summary: this is literally just a drabble about quentin beck and you in an alley.

warnings: violence, guns, knives, 18+ DO NOT INTERACT

word count: 575 (omg that's pitiful)

gif credit: unknown (if you know please tell me!)

notes: this is like 2 years old but I decided never to post until now. if you have any requests or wanna drop a prompt then please feel free to. i will try to write more from now on. also if you wanna be added to my taglist let me know!

It had required hours of persuasion. Days of practice. Weeks of perfecting.

It was finally time to put it to the test.

He was a suitable target for such purposes, after all, Henrik wasn't exactly a people kind of person. He tended to be alone and isolated, akin to a deserted island. No one would realise his absence unless a postcard had been sent out.

A bonus was how tonight just happened to be one of his graveyard shifts. What an opportunity.

Needless to say, Henrik hadn't expected the visit, but he wasn't one to turn down Chase. Though he knew something was immediately off the second those sneakers shuffled into the room.

It was when Henrik spun in his chair and swivelled to face the younger of the pair that shock had struck. The doctor paled at the sight. "Chase? What... what has happened to you?" If he could even begin to describe the appearance of his friend...

Chase's hair was sticking in directions of all sorts, his clothing was tattered and the very fibres of the material were beginning to unravel. His build itself had deteriorated. He'd lost obvious weight... too much of it by Henrik's standards. Bags sagged under his eyes, sank even. They practically glared at the doctor with how deep they'd become. His skin had become pallid, had lost its tan. It was as if someone had dunked him in bleach.

But what was the most unsettling of all was the carved grin.

Amber stains the wall as glass shatters from the hurl. Bleeds down like the very wounded heart that thrums behind the male’s ribcage.

Needless to say, Jackie's appalled. He's never seen Chase fly into such a fit as this before. Sure, he'd experienced a few hits here and there, but it was nothing that the hero couldn't disarm.

"Chase-" The mere mutter of his name has the younger male igniting an icy glare. Something was wrong here. Something very wrong.

"What?" It's shot straight at Jackie, fired like a bullet with the intent to kill. If that weren’t enough, back-up comes in the form of daggers by eyes that threaten to water. He’s pinned to the point of being frozen. The one clad in red witnesses how the other's pupils tremble within moments. How the very whites of his eyes strain as a multitude of veins emerge like branches on a tree.

They're bloodshot.

"Don't you tr͡u̸st ḿe?"

There wasn't a trace of kindness or genuine care behind those words. Neither was there a hint of desperation akin to saving someone's skin. It was pure mockery.

His hand was extended outwards, tempting like the devil himself. Anti was dangling the carrot before his eyes as if Chase were the very bunny that would fall victim to his trap. It was only that much effective when he had mutts following in his wake.

Chase had dabbled in his fair share of parkour - he'd been renowned for it - but the distance of this ledge was more than he could withstand. Course, he could always turn and attempt to fend off the rabid bunch... who was he kidding, he was as good as dead meat.

Seeing them already churned his stomach, formed knot over knot. Anti could see it. Could taste it. The dripping fear, the drench of panic, the reek of failure. It tinged his cut cheeks with a serrated smile.

"You and I both know there's only òn͜e̵ option here, Bro̵d͡y̷."

For what was usually meant to be one of the busier nights at the local pub, it was one of the more quieter ones with the two latest additions. Two occupants, to be precise. 

Chase and Anti had arrived as any usual pair would. Though, the distinctive feature was how there was no shared conversation between one another, aside from a side glance or two. Chase was fitted in more casual wear whilst Anti was more attired for a party of sorts. A formal gathering. A wedding.

A funeral.

Eyes scrunch tighter. Form deeper creases as they crinkle. He just wants sleep. Why can’t he ever sleep? Chase kicks at his sheets in frustration. watches as they fold like the bags under his distant eyes. His comment; a long, heavy groan. It drags out as he tosses to the side, begins a tug-of-war between both legs. At least it hadn’t involved tears this time.

He remains there, staring off to the side with the blankest expression a person could ever house. A sore attempt tries to recall the nightmare he’d just endured, but just like every night, it slips through his fingers.

The mattress creaks as he spins again, twists with the sheets snaked around his legs. An exasperated sigh trickles past his parted lips, escaping in the form of warm wisps that carry throughout the desolate room. He’d meant to change beds by now, switch out for something smaller. It was sad to see someone rest with the size it was. So obviously crafted for two instead of one, but here was Chase, laid out, sprawled where a lover should’ve been.

