Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every day is the same, like exactly the same. 

Same dialogue, same weather, same actions. Nightmare thought that this must be a special kind of hell made just for him. He sighs looking up at the early morning sky, leaning against the Tree of Feelings he can feel how his crown scratched his skull as he uses the bark to support his weight. He looks towards the clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight, taking in the warmth of mid-spring. It was perfect- just how he remembers. 

“Brother!” Dream calls as he runs up the hill to the tree of their mother, his childish cape fluttering behind. 

Nightmare catches himself as he starts to smile but quickly corrects himself, he didn’t deserve to smile at Dream. Dream doesn’t notice the shift as he launches himself to hug his twin.  

“Brother, the raspberries you like are ready to eat.” Dream starts excitedly, trying to drag his brother to the bushes that rest at the forest line not too far from the tree they Guarded, all the while Dream is chattering on. It easily becomes background noise to him

“Sure,” Nightmare responds dully. He doesn’t have the will to respond more than that. He doesn’t deserve to, not after what he did. 

But the day always starts like this. It is before the villagers came and when their mother still spoke to them, Nightmare’s most favorite and most perfect memory, on a loop. It doesn’t matter what he says, if he cries, if he screams, if he attacks, he is the only thing in this hell that can deviate from the script. 

Even if he could deviate he still tries to play along. Nightmare let his twin drag him to the berries and lets him feed him. He is far too gone, lost in his thoughts that should not exist in this memory. 

He remembers a lot of things, when the villagers came, when they first began to insult him, when they began to beat him, and even the date of Dream’s birthday. But in this memory, in which he exists now, these future memories should not exist yet. The villagers do not come for another few months and they don't know their birth date because they do not have calendars. But time doesn’t move past this day. His perfect day, exactly how he remembered it. And now, the memories beyond this point are bleeding together, missing details, and getting things confused. The bitter and sour taste of berries draws him out of his thoughts as Dream drags him to play a game. He doesn’t have the energy. 

It doesn’t matter if he plays along, Dream would continue to do the exact things Nightmare remembers him doing, say the exact things he remembers his brother doing. Without any free will to notice if Nightmare is actually there. He shook his head and escapes his twin's grip to go back and sit under the Tree of Feelings. 

The day would continue without him, next, they’re supposed to play Hide and Seek before it evolves into a game of tag, the twins take a nap under their mother as the afternoon sun peeks through, then they would play in the stream until the sun was almost set. But the way the day ends, oh that used to be Nightmare’s favorite part. They would lay together as their mother told them stories of other worlds, under starlight. There would be a single shooting star and he’d wish for these days to never end. Just how he remembered it.

Dream runs around chasing an imaginary Nightmare while the real Nightmare sits under his mother’s branches watching. He doesn’t really understand it but maybe it is a punishment he deserves, for killing his mother, his brother, and the village. But that voice that spoke to him on the day of the incident promised safety and protection, survival. Did he even deserve that? How long had he even been here?

He tried to keep count but the repetition made it difficult to remember how long he had truly been here.  He sighs again curling in on himself, hiding his face in his knees. He doesn’t even have the energy to cry anymore. He felt himself slowly going crazy, maybe that’s why he started talking to himself. 

He sat in that exact position for the rest of the day, muttering to himself, laughing at his own jokes, until it was time to sleep. He still let Dream cuddle up to him as his mother began her usual tale. He tuned it out easily, his numb mind ready for the release of sleep. The star he wished on soon shot through the sky, Dream sleepily pointed it out and Nightmare wished with what little energy he had left that this day would end. 

To Nightmare sleeping felt strange. He’d close his eyes and feel like he was floating in a type of stale cold air. It was never malicious but, in reality, had a strange kindness to it. That floating feeling used to scare him, he had lost what little control he had and sometimes heard that voice. The one who lied to him. Nightmare hated them at first. The voice never apologized but they always spoke of how they would make Nightmare a King, no one would touch him ever again, and no one would look down on him or mock him. Sometimes the voice told him he was beautiful, how he was so so precious. Other times they asked him to be patient. Nightmare knew he had been like this for a long time because of how his feelings towards the voice had changed. He craves hearing that voice say anything, something new and different than the world he lives in. It was strange and kind in a twisted manner. 

Nightmare felt his eyes finally start drooping as the stars above blurred. He was finally falling asleep. He chuckles tiredly as he let himself go. Falling asleep was always weird to him. Like the body is asleep but the mind isn’t. He feels like he’s falling at first just to be caught in the same fetal position by a new force of gravity. He rests there waiting for a sound. 

He didn't need to wait long as he soon began to hear footsteps. There was a pause. That was new, the voice usually strode in confidently, like royalty. But today they were hesitant, almost curious, and the footsteps were a lot lighter. 

“Huh? What do we have here?” a raspy voice said. This was a different person. Possibly male, from the sound of it? Their footsteps sounded like they were approaching and circling Nightmare. If the new being got any closer to Nightmare, he didn’t notice because of how his thoughts raced. There were more voices. Had he lost what little sanity he had left? What did this development mean? Was this even real? 

The new voice chuckles a bit, “Just who are you?” they asked quietly like he was in awe of something. If Nightmare had any control of his body he might have blushed from how intense the other’s eyes feel. Suddenly the other’s footsteps began to sound like they had a new sort of bounce to them. Did Nightmare make them happy? This was certainly a strange sort of change… 

Nightmare let his excitement run wild. A new person, a change, this means something right? Then what did this mean? Could it be a different manipulation tactic? Or maybe someone was here to save him? Do they even want to save him? He doesn’t notice how the other left or how much time passes. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the usual regal footsteps. 

“ Little Prince. ” the voice breathed out like they were finally relaxing after a long day. Nightmare wanted to relax too, his racing excitement began to calm at the presence of his normal.  

It took some time for the next words. Nightmare wonders if the other was staring at him as well. What did they look like? Nightmare had been wondering that for a long time. 

Suddenly the cold around him shifts, like ripples on water.  

“ Precious one, you are healing nicely. ” the voice spoke, they sounded a bit closer than before. 

Healing? Was he still hurt from the incident ? So much time had passed and yet Nightmare never thought much of his injuries. The voice chuckled as another, a gentler ripple went through the cold that surrounded Nightmare. 

“ Lovely. ” The voice spoke quietly. Nightmare doesn’t understand why the voice always spoke so sweetly to him but it comforted him nonetheless. “ You are more important than anything else. My Prince, be patient and I will build you an empire. ” Nightmare wants to smile at the affection. He can almost feel how his magic races through his bones at the praise. Maybe the voice felt it because they chuckled, possibly endeared by the subtle response. Could they feel his reactions? Was he reacting at all? 

Soon footsteps were walking away and Nightmare was alone again. He felt as he began to wake up, maybe he could spend the day organizing his thoughts. 

-- 

Killer was pissed.

He just wanted to stab that pretty boy, Cross, in the face. Cross, with his righteous soldier act, infuriated Killer. How dare that two-faced bastard act all high and mighty when everyone knows he's greedy, selfish, and reckless. Just like the rest of them.

Killer simmers in his thoughts as he marches aimlessly through the castle. He clenches his fist around his knife, itching to attack, to bash someone's skull in. Cross really knows exactly how to piss Killer off, and he just has to pick a fight in front of the Boss. If Nightmare hadn't split them up when he did, there would've been far more damage and dust in his office.

Killer really needs to stab something before he--

His thoughts are cut off by a shiver down his spine. His anger almost makes him miss how cold he feels, he pauses in his stomping taking in the sound of harsh rain. The realization hits him that he's marched right where he's not allowed. The west wing, where Nightmare's room is. And it is entirely off-limits - one of the few rules the bossman has, but the strictest. It’s the one rule Killer never pushes his luck with. He hasn't had the chance or desire to really seek out this side of the castle before. But now that he stands here, he realizes the air is stale and smells like wet rusted metal.

Skeleton Monsters aren't particularly sensitive to temperatures, but in extreme cases, it's too much to ignore. Killer swears under his breath, his Snowdin was never even this cold and stale. The cold calms Killer’s temper just a bit, allowing his fist to unclench, but his grip on his knife remains. The magic in the air is too thick, but it calms him.

