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The one thing that Mark promised them is that he would never delete the channel.
On that front, Wilford thought, bitter, he’d kept his word. The channel and icon were still archived, even though they hadn’t been touched in years. There was always the potential, they’d figured, for the fans to rally around them and keep them alive.
It had been an empty hope.
Millions of people had moved on, and the videos were long dead. It had been months since the view counter had moved at all, even if they still stayed loyally subscribed.
Sometimes, Wilford wondered what it was like. Millions of people still watched YouTube, after all, still logged in, still opened their subscription boxes each day. And each day, they saw the icons of all their channels. Their icons, really. And every day, they saw the icon for MarkiplierGAME. Mark’s face, a pink mustache plastered over it.
Wilford’s face.
And every day, people saw, and they fondly remembered. It hadn’t been enough to keep the others alive, even Dark. It had been enough to keep Wilford alive, but only just. And only him.
Mark had kept the office, given Wilford and Dark the keys, tried to assure them that they would be safe their for the rest of their lives. Now, Wilford was thinking that the rest of his life might as well be forever.
He walked through the office at least once a day, really the only time he left his room. It had become a nightly ritual. After all, he might be the only one that kept the memory of the others alive-- he couldn’t stop now. Could he?
Every day, Wilford steps down the the ground floor with a sigh, looking around at the dust covering the carpet. There’s a rut, really, where he’s stomped a path through the cobwebs, and he follows it to the conference room. He always hesitates before he opens the glass doors, always allows himself a moment of imagination that his friends sit around the table, waiting on him. Dark scolding him for being late, the Googles flashing their eyes identically, the Host mumbling, the Doctor annoyed, Bim waiting. Wilford wishes they’d waited a little longer before he pushes open the door, the illusion brushed away.
He stands and gestures as if he’s giving a speech, pounds the table as if Dark is mocking him, a ringing in his ears. He argues with imaginary robots, battles made-up narrations, shakes a finger at a translucent Doctor, joshes a figment of Bim. He never once makes a sound, his voice long raspy from disuse. There’s no one really there to talk to, after all.
Bim’s room and the studio, side by side, are first. He looks around, thinks about jumping on stage or even turning on some of the lights. Unfinished project upon unfinished project sit on Bim’s desk, scripts and CD’s and an ungodly number of sticky notes. Wilford rarely has the heart to read them, but he know they’re all more of the same. “Don’t forget to iron our suits! <3” “Finish rendering before Wilford gets upset :(” Wilford shakes his head a little, sending one last, longing glance at the drawn curtains before he moves on.
The Doctor’s room is one of the neater ones. He’d known what was going to happen, timed it all out, down to the minute. Dr. Iplier was on his feet until the minute he faded, keeping himself going with coffee and some kind of dubious injection. Wilford had asked him what it was as he shot it up, but the Doctor had waved him away. “I’m going to die anyway,” he’d said. “I may as well make the most of it.” Wilford runs his fingers over the sheet-draped furniture, the neatly-stocked surgery tools, laying in wait for the Doctor’s return.
The library was one of the places that Wilford rarely went, even when the Host was there to welcome him in. He doesn’t go in most days, unless he’s feeling brave. The papers are in ruin, the books flung off their shelves and ripped apart as if by a wild animal, ink pots upturned. Wilford swears that the smell of blood still hangs in the air, and keeps the door closed. The ruin inside is something he’d rather not see. Still, he’ll poke his head in, half-expecting to see the Host illuminated by candlelight, welcoming him in with target practice and probing him for new and inventive ways to off his characters. Wilford smiles to himself as he passes the broken door, the feel of rough wood under his hands.
The Googles’ room is innocuous at best. Wilford walks around, poking at left-behind equipment and sharp metal. He could almost imagine that the Googles had never been here, that this room had been home to a particularly nerdy human or two. Wilford breathes in the scent of rust, and this is the one place that he feels tears come to his eyes. The other rooms have the air of being abandoned quickly, but always, always with the presence of their occupants hanging in the air, making him feel guilty for poking his head in. An uninvited guest. The Googles’ room was just that: a room, with the mark of age clearly on it. Wilford closes his eyes, and he can pretend that Google_G is telling him off for flipping knives again, that Oliver is watching his fingers twitch, that Google_R and _B are standing side by side, whispering darkly to each other.
Wilford takes a breath before the last room. The hallway is covered in the stain of time, bullet holes in the drywall, scorched carpet under his feet. The kitchen door hangs open, but he only ever pokes his head in to see how the growth of mold under the sink is doing. The living room, piles of movies and video games still abandoned, has been off-limits for months. Wilford doesn’t even dream of going out into the rest of the office, the part that exists past the door into the real world. A part of him doesn’t know what he’d find if he did.
When he works up the courage to open Dark’s door, the room always greets him the same way. It’s blackness, still, dead shadows. If he’s lucky, the remains of the sun will be shining through the windows, showing him the outlines of furniture so he doesn’t trip on his way through. Wilford shuffles through, a hand against the back of a leather chair, drinking in the smell. It’s the acrid scent of lightning, the sticky warmth of tar against the pavement, the bite of a cold blade through an unsuspecting victim’s spine. He brushes past the tables, laden with the remnants of whiskey, past the potted plant, long since shriveled. Dark’s room, surprisingly enough, has never accumulated dust of any kind. Each time Wilford walks in, the top of the desk is still shiny, the carpet still full and plush, the air still clear.
The office seems to know him now, darkness bending around him. Wilford wishes he could see the glint of blood-red eyes through the gloom, searches for the feeling of eyes on his back. He’s met with cold, silent emptiness.
Wilford sits at Dark’s chair, half-hoping that Dark will manifest out of spite and push him off. He drums his fingers on the desk, and he sits like this for hours, until it’s too dark to see his hands in front of his face, his tears in front of his eyes.
Then, and only then, when he can’t tell if his eyes are open or shut or if he’s dead or alive, Wilford reaches into the hidden drawer in the top of Dark’s desk. He doesn’t look, he doesn’t want to look. His hands close over a familiar cane, wood smooth, silver pommel cold.
There’s no light in the room, but the tip flashes all the same. Wilford takes a breath, and he does nothing.
He sits, holding the cane, and does nothing.
Because now, that’s all he can do.
Sit, and do nothing, and remember.