5. Russian Roulette

"Your victimized facade is sickening to me.

You better ready yourself before you make a villain out of me. "

( Me, A Villain? - Undecided )

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Plays after 'an ending' or the pure evil ending in dsaf 2, so like, ¡!CW for legacy being a menacing asshole !¡

This was like half a request from a mootie patootie on tiktok (hi) and half a comment I interpreted wrong but like. Worked with? uuuuuuuuhhhh yeah :3

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Wattpad doesn't like me, so to protect my own content from being deleted I hereby warn you: THIS IS FICTIONAL. THIS IS FAKE. DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES DO THIS AT HOME, OR ANYWHERE ELSE. This is a creative exploration and representation of the complicated dynamic between two characters, I do not intend harm with this, thank you.

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It was astounding how easily one could obtain a revolver in Vegas. With the necessary amount of smooth talk, a wad of stained cash and an abstruse figure of interest, it shouldn't take longer than an hour. Jack turned the musket in his hand, the metal chill against his palm. He'd suddenly been carrying it when Dave returned with drinks, that same grin still persistent as he didn't flare from his new treasure. As of lately, he seemed awfully taut. There was an air of superiority, a sort of fearlessness, constantly radiating around him. It terrified Dave, who ensured he wouldn't sit too close to Jack as he slid into their shared booth.

"What'cha got there old sport?"

Jack sat back, a fabricated relaxation notable in his posture. He held the revolver under the table, ensuring the public wouldn't take notice as he exposed it to Dave. In response, he swallowed harshly in anticipation. The presence of Jack had already been menacing enough, he didn't want to begin and comprehend how a gun would enhance it. He recognised it to be a fairly common revolver; stained silver, with a barrel that contained enough cylinders to fire six shots. His body felt tense simply by looking at it, and when his eyes lay their gaze on a small box in Jack's other hand, he found himself urging to get away. Although it had been Dave who had the most murders to his name, he felt fearful of his life in Jack's presence as of recently.

"How about we play a game tonight, Davey?"

He shook the box his free hand held, a faint clatter akin to metal emerging from inside it. For an abbreviated second, Dave held his breath as his eyes flicked from the cardboard box, to the revolver, to the confident yet terrifying smile Jack provided. Despite the fact he had no brain, it quite easily clicked on what he had been insinuating. With his trembling hands raised before him, he backed further away from his companion. The both of them had always been risk-takers, but for Jack to propose something as russian roulette was renewed.

"What do you say, for the thrill of it...?"

It was as if Jack could see through his hesitation, his eyes half lidded and his voice enticing, if anything. As Scott said; he really was transparent, and it was simple to manipulate Dave. While he hesitated, eyes nervously darting around the crowded pub, Jack pressed the barrel of his revolver to Dave's lower stomach, barley above his crotch. He drew a sharp inhale through his gritted teeth, his body visibly tensing in response to the featherlight contact. While the more sensible of his consciousness urged him to deny, something far more prevalent was actively convincing him that Jack would abandon him, if he didn't go along. Then again, perhaps it was better to abandon this menacing presence that he had dubbed his sportsy.

"Sportsy, you're not- Seriously saying we should-"

"Why not, David?"

Maybe, Dave considered, he just wasn't drunk and high enough to see the fun that lay in this rather lethal activity. He took one of the drinks he had just gone to order, and chugged it near entirely in one go. It burned in his absurdly long throat, his eyes squeezing shut in order to bite back tears and his gut turned. Jack watched, that self loathing grin that didn't seem to leave his face growing even bigger than before. He had the aubergine under his thumb, right where he wanted him.

"Sure, sure- Fuck, whatever old sport-"

Dave very desperately tried to make himself sound confident, but failed in every aspect as even he himself could hear the tremble in his voice. Jack tucked away the gun in the inner lining of his suit, sipping the drink brought to him. The smug look on his face didn't contribute to easing Dave's nerves, who desperately tried to drink away his suspicions of Jack having set up a scheme, of sorts. Jack felt no worries in regards to the danger that came in addition to russian roulette, matter of fact, he felt dubious that a piercing bullet would even hold the ability to end his existence. Although the same would go for Dave, he suspected the tense man didn't quite understand the extent of his lifeless existence.

