Chapter Text
Which numbered run was this? He lost track. Did it matter anymore? It's not like he continued to look forward to these. Finn didn't have a choice though. Everyone had to go on a run one way or another. He was also a good extractor and was smart about his stamina. It seemed like he was better at that than keeping people's interest in him and what he had to say. At times, he only felt like an object. A tool to progress. Instead of an actual person who used to have ambitions. Who used to be full of life. He still kept up with the puns despite the dimming smile on his face. Who was he trying to fool? Was he using humor to cope or was it an attempt to cling onto the feeling of not being alone? But his jokes seemed to push others away instead of bringing them close. Finn was typically given an eye roll or a standoffish comment. He couldn't use the same approach he used with the visitors, who adored his comedic acts more than his interest. Here though? With their absence? There was no one to appreciate all that he knew. This was who he WAS. Who he was made to be. Did they create him to be unlikable? Nono, that wasn't right! The only toon with that purpose was Shrimpo. The fishbowl still managed to like him, but that wasn't the point.
More like Finn was a failed attempt.
He couldn't get the conversation with Brusha out of his head.
It was a walk after one of their ventures to the lower floors. They just so happened to go the same direction after everyone dispersed. The air was tense. It was silent except for the hum of the ventilation systems. Neither toon enjoyed the quiet. Brusha was confident enough to break it. She looked over at Finn with an expression he still couldn't really decipher. It was at least a little analyzing that was for sure.
“I've noticed something about you and Shelly.”
“You did?” It wasn't an actual question, it was an invitation for Brusha to elaborate. She was trying to start a conversation, no?
“Of course I do. I notice details others don't.”
Finn cleared his throat. Right. It was stupid to even “ask” her. That was something she was often proud of. He didn't say anything else, just waited. Waited for Brusha to continue. Explain to him because he clearly didn't get it.
“There isn't much difference between you two. The only thing is that you could pull the audience in with your jokes, but only barely. Shelly didn't have anything to keep herself entertaining, so she fell flat with the children. Boring. Filler.”
Finn didn't know how to feel towards hearing his friend getting talked about like that. He awkwardly laughed in the moment. It wasn't even a compliment on his character either. Shelly was ignored. The bar was in hell. But was Brusha wrong? That's why it was stuck in his head for so long. More than the other conversations he had with her. Finn was a second attempt at making a character like Shelly popular. He still failed. Failed the kids. Failed his creators. It all made sense now. He was a fraud.
He was snapped out of his thoughts with the opening of the elevator and a nudge of his shoulder. They were on the fifteenth floor. Finn was becoming more and more aware of that with the evidence in his glass. There were cracks across his body, both from injury and sheer stress that had been building up over time. His water was a little dirtier than usual.
Vee tapped her microphone and highlighted both machines and twisteds in the area. The robot verbalized the list of who was on this floor anyway. Just in case some teammates missed the outlines or couldn't properly make out the shapes. Finn technically was one of those people, but Vee's voice was still muffled and tuned out to him. Only because he was zoning in on a twisted in particular. One too familiar. Of course he would recognize himself after all. Finn always had a bit of an issue whenever his counterpart was crawling about on the floor. He was rendered basically useless to the team until the elevator opened back up again. His legs would feel incredibly weak, as if suddenly paralyzed, sharing that sensation with the ichor-ridden fishbowl. The toons soon accepted this and have long stopped trying to get him to move. He couldn't help being stuck like this, but Finn had a feeling that they were still rather disappointed in him. He didn't understand this phenomenon himself. How come the rest of them could stand seeing their own twisted? How come he had to be so weak? How come he wasn't good enough?
While the sound of machines being completed rang in the air, Finn was still beating himself up. Screaming at himself to do something for once and move. With enough force, one foot was finally in front of the other. Then again. And again. And again. His legs still felt like they were made out of jelly, but he was walking now! A surge of pride ran through him. To him, this was a victory. A small smile spread across his face, but that happened to be short-lived once he turned around the corner in his search for a machine. The world must've been out to get him. Must have hated him, not only Gardenview that did. Because he just so happened to cross paths with his twisted. Then there he was, frozen like a statue again. The other fishbowl didn't seem to notice him yet. He could go in the other direction right now, run off, but he couldn't. Finn silently observed with a stare.
He couldn't believe the sight in front of him. Twisted Finn, with that signature toothy grin of his, was playing in a nearby ichor puddle. He looked so happy. So carefree. Playful. Puppy-like. As if the ichor didn't truly corrupt him at all. All of the other twisteds seemed mindlessly bloodthirsty or in pain and distress. Not this one. He splashed around as if there was nothing to worry about. He didn't seem to mind that he didn't have legs anymore, he didn't seem to mind that he was really slow, he didn't seem to mind too much when he couldn't play his favorite game on the machine. Hell, he still had Barnaby too.
His stomach churned. Finn didn't know whether to scream, laugh, or cry. How come his twisted was happier than him? There was so much strain on his body and mind. His relationships were crumbling before his eyes, as if he had many good ones to begin with. Rarely anything brought him genuine joy anymore, but he tried to keep the shtick up. The sea critters were gone, the guests were gone, Arthur and Delilah were gone, the ichor operation was too stressful, he couldn't think of anyone on the top of his head who really liked him besides Razzle. What was there to be fucking happy about?
…Would anyone miss him if he was gone?
Twisting didn't seem too bad now if he'd end up like that. For everyone else, it must be hell. But it must be heaven for Finn.
It was right then and there that he mustered up enough strength to move again. Instead of running away, he walked towards the twisted. Once he was close enough, he was finally noticed, Twisted Finn snapping his head up and looking at him with those piercing eyes. The wide smile that Finn failed to replicate nowadays never disappeared from the twisted's face. Weirdly enough though, he didn't chase him like usual. He stayed at the ichor spill. As if he was waiting… or inviting him to join. Call Finn crazy, but that appeared to be the case to him.
Once his feet were in the ichor, getting stained with the very thing he bled out, he sank to the floor, legs collapsing. Laying here felt so welcoming. The world stopped spinning for once. Finn was weirdly at peace, not paying attention to the fact the ichor was seeping into his head, muddying the water inside. He took a breath in, then a breath out. The strange coolness and uncomfortable sensation of the substance didn't pull him away. The longer he was in the puddle, the more sluggish and disoriented he felt. Illness. He couldn't find it within himself to get up. He didn't want to. Finn… Finn liked it here. All other sound was drowned out. A yelp left his throat, but it was nearly inaudible. Too quiet. Twisted Barnaby. happened to be in this puddle specifically and ended up biting into him like a piranha, the teeth he didn't remember him having sinking into his fragile skin. Finn just slipped his eyes shut, accepting the pain and not moving. His twisted was quick to follow with the biting and snapping. They were hurting him. Feasting on him. And even then, he still didn't want to run away nor call for help. He wasn't that confident in someone answering that call regardless.
He let himself sink. He let himself drown and be consumed.
Finn knew that he was bleeding as the twisteds reopened some old wounds and made new ones. He just couldn't tell where he was bleeding. It was impossible to figure out when he was already in a pool of ichor mixed with both the corrupted version and his own now. It all hurt. It hurt so badly. Tears rolled down and clung onto his face. He drew in another breath, this one shaky. Finn was getting closer to blissful freedom now, wasn't he? He needed to hold back from intervening and screwing it up despite the flaring agony. When was this going to be over? Was his team even close to finishing the floor? Did they leave him already? Leave him behind?
That idea stung a little, but that didn't seem too bad anymore.
His vision was blurring.
He would miss them all.
Even if they wouldn't miss him.