Chapter Text
It had been a moment of weakness.
Your biggest, most nauseating regret. The memory hardly left your mind anymore, and you wished beyond even the hope of escaping the fog that you could go back and change it. Go back and tell him where to shove it.
You’ve been in the fog for… a while now. A few weeks? It was hard to tell with the frequent trials and endless night. Each ‘game’ was a shitshow since you didn’t know what you were doing. Hiding in the lockers the moment your heart beat louder, letting generators blow up in your face, and panic-throwing every pallet when a killer chased you.
It was that early ignorance and terror that led to your mistake.
Your first death had been given to you by him . Ghostface. Despite your lack of knowledge, you really tried to help the other survivors. He took each of you down with ruthless efficiency and you hardly got a glimpse of him. Once, a leather-clad hand pulled you off a generator and hoisted you to his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You had yelped and kicked at him, and he dropped you on the ground to chase after Meg. You had a feeling it wasn’t due to your efforts, but when another survivor—Laurie—helped you up, you weren’t going to dwell on it.
But as the “game” continued, each of them were picked off. You heard their screams as they were sacrificed, and helpless to save them, you hid.
That didn’t work for long. Crows materialized to betray your spot, and the moment you stood to shoo them, he was upon you.
The chase was short. Very short. The running and begging was for nothing. He knew you hadn’t tasted death yet, and his anticipation was apparent even through the screaming mask. He crouched low, dragging his knife lightly up your arm as you lay in the dirt, bleeding. Your stammered pleas faded when the blade reached your throat.
“Are you ready?” he asked. His tone was teasing, almost playful. You started shaking your head, eyes wide in terror, but his other gloved hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you steady. “Deep breath now. Feel free to scream—I haven’t heard yours yet.” The knife pierced your throat suddenly, the movement precise and without hesitation.
You let out a strangled cry and pushed against him, but it was like he was carved from oak. He pulled the knife out and wiped it carefully. Hot blood flowed into your lungs and down your chest. Coughing, you gripped your throat tightly, but the bleeding didn’t slow. It spurted between your white-knuckled fingers in time to your frenzied heartbeat. Only seconds had passed, but your limbs were already going cold and numb. Stricken eyes found his amused ones through the holes of his mask, and your lips formed a desperate “please.” His head tilted. It was definitely playful now.
“Sorry, what was that? You gotta speak up.” The only response you managed, with the edges of your vision going out like static, was a wet cough. Dark flecks of blood appeared across the white mask that watched like you were some interesting little bug. Your muscles lost the strength to hold you up, and without meaning to, you found yourself relaxing into the firm grip that still held your head up out of the dirt. He lowered your head until it rested on the ground. Ghostface wasn’t holding you down—you could run. But you couldn’t quite find the strength to move your legs, or anything else. Nor could you find the willpower to struggle. You laid there, watching him watch you, until your vision faded. There was a snap and a flash of light. The last thing you vaguely noticed as you drifted away was two fingers gently gliding your eyes shut.
…
But then you awoke at the fire, just as the others told you that you would. Just like that, thanks to the Entity, your death had meant nothing. This was your life now, a more callus survivor had told you: better get used to it.
But how could you? How could the rest of them? The next game was against a roaring demon. You felt sick remembering the sensation of your bones breaking under his club. Your ribcage may as well have been crafted from tinfoil for how easily it gave, shattered bone piercing your lungs. Even so, this time you died on the hook. It was still agonizing, but mercifully less so than at the hands of the killer.
The next game was worse. It was somehow winter, and there you were in a t-shirt. Skiing paraphernalia was scattered around, though you saw no sign of steep hills. Jeff had been explaining something about tapes, something about needing to take them from the tvs, but that’s when she appeared: a ghost in a white dress sent you all scattering in different directions. You ran and found yourself unpursued. You tried to do generators while she was busy chasing the others, and actually managed to complete two. But all the while, as time went on, this premonition hung over you like the sword of Damocles. It seemed to intensify with each passing moment. Like something awful was about to happen.
With cold hands clasped together, you crept toward one of the box televisions. You reached for the eject button, but suddenly static enveloped you and the girl physically crawled out of the screen. You covered your mouth to keep from screaming and ran, not knowing where you were going. She hit you once, then you reached a dead end. Then you were on the ground. She stood there. You felt your heart seize, then searing pain blossomed in your chest. Bloodshot eyes stared through stringy black hair while you writhed and screamed half-coherent pleas, and then it was over.
You were back at the campfire.