Pathetic, really.

He grabs his pillow, slips it from under his aching head and buries himself under it with a swift smack. Another groan echoes out. More of a muffle in it’s suppressed state.

He prays his resonating defeat doesn’t stir the others.

But his prayer falls short for one individual.

Marvin doesn’t even make an effort to veil himself. He sees no need to. Even when Chase’s fogged blues land on his figure leaning against the doorframe, Marvin simply looks on. Wears an expression Chase can’t place a finger on.

Maybe it’s due to the fact he isn’t adorned with his signature accessory. There’s something strangely… unsettling about him when he’s without the mask. Something about that ethereal skin. Unblemished to a fault. As pure as the white snow.

Beauty that was unnerving.

Chase breaks the silence first, after Marvin’s prompt in the form of slanted, enigmatic eyes.

“H-how long have you been standing there?”

An internal curse belittles himself for the stammer. Even more so for the coarse texture, his voice grates away with.

“Long enough.” If there’s any sort of reaction to Chase’s weary state, it’s one that’s subtle and all too easy to miss for the one coiled in bed.

Marvin’s approaching anyway, gliding in graceful strides across the carpet. Regal in all mannerisms. Chase can’t even pick up on the sound of those steps towards him, can’t feel the vibrations. No wonder his presence had gone undetected.

Chase is blunt as he feels a dip to his side. “Could’ve knocked.” Marvin, in turn, draws a smile and crosses a leg; lists by Chase. “And miss seeing that surprise on your face? Not a chance.” Cotton drifts to the slick hairs where the magician brushes them aside with a lover’s caress. The sleight of his hand earns a relaxed hum. Elicits amusement.

Gloved digits dance to his side, slither and wind around his waist. Chase arches a brow, curious to his intentions but a finger dragging up his spine has a relieved sigh fluttering off his frown. It’s with a little pressure that has Chase turning and looping arms around the magician. “Tired, aren’t you?” Another slide against his back draws a confession of sleepless nights. Marvin smiles, scoops the male closer to rest his chin atop that tufts of brown.

Fingers trace small circles against the thin layer of cotton, just shy of the small of his back. Chase readjusts and Marvin looks on affectionately, soft when he sees the tilt and the blink of calming seas. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Ah, evasive as always. Marvin lets his hand follow the trail carved by his spine. “I had a nap earlier. Besides, knowing how restless you were would’ve kept me up.”

Chase scoffs. “Didn’t take you as one to watch people while they slept, Marv.”

“Well, you weren’t exactly asleep, were you?” He’s got him there, and Chase huffs as he pulls closer. Marvin responds with a light scratch against the nape of the neck. “But I can change that.” Of course, Marvin was aware of Chase’s hesitation with any form of magic. He was still growing accustomed to it despite knowing Marvin for several years. So when Chase shifts and mumbles with uncertainty, the feline guides his tender strokes to his head.

“Come now Chase, you know me. All I want is for you to rest. You’ve earned it, love.” Soft hums encircle Marvin as he lightly cards, not enough to force the blinds to roll down, but enough to have Chase half-lidded. “I dunno, Marv-” He’s cut off with another drag down his scalp. “Don’t you trust me?” He twists a curl around his index, once, twice then tugs at it lightly only for it to unfurl and bounce. “‘Course I do.”

“So, why not let me do this for you?” Chase teeters like a see-saw. Marvin can see it behind those ripples. Gorgeous blues that he could close with a flick of his wrist. Just a little more weight…

“Here,” Marvin raises his hand aloft, tears his other from Chase’s waist and slips the gloves off. They return without warning and Chase already melts at the new texture of contact. Delicate warmth that could mould any being. “is this better?” A nod has lips shape like crescent moons, beam with the same light as his angelic visage. “I only want to give you what you deserve, Chase.” Nails dip into the tender flesh, knead at his scalp and comb through his tousled locks. It’s almost enough to have the tired male purr. “Will you let me do this for you? Just this once.”

A beat of silence. A breath of succumbing. “Ok… just this once.” A grin spreads. “Just this once.” Marvin reassures.

