Dressed to Die
A Dead By Daylight Fanfiction
Meg took a second look at herself.
A dirty, sweat-stained sleeveless tank top that could barely be called 'white' anymore with all the grime it had accumulated. The thick, chunky gold chain around her neck, the kind she might have seen adorning many a hardcore rapper's necks in music videos. The ludicrously ripped jeans (genuinely ripped from experience, not intentionally damaged to present an unearned appearance of a daredevil tomboy). The mud-speckled working boots. And, of course, the mask.
She turned it around in her hands. A stark white featureless thing laden with sprawling cracks. Made from some form of dense plastic with only two holes to gaze out from. It almost made her look like one of the Killers, which never helped her when interacting with other Survivors who didn't know it was her. But for some reason unknown even to her, she kept it with her.
Meg leaned back, letting her posture slump with one hand keeping her up and the other resting on her knee. She sat near the otherworldly embers of the Fire, looking up at the starless sky that permeated the Realms. Her mind was overflowing with questions since being abducted into this twisted game, but one question in particular was outshining the rest:
Where did all this stuff come from?
Time moved strangely in this place, so she couldn't say with any certainty when, exactly, she received these strange new garments. All she remembered was that they came right after a successful Trial. None of the Survivors got seriously hurt and they all managed to escape with the Killer's appetite unsated. They all blacked-out and reawoken at the fire, as per usual… only this time Meg received a fashion overhaul with no sign of her old clothes.
As it was then, so it was now that Meg could not wrap her head around why this happened. Calling her general situation bizarre would be an understatement of the highest degree, but there was at least a point to it, however terrifying and disheartening. That thing, the Entity, feeds on human emotion, mostly fear. So the thing scoops up Average Joes to run these gauntlets in this glorified inter-dimensional farm while the Killers make sure its food is ripe and tasty. So why would it feel the need to change Meg's clothes? She understood that a creature that alien, that wrong, didn't necessarily 'get' the human condition and all its intricacies. It possessed a completely foreign set of motives and values compared to humanity. So maybe changing the clothes of its unwilling victims satisfied some unknowable custom it whatever Lovecraftian hellhole it slithered out from. Or heck, maybe this was just some cruel joke to entertain its sadistic side, as if it were dressing up dolls. Meg didn't necessarily miss her old clothes or hate her new ones. She liked how they made her look tough even if she didn't feel like it on the inside, and the mask made sure brambles and other hazards didn't harm her face and break her concentration. What really bothered her was the violation of privacy, the lack of care when changing her. Sure, deep down Meg knew that nobody trapped here really can afford any privacy under the omnipresent gaze of the Entity, but she still felt… violated. Helpless. That the Entity could do things like that whenever it wanted, however many times it wanted.
Meg sighed. It was times like this she actually missed not being pursued by some axe-wielding psycho. It would afford her the chance to run at least. She liked to run. It tended to keep her mind off things.
Another figure approached the Fire. Meg looked to see…
"Dwight?!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
Meg's fellow Survivor, once a deadbeat wage slave turned the Survivors' unofficial Leader, had experienced a severe wardrobe transformation as well. Rather than wearing his signature dirty white office shirt, abominable striped necktie, and dull, lifeless office slacks, Dwight found himself clad in a trendy black t-shirt with some sort of red logo, ridiculously watermelon-pink slacks, and physically, he had a completely shaved scalp and a full-on hipster beard.
The two of them stared at one another. It was awkward. Then Meg took a closer examination of Dwight's new shirt. The logo… was that the Trapper's mask?! Meg began massaging her temples, feeling a headache begin to rise up.
"What happened." She inquired in a monotone. It wasn't phrased as a question.
Dwight shrugged sheepishly.
"Well… I mean, imy story kinda went a lot like yours did. The Trial went well for everyone, nobody lost too many parts… and when I woke up, I looked like this."
Dwight pulled at his t-shirt and stared at the logo with a suspicious gaze.
"To be honest, the shirt weirds me out the most, for reasons you'll find obvious. This isn't crude craftmanship, as if it were slapped together with just a shirt and a drawing marker. This looks like professional work fresh off the printing press. I think the implications are not only that the Entity can pull clothes from the real world, but also make some of its own. Why it feels the need to make its own merchandise for its minions fit for a boardwalk gift shop, I haven't the slightest clue."
"But what about your face, man?!" Meg shouted somewhat erratically. "It's like it removed all the hair from your head and reapplied it to your chin!"
Dwight scratched at the aforementioned facial hair with a thoughtful expression. "Well, while it may be somewhat alarming that the Entity can change some physical characteristics, and rightfully so, I figure if it could've done something worse to me, it would've already done so. This all seems to be strictly cosmetic changes to the both of us. Besides, I don't really mind this style. It's al-dwight."
The idiot had the nerve to make some sort of confident pose after the painful pun, crossing his arms confidentiality and giving her a cheeky grin. She had half a mind to smack him upside the head. He wasn't really taking this as seriously as she had hoped. There was barely enough time to dwell on it before two others arrived at the fire. At first, Meg thought them to be new arrivals, some poor unfortunate souls plucked from their homes to participate in the Entity's games. She took a second look…
"Nea? Feng Min?!"
