Chapter Text
He watched five people truly die by his hands. He watched as the light left their eyes, as breaths became stuttered, as their body grew still. He watched as, instead of fading away in a glittering display of particles as had become the norm, the body stayed. Unmoving and cool to the touch. Those five—Impulse, Grian, Joel, Martyn and, more recently, Ren—would be forever ingrained in his mind. But, that led to the question as to how his last victim, the one that should've ended the game they were subjected to, stood in front of him? Alive.
The man's blood still dripped from his dirtied sword, mixed alongside that of Grian, Joel and Martyn. Its smell invaded his senses, drilling the back of his skull with its pounding, incessant demand that he pay attention, that he make more and add to the bloodshed. It was difficult to even stay still, even as injured as he was, with the baying, distant chords catching every stray thought. Kill, it said. Well, more demanding, invading every corner of his brain so severely that he had difficulty focusing on the here and now.
He is surrounded, that is certain. He has no one at his back to keep him from becoming a chilling corpse—no Cleo, no Pearl, no Shadow-Scottage alliance. Many seem vaguely familiar to him, but all he can really focus on is the Ren-lookalike. Was it some sick trick? Were they playing with his mind? Was he dead?
His breathing is labored, heavy, and he can taste blood. His body still hurts, his heart still beats—he can't be dead. Then what is this?—killhimkillhimkillhim.
He did not know what to make of this situation. Maybe they wanted him to finish the job? Would that free him? Would he finally be released from this mortal plane to join that of his friends?—that he had a hand in murdering in cold blood. It made no sense.
Kill him. The haze was louder and he can't help the breathless chuckle at its insistence. Scott nolastname—he didn't have to chance to remember his as some had during the game—was many things, a builder, gatekeep out of the three Gs, a murderer—but he was not a slave to the haze. At least, that is what he tells himself. His first time subjected to the curse was difficult, but he refused to turn to Pearl or Cleo—no matter how tentative that alliance was. When faced with someone not on his no-kill list, that was difficult. No matter how risky it was at the time he didn't lose himself to the blood lust. He didn't hunt Impulse down due to failing to kill him before—he'slying—, he did so with the logical assumption that everyone else already knew.
The second time he had to endure the curse was even more aggravating—it was torture, blaring in the back of his mind constantly. But, he didn't succumb to the haze under its influence. As a Red? Well... that is more difficult to mitigate or control when everywhere is a battlefield and you can hardly trust another soul. Pearl was the only one he truly believed wouldn't kill him. The Shadow Alliance would stab him in the back the first moment they got and, loathe as he is to admit it, Cleo is an opportunist at heart—although they didn't last long to become a true problem, light snuffed out before the final stand.
Then, one of them has the gall to speak, "Scott?"
His head snaps to the source of the voice, finding a black-haired, iron(?) armor-clad man wielding a lantern of all things in one hand and a well-forged sword in the other. Blood-red, near-glowing eyes stare unblinkingly at the stranger who addresses him by name. The savage haze purrs at the unsettled expression burrowed in their eyes, clearly defining Scott as what he has become unwillingly throughout the game—a threat. Slowly, now that the beast of the haze is briefly quelled from the man's distraction, he allows himself to examine the rest of the iron(?)-clad crowd, not-yet looking to those behind him in spite of the prickling—threatthreatkillit!—at the base of his neck.
All of those gathered are under-geared. Many hold lanterns, wooden stakes—why?—, and dinky iron(?) swords. Some even have old worn books strapped to their belts alongside bottles of clear liquids that have to be potions of some sort, none that he could identify. And that was saying something as he was the expert on potions during the game, a skill that they all suspected transferred from before.
Then, he takes the time to look at their features, their expressions. The consensus is apprehension and confusion. He feels pretty confused himself, so he won't hold them accountable for that as it would be hypocritical. However, he pauses when his gaze lands on two people. Although in odd, old-timey clothes as the rest of the group—who was he to judge in his blood-stained tatters?—, one of which having stark-white hair and red eyes, those two looked eerily like Pearl and Cleo. What is this? He wonders, thoroughly analyzing the differences that put these two into a sort of uncanny valley. It was as if the defining features he knew and recognized from Pearl and Cleo were shifted to the left, leaving behind an afterimage of something inherently wrong.