It feels like his Boss's magic, the same kind he uses to comfort Killer after fixing his Soul. Gentle whispers of faux healing but a promise of the absence of obvious pain. It feels almost farther away like there's an abundance of it in one area that has residue floating in the freezing metallic air. Killer finds himself moving toward the magic before he can think too deeply about it. His body naturally seeks the comfort of his Boss, leading him further down the long dark corridor, his stealthy footsteps drowned out by the pitter-patter of the storm. He never glances at the masterful oil paintings on the walls or the details of the stone walls; he just follows his instincts blindly.

And then he walks right into some ugly fucking clock.

The obnoxious ticking of the overly grandiose grandfather clock is the only sound that fills the corridor. He feels his agitation growing, and in a matter of seconds, he growls and slams his knife into the head of the clock, breaking the glass. As his frustration peaks, he's even more pissed off at the fact that the clock is still ticking.

His never-ending smile twitches as he reaches to pull it out. He uses the momentum of the pull to carelessly swing his body around to slam his back against the wall near the clock, accompanying the ticking with a clash of bones hitting stone, muffled by his faded blue hoodie.

He sits there, trying to contain his continuously rising anger for a few seconds, his magic drumming through his skull and his target SOUL burning just a bit. The ticking of the broken clock is pissing him off even more. He freezes at the thought. There's no way that stupid thing should still be functioning. Killer looks at the odd clock and notices there's no broken glass on the floor and not a single scratch on the damn thing.

He chuckles with a tilt of his head. 

Pushing himself off the stone wall, he takes a second to really observe the clock. Killer doesn't witness Boss using illusion magic often, but the few times he’s seen it, he remembers how overtly real it felt, with a subtle touch of magic that could be overlooked as residue. It's easy to fall for that sort of dirty trick. After taking the time to really observe his surroundings, Killer realizes it's not just the clock that's an illusion, the wall has the same type of subtle push and pull of buzzing magic.

His unseen eyelights look around the hall he's standing in. It's structured like a normal hall, with a dark grey stone ceiling and dull decor to support the assumption, but the airflow lacks the tunnel breeze of a proper hallway in this large castle, and the metallic smell doesn't match the stone walls. Killer twitches as his irritation fades to confusion. He knows the big man keeps his secrets close to his SOUL, but this seems like overkill. Something is up, and Killer still has far too much energy to burn to sit idle and look the other way this time.

He looks back at the ornate grandfather clock, covered with intricate carvings and bronze apple embellishments that catch what little light the hall has. The illusion magic must have been in place for a long time and lost a lot of effectiveness for it to correct the stab as quickly as it did. Killer smirks. If that's the case, then he'll be able to get away with a bit of snooping. Creeping closer, as he would with prey, he smirks down at the clock, his hands drifting across it as he searches for a weak point in the magic that he can use to sneak past the detection of his boss.

Killer spots a tiny seam, stitching together reality and magic as it runs along the bottom edge of the clock's face. It's almost imperceptible, but to Killer, it's all the invitation he needs. He presses his finger against the seam, and with a soft hiss of escaping air, the entire clock fizzes out of place, with a grainy pop. Killer darts past the opening into the gaping black behind it, his footsteps becoming louder than the rain. He chuckles to himself, feeling proud that he's just a slight bit more clever than Nightmare in this instance.

Through the narrow opening, Killer takes his time to observe his new environment. Glancing around, he finds himself in a pitch-black corridor. The walls were made of rough stone that was older and rougher than the west wing walls, and the air was thick with dust, magic, and an aching cold. As if noticing his arrival, the torches light up, casting a dim light into the room is a soft orange glow. Further down the passage, there's a dim lilac light that lights up the twists and turns brighter than the orange of the torches and leads him further away from the entrance.

The closer Killer gets to the light, the more it lights up the area, the colder the air becomes, and the stronger the magic in the air becomes. Looking about, Killer sees piles and piles of gold, jewels, ancient artifacts, and an array of priceless treasures. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight, his boss always had a thing for valuable and precious items. He takes quiet but lazy steps, spinning in circles trying to find the real reason Nightmare hid this place, humming to himself as he turns back to the direction he's walking.

There, in the center of all the treasure and jewels, sits a larger ball of raw magic floating. He walks closer to the floating ball, and as his eyes adjust to just how bright it is, it seems to be blurring whatever is inside for others' eyes, but soon he sees a skeleton. He pauses, hesitant to get any closer in case the other moves to attack, but the magic feels healing and protective, almost like an incubator. Still, Killer cautiously approaches the magic, his hand hovering over his knife, ready to defend himself if necessary. As he gets closer, he realizes that the skeleton is familiar to him, like the magic the other is composed of is the same as Nightmare but calmer, less volatile. It must be the magic the other is encased in.

He strides forward curiously, the other skeleton making no moves, sitting nude, perfectly still in a fetal position with their legs crossed at their ankles and their arms wrapped gently around their legs, with bits of magic swirling around them. Killer recognizes them as a Sans type from the round face that rests on their knees. He gets closer to the trapped and unresponsive skeleton, his curiosity piqued. What catches Killer's attention is the web-like pattern on the left side of their cranium, stretching from their eye sockets and wrapping around their skull like it had been shattered and was currently being corrected. He slowly relaxes his hold on his knife but never fully lets go. 

"Huh? What do we have here?" He asks out loud in his natural taunting tone, hoping for a twitch or some response, but the other remains motionless, much to Killer's dismay. He circles the orb, making note of a few key details. They are small in stature, likely reaching up to Killer's chest when stretched out, with thin bones that seem easily breakable despite their whiteness and ethereal glow from the lilac light of the orb. Killer chuckles in amazement.

"Just who are you?" He can't help but ask in awe of the precious being that his Boss has obviously hidden away and absolutely coated in his magic. Killer shivers from the cold as he sees the magic in his joints glowing in an effort to warm him up. He slowly realizes he has been here far too long and starts walking back the way he came, taking one last glance at the resting skeleton before hurriedly leaving

Finally, something more interesting than fighting with Cross. 

-- 

Nightmare, the name they borrowed all those years ago. They have protected that name and built an empire around that name. They truly treasured his name, more than any jewel or painting. Their molded body was formed to look like him, and like a gift, he gave them life, a purpose. That child, tired and scared, did not know what his acknowledgment and obedience meant to them, he truly gifted them a rare gem. So Nightmare vowed to give that name the worth it was denied, a legacy, a comfort, the entire multiverse if he so desired. The threads of history that had choked him would never be able to touch him again. Nightmare, their borrowed name, holds their purpose, their meaning, and their goal. Every time someone said that name in fear or awe, they felt a rush of pride. They were getting closer and closer to their end goal with the growth of negativity in the multiverse.

What they do not like, however,  is when their subordinates call them out to handle petty squabbles. Obnoxious screeching and childish insults were thrown about while they separated Cross and Killer. After tossing Killer across the room, he took the opportunity to rush off, considering the glare Nightmare leveled him it wasn’t a surprise. Meanwhile Cross was not so lucky. The two idiots didn’t even know what they were arguing about and Nightmare felt their own irritation for how these imbeciles wasted their time. They could still make out the obnoxious squealing of Cross about Killer’s antics. 

With a sigh, they make their way back to their office to finish their paperwork. They try to ease the headache they feel developing from agitation. After the interruption, they know they will need to finish quickly in order to check on his progression. Nightmare checks on the little prince as often as they can, at least a few times a week. After finding a way to separate the two, they found a way to heal him. Even though the process takes a lot of time, Nightmare is patient, after all, it's not easy to heal a guardian. This has to be handled with the utmost care. They wonder how he will feel when he is free. Will he feel grateful for what they have done? Will he feel scared of their methods? Will he recognize and know who they are? What will he do with the empire they have built for him?

Nightmare lets their thoughts slip from their control as they go through the motions of their responsibilities. They can't deny that they have learned a lot from their original host, how to read and write, what his favorite books are, how to feel, what pain and despair and cold anger feel like, what joy and selfless love look like, and it's all so beautiful. The magnitude that a minor spirit of a single apple could become what they have thanks to their lovely little prince. He deserves nothing but the best, after the village denied him his birthright, they will make sure he will never have to suffer the same way again. Nim truly failed as a mother and a guardian, so they made sure she had no way to interfere with their plans for the child. Thinking back on that wench, they wonder if she finds joy in abandoning her creations. They chuckle at the memory of cutting her down, the pain and anguish she felt were some of the sweetest treats they have ever eaten. Another gift from their prince.