In their bizarre new attire, the two were barely recognizable. Nea, the Swedish street artist, tended to dress in a style that was punkish yet still practical and subdued. Now, the cat-like runner was dipping pastel colors, wearing an open green short-sleeve jacket and a t-shirt covered in cute cartoonish bear faces, with pink arm warmers, baggy denim pants with leather laced up boots, and even a pastel pink bob wig and a an intricately designed face mask. Not like Meg was a runway diva expert (she was more inclined to urban grunge), but Nea looked like a fashion disaster in her opinion.
Feng Min, the young competitive Chinese video gamer, on the other hand, looked stunning. She was clad in an elegant, traditional red silk open-back top with gold highlights, and a matching high-slit, figure-hugging flowing skirt paired with low-heeled ballet flats. Her look was accentuated with delicate makeup, a side bob, and graceful dangling red earrings. She looked older, more mature, but in a way that made her more attractive rather than lesser, like a living work of art. Look 'beautiful' up in the dictionary, and you just might find her picture.
Ok, maybe not the best attire to escape bloodthirst lunatics, but even a figure as tragically fashion-dense as Meg was in awe.
Oh no, thought Meg, what if that's the Entity's plan?! Give us outrageous outfits so it's easier for Killers to spot us!
"Well, um…" Dwight was similarly at a loss for words. "Hello, ladies… you look a bit… different."
"We know," Nea grunted. "This outfit is painful to be seen in."
"Word, bro," Feng Min replied, her gamer lingo at odds with her refined appearance. "This look isn't something I think I could pull off anywhere else, eye-em-aych-oh." She pulled at her outfit with an uncertain face.
"I think you look stunning!" Meg interjected. Then she clasped her hands over her mouth when she realized that she had spoken out loud.
The others had looks of amusement on their faces (well, she assumed that Nea was amused; the face mask made it hard to tell), but Feng Min smiled sweetly. It looked genuine.
"Thanks, Meg. That means something coming from you."
Meg felt her cheeks burn. She put on her mask as casually as she could.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour has arrived!"
Ace Visconti. Who else?
Approaching the Fire, Ace looked dashing in his new, somewhat muddied gray tuxedo jacket and trousers, with a white button-up shirt and bow tie. He even wore a white Panama hat with a black stripe. However, considering the far more… shall we say, eye catching fashion styles seen so far, his ordinarily head-turning ensemble seemed a bit plain and mundane in comparison. Indeed, his usual smug smirk faded once he realized he was outmatched in bombastic apparel, a game Meg doubted he thought he would ever lose.
Looks like he lost the betting game.
"Woah… can't believe you all managed to make me feel under-dressed. I'm actually somewhat impressed." He looked at Dwight. "Weird shirt, kid. The beard isn't helping."
"Hey!" Dwight actually sounded offended. "I'll accept criticism over the shirt, but don't throw shade at the Dweard!"
Dear God in Heaven, he named it.
Yet another figure approached. Looks like this was going to be a trend.
Ha! Like fashion trends… Thank God I managed not to think out loud this time…
By the green beret, it was hard to mistake this one. Vietnam vet and supposed zombie killer William "Bill" Overbeck. As he came closer, the darkness slowly illuminated his form to reveal…
A Christmas sweater. A hideously green one depicting tanks, helicopters, assault rifles, and other military iconography.
Everyone couldn't stop staring.
"Don't. Ask." Was all Bill muttered.
He sat down at the fire glumly, sparing the rest of the survivors nary a glance.
And then, yet another came. But this one caused a bit more alarm.
It was Jake Park, the rich corporate heir turned outdoorsy hermit turned Survivor. For the most part, he didn't undergo any wardrobe switch. He wore the same green trail jacket, gloves, and cargo pants.
It's just that it was all dripping with blood. Every part of him was.
The Survivors rushed to his side, concern radiating off all of them. How did this happen? Most injuries healed when the Trials were finished. Did the Entity punish him for some transgression?
"JAKE! What happened?!" Meg exclaimed.
Jake held his hands up in a placating gesture, his face a bit pale.
"Guys, guys, I'm… I'm alright. I think."
"How in the world could you be fine, son?" Bill asked in confusion. "I've seen guys blasted to pieces by landmines who looked like the picture of health compared to you right now!"
Jake seemed just as perplexed.
"I… don't know myself. It isn't mine. I just finished a Trial, a good one where I didn't even get a scratch on me, and neither did anyone else. I just woke up covered in this stuff. I tried cleaning it, but it just… keeps coming back. It never ends. I have no idea who or what it belongs to."
He was shivering slightly. Clearly this was taking an understandable toll on his mental health. Anyone would be feeling the pressure then, being slathered in the bodily fluids of unknown origin. It gave no one happy thoughts to know that the Entity's reach went that far. Then a realization dawned on his face, before yet more confusion.
"Why is everyone dressed so weird?"
"Long story," Dwight replied. "Let's just-"
A voice rang out.
"Oi! Wot's wit all th' commotion?"
You gotta be kidding.
The unmistakable form of David King sauntered up to the Fire, as headstrong and belligerent as ever. He still wore his infamous leather jacket with the popped collar, his leather watch, his denim jeans.
But physically? He was the most changed. He was covered in scars and blisters. A putrid, glowing yellow substance leaked through his wounds like snake's poison, flaring up, casting a devilish light to surround David. His eyes leaked yellow tears, his flesh seemed to singe at contact with the material, it emitted from his very being. It was as if the Entity itself resided in him. David could barely be called human anymore. Everyone stared, mouths agape.
David snorted dismissively.
"Wot you lot gapin' at. Sumthin' on me nose?"
Meg groaned. Clearly, she got off easy.