Lost (G/T P!Septiplier)

A Happy Ending?

A/N If you don't care about subplots and you came only for the G/T, you don't have to read this chapter. But you just might find it interesting   :)

"And so, the young man Jack came to recover his memories, and he lived happily with Signe,  and with the relief of recalling every single fond and sad occurrence in his life. Mark and Tyler were content in their appropriately sized home, and all of Jack's friends had quickly become close with the two giants. The traumatic experiences the two had overcome in their pasts had now faded from their memories, and so the story ends on a happy note... turns out not all monsters are bad." The low voice narrating suddenly stopped and let the silence sink in to the dark room. A deep breath was taken, and a sigh escaped a man's lips.

In an unknown place a man sat in front of a desk of papers, his face shielded by the thick shadows. There was only a lantern to illuminate the old wooden interior of an ancient house that surrounded him, but it was placed on a small table beside the door, and its purpose was clearly not meant for seeing. In front of the man stood a stack of thick creamy paper, with one final piece sitting directly before the man's chest. One hand rested on the table, while the man's other hand wiggled a pencil back and forth like a seesaw as the writer thought.

He suddenly slammed his fist against the table and snarled in frustration as he scribbled notes hurriedly in the margins, muttering darkly under his breath.

"No. The author is not pleased with this wretched tale!" He hissed out from between his bared teeth. "It's not good enough! Not enough detail!" He stopped and tilted his head up, the light angling properly on his features to reveal a bloody cloth over his eyes. "It needs... more. The roles aren't quite right...." The author hummed deeply in thought and slammed his pencil down, abruptly getting out his seat and beginning to pace. He muttered under his breath.

"He, despite his efforts, desires to be noticed!" He murmured. "He tries, he many times has turned to his gift for the way! ... but it is nothing more than a curse, and a burden." The man whirled around, pointing his nose at the papers and scowling. "He tries his damndest to create the perfect world, but not even he can succeed!" He bellowed. He dashed to the desk and grabbed the papers, flipping them over his shoulder with a yell of anger. The papers drifted freely to the floor, and the man panted from his outburst. He stood still for a moment before suddenly turning toward the door.

"Despite his reserved fury, his anger is suddenly interrupted, as an old friend approaches the door and knocks," he whispers. As the words escaped his lips, heavy pounding suddenly shook the door. The man licked his dry lips and walked over to answer the knock, and he opened the door.

"Hello... long time, no see." The man was darkly shadowed, with his voice deep and dark and hissed out like a snake. The lantern's light didn't affect him, only contrasting the strange newcomer and his sinister aura. The blind folded writer muttered under his breath and swallowed before speaking.

" 'Why have you come? Have you returned to mock me again?' The Author asked." He mumbled. The newcomer tilted his head and pressed his hand over his breastbone.

"Now why would I do that?" He asked as the author's ears were filled with a familiar ringing noise. His words seemed to echo into the deepest and most reserved parts of his mind. The man looked at the thing before him and replied evenly, "The author asks the demon where their... accomplice, is." The shadowed man scowled.

"He tried to tickle a mortal with a knife," he sneered. "He may be our old friend, but he has as much brains as a rodent." The blindfolded man scratched his nose, having wisely decided to not reply to this comment. Instead, he turned and left the door wide open, and he approached his desk and picked up a glass of water. He sipped from it and rubbed his sore throat as the demon entered the house without any invitation needed.

"You were once great, but how the mighty have fallen," he hissed. "You have a gift... and this? This is how you waste it?" He asked, waving his arm at the desk and scattered papers. The author swallowed down his drink and set the empty glass down, turning to his friend.

"The author receives the urge to remind him that it was he who stranded the Host to this hell hole," he growled. The demon rolled his eyes and sighed.

"It was for your own good," he replied as the blindfolded man shook his head and turned away. He had heard this song and dance before, over and over... "You caused damage out there, you have killed people with your stupid little stories!" The demon suddenly shouted. The writer flinched and rubbed the side of his head, bothered by the ringing that was a side effect of the monster's anger. He muttered under his breath before asking a clear and precise question.

"What about the others?" The demon sighed and tugged on his tie, pushing his suit down a little to make the outfit more comfortable.

"They're still around... for now," he answered coldly. "Our beloved computer friend recently received an upgrade, as a matter of fact." The author nodded thoughtfully, licking his lips again and rubbing his throat. The demon tilted his head and suddenly rolled it from shoulder to shoulder, twitching and jerking in a weird glitchy way before he was suddenly back to normal.

"You've been writing again, haven't you?" He asked. The writer nodded quietly. "You know that it never ends well when you write," he pointed out. Again, the blind folded man mumbled some things under his breath before replying.

" 'It helps me... escape,' he explained calmly as he ran his hand through his messy and fluffy black hair." The demon sighed again and shrugged his shoulders.

"Fine. Have it your way," he growled softly, and he turned and exited through the open door, disappearing into the darkness outside. The door slammed shut behind him, automatically locking and sealing the house once more.

The writer put his hands on the edge of the desk and let out a shaky sigh, his brow furrowed. Troubled, he slowly stood up straight and left his desk to check the door, and when he was sure it was locked he returned to his corner and sat in his seat. He looked at the papers scattered on the creaky floorboards, and then looked at the desk.

"... he must try again," he murmured. He opened a drawer and pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and he brushed his broken pencil off the desk before pulling out a new one. He pressed the butt of the pencil to the old creamy paper, thinking for a few seconds before he wrote something down.

"An author must have a story to tell," he said out loud as he wrote three words down.

"The Space Voyage."