Chapter Text
0.
At some point, it all stopped making sense.
The floors. The hours. The coworkers. Everything is the same and different. A sea of cubicles in one neatly tucked away Hell. Four walls. Ten floors. Empty cold light from white neons and green miasma. One building, and absolute madness all around.
Brian couldn’t tell how he was still hanging on at this point. It was all a joke, a nightmare. Improbabilities and impossibilities. Yet he was still there, as if bound to the corporation itself. He could yell and run, escape through the ground floor, through the very open, unlocked entrance. But something, Something , made him unable to. Sintracorp was slithering into his veins, his head. The mere idea of escaping could not even enter his brain for a second.
Witches. Monsters. Corpses. He could run away.
But he had a job to do.
1.
Brian couldn’t remember how many times he had to reload.
When he found his first witch paper, he swore to never use it no matter what. For one, the idea of copying his own soul was, well, weird. And impossible. Because there wasn’t any rational explanation for that, right? He may be a bumpkin G-class from the suburbs, but he still had an education, thank you very much.
Second, the warning inscribed into each piece of paper used to send chills down his spine.
Then, when everything started to go downhill, he had to admit: he would not survive to see the next day without those papers.
Ink became as important as blood, and each photocopier found was like an oasis in a desert.
2.
The very first time Brian saw Him was a coincidence. Only another weird thing happening in this place.
It was after rummaging through the trash in one of the few usable bathrooms. He found another witch paper there, crumpled and tossed in a ball, and the relief it made him feel was almost enough to wash away the nausea from the stench of the stalls and the hanging corpses on the walls.
The moment he got back up, ready to get away as soon as possible, something in his peripheral vision made him freeze in place.
Brian took a step, then two, toward the mirror. Toward the reflection that was his, and yet wasn't.
It’s a trick of the light, he thinks; removing his glasses briefly to rub his eyes. His only sources of illumination are a flickering neon spotlight and a red glow stick, after all.
Yet, when he puts his glasses back on, the vision is still there.
It’s him, alright. Same pose, same stature, same hair. The witch paper in one hand and the other moving exactly the same way as his. And it’s not . The red horned mask, the bloodstains on his white shirt, the black gloves…
The eyes.
He suddenly gasps, finally processing what he’s seeing, and the surprise makes him recoil against the wall, knocking away the trash bin in the process and falling to the dirty, damp ground with it.
What was this? What was this? Brian was scared to get back up and look again.
With trembling hands he gets on his knees, searching frantically for his suitcase in the dim light. He finds it and shoves his paper in it, then rushes to his feet to get out of there. He doesn’t want to check if the reflection is still there. He tries to put this in a far-away part of his mind, alongside all the other anomalies of this place.
3.
Turns out, seeing an uncanny, devilish-like reflection of yourself in the mirror is not that bad compared to a giant mouth on the wall trying to seduce and eat you, or the Dot Matrix cracking open your skull three times in a row.
It’s nothing compared to finding the rotting corpse of that old witch hunter in the pool. Or putting up with that asshole Chapman. Or with the feeling that Hugo was ready to stab him in the back at any moment. Or with the mouth ladies from HR ready to maul him on the spot.
Or with the camera people forcing him to sneak in the dark, breath heavy, hands clammy, and his heart ready to burst from his chest when the now familiar red glow from their heads slips inside his hiding spot when they’re just a bit too close.
4.
Once Tikitaka finally dies and everything in the security sector is deactivated, Brian is suddenly crushed by the eerie peace and silence of this place.
He stares in disbelief at the lifeless, hybrid body in front of him, the screen from the TV head broken beyond repair.
Somehow, Brian must be starting to get used to the insanities of Sintracorp, because when he looks upon the debris and the sea of old and silent TVs, he doesn’t feel that much pity, nor anger or sadness for the poor victims of the witch in front of him.
Instead, what he feels is an unfamiliar dread, as for a split second he catches his reflection in the dark screen of Tikitaka’s shut-down head.
All he sees is a red mask and a cold stare.
5.
When Brian finally gets back to the photocopier by the entrance of the security department, he’s so tired he’s almost in a daze.
It’s all starting to be too much to him, almost. He doesn’t know how much time he can cope with the madness of this place. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been there. It feels as if his senses aren’t to be trusted anymore. Maybe he has been here for days. Weeks. Months. Who knows.
He’s exhausted. The only thing he had to eat recently was a bit of noodles from the last time he was able to stop by the canteen. All he did since his arrival was hide and run. Sintra wasn’t willing to talk to him anymore, and Brian has the gnawing impression that he’s still far from knowing anything about the Witch that really mattered.
And most of all, Tikitaka may be dead now, but his revelation about following Brian since the beginning through his cameras made Brian painfully aware of one thing. That dreadful feeling he had for a while now, following him since this morning… It was the feeling of being watched.
But it couldn’t be Tikitaka anymore.
It couldn’t be the Witch either. If she knew who or where he was, he would already be dead.
Inside his brain, something, some kind of intuition, a primal fear, whispered to him that it was something else entirely. Something just behind him, always there, impossible to catch with his eyes. It was like a clear image glitching out of reality whenever he tried to take a look at it. It’s there, it’s there, cold and crimson, its voice only static on a broken radio.
His head is a mess. His body hurts. He wants to throw up, as that abrupt understanding is like a heavy weight on his shoulders. Suddenly, Brian Pasternack is very afraid, and even though he had all the reasons to be afraid thus far, at this very moment he has no idea what he’s afraid of.
Trembling, he picks a witch paper from his briefcase and manages to copy his soul with shaky legs.
Then everything fades to black, and he barely registers that he’s falling to the ground.