This has to be a trick. A sick joke. Karma coming to bite him in the ass for his actions and the death he caused. A vivid hallucination before he died that they conjured. Yet, those possibilities didn't ring true.
Kill them, imposters. His fingers twitch, the blade following his movement as he tilts his head just so to the right. Curious—dangerous.
"Are you alrigh', lad?" The Ren-double asks, voice too different from his Ren, from the one he gutted.
No one can truly blame him for breaking? Could they? It wouldn't be fair if one were to do so. How would they feel if they ended up in a place they didn't know, with people they didn't know except for imposter-doubles of people they saw die or killed personally? Truly, he commends himself for keeping level headed for so long. He wasn't beholden to the haze, but he did slip on occasion.
He releases a breath that shifts into breathy chuckles, barely loud enough to be heard over the winds on this collapsing stone bridge. That is, until he throws his head back, howling with laughter. His lungs ache as he does so, doubling over and slapping his knee. It is cathartic to do so. He channels those he lost, those he killed, and straightens to an upright position, wiping the corner of his eyes as the cackles peter out into delirious giggles.
"Oh—" He says, lips lifted into an unhinged smile. "—this is absolute bullshit."
Then, and only then, does he move. Adjusting his feet, he pushes off his left with a burst of speed he could only blame the haze for, his injuries falling to the back of his mind as red overtakes his vision. He reaches the Ren-lookalike in no time, the iron(?)-clad group too slow to react as he slices shoulder-to-hip. The explosion of blood on his face brings him glee—it'sthehazestopitstopit—and he shows it by releasing a short peal of laughter.
Scott roughly kicks away the person attempting to stop him from finishing the job, pandemonium rising just as his blade does. He coldly stares down the grounded, bleeding Ren-imposter, bringing his weapon down swiftly in a move that would seamlessly take the man's head. It would've been easy—far easier than his Ren who led him on a wild goose chase until they both faced their fates—had he not been shoved away at the last minute.
Shouts of "Scott," "Stop him," and many more flit through the haze, not that he pays them any mind. It is confusing to think how these strangers know his name, but the haze stops him from focusing on it for too long. It demands more, give me more, while a quiet, whispering voice deep in his subconscious begs him to stop. He listens to the haze, much to his subconscious' grief, wildly swiping his diamond sword into the crowd stopping him from getting his quarry. The Ren-imposter is his to claim, it must be.
He meets blades with the black-haired man, easily tilting his head out of the way of a strike to his temple from his left. Scott ducks out of the man's range, turning to slash into the thigh of a blond that looks like Martyn of all people. Were the finalists here to haunt him? Was he going to see Grian, Etho and Joel next? Did he need to kill them to win?
The Martyn-imposter collapses to his knees with a surprised cry, taking the boot to his face poorly. He can't continue with the man further, dancing away from a swipe or two of iron(?) swords. These people aren't coordinated and make it terribly easy to take them down one-by-one. A throaty, satisfied hum escapes his smiling mouth as he jabs another with his blade, new blood adding to the collection of it staining his blade. He finds that the group that was behind him does nothing to stop his actions. Although, it seemed a few might be close to joining, either to stop him or join in. Not like he would allow either. No matter if those Reds—they aren't Reds, imposters like these fakes of his victims and allies.
Scott reels back as one of the people splash his face with something. He back peddles, temporarily blind as he furiously wipes his face. Clarity briefly graces him, shock and horror flashing through his eyes as he takes in the carnage he wrought. His heart pounds heavily, his breaths come heaving through his lungs, almost reedy-sounding, and he blinks rapidly.
For a moment, he is motionless. That is, before he takes a healthy amount of steps to continue distancing himself. Especially when a few seem to be actively pursuing, the black-haired man among the crowd. Scott shakes his head, yanking strands of blue from his scalp and begs, "N—no, please, no."
