Your name is Dirk Strider, and this is not how you would have wanted to go down at all.
This is most certainly not how you would like to have ended up with Jake, your best friend, whom you may or may not have had feelings that weren't entirely platonic for.
Roxy and Jane are both dead now, and everything is your fault.
Jake is not Jake anymore, and everything is your fault.
You are not dead yet, but you soon will be, and this will also be your fault.
Jake killed them, he killed Jane and Roxy and oh fuck oh god oh no this isn't fucking happening it's just not it can't be--
The black and white checkered tiles beneath your feet are slick with red, and heavy with the bodies of two teenage girls who were just way too fucking young for this.
The black and white checkered tiles beneath your feet are slick with red, and heavy with the vomit of your stomach contents.
They held back, they held back, I knew they weren't going to give it everything they had, jesus christ I told them to wait for me dear god they're dead they're dead they're deaddeaddead--
They held back, because this was Jake, your friend. They held back, but this was not Jake, your friend, and now they are dead. They are dead and you're about to join them, your name is Dirk Strider and you have no friends anymore in this world because they are all either dead or no longer themselves.
"Your turn, Strider."
The voice is singsong, almost, still ringing of the quirky accent that you loved so, so much, and still kind of do, though the thought of finding anything endearing about that demon in front of you makes you want to heave again.
You lift your katana without saying a word, face stoic behind your shades, hands slick with the blood of fallen heroes, Jake towering over said heroes' deceased corpses. They were heroes they were heroes you are not a hero this is all your fault you fucked up you fucked up they're dead they're dead--
A grin cracks across his face, impossibly wide, impossibly smug for someone who used to be your friend, because Jake would never sneer so condescendingly like that, but then again, this wasn't quite Jake anymore. This was not your friend. You have to keep reminding yourself of this fact, hell, he doesn't even look like himself anymore, green sleeves swallowing up his wrists, lime coat flashing wildly with every color you could possibly imagine. What a pity you couldn't just have an epileptic fit from it and die, that would be so much easier.
He flicks the barrel of a gun upward lazily, smirk unwavering, and speaks in your silence.
"Do you really want to do this, old chap? After all, I suppose we could work something out between the two of us."
Your heart flutters in your chest and you think you're about to completely lose all of your shit. All of it. You holding on to your shit right now is equivalent to an elderly woman trying to grip a giant mug full of hot herbal tea, arthritic fingers shaking and sloshing it out all over the nice, hand-woven rug. At this rate, by the time you finish your creaky wobble across the room to the couch, you're going to have a cup full of nothing and a carpet full of Earl Grey.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Dirk. It can just be me and you," he croons, when you're too wrapped up in thoughts of old ladies and tea to answer his proposal immediately.
This is cruel, because you can't. You almost-- almost-- want to, but you just can't.
This is not your friend.
This is not the boy with the cheerful bucktoothed grin. This is not the boy with a love for adventure and blue women. This is not the boy who alone could coax a smile from you, deep in the night, your computer monitor the only witness to such a rare feat.
This is not the boy who stole your heart.
"Jane? Roxy? Jake, stop bullshitting me, you know what I'm going to say to that."
The corpses on the ground between you have not gotten any less prominent, and the blood puddle has only expanded since the last time you checked.
"Lord English," he says, flicking back the safety of his gun. "Not Jake."
You are going to die. You are going to die, and you are sure of this fact, because there is no way you could kill him. He is not your friend, he is not the boy you fell for, he's not even Jake anymore, but deep down, you can't shake the knowledge that, at one point, he was.
"Lord English it is, then."
There are several seconds of silence, in which you tighten the grip on your sword and shuffle your feet into a ready stance, but it feels like you've got lead weights pulling you down and you're fighting back bile and trying not to think of Roxy and Jane and how they're gone and how Jake is gone too and how you're alone, so, so alone, like in that cursed apartment with just Lil Cal and your own autoresponder for company and you're alone so alone.
You wonder if dying will be lonely as well, or if your deceased friends will be there too. You wonder if you'll finally be able to meet your brother, or if death will just be eternal darkness and solitude. You think you'd almost rather spend the rest of your days with this monster masquerading as your best friend, than try to brave the latter.
You'd never admit it, not even in the face of death, but you're terrified of being alone.
"I suppose that's all we have to say to one another, then," he says, his eyes flicking to your uplifted sword, hand steady on his gun.
"Lord English," he corrects.
"Not you. I know who you are," you say, wishing that things could have ended differently than this. "I meant Jake when I said it."
A scowl crosses his face, and when the round of bullets erupt from his gun a split second later, you are ready for them.
Your name is Dirk Strider, and this is the end of your story.
TG: you know
TG: it just sucks
TG: this game i mean
TG: i kind of really fucking hate it
TG: like on a scale of one to bro fucking with the kitchen appliances by shoving various plush smuppets in them
TG: id say this shitty game would probably be several notches above nic cages quivering sweaty abs all jiggling up in a camera lens
TG: the public audiences delicate mindframes bending to the prowess of a man in his late forties and his glistening muscles stealing the declaration of independence
TG: or some other shitty ridiculous plotline
TT: That's pretty intense.
TG: yeah i know
TG: this game is worse because it fucks with your mind
TT: Care to elaborate?
TG: im just saying
TG: hopping around through all these intrictely weaved timelines of clusterfuck
TG: reversing shit so we dont all crash into a granite boulder of doomed reality
TG: ive seen some pretty fucked up shit
TT: Like what?
TG: us turning on one another
TG: totally losing our shit in the worst kind of way
TG: taking a spiraling pirouette off the deep end of sanity
TT: You're implying what, exactly?
TG: at the hands of one of our friends
TG: or maybe murdering someone
TG: your best friend
TG: laughing hysterically while doing so
TG: attempting to take over the universe
TT: All of us?
TG: its really fucked up
TG: but also kinda sad
TG: especially when its your best friend
TG: friendships dont have to end like that
TG: friendships really shouldnt have to end like that
TT: But they have, according to your experiences.
TG: they have