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Meg and Dwight are at work on a generator when the strange little puzzle box manifested. It was a staple to the new killer’s trials. Solve the puzzle box and the chains that hunted you down would stop appearing. They would focus on the person who opened the box—which, often Meg was. She was fast, liked taunting killers, and the puzzle box was a delightful enrichment item and she was but a bored zoo animal.
Her attention was instantly piqued. Dwight wasn’t looking up, and she grins, leaning back from where she had been elbow-deep in the guts of moving machinery. Box time.
Dwight looks up as she leaves. Instantly, he knows why she stood up and gives her a look. She smirks back and flips him off. “Meg, don’t,” he says, sounding more than a little exasperated. “It just came back. We’re not in any danger.”
“Fuck yoooouuuu,” Meg responds, flips him off with both fingers, and Dwight rolls his eyes. “We’re fine. We’re kicking his ass anyway.”
They kind of were. One generator left and the poor killer had only hooked Nea and Tapp once each; Nea got a little too cocky, and Tapp went down taking hits for her. Otherwise, they were fine. No one was even injured.
“Whatever, man,” Dwight relents. He backs away from the generator because if Meg is going to summon Eight-Foot-Tall Wizard Guy he doesn’t want to be in the general vicinity.
“Oh, come on! You don’t even know if he’ll, y’know,” she grins, wider, “come.” She places unnecessary emphasis on the word.
Dwight eyes her. “Meg.”
“Dwight,” Meg says, deathly serious in tone. “He’s going to come so fucking fast.”
“Meg, please.”
“It’s the only way. We can’t just leave him like that,” Meg says with a stressed theatrical accent, gesturing with a wide sweep of her arm like she was giving an intense monologue. “We’ve got to let him come. It’s the only way he’ll ever finish.”
“I’m leaving.”
“I’m not!” she laughs, jogging over to the cube, picking it up. She chases Dwight down with it in hand and walks backwards, tossing the box up and down. “Come on, man, don’t cuck this guy.”
Dwight looks intensely exhausted. Meg keeps walking backwards, fingers working to solve the box. She gets about halfway through before she’s interrupted. Chains, hooks, the whole ordeal, and Dwight cringes as the hooks briefly pierce her skin. Meg can stand pain a lot better than he can, and she’s really good at bullshitting her way through blood-curdling agony.
She winks at him as a voice echoes throughout the grounds. “YOU OPENED THE BOX,” it speaks, not shouting, but loud nonetheless. Meg mouths the next part with him. “AND I CAME.”
He’s not far away—the voice came off from their left and neither of them can see him just yet, but the chains relent and Meg backs off, cackling the whole time like the person ten feet away wasn’t a murderer trying to rip her soul apart or whatever. “Fuck, that never gets old,” she laughs, pausing at a pallet, watching the man approach. “I’m sorry, dude, really. You come faster than Dwight does. Impressive.”
Meg can feel malicious intent emanating from a locker a foot to her right.
The man does not respond. She drops the pallet and runs and hears it break into pieces behind her. Her taunting is not up so quickly. She quickly makes way to another safe set of windows and walls, but he’s right on her ass. She vaults a window and he goes for a hit, but she’s on the other side fast enough. She turns and winks. “Oh, fuck, dude, sorry. Gotta get over that refractory period before you can catch me, right?”
He goes left, so she goes right. It’s a steep angle to the next window but she manages it before he catches on. He doesn’t swing this time, just turns and goes to cut her off. She scrambles through the window and instead of keeping up the chase here she takes off for another location. It takes the killer a second to catch on, and he’s still glancing at the window before his eyes follow the invisible scratch marks and the chase is back on again.
“Is that leather chaffing?” Meg shouts. “Might want to get some baby powder! Could’ve caught me by now!”
Her options to run are rapidly sinking. She’d abandoned the loop for distance, but he was closing that gap quickly. Damn, the fucker was fast. He swung and she crashed to the floor to avoid the swing, rolling and scrambling back to her feet with a triumphant laugh. The laugh turned into a hack of pain as the next swing finally caught her across her upper back. She stumbled forward with a burst of speed. It hurt, but the speed was enough to get her to the next loop. She could grit her teeth and bear it.
“I mean, don’t beat yourself up for being so quick on the draw, but,” Meg has to pause to pant. The Entity provides survivors with supernatural stamina, but the wound hurts and she’s tired of running. She slows to recover as the man catches up. “But like, try thinking about baseball next time. Or get a cock ring—you look like the type to like that, right?”
Chains shoot out of a portal behind her and she yelps, backing into one as she tore the others away. It gives the killer enough time to catch up, but it’s close. Meg just manages to vault the window, again, before he’s on top of her. She has to keep running or he’ll catch her, but there’s a good pallet here and she’s confident in her chase skills.
Then the pallet’s thrown and he reaches out to break it, but then pauses. They both do, glancing off into nothing, and Meg knows the puzzle box is being solved. Her grin could not be wider. “Go on, then,” she said, shooing him with her hand. “Go get you some come.”
He, evidently, decides that dealing with the taunting loudmouth is better than coming, which Meg finds incredibly entertaining. It’s the most fun she’s had all week (or whatever ‘recent time period’ you could define in the Fog) even if her muscles ache and wounds are shouting at her to shut the fuck up and go heal somewhere. The hooks shoot out to break the pallet and Meg takes off for the window. “So did the Entity lure you with hook-ups to get you here? Because man, did you get fuckin’ catfished,” she laughs, and they’re back at the first loop. She vaults. He follows, swings, misses. Catches the wood. She wonders how frustrated he’s getting. It’s understandable—he’s a new killer and all. After the novelty runs out, she can run any killer just the same.
She wants to put her fucking foot in her mouth because she runs straight into the big-ass goth bitch a second later, taking the wrong gamble at the broken pallet. His next hit slams her to the floor. She’s panting and bleeding, but while the body was unwilling, her mouth knew no such hindrances. “I—I mean, dude, it’s just a box. Like, Jesus—ah, fuck!” She’s picked up right in front of the locker.
It’s his mistake. He’s got her firmly in his grasp, takes one step, and then a locker door slaps him in the face with a surprising amount of force. It surprises him enough that Meg is dislodged from his grasp, and she laughs when she sees Dwight there. She’s never seen him look so courageous while also looking like he’s about to piss his pants.
“I at least have to see Jake shirtless before I come that fast,” he taunts, and then sprints away, entirely unwilling to see the consequences for his actions. Meg throws her head back and cackles as she backs away, flipping the man off again. Maybe she sees a little bit of annoyance in his gaze, or maybe she’s imagining it.
Either way, the hunt is on, and she’s having a blast.