Marvin isn’t expecting Chase to warm up to the idea instantly, the very fact he’s being flexible is rewarding in itself. “Close your eyes, love.” Encouragement comes with a caress to his cheek by his inviting palms, his gossamer-like digits. “There you go.” With a deliberate tone, Marvin brings forth his fingers to Chase’s temple, feather-light in his execution. It’s no the usual procession of pulling him into a trance, not when he’s already so tuckered and malleable.

With fingers aglow, they start to swirl azure and Chase begins to nod off; falling and falling with each rotation. Marvin opts for humming instead of utilising verbal phrases. Tumbles with a tune full of dulcet and lulling notes. A hypnotic lullaby, with his fingers serving as the metronome. Marvin’s indulging himself in the sight as Chase slips further and further, watches as the plasticine underneath his fingertips starts to mould.

The faintest trace of a smile conveys the sorcerer’s success. He’d promised slumber for the male, and Marvin had delivered. No nightmares nor interruptions would come to his sleeping volunteer. He was providing Chase with the well-earned sleep he’d been craving. All those nights of tossing and turning would now be replaced, renewed.

Marvin stares down, witnesses as the one in his possession falls deeper into his clutches. So peaceful. So serene. So beautiful. He’d love to preserve this image of Chase, to keep him in a state of endless relaxation. A picturesque replica from a fairy tale.

The only catch is there won’t be a prince sweeping in to rescue this damsel.

Not when a siren song and fingers tinged with violet are at play.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Polished shoes cross the corridor, pick up in pace whilst the other male pitter-patters beside him. Fingers move fluidly, forming silent words. Appreciative as always, Henrik picks up on it and nods. “It’s been a while since your last check-up.” The one topped with a bowler hat looks at him curiously. He supposes he hadn’t really thought about it. His health was in perfect condition, right? No ailments had come his way, nor did his strength dwindle. He hadn’t experienced a cold for as long as he could remember.

Henrik seems to catch on as they enter the allocated room; door decored with his studious accomplishments. He guides his patient to the seats beside his desk, waits until Jameson’s seated comfortably before he moves to his own station. A fiddle with the mouse has his screen beaming to life and with some browsing and clicks, he pulls up the file ‘Jameson Jackson’. Henrik murmurs under his breath as he scans the past results, conditions, skims over the historical record. He grows silent for a second and Jameson twiddles with his thumbs.

“There’s no rush, my friend. You are the last patient. It is just you and I now, no one to interfere.” He shoots a rare but reassuring smile. Jameson nods and readjusts to the scene, composes with his own small smile. Henrik takes it as a sign to get back to the examination, and so he scrolls for a short time. A few crosses later and he’s pushing back from his desk, letting the roll of the wheels echo out before he extends a hand to retrieve the box of gloves at his left. If Henrik had a mantle, it would be for hygiene.

Time is racing. That much is clear. But Jackie’s pedalling through, whizzing by the city street’s as he ventures closer and closer to the chosen venue. It’s dangerous, he knows. But this hero would sacrifice anything to ensure he’s carried home safely. Of course, it had been easy to nab the male of interest. Not that he was the weakest link… Jackie could never think of him like that- He shrugged it off instantly, dismissed the idea completely and cursed at himself for even entertaining the thought.

Chase was strong. Anti was just… stronger.

The hero landed, retrieved his footing as he began walking across the roof he’d chosen. His boots crunched the rubble as he strode carefully, cautiously, but giving away his position had no advantage in this matter. It’s the crushing sediments that has a cluster of pixels form behind him and Jackie knows when he turns, the static won’t be just a hum in the air.

A word doesn’t slip by. A quip isn’t shot at him. Some quick-witted phrase that Anti was privy to using was missing. Jackie found it troubling as he kept to only facing the glitch with his back. It’s as if he’s on a mine and one wrong move will detonate himself and the building below. He wonders how many civilians lurk beneath them, going about, bustling in their day-to-day business. Innocent lives at his fingertips.

He wonders if the particular life he’s after is hidden away in the storeys below.

Minutes pass and still not a movement or word has been made. It’s a stalemate. Jackie can almost see the smirk he expects Anti to be wearing. The signature, shit-eating grin that spells trouble. It sickens him. His stomach churns, knots within.

Fuck it. He can’t wait any longer.

His leg pivots and he stares at what he expects to be Anti, but then his legs are buckling and his face falls as he sees the one and only…

“Chase…”

He’s standing at the edge, just shy of the lip of the building. His back is facing towards Jackie’s as he gazes out. A breeze catches the hem of his shirt and causes it to ruffle in the wind. Jackie doesn’t have to check twice to realise the owner of that cotton fitted- tee. He makes his first step and the source of the fizzle appears. Eyes bore into him and Jackie lurches back as his reflexes kick into gear.

