Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

During downtrodden autumntide months,
The darkness creeps ever closer,
For winter is coming
and daylight is running,
For frosty howling winds return
In the misty night’s air.

And the dying leaves fall
down, down, down-

((Well let's cut that bullcrap off right there. Yeesh.

Well hello again; I don't think we were properly introduced.

Not that it matters.

Shenanigans is sleeping again. So many little ideas floating around in that head of hers.

So many stupid, fleeting glimpses.

To weak to actually write anything truly dark though.

But that's why I’m here, after all.

So.

Let's have some fun.))

Chapter Text

    It wasn't being stuck on the side of the road that bothered Jack, not really.

    It was the fact that he couldn't recall how he got there.

    He didn't drive. Never found the time to get a license.

   Signe couldn't have brought him out here - she was visiting her aunt - and she certainly wouldn't just leave him here.

    He didn't recall visiting his friends, or taking the bus, or-

     The air felt thicker, colder, and Jack looked up in confusion, realizing that the mist had turned to light rain.

    The single light post, ending some three and a half metres above the ground, developed into a fuzzy ball by the rain. The road and surrounding forests became more obscured.

    And Jack woke from his dazed state of mind, cold and soaked.

     "The eff?" He choked out. "What the hell am I doing here?!"

     He looked up and down the street but there were no headlights; no grumble of an engine or swashing sound of water splashed up under tyres.

     He kept his gaze out onto the street, sure he would see something soon. Anything, really.

    (He didn't know why he didn't just start walking; the road surely lead to a town. 

    He was beginning to tremble, and he was sure he was turning blue from the cold. He couldn't tell you how much time passed. How long he had been standing. His legs ached from the strain and he leaned against the lone light post wearily.

    And yet, he still didn't leave.)

    Jack did finally see something, though.

    An apparition appeared through the distant haze, white, drifting. It was humanoid in shape.

    But like an elusive wisp it disappeared in a flicker as soon as Jack opened his mouth to call out.

    He lowered the arm he had raised, sighing. "Prob'ly seeing things, Seánny boy. You're cold and soaked. Stands to reason you're imagining shite now."

    A face was in front of his as soon as his eyes flickered up, eyes an echo of his own, though it's face was slit into ribbons and unrecognizable. It opened its maw to speak, but Jack was windmilling, falling back, back.

    The face was seared in his memory as he fell, and kept falling, through the ground and into darkness.

and then he woke up.

Chapter Text

   Why the hell did they think visiting Canada during winter was a good idea?

    Dan rubbed his arms, trying to chase the creeping numbness away.

     Phil had been so excited about the Ice Hotels, and the winter festival. Dan wouldn't say he wasn't pumped, either. It had been brilliant, toasty under layers and layers of shirts and jumpers, watching light twinkling amongst glassy ice walls and falling snow in the approaching dusk. There were maple syrup treats being frozen and sold, and cheerful chatter, laughing children; sounds of merriment and joy.

    Indecipherable English, and Québec-quoi intermingled in the streets, along with stray snatches of foreign language. It was like a wonderland.

    But then the weather turned, sometime when Dan and Phil got separated (Phil had to hit the loo, and Dan had been taken astray by a cart trundling along with hot pastries). As everyone rushed to close up shop and take shelter, Dan had frantically gone searching for Phil.

    After twenty minutes, the snow began to fall thicker.

     It became a mild snowstorm after that; enough to obscure Dan's vision, but not yet enough to render him immobile. He became disoriented, teetering off-course and shouting hoarsely into the muffling wind.

    "Phil!!!"

    But he must have walked quite a ways away, because he couldn't see any lights penetrating the white screen, nor hear any sounds of life or civilization. 

    At this point everything started to burn; hot red-blue, piercing through his flesh and settling his bones to cold stone. His nose, and mouth, even his lungs, began to hurt like he was breathing in glass. The non-existent shards pierced him inside, and he thought he could taste blood.

    Whether real or not, this wasn't good.

   "Phil. . ." He could barely whisper the words out. Distantly heard as he fell into the hard powder, an arm trapped beneath him, and the other out-stretched. The pain had begun to fade, only to be replaced with a paralyzing numbness.

    It was almost like when he had a really bad depressive episode, or sleep paralysis.

    He struggled to wheeze, vision blurring as the snow just. . .kept falling.

     At some point, he just couldn't keep his eyes open.

   The first thing he registered was noise.

    A slow, crawling beeping.

    Then, harsh, ragged breathing.

    Voices filtered through, but their words had no meaning or comprehension.

      Feeling came next. Creeping, hot-cold chills that left a freezing harshness in him. His . . .right(?) hand ached deeply.

    After a while, he pried open his eyes.

    He was in a hospital?

    ". . .Phil?" He managed, sounding groggy.

    A harsh intake of air.

   Then raven hair framing blue, teary eyes filled his vision, and Dan jolted, trying to sit upright.

    Phil rarely cried. Dan was the crybaby between them.

   Phil quickly brought his hands up, as though to push Dan back down - though there wasn't a need, as his whole body protested the movement, dropping him into the bed.

   It creaked as he flopped down.

   "It's okay, it's okay! Just - relax, all right? Please?"

    Dan groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "What happened? I feel like absolute shizz."

    ". . .Hypothermia," Phil said, right to the point. "We managed to find you in time; oh god, you were turning blue, Dan!" He stood suddenly, trembling. ". . .I was so dang scared. They said any longer and you would have lost more than. . ."

    He cut off, looking away and biting his lip.

   Dan felt a jolt of terror. "More than what, Phil? What did I lose?"

   Phil squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the bed rail tightly. "You're- you're pinky and ring finger. They had to amputate them." He looked like he wanted to vomit.

   Dan felt close to tears then, lifting his arm despite the pain and wires to see. Sure enough, the last two fingers on his right hand were gone, bandages replacing them.

   Now he wanted to throw up.

   "But I'm glad you're alive. I'm so, so glad." Phil had begun crying again, voice stuffy from clogged sinuses. "I couldn't stand- if-"

    And then Dan reached forward, gripping Phil with his left hand and pulling him down. Phil got the idea and leaned forward to hug him, sobbing.

    Dan was crying too. Managing to blubber out, "Hey, at least it's not my dominant hand, yeah?" Before fully breaking down and squeezing his best friend tighter with his one arm.

Chapter Text

    Trees whip past her and dead foliage crunches underfoot as she chases a rabbit determinedly.

Chapter Text

     Ethan's head broke the surface, and he coughed harshly, vainly trying to get a gulp of air. Just as soon though, he was pulled back under the salty swell, chilly water choking him.

   He thought he briefly heard a voice crying out his name - either Mark or Tyler - but sound was lost as soon as the tow took him beneath the surface.

    It was a force he couldn’t fight against. A blanket enfolding, trapping. His outstretched hand became pinned above him, the other alongside him, feebly moving against the water.

    His throat began to burn, lungs screaming. He clamped his mouth shut tighter, teeth aching with the strain.

    Everything was too dark around him. Surface, bottom; up, down - these didn’t exist anymore.

    He clamped his eyes shut.

    There was no peace with the lack of oxygen, only screaming red blotching his vision. He tried to pretend, pretend he was falling asleep, dreaming, as his hope of rescue finally faded out.

    It hurt.

    It was unbearable.

    He had to breathe.

     Ethan finally lost control, and the water flooded in.

     They did manage to find his body, despite the chaotic sea batting it around. It took them far, far too long though.

    He would never breathe again.

Chapter Text

      He hummed as the needle threaded, in and out, in and out. It wasn’t quite crocheting, but it was entertaining enough.

    If only the hero would stop moving.

    He dug sharp nails into the arm he was holding down, hissing, “Knock it off, Doctor. After all, a puppet must listen to his master.”

    The good doctor merely glared balefully through tears, the gag pulled tight enough to muffle his surely curses. It had only been a month since he had been Anti's. . .guest, so he still had enough fire to stay defiant.

