Philip locked the door, made a barricade with the heavy desk nearby, and scuffled over to the dark corner of the room. He fell to his knees and placed a palm over his coat where his heart seemed to be fighting tooth and nail to break out. He tried to calm his rampant breathing so he could actually hear the vicious creatures trying to break into the room. It brought out the memories of the dogs, how one of them nearly tore his arm open, how they'd walk within three feet of him and he had to keep still, muffling his panicked whimpers as they turned around, wanting to run but knowing he'd be dead if he even tried.

At first, the banging on the door sounded desperate, the creature's garbled speech frustrated, but after a minute or two it settled down to nothing. Eventually he could hear it stumbling away down the hall. It took a few minutes longer for his heart rate to fall back to normal.

Funny, how the "normal" was less than normal these days. He never seemed to catch a break. Philip wished he could just take a nap, but if Clarence didn't do something asshole-ish to keep him awake, the visions of Amabel's corpse, the sound of Red's tortured screams, even the sight of one of those dogs would turn it into misery. The walls of his mind were painted with their names; he took them everywhere he went, willingly or not, and he suffered. Most days, he wished he was dead, but he had no peaceful way to go about it.

Then Philip glanced up at the dusty shelf beside him. The smallest glint of light reflecting off a knife caught his eye. Philip felt something stirring in the back of his head as he reached out and grabbed the hilt of the weapon. He ran one finger against the dull side of the blade, ignoring the pinpricks of fear that turned into goosebumps trailing down his arms. A sense of unease drifted through his mind, something he couldn't connect to his own feelings. Philip ignored it, shifting from sitting on his knees to a criss-crossed position, holding the knife in his lap, wondering how it had remained so pure, so smooth, so clean. Surely one would have used it to fend off those dogs, or, if worse came to worst, to seize their own life before something else could. But no — it was clearly untouched, except by the tiny sprinkles of dust Philip swiped off with his fingers. It was like the world hadn't wanted to touch it; even down here, something could remain untarnished by human failure.

And yet… as Philip continued to stare at the knife, contemplating mankind's mistakes that brought him down here… he couldn't deny the startling urge to ruin said purity with his warm, dripping blood.

Another fog of uncertainty loomed in the back of his mind — a surprisingly quiet sensation. Usually, the other presence in his mind wouldn't shut up. But here he was, finally silent, and that could only mean good things. Maybe that was a sign, that what Philip had been turning over in his head for days now might be the solution to his problems.

It wasn't like life had been good to him. It took his father from him at a very young age. It took his mother, lost to a sudden illness. It took him to the mines of Greenland, to the insides of morbid dog kennels and tunnels of crawling spiders. It gave him company — people he could talk to, who understood the horrors he was going through, the endless nightmare that happened with his eyes wide open, one he couldn't escape no matter how feverishly he tried, how fast he sprinted, how hidden he made himself. Then it took those people away.

It took Red, and his father, and now Amabel, too. Amabel, the sweet woman over the video chat who made him feel sane once more, whose honey-like voice was the only reason he could sleep at night. Her shocking survival and optimism in this place, where everyone else had been dead or worse by the time Philip arrived, bolstered his determination to escape; she made him forget that there was no escape, forget that there was no future in store for them. She was the embodiment of his reason to live; she was the last spark of hope he had left.

She, too, was gone because of his stupidity, and now the second-most pure thing in this facility was the knife he held as he thought of joining her. Philip's fists tightened around the knife handle, and he placed the blade on top of his palm, gazing down at it with somber eyes. That was when the unease he felt in the back of his mind spread to the forefront of his feelings, and a familiar raspy voice piped up from the depths of his mind.

"H-Hey, monkey, I don't know what's going on up there — oh, wait, I do — but, that's not really something you should play around with."

"Oh, I know," Philip murmured. His mind was racing. A plan was constructing itself in his mind, piece by piece, like those creations in Lego games that put themselves together while the player held a single button. He was like an observer, waiting quietly with his hand on the knife while his brain laid out the next steps for him to take. It would be so easy to just follow them, and yet… Well, he was finding it rather hard to come up with a good excuse not to.

"Monkey, this — this is not the answer, seriously, put that down."

Of course, there Clarence was, as usual, saying whatever he could to change Philip's mind. To turn back and run headfirst into a Tuurngait pursuer. To slam his head into a wall until he passed out. (Which, thinking back, might not have been such a bad idea.) To take Cyanide or Anthrax the first chance he got — Who was he kidding, Clarence had always been out for Philip's death, always.

… So why did he sound so nervous?

"I can feel your state of mind, you know; you feel like you're still out there with the dogs, and you're not. C'mon, monkey, listen to my voice here. Listen to good ole Clarence and put down the knife."

"I'm going to die down here," Philip stated. It wasn't a question, it was a fact. Part of him had known, ever since he first fell down here, when the ladder broke, that he wasn't going to make it back to the world he once knew.

The voice scoffed. "Come on, don't be such a downer. You don't know tha—"

"I do," Philip snapped. His hands were trembling; he curled them into his chest, but they didn't stop vibrating with the anxiety he felt — no, the anxiety Clarence felt — at the prospect of death. "If not by the dogs, then by your brothers, or by the spiders, or the worms, or starvation, or I don't know, but something is going to kill me down here. It might as well be me."