Time escapes them and before they know it, it's the wee hours of the morning. They decide to check on the prince who has been haunting their thoughts all evening. Making their way through the west wing, they take their time strolling toward the hallway where they have hidden him.

Approaching the illusioned clock, they wave their hand to disrupt the illusion magic they have put in place when they started hiring subordinates. Making their way into the chilled, darkened room, they ignore the wet rusty smell, all the treasures, and all the gold they have filled the room with and focus on the lilac glow that encases their most precious treasure. The glow of the orb warms Nightmare's soul, knowing it's a combination of their magic, his magic, and healing. They softly smile at the bright light before them. They don't falter or hesitate in their approach, knowing the other is deep within a perfect dream.

" Little Prince," they breathe out, taking in their accomplishment. They pause in their monologue, taking in the other's healing process. Even after almost 800 years, the cranium is not yet completely healed. Nightmare feels the need to comfort the other and destroy the villagers that caused such an injury a thousand times over.

Nightmare stares at the other, never moving from their spot in front of him. He looks beautiful, and they long to see his purple eyelights again. They reach out and touch the orb, wanting to feel the other's bone again. The orb shifts and ripples like water at their surprisingly gentle touch.

" Precious one, you are healing nicely ," they speak, leaning into the orb, wanting so badly to rest their forehead against his. How strange for them, a negative spirit, to feel affection and adoration towards anything. They gently rest their head against the floating orb, causing another set of ripples on the outermost layer of the magic. They gently rest their head against the floating orb, causing another set of ripples on the outermost layer of magic, chuckling to himself, maybe it was more possessive and twisted than a normal being's affection but that did not mean those feelings did not exist. 

" Lovely, " they whisper. " You are more important than anything else. My Prince, be patient and I will build you an empire ." They speak with conviction and tenderness. They want to stay near him but they only have a few precious minutes to truly enjoy his presence. Even though he is resting and cannot actually respond, just being able to admire him satisfies them - for now. They chuckle at the thought of enjoying his presence when he cannot respond. They spend a few more seconds against the orb before detaching themselves from it and leaving.

Like always, they do not look back.

-- 

Dust really thought Killer had finally lost it.

They were all maniacs in their own right don’t get him wrong. But Dust notices more than his usual blank expressions let on. He knows Axe had taken up gardening in secret from how often he smelled like wet grass than not when cooking breakfast in the morning. He knows Cross had a slight case of social anxiety by the way his hands shook a little every time he had to speak without preparation. And he knew Killer was the type of Monster that preferred taking action to sitting idle from how often he’d go around causing mischief. In other words, a class clown type of person. The type that didn’t read more than a comic book.

Well, most of them were scientists once upon a time ago but after their timelines went to shit they didn’t really think about cracking the books again. The fact of the matter is Dust has never seen Killer read any type of book, even a comic book, in the entire time they’ve been under Nightmare’s care. And, now, all of a sudden Dust sees him sneaking into the library regularly. The same library was filled almost to the brim with classic literature and historical records. 

Dust sometimes took to the library for some peace. With five psychotic versions of yourself living in the same building things could get a bit loud. His brother was still regularly demanding him to not waste the EXP he gained from what he chose to do back in his AU. So the library was one of the places where Dust had only one voice screaming at him. In all the years he had been with this team he had never once run into Killer in the library. Until he did. 

Killer had sat quietly between the shelves with a pile of books in the History section of the massive library. His lazy posture had almost distracted Dust from how focused the other’s expression was. Dust only paused a moment to take in the other sitting on the floor resting against the shelves before walking off to his usual sci-fi books. Dust decided his quiet time was worth more than answers that day and if the other had noticed him out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t say anything either. 

Over the past week, Killer would sneak around, disappearing for a random amount of times at infrequent intervals, sometimes to the library other times to random parts of the castle, and sometimes no one even knew where Killer went. Dust would usually turn a blind eye to this sort of strange development, but the new silence that seemed to settle into the entire castle caused some paranoia. 

Cross thought Killer was plotting some sort of revenge prank on him. This weird tension between the two made Dust wonder if he really was the paranoid one, even Papyrus was thrown off by Killer’s new hobby.

Sitting in the dining room with the rest of the team after almost two weeks of Killer’s lack of chaos, Dust kept an eye on Killer and Cross’s interaction. It seemed like they were both vying for Nightmare’s attention. Cross with his usual puppy guard dog attitude, pleading for even the smallest of praise, while Killer just seemed to be trying to piss their Boss off. 

“- and the updated training regime will be able to strengthen-”

“Yeah, that’s nice Crossy. Anyway Boss,” Killer cut off Cross, effectively stealing Nightmare’s attention. Cross sent Killer a suspicious glance but kept his mouth shut while NIghtmare raised a brow at the other. “I was wondering how old’s this place?” He finished placing his chin in his palm while playing with his food absentmindedly with the other hand.

Cross looked at him confused, Axe paused his eating but continued quickly. Dust narrowed his eyes at Killer. Just what was he getting at?

“ The Castle? Why do you ask? ” Nightmare asked. The empath acted as if it was not even a strange question.

“Yeah! Did you build this castle?” Killer asked. Dust didn’t need to be an empath to know Killer was getting excited from how the other’s girn perked. Cros just glanced between Nightmare and Killer in confusion.  

“ Hmm, it was already built when I took residence here, ” Nightmare responded looking at Killer with a squinted eye. “ Killer. If you are planning to do something destructive to my castle it will not end well for you. ” He warned looking away from Killer and back to Cross to continue their previously interrupted conversation. 

“Gotcha Boss!” Killer said in fake cheer facing back towards Cross, with his head still in his hand. Without eyelights, it was easy to mistake Killler for looking at Cross with his obnoxious smile. Dust noticed Cross tense, most likely making that exact assumption. Axe paid them no attention continuing his munching. It seemed most of the gang thought Killer was planning some elaborate prank.

By the time dinner ended Dust had even fewer answers. This sort of pattern continued for another week as their next big mission approached. It seemed whatever Killer was looking for wasn’t easy to find because his frustration grew, at least from what Dust could tell from how aggressive his attacks and training were becoming. Fights between Killer and Cross happened almost every time they were in the same room, Axe was even breaking them up at this point. 

Killer visited the library less and less going somewhere where no one could find him. When the others could find him he was either arguing with Cross or pacing in his room. Dust hadn’t seen this behavior in a Sans since a Gaster fell into the CORE. It was strange and unnerving, appearing less and less like a prank and more like some sort of manic episode. 

Whether it was a manic episode or not, everyone was getting fed up with Killer’s attitude, his disappearing act wasn’t helping especially. He was even missing training time. Nightmare was close to punting the leaky bitch with his tentacles from what Dust could tell from how they twitched in irritation at Killer’s flimsy excuses. 

Tensions peaked on the day of the mission and as they shifted through Nightmare’s portal to the AU chosen for this mission. Cross and Killer were glaring at each other in the front of their formation while Axe and Dust took the back. Nightmare floated above them taking in the scene as his tentacles twitched with impatience. The gang waited for the go-ahead.

" You know the rules, " he said with finality. " Chaos and negativity first. Then clean out this AU. You have an hour until Error destroys this place ."That was all the team needed, spreading out to have some fun, and creating their own brand of Mayhem.

It took far less time than usual for the Star Shits to show up than usual.

Chapter Text

Amidst the chaos of terrified screeches all around this Snowdin faced a snowstorm of dust and ash and snow. It slowly mixed together leaving nothing but the taste of death in the Undergraound. As the few survivors attempt to escape the destruction of their home, their feet pounded against the snow-covered ground in a twisted symphony, Each footstep left a transient trace before the relentless snow swiftly buried any evidence of the fleeing. Despite the wintry turmoil, the clash between the opposing forces of positivity and negativity continued to unfold.