    Even with being strapped to a chair and bound tightly.

    But Anti merely grinned wickedly; nothing like a little spite to keep the game enjoyable.

    Plus, Schneeplestein would become an obedient puppet soon enough.

     Anti went back to sticking the needle through the German Doctor's flesh, smiling wider as it resisted and he had to shove deeper, resulting in a muffled scream. The thread pulled through, slick and dark with blood, and Anti felt his red fingers slip on the needle.

    "Oh come on, Henrik! After all, you do this to patients all the time, don't you?"

Chapter Text

   Dan didn't know how long ago they had set him in here, a gag tied tight, and a blindfold  covering his eyes.

   He didn't know how long ago he had been separated from the others; Mark and Phil being tossed into a cell, and Jack being dragged down the hall, fighting.

   The ground felt smooth, metal, and somewhat rounded as he tried to get up. His hands hit metal walls as he lost his balance, and felt around. He had to be in a chamber of some kind, he decided. When he managed to get the blindfold off, he saw that there was nothing but pure nothingness. 

    No light.

    No sound.

     There was air, though he didn't know how much, or where it could possibly be filtering in from. It was neither cold, nor warm. Just. Nothing.

     And that's when Dan started to panic.

    Phil phil inquiry help guys help where dark darkdarkdark can't see can't breathe can't feel-

    He was hyperventilating in the dark, despite yanking the gag off with trembling hands. His emotions merely screamed louder, dying out against the metal walls of his prison. He couldn't take this. Kidnapped and trapped and alone-

    Dan was mute - his very being was mute, no give or take; no Phil or Jack or Mark, and no stability of sensing another nearby. This was pure emptiness.

    Was this the inevitable death he had always feared?

     Was this - this consciousness amongst nothingness, where he had lost feeling in his limbs, the very beating of his heart numb and distant - was this now his existence?

     Please please someone anyone save me out out out please I'm sorry help

   After about an hour(?), he calmed down. Sat still and tried to breathe.

    Never had Dan ever not been able to expel his Dismalen energy, or recieve emotional energy from others. 

    It felt wrong. It was wrong. A physical, throbbing ache of want and need. 

    This is probably what starvation felt like. Or true dehydration. Lacking what you needed to live and to know you're alive.

   After perhaps another hour, or a day, or even a minute, panic swamped him once more and he began to hit his fists against the walls screaming as loud as he could, clawing the metal until he felt the warmth of his own blood make them slick. The first temperature change he's felt since he's been in here.

     He slumped down again, sobbing.

    He couldn't hear it.

    There's nothingness. He is nothing.

   When the Billycons finally open the chamber, the Dismalen is sprawled uncomfortably, eyes glazed and distant. He doesn't respond when they drag him out.

    They had left him in there for only a week.

Chapter Text

     Jake hissed out an avian sound as he was elbowed in the face, the familiar hot flush rushing through his nose.

    He heard Zero screech, an ashy shift, and the thud of fist against clothed flesh, followed by a grunt. He was busy clutching his nose and facing down, though, as hot blood gushed and slid between his fingers, so he didn’t catch sight of the terrified man running away.

    “Jake are you- Jeeves!” She was in his peripheral, expression pinched and worried. “The hell? You okay?”

    “Yeh,” he said stuffily. He probably looked a mess: red hands cradling his face and blood smudged up to under his eyes, as more red dropped dropped dropped down his wrist and to the floor. “Nos’ bleed. ‘M fine.”

    She sighed. “If you’re sure. Let’s get this patched up, okay?”

Chapter Text

    His hands trembled, gripping the sink, light flickering above him as he stared at his reflection.

     Hands gripped his shoulders, grasping tightly, too tightly, as cold breath ghosted his neck and a voice spoke, hissing, “Run it by me again. You think it wasn’t you,  Seánny-boy?”

    There was nothing but his own reflection staring back, blue eyes wide and tinged green. He didn’t dare glance down at his hands.

    He knew there was a presence  there, even if he couldn’t see it. 

    It was a corruption in his skin, his very being.

    It wasn’t him.

     It was him.

    It spoke inside of himself, and outside of himself; a glitching parody of his own voice.

    “You know it was you; after all, it was your hands, wasn’t it? Your hands that brought the knife down-“

    Jack squeezes his eyes shut tightly, trembling.

   “-it was you who made the first stab. And the next, and the next. . .”

    He grits his teeth.

     He feels it grin.

    “It was you who finally killed them, putting them out of their misery, wasn’t it? Don’t lie, Seán.”

     He felt his hands slip, the blood covering them slick against the porcelain of the sink.

     After a few moments, he looked back up at the mirror, green eyes sharp, whispering, “It was me.”

Chapter Text

    He blinked his eyes open to see a fuzzy ceiling swathed in night shadows.

    After a moment of blank, empty staring, he rubbed his eyes and sat up, groaning softly. 

     “Guess it’s another ‘Sleepless Night With Phil’.”

    He swung his legs ‘round to the other side of the bed, pushing aside the layers of covers and grabbing his glasses from the night stand. Phil didn’t know what had woken him up, exactly, but he just knew he wouldn’t be falling back asleep anytime soon.

    Despite his quip, he wasn’t really in the mood to record a video. He could always do it the next time insomnia struck.

    He stood up and made his way out of his room, a nagging feeling in the back of his mind telling him that something was off. But he dismissed it as his wired, overtired state.

    He and Dan really shouldn’t have stayed up watching that horror movie, especially with how zazzed they got on candy. 

   The hall was dark when he opened his door, obscured from any moonlight that could possibly leak through the windows. Phil let his hand brush over the light switch and flicked it on.

    There was a delay, but the light turned on and detail shimmered into his vision.

    “We need to get that wiring fixed,” he mumbled softly.

    The nagging feeling continued as he made his way to the kitchen, in hopes that there were some HobNobs left. Maybe he’d even make a cuppa.

    It wasn’t until he had pulled the biscuits out of the cabinet that he realized the first thing that was wrong.

    This was their old flat. The one they moved out of.

    How the hell-?

    The kettle whistled and Phil started, despite how muted the sound was. That was when he realized the second thing that was wrong.

    It was too quiet.

    Where there should have been the storming Manchester rain pouring down, and the creaking of old walls, the chittering, scrabbling of mice-

     There was silence.

     Phil gripped the biscuit packet tighter, hearing it crinkle oh-too-softly. He could feel his heart pounding furiously in his chest and his breathing struggle to follow.

   This was wrong, wrong wrong wrong wrong.

    Phil tentatively left the kitchen, ignoring the still-shrieking kettle, and dropping the biscuits on the floor. 

   As he left the kitchen’s warm glow, and into the hallway’s dim light, he began to feel unsettled as he moved closer and closer to the silence. At the juncture to their rooms, he saw Dan’s door was cracked open.

    Dan always shut his door.

    Now Phil was worried, the earlier thought that this was their old flat, not their current one, falling to the background. His mind felt fuzzy and it was far, far too quiet in here - with Dan’s door open he should be hearing snoring, breathing, the occasional sleep-talking - or something!

    He had to check.

    He had to.

    Without really thinking about it, Phil reached out to grasp the door handle, pulling it open gently (it should be creaking, it should be).

    It is dark inside the room. Silent.

    And there’s no one there.

Chapter Text

     Mark sat stock-still as he heard the sound of pristine steps come up behind him.

    It wasn’t Amy (she walked too light), nor Ethan (who was more hyper), nor Tyler (who had a heavier cadence), nor Kathryn (who walked quickly.)

    And it couldn’t be Chica, who capered on four happy paws.

    This was the sound of someone walking in time to a metronome; not too fast nor too slow. Someone with measured steps and a purpose behind each footfall.

   Mark knew exactly who it was.

   And when he spoke, the sound of his voice calm and dreadful, Mark froze.

    The keyboard clacks stopped and his fingers hovered over the keys. He turned around.

    “Mark.”

     Why today of all days?

