literature

Don't Starve: Sick Day

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Literature Text

*cough*

That's where all the trouble started; a ticklish cough that interfered with Wilson P. Higgsbury's fishing trip in the swamp.

The gentleman scientist was sitting by a pond, hoping to get himself and Chester good bite after being so short on food lately. Unfortunately, his persistent hacking made the hunt more tiring than it should have, even with Chester holding his belongings alongside him.

Finally, that minute, Wilson yanked up a fish onto the ground with his rod, but as he did so, he held his head up with one hand, and grabbed a nearby pine with the other, as if trying not to fall over. Chester whimpered and gently nudged his master's leg in comfort. Wilson returned it with a weak smile, gently mussing his orange fur before trudging back to their base camp in the flower field.

As the evening turned to night, sleeping became a challenge, too. Whenever Wilson got in his straw roll, his body would get damp with sweat, but every time he got out, he felt a chill running through his sensitive skin. Of course, his heavy coughing didn't help any either.

With some gold, stone, and his alchemy engine, Wilson jerry-rigged a thermometer, which read his temperature as 102 Fahrenheit. It wasn't surprising, but still all the more unpleasant. The sickly scientist inched his way toward the fire, hoping his frail body was at least capable of sleeping.

Throughout the rest of the week, Wilson did whatever he could to try and make himself well again. He kept a second fridge open to blow cold air on his overheated body. He rubbed the goop from the spider gland healing salves on his hot skin and forehead. He tried eating more blue mushrooms since they had boosted his health before. He even made a broth out of ferns from the caves. None of these methods worked; they only left him with more chills, spider goop, messes of blue vomit, and unfulfilled hunger. All while Chester tried to stay as close to his master as possible. He gathered up any ingredients he asked for, but most of the time, Chester didn't want to leave his friend's side for long. He even let Wilson use his fuzzy body as a chair or pillow, regardless whether or not his illness was contagious.

Wilson hit rock bottom by day five. A monsoon was causing leaks inside his tent, despite his efforts to keep the opening shut. His scarlet face was as hot as the gems he used for fire staffs. His hacking cough was grainy and wet, as if someone had filled his lungs and throat with water and sand. Chester tried to keep him as comfy as possible, but sadly, there was only so much comfort a pillow could bring for someone this sick.

Now it seemed like all Wilson could do was lie down and breathe, what little breath he could muster at this point. Chester gave him an affectionate snuggle and lick on the face, and Wilson returned it with a very weak smile and slow, gentle strokes on his fuzzy head.

Finally, with another brutal coughing fit, Wilson passed out, still maintaining a raspy breath. Chester repeatedly nudged his head, whimpering in fear.

All of a sudden, in another puff of grey, cloudy smoke, the Puppet Master appeared before them. Chester whined in fear and stood in front of Wilson, not letting Maxwell come any closer.

"Come now, boy. There's no need for that."

Maxwell felt Wilson's damp forehead for a moment, and then twisted his left glove to dry it off from the scientist's sweat. "...Hmm. None of my other captives have lasted half this long before getting sick or injured. Never saw one with this bad a case of pneumonia, though.

Maxwell then heard Wilson's weak breathing, and his smile returned. "But really, where's the fun in letting you die like this?"

With a wave of his hand, a stone bowl of dark-blue broth appeared in Maxwell's palms, a thin wave of black mist rising from the liquid. Wilson gained just enough consciousness to feel Maxwell cradling him in his lap, and looking down on him with a malicious smile. Wilson tried to widen his eyes and mouth in fear, but Maxwell put one finger over his lips.

"Shhhh. Don't say a word, pal. You're in the perfect hands."

As Wilson drifted back into semi-consciousness, Maxwell fed him spoonfuls of his dark broth, smiling and glaring with every last drop.

When Wilson woke up again, his body had finally cooled down, and his chest and head no longer ached. His vision was clear, and he could take deep breaths again in peace. The rain had waned into bright sunshine. Probably the most welcoming sight of all, however, was an ecstatic Chester bounding toward his master, jumping in his arms, and bathing his face with hearty licks. Wilson smiled back, and hugged his loyal pet. Still, his mind was still lost in thought. Did Maxwell really go out of his way to save him? If he brought Wilson here to die, why would he want to keep him alive? Then, a cynical but more plausible explanation made Wilson glare in the distance. Maxwell didn't want him to die of pneumonia; he wanted him to die of his own elements in this cruel, twisted world. Mauled by a hound, stung by killer bees, starvation, any of those methods would be much more "fun" than something like everyday viruses.

Well, whatever the reason, Wilson wasn't going to give Maxwell the satisfaction of letting his reign destroy his life. With a smirk and a glare, Wilson held his axe over his shoulder, and motioned for Chester to come follow him.

There was still a lot of work to do.

The End
Inspired by an RP I did with :icongunblade-trigger: a while back. A what-if scenario in which Wilson finally gets sick after being in Maxwell's world for so long. Lord knows how many germs there are in that untamed wilderness. *shudder*

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! :)
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SherlockHolmes90's avatar
Reads about Maxwell's beside manor. "Y...Yeah..Th....That's c...Creepy at all.... Help! Stranger Danger! Freddy's Nope Chat Icon