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Stagnant air laced with a chemical scent burns his nose as he enters the dull concrete room.
The guard is sloppy. It’s far too easy to snatch the gun and attach the silencer in one smooth motion. The stolen weapon meets the frozen guard’s back and he turns his head to glance at the prisoner over his shoulder.
“Hello there, I’m here to rescue you,” He says with a sweet smile that quickly drops, “That’s what you were hoping I’d say, right?”
A single bullet is all it takes for the guard to fall, blood pooling around the hole in his chest. The slick, coppery fluid shines like metal, but all he can smell is salt.
“I have to hand it to you, you and your friends managed to make this more difficult than I was anticipating. I suppose your talents have always swayed towards infuriating me more than not.” He takes one step towards the table where his target sits, then another, then he raises the pistol to rest at the center of his forehead.
Every breath Joker takes is slow and focused, eyes boring deep into those of his soon to be executor. His nonchalance is a challenge, a question of whether Akechi can go through with this if his enemy refuses to bend to his upper hand.
Akechi pays it no mind, “In the end, you proved to be quite an asset. It’s a shame you won’t be around to see the fruits of your labor.” He blinks slowly, a tender flutter of lashes that mirrors his old princely facade.
The air and all of the world beyond orients itself around the point where the muzzle meets Joker’s skull, an origin point from which all other meaning unfolds. He’s standing in a painting, trapped in a moment of stillness between two points of action.
Then the acrylic cracks, a smile settling itself victoriously upon Akechi’s lips. He raises his head and curls the finger resting on the trigger.
“Case closed, this is how your justice ends.”
The world around him distorts around the muffled sound of the pistol firing, as if the bullet ripped its way through the very fabric of reality just as it did Joker’s brain matter. He shatters into hundreds of thousands, one pane of glass turned into a barrage of shards, every crack multiplying the reflection within. Within them he sees himself shoot, over and over and over, until none are left.
He steps back to avoid the splatter of blood reaching his clothes. The pool of red is a crimson halo dripping across the dull surface of the table, encroaching slowly upon Akechi’s fuzzy reflection in the unpolished metal.
Joker’s fingers are already cold as he tucks the gun into his hand. He takes one last look at his handiwork and, satisfied with a job complete, turns away to leave the corpse behind. The air rings with each step he takes, static closing in around his vision. By the time he reaches the door he can barely see his own hand as it reaches out to close around the handle.
Stagnant air and a faint chemical scent greets him as he enters the dull concrete room. The guard puts up more of a fight than before, and the struggle results in his shot missing the vital mark. He has to put an extra bullet in his head to stop his gurgling.
The light hums and flickers above the table where Joker sits patiently. He looks bored, one leg crossed over the other. “You were saying?”
“You seem awfully composed for having just taken a bullet to the head,” Akechi notes with a frown.
The prisoner shrugs. “It wasn’t anything I haven’t seen before.”
The comment shouldn’t bother him, but Akechi finds himself partly insulted nonetheless. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was meant to entertain my mark before killing them.”
“I’d rather you not kill me at all, actually,” Joker says with a bitter look. Akechi scoffs.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby, it’s not like it matters anyways,” he says dryly.
Joker doesn’t respond, his gaze shifted over to one of the faint cracks in the wall. One hand props his head up by the chin while the other taps impatiently against the table. The sound of his nails on the metal is barely audible, yet Akechi feels it itch on the back of his neck.
He lifts the gun without another word, aiming for the sweet spot between his eyes. It’s impressive how well he was knitted back together, not so much as a scar to indicate that Akechi ever succeeded the first time.
His target doesn’t respond, just continues staring dead on as if Akechi isn’t even there. He grits his teeth and his gloves creak as he tightens his grip. “What, nothing to say? A brave face isn’t going to save your life, you know.”
“Oh, so you’re letting me have my last words this time?” the prisoner says, and the coy tone of his voice blinds Akechi with such rage that he doesn’t even register the curl of his own finger until the bullet is tearing its way through Joker’s skull once more.
