YouTuber OneShots

A Past Long Forgotten

A knock.

Silence. Impatience.

Several knocks.

No answer.

Loud, incessant rapping of fists against the mahogany door of Dark's office.

Nothing.

A glitch. Swearing.

"Get out of my office, Anti! I'm working." Dark scowled, pushing aside a folder of paperwork with a label of binary, shortly translating to Anti's name. Anti made a face of disgust at the labeling but forced it out of his mind as he smirked deviously, hiding something of Dark's behind his back rather obviously. The second Dark noticed, he'd disappeared. A second later, the cane Anti had stolen was being yanked from his grasp and held in the dim chandelier's light by Dark.

He averted his gaze from the cane, lowering it as he glared daggers at Anti who only shrugged. "How did you find this?" He demanded, slamming the cane's bottom into the hardwood floor sharply.

Anti only shrugged once more. "'s not yours. Why's it matter so much to ya?" He knew he was pushing Dark's buttons. But he was also faster than Dark. If he needed to, he'd be out of here faster than a cat in water.

"Yes, it is mine. Now get out." Dark used the cane to point towards the door for a moment before taking it with both hands and holding it to his chest, having turned to a bookshelf, Anti behind him.

"It's got a name on it. Damien. Isn't yours. It's Damien's. So I wasn't stealing from you. I was stealing from Damien––whoever he is." Dark flinched at the name but ignored Anti's presence. Anti refused to leave, curious now, about why Dark had this other man's cane. He crept forward, peering over Dark's shoulder at a cracked, framed picture of four people. Anti could've sworn he recognized the three boys in that picture. One of them was very obviously Mark Fischbach but the other two had sorts of auras to them that made them appear familiar. Anti just didn't know from where.

The girl in the photo, however, was completely alien to him. She wore a black dress and black veil, and still, she was laughing, her arms wrapped around Mark's elbow. Mark, wore a velvety red robe and a bright grin. On his right was a man out of Jumanji. His crossed arms were sleeved by a tan jacket with colored badges over the front pockets, a matching safari hat atop his head. On the end of the photo, shoulder to shoulder with the safari man was a mayor. His black hair had been slicked back neatly, not a wrinkle in sight on his pristine black suit with its white rose clip and mayor pin. He smiled warmly, everyone in the photo seeming equally as kind to one another.

There was a family in that photo. A story. A memory. Anti realized Dark's breath had caught in his through, his grip tightening on the cane as his eyes fell shut. Was he going to cry? Anti was alarmed at the fact that his comments had brought a greater demon to tears. Who was Damien? Did Anti dare ask? If he did, he'd undoubtedly get hurt somehow. Dark never liked to open up to others about anything.

Dark's hand came to the drawer beneath the shelf, sliding it open to find a newspaper article. The pages had yellowed in time, the fibers of the pages splitting and crumbling. The ink had begun to fade but most of it was still legible. SAFARI HUNT GONE WRONG. Dark found himself leaning on the expensive looking cane as if it were second nature, regarding the images on the paper solemnly.

It wasn't until he turned around that Anti saw the tears on his cheeks. Light, clear tears that stained his grey skin even lighter. Alarmed by Anti's presence, Dark became enraged, setting the article and cane on his desk before shouting abuse at Anti for intruding on him when he was told to leave. Anti bit his tongue and took the shouting, dodging swings when Dark got expressive.

Unsurprisingly, Dark's sudden outburst had drawn the attention of the other people in the manor. A head poked into the room, confused and curious. "What's going on in here?" An oddly accented voice made Dark freeze entirely, his mouth hanging open mid-shout.

He was panting now, almost hyperventilating as Anti scurried away from him, behind the pink moustached man with his gun in hand. "Dark's lost it. Have fun, he's all yours." And Anti was gone.

Wilford stepped inside Dark's study, scowling playfully, unafraid of the seething man before him. He ignored Dark's gaze as he went to lounge across the desk that held all of Dark's paperwork. Something quickly caught his eye, beside him. A glistening cane top. It was almost familiar to him. He swiped it up, twisting its handle between his palms as he felt the smooth glossy wood between his fingers. He wondered where he'd seen this cane before, his eyes lifting back to Dark.

Dark's heart was hammering in his chest as he watched Wil examine the cane. He remembered waking up to see Wil hugging that cane to his chest, tears in his eyes as regret and grief washed over him endlessly. He remembered Wil confiding in him brightly, joyously, as he managed to get to his feet, body broken and mind shattered. For Will. It was always for Will. Not Wilford, but William. Colonel William, the man who'd been his best friend since childhood. The jubilant eccentric that made him grin in his gloomiest office days.

And what of Dark? Wilford Warfstache had not always been the cotton candy reporter he was now. A safari hunter, a survivor, a friend, a brother. Dark's brother. Damien's brother. Dark looked back to the picture on the shelf beside him. He and Will stood together, happy and untouched by the grips of death. He wondered how much of that Will still remembered. Grief had stolen away so much from Damien's dearest friend. Was he even still there?

Anxiously, Dark ran a hand through his hair, raking it back. He hadn't noticed that it'd stuck back slickly when he drew his hand away, thus Wil narrowed his eyes at Dark for a moment before laughing. Dark realized what he'd done and quickly fixed his hair so that it hung over the side of his face as it usually did. When he looked back to Wil, he saw sad caramel eyes and a soft smile. "Yeah, I miss it too. Us. All of us. Miss that happiness we all had, y'know? My guns and wits can only get me so far. I may not remember everything, but I'll never forget my family."

"Yeah?" Dark looked hopeful, accepting the outstretched cane that Wilford had offered him. He set it under his palm, leaning against it like he used to. Wil immediately corrected him.

"C'mon, Celine, Damien was left-handed." He jabbed the side of his revolver gently at Dark's right hand where he held the cane awkwardly. Dark smirked gently, switching hands and cracking his neck as discretely as possible. The aching sensation was nearly unbearable but cracking it felt better than the stiffness of a dead body.

"Celine and Damien are always here. Granted, we're split to our worst qualities in this form, the rest of us still exists somewhere out there. We still care about you, Will. We'll all be alright." A hand fell on Wilford's shoulder as he stood up. The feeling was familiar, reassuring, gentle.

"S'pose I did get a proper goodbye then?" Wil chuckled to himself sadly.

"We're still here," and Dark was gone and Wil was alone. Sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his bloodied hands as he dug through his mind for everything he could about his past. Two little boys chasing him for the candy he'd stashed; two college friends at a party, ushering him forward onto the dance floor;

No brothers, alone.

Wilford was alone. Dark would never be Damien. Dark would never be Celine.

Dark was not his friend. Dark was a monster that stole from his friends to survive. Damien and Celine were dead. And it was his fault. Mark was dead. It was his fault. How long had he played innocent as the detective ran around the house like a fool with his partner, looking for clues that Wil had long since disposed of?

Long enough to forget what it meant to be guilty.

Long enough to forget what it meant to live or die.

Long enough that nothing mattered anymore.