“No̶t so fas̕t̷,̢ ͜hero.́”

If there’s a look of pure hatred, Jackie’s wearing it now and it’s aimed directly at the villain before him, carrying figurative and literal strings on one of the people he holds dearest to his heart.

“Let go of him, Anti.”

A cackle breaks through, spears through the serene atmosphere of a sun-setting city. He can hear the desperation much as Jackie’s trying to hold himself together. But it’s clear who has the cards in their deck.

“I'̡d ̀b͡e ̨do̴i͜n̵g h͟i̶m ͞a͟ favour.̵ ͠W̛e ̛a̶ll͜ k͝n͘ow ̢how ̷po̴o̢r ̴C̸ha͘se͢ Brody͟ rȩa̶lly fe͝els͏.”

Jackie’s fists ball up and his throat becomes lodged. Of course, it had to be him who delivered the unspoken truth. None of the egos would dare mention it despite knowing deep within what the reality truly was. Were they at fault for such a thing?

“I won’t repeat myself.”

Anti cocks a brow. A hand raises effortlessly, slow in its lift but Jackie can see clearly how Chase’s leg is rising.

“No! No! Please, Anti don’t!”

There’s that grin, clear as crystal. It might as well be carved. The hand lowers and like a mirror image, so too does Chase. Jackie’s sighing in relief but Anti’s not letting it go unnoticed.

“It̛'̵s n͡o̡t͜ him I ͜w̴a̷n͡t҉, ̷J͘ackie.͞”

His blood freezes and Jackie turns to a shade paler. The implication is dark, dastardly. He already knows what’s going to follow.

“T͟ha͜t's̸ ̴righ͡t̷, he͢ro.̶ I̢t's͝ ̵yo͞u ̧I̕ wa̶nt.͡”

Jackie grits his teeth, shifts his posture and listens as the concrete grinds against the soles of his boots. Anti isn’t deterred at all, in fact, it’s more amusing than anything.

He tuts him and that’s when Jackie notices how one hand had resided in his pocket, fidgetting casually. Anti follows where his eyes lead to catch a glimpse of the subtle motion and his smile smears across as the revelation strikes him. Fishing it out, Anti pulls out an instrument that the hero knows all too well. When Jackie’s eyes widen and he starts to recoil, Anti knows the stakes at hand.

He fiddles with the pendant, pinches the crystal between his index and thumb, allowing light to reflect and bounce back at the figure in front of him.

“I t̕ak̀e įt͡ ̸y̧o̧u r͝ec̶ognise ̧tḩi̢s̵?”

Jackie’s gulping but he nods too, far too transfixed on the device. He’s already swimming in the far reaches of his mind, relishing in the moments where Marvin had used it.

“I҉ f͜o̸uǹd ̴it͏ ͢òn͝ Ch͘aśe̴ an̕d̡ ͢he͡ w̢as͢ ju̷st̸ as̴ ͢fr̷i͠ght̛en͝e͘d ̕aś y͝ou ̶are͞ ͘now. S͢o͏, ̛I̕ ͘f҉ig҉ur͏e̛d͝ ͟there͜ w̕as ̕s͢o̸m͞et̸hing ͠a͜bo͜ut̨ ͜i͝t. You cań ̸iḿagińȩ ̡my̸ s҉u̧ŗpr̨i̡s̶e w̵he̢n͘ ̷I͠ ̀dişc͘overed͢ what i͝t did͝.”

Anti loops a finger around the band then, wounds it with a twist, drops it and sees it dangle.

“C͝h̷a͘s̶e̴ w̡as k͝i͏nd̢ ̀en͡ough̢ t̀o ̵in͞s̢trùc̵t ͘m̵e ͡on̨ w҉h͠at̷ ̀to ̀do.̵”

Jackie’s glued onto it now, searching at it, indulging himself in the myriad of colours that dance with the sunlight. He’d always commented on its ethereal charm.

It starts to swing, slow at first then Anti’s achieving a mechanical tempo, akin to a pendulum in a grandfather clock and Jackie’s already beginning to slip.

