of his jeans through Wilford's fingers, hating how light the weight of Wilford's arm was.
"It's okay, Dark."
Dark didn't respond, watching Wilford's hand against his leg. The ringing was closer now, inside the apartment, outside the door.
Dark finally screwed up his face, closing his eyes, feeling the weight on his knee disappear. "You would've been a great partner," he said, letting the words drop slowly.
There was a familiar ringing in his ears again, and he opened his eyes to an empty room. Wilford had faded completely, the only lingering trace of him the scent of bubblegum and pools of pink blood around the room.
Dark took a breath. The chessboard was his again, but what was it without an ant to play around? Not messy enough. Too clean, too boring.
The winds of his aura began to bend the room into inky blackness, erasing what was left of Wilford's existence. Still, Dark knelt on the carpet, heart as empty as it had ever been.
There was a hurricane in the room now, and Dark sat in the eye of the storm.
Alone.