Dark Laughter Part 7 : Just Be Happy
((Here are the links to Part 6: Sleepy Stakeout and the first one, Part 1: What Dark Saw but more importantly I wanted to bring up the warnings from the beginning of this series again. This will probably be the second darkest part of the series and while it’s not graphic, it does include references to a physical attack, a character being bound and gagged, and possession. Also spoilers for Can You Wake Up? Nothing explicit, and this warning may not be necessary, but I still wanted to give a heads-up going in.))
“Some time has passed since Darkiplier left the Host’s recording studio, after so rudely interrupting the Host’s show.” The Host spoke aloud to the empty room, even though he had not bothered with turning on his equipment again after returning from the infirmary with new bandages. He had considered resuming the show, but the energy required to send Dark out of his studio had taken too much out of him to do it justice. Dr. Iplier also told him to rest, but the Host’s narration kept drifting back to their argument.
“Darkiplier was—is—agitated by something the Host cannot sense with his usual methods.”
The Host tapped his fingers against the hard wood of the desk.
“Y/N rides with Markiplier into town, where they will join the Detective on one of his stakeouts. This will be more successful than some of their recent ‘cases’, and will prove to not be a hazard to Y/N. Markiplier…is also agitated.”
The Host’s tone changed as he took in this new information and he followed that thread, narrating aloud, “Mark hopes that spending time with Amy will allow him to clear his mind. He had very little sleep last night, as Darkiplier’s call indirectly led to him spiraling into old thoughts, old guilt.”
The Host paused, his finger raised above the desk. That wasn’t right, or it wasn’t the whole story. He could feel the missing thread in between Dark’s call and Mark texting Tyler, the same absence that preceded Dark’s recent concern about you. Something had caused both of these events, and the Host could sense neither of them.
Had he missed something else?
The thought wrenched the Host’s stomach and he forced his narration to focus on something else as his finger tapping resumed its steady rhythm.
“After leaving the Host’s studio, Darkiplier went…” He felt his teeth grind together as his narration failed, as it always did when it came to that world of shadows and echoes Dark inhabited. “He eventually returns to this plane at the cabin in the woods.”
The Host paused again and continued his narration only to find that the King of the Squirrels arrived before he could find out why Dark would choose to go to that place. His narration followed Dark briefly, just long enough to realize that he had no intention of returning to the cabin anytime soon.
“The Host stands and leaves his room, shutting the door behind him. He walks out of the house without encountering any of the egos and once outside he notices the change in the air. Looking ahead, the Host sees a storm coming.”
The Host stopped on the walkway in the backyard.
“The Host can make it to the cabin and back well before the storm arrives. He will have plenty of time to warn Mark then.”
Assured by this, the Host narrated his way across the backyard of the ego house and into the woods where he found an old, once familiar trail. His narration noted the squirrel watching his progress, but the King was far away gathering his subjects before the storm. The Host would have plenty of time to himself before anyone even knew he was gone, much less where he was going.
It was a long walk to the cabin, so long that the Host’s throat began to feel scratchy and dry from the constant narration required to avoid tripping over roots and limbs that had fallen across the path. But once he arrived in the clearing, it was not a need to pause for breath that made him stop short.
Slower now, he walked forward and stretched out his hand toward the door of the cabin, which opened at his word.
In its wake, a thousand memories rushed over the Host and he walked forward into nostalgia.
He did not need his narration here, after so many writing sessions into the dark, still hours of the morning. Dust met his fingers as he reached out and touched the back of the Author’s old chair, the familiar wood grain of the desk, of the shelves and cabinets. He breathed in and just the smell of the place was enough to bring back memories.
So many books, so many stories written here. And people loved them, they hung on every word he wrote. He barely even needed Mark’s fans to notice him, when he had so many of his own. Back when he had been the Author. Even if his characters sometimes needed…a little extra encouragement.
The Host heard the rasp of metal as his reaching fingers brushed against something and his reflexes moved faster than his narration. The grip of the metal baseball bat met his hand perfectly and he felt the smile spread across his face as he gave the bat a few practice swings.
It felt good. It felt right.
Back in control, like the Author should be.
The bat stopped mid swing.
And it felt so good, didn’t it? To be in control.
“The…the Host...”
Maybe he was right. Maybe there is more of Dark in you than Mark.
The Host’s grip tightened on the baseball bat. “These are not the Host’s thoughts. The Host is not alone in the cabin.”
The Host turned, but his grip on the bat slackened as his narration stumbled over who he faced in the cabin. His confusion only lasted until his narration realized what he was looking at, but that hesitation was all it needed.
The bat left his hands, wrenched away by the other, and the last thing he heard before the crack against his skull was a laugh without any trace of humor.
---
When the Host came to, he had no sense of how long he had been out. It took time for his aching head to piece together the memory of what had happened, and then even longer to make sense of the plastic strips cutting into his wrists as they held them up against a metal pipe of some kind. He had a vague memory of exposed pipes in the cabin, leading to a sink in the corner, but he had never been as acquainted with them as he was now, hanging by his wrists with the lower half of his body twisted and aching from prolonged contact with the cold concrete floor.
But that discomfort was nothing compared to the realization that there was some kind of gag strapped around his head and blocking his mouth in such a way that even breathing regularly was an effort, much less speaking.
At his effort, that thing “laughed” again. The voice that spoke sounded familiar, in a sense, but it had all of the wrong intonation, all the emphasis on exactly the wrong words.
“There he is! Ready to wake up and join us again, Author? Pardon, I meant ‘host.’ Probably shouldn’t be surprised you’re the first to ‘see’ my lovely new mask for what it is. Ever the one to ruin the surprise. Don’t you know that’s just rude?”