    “Dark,” Mark would have laughed at the irritation that flashed across his doppelgänger’s face, if it weren’t for the pure dread he felt curling in his gut. The hell did this a-hole want now?

    Dark’s expression turned back into its stormy neutrality as he gently clasped his hands behind his back. He cleared his throat, and Mark winced as he heard the ringing increase.

    He really, really, hated that sound.

    “Tell me this, Mark; what did you do wrong this time?”

    Now Mark felt panicked. He couldn’t think- he didn’t know what he could have messed up on. He had edited the video and posted it, just like Dark had asked. Down to the last detail - the tv, the voice (he shuddered, remembering how it was only a simple edit of his own voice that turned it into Dark’s), the woman in the water, the title he had chosen. . .

    It was obvious that Mark didn’t know what he could have done “wrong”, and Dark looked like he could have smiled as Mark kept his tongue, trying not to anger Dark, yet trying to find a way to allieviate his mistake.

    Dark leaned forward. “You posted it a day early.”

  Mark felt himself gulp. Dark’s aura flaring, his power leeching and causing the shadows to ooze.

    Dark wasn’t really angry about the post date, and Mark knew it; the nineteenth wasn’t anymore important than the twentieth. No, this was just a chance for Dark to show how much he controlled the situation. To let Mark know that he controlled the situation.

    And honestly?

    Dark smirked and Mark felt his heart leap into his throat.

    Mark believed it.

Chapter Text

    Anti growled out another curse as a pine branch whipped him across the arm, leaving angry, red lines.

   Why did the damn Ipliers have to live all the way out in the forest?

    It’s not that he was coming out here for a leisure visit; no, he had been banned after his last bout of mischief. He was out here with just as much malicious intent, though.

     He just had the additional fun of going against Dark’s ‘requests’.

     The foliage crackled around him and Anti fought off a flinch. It felt like beady eyes were watching them.

    “You’re an idiot, getting scared by plants of all things,” he spat, angry with himself.

    Suddenly, there was a sway of the needle-laden branches, and an imposing yet ridiculous figure stood before him. His cloak was ruffled from being up amongst the treetops, and his crown slightly askew. His peanut butter appeared to be freshly applied as well.

    “I’m King Of The Squirrels,” the monarch chittered boldly.

    Anti felt a grin form on his face as he unsheathed his knife. The easiest prey of the Ipliers household? Alone in the woods, no less? While Anti had originally planned to mess with the Jims, he was perfectly willing to carve up the little bush-tail instead.

    But King perked up as Anti brought out his weapon, beady eyes dilating and becoming focused. He twitched his nose, just once.

    And then launched himself at Anti. 

    The glitch was so confused, he didn’t move.

    And then King, who was burlier and more heavy-set than Anti, chittered madly, and, Anti realized as King’s hands went for his throat, the squirrel-idiot actually had claws.

   He cried out shrilly, his voice crackling with distortion, as King’s nails pried into the stiff gap at his neck; there was the sound of burlap ripping apart, and blood oozed out.

    Anti howled.

    He fought to pry the maddened monarch off; but King wasn’t to be deterred, all sentience thrown out for protection of his forest Kingdom and Drey.

    King did screech as Anti’s knife found his side, hopping off and back a few steps. Anti clasped a hand around his neck, breathing ruggedly, and sat up.

    King watches him with completely black eyes, sharp, clawed fingers red with Anti’s blood. He held his side, but his gaze remained thoroughly on the intruder.

    Then, he began chittering again. Agitatedly.

    Anti got up and ran.

Chapter Text

     He found himself tied up in a string of lies.

    But it was hard to tell Chase, hard-working Chase who was already so severely depressed, that JJ had bad days too.

    That sometimes he choked on his words, even if he couldn’t exactly speak - that sometimes, when he saw Chase, bleary from crying and alcohol, that he wanted to sob and sob and sob.

   But instead he just smiled; the stutter in his slides appearing normal amongst his flickering reels. Whenever Chase has a bad day. Whenever he passes by Jack’s comatose, sleeping form; Schneep digging his fingers into his matted green hair, muttering hoarsely in German curses; Jackieboy Man’s frantic comings and goings; Marvin’s snappishness.

    Jameson just smiled calmly and pretended and lied.

    Because a proper gentlemen didn’t let his feelings get the best of himself; didn’t lash out. Didn’t scream or cry in public.

    No matter when Marvin lashed out or Schneep looked at him suspiciously; whenever a glitchy laugh was heard or Jackieboy ignored him. No matter what problem or issue arose, Jem stayed okay.

    Even when it became too much, and he clawed at his arms until he bled because it was too much; screaming, screaming, screaming until he thought he would vomit up his insides; he had to be okay for other people.

   At least the upside to being mute was that no one could hear him scream.     

Chapter Text

    Alone isn’t the same as being isolated,

     Forgotten,

     Ignored.

     It can be all these things,

     Or just one;

     A cataclysmic instant

     or a lifetime of neglect.

    It can be blood on pavement,

    choking, about to die

    no one to save you 

    as you’re alone where you lie.

    Alone amongst others

    screaming that you’re human too,

you’re human

you’re human 

I’m human

please-

         I’m choking

can’t breathe

please I don’t want to die I’m alive I’m here

someone

anyone

I’m so alone.

Chapter Text

     Running, running; he’s breathing harshly, lungs expanding and collapsing harshly, his chest pushing uncomfortably against the body he holds close. But he won’t - no, he can’t let Schneep bleed out on him.

    Jackieboy Man doesn’t let people die. Especially not his best friend.

     He had found Henrik; a Y-shaped vivisection bleeding out profusely, bruises covering his wrists as he must have struggled, fighting against strong hands and a knife.

The incision wasn’t neat, by any means; jagged, though obviously done with care. Jackie knew Anti and his games - all defined rules that he didn’t mind breaking or twisting.

 If Jackie wasn’t so desperate to save Schneep, he would have searched the whole town for the Glitch and made him scream for mercy.

   Schneep was slack, and Jackie held him close, trying vainly to hold his wounds closed so that his intestines wouldn’t spill out onto the pavement. Surely there was a hospital nearby?

    Soon, it came into view, and Jackieboy slammed through the door, crying out with desperation for someone to save Schneep; the residents saw him covered in the blood of a dying man, holding the body close and crying.

    And outside, looking through the window, Anti smiled, twirling his bloody knife as a flurry of nurses and doctors came to assist Jackie and Henrik.

    “Ah, I loved playing doctor with you. Maybe next time, the little hero can join in.”

Chapter Text

    In. Out.

    Take a step forward. One after the other. Take your time, and glance around; there’s probably nothing there, anyways.

    He bites his cheek, resisting the urge to sprint. Brown eyes glint when the moonlight hits them, spilling between spindly branches and pine needles. He’s stepping as softly as he can, but the slight crunch of pine needles and birch leaves can’t be avoided in a forest as wide as this.

    Dan pulls his jumper closer, vision almost swimming; he’s been lost for at least an hour, if not more. He didn’t know why he had agreed to go camping with his family. Well, he did, actually. Phil was visiting his family for a few days, and Dan’s mum called him up to ask if he’d like to take time off for a bit of a holiday. Seeing as Phil would be gone as well, Dan took the opportunity.

   But now he was regretting it, and cursing in every language he could think of. He hated trees, and the dark (as well as moths and the supernatural; one of which was for sure in the woods). And now, here he was: lost and wandering past sundown amongst firs and other conifers, and the odd white birch.

    There’s a constant drone in the late-fall forest; bugs humming and the floor crackling as night animals wander and hunt. Every sound causes his heart to jolt, and his breat to hitch.

    And Dan struggles to see in the minimal light. Everything is a swath of shadows drawn in black and silver, silent, still, and watching.

    His phone has no signal, and the battery is too low to waste it on the torch function.

    There’s a very distinct crackle, and Dan freezes on the spot. The forest is suddenly silent, except for the brief creaking of leaves rustling in the breeze.

