Survival of The Fittest

The Backrooms is not a place for children. Honestly, Lucas didn't think it was a place for anyone, but he ended up there regardless.
He was not quite a child when he fell through the sidewalk into this hellhole, but he was not really an adult, either. He'd just turned eighteen, and he'd grown up sheltered and coddled, way too weak to survive here, if it hadn't been for his comrades, the group who had taken him in back when he was aimlessly wandering, looking for a way home- back when he believed there was a way.
They felt like a family, no- they were a family. Lena (who used to be a middle school teacher) was like his mother, Rafael (who had three children in his past life), was like his father, Isaac, (Who, no joke used to be an amateur wrestler) was like his crazy uncle, and Gabriella and Logan were like his little siblings.
Gabi....Logan...
They were so young when it happened. Much, much too young. Gabi was eleven, and Logan- he was only four, when they succumbed to the Hydrolitis Plague. His entire family, wiped out because they re-filled their water bottles in a contaminated pond. The only reason he was spared was because his bottle was full, so he saw no need to get more.
Ginny found him a couple days later, while he wandered alone once more. She was two years younger than him, extremely witty, and had a hope in her heart that he had lost, and as they became closer friends, he regained it once more.
Six months later, she was killed by a skin-stealer.
He survived on his own for a couple months, until he was picked up by another small group, that eventually fell apart due to infighting. He joined another group. Most of the people died, and the few that were left decided to disband. The cycle continued for years and years and years, he'd find new friends, inevitably get attached, and then they'd die or leave him.
There were so many he'd lost, so many people he'd grown close to that were more like family than friends. Lots of them were kids who never got the chance to grow up, kids that were like siblings to him, kids who he couldn't protect, no matter how hard he tried. And time changed nothing, the loss hurt just as hard after the fiftieth than it hurt after the first.
Eventually, he said "screw it," and decided to stay by himself, no matter how lonely it would be. He was much older, much stronger, and much more knowledgeable about the Backrooms. That timid young man who needed help was gone, replaced by a hardened survivor.
At first, he wandered around aimlessly like he did before, looking for nothing in particular, but eventually, he found a place to settle down, a level that was derelict, one that wanderers hardly traveled through, or stayed in for very long. It wasn't particularly unsafe, but it was devoid of life- there was barely anything there. No water, no food, not a lot of shelter- it wasn't a sustainable place, which was probably why nobody'd ever tried to form a colony or an outpost or something there.
But he saw potential.
He made a home for himself in one of the few buildings, found a way to grow plants using seeds from some he'd ate, and soil he'd gathered from other places. As for the water situation, there were spots he could no-clip through that lead to levels that had natural sources of it. 
For a while, things were okay. But eventually the isolation bored him. So he started making dolls out of wood and clay, to act as stand-in friends to talk to. The first ones he made were crude, but eventually, he became good at it. As time passed, he was even able to make more sophisticated ones that he was able to breathe a sort of "life" into- making them able to move, and occasionally retrieve things he needed from nearby levels.
And as he got better and better at creating homunculuses, he began to think of a way to cure not only his loneliness, but also leave a legacy that would (hopefully) outlive him. He was going to create the perfect survivors. Children that would be smart and capable enough to survive on their own, who would grow into capable adults, who would then be able to raise children just like them...
Granted, he didn't know if it would be possible to make beings out of clay that would age, or be genetically similar to humans, but he wouldn't know if he tried.
And it did, but they quickly perished. You see...their father had given them a very strict "training" regimen, one that involved putting them through all possible dangers that they could face, hoping to toughen them up and give them the best survival instincts, but it ended up killing them.
So he tried again.
And again.
And again.
Over and over, until finally, he'd created two that managed to survive eight whole years- a set of twins he called the White-Haired Boy and the Black-Haired Girl. He'd grown weary of giving his creations "real" names, since most would die within weeks of their creation.
One day, he'd woken up the two for their daily "training" regimen. They started their day with pillows pressed against their faces, having to fight their way out. Then, they sat down for breakfast, having to differentiate between Almond and Cashew water. Their father never gave them any hints- if they failed, they failed.
They played chess for an hour, to sharpen their minds, and then their father made them spar with each other, only telling them to stop when the Black-Haired Girl had knocked out the White-Haired Boy. Both were wounded, so he made them clean and dress their wounds before they played another strategy game- this time it was card based.
Then he took them to the top of a staircase he had made.
"You two need to be used to running down and up stairs without tripping, as well as learning how not to fall when you're fighting or fleeing from something. Understood?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Yes, Father."
They ran up the stairs. They ran down the stairs. They were exhausted, but they still had to practice sparring amongst themselves and against their father. After many falls, many bruises, many tears, the two had finally developed a strategy that worked.
The White-Haired Boy and the Black-Haired Girl dodged his grasp, and in unison, kicked their father's right and left kneecaps, causing him to lose balance, and fall down the stairs.
He ended up splitting his head open. He was not quite dead yet, but he knew his injuries were fatal. The White-Haired Boy and the Black-Haired Girl panicked, never having seen their father injured this badly.
"Are you okay?"
"Are you alright?"
He stared at the his creations, his children, his killers in complete shock. He couldn't even be mad.
"...You won."
"Huh?"
"What does that mean?"
"Clearly, I've taught you what you need to. You win...so...you..."
He stopped speaking for a moment.
"N-Names...you need names."
"But we have names."
"We have names already."
"Well....this is...y-your prize, for winning."
The twins smiled, excited they were getting a prize. They'd never gotten prizes before!"
He pointed to the black haired girl.
"From now on, I'll call you...."
He never finished his sentence.
The twins waited there silently for hours, until they finally gave up, and went inside.
Category:Tales