“Fuck!” Killer grunts, just avoiding being disintegrated by a massive Gaster Blaster. He quickly regains his composure, another knife falling into his grasp as he spins and fixing his gaze on the approaching Ink. Killer sprints towards Ink and manages to distract him, giving Axe the chance to swipe his axe at Ink's paintbrush, causing Ink to flinch back a step to prevent the demise of his weapon. The three are at a standstill as Ink is outnumbered by Axe and Killer. With practiced ease, the two launch themselves at Ink posed to attack. Ink is pressed on the defense.

Killer dodges the handle of Ink’s giant paintbrush that is aimed at his jaw, by mere millimeters. With practiced coordination, Axe takes the opportunity to use the blunt side of his namesake and slam it into the side of Ink’s skull. His head flies back, and he struggles to his feet attempting to keep his balance, forcing himself to push through the shock of the blow.

Dream reacts fast to his fellow guardian’s beatdown by firing arrows at Killer. Killer turns his attention to the golden child of the multiverse with a sly grin and a cocky tilt. Making contact with Killer’s unseen eyelights Dream is quick to change to his dual blades. He rushes forward slashing at Killer, as the other jumps back.

Killer leans his head to the side just managing to dodge Dream’s stab toward his face. Despite the LV mounting in his bones, the repetition of dodging is making it easy for Killer to tune out the battle. Dream grunts, frustrated, and fully focused on his opponent- unlike Killer. Gaining distance, Dream decides to speak up.

“You’re distracted.” He states plainly, in his usual holy and benevolent tone. Killer pauses quickly surveying his team’s position.

Axe is entangled with Ink, who flips his brush around and splashes toward Axe. Axe manages to tumble out of the way, allowing Cross and Nightmare to shift their efforts towards the crazy artist while Nightmare gives Axe the order to focus on Blue with Dust.

Killer sees Cross at Nightmare’s side and keeps pace as they rapidly attack Ink, trying to back him into a corner to force a retreat. The sounds of a blaster going off make Killer shift his attention toward the direction of the noise, and he sees a flash of blue before hearing a shouted curse. His focus zones in on Dust, who is now clutching his left arm and standing stiffly off to the side. Axe jumps in front of his friend, deflecting a pointed bone from Blue with his axe. The wound doesn't seem too serious as Dust is quick to jump back in the fray trying to overpower Blue with the help of Axe. The others' fighting is background noise to how his body feels the rush of LV, rising and falling in response to what he assumes is his opponent's mockery.

Killer chuckles, giving his knife a squeeze, maybe he can play around a bit more with Dream.

“Aw, did I hurt your feelings ?” Killer taunts, rushing at his target. Dream does not let the quick jab at his work demoralize him as he catches Killer’s knife between his blades and forces Killer back a few steps.

“If you’re having second thoughts about your deal with my brother then-” Killer laughs, cutting Dream off from his usual hopeful heroics.

“It’s always the same with you!” Killer says in a manic fashion, lazily posed swinging his hands around but the LV going straight to his head “The same bullshit! All the time.” Killer rushes back towards Dream, trying to keep a close distance to subdue the other. Killer continues to slash and Dream deflects, remaining defensive. “What you got tired of shouting at Nightmare, about saving him, freeing him, that now you have to try with us ‘mortals’?” Killer asks, trying to probe the insecurities inside of Dream to get an opening.

Dream twists, forcefully jabbing the butt of his blade into Killers SOUL sending him back a few yards. Killer lands on one knee, while one hand lands in the snow to keep balance and the other tries to shield his SOUL a little too late. Killer’s SOUL quivers, the LV rush blocked out the pain as he glares at Dream as they both heave.

“You know nothing.” Dream says lowly, his hands shaking slightly, eyes shadowed but determined. Killer smirks a little, he’s finally found something to use to his advantage.

“I know plenty,” Killer states as he stands up. Calmly and in an alert manner, seeking to intimidate, Killer walks towards the guardian. “You-”

“Shut up!” Dream growls. The mixture of his team being overpowered and the little positivity left in the AU leaves Dream less patient than he would usually be. He feels weak. He feels anger at himself.

“I will free my brother! He’s still in there, I-I know it!” Dream’s voice wavers slightly. He hates how he suddenly feels like an oblivious child that doesn’t know how to say no again. He’s growing tired of the same song and dance with his brother as well. He’s quick to get caught up in his own thoughts.

Killer takes the chance as he sees it. He runs towards Dream, ready to stab the other. Dream is just able to dodge the blade as it only cuts his clothes, but the way Killer is quick to shift his weight allows a knee to be rammed into Dream's chest, sending him flying and falling onto the cold snow. Killer twirls his knife from a distance, allowing Dream to get to his feet while Killer takes a second to let his SOUL settle, but the throb of power and dull pain is addicting.

"OH? Did I strike a bone? Is little Dreamy upset that he can't save his older brother?" Killer taunts more, not paying attention to other battles taking place around them- they're not even background noise anymore. Dream groans from the pain in his ribs as he stands up.

"Twin, actually." Dream grunts thoughtlessly as he rushes back at Killer with his blades ready.

"Twins huh? Don't look too much like a matching set? Did mommy only want one little hero?" Killer calls with sadistic glee. He dishes out rapid jabs and stabs trying to overwhelm Dream quickly. He manages to nick the other's cheek as he jumps back, gaining distance again. Dream grunts in slight pain while Killer growls at him. He doesn't like that Dream is trying desperately to change the pace of their fight.

"We used to look alike, but that was a long time ago." Dream says with a tone of finality like the conversation is over. That pisses Killer off, as shown by the heightened aggression in his continuous attacks.

The fight continues to drag on until finally, Error appears.

Error’s appearance could easily be overlooked if not for the quick strings he ties up with the rest of the SOULs native to the AU. Cross's calls out, but the words do not quite reach Killer as he is solely focused on Dream. Just a moment later, Killer is being hoisted up by a large, dark tentacle. In his peripheral vision, he sees Axe and Dust still clashing with Blue, the two fighting up close against the Royal Gaurd. At Nightmare’s barked orders to retreat, they quickly remove themselves from the fight and hurry over to the rest of the gang, a hand clasping Dust’s shoulder just before they are all brought through the portal Nightmare had made. The goody-two-shoes, beaten and tired, are left to deal with Error's destruction.

Nightmare enters a hallway of his castel, holding Killer a foot or two off the ground with one of his tentacles. Cross trails behind them, followed by Axe and Dust, before they close the portal and enter the infirmary. There are a few beds, each with one or two cushions and a thin blanket. It houses their general medical supplies and is thus frequently used after missions and sometimes after their more intense training sessions. Killer is placed in the bed closest to the door, but he swiftly sits up and swings his feet off the mattress, disregarding his boss' half-hearted scowl. He is still feeling a high of LV, his SOUL buzzing and static-y from battle and the directly hit he received from Dream.

“What do you think you are doing?” Dust asks the other as he takes a seat on one of the beds and allows Cross to begin treating his cracked radius. Dust keeps a steady look on Killer as Axe flops down on one of the other beds in exhaustion as the little magic in his bones settles and calms. Killer begins to pace the room and chuckles to himself. His SOUL is wavering, like it is about to shift.

“Killer.” Nightmare calls out with authority, causing Killer to twitch but not answer, still pacing and giggling as his hands shake. A gentle but strong tentacle drags him to an empty bed. Killer feels the volatile magic of his Boss working on calming his SOUL as Nightmare holds him in place and wraps another tendril around his SOUL. Axe watches warily and tiredly before closing his sockets to rest. Dust watches from the corner of his eye as Cross is entirely focused on his teammates' injury. Cross isn’t exceptional at healing magic but what little he knows is still useful.

Nightmare soon removes their tentacle from Killer, his SOUL more stable than before in the usual target shape. Killer lets out a shaky breath as Nightmare withdraws, tumbling back onto his side so his head hits the cushion. The LV withdrawals are exhausting and draining.

The team patches each other up and gathers their bearings but it is all background noise to Killer. Nightmare takes to getting feedback from the other members in the infirmary but Killer will report to him later when his mind is more present. Right now though he just wants a moment of peace. He can’t help but wonder if the little cutie is feeling peaceful. He sighs and closes his eyes. He just wants to sleep off the low he feels.

Nightmare focuses on Axe’s feedback as Dust narrows his eyes at Killer. The leaky bitch is too quiet for Dust’s liking, especially after a relatively successful mission.

