[closed] What will you gain, making your life a little longer?

[radiopalkiller]

Who: Philip [radiopalkiller] and audience (read: Evelyn O'Connell [nascensibility], Will Graham [notyourteacup], Ned (The Pie Maker) [wordvomit], The Once-ler [thneedifestdestiny] & Peter Rumancek [gadjos])
Where: Philip's room (5/499) & assorted Wonderland hallways
When: 11/19 - 11/23
Rating: R for graphic violence, animal death, people death & naked werewolves
Summary: If one death opens a door for darkness, then seven deaths rent a wrecking ball and tear down the walls. Two gunshots, two zombies, one stab, one fall, and one sip of poison later, and Philip is once again caught vividly reliving things he would much rather leave behind for good.
The Story:

His head jerks up, not for the first time in the last hour. Shadows stare back at him passively, from all the corners the lamplight doesn't reach. Three in the morning. Four, at most. Philip doesn't bother to check his watch for confirmation. Another sound in the distance. Wonderland never lies silent, but tonight it whispers ominously, tonight he swears he can hear it groan with the voices of ice and stone.

Tonight is colder and darker, and blaming it on the oncoming winter does nothing to reassure him.

'It definitely has lost weight. This one is so special, so central to what he is doing, he can't stand to wait long, and he doesn't have to. Tomorrow afternoon, he can do it, or tomorrow night. The next day at the latest. Soon.'

Philip turns the page, and watches the book slip through his hands, along with the last of his desire to keep reading. From its permanent paper prison the large moth looks at him accusingly. It's enough to drive him from the sofa, but sitting up feels heavier than it should. Philip exhales, and his breath fogs the air. Darkness swallows his frown as the light goes out.

Comments

[radiopalkiller]

It writhes and almost escapes him, the bastard, but when he pushes down its head hits the desk with a satisfyingly hollow thunk. And then the Mirror scrambles, like the injured animall that it is the fur, the fur, it never even looked white, not until Evelyn told him, not until she made him realise that it wasn't one of the black and rotting creatures, it was Faraday, he shot Faraday, because he thought--

He can barely think at all, not with the noise, something distorted that is and is not his voice, that mocks in the same breath as it pleads, whose words are garbled and jumbled as Philip sways back against the desk, his head ringing with too many sounds, too many voices, too many bees, Jesus, not the bloody bees again!

Philip shakes his head, tries to shake off impressions like a dog shakes off water, tries to- has to focus, because if he doesn't then the Mirror will win, his Mirror - Phil - will win, and it will escape, get more of their kind, and they will-- He can't let it come to that.

He lunges forward, pain be damned, and reaches for the Mirror's throat with his hands.

[thneedifestdestiny]

The Once-ler isn't fast enough. He tries to scurry backwards, the adrenaline of the moment allowing a brief second of clarity, but it's no use. Soon, Philip is on top of him and the Once-ler's eyes dart around looking for any escape route he can possibly find, but there isn't one.

To his credit, he has a lot more fight in him than one might expect. When Phil's hands wrap around his neck, he grabs for his wrists and tugs with everything he has, trying to pry him away. Despite everything he's done and everything he's been through, the Once-ler has never quite been able to let go of the will to survive, and it rises above the fear, the shock, and even the concussion - at least, at first.

He's strong enough to block Phil from trying to snap his neck, but not enough to pull his hands away entirely, and his air supply is being cut off very quickly as his grip weakens.

"Ph...Phil." Talking is a waste of air, but he has to try one last time. "D-Don't. Please."

He can feel himself growing faint, and his head feels strange and heavy and his lungs are struggling so much it hurts. He heaves in Phil's grip, desperate for any small amount of air.

One hazy thought sticks out, and it sends fear rushing through him.

He's not going to make it out of here, is he?

[radiopalkiller]

The pressure on his finger hurts about as much as he expected, but the Mirror's neck in his grasp is worth each and every single stab of pain. How are you here again, why did you come? The question burns at the back of his mind, but it will stay just there, because the Mirror doesn't deserve a chance to explain, he doesn't deserve to use their voice anymore.

What, does it want him to die again, does it want him to owe his Queen another favour? Jealousy, is that it? That she revived him, that he is alive again because of her--

Philip squeezes deeper, feels his nails digging into flesh. That he is the better one of them, that she prefers him now; that her own creature couldn't compare, and if it dies, then it dies for good this time. He bites down on his lip hard, and pushes his thumbs down on the Mirror's neck harder. His left hand shakes, his left hand weakens, and both his arms tremble.

But it will be enough, it has to be enough, and he won't let go, no matter what.

[thneedifestdestiny]

Phil isn't just strangling him - he can feel Phil's nails digging into skin. He can't tell if he can really feel it bleeding or if he's just imagining it in his last moments.

The Once-ler's mouth is open wide but he can't breath in no matter how he tries. For a moment the struggle intensifies in a final bit of desperation, but...it can't last.

He lets go of Phil's hands. All of the fight in the Once-ler vanishes, and his entire body goes limp and heavy in Phil's grip.

The light fades from his eyes and he is gone.

[radiopalkiller]

He feels resistance, wild and thrashing. He feels gasps, which barely register under his white knuckles. He feels nothing, and still he can't let go. If he holds it forever, then it won't be able to come back at all. Not a second time, not ever. He just needs to stay here, he only needs to keep an eye on the body, and his hands around the thing's throat.

The body turns to ashes in front of his eyes. His hands burn painfully, and their grip slackens. It won't be enough.

The walls are metal, thick and hot. Dead and cold and icy blue they were once, but now the warmth creeps in, along with the sickening colour of rust. Red veins of lava snake in through the cracks. The room smells like smoke. Only Philip's sight is clear.

It's too late. They're coming again. He can't stay here anymore.

Philip stands, and his feet catch on something invisible. He only stumbles; there's no time to fall. Gasping through the smoke he runs out through the door.