    Dan’s limbs quiver as he struggles to breathe quietly. There’s another distinct crunch, and Dan’s stomach drops.

     Oh god oh god oh god oh please no-

     He chokes down a scream; he’s always been more vocal with his fear, and in this situation it’s not a good thing.

    His mind can’t help but conjure up images of this unknown presence; the thought that it could simply be a bear or a fox or a deer doesn’t occur to him. Instead he thinks of creatures and monsters, violent, demonic beings that will rip into his flesh slowly, pulling apart his ribs and ripping out his organs.

    Another few steps, hesitant deliberate. Closer than before. Definitely something heavy.

    Dan begins to inch away, one hand roughly feeling behind him in case he backs into a tree. As soon as he feels bark, he slowly makes his way around the tree, keeping his eyes focused on where he heard the noise.

    It’s oddly quiet for a time, and Dan pauses, afraid he’ll miss some creatures approach, and end up dead.

    Suddenly a face appears amongst the gloom and Dan screams.

    “Daniel?”

     Oh thank god; it’s just his grandma.

     “We were worried about you, hun; almost sent Collin to get ya,” she says, holding back on the chastising.

   Dan loosens up, and lets out a breath. He’s still trembling and white as a sheet, but the knowledge he’s no longer alone, and with another human calms him somewhat.

    They begin to walk back. “Thanks grandma; sorry for getting lost.”

    “Well I sure hope you would be,” she huffs playfully. “You’re a grown man. Silly of you, getting lost in the forest. Has all that computer usage fried your brain?”

    Dan rolls his eyes. “Of course not - it’s probably all my embarrassing past life choices are what fried what little cognitive function I have left. By the way, how did you kn.. .”

     The campsite is deserted; tent colorless and the fire nothing but ashes. There’s something dark staining the floor, trailing away, and Dan hears pained yips. He whips his head to see the family dog dragging himself and bleeding out.

    His hearts pounding and he goes to run, but an unnaturally strong hand grips his wrist, twisting until the bone grinds sickeningly.

    It’s not grandma.

    Yellow eyes, and jackal like teeth; whatever it is, its skin sags and folds, hair falling away and cascading its body in fur. 

    Whatever it is, it’s not human, or animal.

    Dan feels claws slide out and sink into his arm.

    “How did I know where you were?” It drawls, in a whiny, snarling voice. “I simply followed the scent of your fear.”

   It grins.

    “But don’t worry, you won’t have to be afraid for very long.”   

Chapter Text

    Ethan makes sure to lock up his apartment before pocketing his keys and going for a walk.

    It’s evening, and the weather is turning to that odd between-time that LA calls fall; blistering heat that’s just shy of its early-summer self, with the sun baring down and the smog that chokes the air acting as an insulator that tripled the heat. But as soon as night falls, with the sun out of sight, a frosty chill sweeps between the metal and glass buildings, settling heavy in the air. Ethan knows it’s not nearly as cold as it gets during winter in Southern California (not that it’s very cold to him, to begin with; Maine has a cold, rainy fall that delves into a snow-covered winter. In fact, Ethan can’t help but laugh whenever Mark complains of the AC being too cold - the big baby.) 

    Even still, Ethan does wear a light jacket; it may not be cold by his standards, but he’s adapted enough that the slight chill is uncomfortable against his bare arms.

    By time he’s walking along the sidewalk, sunset has faded out to twilight, the bluish-gray tone settling over everything. It’s not quite night, so Ethan can distinctly see shapes, but there’s that odd, almost film-grain quality that makes it hard to see details in the distance.

    Less and less people are out and about, which is fairly odd. Then again, it’s a Tuesday - not a party night nor a midweek shopping day, so it’s reasonable to conclude that it’s one of those weird days where everyone has gone home early to prepare for work the next day. Ethan is about three blocks away from home by time he realizes that there aren’t that many cars trundling by, either.

    Now that’s bizarre. This is LA; there should be at least some people out and about, for buissness or pleasure.

    Ethan stays paused, rubbing his eyes in a vain attempt to help his vision. But the twilit world stays as it is, Ethan’s vision reduced to only seeing really well close to himself.

    Night should have fallen by now.

    A figure in a hoodie passes him on the side walk, roughly bumping shoulders with him. Ethan lets out a startled, “Hey!” But the person is gone and around the corner far faster than he should have been.

    He shakes his head and slumps his shoulders. “Some people have no manners,” he mutters to himself.

    He goes to turn around and make his way back home, when the hairs on his neck stand up, a chittering, whispering voice suddenly speaking indecipherably in his ears. He hunches his shoulders up to block out the noise, and turns around rapidly.

    There’s no one there.

    “Too many late-night games with Mark,” he says to himself. 

    His heart is beating hard in his chest.

    He can’t help but gulp.

    Ethan continues on home, anyways. Twilight has deepened its hue, but has not yet dipped into the absence of natural light. Ethan keeps wondering about nightfall in the back of his mind, confused how long he’s been gone from home.

    His eyes catch the flicker of the street lamps lighting up, and he gives a sigh of relief. This is normal.

    A hundred steps later and there’s one light still flickering, on and off, and a figure sitting on the wall, draped in dark shadow despite the light.

   “Probably just some kid or something,” he reminds himself.

    His gut twists.

    He must have looked away, because by time he approaches that light, the figure is gone.

    Ethan bites back an F-bomb, fingers curling into his sleeves; as soon as he’s passed the light, his skin crawls, like someone’s watching him.

    There’s whispering again, still incomprehensible as before. It’s sibilant, high-pitched; he would almost think it was his own voice, except-

     There’s a hand on his shoulder, and that’s when he loses it.

   “Eff this!” He shrieks, running his way back to his apartment.

    He doesn’t stop, pulling out his keys on the way and shoving the door open as soon as he can. Doesn’t think about the flash of blank, white eyes he caught. Just slams the door shut and turns every lock he can, quickly calling someone, anyone to talk to.

    And outside night has finally fallen. White eyes bleed to black, and a dark-shadowed figure grins.

Chapter Text

     Marvin grinned gleefully, as flickering orange flames burst around his fingertips.

    Normally he could produce his own hue - green, or blue. But this was borrowed fire, and much, much stronger than his own.

    He curled his fingers, eyes lit eagerly. Now this fire was sure to do damage to Anti! Before, Marvin’s personal magician flames did little but scorch the glitch’s skin, but with this fire that was made to harm, he could surely fight off the dark ego!

    . . .once he made sure he could wield it of course.

    It was unbearably hot, but with the technique Marv used to obtain it, it didn’t damage his hands. The orange was deep, almost a cartoonish color, the flickering wisps of it were all too real. It seemed to stay around his fingers.

    He flicked them a couple of times, but it did little besides wavering around his own digits. He frowned, and tried forming his hand, like he was going to throw a ball, and hurled it forward.

    Nothing.

    He furrowed his brow. “Now how am I supposed to use this?”

    “How about I show you?”

    Marvin turned towards the voice that had growled, and hands roughly seized his wrists, wrenching and putting the flickering flames out. Marvin felt the transfer of power, and knew that he couldn’t use the flames any more.

    ABlazingPhil stood before him, much, much taller, and looking down with a snarl. 

     Marvin gulped.

    The thing about the D&P Egos was that no one really spoke to nor sought them out - not the Septics, not the Ipliers, nor any of the other major Egos. Most didn’t even consider them to be Egos, more of ‘Personas’, since they were so rarely encountered. 

    But they did know of them - who was what and why; their distinct personalities. They knew them well enough to know that the two dark Egos of the group kept to themselves and focused on tormenting their creators.

    Marvin didn’t expect ABlazingPhil to miss a little of his firepower.

    And now here the usually impish ego stood, eyes burning furiously.

    Marvin suddenly remembered why all dark egos were considered a threat.

     “So you wanted a tutorial on how to use my fire?” He asked. Marvin tried to pull free but Blaze was taller, and stronger. His pale hands tightened, and Marv’s eyes widened as he realized that he had really effed up.

