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It’s dark. And cold. So unbearably cold.
The elevator is by now long gone, the distant rumble of it going down echoes in Sprout’s ears, a knowing scowl painting his face.
He is so royally, utterly fucked.
Nobody is coming to save him.
Sprout’s stale breath catches in his throat, as he brings a shaky hand to wipe his mouth. He extends his arm far out in front of him, grimacing at the sickly black ichor that stains the fabric of his sleeve. If he really focuses on the sensations, it burns a little.
So; he doesn’t.
Sprout closes his eyes, settling into a numbing comfort. It’s pitch black, the entire floor casted in complete darkness. Tapes are skewed in various directions in front of him, the ichor staining the damned things.
Just how long has he been down here?
After what seems like hours, Sprout decides to finally blearily open his eyes. He swallows the painful lump in his throat, taking in his surroundings the best he can. He’s tucked himself in a maze-like corner, the sickly dark purple color nearly drowning in the pitch black. A few tattered plushies lurk in certain parts of the floor. Their smiles are almost uncanny— mocking him.
Is this really where he’s going to die? Alone in this dingy place? Sprout attempts to pull himself up before gasping, falling to the carpet again with a thud. Oh, right. His leg.
Hesitantly, his eyes slowly make their way down to gape at the rest of his body. His leg is absolutely mangled, deep angry gashes run down all the way from his knee to ankle, the skin hardly holding together. The skin is almost like string, struggling to keep from splitting apart. It’s hard to see the damage enough, the ichor spilling out from the wound hastily. He shivers, swallowing the bile that he nearly wretches up.
Sprout takes in a shaky breath, studying his stomach. A part of him wishes he hadn’t.
Claw marks hook into the skin, allowing more of the stinging ichor to gush out. He adjusts himself to lean against the purple divider more properly, ignoring the sloshing feeling of his insides begging him not too. One wrong move; and he feels as if they’re all going to slip out onto the floor.
“Sh—shit…”
He leans his head back, slamming his eyes shut. Dammit all. He should’ve known better! To corner himself? For a few extra tapes? For someone who was as good as dead. He glances back at the tapes, the reminder burning the memory deep into his head. He still recalls the shrill scream that Gigi let out as twisted Toodles caught up to her, latching onto her leg. The last thing heard from her was a splatter.
And this time, Sprout wasn’t quick enough.
He wasn’t even quick enough to make it into the elevator in time, the pleading calls drowned out by the metal door slamming shut, going further down.
They’re going to die without him.
Sprout lets out a cold, bitter laugh at the thought. He curses himself to hell. He couldn’t save Gigi in time, and didn’t even consider the fact there was a stray twisted on the loose. How stupid can you possibly get? Let alone cornering yourself? He swallows dryly, His eyes lingering to take a look at the airhorn in his stained apron pocket.
A part of him wants to blow it, let the twisteds finish the job and be done with it.
He fiddles with it, hardly able to pick it up with his shaky, torn hands. He couldn’t save anyone with this stupid thing, so he’ll save himself the pain. Having your flesh torn straight out of your body as you bleed out slowly really fucking hurts.
He shuts his eyes, bringing his shaky fist into the air. With a deep breath, his finger hovers over the button, gritting his teeth together—
Yip!
“..What?”
Sprout eyes flicker at the sound, stopping himself from scrambling upwards. He tosses the forgotten airhorn aside, snapping his head back and forth at the sound. He winces as he sits up straighter, squinting to adjust his eyes in the darkness.
“..Hello?”
His voice is strained and gravelly, And Sprout wets his lips. It hurts to speak.
He hears another yip.
“..Pebble?” Sprout feels his blood run cold. Pebble didn’t make it to the elevator? A chill takes over his body, as he opens his mouth, feeling his voice strain again. “Pebble!” he croaks out.
With the floor (thankfully) being relatively big, it takes a moment for Pebble to recognize the familiar voice, pausing in his tracks. After a few moments, Sprout hears the faint noise of scuttling across the floor, and he stills. He’s half expecting for a twisted to turn the corner and finish him off.
Instead, a small lump takes form in the darkness, and Sprout knows the silhouette oh so well. Pebble immediately starts to yap, his tail wagging in excitement. It’s Sprout! One of his best friends! He wasn’t alone after all!
“Pebble..” Sprout cracks out, a brief smile on his face. “Hey buddy..” he mumbles, tentatively reaching out his hand, to which Pebble eagerly accepts. Sprout carefully scratches around his ears, and Pebble nuzzles into the palm of his hand. It’s cold.
“You shouldn’t be here Pebble.” Sprout lets his hand fall, warmth flickering throughout his chest for the first time in hours. “It..It isn’t safe.”
