Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The government had been struggling for weeks, unable to force resources through the chokehold of killers that haunted every route to the bunkers. There were no longer enough materials or resources for survival, as supplies had dwindled in number, alongside food rations which were running dangerously low. The civilians hidden underground no choice but to risk venturing out.

The inevitable supply run had been delayed for as long as possible, but hunger was a sharper sin than hesitation.

Eventually, a group was chosen to step through the portal, a shimmering beacon of fractured light. Carepad had been elected among them - not because they wanted to be, but because they had to be. A healer was indispensable, and their presence meant the others might stand a chance at making it back alive.

They had been sent out alongside Loveshot and a handful of others. But chaos struck, and Carepad was separated from the latter during an ambush by Pursuer - one of the more active killers. It possessed both animalistic tendencies and unnervingly fast movement, a lethal combination that could quickly wipe their prey out.

Straying away from Loveshot was a shame, as they were a reliable teammate Carepad both cared for and admired deeply -  someone they had always trusted to pull through regardless of the odds. Loveshot was everything Carepad wasn’t: sharp, unshakeable, offense-driven, and endlessly protective of the people around them. But they weren’t here with them now.

The supply run group had ended up split during the turmoil. However, Pursuer remained lingering behind Carepad’s group, stalking them down the wreckaged remains of train tracks that once rang along the baseplate, its body shuddering with an insatiable hunger that refused to fade.

One by one, the civilians still with Carepad were slaughtered. The apex predator tore through them with practiced efficiency, cleaving flesh from bone in savage, brutalized slashes. Agonized cries were drawn from their victims as Pursuer drew its sword from their twitching bodies, wasting no time as it tore into the still-warm corpses with gnashing teeth.

The crisp crunch of breaking bones  and the nauseating squelch of flesh being torn apart echoed through the air, each grotesque sound bringing forth a fresh wave of terror.

They had tried. They had placed down as many carepads as they could, used up every ounce of potion they had carried on them, patching wounds only to watch them ripped open again seconds later.

It was clear that their attempts had been futile.

But somehow, by a fragile stroke of luck, they were the last alive. Despite Pursuer singling them out early, aware of Carepad’s persistence in healing others, they had managed to endure longer than expected.

However, the baseplate was still breaking apart, a torrent of water surging through the deep canyon and jagged chasms, any possible escape routes no longer being viable.

Now, they remained alone, torn open with blood slicking their tattered clothing - a healer with nothing left to heal, maimed to the brink of death.

Chapter Text

The baseplate was collapsing in on itself. Slabs of terrain had broken free of their anchors, floating in jagged, miscoloured chunks. Slabs of white binary spiralled through the air before evaporating into studded static. The once stable domain had broken apart into a glitching wasteland.

Carepad lay slumped against a crumbling pillar, their chest heaving in shallow, erratic bursts, each breath weaker than the last.

Their right leg was mangled, nearly torn from its socket, white slithers of bone visible between shredded muscle. Three deep gashes had been carved across their stomach, savage incisions adorning their battered torso.

The once sharp and searing pain inflicted by Pursuer’s many strikes had mercifully dulled into a relentless, throbbing thud. Each haggard breath forced blood to spill in thick, stuttering pulses. A dark pool bled beneath them, seeping into the smooth plating of the once grey floor, now stained a violent red.

Carepad was used to being targeted. Used to enduring wounds that left them broken and breathless. The killers hated healers the most - the ones who could unmake their violence, if only for a moment.

Without the newly founded healing potions, crafted through Caretaker and Esterflower’s relentless research and skill, most civilians wouldn’t have survived even a single encounter with a killer.

The killers knew that, which was why healers were always the first to fall.

It made sense in a cruel way. A healer could undo hours of their carnage with a single touch, reversing the work of claws and weaponry.

To killers, they were obstacles and hindrances to their goals. Lesser beings who easily disrupted their slaughter, preventing them from wiping out every trace of unfortunate civilization they came across.

So, in every encounter, Carepad had found themself singled out, hunted harder than anyone else, attacked with a fury reserved specifically for the likes of them - a supporting civilian who specialised in healing.

They were one of the most consistent healers, after all, with their reinvention of speed-boosting electronic pads fused with the healing concoction distilled from plants grown in the bunker, thus creating a slow but reliable source of healing.

However, their reputation resulted in them almost always suffering from injuries when attempting to traverse beyond the confinements of the bunker.

Time and time again, they had been forced to crawl into some corner hidden away from the killers, to patch themselves back together with their carepad before the massacre found them again.

Their vision had begun swimming in and out of focus, the world tilting like the unstable code surrounding them. Each heartbeat forced another hot pulse of blood from their wounds, pooling faster than their body could endure. A crushing dizziness pressed against their skull, dragging them rapidly toward unconsciousness.

By now, Carepad should’ve grown numb to wounds like this.

Yet every time, the pain hit just as hard.

Ragged sobs wracked through their chest, breaking loose despite their efforts to stay quiet. The violent hitches of breath ripped the gashes wider, muscle tearing as slick entrails began to push through the split. Their cries were a quiet but fierce, guttural sound, piercing through the static that smothered their surroundings.

The other surviving group of civillians must have made their way back to the security of the bunker, unharmed.

The hopelessness of their situation had begun to sink in, a heavy, sickening emotion, as they realized that there was nobody left to help them.

They had nothing left.

They had no one left.

Their electronic carepad had been deployed minutes ago. Their healing potion was dry, completely used up. They had spent it all on others - on keeping them alive.

Now they were paying for it.

For a moment, they slipped back into the haze of blood loss, but then a harsh sound dragged them back.

Distant footsteps - heavy, fast.

Pursuer.

Panic seized their chest in a merciless grip. They tried to stand, but their ruined leg buckled instantly, as they collapsed with a sharp cry. A brutal surge of pain seared across their side the moment they struck the ground, arms trembling as they covered their head. They let out another broken sob, their face pressed down against the shuddering floor, unwilling to look at the figure drawing near.

Terror consumed them. They weren’t just afraid of the guaranteed pain - they were afraid of leaving everything behind. Of never seeing their friends again. Of never making it back to the safety of the bunkers. Of never having another chance.

They wanted to keep living.

More than anything, they wanted to live.

Death was inevitable - they knew that. Civilians had been falling in alarming numbers, the tally of lives lost climbing with each new encounter, clearly resulting from the influx of killers. But Carepad wasn’t ready to join that count anytime soon.

They’d seen it take countless civilians before. But being the one in death’s grip was something else entirely - only now could they understand the fear their fallen peers had carried to the end.

They didn’t want to die.

//  [OK THIS IS A WIP, BUT THE SENTENCE IS BASICALLY CAREPAD TALKING ABOUT ALL THEIR FRIENDS AKA THE OTHER CIVILLIANS AND REMINISCING IM SORRY IM UNMOVITAVED]

And they thought of Loveshot.

They didn’t want to think about them.

Not now. Not like this. Not with their body shattered and their insides soaking the floor.

They couldn’t bear the thought of Loveshot finding them here, giving up without a fight - weak, pathetic and useless without anyone left to protect.

They sobbed harder, curling in tighter.

And then a hand pressed, gentle but firm, against their shoulder.

They froze.

Peeking out from beneath shaking arms, Carepad caught the shape of a violet silhouette, the figure sporting a cowboy hat tilted askew, the brim crooked from being donned in a rush.

It was them.

The very person they would regret leaving behind the most.