   “It’s easy, really.” There was a pain like rugburn, and then he screamed as he felt fire melting his skin; smoke wafted up with the smell of burning flesh as Blaze’s hands burst into controlled, angry flames. “Not hard at all. You just want to play with fire and there ya go!”

     Marvin was crying by time Blaze let go; he felt his skin rubbing against gaping flesh and falling down with gravity, the blood flowing out making the injury hurt even more. He collapsed to his knees, holding his arms close but not pressing them against his chest and absolutely sobbing. It hurt so much.

    But Blaze wasn’t done. He gripped the back of Marvin’s hair, pulling him up roughly.

    He didn’t say anything else, just let his fire do the work. Marvin’s green bush of hair caught flame, and he tried to wrench himself away; some of his hair was pulled out by the roots but he couldnt break free as the flames consumed his head. His vision was melting plastic, as the mask dripped in the heat, and he screamed as it fell into his eyes.

   Soon he couldn’t even get enough breath to scream, as the fire stole all his oxygen.

    By the time Blaze let go, the body dropped limply to the ground. Patches of skull and teeth showed through the melted flesh, and the mask was pretty much fused to the skin.

     He nudged the body. It didn’t move.

     Blaze bit back a curse; he hadn’t meant to go so far. Now he and Daniel would have to deal with some angry Septics, after this. If they could find them, that is.

    With a shrug, he walked away, swinging his arms. 

Chapter Text

    Jack’s breath stilled and he gripped the beam his back was against tighter.

    Up here, the air moved in currents; what could be considered breezes tousled his hair and brushed harshly against his face. His chest was too tight, and he struggled to wheeze in a breath.

    He had to be dreaming; had to be. Because he didn’t know how he got up here, or who was behind him. He sensed a presence but no one spoke, and he had no strength to turn around.

    But it was also far, far too real. His blue eyes could see every detail in astounding clarity; he could feel the glasses set on his face, and the blurry city below him in fairly good detail.

    Jack whimpered (no words could escape from his clenched teeth), as hands (familiar hands), began loosening his fingers one by one. The all-consuming terror kept him from doing much but tightening his grip, though, to his dismay, it did little. Once his fingers had been ripped away from the beam, a pair of hands grasped his tightly, and someone shoved him forward.

    A high pitched sound died in his throat and he felt a few tears fall.

   (He knew he was afraid of heights, but when had he become so absolutely terrified?)

    A voice ghosted against his ear, and though was softer than the wind whipping around them in a frenzy, he clearly heard it murmur, “Goodbye.”

    And then he was free-falling, the zephyrs clawing at his skin and eyes; he felt gravity shoving him down, and saw the ground approaching, but surely he would wake up, right?

    . . .Right?

    The impact was sudden, jarring; he felt his neck snap, and all feeling went out like power being cut in a blackout, but not before he felt the sharp-turned-thick and distant of his ribs snapping into his lungs. He was sure everything had broken but his mind could only zero in on so many things.

    And he was fading fast, falling once more; but now, it was down, down, down into an everlasting darkness with no end-

—that is, until he jerked awake in his sleep, thrashing until he was out from amongst the sheets and breathing heavily through the anxiety attack that had woken him up. His vision, bleary from tears still falling, wavered as he hurriedly leaned forward to flick on a light.

    “Just a bad dream, Jack-a-boy,” he muttered to himself raggedly. “Jus’ a- just a bad dream.”

Chapter Text

   It’s probably around two am when the landline starts ringing.

    Dan had woken up, groggy, just as the consistent brrring!!! of the phone echoed down the hall. He didn’t know who even called landlines anymore - heck, the only reason their flat had one was because of how old it was.

    He sits up, legs over the edge of the bed, heaving a sigh and mentally preparing to answer it.

   After a time, it stops.

   He breathes out in relief.

   And then it starts up again.

   With a groan he stands, making his way through his dim-lit room; surely Phil was deep asleep, otherwise he would have probably picked up the call by now.

    “Of bloody course,” Dan mutters.

    He shuffles down the night-hushed hall, yawning and rubbing at his eyes with a limp wrist, flicking the light switch as he walks past. This had been one of the few nights where sleep was actually a thing, but no, of course someone had the urge to call their flat multiple times at two in the effing morning.

    Effing bloody hell.

    Dan finally stops midway in the artificially lit hall, picking up the phone off the receiver and bringing it to his face. The out-of-date twisty cord bounces up and down as he grunts out a, “ ‘Ello?”

     The voice on the other end disorients Dan, as his own voice echoes back, saying, “It wasn’t that hard, was it?”

    “What?”

    “Driving everyone away. It wasn’t all that hard, making everyone realize you weren’t worth loving.”

    There’s a lump in Dan’s throat even though he knows this must be a prank; voice modifiers were common these days, and whoever was talking to him was probably just some cruel kid. The words still tore at him, clawing open old insecurities.

    “L-look, whoever the hell you are, it’s effing two am, and I’m not up for this sh- right now-“

    The voice cuts him off, and Dan grips the phone tighter, unable to put it down.   

    “How long before your so-called ”best friend” leaves you, huh? Before he realizes how worthless and uninteresting you really are.”

    “I-“

    “He’s already fed up with you. Remember how he wouldn’t talk to you after yesterday? No one gets that upset at losing a board game unless the other guy is an absolute d-.”

    Dan feels inexplicably angry, then. “How the hell do you know about that? You some kind of creepy stalker or some sh-?”

    The voice, so much like his own but absolutely devoid of emotion, says, “You know who I am. Exactly, who I am.”

    “How would I effing know? Look, I’m gonna hang up, and you just keep the hell away from me - from both of us.”

    “There’s only one way you can get away from yourself, Daniel,” the voice says. It would almost be condescending if it weren’t so empty. “And it’s not that bad of an idea, really; at least no one else would have to deal with you.”

    “Shut up!” 

    “After all, no one would care if you never existed at all. You don’t make any difference - you’re just a pretty face in front of a camera, going on and on about yourself like some egotistical prick. But I guess you’ve probably gotten the point by now. Talk to you later.” The voice hung up, and Dan was left with the dial tone bleeping in his ears.

   He was shaking as he finally put the phone back up, his limbs numb. Because what that voice - his voice - said, well. . .

   He believed every last word.

Chapter Text

     Tears fall down his face as he leans forward, trying not to whimper. The ropes binding him to the chair hold him in place.

    He feels cold steel trace across the back of his neck; feels the weight as a body draped over him, leaning forward to hiss, “It’s all over now, Seánny-boy. I’ve won.”

    The tears fall into the blood pooling at his feet and his blue eyes are empty.

    He knows.

Chapter Text

   Henry’s blood ran cold as he saw the rapid-flow of ink staining the walls.

    He had been fighting against an Ink monster - something more sophisticated than a searcher and much bulkier (it seemed vaguely familiar; like one of the rejected character sketches from back in the day.) Instinct made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and his heart went into overdrive. When he finally glanced around, using the ax handle to block a blow, he noticed the signs far, far too late.

    The Ink Demon was on its way.

    And there was no Miracle Station in sight.

   But no claws grabbed Henry, dragging him into the inky swell; instead, the lanky monster grabbed ahold of the creature Henry had been fighting, screeching horrendously as it shoved its claws through, tearing it asunder.

   It turned to look at Henry, breathing heavily, but didn’t give chase when the older man turned and ran.

    This wasn’t the first inscident.

     Oh, sure, every once in awhile the Ink Demon gleefully gave chase when Henry was alone and came across its path, but it had started to increasingly appear when Henry was caught fighting stronger, fiercer Ink Creatures.

        It reminded Henry of a wolf - a real wolf, not Boris, mind you - defending its share of meat from the rest of the pack.

    It was like. . .like it was almost protective. Possessive.

    The true testamanent came when “Alice” (Henry was pretty sure it was Susie, or whatever was left of her) had him pinned down by the throat, snickering, “You won’t be finding your little wolf any time soon. In fact, maybe I should just take care of you now. This game is getting awfully boring.”