The haze, however, listens to no one but itself. Shaking itself back into control, Scott's prior pathetic expression shifts into satisfaction. He continues moving past the limits of his body, something he will surely feel deeply later down the line. Not like it truly matters under the numbness the haze happily provides, encouraging him to do more, to push past the boundaries of his mortal coil. The black-haired man is unbalanced as he uncaringly charges, shoving him aside to take the Peal and Cleo-imposters. They move in sync in a way none of the Gs could, successfully pushing him back while not allowing him any chance to hurt one or the other.
Had this been a friendly duel, he might have been impressed and commended them for their actions. However, this was not such, and all he felt under the haze was otherworldly rage at these women inhibiting his ability to destroy his quarry. Ren was his to kill, to finally end the game, to free him of this hell. And the haze is oh so convincing, coaxing him to take down more before he goes. It is only right, right? In the spirit of the game. He was expected to end it, even if he didn’t seem to be in the final four anymore. There were no agreements here, no pseudo-alliances, no temporary truces. It was all the game, blood and death aplenty.
His blade finally strikes true on the Cleo-imposter, finding the strength to kick them back into Pearl’s waiting arms. He’s breathing quite heavily, even with the haze dulling most things. But, he finds he doesn’t care too much, not when this was so exhilarating. He was having fun with their scrambling, just as he did when Martyn helped with his own death. It was so easy to end the man when he was grounded by his own end crystal—he doesn’t think of the terrified look in the man’s eyes as he accepted it was his time.
Scott is halted in his attempts to push past the two women, the black-haired man back on his tail. This guy was relentless, he could acknowledge, even with how irritating his competence was. Scott shouts his frustrations to the world, glaring heatedly at the man as their swords clash. The haze gives him strength to push further, vaguely feeling the way his arms protest at the pressure put onto them, the man struggling to keep Scott in place.
“Scott,” is whispered deep in his subconscious, almost pleading. He recognizes the voice, even when he thinks it would be better if he didn’t. “Scott”, it insists, more demanding. He grunts, losing ground with the black-haired man from the unnecessary distraction—a distraction he sorely needs to stop. The blades screech, doing numbers on his eardrums in a way that makes him unconsciously wince. His crystals shiver before continuing their uncaring dance. A fact he thinks the black-haired man can’t help but notice.
He grits his teeth, digging in his heels, and shoves against the other’s blade once again, taking pleasure in the way no one else interrupts their dance. While he could do without it, wishing desperately to get to the Ren-imposter, the haze finds this man’s interruption fun in a way he can’t comprehend. The game didn’t really allow brawls like this. Yes, there were struggles. Yes, there were duels. Yes, there was death and destruction. Yet, there were never truly uninterrupted battles between one person and another. Not until the end at least. Maybe that was why he was enjoying it so, even with the interruption it was posing, as it reminded him of the battle he had with the real Ren, reminding him that it was almost over.
“SCOTT”, he startles, shoulders jerking in a way that weakened his stance. He can’t do anything as the black-haired man’s blade slides against his, slipping easily through his guard. All Scott can do is angle his body away as best as he can. A task that he both fails and succeeds in. Instead of impaling him, the blade slices through his side. But, the blade still strikes true. It strikes and blood explodes from his side in the impact.
Clarity returns with that strike. He stumbles, barely managing to stay on his feet as the black-haired man warily watches him stagger back. Blood gushes from between his fingers as his left hand moves to hold pressure—sword hanging loosely at his side in his right—, warm and sticky in a way he never really got the chance to examine. Scott coughs harshly, blinking back demands to continue fighting with a stubbornness only he could truly attain. He refused to continue, refused to stay a slave to the haze's machinations. He thought he would be free before he wound up here. He thought he would join his friends in death as those had before him.
Terrified, shaking, and in pain, he warily muses, "S—so that's w—hat it's li—ke."
He had seen it happen to so many. Joel would likely be the best example, Grian a great contender with how quickly that man attempted to convince Mumbo to join him as a Red—don't worry, all he had to do was die once!. He knew how easy it was to succumb to the haze's will. It was much easier than resisting as he had during the curse, than he was attempting to now—to little success. Had he not been severely injured, he knew he would continue going under the haze's influence.
