Work Text:
Mark Heathcliff is at his limit.
Whether it’s the empty pit of his stomach begging for food, the pulsing headache splitting his skull open as a result of dehydration, or the inevitable realisation that nobody is coming to save him after all; Mark finds himself sinking. Collapsing into an infinitely dense void of anguish as a distorted voice calls out to him, endlessly persistent promises of some unseen gift, mocking him from just beyond the bedroom door, his only escape route blocked. Only death lies beyond that door, patiently waiting out a time limit it itself has no need to obey.
Let me in, Mark.
The bedframe creaks beneath Mark’s weight as he uncrosses his legs and stands up, pressing one shoulder to the wall for support. He’s too weak, both from starvation and the crippling sense that his end is nigh. A godawful noise rips out of his throat, what might have been a sob if he weren’t so dehydrated. Fuck, he’s only seventeen, what the hell did he ever do so wrong to end up like this? Maybe his work ethic wasn’t the best, but it couldn’t have been worth this.
One careful footfall after the other he makes his way to the door, lethargy gnawing at his bones like a hungry dog. He doesn’t have a clue how many days it’s been—his biological clock is beyond fucked—but he can feel the way his muscles ache when he moves. The second his hand leaves the bedpost he was holding on to for support, Mark crashes to the carpet in a heap, cursing as his knees hit the floor with a sore thud.
It doesn’t deter the voice nagging him though, so determined to whittle down what’s left of his sanity until it withers away completely, and he snaps.
I won’t hurt you.
It’s fine. He can’t stand to save his life, but the floor is his friend; the carpet is old and worn but what little comfort it offers him is welcome. Anything to distract him from the current situation. He lets himself sink into it slightly, but only for a moment. If he stalls too long, he’ll pass out again. God knows he doesn’t want to go back to sleep. His nightmares are obscure and as harrowing as they come, and frankly, he’d rather avoid that if possible.
Mark grits his teeth and rolls onto his stomach, with his cheek pressed against the patchy synthetic fibre beneath him, and lets out a cough that makes his already sore throat burn. The dust isn’t doing his poor lungs any favours.
I have a gift for you.
There’s an impossibly dense dread resting on his back, one that begs him to admit defeat and rot where he lies, no matter how prideful he may be. It’s tempting, so tempting— but he can’t give in just yet. With what little vigour he has left, Mark practically digs his hands into the carpet, pushing up until he sits on his knees. The effort is more tedious than he would prefer, but he doesn’t have it in him to care. He moves on, focuses on shambling his way across the floor until he’s close enough to press his back against the stained wood door, leaning all his weight into it like a lifeline.
Somewhere else, anywhere but here, there are people living in blissful ignorance. People unaware of how long he’s been trapped and taunted, unable or unwilling to help despite his pleas and every desperate cry for someone, anyone, to save him from this hell. He’d kill for something to eat right now, it doesn’t matter what. The things he’d do for just a glass of water.
I have a surprise.
He reels his head back, hitting the door with the back of his skull just hard enough to elicit a considerable bang. Of course, it only makes his headache worse, and Mark’s body spasms with a fresh wave of agony. He can’t help but wonder if Cesar had a similar experience, or if he got the quick way out. He figures if whatever it was got Cesar’s mother first, then her son probably wasn’t far behind, although it’s unlike him to surrender too easily. Mark wants to think his friend at least put up a fight. He knows what he spoke with on the phone wasn’t Cesar, but the fact he trusted that voice so readily makes him feel ill.
The roof of his mouth is so awfully dry. Mark opens and closes his mouth, flexing his jaw like he’s checking to see if it’ll stay put in its hinges. He spent most of his first few hours stupidly yelling, from screaming bloody murder to sobbing to pleading with that thing to cease its beguiling for just a minute, and now his voice is so hoarse that it’s barely a whisper.
”I’ll open the door,” he croaks out, “I’ll open it.”
It’s such a stretch. It’s a stretch, and yet… the silence that follows it’s the sweetest he’s ever experienced. It’s almost dizzying, the way he snaps back to reality and his head spins like a top. By no means was he expecting that to work, in fact he was more inclined to see if it would start responding with a different string of claims and promises if he changed his demeanour, but it’s a brilliant turn of events and he’s certainly not arguing.
Though, knowing these things—or what he’s heard of them—it probably only worked because he meant it. Mark was going to open the door. He can’t keep doing this, can’t go on an empty stomach any longer, and he might even have a chance at saving himself if he’s quick about it; he slips a hand down to his pocket, the handle of his handgun peeking out where he can grab it if he needs to.
He sucks a gasp of air in through his teeth, gnawing at his bottom lip. “Just… say something new. Please.”
This time, the lack of a follow-up isn’t so pleasant. It’s hollow and eerie and speaks a million more words than he ever wanted to hear. It probably doesn’t know how to say anything else, he thinks. The silence goes on for a few ungodly long seconds, and then some more, and Mark starts to think exhaustion will kill him before the alternate does at this rate.
That’s right, he snorts to himself, an alternate. It’s not like he didn’t know this entire time, but hell if he doesn’t wish it was literally anything else. The broadcast said these things use ‘psychological warfare’ to get what they want, and he’s been the victim of lot of that for the past however many days, but he’s fairly certain the worst is yet to come. That’s the part he dreads most.
…Something new? I can do that.
The ragged sigh of relief he lets out shudders through him and ends in a dry sob, wracking him for all the strength he has left. It’s unbelievably refreshing, even if it’s just repeating his words back to him, and he feels some of the tension melt off his shoulders. It’s not exactly comforting, but it eases his mind a little—that said, Mark’s not quite sure what to do now. The concept of getting some answers out of this spurs him on, gives him just a little more reason to persist, although it’s more than likely to end in vain. At the very least he wants to know what happened to Cesar.
