Chapter Text
When Simon awoke, he didn’t expect it to be on a soft surface. He didn’t expect it to be in a well-lit room that he would have liked to see, if he’d had the ability to open his eyes, crusted over with that godforsaken blood. He certainly didn’t expect to wake up to the sound of hushed voices. Because Simon hadn’t expected to wake up.
He died in the blood ocean, didn’t he? In that metal coffin. He’d died fighting the Blood Eel, ripping his arm off and destroying the sub in the process. The SM-8's black box data hopefully made it to the surface for Ava- no. Not Ava, she’s... dead-, for the COI to find. He’s dead. He should be dead.
He was alive as ever, though, if the pain rippling down his side and the feeling of coagulated blood sticking to his body was any signifier. He was alive. That was... Unexpected. He wasn’t in as much pain as he thought he should be though, another expected thing. What the fuck? Where am I? With a great herculean effort, he heaved himself upright and opened his eyes.
None of the unexpected things Simon felt previously could ever compete with the unexpected horror of opening his eyes to see around twenty ridiculous-looking individuals wearing his face. Nothing could have expected him to open his eyes to see himself wearing a pink moustache millimetres away from his face.
Simon screeched like a banshee - a miracle considering how ruined his vocal cords should be - and scrambled further back on the...couch? The incredibly white couch that wasn’t so incredibly white anymore. Oh, God. He wouldn’t be punished for desecrating something so clean, would he? His breathing started coming in very short, sharp inhales.
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay. We won’t hurt you, new guy,” said a man at the front of the group wearing a suit, holding his hands up to placate him. This man also had his exact fucking face. WHAT THE FUCKKK????
Pink Moustache guy backed away, Simon could now see that he also wore a bright pink afro wig that was even more obnoxious than the moustache (WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?), and held out his hand, “Exactly right. We mean you no harm. All I want from you is one itty bitty interview.”
“Colonel, I mean-, Warfstache, he’s covered in blood and delirious, you cannot interview him now.”
“Oh, please, look at him. He’ll say yes, I know he will. He and I are already the best of friends”
Pink Mustache guy (Warfstache? Colonel?) moved his mouth in increasingly eccentric ways when talking. He must have brain damage, too, Simon thought.
The man in the suit pushed Pink Mustache guy away and stepped forward. “I’m sorry about this. It’s alarming for all of us at first, but you’ll adapt quickly. I’m Damian, and you are?”
Now, this whole time Simon had been running through every possibility that could possibly have led him to this bizarre place with these bizarre people and had settled on the only logical explanation. “I’m dead.”
Damian stuttered, “Um, that’s not the usual reaction to arriving here that I see.”
“No, you idiot, his name is Dead. Haven’t you got any brains in there?” says Pink Mustache guy, who looks very put off by being pushed away.
Before Simon can correct him (or wrap his head around the new information that he’s gleaned: Pink Mustache guy is probably a madman and/or an idiot), a new person comes up to grab his hand and shake it. This new person wears a beige jumpsuit and looks very happy to see him (Why??).
“Nice to meet you, Dead! I’m Head Engineer Mark! We haven’t had a new Iplier in years, this is great!”
Simon was having a very hard time coming to terms with literally all of this, and ‘Head Engineer Mark’ was still shaking his hand. He felt like he’d just had all his organs flushed out with freezing water; he didn’t need all this extra chaos. Luckily, Damian came to his rescue. “You can stop shaking his hand now, Head Engineer Mark.”
Head Engineer Mark (He’s gonna have to come up with a nickname for him) steps back with a small “sorry”.
Damian turns back to him and begins to speak, and Simon fears whatever he’s about to say. “I think it might be time for a proper explanation and a few introductions.” He says, as the others stand back, a white tarp falls from the ceiling, and a projector starts displaying against it. (What the fuuuuuck?)