He could feel the chill metal through the fabric of his suit, securely resting against his chest. It hadn't at all been something he planned, it was merely that he took the opportunity when it presented himself. With how highly he already thought of himself, a gun only added so much complementary leverage. To him, it was merely something that made him appear more intimidating. As Dave drank away beside him, he pondered how far he would go for him, and additionally, to which lengths he could be pushed. The man was dependent on him, clinging to him like a desperate dog that somehow knew its owner would discard it eventually. Despite this, he would make his best effort to postpone it, even if it meant that he would have to endure that menacing smile peering him down. It gave Jack a rush of power.

It didn't take more than a few drinks before Jack proposed returning to their shared room, beginning to grow bored of Dave's avoidant behavior. He would constantly make excuses to momentarily leave his side; long toilet visits, ordering drinks, anything that presented itself. It was comedic how obvious he was in doing so, Jack noted. While reluctant, Dave found himself agreeing with a light shake to voice and erelong they stood outside awaiting their cab. The ride was serene, aside from the radio softly playing a tune, and the both stared out their designated windows, although with entirely different states of mind. Jack simply enjoyed watching the faces of strangers elide, while Dave would much rather stare at his own reflection in the window than towards the other.

"Alright gentlemen, that'll be-"

The man who had driven them to their destination clicked on a device installed in his car, briefly pausing as Dave had already exited the car.

"-twenty dollars, please."

"Sorry, I think I didn't catch that...?"

Jack's voice was low, a mere grumble as he pressed the revolver against the taxi driver's temple. From outside Dave watched the man jolt in his seat, almost instinctively raising his hands upward in the air. He felt dubious that the thing was actually loaded, because even though he hadn't faced Jack the whole ride, he hadn't heard anything to indicate him loading it. This was merely a facade, a risky manner to obtain a costless ride. Yet the confidence in the entirety of his posture managed to make even Dave fall in doubt.

"It costs nothing! On the house, sir!"

The petrified driver called out, his eyes squeezed shut in fear and his hands trembling where he held them raised in the air. Jack's smile took the shape of that same ominous grin he would present Dave with countless times, sinking the gun lower. He ensured the cold metal trailed along his skin before he removed it, tucking it in his waistband.

"How kind of you."

He titled his head, a nod towards the driver that he would be sure to see in the rearview mirror, before joining Dave on the pavement. The two of them watched the cab accelerate the moment its door fell shut, clearly occupied by a distressed driver as it swerved over the road. Jack adjusted his shirt so that it would cover the metal that sat between his waistband, as Dave slowly turned towards him.

"You're scaring me, old sport-"

Where Dave typically hid between a humorous facade, his voice now spoke of something that contained a more genuine concern. His face only contributed, his hands clasped together before his stomach with fingernails that dug in into the back of them. While the two were never occupying themselves with anything quite legal, the cold threat Jack had just made was considerably more than good fun.

"Oh, don't make me laugh-"

He gave a soft, seemingly genuine, chuckle to accompany his sentence. For but a split second, it seemed as if there was a remnant of what once was Jack. A shard, that managed to pierce his delicately put together villainous presentation. It was just enough to comfort Dave, who lowered his hands and followed behind to the motel's entrance. The scrap he had tossed the aubergine was purposeful, a glimpse of what he wished to see. The companion he hoped to have had long vanished, but if he provided just enough, he would cling to the idea of him. And wasn't that just all he could desire; an idealized future, in which they were what he saw them for.

Dave wondered what Jack's initiative would be when they walked towards their room, presuming the time to be around four to five in the morning, judging by the position of the moon. He hadn't drunk enough, that was certain, his body aching and his mind of worry. It became increasingly harder to maintain his usual, upbeat and cheery posture around his companion. The more he tried to do as such, the more he would come to realize it was fruitless. Jack would persist, that damned grin would too.