On closer inspection, Pebble doesn’t seem to be in the best shape after all. His tail is frizzy and his fur unkempt. Ichor and gunk cakes his sides and undercoat, making Sprout grimace. A particular gash in his side stands out to the other, near Pebbles leg.
“ Shit…That..That’s not good.”
Pebble yaps in response, his tail wriggling as quick as ever. He puts a paw out in front of him, making his way Into Sprout’s lap, making him hiss in pain as a fiery sensation shoots up into his entire body.
“Careful boy,” he gently pushes Pebble away, keeping a short distance. Pebble whines in response, plotting himself on the floor. Did he do something wrong? He licks Sprout’s hand apologetically, gingerly pawing at the strawberry.
Sprout feels his throat tighten, and his breath hitches. Sprout has already looked within every inch of the place before the elevator left. No more tapes or items in sight, He was stuck at 47. Not even relatively close enough to heal Pebble.
Sprout opens his mouth, his voice hardly above a whisper. “I..I’m so sorry boy. I failed you. Failed everyone else..I—”
Something starts to stream down Sprout’s face, and it takes Sprout a moment to realize it wasn’t ichor. He attempts to blink back the tears, it burns. But as he takes another good look at Pebble, his lip trembles as he opens his mouth, and the tears won’t stop falling.
“I couldn’t save Gigi. She’s dead because of me Pebble.”
Pebble only tilts his head.
“Everyone is going to die because of me. I..couldn’t even do my job right.” Sprout dips his head down, his chest constricting. “I..I'm so sorry. You’re going to die Pebble.”’
Pebble tilts his head again.
“I think I’m going to die. I can’t even move.”
Pebble gets up, scuttling closer to Sprout.
Sprout takes another look around, using his scarf to wipe off his face. Not that it made much of a difference.
“You’re a good boy..y’know that?” He almost laughs. “You protected us for so long. Your owner really sucks at running a shop though.” He says, his voice a mere whisper, a small smile playing on his face at the last comment.
Maybe he really is losing it.
Sprout knows he doesn’t have much longer left. He hastily coughs, the hacking forcing a wheeze out of him. It burns. Every movement he takes, every breath leaves a stinging ache each time. His hands are shaking.
Pebble whimpers. It almost seems like concern. He trots over, allowing him to get closer to Sprout. He doesn’t falter as he treads into the ichor that gushes from the other, Pebble ignoring the burning sensation.
“Pebble..Come here boy.”
Sprout pats his thigh gently, managing a sad grin, and Pebble is ever so excited. His tail starts to wag again furiously, a quick blur of motion. With eager paws gripping the carpet underneath, he crouches down before quickly springing into Sprout’s lap with a small bark.
Pain immediately shoots all the way up throughout the strawberry, a sharp cry escaping from his lips. Pebble’s forepaw presses into the injury unknowingly, a strained gasp breaking.
He only pulls the dog closer.
Bloody arms wrap around the small form, and he tries to ignore the way it stains Pebble’s fur even more. Sprout dips his head onto the small of Pebble’s forehead, weakly looking into his eyes before they start to get bleary. Tears began to mix with ichor, his face scrunching at the persistent burn. Sprout grits his teeth together, tightening his grip.
Pebble licks his cheek, rubbing his face on the mangled face. Sprout’s lips tighten, his shoulders stiffen, and his voice breaks again.
“I think..— I think I’m going to die.” He gurgles.
An insistent nudge brushes against Sprout's nose and Sprout crumbles, burying his face into Pebble’s neck. He wails, clutching the small body to his chest. Everything that has happened starts to settle in. He is going to die.
Pebble whimpers. What is happening? Sprout’s heartbeat is starting to slow down. He licks the salty tears mixed with the bitter taste of ichor off of his face.
But suddenly; a hand that was clutching him so close starts to loosen its grip. It slips off of him, onto the ground, open palmed. He barks. Nothing.
A whine works its way out of Pebble, and he crouches low again, his tail starting to still. Sprout’s mouth is strung open, a mixture of ichor and drool leaking from his lips.
He barks. But the body doesn’t move. Not a single flicker of life.
Pebble let’s out another bark, and silence continues to fill the air. He grabs ahold of Sprout’s scarf with his teeth, tugging on it insistently. His neck pulls along with the scarf, motionless.
His paws are starting to sting.
He plants himself in front of the other, waiting expectantly. Maybe he just needs rest. There’s probably too many machines for him to work on himself!
The ichor seeps into his paw pads.
It stings, but he doesn’t move.
He waits.
Pebble can only wonder why the familiar sound of the machines dinging aren’t going off anymore. It’s eerily silent.
Pebble can only wonder how much longer he thinks he can wait.