“We are all Ipliers, figments of the weird imagination of this bizarre himbo, Markiplier. (The projector shows a picture of Simon but with shorter hair and no lingering trauma in his eyes) We aren’t exactly real; we’re more like figments of his twisted mind. He’s the only person who can see us, we’re basically very vivid hallucinations.”
Great. More hallucinations. Just what he needed.
The projector switches to a slide show of different places and people, with the only connection between the different images is that a version of Mark is present in them. Damian starts again. “Mark is a creator, and we love him for it. He made all of us. We are the stars of his creative filming projects. And when he’s finished with a project, we end up here to either wait to reappear in another project or to live out the rest of our existence in this place.”
Damien gestures to the room around them, which, now that Simon acknowledges it, is a living room that looks like the ones described or shown in old Earth media. “We all appear here first, in the House. Mark lives here with his wife, Amy.”
As soon as this ‘Amy’ person is mentioned, all the Ipliers sigh dreamily in unison. (Huh??) Simon must have looked very confused, because Head Engineer Mark did a ‘shooing’ gesture at him and whispered, ‘You’ll get it when you meet her.”
“Anyway,” Damien continued, clapping his hands together lightly, “The House is like a focal point, or an in-between space. We all gather here, but we travel to each other's domiciles freely. The doors here change according to what place you want to go.”
Simons confused expression didn’t change. Damien noticed and waved him off. “You’ll see later. First: introductions!”
“Yes, of course! Back to the fun stuff!” Pink Mustache guy came right up to Simon and wrapped an arm around Simon. He should be considered lucky that Simon was still in a state of shock and unable to do much. “I’ll do the Honors for you, Dead. Damien has done enough talking. It probably wasn’t very smart to info dump on him right after his arrival. It’s just sign of lazy writing and an incompetent author.”
Damien looks like he wants to retaliate, or ask what the Hell he even means by that, but resigns himself to ignoring him with the skill of a man who’s been putting up with his flavour of nonsense for a long, long time. Pink Mustache guy jostles Simon with his arm and gestures to the large amount of “Ipliers” in the room. “It’s crucial that you learn all the people in this room, my dear friend, as you’ll be spending the rest of your existence with them”
Kill him.
“I am the Marvelous, Handsome, Flamboyant, Incredible, Rock-star, Whimsical, Perfect, Gorgeous, Dazzling, Talented-”
“ “̸̙̪͙̯͉̐̐̒́͊̇̆̊̊̓̕͘͝ͅW̴̨̢̠͕̜̪͔̭̱̠̰̭̬̻̎̋̊̅̈̚a̶̢̜̐̀͌̑͘r̵̛̟̙͆͊̆̋̑̅̈́̒̑̽͊͆͘͠f̴̨̨̨̗̰͖͈̻̤̳͍̱͇̺̑̓̔̈͠s̴̡̢͓̲͕̙͎͕̟͈̣̳͋͐́̎͂͘t̸̝̩̘̅͌̄̓̆̍̚͠à̴̗͓̞̱̱͔̼̖̼̼̬̗̙̑̽̑̏̋̈̂̒̑́̚͘͝c̸̨̭̜̱͊̄͑̚͠h̴̼̹̖͚̥͙̪̖͈̳̭̃̉̔͛͜͝ȅ̵̩̺̰̪̖̐̃̀͛̾̅͂͐͜͠.̸̧̰̥̟̙̎͊͒̒̀̐͗̒̆͘͠”̷̨̢̬͖̓̆̈̂̈́̂̓̈̐̽͝.” Says a low-resolution man in a white suit who glitches in reds and blues occasionally.
“Fffffffffffine ugh! I am Wilford Motherlovin’ Warfstache! The best and most famous Iplier out of them all, in truth. I can tell you and I will be good friends, Dead.”
He stands to frame Damiens face with his hands. Damien takes a deep breath through his nose, like he’s actively fighting the urge to throttle him. “This is Damien, our esteemed mayor!” He moves on to present the person next to Damien, the man with the glitch effect. “And by extension, Darkiplier, our resident sexy villain!”