-- 

It was dark, so dark that he hadn’t even known if his sockets were open. Was he blinded in the attack? He couldn’t remember, it was all so blurring and numbing, who was he again? He couldn’t remember. The only thing he could remember was this sinking, drowning feeling. He was surrounded by the thick, sticky, freezing darkness. It was cold but he was hot. He felt like he was burning alive. The type of delayed and slowly increasing burn that a person wouldn’t notice until it was unbearable. But the heat came in waves, sometimes overwhelmingly boiling his SOUL, other times it was just warm enough to be uncomfortable. Drowning in a chill but boiling alive were such conflicting sensations, it was unbearable at first but at some point, it became numbing, like an anesthetic. He felt like his mind was being eaten away, for such a long time. Who was he again? How long had he been here? He didn’t know.

He eventually felt something reach into his ribcage and grab something, clenching it. Was that his SOUL? It had felt desperate and so so sorrowful. Not quite regretful but something close. How could he tell what they felt? It was strange. It had dragged him out of the chilled sludge of inky black. The black had tried desperately to stick with him and choke him. His head had hurt so badly, he had wanted to sob. Where was he?

He had finally felt a pop and his body had been launched and thrown, landing with a thud- the pain throughout his body had throbbed everywhere. He had thought he could finally open his eyes. Colors had blurred and overwhelmed him, he couldn’t make out what was what. It had been loud but the ringing had been far louder. Why were they scared- no, terrified? His body had hurt, he had felt like he was dusting painfully slowly. His head had hurt so so badly, he had tried to reach up and touch his skull, wanting to ease the pain just a little. Why did it hurt again?

Something had grabbed his hand gently but firmly. It had felt like a hand, but it had been silky and staticy, almost wet. Weird. He had leaned into the body on his left, looking up at them. He had wished he could make out who they were. Were they holding him? He had thought he had felt them drag him into their lap. The Colors, black, gray, and a bright hypnotizing cyan, had been swirling and blending together. Pretty. He had thought they had been yelling at him.

“- Nightmare, do NOT close your- ” the voice cut in and out of his understanding, and it sounded familiar, full of authority and desperation. Had he heard this voice before? Was he Nightmare? That was his name, right? He felt like he wanted to comfort the other person. He tried to smile at them, but he wasn't really sure if he was smiling or not. The hand that was holding him shook. Was this a farewell?

He had felt like he was falling asleep but with more finality. It was serene and strange, but it didn’t last long. He felt a pulling on his SOUL again, rough and purposeful. It ached, and the pop that had sounded from his chest left him feeling empty and vulnerable. The other took their hand from him, making the empty feeling stronger. Had he ever felt this empty before?

He had seen his SOUL. It was the only clear thing he could make out. It was a cracking, dripping black apple, held by an inky hand. The other had taken their other hand and forced concentrated cyan magic into it.

“Ah!” he had cried out. It h u r t. Not the same burning or cold feeling, but a slow, precise impaling into his SOUL. He had kept crying out, he thought he was begging but he couldn’t tell. Was he even speaking?

It had felt like the center of his SOUL was being filled up and overstuffed with electric foreign magic. When the other was finally done, he had been spent, trying to catch his breath, and had been crying, tears streaming down the side of his face. Could he sleep now?

Then there had been a pull. It hadn’t hurt, but it had ached. He had been startled and looked towards his SOUL again, his eyelights moving a bit too fast, making his skull throb. The other had pulled out an upside-down, lilac purple heart from the dripping black apple. There had been a sense of relief, like a pressure that was relieved from his being. He hadn’t noticed the crushing, devouring pressure on his SOUL until it was gone. His body had relaxed in the other’s lap he had still been resting in. He sighed, not realizing how he was falling unconscious.

C R A C K 

The little purple SOUL had a crack stretching across the fragile thing. The pain from the magic infusion left him numb to the pain of the cumulation of his very being cracking. He gasped at the discomfort of it. The one holding him jumped to action and circled his SOUL in cyan magic. The magic seemed to fight to keep the crack from stretching but his SOUL fought back, trying to shatter. The foreign magic felt familiar to him like it was his own magic but different, as it encircled his SOUL. The other tried for a few seconds before pulling something out of thin air. What was that called again? Inventory, right? How did he know that? He was too tired to remember. Whatever it was it shined and glistened in the dull light.

Before Nightmare could fully close his eyes to finally sleep, the other used their magic to circle both his SOUL and the shiny thing. They dragged them together slowly like it was a delicate process. But Nightmare thought their hands were shaking. Were they crying? Strange.

When his SOUL touched the blurred shiny thing, when they touched his vision of the foreign object cleared but he choked at the feeling. He shut his eyes and grabbed at the other at the sensations running through his body. It wasn’t a painful feeling but more like his insides were being filled with thick warm water and cold air at the same time, right down to his marrow. He tried desperately to open his eyes and look towards what was happening to his SOUL, wishing he wasn’t so weak.

The shiny thing, an elongated glowing, blue crystal, seemed to be trying to feed and force magic into his SOUL. It distorted his SOUL causing it to shift and re-shape itself, like something inside his SOUL was trying to break free. Meanwhile, the crystal seemed to dull and lose what little color it had.

His body couldn’t take anymore and he finally lost consciousness looking at the shifting SOUL and the paling crystal.

He shot up clenching his chest. The fading pain in his SOUL and his head left him dry-heaving. He sobbed, at the memories that intruded his mind. The regret, sorrow, and pain that sounded from him would have broken the heart of any pass-byer. He wrapped his arms around him and curled into himself even further in utter mourning. By the time he came to his senses, he realized something strange. He was Home. He started shaking again.

He couldn't breathe, the sun was too hot and the grass was prickling at his bones. He couldn't breathe. Why was he here? What happened? Was it a dream? Why would- Dream approach him? In his panic, he didn’t hear what his twin had said and just let him drag him to the raspberry bush. The day carried on and Nightmare passed his twin’s strange behavior off as trying to cheer him up, he tried to understand what had happened and why it had happened but he just wanted to forget. At least for now.

It took 3 days for him to realize time was stuck in a loop.

It wasn’t his fault! He was confused and tired and scared. And at first, Nightmare thought it was real. He was clinging and crying to Dream. He tried to apologize to his twin and confess to everything and anything that had happened. But it didn’t matter because Dream didn’t notice. He didn’t deviate from the script. He acted the exact same. Just as Nightmare remembered.

Ah.. this was a memory. Was he in a coma?

It didn’t matter, for a while at least, Nightmare just pretended. He pretended that it was real and convinced himself to act along, savoring the moment he had with his twin. That was enough for a while, maybe a few months, but eventually, Nightmare tried to get Dream to change. He needed to talk with someone, anyone.

It didn’t work, for a few weeks he tried saying different things, doing different things, crazy and silly things. After that, he tried brute force, pulling, pushing, and eventually even hitting. That didn’t work. He’d even tried more drastic measures but that didn’t work either. Nothing worked.

So he sat and rotted in his own memory trying to make sense of what had happened, to even remember what had happened. How long had he even been here?

He just wanted to sleep. At least then he could have something different. 

Nightmare's hand absentmindedly rubs against the grass, the tactile feeling pulling him from his mind. He rests in the clearing in the forest, a bit far from Mother. He sighs and closes his eyes, trying to block out Dream's laughter in the distance for the rest of the day.

He feels more content these past few loops. The usual loop is still maddening in comparison to new things he hears when he sleeps, so he takes to staying in the forest away from his mother and brother to think and now fantasizes. He now looks forward to what new thing the mischievous voice will say. Their regular meetings and constant chatter has his magic rushing to his head in the best ways, it was almost overstimulating at time. These novel feelings are almost better than when he thinks the loop is real. He can never forget how waking up in this torture feels, despite wanting to.

Nightmare lies there, on the soft grass of the clearing, thinking, wondering what his new friends will say. Are they even friends? He hopes the other thinks so.

As night falls and Dream cuddles close to Nightmare, he drifts off to sleep with an eagerness in his SOUL. Before long he can feel the familiar sensation of his body becoming immobile while his mind remains active. It is something he can never fully get used to. It feels almost numbing. This time though only loney silence greets him.

The silence is fine too, he supposes. This new voice is a bit more spontaneous than the usual voice.