    Henry saw the ink climbing the sepia studio walls, but could only gurgle because of Alice’s grip. She smiled widely at his struggle, but that smile instantly morphed as she shrieked, the Ink Demon’s claws digging into her back and pulling her off.

    Henry could only watch while catching his breath, as Bendy slammed her into the wall, then onto the floor, standing over her and screeching angrily. She shrieked back, some understandable words breaking through, scrabbling at the ground to break free of his hold.

    “He’s not yours! He’s mine!”

    It was apparently the wrong thing to say, as ink began to pool around them, thicker and thicker. Alice began to thrash and scream, not wanting to go back into the fishbowl where a mire of voices awaited her. Her words became obscured as she began to choke and gurgle on ink, drowning in it.

    The Ink Demon did eventually let her up, and she staggered away, angry. But he wasn’t about to let one of his only games disappear just because he was feeling a little possessive.

    When he turned to Henry, the older animator shrunk down, flinching. Although the Ink Demon typically let him get away in such encounters, he had a feeling it wouldn’t happen this time.

    With a devilish grin, the Ink Demon covered Henry’s mouth with an inky hand, his smile growing wider as the human thrashed. Soon, he would fall and be taken into the Ink.

    But, he was strong, and would pull himself out of it again like always.

    After all, that’s why he was the Ink Demon’s favourite game.

Chapter Text

    There were many things that Katsuki believed with the utmost stubbornness.

    He was great.

    Deku was not.

    His quirk was the best.

    He was strong.

    He was going to become number one Hero.

    At least. . .

          at least that’s what he had believed before going to UA.

    But though a number of these things have been challenged (since when did Izuku even begin to compete with him-?), or changed, the core of these things were still the same.

     But there were also a number of things that Bakugo Katsuki would deny to his dying breath.

     These things were:

     That Deku genuinely saw him as a friend.

     That Kacchan cares for some people beyond being extras; like Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Ashido.

    That some of his classmates could be, in their own weird way, endearing.

    But while he would deny these things vehemently, he wouldn’t deny that he didn’t want to see any of them get seriously hurt.

    They were heroes in training, after all, and one day Katsuki would be fighting beside them.

    For the first time in years (not counting when All Might lost the last flicker of his power), Bakugo felt afraid.

    He didn’t show it, of course; they somehow had gotten a run-in with a group of villains (of course), and Bakugo would be damned if he let these idiots get away.

    But the spike of fear wasn’t because of the villains, per se; they were pretty run of the mill crooks that happened to cross a group of UA kids shopping in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

    No, it was the fact that Kirishima had gone down with a grunt, chips of his hardened flesh cracking and hitting the ground with a sound like glass breaking. Blood oozed from the wound, out between the hardened cracks, and Bakugo just knew that if Kirishima let up on his quirk now, that he would have a huge, bleeding hole in his gut.

    Katsuki didn’t catch what the villain had hit spiky-hair with; whether a weapon or a quirk, it didn’t matter. He just knew that his friend his classmate had been very, very badly injured and needed to be attended to as soon as possible.

    Luckily some pro-heroes arrived on the scene. As soon as Katsuki was finished with the one wax-quirk user, he turned and raced back to red-hair.

    “Lay down for a moment, idiot,” he growled in typical Bakugo-fashion. Kirishima complied, trying to respond (with reassurance, no doubt), but couldn’t say anything besides groaning in pain. 

    The hole was worse than Bakugo thought - Kirishima’s hardened flesh jaggedly faced out from the wound, which looked like a cup of blood. His quirk obviously was helping keep his intestines from being too damaged, but Bakugo knew that Kirishima could only hold it for so long, especially in such pain.

    Without really thinking (he had always been an individual of feeling and instinct, rather than careful thought), he applied pressure on the surface, gritting his teeth as jagged flesh cut his own hands.

    “Keep this up or I’ll kill you,” Katsuki spits.

    Somehow, Kirishima sends him a vague smile. “Ha! Always so manly. Thanks, Bakugo.”

    “Shut it, spiky-hair.”

     An ambulance does eventually arrive, and they manage to get Kirishima into it. Bakugo rides along the way, with Sero also in the cabin. 

    And while the fear does eventually go away, and Kirishima does make it into emergency surgery to stitch up the wound, Bakugo still finds that seeing Kirishima broken and bleeding, breaks him a little bit, too.

Chapter Text

    Her breath came out in wheezing gasps, the inhale harsher than the exhale. He tried not to hyperventilate.

    Zero’s eyes kept fluttering closed, and he had to raise his voice to snap her back awake. As much as he wanted her to ease from the pain, even if it meant losing one of her reformations, he knew he couldn’t until he got . . . until he got the pole out of her.

    Jake held back tears, eyes glancing over her curled form. It was so stupid, too; they had been exploring a junk yard, hoping to find some useful stuff. Zero had hopped on pile after precarious pile, unafraid since she could turn into a Darkbird if anything happened.

    As much as she had expected the pile to potentially collapse, she hadn’t expected her foot to get caught, nor the tug to surprise her enough to revert her shifting forms. She had fallen with a yelp, and there had been this- this wet, thick sound that reminded Jake of a hawk sinking its talons into a gopher.

    So Jake has scrabbled, yelling her name, and found her somewhat curled, with a sharp, broken, metal pole protruding at an awkward angle through her right side and out the left, impaling both of her lungs. Blood dribbled from her mouth and the wound.

    “Hey, hey; Zero? Zero, stay with me, okay? Look, I’m -“ I know it’s going to hurt but I have to do this, okay? “-I’m - I’m sorry.”

    He tried as gently as he could to roll her over, but she whined in pain at the brief push. After looking at her again from all angles, he decided there was only one way to get her out.

    He would have to pull straight up, through the rest of her body.

    Though his hands stayed dry, and gripped the pole well enough, his heart hammered in fear that he would lose his grip. Jake released a shaky breath.

    “I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

    And with a heave, he pulled.

Chapter Text

    Zak lay on his stomach, watching.

    It wasn’t often that the sixteen year old was found still and quiet; but once in a rare while, it did happen.

    Brown eyes, tinged orange, watched sharply as the air wavered, and something like a crow crossbred with a kite dropped down, and one, two, three, four more following after.

    They were Keth’suhk (ke-th-sook), eaters of the strong and guardians to the Ma’erena (May-air-en-nuh).

    One of the magnificent lay nearby; a carcass of flesh just beginning to bloat beneath the early morning sun. It’s fur was pale tawny, and the flesh pale purple underneath. It’s blood, rich gold, spilled out and shone on the dry grass around it.

    As a kid, Zak had hated death, especially of animals. As he grew, he learned to accept it. And as he continued to change during puberty, well. . .

     Let’s just say his Kur blood did make him seem far less human.

    So death, at least the natural kind of the animal (including cryptid) kingdom didn’t disturb him at all anymore.

    In fact - his eyes flickered to the Keth’suhk as it gave a hop-skip towards the carcass - he found it somewhat interesting. Life and death revolving; consumption of grass to death to consumption of meat to death to rot consumed by microbes and fungi, back to grass and again.

    Fiskerton really wasn’t amused by it in any way, and Uncle Doyle would give him strange looks, while still engaging in conversation about it.

    He never talked to mom or dad about his fascination.

    The carrion bird suddenly darted forward, serrated beak like scissor-knives snagging the flesh and ripping it open. His pupils dialated, cat-like (dragon-like), as he watched the cryptids begin to tear into their feast, beaks dripping with gold blood, and the sound of ripping flesh rendering the air.

    It was quite intriguing, Zak thought, as one of the glorious wispy-colored birds tore out a length of entrail. They all shared, never truly fighting. And although they were a mute species with no language, they had intelligence and belief - their name meant “Guardians Of Magnificence”, as they followed the Ma’erena to the east, always the east, and attacked any who tried to slay one. They believed only those who protected such creatures could feast upon their blood and meat, receiving their strength in return.