“The̵re͞ ̵w͏e go̸. Keèp l͞ook͝ing̨ at i͠t́,̸ ̷h͘e̕ŕo. ͡You d́o͢n͡’t ͡want ̸to ͢t̢e̕ar ͠your͏ eyes̷ a̵way ̸f͠r͢o̕m͝ ͜it no͠w͏, ̨d͢o y̵ou̢?”

A shake of the head sends the message across and Anti adorns a toothy grin, accompanied with a shrill giggle. He’s pleased that Jackie hadn’t even attempted to resist, even more so that he’d been the one to seek it out at first.

Anti keeps his gaze locked on him. Watches as his lids flutter, marvels as his features melt away. Relaxed. Jackie can be shaped to his liking.

“Yoư ĺove̛ ́t͡h̷i͘s fée͠lin͠ǵ ḑo̴n't͟ ̷y̧òu̴,҉ J͜a̴ckiè?͟ The slu͡mb̧e͢r. T͞he s̀t̀ate͘ o̵f̷ being ín̨ á ҉t͏rance̸.͢ ͏T͏he̷ f̀re̶edom͏.͝ ̀”

His words in time with the swings are only making Jackie’s fall that much deeper. He’s sinking already, losing himself to the abyss he knows like the back of his hand.

“R̴elàx,̷ ̢Ja̡cķie.̡ Ỳo̶u ̧want to res͟t͝.͏ ̴Y̛o͡u wa͏nt ́t͢o l̴ea͝v̢e ͠thi̵s hero ̡bu͘sįņess. ̡Y̵o͟ú'͢ve c͞r͟a͘v́e͞d͘ ̡s͏l̴ee͞p͢ f͝ǫr a͝ges. ̡Le͟t m̧e ̕ģive yo͝u҉ ̨ẁh͏a͞t ͠y҉òu ͞w͜ant͟.”

And he does. He yearns for it. To be off-duty for once. To not have a care and just…

“…sleep. I want to sleep.”

Anti observes as he sways on the rooftop, moves in time with te wisps of air that brush past. He grins. The finale now in his hands.

“S̡l̵ee̛p͜, hér͞o̷.”

The swinging stops as Jackie collapses and Anti ushers to his side. He props him up, nestles him as he stares down with smug accomplishment,

“N̨ow͏ w͘he̡n ̴I͟ s̡nap̨ ̕m̧y̨ ͠f̸i͘ngers, ̕yo͢u͏'ļl ͢w͠ak͞e ̧up ҉an̵d ͝do a͜s ͏I sa̕y̧.͢”

Jackie mumbles, parroting his words as the transition between consciousness and unconsciousness begins to blur.

“Y͡o̷u'̢l̀l ǫb͝ey͏ ̛me ͞an͠d ̶o͢nly me͟.”

Rinse, repeat.

“Go̶o͠d͡ ͢bo̴y.͠” Anti gifts him with uncharacteristically loving pats, caresses his cheek and Jackie’s smiling at it. Perfect.

There’s a deadly snap in the air as Anti clicks. Eyes crack open, stare endlessly at the sky beginning to cast the blanket of the night. Anti’s canines glisten, beam bright and now it’s time to test just how under his hero really is.

The two get up without a word and Anti redirects his attention to the male who still stands still at the precipice. A hand gestures towards him and two words slither into the masked one’s ears.

“Push h̷im͝.̧”

It’s not long before the screech of car tyres and a scream echoes throughout the night.

47.  You think you can control me now? You never could.”

‘tuning…’

He had wanted to say that. Had fully intended to, but there’s a sudden slice in the air and it causes the male to stumble, leads him to bring both hands up to clamp around his ears. There’s no discerning the source and there’s no hope to even begin to describe what this abrupt piercing drone is. What he can tell, however, is that it’s here now and it’s loud. He’s expecting his ears to bleed any second.

His face is screwing up, exhibiting the undeniable agony that thunders through his system as the white noise - is it white noise? - starts to slip through the cracks in his fingers. Ventures through to rattle his mind. He swears with the volume and pitch it’s ringing at that the other members in the household might hear its faint buzz. It’s splitting Jack’s mind, however, guiding him to writhe in anguish.

Jack’s certain he’s about to pop a blood vessel and pop one he does. Except it hadn’t been in the reaches of his mind where the incessant groan rose in volume, instead its where his fingers shakily start to trail to. He was choking on it, gagging as his tastebuds were delivered with the delicacy of his own woven existence. It stained his bland shirt, poured out into his mouth and filled every nook and cranny of his orifice with that coppery treat.

