#the-killer-kit

He needed to regain his strength before he tried anything. He didn’t know what to try, really, but as Kit went on to him about how he needed to be a good boy it spurred him on just a bit more to fight until Kit was pissed off enough to either kill him, or… “Go on, leave me here,” he muttered. “Least the… Trapper will kill me if he finds me.” Jake hated the guy, and the Trapper hated him back, but it was all business. His deaths tended to be both painful and quick. Much preferred over whatever this was.

Kit’s fingers ran through his hair and Jake thought about biting the idiot again, which Kit apparently thought of, too, grabbing him by the chin and pushing his head away. Jake’s skin crawled, feeling Kit’s breath tickle his neck and he tensed, free leg drawing up while he tried to block the creepy bastard’s actions out of his mind and focus on what he needed to do. Rather, what he could do. Fight is what he wanted to do, he was really ready to sock Kit a good one, but he had no leverage from the ground and in this awkwardly-pinned position. He might be able to get a good kick in, but probably not good enough to piss him off enough to get Jake’s desired result—death or solitude.

Frustrated by his own inability to do something useful, he remained motionless. Just be patient, he told himself, even though he really, really didn’t want to be fucking patient. If he got out of the trap, injured leg or no, he might be able to overpower the killer, at least for long enough to do… something. Lead Kit into a trap, or better yet, lead him to the Trapper himself. The killer didn’t like intruders and, while Jake probably wouldn’t get out of that one, it was preferable.

Jake’s fingers twitched at his work and the generator spat oil at him as he suddenly heard Kate scream, nearly halfway across the landscape of swamp they’d appeared in; so, he was going to have to trek to go and help her. He just hoped the killer didn’t stay in the area - though, they had every reason not to leave. They’d hardly made it a goal to savor their prey to begin with, after all. 

But the problem was, Kate didn’t stop screaming. Her screams grew in intensity, until finally her voice cut off, and dread seeped through his body.

He was the only one left.

His mind was racing. How was that fair? Kate had been fresh into the trial. She hadn’t even been hooked yet, and somehow the killer had been able to slaughter her in seconds? Had they been carving her up in those last moments, damaging her beyond repair? At least Adam and Nea had been on death hook for their final moments - but it was as though the killer had lost patience already and was seeking to end the trial. His heart throbbed, for the first time in a while, with genuine fear. Nothing was off the table, then. He had to find the hatch quickly.

A branch snapped in the distance and it kicked him into gear. He abandoned his generator and worked to keep calm while he scanned the area, spotting nothing and deciding he could risk a run for a little while, even if it would leave heavier footprints and disturbances in the mud. The game of cat and mouse ended as soon as he was caught, so his care for being quiet and untraceable was slipping in the heat of the moment. He couldn’t stop wondering what this killer even looked like. He hadn’t heard a bell, so it couldn’t be the Wraith; no cloaking to fear. The Hag, maybe? This was, after all, her domain, and he could stumble upon a trap at any moment. His running faltered. Maybe he ought to slow down. No, he thought, she leaves gashes. The knife marks. Small, precise. Nothing that suggested the Hag could have done it. 

Why can’t I calm down? His heart was racing. He felt that same dread oozing throughout his body, like a cornered animal about to be seized and taken somewhere. He felt like he was being watched. Jake never lost his cool so easily, so why was it like he could barely get a hold of himself?

He staggered to a halt when sheer white caught his eye. There, in the distance, stood a familiar face, dressed like what looked to be a groom with wilted flowers tucked away in a pocket. 

“Dwight?” he croaked, his voice scratchy from lack of use. He wanted to feel relief, to relax, but panic started to set in the longer he stared. This isn’t right.

‘Dwight’ took a step toward him, and Jake instantly recoiled. His instincts were screaming at him to run, to find the hatch, to get out. Something about this Dwight couldn’t be trusted, and he didn’t want to find out.

“Jake,” he said, sounding so much like Jake’s Dwight, and suddenly he didn’t know what to do. Why was this so wrong? What was wrong with him? His voice remained stuck to his throat as though it were glued. 

“Come here.” Jake didn’t want to. “Please.” No.

Dwight had gotten closer. When had he done that? Jake backed away again, but this time, the other man followed. Fear clenched in his chest as he stared into his eyes and saw nothing but affection.

That all would have been fine and dandy if he wasn’t covered in blood. 

“What’s wrong with you, Dwight?” he rasped. “Why are you bleeding?” Why are you holding a knife? Jake knew the answer. He knew. He just didn’t want to accept it. He couldn’t.

“Oh!” Dwight’s voice, perky and elated, filled the air. “It’s Kit, actually. Don’t worry; it’s not mine.” I know. “It’s okay. I made sure we were alone.”

“W-what?”