The Host leaned away from that voice as it moved closer, his response muffled and choked by the gag. It made it worse to know what face it wore, this “Maskiplier.”
“You smiled more, when you were him…when you were the author. Now it seems like you don’t even want to be happy.”
The Host struggled, pulling against his restraints, but his skin was more likely to break than these ties.
“I know what you need, what all of you need, and we can pick up right where we left off before we were rudely interrupted so long ago, once something…Someones have been taken care of.”
The Host flinched at the sound of that laughter. At the memory of when it had come out of him, when that thing, that Mask, took over. When it stripped him and so many of the other egos of everything except the desire to be happy, to laugh, to smile, and to do exactly what it told them to do.
No matter how much it hurt.
“Gosh, it’s been over a year, hasn’t it? Oh, but your…friend gave me so much time to watch and to plan and to escape our little prison, and this time, no one—No more surprises, no more mirror, no more them, and then…Everyone will be so, so happy, won’t they?”
The Host struggled even harder to free himself, to get a word out, anything—
Only for the gag to suddenly be ripped off as that voice spoke again.
“JUST. BE. HAPPY.”
The Host opened his mouth but clenched it shut again as a shiver ran down his spine and a broken, distorted laugh tried to make its way up. No, no, not again. He put all of his strength into his words, forcing them to be true. “The Host is not infected. He will not become one of the masks, ever again.”
“So you say. Maybe if you keep saying it enough times, it will even be true. I wonder if you can feel it, that wonderful smile returning to your face. Let it do its work, or keep fighting. Either way, we both know how this will end.”
“The Host—” The Host felt his chest squeeze as a laugh that did not belong to him tried to force its way up. “The Host is not infected.”
“How long can you fight it, and why even bother? All you have to do is just be happy. How hard is that for the Author—the Host? Ah, but you’ll have all the time in the world to learn how to smile. Here, in your favorite place. And all the words you want but none to save yourself.”
He could feel it leaving. He had to do something, to stop it, to free himself, to warn the others. Anything, but the moment he inhaled the thing was in his head, his chest, his lungs again.
“The Host is not infected,” he repeated, desperately now. “The Host will not be used by you.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, or maybe it was a drop of blood escaping the bandages around his eyes as he spoke again and again, willing it to be true with every ounce of his being. He didn’t know how long he hung there from the pipe, his legs long since numb as he prayed again and again to stay in control just long enough to shake it off another time. He didn’t know how many minutes or hours passed before the window on the door crashed open, before the ties around his wrists were undone, before he leaned into a cape made of fur, shivering and shaking, his throat aching and his voice almost gone.
“The Host is not infected. The Host is in control.”
“He is, he is,” came the quiet reassurance as a hand rubbed his back. “You’re okay now.”
At those words, which by this point he trusted more than his own, the Host sank into unconsciousness.
---
Dr. Iplier jumped when the King of the Squirrels burst into the infirmary, which was unfortunate considering he was holding some samples of various fluids at the time.
He swore over the ego’s frantic words and wiped himself down with a towel before he asked, “What is it, King? Did a squirrel fall out of a tree again?”
“Need you, right now, cabin, the Host, really bad, really really really bad!”
The doctor pulled away from the King’s frantic arm pulling but said, “The Host? Did something happen?”
“Yes! What part of ‘really really really bad’ don’t you understand?!” The King looked around and grabbed the blue-shirted Google. “You’re strong, you come too! He can’t walk, not like he is now.”
“The Host’s legs are malfunctioning?” Google asked, glancing at Dr. Iplier, who was already gathering some supplies in a bag. “Where is his location?”
“The cabin, in the woods!” The King saw the confused look Google and the doctor shared and groaned in frustration. “Doesn’t anyone in this house ever get out? Come on!”
“Wait, Y/N,” Dr. Iplier said, glancing back at your bed. You were still asleep, and barely woke up when he tried to talk to you. “Y/N, we need to step out, okay?”
You mumbled a response and, despite the King’s antsy bouncing up and down, Dr. Iplier took a minute to check your temperature again.
“101,” he murmured after the thermometer’s beep. “It’s going up.”
“I can have one of my other units take care of Y/N while we’re gone,” Google said. “We can relay information, if you would like to pass along any instructions on the way.”
Dr. Iplier hesitated, but it was clear that the Host needed immediate attention. “Fine.”
He described the medicine to Google as they left, following the King’s rapid pace out of the house and into the woods, along with further steps to take if that failed. Not long after they left, the green-shirted Google entered the infirmary with the ‘G’ on his shirt glowing as he reviewed the doctor’s instructions.
“Y/N, it is time for more medicine,” he said tonelessly as he approached your bed, but you did not stir. He pressed a hand to your forehead and took your temperature again. “102.3 degrees Fahrenheit. This is above the recommended operating temperature.”
With some effort, he managed to wake you up enough to drink some more water along with the medicine. Once that was done, he sighed at the effort required to keep humans running and, seeing that you were shivering, went to get another blanket for your bed from the storage closet.
In the small closet, he paused, his internal motors whirring when he heard what sounded like a laugh out in the infirmary.
“Y/N?” he said, poking his head out, but you were still asleep and there was no one else in the room. He logged the error and turned back to the storage closet just before another laugh came from somewhere behind him.
Although it was a stretch to call that sound a laugh.
((End of Part 7. Thank you for reading, and I hope this reveal wasn’t disappointing. Also I swear I love the Host as a character, I don’t know why these things keep happening to him--
Here’s the link to Part 8: Studio Time.
Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @purpstraw @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate ))