Hands cling for dear life around it, attempt sorely to apply pressure to the wound but to no avail. The noise is still there, growing and growing, rising in decibels and Jack feels as if his head might explode. That is before it falls off from the fresh, gaping laceration.

Was this a nightmare? He had felt exhausted before recording. Maybe he’d just fallen asleep at the table.

He did smell pumpkin after all.

Despite it being some twisted dream, Jack can’t fight off the pain. It’s excruciating.

But it’s not the rampant river of crimson that has his face falling. It’s not the static picking at the sinews in his brain.

Someone else is here.

And they’re laughing.

He’s drowning in the ribbons of scarlet but he strives to cry out regardless. Dying tends to have your compass in favour of instinct instead of thinking.

“HELP ME!”

It comes out so clearly and Jack wears an expression of pure shock as his ears process it.

There’s silence. Deafening silence.

He swallows thickly, gulping down saliva. The stream of sanguine no longer relishes in his insides and Jack can breathe. Can hear. Can speak.

Can think.

He starts to push up from the floor, straightens out and dusts his unscathed figure. When eyes pick up from the ground and lift to his surroundings, Jack shrinks into himself. The only way he can think to label this as is what one might imagine the void might be like. Pitch black. Empty. Endless.

Fizzling…?

Curiousity gets the better of him as he starts to head towards a cluster… of pixels? He falls back when they lash at him and enragement filters through in the form of a voice.

“Y̴͟O̡͡U!”

Jack embodies fear in that very moment. The accumulation seems to notice this evident by the way its individual pieces start to morph towards its taken aback guest. There’s a man now in place of the cloud of static and Jack’s already stepping back as it approaches, donning a lopsided grin.

He can tell from the way this creature prowls forth that communication isn’t a concept that’s even entertained. All Jack knows is to run. Flee. He doesn’t need flashy neon signs pointing towards it that reads out ‘danger’, that smile practically spells it out.

But then he’s gone and Jack freezes.

“D͡on'͝t wan͏t ̴to҉ mi̵s͝s ͟the ̵s̴hơw.”

What feels like a hand clenches around the back of Jack’s head and… there’s Gerald… there’s his hand around the knife and… why can’t he control it? Why is he raising his hand? Why are his lips moving? Why is he talking? Why? Why? Why?!

Stop it. Please stop it.

Laughter trickles into his ears, laced with the same glitches he can hear in the voice that’s coming from his own body.

The scene dissolves to obsidian as the hand pulls back and Jack falters immediately. He barely catches himself.

He’s silent at first, still replaying the scene he’d just been witness to, still comprehending it all. He can feel beady eyes on him, raking his stature, delighting itself in his terror.

“…what….what the fuck was that?”

A resonating crack permeates the foreign scape as it cranes its neck. Jack almost gasps when light hits the gash that compliments the spectacle. A mirror image of himself. Was this his… inner demon?

“I g͘r͝ew͏ ti͜ŕed͘ of ́b̸eín͟g ͜oņ ͏tḩe si͘d͠ęl͢in͝es.”

He dripped forward. Moved fluidly and Jack was still mesmerised in the identical appearance it wore.

“Want̵ed ̨a t̀a͝s͘t͢e̶ ͏o̧f ̢t̡he͏ rea̕l̀ ̨de̕al.”

A toothy grin bared itself, stretched out as he fixated on the Irishman and once again it brought forward a shiver that led Jack to bristle. He cackled at the reaction and Jack realised just how small he really was.

“T͟ell ͞me, ̕J̕a̶c͜k,”

Another shudder was drawn out of the male. That emphasis on his name… it seeped with poison.

“D͘i͜d y͝ou͏ ͝enjo͠ỳ th̢e͝ ̛d͡ark?”

All traces of amusement seemed to snuff from his face. Now it was steeled, cold and unnerving. Challenging.

“…No.”

A smile spread then, smoothed out like butter. Eyes glinted and Jack braced himself as he spied a green aftertaste.  

“Did͡n̴'̵t thiņķ s͝o.͏”

He stepped forward and that’s when Jack eyed the eerily familiar blade he possessed. Something he had just used for simple Halloween decor was now suddenly the difference between life and death.