Scott continues shuffling back, wind ruffling his hair gently, almost as if it were patting his head, congratulating him for resisting. Red eyes glance in his periphery, finding nothing but air behind him. He was on the edge of the dilapidated bridge. A thought crossed his mind unbidden, his body unconsciously following as he takes a step closer to the edge.
"Scott!" Shouts a feminine voice, slowly drawing his gaze. They are as red-eyed and white-haired as the rest of their group. Not Red-red, but a red that is certainly as unsettling as his eyes. They stop a couple paces away, not getting any closer than the black-haired man who mostly held him at bay throughout this conflict of theirs.
Red eyes glint pleadingly, oddly pointed at him. "Please get away from there, let us treat you," They say, as if he didn't terrorize the iron(?)-clad individuals.
Blinking, he smiles a self-deprecating thing, "Are y—ou sure that is a wise choice?"
Blood drips down his chin, from his own injuries and possibly from biting his own tongue, he can't really tell. The taste of copper is overwhelming—he wants to rip out his tongue to stop tasting it. He is surprised to see her soft, kind expression stay planted on their face. It is endearing, bright, and reminds him vaguely of Lizzie or Jimmy at their most innocent. He wouldn't be surprised if it is a trap, Lizzie had used that unending kindness of hers to lure him and Pearl into a trap to cure herself of the curse. Who's to say this isn't something similar? Not as if he could truly stop that from happening in his state.
She looks like she wants to speak, mouth opening, only for the black-haired man to interrupt. "Are you present, Scott?" He asks, seeming knowledgable—to an extent—of the haze unlike the rest who seem confused at his pacifism.
"H—" He coughs harshly, legs shaking in their struggle to keep him upright, "—How do you know my name?" He asks, more demands with a smidge of the haze clawing into his words unbidden. This is addressed to all in his vicinity, remembering through the haze how many called his name into the din of battle unheard.
The black-haired man answers, "We can explain later, just let us treat—"
"NO!" An edge of the haze flashes, resulting in him shaking his head rapidly, free hand scraping uselessly against his face. He shuffles closer to the edge, wheezing with a chill encompassing his fingers and toes. "Explain now—or, I jump."
His red eyes are set, determined, uncaring on these people's desires. "I have—nothing..." Pearl and Cleo are gone, he has no purpose any longer other than making sure he wins the game. Something he can't do here as none of these people seem beholden to those stipulations.
"Why should I stay and entertain your wishes?" He finishes in a defeated manner, staring beyond them to the two groups unabashedly observing this. Well, most are except those he felled, currently being tended to by a man in a white coat.
The red-eyed white-haired woman answers next, their black-and-red tiara glinting in the sunlight, "You look like someone we know—who also has your name, it seems. He—" They look scared, maybe a little sad and worried. "—he vanished just as you appeared."
A Scott-imposter? Just as there were people who looked like Cleo, Martyn, Peal and Ren? This was all too confusing. Clearly, he wasn't meant to be here. Not that he couldn't innately feel that in the beginning. One of his crystals—redredred like his eyes and those of Reds—bobs into view, drooping enough to mimic his exhaustion. He was glad only Pearl learned how to read them during their time together.
"Why should I stay?" Scott repeats his question quieter, feeling rather faint but refusing to appear weaker than he already did.
"We don't know why you're here," said the black-haired man simply.
The woman tacks on, "maybe you can help us get our Scott back."
Ah, so it wasn't any genuine care for his well-being. Not that he would blame them as he viciously attacked them. They just needed him until they found out why he was here and not the imposter-Scott. Well, he supposed he was the imposter in this scenario. What an odd thing to think. Maybe when this was all over he could return to the game's grounds and then finally join his friends in death.
That thought is what greets him as he collapses. There is a shout, and he feels wind slapping against his blood-soaked face, almost begging him to stay awake, before nothing. Nothing but the mischievous dual-smiles of Pearl and Cleo as they plan and plot for their assured win. Gaslight, gatekeep and girlboss would get to the end and only then will they decide the winner between the trio, right?
No matter how good a dream is, you always have to wake up.