Life After YouTube: A Markiplier FanFic

Part 1

                She stumbled into a ray of sunlight. The roof, nearly fully collapsed, seemed to pull itself back so that they could see her.

                She certainly didn't look like a threat. Her right thigh was wrapped in an old shirt; her calf completely covered in dry blood. Hair, messily pulled away from her face, was caked in dirt and ash. Her clothes were filthy and torn, but at one point had made up a shirt and cargo shorts. A ratty backpack hung from her shoulder, the other strap broken. They could see a pistol at her belt, but she hadn't reached for it. She appeared as nothing more than a ghost of her former self; her eyes were large and staring, but empty, like theirs now were. Clearly she had been touched by what she saw. Fear and pain had obscured her features.

                The one man shook his head in warning towards his friend, who then lowered the gun he had pointed at the girl.

                She stood there in the light momentarily before sitting down, leaning against a dirty wall. She took off her backpack and started rummaging inside.

                He motioned for his group to come out of hiding. One by one, they stood, still concealed in shadow behind the upturned tables. There were four of them. Each studied the girl, carefully moving towards her, weapons set aside. Ideally, they'd quietly reveal themselves so they wouldn't startle her. But, they were not experts in the art of stealth. One of the men tripped over a table leg, crashing into a pile of debris. The commotion brought the girl to her feet, gun drawn and aimed at the darkness.

                "Come out!" she cried, "Who's there?"

                The four remained quiet, one raising his gun again. The armed man walked into the light, ready to shoot.

                "I don't want any trouble," he said at last. She immediately recognized a distinct British accent.

                "Yeah, that's what they all say. Before I get robbed or shot at. What do you want?"

                He heard a click.  

                "I don't want to get shot. And neither do you." He slowly began to lower his gun, arms trembling.

                "I know there's more of you," she said, still aiming.

                "What makes you think that?"

                "You'd never let Mark die. Right, Aaron?"

                "Oh. A fan." Aaron smiled faintly, but it quickly faded when she didn't lower the gun.

                "Yeah, that's right. A fan. Tell whoever you're with to get out here, right fucking now!"

                "You're no threat, lady."

                "Shut up, you'll get yourself killed!" came a third voice. In a flurry of motion, the other three figures appeared in the light.

                "Put the gun down." She glanced over at the man with black hair. His torn plaid flannel revealed nothing more than an assortment of kitchen knives tucked into his belt. "We don't want to hurt you."

                "Hey, Mark," she said with a wicked smile. "I've heard that line before. Then they took my supplies and left me for dead."

                "Listen, none of us have anything pointed at you. Just put it down, and we'll talk." The taller man held up his empty hands.