This was initially inspired by multiple theories – from myself and others – about what would happen in Who Killed Markiplier? I finished it after the release of chapter four, accounting for the ending but not dismissing the previously understood characterizations of Dark… or my own headcanon of Him as a Hellgod.
I had pictured something like this, from the moment I first saw the invitation promo pic, and immediately started writing. But I gave the ending a little tweak once I saw the finale… which actually wasn’t as much as you’d think. The gist of the story remained the same as it was when I began.
Anyway, I hope you like it! 🙂
(Gif by sylvainbardin from Tumblr.)
In what probably sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, two immortal entities, a blind psychic and an android were all seated at a round table on a Friday night.
Their current diversion? A game of poker. The chips were stacked particularly high in the center of the table, and the game had gone on for the last little while now. The demonic deity, smartly dressed in His “business casual” suit, adjusted His cufflinks and then cast His share of the ongoing bet into the center pile.
His abyssal eyes glanced at His pink-mustachioed associate. “Your move, Will,” He intoned in His cold but mannered basso profundo voice.
The other entity chuckled, adding in a booming yet cheery tone, “Alrighty roo! Let’s see what ol’ Warfy can scare up!” He tossed his share of chips into the pile. “How d’ya like them apples, Darky-boy?”
The Hellgod’s unnervingly black eyes seemed to briefly glint with a hint of elfin mischief. “A respectable challenge, My friend.” His amused laugh was a deep rumble. “And here I thought tonight would be dull.”
Wilford and Dark glanced at the Host.
“The Host considers the odds and the size of the bets placed on the table. His opponents’ confidence, whether accurate or bluffed, is enough to convince him he must fold.” The Host placed his cards on the table. “The Host will rejoin the game when new hands are dealt.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Host. But it is a wise decision, nonetheless.” Dark took a connoisseur’s sip of His Chateau Petrus wine, its rich plum colour clearly visible through the glass. “No doubt you saved yourself a good deal of embarrassment.”
Wilford nudged Google. “Your turn, Tin Man.”
Google’s electronic eyes briefly flashed a warning blue. “I do not appreciate your monikers for me, Wilford Warfstache, and my calculations have determined that your intellect and emotional stability are one bit short of a byte.”
The God-King had a highly undignified moment of nearly choking on His wine from laughter. He cleared His throat, before adding, His sonorous tone laced with genuine mirth, “I believe you – as they say – have been ‘served’, Wilford.”
“Why do I have to always take shit from you guys?” Wilford demanded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pistol, beginning to wave it around. “Ol’ Warfstache ain’t nobody’s fool!”
“Calm yourself, My friend, and put the weapon away,” Dark said, His tone becoming hypnotic, soothing. “It’s only a game, with commentary meant entirely in jest. Perhaps you should consider calling it an early night.
“In fact,” the enigmatic being added. “Why don’t we all call it a night? Perhaps tempers will be calmed after some rest.” Dark stood, and placed His hand on the Host’s arm. “Walk with me?”
The Host said nothing, but got to his feet. Dark kept a steadying hand on the blind seer, and the two walked down the long corridor in companionable silence.
“The Host senses that Dark is considering something. Perhaps Dark would like to let the Host know of what He may be planning?”
Dark gave a thoughtful hum. “Yes. I was considering our firearms-bearing associate’s earlier idea for the channel is, perhaps, not without merit after all.”
“The Host has been wondering the same, if Wilford’s idea was not as bad as it initially sounded.”
“Indeed?” Dark mused. “A clever fellow you are, Host.” He absently tugged on His suit jacket with His free hand, to smooth it down. “Entertainment can affect people in ways heretofore unexplored. Perhaps what we need is not a brand, but a message.”
“The Host proposes that storytelling through the medium of video can be effective in influencing people’s feelings.”
“Too right,” Dark purred. The demon stopped them both, and turned to the Host, looking the man in his sightless and bandaged eyes. “What kind of stories do you propose to tell?”
“Perhaps, we should tell one about You?”
“Me?” Dark sounded genuinely puzzled. “Why Me?”
“The Host will try to explain. Dark is respected greatly, but also widely feared and distrusted by Mark’s audience. A story that shows viewers a completely different side to You will earn their sympathies, enabling them to let You in.”
“What kind of story would this… hypothetical depiction of Me entail?”
“It would be a tragic one, filled with pain and loss. A sense of betrayal. That You were once a good man, an innocent like them, but have since fallen from grace.”
Dark snorted. “What puerile nonsense.”
The Host waited.
The evil deity then grinned. “I adore it.” He left the Host at his door, Dark calling over His shoulder as He departed, “Have an outline on My desk by Monday morning. We’ll review it together.”