"NO!" Clarence screamed, the voice sounding like it'd come from beside his ear. Philip jumped. Clarence's breath sounded ragged, panicked — Philip had never heard him sound so distressed before. "Listen here, monkey, I — I don't wanna die. And neither do you. What the hell are you running from those things for if not to live, huh? Listen to me real good, Philip — you want to live."

Philip blinked. The virus had never called him by his name before.

"You're not thinking right because you're stressing the hell out right now, and I get it, that's the monkey thing to do; your brains aren't big enough to handle this shit. That's why you got me, Philip. That's why you got me."

'No, I have you because I was unlucky enough to get infected by the Tuurngait virus.'

"Ha. Think of it as a bonus, then." There was a brief silence, as Philip glanced down at the knife in his hands. Clarence was right; he didn't want to die. But he was still afraid of the countless ways he could die down here. Especially since he'd been faced with three consecutive deaths — Red, his father, Amabel — and stuck with notes from dozens of other deceased scientists. He couldn't escape death, whether in physical form or in his thoughts. He didn't want to go the way all of these people around him went. It was tempting to just… end it. Before he died a much worse death than he'd feared.

That was how Philip felt, but Clarence… Clarence wasn't ready to go yet. Clarence only had a taste of life as an individual, and as much as he droned on and on about Tuurngait superiority, or complained about being trapped in the monkey's head, Philip knew Clarence. The further time went on, the more interest Clarence expressed in the human world, the more he brought it up to Philip, casually, trying to hide his longing to get out of the mine and into the open world. He wanted to be somewhere he could control and mess around with Philip in all kinds of bizarre scenarios, where he could tease Philip through every one of his awkward human interactions, where boredom didn't exist and death wasn't a constant concern. Clarence wasn't innocent; Philip still hated him for what he made him do to Amabel, and he did constantly think about the cure — how he was going to get it, whether he'd be up to administering it. But it didn't feel right to Philip, to forcibly take someone out of a life they'd made a home in, allow them to adapt to the way of life they're thrust in, and then take it all away again. That's what happened to him, and he would've rather died in the blizzards of Greenland than experience what he had in the mines.

And even disregarding his feelings, Philip was sure that, if he tried, Clarence would stop him. He could feel the virus gaining weight in his mind, as that lurking unease spread to every crevice of his mind, prepared to take the wheel any moment. It infuriated him that Clarence had so much power over his free will, but… for some reason, Philip felt… relieved?

Maybe that was just Clarence's emotions mixing with his again.

Philip was stuck down here, but… as long as he was alive, he had a glimmer of hope. With death, there was nothing, except perhaps the recollection of past misery (they always say your life flashes before your eyes, right?), and with life… With life, there was always a chance for the better. And he wasn't alone. Clarence was here with him every step of the way, literally. That had to be much better than being alone, or dead.

"Guardian angel, right?" Philip chuckled darkly. He couldn't deny he felt a little better, though.

"That's right," Clarence rasped. "And don't you forget it, the next time you go looking for a cure."

Philip's face fell. "Too soon."

Clarence chuckled, but it didn't sound the same as usual. There was a lingering worry hiding in his voice. "... Hey, monkey... "

Philip sighed, gently placing the knife on a nearby shelf. "I'm fine." He ignored the deep part of him, the authentic him that had nothing of Clarence pulling the strings, that wanted to reach out for the blade again.

"Good." Clarence's voice became stern again. "I think you've done enough moping about. Let's get out of this room before I have to break out the Disney collection, all right?"

Philip raised an eyebrow. "The Disney collection?"

"When the road looks, rough ahead, and you're miles and miles from your nice warm bed," Clarence sang. Philip cringed and sat up on his knees.

"All right, all right, I get it — no more. Again, too soon." Clarence just laughed as Philip quietly pulled himself to his feet. His legs still felt a bit shaky, but as long as he focused his mind on other things, as long as he kept moving forward, he would be just fine.

Against his will, the tune began playing in his mind, slipping past his defenses. What a cruel world, where even in a situation like this, he couldn't escape earworms.

'Just remember what your old pal said, 'cause you've got a friend in me,' his memory sang. He wondered if Clarence intentionally stopped singing at that line. The presence in the back of his mind was humming quietly, probably busy rummaging through his memories. Philip glanced at the knife, and he knew it wasn't the answer. Not yet, anyway. He could still share and make some positive memories, no matter what kind of situation he was in. It wasn't the end.

Philip turned towards the door, listening for any sound of life outside, but there was nothing. He unlocked the door and removed the barricade before listening again, but nothing had changed. He stood there for a few minutes longer than necessary, enjoying the comforting silence that came with this rare peace of mind. … Well, as close to peace of mind as he was gonna get, with someone like Clarence in there.

Speaking of which.

"... Clarence?"

"Yeah, monkey?"

"Thanks."

"Psh. Save it for when we get outta here. Now move it or lose it, human, 'cause I can still take control any time I wanna."

Philip rolled his eyes. "Sure." And with that, he reached for the doorknob, and opened the door to their future.