“Yo̡u ͠d͢on͢’t kno͞w how͘ ͟l̵on̷g I'v͞è been ̷itch́ìng ̛t̷o d͠o̵ this͘,͝ Jac̕k. How ̛I͏'̵ve͟ wit͞h̶ered͟ awa̸y ͡in̷ ̧hérę ͡w̵hile Y̴O̕U p̶ra͠ņcȩd ͠a͏bou͏t ͜witho͢ut̛ a ̡ca͝r͢e i̛n ͞the ̧world̀.”

Jack swallowed, swore he’d gulped down the first layer of the walls of his throat. He could taste blood again.

“But I̷ ҉wa̕i̧te͠d̀ ̸an̵d̨ ͏n͘o͞w..̡.͏”

A sinister chuckle trailed off, alike to the ones he’d heard slip from the very own lips that were on his face.

“It’s ̧mý ̧t̢u͜r̨n.͠”

Jack’s face read pure confusion, expressed nothing but bewilderment, scrunched with trepidation. The creature smirked at it, wore a knowing tweak of lips.

“Look, man… I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Silence drifted between the two. As if some breeze had just swept by their legs and scuffed the jeans they were clad in.

“Yoù ͏saw it͝.͜”

Casual, it had fallen to more casual conversation. Jack could weave his way through this. He could.

“What?”

He’d expected a scoff, maybe a roll of the eyes… just something. But this immovable statue remained in its cemented state.

“Y̕ơu͟'r̷e̡ ņot ̡i̛n ͘ćo͜n͡t͞rol anymore, ̡Jác̴k͡.̡”

Jack listens to the sole of his boot plant down.  

“I͝ ͜͝a̧̛m̢̡.҉̛”

Adrenaline is rushing in Jack’s veins as those words hit him. He hadn’t realised how close the other had drawn towards him until the wisps of his breath were practically caressing his cheek. Trembling eyes darted as those two words seemed to spiral around and around in his head.

“I don’t-”

A grin shatters reality once more and Jack finds himself attracted to it to the point he’s unable to break away from it.

“Un̶d͏e̛r̴s̷ta̷n̷d͘? ͝Let̸ me spel͜l it ͏out ͜fo̡r͘ yo̢ư.̡”

Jack winces as his chin is grasped. His vice grip stations him but it doesn’t assist in any manner when there’s a nail juttied into his temple.

“W̨e'r͏e in yóu̧r̴ l̵ittĺe, ób͠n̛ox͠ious̛ ̷he̶ad̸ ̴aǹd ͝y͢óu'̵r͡e goin̸g ͢t̡o̸ ̡s͜t̀a͝y͠ ͢here ͟w͞hile I ͘take̸ ̨t̶he̵ wh̴e͠e͞l.”

He digs it in, twists it as he sees Jack about to protest. A wince responds instead and satisfaction blossoms. Jack perseveres despite it and the pixelation figures he’s gotten the point through.

“That’s… that’s absurd.” Jack even chuckles at it, albeit nervously. He’s barely holding himself together. Literally and figuratively. “If we’re in my head then… I should be in control and that… that wasn’t me.” His head jerks up and another whimper flees. A tut echoes into the hollow skull.

“Y͝oų ͘t̵h͘ink you ҉ca͡n co͝nt̀rol me̶ now? Y̵ou̸ ̡ne̕ver ͝c̨o͡uld. ̧”

His skin starts to crawl and is flesh prickles. What was this thing? This… glitching parasite.

“Who are you?”

The hand slips from his chin, travels down to the column of his throat and outstretches where his index finger extends and runs across it horizontally.

“Yo̴u al̴read̷y k͝now.̴”

There’s a glimmer in his sockets, and something off with that split smile that has Jack cringing. No… it can’t be…

But then he’s alone and the vacuum of shadows shreds him of any light.

Jack flies into a panic. He can taste the beads of sweat that his forehead is now slick with and he irks at its salty flavours. It’s a rarity for him to perspire. A sign of pure dread. His ears perk up as vocals dressed with the subtle layer of pixels drift by. The last semblance hinting to an outside world comes in the form of a word.

“Go̵od͟by͡e͜.̸”

Then there’s that signature, sinister giggle.

And when it ends, Jack finds himself longing for some noise. Yearning even for the shrill static.

Tag List: @antis-gauge, @coffee-bean-boi, @miishae, @n-anon, @10th-no-name-person, @pumpkin-demon, @egopocalypse, @immabethehero, @mmmirkabat