"Dear, sweet Puppeteer. Did you think you could hide behind your little marionettes forever?"
His voice calls from all directions. No matter how it echoes, its origin can't quite be pinpointed. Though, in this sea of illusions, how could it matter if his location was found? It was not the real demon, though it had the same voice, the same annoying chortle, the same beady eyes - oh, gods, his eyes. The one that called itself Seneca had quickly gone from the most harmless of nuisances to the world's undoing.
And there was nothing you could do about it.
"First the Batter, and now Zacharie and his pitiful army. And now, you've lost all your puppets." The fox tsked. "How shameful for a Puppeteer to lose their allies. How careless to have your own strings cut from them. What will they do without poor, sweet, darling little _ to guide them now?"
You ignored him. You just kept moving through the doors of your own personal hell, crafted personally by Seneca. After you had been subjected to the first few doors, you had grown strangely silent. He had threatened you, bargained with you, lied to you, and had shown you things you wished you had never seen.
His offer of truce had been a badly mutilated, meat sculpture meant to be your Batter. The thought was sickening, really. How could he dare to think he could recreate someone as close to your heart as the Purifier? Or any of your team, really.
"No defense? Your threats have fallen short, darling child. Have you finally realized your defeat? I can let you back into the Chambers and perhaps end your life a little quicker than I first intended. What do you say?"
Your response is wordless. You spit on the ground defiantly and continue through the new, unblocked door.
Seneca retaliates by dropping you in total darkness, with only whispers of the Nothingness to keep you company. You swear you hear the voices of those you've slain before the world was turned off - Dedan, japhet, Enoch, the Queen, little Hugo. . .
You think you hear the Batter and your heart leaps. But you quickly realize, it is not him. The voices of the Judge, of the Observer, of Zacharie-
Zacharie.
You stir and call his name. Even though it is only an illusion, you feel it deep inside that you have to answer to him. The whispers blend together in a sea of accusations, of blame, of regret for putting their trust in you. You hear the worst names you can understand in your tongue, and the most vicious of words in other languages you can't place.
The illusion only chooses to end after the voices embody into shadows, and those shadows surround you with malice filled grins. They bear down on you and pain flashes through your body.
Blackness.
"Just kidding," Seneca laughs. "If you think I'd let you die so easily, you're mistaken."
Your illusion room is just as you left it - cold and empty.
"Hey. . . _?" Seneca interrupts your progress to the second to last room. "You make me curious. May I ask you something?"
You cast a suspicious look. "You pick odd times for small talk, fur ball."
"Ih, ih, ih. Don't criticize my dialogue, kid. I am in control. I will question you and use you at my leisure."
You sigh heavily. The ego on this one is too great for you to bear. The Batter may have been unbearably blunt and cocky in your past adventures, but his God complex wasn't nearly as obnoxious and sadistic as this monster's was.
"This Zacharie fellow of yours. . . How much do you like him, hm? Is he really that different from the Batter?"
"Zacharie..." You echo his name. How long had it been since you'd been separated from that chuckling smart ass, for lack of a better term? In your adventures to purify these lands, you had always had a special spot in your heart for Zacharie. He was the uplifting face where all others were cast down, full of shame, anger, greed, pain. . . His voice, in particular, was always reassuring before a great battle you were unsure you'd come out alive from.
When the world was turned off, and you were left stunned at your mistakes, you jumped at the chance to make things right with the only one who gave you a chance.
Zacharie.
You tried your best to take care of him. You vowed that you would stick with him till the end, that you would fix his world after all the trouble he went through to help you destroy it. He was . . comforting, to say the least. He had a sense of optimism that others didn't. And, as a warrior, he was elegant - far more so than you gave him credit for. When you read the stories of the Toad King in Zone 2, you had made the connections to Zacharie, but were never sure.
"Where is he?" you ask.
"How much does he mean to you?" Seneca counters.
"You leave my friend alone-"
"Oh! He is just a very good friend to you, then? The same as Batter, the same as Pablo?"
You fall silent.
"Not. . . the same." You shake your head. "Tell me where my Zacharie is, Seneca! No more games! I want to see him, and I want to see him now!"
"You're crying, sweet Puppeteer," Seneca laughs.
You touch a hand to your face. It's true. You are crying.
"You love that failure, don't you?"
"He's not a failure!" Your voice is full of venom. "I'll hear no more of your slander, Seneca." You march toward the opening before the fox can further demean you. You try to steady your heart, which wants to explode out of your chest with worry.
A familiar chuckle follows your name as you march into a dark room. The door locks behind you, and all there is is a dark silhouette before you. The small light in the room gleams off a familiar cat-like mask.
"Zacharie..?" Your heart leaps again so fast it hurts.
"What took you so long? We've been waiting for you," he continues in his usual, smooth tone. "It is quite rude to leave your friends - what kind of Puppeteer are you, amigo?"
You act before you think. You dive into his arms.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to leave you! I won't do it again, Zacharie, I won't! I won't do it again..."
You heave a sob, so grateful to see him after what felt like an eternity in this maze. Your body aches at this. There's a painful, sharp knot in your gut.
You quickly realize this was not your sobbing, but rather a sharp blade buried deep inside you.
"Young love," speaks the silhouette, but it is no longer the voice of your Zacharie. "I had a love, you know. . Funny how easily love can leave you."
Seneca.
You fall to the floor, clutching your gut. You scream. It hurts. It's agony.
The silhouette's foot plants on your abdominal.
"He won't love you," Seneca coos. "After all, who could love someone who cowers and pushes their friends in front of all of the blows? How pitiful that you would treat your darling in such a way. All of the scars on his body, the wounds, the pain in his eyes each time we fight - I know you are all to blame, dear _."
"No.." You croak. "Zacharie and I work together. He doesn't. . ."
"He doesn't need you. And he wouldn't love you. In fact," Seneca mocks and laughs his typical laugh. "I wonder how quickly he would dispose of a Puppeteer turned against him, hm? Which will die first? The lovestruck Puppeteer? Or the pure, good guy hero? I wonder."
Your world goes black again.
You can only think of Zacharie as needles prick your skin.
"I'm sorry, Zacharie.
I love you."