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"I bet you fifty bucks you can't drink this entire thing of hot sauce."
It had started off innocently enough, another challenge, another dare. Wilford had wiggled his mustache mischievously at Mark, holding out the tiny bottle, the sun in his eyes. Mark, never one to back down, had grinned, backlit. The Googles had laughed and started recording.
Now, now the fun was gone. The sun-dappled office had been replaced with a dim, quiet room in Dr. Iplier's clinic, the laughter with the uneven beeping of a heart monitor. Wilford's mustache drooped, sitting in a chair drawn close to the bed. Mark's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, eyes shut.
None of them had expected it to end like this.
Dr. Iplier let the others in, one at a time, to see Mark. His face was grim, brow furrowed.
"I'm doing everything I can," he said.
"His heart was already weak," he said.
"It isn't your fault," he said.
Wilford dug his hands into his face, trying to block out the buzzing of his own guilt. Mark seemed to shrink under the white hospital blankets, face too pale, breaths too short, heart too slow. Wilford reached a hand out, shaking, feeling for the life in Mark's skin.
Too cold.
Wilford's hands were see-through, now. All of them were transparent as Mark gasped for air.
There was a tentative tap at the door, and the shadow of Dr. Iplier poked its head in. "Time's up, Will."
His time was up.
Wilford rose slowly, feeling the weakness rush through him. The seat he'd been sitting on was cold, and he'd barely left a dent. He'd been here for what felt like hours, not a word escaping him.
At the door, he turned. The man who shared his face was shuddering under his blankets, dying.
"I'm sorry."
Wilford hurried down the hall before the Doctor could stop him, fighting back tears.
Bim came in, lips pressed into a thin, shaking line.
"No crying," Dr. Iplier cautioned him, comforting. "Ten minutes."
Bim took Wilford's vacated seat, looking anywhere but Mark's face. He couldn't find it in himself to break the silence. He fidgeted with the corner of the blanket, breathing deeply.
This couldn't be happening, he fought with himself. Mark wasn't--
Mark took a rattling breath, and both Bim and the heart monitor jumped. Dr. Iplier shuffled over with his stethoscope, frowning.
"When's he going to wake up?" Bim heard himself say, voice small.
Dr. Iplier looked at him, a little sadly, and shook his head. Bim felt the tip of his nose beginning to burn. Mark had been through so much, and now, a bottle of hot sauce--
"Hey, hey." Bim didn't realize he was crying until Dr. Iplier pulled him up into a hug, pressing Bim's face against the lapels of his coat. Bim shook, silent, hating how light the Doctor's arms were against his back, hating that he could open his eyes and see through him.
All Bim could do was laugh weakly, pulling away. "T-thanks."
Dr. Iplier's eyes flicked to Mark, then back to Bim. "Are you--"
It was Bim's turn to shake his head, avoiding the Doctor's eyes.
Dr. Iplier sighed. "Of course not." He ran a hand through his hair, fingers shaking. He gestured to Mark. "Did you--"
Bim nodded, eyes on the floor, and began to walk towards the door. The Doctor followed him, struggling to compose himself. As Bim started down the hallway, Dr. Iplier stopped him.
"What'd you say?"
Bim turned, looking the Doctor straight in the eyes, voice shaking. Dr. Iplier started a little at the bloodshot stare.
"I didn't say anything," Bim whispered, "because if I don't say 'goodbye,' he's not really gone."
The Googles were next, all four of them filing in at once.
"Ten minutes," Dr. Iplier warned, closing the door.
Oliver and Google_G were silent, looking down at Mark's limp form, still covered in a blanket, still barely breathing. Google_R beeped worriedly in tune with the heart monitor.
Google_B cleared his throat with a whirr-- not that he needed to, but as a preface to break the horrible, deathly silence.
"I would like to say a few words," he said, monotone voice somehow carrying a depth of emotion. "Though you cannot actually hear us, Mark--" his voice wavered, "--we hope that you will somehow understand. We, your Egos, are all fading. We have less time left than you do now. However..." he trailed off, unable to continue, and Oliver picked up the fragments of his sentence.
"However, in the time we have left," Oliver said, voice suddenly hard, eyes flashing yellow, "we are vowing to do what you could not."
"We will avenge you," Google_R almost whispered, angry. "We will punish those at fault."
"We will punish Wilford." Google_G's statement was followed by a chorus of beeps, each of the others nodding their heads.
It was almost ominous silence as the Googles trooped out of Mark's room, leaving it somehow emptier than it was before. Mark seemed smaller, shrunken against the bedsheets, and Dr. Iplier took a moment to fluff his pillow. He didn't have the time nor the will to stop the Googles-- at this point, what did it matter? They were all gone, anyway. They were all already gone.
The Host stumbled into the Doctor, muttering furious narrations. "I-- I came to see Mark," he said, wringing his hands.
Dr. Iplier let him in. He patted the Host's shoulder as he passed, almost phasing right through his coat. They didn't have very much time.
The Host found his way unerringly to the chair by Mark's bed. He could hear his labored, shallow breaths, the weak beeps of his heart. The Host reached forward, finding Mark's hand between layers of bedsheets, and pulled it towards him with what felt like a tremendous effort.
"The Host," he spoke, shaking his head, "I-I want to thank you, for giving me, us, this life." He shook himself a little, a shudder. "You gave me this power, and I want to give some of it back."
