Chapter Text
The door to the Divine Lounge is thrown wide and Nathan Sharp, The Record Producer, rushes in, fingers clutched around a foul smelling coin, the sleeve of his bottle green jumpsuit pushed to the elbow.
“We got the coin!” he yells.
Not far behind Nate follows Thomas Sanders, The Investigative Journalist, his coat long abandoned, rubbing the back of his head in confusion.
“How is that smell not killing you?” he asks.
Nate shrugs. The look on his face shows that he too can smell the sewer drain muck he’d had to plunge his hand into. “Adrenaline mostly.”
Sean ‘Jack’ McLoughlin, The Detective complete with bright yellow jacket, plaid pants, and yellow glasses, leaps to his feet from the couch in excitement, “Quick! Get the box.”
“Already got it.” Mark Fischbach, The Daredevil, jacket tassels flying as he rushes across the room, carries the Lazarus box from where its been waiting. It’s honestly kind of exciting; who knows what’s inside. The coins weren’t easy to get though so it better be worth it.
Joey, the Savant, exactly as you remember him, steps forward, his eyes sparkling. Finally. He runs his fingers over the top, fingertips catching on each groove and nook of the lid. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out the coin he’d already won.
“Coin.” Mark calls to Nate who flicks it over.
They don’t bother with waiting, they’ve gone through too much to get here to bother with idle chatter. Down go the coins and open pops the box, Joey all but snatches the harp out while Mark pulls out a small card.
“What’s it say?” Nate stands on the other side of the room, wiping the goop off his arm with a random throw.
“The Harp of Lazarus only has one song left to play before its magic is gone. Its music has the power to bring one of your friends back from the de-”
Joey screams and the harp falls to the ground with a muted thud. Everyone shouts, leaping back at the small bolt sticking out the Savant’s back.
“Get it out!” he screams. His voice is cracked, sounding weirdly deeper than it had before. Arm straining, body shaking; something’s wrong.
Everyone turns to see Nikita Dragun stood in the far doorway wearing a low-cut navy blue and white top with a similarly colored miniskirt. A katana sticks out over her shoulder but no one really notices, a little more focused on the handheld crossbow that’s pointed squarely at Joey.
“You shot him!” Thomas screams.
“I’m saving you bitches’ lives.” she fixes them all with a fierce glare as she loads up another short bolt. “You’re welcome.”
“GET IT OUT!” Joey screams again. Mark braces against him and tears it out. Joey drops to his knees, whole body shaking uncontrollably.
“It won’t help.” Nikita smirks, cocking her hip, “Hemlock’s a bitch like that.”
“What?!” Mark shrieks as he tosses the bolt away in panic. He doesn’t know a lot about it, but he knows enough to know he doesn’t want to be touching that.
“Guys,” Nate calls but no one seems to hear.
“You shot him!” Thomas shouts.
“I did what I had to.”
“Guys!” Nate shouts again.
“You poisoned him?” Jack frowns. The detective’s badge hanging from his belt must have given him an extra shot of courage as he shuffles closer to Joey.
“If you had any idea what this monster,” Nikita all but spits at Joey’s back, “is trying to do, you would be praising me.”
“You shot-!”
“GUYS!” The bellow cuts them all off and everyone turns. Nate’s face is a picture of wide-eyed terror as he points at the still crouched, still shaking Joey.
Perfectly coiffed platinum blond hair is slowly turning dark brown, blue-green eyes are burning bright green from corner to corner. Even his clothes are changing, becoming charred and ashy, growing holes and a smokey smell. Apparently everything, all of it was a lie. Joey was never here, and in his place stands someone they all recognise.
About a year ago, several youtubers just disappeared, poof, without a trace. No note, no clues, no ransom; like they all got beamed up and whisked away. Channels are maintained by family or have been memorialised. It was a pretty big deal. Even mainstream media picked up the story. So none of them are expecting to find themselves face to face with Matthew Patrick, missing, presumed dead.
“Mat?” Mark steps closer in disbelief. Probably not a good idea.
Mat launches himself at Mark, black taloned fingers slashing. Mark barely catches his wrists and they both thud to the floor. There’s a sharp stinging on his cheek even before they land. Mat scratched him. Probably best not to let him land another one.
Jack and Thomas rush forward, both grabbing at the twisting and flailing figure still trying to strike at Mark. Within seconds, Mat slashes at Thomas instead, catching him on the back of the hand. The Investigative Journalist cries out and lets go, falling back and landing on his ass.
Jack still has a hold of him and with a loud shout, manages to finally pull him off of Mark, which seemed like such a good idea not five seconds ago. Free from Mark’s hold, Mat turns, viciously slicing Jack across the stomach and kicking him away as Jack clutches at the scratch.
Mat turns to Nate, still on the other side of the room. Fuck.
The facade is completely gone now. Black taloned fingers are on full display, curled at his side as he takes a step forward. Bright green cat-like eyes stare out from beneath his darker brown hair. Such small differences, but enough to make Nate back away.
Suddenly, Mat drops to his knees, crying out in agony. There’s another bolt sticking out his back and Nikita smirking behind him.
The shaking is getting worse. Mat’s run out of time.
He raises an eyebrow at Nate.
“Lucky you.”
With a wide sweep of his arm shadows fly from Mat’s fingers. Nikita and Nate are knocked to the floor as the entire room is engulfed by the darkness. They last about ten seconds before every last one of them passes out.