He just… really wanted to hear them today.

-- 

Dust stood against the frigid stone wall of the training room, feeling the rough texture of the stone against his bones, he let out a deep sigh. The sound was drowned out by Axe and Cross spar and Papyrus’s voice. The weapons clashed together with a clang that reverberated through the room, making Dust's skull ache. The sound was grating on Dust's nerves, adding to the mounting restlessness he felt, especially as the voice in his head grew louder, mocking him for his weakness.

This was supposed to be team training, but the plan was changed because Killer had ruined that by vanishing. Dust had assumed that after completing the mission Killer would have gotten bored with whatever the hell he was up to, or he would have been back to his usual prank already, Paps thought so too. But no, he didn’t do any of that. He healed up and went right back to his new little hobby. 

This time, however, Killer was completely missing training, not just coming late. He probably would have missed meals too if Axe wouldn’t sniff him out and forced whatever he cooked down Killer’s throat. Without the Killer’s constant mocking and obnoxious behavior, the castle was eerily quiet. 

Cross and Axe were too focused on exchanging blows to notice how Dust’s mood worsened. He was supposed to be overseeing the spar since his partner wasn’t there, but the silence was getting to him, more than usual. It brought back so many memories of his empty underground. He’d never say it out loud but he was starting to miss Killer’s loud mouth filling the room. It was a nice distraction from his brother’s scream. Killer’s new consistent absence and disappearing act, which had been going on for weeks, almost months, had Dust on edge. It was an unwelcomed change.

Cross managed to deal a decisive blow on Axe, slamming him into the ground, his weapon falling away from him with a rumbling thud. Axe’s bones rattled against the cold floor as he landed. They both were panting and sweating, as they caught their breath but with this pause they finally noticed Dust’s scowl and stiff posture. 

"What's your... problem?" Axe grumbled, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, careful to avoid the gaping hole in his skull. As he sat on the ground, he didn’t reach for his trusted ax. He just sat there looking at Dust with his large red eye. Cross raised his brow at Dust, straightening his posture he looked warily at the other.

Dust exaggeratedly rolled his eyes at his teammates, though they wouldn’t be able to tell with Dust’s hood always up and the way they were focused on their settling magic. 

"Nothing," he gruffed, turning away from the two, his arms tightly crossed against his chest. He further buried his face in his signature red scarf. Dust couldn’t stand this new silence. 

The silence that followed was deafening, and Dust couldn't stand it. He felt like he was suffocating. The frustration he felt gripped his SOUL and all he could do was growl. 

The others exchanged side-eye glances, looking back at Dust. They could tell something was bothering him, and they already had an idea of what it could be. Cross sighed at Dust’s snippy attitude.

“Is this about Killer?” Cross asked with a sigh. He was also annoyed by Killer's current hyper fixation, but he was just thankful it was pranking him this time.

"I'm just sick of this damned quiet!" Dust snapped, turning toward the two with a heated glare, his red-blue eyes seeming to glow. 

Axe shrugged and commented, "At least he's eating." 

Cross silently snorted, beginning to make his way to Axe, before turning back to Dust. Dust's annoyance grew at his teammates as they seemed to just brush off Killer's strange behavior. He could hear his brother's shrill voice echo in his mind, taunting him and circling him like a predator. 

The voice in Dust's mind intensified, urging him to strike first before his teammates turned on him. “ I BET HE’S PLANNING SOMETHING. ” Dust's eyes narrowed as he heard the phantom of his brother's voice taunting him“ HE SEES YOU AS FREE EXP. YOU SHOULD STRIKE FIRST OR ARE YOU GOING TO WASTE AWAY LIKE OUR HO- ” 

Dust shook his head, trying to clear the voice from his mind. He whispered a quick apology to Paps as Axe grunted and Cross helped their giant teammate up. But the tension in the room lingered, fueled by Dust's growing resentment towards Killer's absence.

“Maybe... he’s just doing something secret... for Boss.” Axe supplied nonchalantly, trying to diffuse the slow-mounting tension in the room. 

Dust bared his teeth. "I doubt it. He's probably just off on some fucking joke. I'm sick of his nonsense!" Without waiting for a response, Dust stormed off, leaving Cross and Axe to exchange exasperated looks.

It was too much. The looks. The sighs. Dust's frustration just boiled over, and he couldn't take it anymore. The judgmental looks and exasperated sighs of his teammates were too much for him to bear. Especially as the reason for his frustrations wasn’t even present. In this place full of craziness, why were they looking at him like he was the one who had lost it? Fucking hypocrites. The usual smell of the damp stones and the coolness of the air surrounding him failed to soothe his nerves as it usually would after training. The rocky floors under his feet echoed with every step he took as he marched off, ignoring the detailed decor that lined the walls. 

Muttering to his brother as Papyrus' taunts that echoed in his ear left Dust's mind became consumed by the voices, drowning out everything else around him. He marched off, ignoring his surroundings, trying to stay present as the whispers and screams threatened to consume him. Dust clutched his head as he fast-walked through the halls of the castle. Dust muttered to Papyrus the whole way as the scene blurred and faded in and out. The voice of his brother was almost all he could understand. 

CLICK 

Dust paused at the sound, furrowed his brow, and shifted focus on the source of the sound, completely ignoring Papyrus's voice for a moment. Snapping his head in the direction of the library. Dust was quick to hide, using the wall to hide from view, peering cautiously around the corner to observe the room. He saw Killer make his way out of the library with a thick, brown leather book in hand. Dust watched the other check both directions before jogging out, down the hallway. Completely focused on whatever he was planning, Killer didn’t bother to look back as he made his way from the library. 

In the direction of the west wing. 

Dust smirked to himself, so Killer was doing something behind’s Nightmare’s back? Funny, Dust always thought he was more of Boss’s lap dog. Dust was quick to follow the other, shortcutting when needed, and keeping a distance at other times. As he followed Killer, he noticed the other skeleton's movements becoming more cautious and deliberate but a little careless, as if he was trying to avoid being seen or caught in his excitment. Killer moved with a purpose, with a DETERMINATION, it stumped Dust on what exactly could make the other move like that. 

Dust kept a safe distance, careful not to alert Killer to his presence. He silently observed Killer’s behavior, making note of every twitch and shift. Dust was so focused on Killer that he didn’t notice how the air became freezing or the new, strange, metallic smell that seemed to grow from the direction they were walking. He ignored the shiver down his spine repeating the winding and twisting paths of the hallways of the castle that Killer took. Dust’s eyelights fixed intensely on Killer, making sure not to lose the other. 

Killer paused one last time, turning to look back with a furrowed brow. Dust shortcutted behind the corner they had passed previously. Dust looked on as Killer looked at where he had previously stood. It was unlike the observant Sans to be so oblivious to being stalked like this. Just what could possibly distract him to this extent? Dust watched silently from behind the corner as Killer scanned the area, his eye sockets darting around in search of any signs of danger. He noticed the clock Killer stood in front of. 

As Killer peered around one last time, Dust's gaze followed Killer’ to the clock resting against the wall. There was something strange about it that Dust couldn't quite put his finger on. Suddenly, Killer's hand moved out of Dust's line of vision. The wall and clock shifted and glitched, creating an opening. Killer darted through the new opening. 

Dust's curiosity was piqued, and he watched with bated breath as Killer darted through the new opening. The wall and clock began to flicker back into place, but Dust was determined not to lose sight of the other skeleton. Without hesitation, he shortcutted in front of the opening, narrowly making it through before the opportunity disappeared. 

Dust held his breath looking behind him as the wall appeared back into place behind him. The quiet in the room was filled by Killer’s soft footsteps. Dust turned his head back to the skeleton leading him, barely catching sight of the treasures surrounding them. Dust made sure his footsteps were silent as he tried to follow Killer in the dim room. In his slow, noiseless, movements he felt the strange power in the room, so similar to his Boss but had a more comforting touch to it.

He was just able to make out Killer’s shadow as he kept close to the other, unnoticedly. The lilac light that got brighter as he followed him was mostly blocked by Killer’s body. The closer the two got the shorter Killer’s shadow was, giving more room for Dust to make out what was creating the light. Dust was finally able to make out, there was a person in a floating ball of purple magic. 

