Soooooooo, ummmm... IDKHOWTOSAYTHISBUTTHECOMICYOUMADE WITH THE C-BROS? YAITSBEEN S T U C K IN MY MIND. I BARELY KNOW HOW TO WRITE BUT I WROTE THIS AND I HOPE YOU LIKE IT. @ashfire-art
The fires roared around him, the smoke blinding and choking, stealing away what little air he already had while running, the screams and sobs behind him from the townsfolk who were lucky enough to run away, and those who weren’t, faded in and out of his background. But none of it mattered, not when his brother was somewhere among the wreckage.
He ran as fast as his feet could take him. His stamina had built up since the start of their journey, but he was still a 12-year-old boy he recognized, and his body was being pushed to his limits as his chest heaved and he panted with every step. His panic was the only thing helping him to push through, and his adrenaline had taken over.
Finally, he paused and took a stance, barely catching his breath before he started to yell.
“CUPHEAD, WHERE ARE YOU?” he shouted, still a bit breathless.
“CUPHEAD!” he screamed again with a desperation that grew every passing minute. His eye was beginning to irritate him by now, as one of the lenses in his glasses broke when he took a fall earlier. But he couldn’t focus on that when, in the distance, he heard
“MUGMAN” a voice made itself known amongst all the chaos. His brother’s voice. He turned his head and saw people running past him before focusing on where the voice came from. From there, he saw a pile of wood that must have formerly been a house. Maybe one like the cottage they had in their youth, one they had before they had to save one another from fiery wrecks and dangerous situations.
But none of that mattered now; instead, he ran towards it and pleaded
“Cuphead! Stay put!” he said to his brother as he began trying to move the debris away, grunting with the effort and strain it put on his already exhausted body, shutting his eyes to just focus on the task at hand, when he finally opened them and thought,
“This has to be a trick, an illusion, IT CAN’T BE REAL…RIGHT?” he stated with disbelief within his mind.
He stared at Cuphead, at his mangled body that twisted and turned like a knotted piece of string, at his cracked porcelain face that split every which way, and primarily over his eyes. The eyes that once shone so brightly with encouragement at his little brother, with laughter and mischief before he made that damn deal. The eyes that grew dull just a tiny bit, barely noticeable unless you really looked, with each new “adventure” he and Mugs went on, with worry and regret every time Mugs got hurt, and with a numbness that began to accumulate over time, and would still be there far in the future, when he himself was damaged. But now, in the present, Mugs stared into his brother’s eyes that presented themselves with confusion, worry, and fear. Something that should never be present with his brother. Not with his carefree attitude and smile that flashed in his mind.
Cuphead’s gargled voice, roughened and strained by his current state, asked an eerie question that struck him to his core.
“WHO’S THERE?” the voice, the painful sound whispered out of Cuphead’s mouth.
“PLEASE, HELP,” his voice trailed off.
Tears began forming in his eyes as he so desperately tried not to believe what he knew to be true. Instead, he began emptying his pockets quickly and desperately, repeating the mantra in his head.
His exhaustion finally caught up to him as he fell to the ground, his knees being stabbed by the gravel and glass beneath him as well as his hands. His items are scattered all around him as he stares at them, maybe in the hopes that if he stares long enough, a solution will present itself.
“There has to be something. Anything that can-” he begs under his breath before being cut off at the mutilated corpse body of his brother, dragging himself towards him. He stares as the cracked hand covers his own, making a broken glass sound with every twitch and shift that he moves. He silently observes, waiting, before his brother cries.
“MUGSY, IS THAT YOU? HELP ME MUGSY PLEASE IT HURTS” Cuphead wails to his brother like a child who has just been introduced to a scrape, to pain for the first time, like a newborn’s cries as they leave the warmth of their mother’s arms to be introduced to the harsh and cruel world. Uncontrollable and confused, begging to be guided to warmth once again, to peace.
“Really, is that not what they are? Children? When did he ever stop thinking they weren’t? How long has it been since they started this? Since they have been hurt repeatedly, how long has it been since they’ve seen Elder Kettle? When will this be over?” he thinks to himself in a quick moment, the thoughts running rampant through his mind, but seemingly as if time has slowed down enough for him to really think, while staring at his brother’s chipped handle, those ruined eyes, and furrowed brows. The ones that cannot even recognize their own blood kneeling right in front of them. His body shifts slightly to properly rest on his knees, and his brother’s arm is lifted with him. He can hear Cuphead groan in pain and feels terrible, guilty for having caused it and for prolonging what he has to do because of his own fear.
“PLEASE, IS THAT YOU, MUGSY?” Cuphead asks again, a choked-off sob and a strangling cry that reaches his ears and brings him to the reality of what he must do. The tears flow down his face as he grimaces at the sight of him.
With a careful but quick approach, he hugs his brother tightly and feels how tense his body is, and just how hot it is to the touch, most likely from being buried underneath the burning wood, and he feels the liquid in his head boiling and popping, confirming his guess.
“Yeah, it’s me, I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. Apologizing not only for what Cuphead is going through, but what he must do next, what he always knew since he first got a look at Cuphead, for prolonging his misery due to his own selfishness.
He moves his hand and places his finger in a finger gun position right against Cuphead’s chest, aimed right at his heart, and moves his other hand to cradle his head just like Elder Kettle used to do to them.
Once upon a time, this would have meant nothing, a child’s game they used to pretend to do, to shoot at one another and play cowboys or army men. Now he pulls the trigger with the same expertise as one, and a bright blue light shines through Cuphead’s body and out of his chest, and his body slumps forward shortly after. He repositioned the corpse to lie his head, or what’s left of it, on his lap while Cuphead’s soul floats out of his body, and he moves his hand, which begins to glow in that familiar pink hue, before completely overtaking it like a glove. He knows that this will not be the last time. With certainty, he knows they are no longer children; they are soldiers, battered and bruised, and ones who will have to finish the mission.
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