“No,” his own voice sounds like static in his ears, “I’m not.”
The vertigo that washes over him isn’t quite as bad as before, but it still manages to make him feel sick by the time the body falls. He continues to stare, waiting for it to somehow reanimate. Only once he’s sure that it won’t does he turn around and leave the way he came.
The door creaks open, disrupting the film of silence over his lonesome cell. The guard that steps in is so nondescript that he may as well have no features whatsoever. He doesn’t so much as make a sound as he crumples to the floor, dead. Akechi steps nonchalantly over the corpse with a scowl on his face.
Joker tugs on the cuff of his sleeve and refuses to meet his captor’s eyes. “We should try Russian roulette.”
Akechi stares at him like a dead fish. “Are you insane?”
Joker can’t help but crack a smile at his incredulous voice. “What can I say? I love a gamble.”
“And why would I want to do that?” his captor asks, and in all fairness it is a good question.
Joker smirks. “Are you worried your luck might not measure up to mine?”
Akechi’s nose crinkles in distaste. “Luck isn’t the problem. What exactly do I hope to gain from this?”
Joker hums in thought for a moment, “Well, this was supposed to be an interrogation, right? How about every time a blank gets fired, I’ll answer any question you want.”
They stare at one another for a long while. Joker watches the gears turn ever so slowly in the back of Akechi’s mind—what he wouldn’t give to pry the back panel open and dig in there with an ice pick. Finally his shoulders drop and he pulls out the interrogator’s seat to settle across the table from him.
With practiced grace, he opens the cylinder—he could’ve sworn he had a pistol before, but admittedly that wouldn’t make for a very long game—and shakes five bullets out into his hand. The cylinder clicks back into place, the extra bullets go into Akechi’s pocket, and the revolver slides across the table to rest at Joker’s hands.
He raises an eyebrow at his adversary. Akechi shrugs, unphased. “You were the one who suggested this game. You should go first.”
Fair enough. Joker picks up the gun, testing the weight in his hands. He’s never held a gun before—a real one, that is. With another glance at the impatient face of his captor, he flicks his thumb across the cylinder and lets it spin. The rhythmic clicking echoes in his ears, familiar anticipation building in his chest.
When it finally comes to a stop, he rests the muzzle against his temple, pulls back on the hammer, and pulls the trigger.
The gun clicks. Akechi smirks. “You didn’t look surprised at all to see me, even the first time, so you knew I was coming. How did you figure it out?”
“You want to know how I outsmarted you?” Joker grins. That thin line along the side of Akechi’s nose twitches, the rest of his expression stays frozen still.
“Just answer the question,” he says impatiently. Joker lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“Fine, Futaba bugged your phone. We overheard you and your boss discussing the plan.” Joker hands the gun back to Akechi. He doesn’t even bother spinning the chambers again, just presses it to his head and lets it click.
“You don’t seem very concerned with escaping. Don’t your precious Phantom Thieves depend on you getting out of here alive?” Suddenly he regrets making this offer. Akechi seems all too aware of his discomfort, holding the gun away until Joker responds.
“It doesn’t matter to me, they left me here after all. They’re just as responsible for killing me as you are.” The admission tastes like ash.
“ Oh ? Now that’s interesting,” Akechi hums as he returns the gun to Joker’s hand, “What incentive do you have for getting out of this alive, then?”
He waits for the empty click beside his ear before he answers, “To spite you, mostly.”
The laugh that comes from Akechi’s chest is shallow, like he’s been carved out. “Well then, it’s a shame that won’t be happening. My reasons for killing you are far more concrete than your petty little grudge.”
Joker passes the gun back, his fingers brushing against leather just long enough for static to run through his bones.
“Right, because Shido told you to do it,” he says like he’s observing the weather as Akechi raises the gun to his head. The smug look on his face is wiped away, and oh how satisfying it would be for the gun to fire at that same moment. Instead, it clicks.
