Chapter Text
How long has it been now?
It's been months since that little incident. The one where you'd lost everything. Every little thing you had left. Your scissors, your power over him, your hope.
It's been weeks since a word was even exchanged between you and him. He's not scared of you anymore. No matter how badly you'd beaten him and screamed at him to get him to stay down like the dog he is, he stopped trembling under your gaze, stopped doing anything. He wouldn't even give you a fight. It's like he's dead.
It's been more than a year now since you've seen anything except these ugly yellow walls, too dark to properly name the exact tone or shade. Maybe your colleague would have known it. But at this rate you doubt there's a brain in his skull anymore. Maybe there isn't even one in yours.
When you turn to him, he's watching you. He doesn't turn away or flinch. He just stares. Not even a growl from the back of your dry throat deters him. So, for once, you're the one to move away. Not out of fear. Just... because. It's something. Every day now you wish there could be some conflict started just so you can feel something. But you're worried the other man may try something. It's an irrational fear, you know it, he wouldn't even bother to move an inch. No conflict could ever start. Yet you're still worried. That tension is infinitely better than an eternity without feeling anything. You run a thin, shaky hand through your significantly longer hair and huff softly. He doesn't respond. Of course you wouldn't.
It remains like that for who knows how long, both of you leaned up against your respective walls. It will be like that forever. You know that. Maybe this is the hell they warned you about. Maybe you really should have listened...
Your eyelids grow heavy and it becomes difficult to stay awake. There's no reason to. But you still fight for however long you can, until sleep finally overcomes you, and your vision goes dark.
No dreams haunt you.
Yet it still like you're dreaming when you awaken.
...
You don't believe it.
Why would you?
The way the floor shakes beneath your feet, that mechanical hum that grows ever closer.
It's too good to be true.
And yet your colleague sits, wide eyed, prepared to stand up, as a streak of light moves up, across the wall, and his tense form.
You don't bother to move. Not yet. What's the point? He'll just fuck everything up again.
The doors open, it's too bright to see for a few seconds, your eyes unused to such bright assault. It's headache inducing. But you hear heavy footsteps, like that from large boots. the silhouettes of two large men dance in the vision of your ever shifting eyes, before they tear up and you look away. You hear them. Voices muffled by their helmets, as they give one another orders. And then the high-pitched hum from the weaponry in their hands. The very same ones you remember being pointed at your head when you pressed that button all that time ago.
You expect a bang. A loud sound that entirely encompasses your senses. That mind-splitting pain that's over in an instant. And maybe then after that, the moment these doors closed before you. Or even worse, the very moment you stepped into that elevator and threw your life away. Though there's always that sweet possibility that instead, it's just darkness. Cold. Comfortable. Infinite.
Instead, you hear shuffling next to you, a couple thudding footsteps you can almost feel in the carpeted floor beneath you, a startled shout and the clatter of one of the weapons being dropped to the floor. The other gun fully charges, and that bang you expected rings out, startling you. Followed by a loud scream of pain and a thud to the floor. The voice is unfamiliar. He's still alive.
You open your eyes a little, to see the blurry form of one of the men, pursued by your Colleague, now holding a gun. There's that charging sound again. A bang. The man's instantly dead. Blood splatters your face and clothes. Chunks of his skull, his brain, warm and wet. And alive. For a split second it feels alive.
This snaps you back to reality. You attempt to scramble backward, only to meet the wall, and swift, panicked breaths come out from your throat. The blonde turns to the other man, who begins pleading. You don't know why he doesn't reach for the gun, at least until you do. His arm is gone, reduced to the bit of his yellow hazmat suit still clinging to the bloody stub. Bits of skin and flesh coat the wall, and his hand, blown off at the wrist, lays on the floor, mere strings of meat splayed out at the gored end the only remains of his arm. He tries to scramble back, and your colleague aims the gun at his head, though no charging sound can be heard. Only quiet clicking.