“What the actual fuck is that?” Dust asked out loud, finally drawing attention to himself.

Chapter Text

Killer's movements were abrupt as he pivoted around at the waist, startled by Dust’s voice echoing in the chilled room. His movement finally provided Dust with enough space to catch the full sight of the smaller skeleton ensnared within the shimmering orb of magic, posed in a fetal position. Dust's sockets widened, and his eyelights contracted, an immediate response to what was before him. The typically apathetic expression on Dust's face shattered in the dim light of the torches and purple magic, if it were any other circumstance Killer would have cackled obnoxiously. Instead, he opted for a strained smile as black HATE poured from his sockets, attempting to hide the unease that washed over him at being caught.

"Dusty!" Killer greeted with a mischievous tone, his attempt at casual banter sounding forced. "Good to see you." He purred in a false unnaturally happy tone as he turned to face Dust fully, but the other's attention remained fixed on the smaller skeleton suspended behind Killer in the swirling magical sphere.

A pregnant pause hung in the air, tension thickening as Dust's suspicious glare snapped to and bore into Killer. "What the fuck is that?" Dust spat out, his words laced with accusation. Killer’s unseen eyes darted to the side as he tried to come up with a possible explanation that even he did not have.

Killer's mischievous demeanor persisted, though now tinged with an air of defiance. "Oh, that? Just a little treasure . Cute, huh?" He gestured nonchalantly toward the small skeleton and the many treasures that filled the room, the magical glow casting an eerie ambiance in the room.

Dust's frustration manifested as a visible tightness in his posture and narrowed eyes. "Don't play games with me, Killer. Is this what you’ve been doing the whole time?"

Killer, feigning innocence, shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. "Me? Just found this little thing when I was wandering about."

Dust took a deliberate step forward, his tone sharpening. "You’ve been disappearing for weeks for some-some- I don’t even fucking know! Does the boss know?"

Killer's eye sockets darkened momentarily and his smile twitched slightly, a hint of irritation breaking through his fake jovial facade. "You’re always so serious, Dusty. Can't appreciate a good joke when you see one?"

Dust, no longer willing to entertain Killer's antics, took another step forward and grabbed Killer by the collar, he dragged Killer a little closer to him to speak more threateningly. His voice dropped to a dangerous level. "What kind of shitty joke is this?"

Killer chuckled, the sound hollow and mocking as he held up his hands in a false surrender and smiled in a impish grin. "What’s this? Did I manage to get under your skin ? Tibia honest I'm just having a bit of fun here."

Dust's patience was on the verge of snapping, and his voice became an icy threat. "You're treading dangerously, Killer. You’ve been disappearing and now you have a litte pet ?! Start talking."

Killer's grin faltered momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure. " You’re so boring~" He purred in a light strained voice. Dust's patience snapped, and he summoned his magic, a sharpened bone appearing in his hand as the magic electrified the air. "Last chance." Dust said coldly. 

Killer's eye sockets narrowed, a hint of tension replacing his usual carefree demeanor. "Fine, fine." Killer groaned, giving in. Dust did not release him as he waited for Killer to explain.

“I don’t know,” Killer finally said. “I found the little thing here one day and have been trying to find answers on what they're doing here and how the little guy got here. But there’s no record of them in any of Boss’s records... which is even more suspicious for Boss, considering he keeps a record of everything .” Killer admitted. Dust's glare did not disappear, but he unsummoned his bone and released Killer with a shove.

“Stars fucking damn it,” Dust groaned running his hand down his face, the echo of his frustration lingering in the cold room.

As Dust's vexation hung in the air, there was a palpable shift, an almost unnoticable disturbance in the atmosphere that sent a shiver down their spines. An ominous, negative aura began to slither into the edge of their sense before it could fully envelop the space. Killer, attuned to Nightmare's magic more than most due to the frequent interactions between Nightmare and his SOUL, felt the impending arrival. It was a haunting sensation, a gut feeling that signaled the approach of the powerful being.

Without wasting a moment, he grabbed Dust and initiated a shortcut, blipping them away to the safety of his room before Nightmare could catch them. The room they left behind seemed to sigh in relief as the lingering tension dissipated with their sudden departure only to be replaced with Nightmare’s powerful presence. Neither noticed how their magic in reacted with the swirling orb as it gained a subtle tremor, absorbing the residue of it in the air.

Now standing in Killer’s room, Dust looked at Killer with an annoyed glare, supressing a growl, fully knowing Killer left out some important details and seemed to have gained some experience evading Nightmare during his sudden fixation with the small skeleton in the orb of magic. 

--

Cross wasn’t worried… at first.

At first, it was just Killer; his new hobby had him gradually growing distant. Disappearing frequently into whatever it was that had captured his interest, Killer became even more of an enigma to Cross. 

Cross, ever the optimist, tried to convince himself that it was fine. They argued less after the first few weeks of this disappearing act, Cross didn’t see him enough to pick a fight. And maybe, just maybe, Cross was worrying unnecessarily about some elaborate prank that Killer might be planning, he thought to himself. But that was fine too, he told himself. He tried to convince himself.

Because it was easy to push away the undercurrent of anxiety that gnawed at Cross. But it continued to manifest as a subtle unease, a nagging feeling that lingered in the back of his mind. He observed Killer's new behavior, the way he'd get lost in thought, and Cross couldn't shake the feeling that something more significant was at play. Yet, there was this ever-reassuring mantra in his mind: it was fine, everything was fine.

Cross tried, he pretended but seemed found himself grappling with his own concerns, caught in a delicate balance between trusting Killer and the unsettling feeling, assuming now there was more to the story. Still, he maintained a facade of normalcy, convincing himself that whatever distance and tension had developed was simply a phase, a side effect of Killer's newfound hobby and things would go back to normal soon. As soon as Killer got bored with it. 

But then Dust started disappearing along with Killer. 

Now Cross was concerned.

Cross's anxiety now echoed loudly in his mind. The worry he had been trying to suppress consumed him. Every attempt at reassurance felt hollow, and the mantra that "everything was fine" sounded more like a desperate plea than a statement of fact.

As days and weeks passed with both Killer and Dust absent from their usual training and banters, Cross's imagination painted ominous scenarios. The once familiar routines became a source of apprehension, and Cross's attempts to keep things normal started to feel like a flimsy charade.

The silence enveloped the empty spaces left by Killer and Dust, Cross's anxiety reached its peak. The optimistic facade shattered, and he admitted to himself that it was not fine. The unsettling feeling had solidified into a tangible fear, and Cross was left alone with the weight of uncertainty, realizing that whatever was happening, it was far from fine.

Cross hadn’t even realized he began to pace the room as the soft falls of his feet matched the rhythm of his racing thoughts.

Or that he had an audience to his downward spiral during his late night training. 

“Cross.”Axe’s voice cut through the steady beat of Cross’s steps.Startled, Cross halted and looked to Axe, who had silently entered the training room.

“Y-Yes?”he asked, surprised to be suddenly stopped. He meets Axe’s one large red eyelight in confusion and hesitation. 

“This doesn’t look like a late night snack. You’re pacing.” Axe responds blunt as always but never mean spirited. “Something eatin’ at you?”

Cross looked away in embarrassment and rubs the back of his neck in abashment. “Heh.. yeah.” He admitted in a small voice. 

Axe tilts his head, still watching Cross with his singular red eyelight. “Because of what Dust and Killer are cookin’ up ?” He asked, his question causing Cross to go slightly rigid. 

“Ah.” Axe says already knowing the answer. 

“I just-“ Cross starts with clear frustration, his hand making a box motion as his shoulders raised a little before pausing and taking a breath, forcing his shoulders relaxing. “ this kind of thing.. it’s expected from Killer he’s more… you know… than Dust.” Cross said not turning to Axe. 

“Yeah..” Axe replies blandly but listening. 

“And now whatever Killer is up to, Dust is involved! It’s weird! The disappearing! Their stupid hushed arguments- they stop talking as soon as the sense someone else nearby!” Cross poured out, his annoyance and worry filling the words he spoke as he began to pace again. 

“Yeah..” Axe said, watching Cross 

“And Nightmare is acting like it’s nothing! Like it might even be some sort of team bonding! We’re not bonding!” Cross exclaimed, throwing his hands up. 