The Host took a deep breath, summoning what felt like the last of his strength.
"Mark feels strength returning to him," the Host said, hands clasped tightly around Mark's. "The color floods back to his face, and his breathing grows strong and steady. His heart--" the Host faltered a little, light-headed, "--his heart beats are even and healthy, with the knowledge of many more years of life to come. Consciousness returns, and Mark is able to sit up. As he does, the Host--" he took a breath, "--fades entirely from existence."
The Host waited with bated breath, flooded, for a moment, with hope.
Silence. Mark's breathing still weak, heart still uneven. Not the creak of bedsprings, not a single movement. The Host was still very much awake and alive, but Mark-- Mark was not.
The Host gripped at his hair in frustration. It should've worked. He'd spent years honing his abilities, and for what? For what? The universe to abandon him when he needed it the most? Here he was, bargaining for his creator's life, and not a peep from the Author within him.
"What more can I give you to bring him back?!"
He didn't realize he'd spoken out loud, much less screamed, until he heard the Doctor's hurried footsteps.
"C'mon, Host," Dr. Iplier said, a hand against his back. "Let's go."
The Host, for once, sagged into Dr. Iplier's arms, letting him guide him down the hall to his room.
What more could he give, then himself?
Dark waited until the Doctor and Host had disappeared down the hallway before slipping into Mark's room. His aura, mercifully silent, hung in the doorway as if to stop anyone from entering.
Dark chuckled weakly, looking back at it. The usually black smoke was nearly gray, and fading fast. They all were, powers now beyond control.
His footsteps echoed in the quiet of the room, crossing over to Mark's bed. As Dark approached, he imagined that Mark twitched at his presence. Dark smiled sadly, wishing Mark was alive enough to be afraid.
He tried to lean against the chair next to the bed, but his fingers went through it. He was more shadow than ever, barely more than a mirage.
Dark looked down at Mark, trying to summon his hatred, trying desperately to think of some profound, vanquishing words.
In the end, he said nothing, staring his weakened creator in the face.
They'd been at this a long time, he and Mark. He'd been a worthy opponent. Dark should be happy that he was outliving Mark, if only by a few minutes. He should be happy.
Instead, a kind of heavy emptiness was filling his stomach. Dark tightened his shoulders, forcing himself upright. He couldn't let himself cave in. Not now. Not with his aura hanging sickly over his head, not with Mark limp against the narrow hospital bed.
Still, it felt as if his world was ending. Which, all things considered, was exactly what was happening.
Dark couldn't muster the strength to even sneer at Mark, whose breathing was growing shallower, more strained with every inhale. His fingers were nearly see through, clenched against the back of the chair.
This wasn't how it was supposed to end.
Emotion washed over him, and Dark wished it was anger-- it had the same intensity, but it was hollow. Cold, where passion had once burnt the inside of his throat. Shrinking, where the fire had once filled his heart to bursting.
This was a draining kind of sadness, and Dark could feel his control slipping.
Dr. Iplier side-stepped through Dark's aura, weakly pawing at him with hooks of smoke. A ringing in his ears that had nothing to do with Dark's aura, and everything to do with the way Dark was leaning heavily on the chair, looking over Mark, shoulders limp.
"Dark," he said, regretting interrupting. A little louder. "Dark?"
"Mm."
"I need to ask you to go."
Dark, almost completely see-through, walked past him without protest. He turned to see Dr. Iplier leaning over Mark again, hands pressed to his chest, glowing a faint blue in a last-ditch effort.
"Thank you."
By the time the Doctor turned around, asking Dark who he was addressing, he was gone.
The blips on the heart rate monitor were few and far between now. Mark's breathing, while steady, was still painfully shallow. Dr. Iplier was alone with Mark, for what felt like the first time all day, and allowed himself a minute to breathe, even if Mark couldn't.
Mark was dying, and with him, the Egos. The Host had fallen asleep in exhaustion, and Dr. Iplier doubted that he'd wake up again, before the end. Bim had cordoned himself to his room, sobs from within, and even now, they were growing faint. Dark was who-knows-where. The Googles and Warfstache-- well, right now the Doctor thought he shouldn't think of the amount of blood staining the carpets. None of them would be around to clean them, anyway. None of this would matter. None of them would matter.
In the heart-sinking absence of any of the other Egos, Dr. Iplier allowed himself to feel, prepared himself for the floodgates. Instead, a kind of calm filled him, an anchoring weight in his heart, as if he'd resigned himself to oblivion.
Acceptance of the end doesn't change what's coming, he warned himself, as he had terminal patients. Patients, in another time. Another life.
Mark was struggling for air, now, heart rate rising dangerously as his chest spasmed. Dr. Iplier watched his own face clench in pain, trying to draw breath.
There was only one more thing he could do, if he wanted to do no harm.
He placed a hand on Mark's chest, covered in blankets but so disconcertingly cold. With a deep breath and the dregs of his strength, he sent a last pulse of light through his fingers. Red, not blue; and like a bolt of lightning, instead of a glowing bulb.
Amid the drone of the flatline, Dr. Iplier watched his own hand fade to nothingness, then his vision fade to black.
"They say grief occurs in five stages. First there's denial, followed by anger. Then comes bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But grief is a merciless master. Just when you think you're free, you realize you never stood a chance."
-Emily Thorne