“How do you know that name?” the humor is gone from his voice, replaced with hollow anger.
Joker snorts, “I know a lot that you think I shouldn’t.”
He puts out his hand to beckon for the gun. It gets shoved in his face instead.
“And yet you don’t seem capable of saying anything that doesn’t make me want to kill you faster.”
His open palm curls into a fist, but he doesn’t move. “Do it, then.”
All the air leaves the room at once. It’s an addicting feeling, the moment the dice are thrown. They hang suspended in space as the numbers on the reels spin and spin behind his opponent’s gaze, but it isn’t slots that Joker is betting on.
Click.
Akechi’s eyes narrow, dull red irises fixed on him like a lock. The air is so still that Joker almost wonders if he misheard the sound of a blank and hasn’t realized he’s dead yet. Or he would, if he didn’t already know what dying felt like.
The growl that rumbles in Akechi’s throat as he slams the gun back down on the table sets off a tiny piece of the prey brain inside him, a brief glimpse through the eyes of a rabbit inside its killer’s jaws. Akechi slumps back into his seat, and Joker smiles cruelly.
“Good boy. Let’s stick to the rules from now on, alright?” he hums as he picks up the revolver. “That’s five blanks, I owe you one more answer.”
“I think you’ve said plenty already,” Akechi drawls, but Joker tuts.
“Even if I could tell you how to get out of here?” Akechi’s eyes go wide, as does Joker’s smile. “Oh, but, if you don’t want to hear anything from me, we can just—”
“No!” Akechi shouts, slamming his palms down on the table. “ Tell me .”
Curiosity shines in his captor’s eyes, and Joker knows that he’s won. He leans forwards, beckoning him with a curled finger, “Come closer.”
At Akechi’s suspicious glare, Joker nods towards the corner of the ceiling, where the security camera shines with its one unblinking red eye. Akechi looks displeased, but relents. The hum of the ceiling light fills his ears as Akechi closes in on his space, he can feel his breath against his skin. He braces himself on his hands and stares, almost hypnotized by Joker’s gaze.
No dice need to be thrown; It was always going to end this way. Joker thrives on rigged games, after all. This close he can see every detail of the way Akechi’s eyes widen, pupils shrinking into dots as he presses the cold end of the barrel under Akechi’s chin. “ I lied .”
He doesn’t even get to see the splatter of his brains before—
The door slams from the force Akechi kicks it open with, hard enough for the rusting hinges to snap. It stays lodged wide open. This time there is no guard, he starts with the gun already in his hand.
“You piece of shit—” He walks around the table to grab Joker by the collar and pull him out of his seat. He stumbles as he’s dragged, heavy limbs following along like unstrung puppet limbs. Akechi slams him back against the table and presses his weight against his bruised ribs. “I could make this hell for you. A little bullet wound is far from the worst I could do. Do you really want to test the limits of my mercy?”
The vacant look in Joker’s eyes sharpens into a point. “You think you can do worse than what they did to me here?”
He pulls his leg up and kicks hard into Akechi’s side, sending him stumbling into the back wall. The gun drops. Joker scrambles to dive for it, only for Akechi’s heel to come down like a sledgehammer on his wrist.
The sound of the prisoner’s scream alongside the snap is like an adrenaline hit. Akechi laughs as he kicks the gun into the opposite corner. “You know, I was just going to rough you up and then shoot you again, but if you want to play dirty.”
He presses his foot to Joker’s shoulder and shoves him onto his back before dropping down to straddle his chest. He grabs a fistful of unruly hair and slams his head against the floor, relishing in the cry of pain it rips from his throat.
His prisoner’s face is already blotted and marred with bruises, a map of all the ways he’s already been broken. It lights a fire in him, imagining other hands on Joker’s body, marks left by anyone other than himself. He brings his other hand to rest against Joker’s cheek, where he can trace the line of his cheekbone with his thumb, up along the curve of his eye and to the ridge of his brow.