“I want my body back, Dark.”
“Ś̷̛̠̥͇͖̣͖̜̓̆̽̿ͅỉ̶͎̩̮̘͓̳̺̥̙̬̺̠̮̞͆͝ͅļ̸̘̳̱̺̺̗͖̘̤̣̳̒́́͐̒͗̒̉͒͐̃̿̕͜e̴̛̬̜̒̂́́͗̾̓͗̈͗̚n̵̢̙̜̮͍͎̱͙͑̓̔̾̊́͂̎̉̿́͘͝c̴̨̱̖͕̠̘͉̙̰͍͓͑͂̋͐̓̈́́̓̔͜e̶̛̗̭̘͈͖̖̲̼̓̍̅̊̉̔̎͜͜.”
Warfstache moves on without much care. He comes to a Iplier with tattoos wearing a plain white tank top. “This is Yancy, our resident prisoner and the only person whose ever beat me in a dance battle,” He leans in close, menacingly. “I will get you one day, Yancy...”
‘Yancy’ shrugs with a smug look on his face. “It’s just a skill issue, man, I dunno whadda tell ya.”
Warfstache looks downright murderous at that and walks towards the next Iplier mumbling words like ‘obnoxious’ and ‘stupid accent’. Hypocritical stuff, really. He quickly recovers when introducing Head Engineer Mark. “And you’ve already met this guy. Our lovable yet sort of incompetent engineer.” (Head Engineer Mark looks sort of heartbroken. “What?”) Warfstache continues without acknowledging him. “We’ve yet to find a suitable nickname for him. We don’t want to confuse him with the real Mark, after all.”
“In the back there’s Jonesiplier or Illinois, our adventurer and very inventive Indian Jones ripoff (“Hey!”), over there is Heist Mark, the thief, we have Pirate Mark, Stop-motion Mark (Is he made of...clay???), Googleplier and over there is Dave.”
What? Just Dave? No weird, eccentric name? Thinks Simon. He looks around to observe all of these... inspired characters and decides that this “Markiplier” must be some kind of clinically insane person.
So, he’s not dead, he’s a figment of some crazy’s imagination, he’s stuck with a bunch of freaks for the rest of his life, and most importantly: He’s. Not. Dead.
Unless...
“Am I in Hell?”
“For the last time, Dead, no!” Warfstache exclaims. “Your story has simply concluded, so you’re here for the rest of your existence. Or at least until Mark decides to pick you up again.”
Okay, so this might be real. It certainly feels real.
Unless...
“Am I hallucinating? Is this another trick? You aren’t that thing, right?”
Damien clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know what thing you’re talking about, but I can guarantee that we aren’t hallucinations. Now, uh, let's finish the introductions. Tell us about you, Dead.”
Simon doesn’t know what to say, exactly. He’s been here for all of thirty minutes and is having to re-evaluate his whole understanding of his life and the universe. He’s fictional? Nothing really happened? Did the black box even matter? Oh, fuck, they’re all looking at him expectantly. What the hell does he say?
“Um, convict. I’m a convict. And... I was the Butcher. I used to harvest people. I did the SM-13 expedition. But not really. Because apparently, I don’t exist.”
Out of all of the (frankly too many, if he’s being honest) Ipliers, only Damien, ‘Dave’ and Head Engineer Mark looked genuinely concerned with the information he gave. Other than that, they looked either mildly confused or excited about what he shared. One at the back, Yancy, he remembers, threw his hands up in joy and ran at Simon. “Haha! A fellow convict! Prison buddies fo’ life!”
Before he could scramble away, (damn you, sluggish limbs) he was swooped up in a crushing bear-hug. Seriously, what is it with these people who keep touching and hugging him despite all the blood? Simon quickly ducked away as soon as the hug loosened, as Yancy began to yap at him in a way that he could only describe as ‘menacingly familial’, talking about what fun they’ll have lifting weight together and bunking together and showering together, hitting him on the shoulder with every syllable.