"After you."

Jack held the door open to him, speaking with a low growl. He hadn't liked to turn his back towards the tangerine, and now too would ensure that he turned back around to face him the moment he had entered the room. Without any further notion, Jack followed and threw the door shut with an unnecessary force behind it. Dave, whose legs were already troubled to hold him upright, flopped down on the bed that accompanied their room. He watched with a feeling in his gut, that wasn't simply explained away by the excessive amounts of alcohol, as the revolver was put down on their nightstand. Jack took off his blazer, lighting a cigarette from a near empty pack.

"Now..."

He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the room, which already had its walls stained yellow because of earlier residents doing the same. The space capacitated two armchairs, a small table -which only held an ashtray up until now- between them. Jack took his gun, and the box that contained its bullets, and placed the both on the wooden table. He himself sat on a chair, legs spread wide and the cigarette hanging from his lips.

"Shall we play our game?" [Get this jigsaw looking ass mf'er out of here]

Dave swallowed, harshly, having Jack would have just forgotten somehow. That all of this was merely an elaborate scheme to put some fear into him, not unlike the manner in which Henry would often yield his wrench around in something that wasn't exactly casual. Despite his better instincts pulling at what was left of his heart, he brought himself to get up and sit down on the remaining chair. Jack offered him a cigarette, which he denied, despite his nerves more than craving one. Being proposed with anything that came from Jack seemed like a threat, nowadays.

He watched as the cylinder was flicked open, met with the confirmation that it was indeed unloaded. His earlier threat was empty, and the reason it was successful was merely Jack's certainty. A single bullet slipped into one of six chambers, quickly vanishing again as Jack spun the cylinder and pressed it back in place. The look on his face didn't falter as he put it down on the table, slowly sliding it towards Dave. With every inch it covered, the aubergine attempted to sit further back in his chair, as if to avoid the thing whole. One in six, while in favor, those odds were terrifying when it came to your life.

"You go first, old sport!"

Perhaps a bit too hastily, he jostled the gun back towards Jack. Surely, if he were the one who had to face the possibility of his own demise, he would drop the facade. Dave convinced himself, he would reveal that this was all a ridiculous act, a twisted means of entertainment. But he didn't, and instead pulled the hammer to the machinery. The click added an additional pressure to Dave's chest, watching his supposed best friend raise the gun to his temple. If you hadn't been looking for it, you would've said he didn't even flinch. But Dave did see it; the twitch of his eyes as he pulled the trigger and fired an empty round. For a moment their gazes stayed interlocked, a serious expression on both their faces, before Jack burst out in maniacal laughter.

"God Dave, you should see your face!"

Nervously, and incredibly poorly fabricated, Dave laughed along. He flicked open the cylinder, noting that there was one empty chamber before he would've fired the bullet. He spun and clicked it back in place, before forcefully planting it in front of Dave. This was far more demanding than the first time it lay before him, Jack head tilted as he pressed the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray.

"Your turn."

His voice was hard, cold, and most of all: demanding. This wasn't an elaborate joke, nothing but their lives were at play here. With the amount of times Dave had willingly put himself in life threatening situations was absurd, but it was now that his hands trembled upon picking up the cold metal. One in six. Statistically, he should easily be able to go unharmed. He was barely able to steady the muzzle against his skull, breathing heavy with an open mouth. One in six, he repeated to himself as he clicked the hammer. It reverberated against his skin, his body tensing and his finger tightening around the trigger. He closed his eyes, held his breath and clenched his jaw. Yet he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. With a repulsed yelp, he threw the gun back on the table, where it clattered and nearly fell to the floor. Jack's hand landed flat on top of it.

"Gah! I'm not doin' it old sport!"

