Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Five.
Red-brown eyes dance around the room, the white, white, room, with bare white walls and white marble floors and a plain white ceiling.
It's so ironic, Dark Pit thinks dryly, because his color scheme is black. Black and dark purple and just black. Black, black, black.
The room could use a little color, Dark Pit muses. Something that isn't black. Maybe blue or yellow or red
-red blood, blood spilled on cracked marble floors-
or anything that isn't black, really.
Dark Pit traces a finger on the smooth white wall and wonders how many other smashers thought that the color red would look good in the room.
Four.
He doesn't know why he's in this small, tiny room. Dark Pit hasn't done anything wrong, not today. He's innocent.
Dark Pit laughs at that. Innocent. He's innocent this time around. That word has never described him before, never in his life. Pit was the innocent one.
It's sad, really. Pit isn't so innocent now. Dark Pit saw him before being shoved in this room. Crazed eyes, messy hair, and a shit-eating smile.
Dark Pit almost pitied him there, and he almost pities him now.
Almost.
Dark Pit doesn't feel sympathy for the insane. They go through hell, just like he did, and maybe possibly make it back. Most of them don't, and Dark Pit used to take pleasure in that.
Now, he's not so sure.
Three.
This room is probably for the insane, Dark Pit reckons.
He's not insane. They all know that—Pit knows that, Palutena knows that, Master Hand probably knows that. Maybe that's why he's in the room, to lose his mind-
-like the other smashers, those poor, insane souls-
and become one of them.
This is just a game, Dark Pit thinks. A game that makes sure everyone loses (their minds).
He's not playing the game right, then.
Two.
He hears screams echoing down the hallway—a high-pitched, earsplitting scream of another tortured soul, another lost mind.
He bets that everyone is wondering why he hasn't lost his mind yet. Well, he's not sure either. But every scream that he hears somehow brings him closer, grounds him back to sanity, keeps his mind.
But more and more shrieks bounce around in the hallway, Dark Pit knows that time is running out, and that the crazy smashers keeping him here will return, thinking that he is now deranged.
When they come for him, he will still be normal. And if Dark Pit is the normal one, the happy one, then life outside is hell.
One.
The jingling of the keys alert Dark Pit that someone is coming, and he stands up, posture straight, his features arranged neatly in an expressionless mask, hands balled at his side.
Captain Falcon's face appears at the window—insane, deranged, broken little Falcon—and then he unlocks the door.
"Come along," he growls, and drags Dark Pit out in the hallway. And as the little angel looks up, he can see other Smashers in similar white rooms, screaming, crying, banging against the door, shouting for help, help, don't leave me here, come back, please.
Falcon ignores them so, and Dark Pit does too, because in all honesty, he thinks maybe being locked in that room isn't so bad, as long as you know how to ground your mind.
Captain Falcon stops in front of a door that says Battle Room. Dark Pit looks at it, and he hears the wails of agony, the poor broken souls laughing and crying and screaming-
-the screams of death.
"Welcome to your new life," Captain Falcon says, a devilish, maniacal smile taking over his face.
Dark Pit says nothing. He knows that the game is over.
He is out of time.
Zero.
Welcome to the
end.
