"Gilbert..." I hold up a hand before Gilbert's chest to stop him from going out there, and eye the crowbar that's leaned up against a window on the opposite end of the room. "They gave you spare stitches, right?" I say. "If you wanted to, you'd be able to fix me up again, yeah?"
"That is a possibility, yes, however, I am not quite sure I follow as to where you are going with—"
"Cool." I smirk. "Then, I'll meet you back here in five. You better have finished by then, because I'll be dragging you out of this dump, with or without those rusty brothers of yours."
"Sir?" Gilbert perks up. "What do you mean by you'll be back in—"
The large shadow of a person in a trench coat paints the decaying walls black.
I push up against my better leg, then sprint toward the crowbar. It's not what I'm used to, I think, once I have the weapon in my hands, but it'll be better than nothing.
I don't have time to hear Gilbert's answer before I've already run out the door. Apparently, whoever the footsteps belonged to, falls from my distraction, because they immediately start chasing after me, too.
I huff.
I try to catch my breath.
The scenery flies past me in muddled shapes that sink into a frightening obscurity. I hadn't realized I'd be slowed to this extent by my current circumstances. It's leading me to reconsider on whether I should actually stop to try and fight this stranger. I don't think they're an Assistant—the way they run is frantic, and their heavy pants give me reason to believe they're slightly out of shape. It's possible I could handle it—at least, I'd like to believe I could, because this task is way less terrifying than the prospect of having to go back and touch one of those ancient, worn-out Assistants, like Gilbert's probably doing right now.
A sharp pain runs down my leg. I wince and cry out. As my mad dash across the museum's second floor slowly turns into an accelerated limp, I curse under my breath. Shit, already?
I was sure I'd have at least a little more time.
"Fuck." It's no use. I grip the crowbar a little tighter between my palms. I'll have to fight.
My eyes search the hallway I've ended up in, for anything else I could use as a weapon. I don't particularly want to kill a man today, however, it'd be safer to have something deadly up my sleeve in case this gets out of hand.
"Hey, bastard!" the guy who'd been chasing me shouts. "I'm ready for you! Come out and face me like a man!"
I drag myself into another room by my right and pray I'm making the right choice in terms of location; I might not have time to go back and try another one after this. He's getting too close.
There are a bunch more defunct Assistants in here, some spare posters, along with...
I frown.
A bowling ball, a net, and a butter knife...
Really?
A sigh escapes me as I pull them both up into my hands.
These must have been used to create those weird exhibits I saw earlier on, and maybe they had some extra parts to spare... I'm really not sure what to think at this point; to be frank I couldn't care less as long as it gets me out of here alive and well.
I hunch over then observe my choices. If I throw the bowling ball at my opponent, I could either miss and give him a weapon of his own—if he doesn't already have one—or hit him too well and end his life.
Granted, I'm more worried about my own guts here, but, maybe this guy lives with his kids in this museum and he's only doing his job by protecting them. What the fuck do I know? I'm sure he wouldn't attack me for no good reason. No sane person would do that.
I grab the bowling ball. I throw it far into the room opposite of where I am.
In the corridor, the man lets out a satisfied huff, and a muttered, "Found you," before he storms off, toward the sound.
My ears ring. My pulse slams loudly in my chest and reverberates throughout my ribcage. I bite down against my fear, then kneel into a corner, not too far away from the exit. As I clutch the crowbar and the net closer to my body, I hold my breath. If I'm lucky, he'll walk right past me and into the other room.
And I am lucky, because he does so without a bout of hesitation.
Either the guy's not experienced with fights, or he's just cocky—in either case, it's all I needed; I'm definitely not going to complain.
Once I'm sure my temporary enemy isn't lingering near the doorway, and that he's started to shuffle through the other room's belongings in search of my presence, I slowly rise to my feet then tiptoe over to the doorway, where his back remains, turned toward my gaze.
Thankfully, by the time the man notices his way out is being shut by yours truly, I've already blocked the handle that sits atop the door—his only way of escape—with the butter knife's help, and taken the liberty of hanging the net right before it, too.
The trick is definitely nothing to be proud of. If I'm being realistic here, there's no way these two measures will hold out for long.
Judging by how much he's kicking and screaming at the old wood, I've no doubt he'll be knocking it down soon enough—but the act will buy me time. And right now, I think, as I dash off in order to find Gilbert again: time is all we need.