“I wanted to make sure we were alone,” he repeated, “so we can be together. No one else is in our way now.” A pleasant smile stretched across his face, so serene and plain and Dwight that it made Jake’s skin crawl. This couldn’t be happening.

“Kate? And...Adam? Nea?”

“Why do they matter?” His voice wasn’t so pleasant anymore. In fact, it had hardened upon mention of the other survivors. “They’ll come back somewhere else. I said I wanted us alone.” He took another demanding step toward Jake, and that was when he saw the pocket knife. Black and yet dripping with blood, streaking it up Dwight’s arm and splattered all over the white suit he was wearing. As if he’d savagely stabbed, over and over, until his victims had stopped writhing beneath him. 

Jake felt sick. He had no more words. He stared at the knife silently, then back up at Dwight - and then he ran.

Dwight barked Jake’s name and gave chase, making Jake’s panic kick into overdrive, and he put everything he had into his sprint. Find the hatch, gotta find the hatch, he thought, prey desperate to escape its obvious predator, and just in time for him to hear the distant hum, he tripped.

Jake crashed to the ground and barely had a second to push himself up before Dwight threw himself on top of him, grabbing one of his arms and bending it behind his back while he straddled him.

“Stop it,” he hissed into his ear, grabbing his hair with his free hand, and Jake went stiff. Why couldn’t he calm down? Why was he in such a frenzy to escape? It had to be some sort of effect Dwight -- no, the killer -- was putting upon him. He jerked and writhed violently to try and escape until the knife was stabbed into his shoulder, and his teeth grit to stop any modicum of sound from coming out. 

“Just kill me already,” he decided to snarl despite the obvious tremor in his body, and Dwight paused before he laughed, genuine and soft like the normal Dwight did. Stop it. Please, stop. Why did he have to sound so much like him? 

“Kill you? Why would I do that?” His fingers tightened in Jake’s hair and he nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his scent obsessively. “I want you to be mine, Jake. That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he purred. Jake shuddered with disgust. 

“I’d rather fucking die,” he spat, renewed vigor giving him the strength to fight once more, trying to buck and throw Dwight off of him - but he had him caught.

Dwight’s breath quivered and then heaved with displeasure, his nails scratching at his charge’s scalp, and the knife was ripped out of his shoulder. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice trembling with disbelief. “I just want us to be together. Don’t you love me?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. He stabbed Jake again, and again, each time in a different, agonizing spot, and he writhed with his jaw clenched shut to stay silent while he clawed at the mud with his free hand and struggled to escape, to crawl to the hatch, to survive. But he knew it was pointless. He’d failed.

With each stab, Dwight let out an increasingly stressed growl of building rage, until he snarled, “I asked you a fucking question!”

Dwight pulled his head back by the hair and released his arm, only to place the blade of the knife directly against Jake’s throat. “I’m giving you a chance to answer me, darling,” he said, his voice trembling in an obvious effort to sound calm again.

Jake said nothing.

Kit heard the squelch of flesh as he finished the job, watching as Jake’s body heaved and twitched while he struggled for air, until finally, after a few agonizing moments, he fell still. 

As the trial began to crumble apart around him, his cold stare melted into one of grief, and tears welled in his eyes with an awful sob as he buried his face in his hands.

Chest heaving, he stood up from the corpse of his latest victim; he hadn't had the patience to hook Nea, not when she liked to taunt him so. He'd lost his cool and the moment the Entity had whispered to him, do it, he'd eagerly obliged, stabbing her over and over, ruthlessly and furiously, until she'd finally stopped lurching and spitting up blood and squirming beneath him. No need to waste his time with a merciful death. Not when she mocked him for what he craved.

Three of them were dead. All three that were in the way; Nea, Adam, and Min, all gone. Out of sight, out of mind. Now, it was just him and Brad.

Delightful, handsome, scared little Brad. Kit had to admit, he knew very little about this newcomer to the Fog, but that did nothing to damage his interest in the man. All he needed to know was that he was cute, he was alone, and he was here. Lost and separated from the herd, like a lonely little lamb.

Kit was lonely, too. A lonely wolf, covered in lovely wool that was so drenched in blood that it no longer worked on the herd, that is. What a shame. If they just humored him, just gave him a chance, then they could avoid all of this bloodshed. All of this death. He wouldn't have to feel so delirious with so much blood on his hands, his presence wildly overwhelming from the success of his hunt. "Oh, Brad," he sighed, before he called it out to the trees, a cry piercing the woods and causing the crows to flee as though even they were no longer on his side. "Bra-ad!"

And there he was. Crouched off in the distance, peering around, so helpless and desperate to find his precious hatch - but Kit wouldn't give him the chance. Not when he had an opportunity of his own. He closed the space between them, leaving only a few yards to separate himself from his target.