He shouted, getting up from his chair yet quickly coming to a halt as he realized he didn't exactly have a place to go. They shared this room and he barely had any cash on him; he was stuck here, at least for the time being. Clueless, he stared back at Jack, who returned the cold gaze. He raised the gun, opening his mouth as he pressed the muzzle of it to his palette. A second, that seemed to last for eternity, ticked away.

"Wait, sportsy-!"

An empty shot was fired into his mouth, his grin only appearing wider as he rested his hand on his thigh. Dave stood, his mouth agape and his thoughts running miles an hour. Had he wanted to die? Was this merely a thrill seeking experience to someone, who perhaps, didn't care about life or death anymore? It confused him, he couldn't decipher Jack's reasoning in the slightest, and it frightened him.

"Why aren't you scared-?!"

He yelled, so loudly that someone outside was sure to have heard. For potentially the first time that evening, his voice reeked of something more than apprehension. Scared he was, certainly, but he seemed angry. Had that shot contained a bullet, he would've lost the only one who he currently cared about, the only one that saw him as a person. He was angry at Jack for his own self destructive behavior, which arguably made his rage counterproductive.

"Because, Davey, even if I die- My legacy will live on."

The fear of death was irrelevant, when an individual had lost everything there once was to him. From there on, there was only death or gain. The act of fearing requires being afraid to lose something, to oblige yourself a responsibility; a purpose. Jack was no longer who he once was, largely already having strayed from what was supposedly his core when his soul abandoned him. But this? This was a step beyond that. His promise to Fredbear meant nothing now that he had abandoned it, and Dave functioned merely as a disposable tool to him. A pity considering, Dave still had a level of devotion regarding his tangerine.

Hurriedly, he backed away, finding himself across the room from Jack. The door to his right, he raised a shaking hand over its handle. Everything in him screamed, begged, pleaded for him to get out, run away while he still could. It was impossible to maintain any of his posture under the menacing look Jack gave him. The click of Jack pulling the hammer reverberated in the room, alerting his hand to where he actually gripped the cold metal of the knob. He watched, quietly, as the muzzle was pointed towards him. Jack's face was cold, void of emotion, his finger scarily tight around the trigger.

For a second there was utter silence, a contemplation of what either of them was to do. Dave was the first to unfreeze from his position, swinging the door to their room open in one swift movement. The moment he rushed outside, a shot was fired. The bullet just barely flew past the open door, plummeting in the wall. The silence that followed was deafening, a moment of hesitation before Dave dashed across the open space that lay outside their accommodation. Jack didn't follow, and as he briefly glanced over his shoulder he saw the door was simply closed.

It was about two blocks further that he ultimately came to a halt, heaving against the brick wall. Had Jack meant to kill him, or did he fire merely on instinct? He couldn't figure out what to think of his sportsy anymore, and the more he behaved like this, the more he felt an unbridled rage forming towards him. This behavior would have to be cut out eventually, or their Vegas dream would shamble. Even now, he found himself reasoning, convincing himself that he simply wasn't intoxicated enough. Although, even when his slurring self walked into another bar, he knew he couldn't keep repeating the same excuse. There would be a time where either Jack had to cater to him, or their ways would have to part. But for now, a beer and a joint would suffice in postponing that conclusion.

The sunrise was beautiful, Dave briefly thought to himself as he inevitably headed towards their room; blackout drunk, high and exhausted. He could barely walk, let alone think about the earlier events and their implications. Jack was vast asleep upon return, the revolver nowhere in sight. And maybe that was simply his role: to crawl against Jack night and night again, no matter how unnerving he behaved during the day. It was still nice to wrap an arm around his waist, bury his face in the crook of his neck and inhale his stench. And, perhaps, that was all they would ever become. In his inherently intoxicated state, Dave thought to himself;

You're ganna be the death of me one day, old sport.

Perhaps literal, perhaps not.

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[3360 words]

On one hand legacy is so hard to write but on the other he's so damn fun ARGH, I feel like I wrote Dave slightly out of character trying to balance fear and like devotion but -eh- it'll have'ta do.

PLEASE PLEASE GIVE ME IDEAS I BEG thank you:3