Joker’s dark eyes bore into his flesh, those onyx marbles that shine from the dull, flickering light above them. Akechi wants to pry them out with his hands.
“If you surrender, I’ll make your death quick,” he lies. Joker stares back at him with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.
Then he spits blood in his face, just barely missing his eye. Akechi sees red anyways.
One hand pins Joker down by the throat; the other curls around the line of his jaw, the tenderness of a lover’s touch that locks him in place like a vice. Akechi’s thumb and finger press into the sides of his neck, where he can feel his pulse thrumming just beneath the skin. Joker’s eyes go wide. A hand grabs at his arm but fails to gain purchase.
Victory tastes like gold, Akechi finds. Watching his enemy’s irises tremble as he gapes around breath that will never come, Joker has never looked better than when he’s struggling against him. Tears welling at the corners of his eyes, blotches of red over his cheeks that almost look like he’s blushing. Akechi runs a thumb over Joker’s lips as the color drains from them.
If only this moment could last forever.
But eventually Joker’s hand slips away from his wrist like a falling leaf. His eyes unfocus, their shine stolen away. Akechi pants through the adrenaline pushing waves of heat through his veins. It’s so much more different than a bullet, taking Joker’s life with his own hands. For once he understands the true intimacy of murder.
Too much time passes as Joker lies motionless and empty. Akechi’s hands tremble, aching for the warmth he felt on his palms when they were wrapped around Joker’s throat. He runs his tongue over his upper teeth, feeling an itchy dryness settle in the back of his throat.
Joker’s dead body—it is dead, isn’t it?—stares at him with no expression at all, yet he feels taunted. Akechi stumbles backwards, crawling on his hands until his back hits the wall.
The hum of the overhead light burns in his ears. He reaches to grab for something around his neck only to scratch against his own bare skin. The walls are melting, falling away in scraps of flesh. From beyond them he can feel the ever present stare of blank, hollow eyes. Watching. Waiting.
His eyes fall on the abandoned pistol only a few feet away. The rest is a blur.
There’s a steady dripping sound coming from somewhere in the room, though no visible puddles to trace to the offending leak. Dark streaks have begun creeping down the dull concrete walls, like shadowy fingers inching along the surface. The broken door provides a surface to press his back to, nestled between it and the wall, a steady anchor as he times his breaths to the sound of each drop.
When Akechi walks in, the prisoner isn’t there. Immediately his guard is raised, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the room, ignorant to his glaring blind spot. Blind spots are where Joker belongs, in shadows just barely out of periphery. Akechi made his fatal mistake the moment he let him have cover.
When Akechi’s back is turned, he pounces. Bringing his arms down over Akechi’s shoulders, he catches the chain of his cuffs under his chin and pulls.
Akechi thrashes like an animal. Joker hears the pistol land somewhere on the floor as his hands come up to grasp at his binds. He swivels side to side, trying in vain to shake Joker off of his back. The harder he fights, the harder Joker pulls, guiding his fervor until he has him knelt on his hands and knees beneath him.
Akechi kicks wildly at the air behind him. His nails scrape against the concrete until they bleed. His eyes dart wildly around the room, all in helpless frenzy. But eventually, just like any wise wolf would, he gives up the fight. Only then does Joker loosen the chain’s grip.
“That’s more like it,” he murmurs. “What good is a dog if it can’t be taught when to kneel?”
Akechi tenses under him. “I am not—”
The chain pulls, cutting him off with a choking sound. Joker continues, “That last round made me curious about something.”
He presses a hand to Akechi’s cheek, fingers prodding between chapped lips. When met with resistance he pulls the chain tighter around his throat, forcing him to gasp for air. Joker pries his jaw wide as he runs his fingertips over the dog’s teeth, catching his enlarged canine. Blood wells at the point of contact and Akechi whimpers.
Pressing two fingers down on his tongue, Joker leans close with his lips brushing against Akechi’s ear. “You’re familiar with the Standford Marshmallow Experiment, right? Where a subject is presented with the choice between immediate gratification now, or delayed gratification for a greater reward later.”
