Chapter Text
You'd beaten Serpent ages ago, but still you decide to play the earlier levels now. It's all you can do, really, since Sylvadore, Charlotte, and Mr. Smiley are dead. Looking at the posters they gave you brought nothing but tears and heartache, so you'd ripped them down last week. Taking down the pastel smile was especially relieving considering how creepy it was, but it still stung since you knew the poor man had made it in a desperate attempt to save his daughters.
The cake is also long gone. You'd given part of the strawberry to your little bug friend, who is still miraculously alive. It'll get to live a full life, since nobody wants its organs. You aren't so lucky. You should've just left when you had the chance. You don't know why you didn't just push past the blood-coloured door, but you didn't, and now there's nothing you can do.
Except to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Until, suddenly, there are distant footsteps that get louder and louder with each passing second. Then a shadow covers the window in the door and the footfalls stop. There's a moment of tense silence, then a click, and then the cell door is slowly creaking open. The man- Doctor Money, you assume- is wearing a white, starchy medical mask, a pressed suit, and white latex gloves. He stares at you for a long, long while, and when you look closely you see that he has a gun in his hand. When he begins to raise the weapon you panic and press yourself against the furthest wall, dropping your device to throw shaking hands out in front of you.
"W-wait! Wait, please! I just want one thing before I die!" The man pauses for a moment, studying you intently yet still keeping his firearm directed at your head. "I-I just- I want to be held, okay? P-Please, i-it's been so long since I've had human contact! " His brow furrows with confusion, and finally he speaks.
"Why would I hold you?"
"B-because," you have to swallow a rather large lump in your throat to keep talking, but when you do your voice is heavily strained. "Because we're the only ones left! I-I'm not infected, you likely aren't either- s-so really it doesn't matter, does it? N-no matter what everyone will die- even with my organs! They'll still be infected! Brains are organs, right? A-and you can't get a damn brain transplant, can you? So really, what's the point? Why...why does it matter anymore?" After your small rant you feel...empty. But also weirdly light, in a way. Talking to your bug friend is nice, but it sure as Hell feels better to unload on another sentient person who can actually talk back. Even if said person is, undoubtedly, going to kill you no matter what. So after using your final bit of energy to talk you pull up your knees and drop your head onto them, the hard surfaces of the bed and wall below and behind you feeling almost welcoming at this point.
Now it's only a matter of time before your headstuff is splattered all over the concrete, and you'd prefer not to be staring down the barrel of the gun when he pulls the trigger.
The last thing you hear two seconds later is the cold, metallic click of his gu-