    Zak itched to use his powers; to connect with the Keth’suhk and see through their eyes, feel what they feel.

    But curteousy stopped him. This was a sacred right of these birds, and even if he was Kur, he had no right to interfere.

    Even if he had fed the birds.

    One of them looked up and saw him, some of the hide hanging from its beak, and blinking its shiny black eyes. Then it returned to its meal.

    Zak stayed and watched them until they had picked the carcass clean.

Chapter Text

    The Septic Egos were beyond confused.

    Anti has just up and started staying in their house; he rarely, if ever, spoke a word to them. He was far more twitchy than glitchy - running his finger along the edge of his knife, and eyes hunting for something or other out the window.

    It perplexed them to no end. Anti wasn’t being hostile - aggressive? Yes; that was his usually tendency - nor was he looking for weaknesses or taunting them. He merely kept his eyes glued to the windows, pulling aside drawn blinds and curtains as though expectant of something. He would growl and throw them closed often enough. But usually, he just kept. . . 

watching.

    The first sign that something was up was when Chase and Jameson walked home, finding it in the tree.

    The young gentleman had put a hand on the young father’s arm, his slide flickering into view when Chase turned to him, seeing it say, ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat! That poor critter!’

    Chase had let his eyes trail up to the tree, where a squirrel hung by its entrails amongst the branches.

    When they finally entered the house, the found Anti pacing and raving, “Watching! Stupid little spies are watching me! I’ll make that bastard sorry he ever thought he could one-up me!”

    Schneep had seemed vaguely terrified, but merely gave a shaky shrug when Chase tilted his head to the glitch.

    The ranting died down to mumbles after the better part of an hour.

    For five days afterwards, Jackieboy noticed as more and more dead squirrels, either open and strung about, or ripped into shreds, decorating the neighborhood.

    Back in the woods that had begun to turn gold and red with the turning season, King sat on a branch that bowed under his weight. He held one of his subjects, missing an eye and chuttering mournfully.

    “Do not worry,” he chittered back. “I will make the trespasser pay for taking your mate. Your King promises this.”

Chapter Text

     He had just wanted to get a cup of coffee.

   That’s all; a simple cup of hot, dirty bean water to chug down before recording. 

    Simple as that.

    But, it seemed that it was back.

    His skin crawled painfully, pins and needles tingling his fingers and crawling up his arms. The sensation took place before the hands had snaked around his throat, not tight enough to choke, but to show that it could if it so desired.

    Where ever it touched him - whether his throat, or grasping his wrists - Jack felt it with absolute clarity, his senses almost hyperfocusing on it.

    Man, he hated this guy(?).

    “I see you’ve been trying to call on the hero,” a voice - a distorted, perversion of his own, growls. It’s a higher pitched tone than his own, and Jack would almost say he purred these words, except for how malicious the statement was. “Newsflash, ‘Jack’ - they’re not real. They’ll never be real. You forget that I am you, while those schmucks are little fantasy characters.”

    He gulped. Or tried to, as the hands gripped a little tighter, and his skin began to tingle from the constriction.

    Jack’s body began to tremble as Anti spoke further, fingers clawing deeper into his flesh. “I think sometimes you forget that - forget how real I am. But don’t worry, Seàn.” 

    It chuckles, and Jack begins to struggle, blood running as he claws at the fingers encircling his throat, unable to shift their grip even as he desperately rips at the flesh.

    “I’ll help you remember.”

     His lungs burn as he wheezes for air; and everything, goe s    b   l a   c . . .

Chapter Text

    Not all who wander are lost.

    Wirt mouths the words, the feel of them bitter. Because honestly? He has wandered to and fro in this wood once before, and yeah, he’s definitely lost.

     “A forsaken path, a neglected turn; bringing me back to where I once have been - and yet I know which paths I take, turning towards each careful choice I make-“

    He mumbles the words out to himself, not in a typical coherent stanza; he’s only testing the words after all. Later, the few syllables that grasp and cling to his conscience will be strung together in a typical rhyme-repetition pattern he’s so fond of, until he has something delicate - like a necklace of imagery, each bead or jewl or pearl brightening or contrasting the last.

    “Focus, Wirt - now is not the time,” he grumbled to himself, shaking his head. His hat, red and conical, snags as the wind brushes past it.

You know. . .

he doesn’t really remember putting on this outfit.

   The woods are lovely, dark and deep

   Except that they’re not; though the Beast may be gone, there’s that same, empty desperation; a morose cry of an abandoned child, where black nothingness peeks betwixt autumnal trees. The trunks are either twisted, towering dark wood, or, if you’re in the parts of the woods where gray mist or golden sunlight pool, they’re patched gray and buttery yellow.

    And yet, Wirt cannot find these latter ones, no matter how far he wanders and walks. The light he carries only goes so far, and since these are not the Edelwood, it’s glow only catches vaguely on the trees.

    As a matter of fact; where did he get a lantern from?

    Wirt’s stomach knots up and he pauses, his last step falling lightly as he stops. There are too many things that don’t make sense, and he’s been wandering in the same circles again, and once more, and he still cannot understand.

    When did he put on his old outfit, from visiting the Unknown?

   And on that note, how had he gotten back here; alone and wandering amongst the darkest parts of the ethereal woods?

    . . .why was he carrying the lantern?

    ‘wander and seek’

     ‘wander and see. . .’

     Wirt shudders as a a draft of wind whispers by. He’s suddenly cold; so, so very cold. Except for the center of his chest, which burns like heat blossoming around a wick.

    His hands shake, though the lantern barely sways in his grasp. His head feels unbearably heavy and his eyes itch.

    Against his will, his feet are drawn forward. No leaves crunch beneath his steps.

    Finally, he draws near a tree.

    He stumbles backwards, crying soundlessly at the sight.

    It is an Edelwood, half formed; betwit it’s lower branches and trunk is a body bowing back, head dangling. Her hair was white.

    Whoever she had been, she is no more.

    And, suddenly, Wirt remembers why he had been so, so lost; the forest turning and treading his path back to here.

    The Beast has work to finish, and no time for falling back into memories of a lost life.

Chapter Text

     Before the camera starts rolling, he smiles.

    Heck, before he even sees himself in the mirror, let alone comes across another soul, he’s smiling, bright and dazzling. Blue eyes bright, saying that there’s not a care in the world.

    It took a really, really long time to learn how to make his eyes smile again.

    For awhile, he just let his eyes wander away; people were too concerned, too caring. And even though he wanted to believe them - he really did! - it was his dearest’s words that stuck close to him, in his mind. It was every statement she left imprinted on his skin, when she gripped his wrist just a little too tight, to make a point. 

    Whenever she was just a little too rough.

    So Chase decided he would just keep smiling.

    He’s okay.

Chapter Text

   It wasn’t often that the Ipliers got together, let alone camped.

    And, rarer than even these occasions, did the Host ever narrate a story.

    The Author his old self had been long gone; no more does the blind ego speak of events future, or change the pace of the future. He only mutters and intones in that of the present, or partially past tense. The closest he gets to “future writing” is when he says aloud in third person that he will be leaving to go somewhere.

    Only about himself, only in brief snatches of will.

    But once in a rare, very rare while, can the others coax a narrative out of him - something that either has happened, or about fictional characters. Never about the Ipliers, or, even the Septics.

    None of them would deny that the Host has the best stories; it’s always something that evokes emotion, or twists ones gut, or befuddles the mind.

    But there was also the slightest unease, the surity that there’s something more to his telling.

    “It starts on a moonless night - whence the stars have come out. But a frosty wind blows, and those very stars - the same as ours - seem cold and far away.

    It is amongst a wood - a copse of trees painted in stark blue and black, their mottled trunks hard to see on that abysmal night. The few leaves lingering on them are limp and dying, and the whole wood is wilting away into the winter season.

    But, as you know, as the Host knows, it is not yet winter, but autumn. A time of change - whether good, or grave.