A minute later, Yancy stopped. Confusion and concern evident on his face; he leaned in a bit as if to broach a sensitive, private subject to him. “My friend,” he said. “Where’s ya arm?”
What?
Most of the Ipliers in the room seem shocked. ‘Ooooh’s’ and ‘yeesh’s’ and even one, too-loud ‘jinkies’ are heard all around. Googleplier shakes his head mournfully, “Damn.”
Simon looked down and- oh... Oh, he’d forgotten about that. He was covered head to toe in blood, so the blood that was still leaking, almost comically, from the socket where his arm should be didn’t really stand out. Flesh and sinew on full display in a way that seems almost indecent. So, that’s why his side faintly ached. It should definitely hurt more, but the logic of this place didn’t seem to make much sense anyway, so he decided not to question it.
He should also be panicking more. Maybe he’s still in shock.
“Oh, my god,” Damian said, covering his hand with his mouth. “Um, we need to get you to a hospital or... something.” He turns away, unable to stomach the sight. That makes sense, it’s not pretty.
Head Engineer Mark quickly takes action, coming forward to offer a hand to Simon. “Come with me, Dead,” He says, “There’s a med-bay on the Invincible 2.”
‘Is that some kind of ship? Why are there two of them? What happened to the first one?’ With a mental war occurring within his mind, Simon let himself be dragged away by Head Engineer Mark, who was all too happy to lead him away from the blood-soaked couch and the many confused and concerned Ipliers. Damien called after them, “See you later, Simon. We’re happy to have you!” which was followed by a distorted “Ḱ̸̡͓͈̣͕̬̙̳͙̟̞͔͗į̷̲̣̰̘̳͓̺͉̱̘̓̿̊̈͒͊̉̂͑̎̈́̔͌͜s̶̨̨̛̱̤͓̲͐̄͂̋͋̅̾̀͒̕͘ś̷̡̨̛͈̻̺̺̠̬̣̤̦̏ ̷̧̛̹̳̣̞̝͍̀̊̍̔͂̅̀͒̋̽̋́͝a̷̡̨̡̨̡̨̡̨̡̨̡̨̳̪̯͔̻̥̭̯̹̣̳̪̯͔̻̥̭̯̹̣̳̪̯͔̻̥̭̯̹̣̳̪̯͔̻̥̭̯̹̣̳̪̯͔̻̥̭̯̹̣̳̪̯͔̻̥̭̯̹̣͉̍͛͗̋̈̈́͌́̀̕͠͠͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅs̵͇̰̣̗̖̋̌͝͠ş̸̨͙͕͙̬̖̼͍̻̤͚̗́̏̄́.̵̪̭̗̅͐́͐̓.”
Simon trudged behind Head Engineer Mark, down a hallway just outside of the living room. They stopped just outside of a plain white door, ajar so you could see the bedroom it led into. Mark closed the door and turned to him, with a look on his face that screamed ‘I’m about to show you something so cool.’
“I’m about to show you something so cool,” he said. He reached for the door handle again, the door handle to the exact same room that he’d already seen inside, to reveal... not the room he’d already seen inside. He must be hallucinating again.
Where the bedroom should have been was instead the metal-walled room of a spaceship, astronauts weaving around each other in flurries to complete their tasks. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating the small room in an unnatural light colour. Strangely, most of the people on board look like they’re in great amounts of agony and/or panic. There’s even a girl sitting on the floor mourning a man lying dead in front of her. It’s a shitshow in the most fantastic way.
Simon knows he probably looks gobsmacked and that if he turns to look back at Head Engineer Mark, he’ll have a shit-eating grin on his face. He looks at him anyway. He’s right, but Mark also looks sort of proud. “I know right?” He says. “She’s incredible. I should know, I built her. She’s like my baby.”
He pats Simon’s shoulder once and steps through the doorway into the ship, Simon follows hesitantly, looking around at all the chaos buzzing around him.
“Welcome to the Invincible 2.”