He feels the spasm of his throat as he shoves his fingers farther back, enough that his knuckles press against the points of Akechi’s canine teeth. “Prove that you’re better than a mindless dog. If you bite down now, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to taste blood like this ever again.”
A whine rises from the back of Akechi’s throat. Joker can feel the tremor of his jaw, the drool pooling on his tongue, the desperate panting of barely restrained hunger. He wonders if this is part of the fabric that wove him or if it mutated out of some forgotten seed planted by a more simple idea. If only he could take him apart and see all the ligaments that attach him together.
They stay still for what feels like hours, Akechi’s breath on Joker’s skin the only source of warmth between them, until finally he pulls away. Akechi gags on air, wheezing around shuddering breaths. Joker takes his hands away, and with them the chain, allowing him the smallest bit of relief—but not dignity.
“Interesting,” Joker notes, “maybe you could be of some use after all.”
Joker silently picks up the gun lying nearby and turns it over in his hands. He has Akechi at his mercy, bent to his will. Would it make him the bigger person to drag out his sentence, or is death truly the only charity that can be given to a wounded animal? Maybe he’s already proven his character by putting him in this position in the first place.
He presses the barrel to the back of the wolf’s head and hears it gasp as he mutters, “Nothing personal, just returning the favor.”
Thick roots have pushed their way through the cracks in the walls, sprawling across the concrete, splitting into thinner and thinner veins. The air weighs down heavier than before, as if they’re chained to the bottom of a dark red sea. It almost makes Akechi feel nostalgic.
Joker sits on top of the interrogation table, cuffs unbound and dangling from one of his wrists. There’s a new sharpness in his eyes, something awakened from dormancy that now prowls behind his blank stare.
“Aren’t you sick of this, yet?” he asks in that ever empty tone of his.
Akechi grips the pistol tighter. “Not until you stay dead.”
Disappointment doesn’t suit the expression that flickers across Joker’s face, but neither would resignation. “Then I guess we’ll be here for a while.”
Something shakes the earth around them, tremors that widen the cracks in the walls and threaten to bring down rubble on both their heads.
Joker’s eyes roll up to face the ceiling, where more of the crimson veins have broken through, letting water seep through in a steady stream. “This place isn’t going to last much longer either way. You should try to make this one count.”
“You should try saying something that doesn’t piss me off,” Akechi snarls. The corner of Joker’s mouth twitches up slightly.
“What, still upset about the dog thing? It was all fun and games, no hard feelings.” The way he says it feels like a taunt, like something is being thrown in Akechi’s face.
So, naturally, he throws a punch back. Joker swings to the side, dodging his fist. He huffs something under his breath and before Akechi can recover he’s grabbed and flung into the edge of the table. He scrambles to catch himself on it, pushing off to lunge back at Joker.
Joker catches him by the wrist and stumbles as Akechi presses the barrel of the gun under his chin. “Do we have to keep doing this?”
As he speaks his hand closes around Goro’s other wrist, wrenching it away just as the pistol fires. The bullet just barely grazes his ear.
“I’m sick of hearing you talk!” Akechi growls and kicks at his shins. Joker lets go of his wrists and quickly ducks away. Without his resistance to brace against, Akechi just barely manages to catch himself from tumbling forwards.
“You really think this will make Shido take you back in?” Joker sneers behind him. Akechi whips his head around, eyes alight with a wild fury.
“You. Know. Nothing!” Akechi lunges, shoving Joker against the table with enough force to topple it over. Joker’s ears ring like fanfare, his vision shifting in and out of focus.
“I told you,” he grunts as he tries to grab the leg of the table nearby and lift himself up, “I know a lot of things that I shouldn’t. She must think I’m fucking clairvoyant or something.”
Cold metal collides with the side of his head and pain blooms from his temple. The rough concrete scrapes at his skin as he falls onto his side. The floor is warm where it presses against his cheek.