    It is here that two siblings find themselves amongst the blackened night sky; the brother, with reddish-blond hair and blue eyes, as well as his sister, who has goldish blond hair and gray-blue eyes as well as holding the right to be called eldest - even if only by a matter of minutes.

    The brother is leading; head hunched low and flashlight sweeping here and there. His elder sister follows, eyes moving about methodically. They are both worried and afraid.”

    “But why?” Camera Jim can’t help but ask, enthralled.

     His brother elbows him, whispering, “Demons, Jim.”

    The Host smiles at them - sharp and unwelcoming. “If the Jims would give their attention to the Host, then the Host would gladly share the source of their worry.”

    The Jims look down sheepishly.

     Dark rests his chin on his hand, merely saying, “Continue, please.”

     “And they were afraid, because they were not just lost - they were turned around with absolute uncertainty. They had seen their family’s tent, and had been making their way towards it, when the brother tripped. As his sister helped him up, they found that there was suddenly only more woods in front of them. 

    They agreed to continue forward, staying within one another’s sights. ‘Sister,’ he had said (you need not know their names, Bim), ‘When do you think we’ll get back? We’ve been walking around for awhile now.’

     ‘I don’t know; it’s probably almost morning. We’ll see better when the sun comes up.’

     He had agreed with the statement. 

   Eventually, they had to stop. Exhaustion was catching up with them, and with no other options, they fell asleep beside one another, bolstered by the thought of waking up to warm sunlight that would lead them back.

    Unfortunately, this was not to happen.

    The brother woke up first; the same, dark woods greeted him, and nothing seemed changed. Not even the stars had moved position (he had an affinity for constellations and reading them, though not for their origins in mythology.)

    His sister pointed out that even though a shroud of fatigue still clouded her own mind, her body felt refreshed enough that they had to have been asleep for a few hours.

    Terror seized their hearts as they tried to figure out what this all meant.

    It was then that they both realized the absence of any normal, nocturnal sounds. Sounds like owls and foxes; coyote and deer. There were no bugs, nor prey, nor predators; only the swish of drooping, melancholy branches shaking from the icy wind that swept by.

    Something wasn’t right.

    And that something clamped down into their very beings - strangled the core of them as absolute fear took hold of their voice, and their wits, and their limbs. They were frozen in place, knowing that there was something keeping them there, trapped, and huddled together ‘neath a birch, with the wind moaning in its branches. 

   They were stuck.

   Together, yes, but also destined together to a fate that meant they were shackled to a place of loneliness and abandonment; none of their family would know what befell them, nor would their bodies be found.”

    “But what exactly happened?” King pondered. “As dangerous as the woods can be, they themselves are not evil,” he stated with an irritated chitter. He was very protective of his drey, which was his kingdom in the forest.

    The Host smiled; he always enjoyed the King’s Curiosities.

    “The Host can answer that: being lost, as it were, the two siblings gave up on everything but one another. To that end, they became stuck in a twilight realm - they solidified their own fate by giving up on this world.”

    “At least they had one another,” Yandere said. “Right?”

    “I don’t get it,” Wilford muttered, poking at the fire embers with his fancy blade.

   Dark’s eyes were narrowed, expression somewhat intrigued, but also grim.

    The Host decided, spur of the moment, to add, “They are still alive, if you are wondering - stuck in an physical age that doesn’t coincide with the time that has passed for them, but the Host suspects that they are overall okay.”

    “Dude, that still blows,” Bing sighs. “I mean, at least they get along, I guess? Imagine being stuck with this lunkhead,” he throws a thumb towards Google.

    Google pretends not to be insulted, merely stating, “At least it would be better than being situated with an insufferable prickle in such a situation.”

   “Not cool, dude!”

   “Hey, hey; cool it guys!”

    “Of course, there’s always the chance tha-“

    “Please, please tell me you can hear me?”

    All faces but one turned towards the two figures, in gradient hues of grey-blue, standing not far from the campfire. Their eyes were wide and sad - not fearful, at least not as much as the Ipliers would believe, but just distressed.

    “The f-“.   

    “We just want to go home,” her brother spoke up. “Can you help us?”

    “The hell!”

    “Holy crap!!”

   As the others began standing and exclaiming in surprise (minus a few of the calmer Egos), the Host smiled and kept muttering under his breath.

    Just because he couldn’t write stories about the other Egos, isn’t mean that he couldn’t put them in the path of some.

Chapter Text

    Ethan took in a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, then sighed.

    Ten years - ten years! - since he last saw his friend, and former employer, Mark Fischbach.

     Ethan had been a spry boy of twenty at the time - it had been random chance that the two had even met; Ethan had even been a fan of Mark’s old work left at the school he attended. 

    When Mark decided to begin a cartoon company - the man is full of weird, fantastical, and wacky ideas - he invited Ethan along, with a hand outstretched. With warm eyes, and a rich voice, he said, “Let’s make the best darn cartoons the world has ever seen.”

    Things went well, tremendous even - for about a year. And then it fell apart when finances went out the window, and problem after problem befell them: Shawn Flynn’s work kept coming out “sloppy” according to Mark; Katheryn’s voice-acting needed more emphasis, Tyler was spending too much time on the projectors and not on the finances or vice versa. Their “Boss” stayed in his office more and more, becoming aggravated and even downright angry at times over the stupidest things.

    It all came to a head when he began to berate Ethan for one of the panels being a little off (it wasn’t). Ethan accused Mark of being too much of a perfectionist.

     It escalated from there.

     Needless to say, Ethan walked out and didn’t look back.

     That is. . .until a letter came in the mail.

    Ethan mumbles to himself, hands brushing against the walls of the old, worn studio.

    The pads of his fingers snag on the grooves in the wood; dips where words were carved in deep. He had already seen the ink messages painted across the walls - but compared to these? Those had seemed like silly messages written by teenagers to spook one another.

    But the words under his fingers? Gutted into the wall with a penknife, screaming the simplest things.

     But they shook Ethan to his core.

help

please

stOP IT HurTs

PLEASE

END IT

hELP

The worst one, though, wasn’t just etched in; it was carved. Deep, deliberate. A warning.

Don’t trust Mr. Fischbach

   Just what had happened in the last ten years?

    Ethan’s heart sped up; the walls seemed to groan and press inwards - the lights flickering ominously.

     But. . .his friend had asked him for help. After all these years.

    He took a shaky breath and continued onwards, deeper into the studio.

Chapter Text

     The room is dim lit; what little light from the street lamps penetrates the mist and makes it through the cracks in the blinds. It’s muted, colors watered down to grays and blacks in tones of blue and brownish orange. 

    A figure sleeps in a bed opposite of the window; somewhat tossing, barely turning, and muttering in their sleep. A cat twitches next to them.

    Almost as if by a trick of the minimal light, there’s a figure standing over the bed; it’s colors are intensely dark hues of the bed’s occupant - not a black and white rendition, but rather a more in-depth coloration draped in dark shadow.

    Their eyes are unnaturally silver, dimmed to gunmetal in the dark.

    ((It’s okay; she’s just sleeping)) they - she - says. Voice calm and hushed.

    She grins.

    ((Not for long though.))

    A twitch in sleep.

    The standing figure huffs a laugh. ((Oh, don’t worry about little ol’ me - worry about her. She won’t be murdered - at least, I’m not going to kill her. After all, If I do that, then where will I be?)) the last part is said almost as an afterthought.

     ((As much as I would love to be done with her, I’ll just sabotage her works instead.

After all,))

a grin all too dark, that it washes out the night shadows

((That’s what I’ve been doing lately, haven’t I?))

     The dreamer sleeper turns over to her other side, and the saboteur snarls silently.

    ((Seems my time is up. Until then.))

    Like the flick of a light switch the figure is gone, and the other wakes up, confused, disoriented. The last lingerings of some smattered lines thrown together still reside in her half-asleep mind, so she grabs a notebook, and scribbles messily on it in the mostly-dark. Satisfied, she takes a sip of water and turns back over to sleep.