”Yeah, that’s… that’s new. C-Can you tell me what happened to Cesar?”
That won’t make you open this door.
“N-No, I swear I will,” he finds himself promising. “I just- I have to know, please.”
Mark digs his nails into the carpet, teeth grinding together as another bout of hunger grips him, picking him apart from the inside out. He’s only holding out for answers now. Tentatively, he reaches for the doorhandle just above his head, grasping and turning it just enough to make the mechanism creak audibly but not to open the door; it’s his side of a promise he can only hope the alternate will return, to satiate his curiosity among concern.
Cesar is gone. I don’t know how, probably fast. Are you happy now, Mark?
He’s the farthest thing from happy. Content with that answer maybe, but the clear understanding that his friend is in fact dead rips him to shreds. His eyes sting with what should have been tears, but comes up dry—he has nothing left to give besides his life. Mark hiccups and pulls on the handle again, this time letting the fear of hearing it click behind him wash over. He knows the alternate still can’t get in if he remains leaning against the door, but then he’d be picking the slow way out again, and he really doesn’t have the will for that anymore.
With great effort, he shuffles out of the way, pushing himself along the wall until his body no longer blocks the entrance. It’s awkward on its hinges and gradually swings open untouched, coming to a creaky halt just before the wall. Mark just stares deadpan at his bedside table on the other end of the room, hazy eyes locked on a framed photo of him and his sister at six flags from when they were younger.
Look here, Mark. Listen to me.
The presence of something unwelcome starts to envelop him, tenebrous shapes cloud his periphery as it inches closer, shrouding him almost completely in darkness. Inky black fingers—more so resembling claws—grip the sides of his head and force him to look at it, pulling him closer to abnormally large eyes on an ever longer face that fills his vision, contorting and shifting and radiating with malice.
It starts as little more than a susurrus, the words so quiet and fast that Mark’s brain struggles to process it at first. When he eventually catches up to speed, icy regret fills every pore of his skin, every empty space in his gut, the sheer terror of it coaxing a broken, grievous wail from his lungs. A truth he can’t refuse, the nature of reality itself, breaking apart his psyche and piecing it back together again just to shatter it once more; it seeps into his skull, drowning every sense with inky-black fatigue. Through the fog of overwhelming information he has the fleeting thought to reach for his gun, but finds he can’t move—every inch of his body is paralysed by the newfound awareness that everything he’s come to know and love is but a fragment, a speck of dust in the sea of horror that awaits them all. Every happy memory he reaches for is immediately stained by liquid grief, and in the back of his head, Mark faintly registers the anguished screaming he hears as his own.
What probably only lasts a half minute feels like a thousand year torture. When he finally comes to, he heaves for breath, convulsing violently as the suddenly unwelcome air invades his lungs. Where he once thought his throat was so sore it couldn’t manage another sound, he was proven wrong; he’s never screamed so loud in his life, let alone on the verge of death via dehydration. As if in spite of it, Mark belts out another hoarse sob, layers of agony shooting through his fragile body as he collapses once again on his side.
There you go.
Some defiant part of him still persists, demands that he get to his feet, to at least try combatting the putrid hopelessness swirling around in his head, and he’s not sure whether it’s that or the desperation for a merciful end that motivates him to grab the gun.
Show no fear, he asserts to himself. He’s afraid, so crippling afraid, but finds enough remnant energy to wrap his fingers around the gun handle and withdraw it from his pocket. With all the stamina he can muster, Mark pushes up off the ground and presses his back to the wall, leaning against it for support as he gradually pulls himself to his feet. When he glances up from the floor, the alternate is looking expectantly down at him, waiting yet again for his next move. It stands so eerily still, nothing to indicate that it breathes or blinks or anything of that nature; it doesn’t even flinch when he shakily raises the gun to point directly at it.
Through all of it, the thick tar of what could only be described as despair clouding his reasoning, Mark holds on. His hands are trembling, and he can’t stand without the reinforcement of the wall against his back, but he persists and finds strength in spite. On a more metaphorical level, he’s really looking death in the eye and still refusing to die, like a pesky insect that just won’t stop moving no matter how many times it’s stepped on.
That’s not a good idea, Mark.
Eyes trained on the misshapen face staring back at him, Mark watches it’s entire lanky frame begin to contort and shift, changing in and out of recondite shapes in the darkness of the room. It’s hard to make it out with that in mind, but he can just barely register it’s outline as it takes a vaguely recognisable form; marginally shorter than him and wearing a suit, arms extended to its sides as if inviting him closer, in reality only taunting him.
His grip on the gun tightens as he’s met with Cesar’s visage, impassive and heedless of the threat aimed directly at its head.
Just like that, Mark’s steely resolve fractures. His arms grow heavy with defeat and though enmity runs hot through his veins, it’s consumed all he has left—even if he could man up and fire every bullet in the cylinder, he’d still be shooting the mirror image of his friend. He can’t bring himself to do that. What starts at first as a malicious chuckle from the fake quickly erupts into a peal of belligerent laughter dripping with animosity, antagonising him to his very core as Cesar’s familiar face warps, adorned by an inhumanly wide grin.
Mark feels the cold barrel of the handgun press against his temple before he even registers his own movement as what led it there. This is it, he realises as he starts to pull on the trigger. Oh god, this is it. He doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the burning in his throat when he opens his mouth and yells back, the last flame of dignity he has as a living, breathing human on planet Earth, standing on the precipice of everything.
“You fucking bastard-!”
…
Uh oh! Bad decision, Mark!