Pressure bears down on him. Joker hisses as the heel of Akechi’s shoe digs into his fresh wound. He can feel the trickle of warm blood running down his neck, somehow burning against his already feverish skin. Every beat of his heart is a pounding in his head, fading adrenaline blurring the edges of consciousness and dragging him under the waves.
But just as he resigns to letting his eyes fall shut, Akechi speaks up, “Why is it that you always make that face when you’re about to die?”
Joker strains against the weight on his skull. “What face?”
“That one.” Akechi gestures to him with the end of his pistol. “Like you’re surrendering.”
His mouth opens in surprise, a strange expression on him, before he closes it again and glares resolutely at the floor. “I don’t have to tell you shit.”
Akechi is silent for long enough that Joker thinks he’s just going to kill him again, but then the pressure lifts from his head as he steps back. “Five times.”
Joker tries to lift his head to look up at him, but can barely manage an inch. “What?”
“The gun fired five blanks during our game. But you only answered four of my questions. You still owe me one.” There’s no satisfaction in his eyes, no joy taken in his victory, only the cold indifference of contract being fulfilled.
“...Fine.” Joker drops his head back to the floor. There’s only a hollow ring in his voice as he rasps, “It’s because the only time I feel alive is when that bullet goes through my head.”
Akechi waits for the payoff of the joke, only for Joker’s gaze to remain honest and resolute. He throws his head back and cackles, “Oh, you really are sick!”
Joker flinches as the gun clatters loudly beside his head. Akechi looks down at him with his eyes crinkled mirthfully at the edges.
“Go on, take it,” he urges. His captive stares at him with his lips parted like a dead fish. “I said pick it up. If you’re such a masochist then surely you won’t mind finishing the job yourself, right?”
Joker’s silent acquiescence has satisfaction curling in his stomach. His hand reaches to close around the grip, shaking as he brings it to his head. Akechi thinks he could get used to this, being the one in control for once. The idea is so blasphemous he can’t help but shudder with glee.
He can accept the punishment for his sacrilege when it comes. For now he can’t take his gaze off the light reflecting off the barrel of the gun pressed to his prisoner’s temple. Electricity rushes down his spine as Joker fixes him with one last glare and spits, “
Fuck you
.”
With a bang, Joker opens his eyes again to find himself sitting with his back against the overturned table. This room has certainly seen better days. The cracks have expanded into large chunks missing from the walls and ceiling, allowing red light to pour in and bathe them both in its carrion hue. There are pools of some red, semi-opaque fluid on the floor around him, and more still seeping in through the holes in the concrete.
His whole body aches. He barely lifts his head to meet Akechi’s eyes. “Is it my turn to kill you this time?”
“Do you think this is some kind of game, Joker?” He takes his time walking over, taking in the sight of him in such a sorry state.
The prisoner doesn’t answer. Instead he asks, “Why don’t you ever call me by my name?”
The corner of Akechi’s mouth twitches, “I—”
“Wait, I get it…you don’t know it, do you?” A smirk plays at his lips, then a grin, then Akechi is being laughed at like some kind of circus act. “That’s rich! Your captain gives so little of a shit that he doesn’t even know my name!”
Akechi cuts his laughter short with a hard press of his heel into Joker’s bruised thigh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joker inhales sharply at the pain and grits his teeth. “I know the truth, even if you don’t want to face it. You and I are just memories left here to rot!”
The blow comes swiftly to his side, and he lets himself get kicked to the floor. “I am nothing like you,” the wolf hisses to the leopard.Joker wheezes around the air being forced out of him, “ Oooh , did I strike a nerve?”
Akechi grabs a fistful of Joker’s shirt and lifts him up to sneer in his face, “Since you can’t seem to keep a bullet in there, get this through your fucking head. Trash like you has no place here. I have devoted all of myself to the captain, my servitude to his cause is far grander of a purpose than you could ever hope to understand.”
The leopard narrows his eyes and hurls his head forward, smashing against his assailant’s. Akechi yells as he stumbles backwards, one hand clutched over his face. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, Joker reels back and slams the heel of his shoe into Akechi’s gut. He goes down easily.
While the pathetic wolf writhes on the ground, the prisoner stumbles to his feet, blood dripping from his nose.
“No. I think you’re the one who doesn’t get it,” he hisses at the wolf glaring up at him from below, “you’ll never be him. No matter how god damn perfect you are, no matter how much you suck up and play along, you’ll always be the fake one.”The leopard steps forward and water splashes against his ankles. “You and I are both nothing compared to the real things. Your devotion won’t save you when it all comes crumbling down, nothing we do will matter to anyone.”
The room is silent for a long time. The prisoner stands still with his blood pounding in his ears, waiting for the other to make a move.
The body on the ground goes slack, the imitation’s hand slipping away from his face to land unceremoniously on the floor. He makes no motion, no twitch of his expression as he stares at the bones of dead gods stretching up into a vortex of red.
Akechi understands on an animalistic level that he was designed to fail. That by nature he will never get what he wants, because the man he is based on was doomed from the start. This is something he has always known and accepted, a truth he has been subservient to for as long as he can remember.
“You’re right…I’m not him, am I?” Slowly the corners of his mouth carve up into his cheeks, puffs of breath shaking his chest. “I’m not anybody, now. Without the captain I have no purpose, no reason to exist. Yet…here I am, still.”
The prisoner scoffs at the pathetic sight. He steps around his slumped form, making for the door when a hand grips tight onto the cuff of his pant leg, rooting him to the spot.
“Wait—Wait, please,” the fangless dog whimpers, eyes shining with desperation, “tell me…tell me who I should be, now.”
The leopard takes a long, suffering look at the pitiful thing before kicking away its hand with a scoff. “I don’t care.”
A strangled sound comes from his throat and his fingers curl tighter into the fabric. “No! Please—I have nowhere to go, no one to serve. You—You’re all I have.”
Despite his weak and desperate state, prostrated before him like a wounded animal, there lies an intensity in his sunken eyes that the prisoner can’t break away from. “Stop it,” he breathes. His throat constricts alongside the hand gripping onto him. “It doesn’t matter, none of this was ever real.”
The dog pushes itself off of the ground on trembling arms, “You know as well as I do that nothing lies outside of this room for either of us. You could have left whenever you wanted, but you’ve stayed here, killing me, letting me kill you…”
The prisoner’s hands ball into fists, the room swirls around him. “Shut up.”He can’t will himself to move away as the puppet kneels at his feet, reaching up to gently take one of his hands between its own. “You and I, we’re nothing but pawns made by greater minds, not even our own faces belong to us! But this…this hatred, this cycle of killing, it’s ours.”
Something bitter melds to the back of the prisoner’s tongue. He’s spent his whole existence here in this room, reliving the moments leading up to his death more times than he can count. He’s had all the time in the world to stew on the injustice of it, to loathe and envy the carbon copy of himself that got to make it out of here alive.
He had nothing else to cling to until the wolf arrived, one stray remnant of distortion colliding with another. He wears the same face as the one who put that first bullet in his head, but the prisoner couldn’t help but be drawn to their similarity. Now here they are, on the precipice of the end, and it’s carved into him that he should oppose his fate.
He pulls his hand from the puppet’s grasp and finds the pistol held tightly in his grip.
“Time is running out. This hate could bind us, it could keep us alive,” it whispers reverently.
Thunder cracks across the darkening sky up above. A fear distinct from their own seizes their hearts, an otherworldly certainty that this is the death knell of everything they’ve ever known.
The leopard narrows its gaze, “And if I accept this, you’ll follow wherever I go?”
“Until the day I die,” the wolf pledges.
Resolve settles in his gut as gloved hands guide his aim between hollow eyes, the fixed point in the center of their world. Blood becomes iron that loops itself around both of their necks, but now the prisoner is the one clutching the chain.
His finger squeezes the trigger.