“Well Dust And Killer are two peas in a pod .” Axe states plainly. He crossed his arms, waiting for Cross to continue, his red eyelight showing a glint of understanding.

“There’s more than Dust and Killer on this team!” Cross scoffed and continued his own rant not even picking up on the pun. 

“You could be a peach and just ask them.” Axe suggested, still watching Cross pace. 

“Dust and Killer aren’t even around long enough to ask them just what the hell they’re doing!” Cross argued before pausing and looking at Axe. 

“Are you in on this too?” He asked 

“Nope.” Axe replied 

“Then aren’t you at least annoyed by this?!” Cross asked. 

“Nah.” Axe replied. 

“How?!” Cross asked exasperated. Axe shrugged, unbothered. Cross sighed annoyed and tired. 

“... you’re starting sound sound nutty. ” Axe said causing Cross pause and then to blanch at him. 

“...Have you been puning this whole time?!” He asked exasperated but definitely less anxious, his shoulders were a lot more relaxed and Axe felt a little bit of pride fill him at Cross relaxing. 

“Yeah” He said plainly with a chuckle, stepping closer to Cross. Axe placed a hand on Cross’s shoulder, his large hand covering the entirety of Cross’s broad shoulder. 

”It’s probably not a big deal” Axe said comfortingly, his words carrying a subtle reassurance. Cross, despite his usual stoic anxiousness, found some solace in Axe's calm demeanor. The tension that had gripped him began to ease a bit, and he nodded in reluctant agreement. For the moment, Cross allowed himself to find a moment of peace amid the uncertainty. 

Cross held back a pout as he crossed his arms and sighed. "I just can't help but feel… like something is happening… something we should be in the know about" he admitted, a twinge of frustration still coloring his voice.

Axe, unmoved by Cross's mild pout, offered a small grin. "No need to go stir-fried crazy about it…"

Cross's gaze shifted from Axe to the vast training room, even as his mind wrestling with itself he couldn’t help but chuckle weakly. "I know, but it's just hard not knowing what's going on with them so suddenly.."

Axe nodded, understanding dawning in his lone red eye. "I get it." Axe clapped a massive hand onto Cross's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

Cross cracked a half-smile at Axe’s silent but blunt comfort. "Yeah, yeah. I'll keep myself occupied and try not to overthink things."

Axe chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling. "That's grape to know."

Cross nodded appreciatively, but pointedly ignoring the pun. "Thanks, Axe. I think this… helped. I just wish we could talk to them now." Cross stated still unable to fully shake off all his worries, but the weight on his shoulders felt a bit lighter. Axe's simple comfort resonated with him, and he found a measure of companionship in it.

As Cross expressed his lingering desire to just communicate with Dust and Killer, unknown to him, Nightmare listened in from the shadows. Their dark presence melded seamlessly with the dim corners of the shadow the light shining out the training room door created in the hallway.

They closed their eye as they absorbed the snippets of conversation.

In the dimly lit corridor, Nightmare contemplated their own thoughts on how to handle this new development. The empath had been keenly aware of Cross's frustration and Horror’s apprehension, yet Dust's new excitement and Killer's dull curiosity left them assuming it might be better for the team to let this development unfold. The evolving dynamics between them intrigued Nightmare, and a sinister smile crept across their face.

In their twisted perception, allowing this… situation to continue might serve their purposes better. They felt that continuing to let the intrigue between Dust, Killer, and Cross play out could be beneficial, especially considering the newfound companionship between Cross and Axe. Nightmare quietly chuckled to themself as they left Cross and Axe alone.

--

Nightmare was pleased, despite the shift happening in their team regarding their… relationships. They hardly paid mind to it before, given their priority in their little prince’s healing and gathering negativity. But now that Dust and Killer were bettering their “relations”... It could only improve their team in the long term, despite the short-term tension it was creating.

Honestly, Nightmare was just glad it wasn’t Cross that Killer decided to start spending more time with. That would have been... a rather loud relationship.

Killer and Dust disappearing to... rendezvous was not their concern. The two were consenting adults, so Dust's excitement and Killer’s curiosity made it clear that they were... exploring their desires, to say the least.The details of Dust and Killer's private interactions were left to their own discretion. As long as it didn't disrupt or interfere with Nightmare's plans, it was of little consequence to them.

Anytime Nightmare felt Dust’s excitement rising and Killer’s dulled emotions sitrring at the same time, they were quick to tune those emotions out. However, it gave them room to… wonder, reflect and anticipate for the future they had planned. How would their team react to their little prince? How would he fit into their dynamic?

They left their office to see him. Wanting to just gaze upon him… They had plenty of patience especially now the most dangerous part has passed.

Nightmare believed he was safe! They had promised to keep him safe! Yet, in the eerie stillness of the moment, in some half-destroyed AU, a sensation surged through Nightmare that shattered that illusion of security. It was inconceivable, almost surreal—his SOUL, the very core of the Negative apple acting as their own SOUL, began exhibiting signs of fracture. This should have been an impossibility, a violation of the fundamental principles that bound his existence.

The initial crack in his SOUL sent a ripple of shock through their ethereal being, as if someone had doused them in icy water, leaving an unmistakable chill. It wasn’t painful for them, but it felt like a clay jar cracked due to internal pressure, a warm sludging feeling filled the center of the crack.. Like something was attempting to eat away at what could be leaking out of his SOUL into theirs. The promise of safety, the very foundation of their existence, trembled under the weight of the unforeseen event. Panic crept into their thoughts, a disorienting feeling that disrupted the calculated calm they had meticulously maintained.

In that moment, the one thing Nightmare had considered invulnerable showed its vulnerability, and the realization struck them with a sense of gripping fear. They grappled with the implications of the inexplicable crack, questioning the very nature of the Negative apple and the supposed safeguards they had put in place by encasing his SOUL inside of theirs! 

Shakily fueled by a sense of urgency and growing terror, Nightmare swiftly opened a portal back to their abode in Dreamtale. The frantic search for solutions began immediately. A cracking SOUL was an ominous sign that could not be ignored. Was their SOUL exerting undue pressure on his?.. They couldn’t take out his SOUL without him dusting; he received too much damage from that damned village attacking him! Was he not receiving sufficient negativity? Improbably, the balance was tipped so far in the favor of negativity that there had never been a time before when so many negative AUs existed in the multiverse! Just what the hell was transpiring within the core of their being?

Nightmare's usually composed demeanor cracked under the strain of the possiblity of… of loosing him. They moved with a fevered intensity through the halls of their castle, their library and any AU that could have potential answers. Each stop echoed with a sense of urgency and violence. Nothing would stop them from keeping their promise! They swore to give him everything! The cost didn’t matter. Deaths didn’t matter.

They delved into the arcane tomes and chambers within their castle and anywhere they could reach. Their library, a repository of ancient knowledge, was filled with stolen books that may have had the potential to have an answer. The search for an answer, a remedy, or a revelation intensified. Every record, history book, scientific research, magic theorem was stored there and compiled. Possible solutions came and went and subsequently failed for over 100 years… The wellbeing of their little prince hung in the balance.

Nightmare's eyes scanned passages and symbols with intensity and desperation in the dim glow of enchanted manuscripts and mystical artifacts. The answers eluded them, hidden within the esoteric language of the AU it was taken from. With each passing moment, the pressure of uncertainty mounted, and Nightmare grappled not only with the external threats but also with the internal turmoil of their once invincible conviction.

And that is when the second crack happened. Nightmare shuddered at the sensation, a similar roughness to clay roughly cracking from inside of their SOUL, the same thick putty seemed to cram itself inside the fracture. It wasn’t just a crack; it felt like something was trying to soak into the damage. This unexpected turn heightened the confusion and deepened the sense of unease that gnawed at the core of their being.

The eerie quietness of the castle intensified the impact of each crack. Nightmare's usually steady hands trembled as they reached down, feeling the subtle vibrations emanating from the fractured SOUL. It was as if the Negative energy within was struggling to mend what had broken and to discern which SOUL to feed. An uncanny mix of relief and apprehension washed over them, adding another layer to the already complex emotions swirling within their ethereal form.

In their frustration, Nightmare slammed their fist on the table, the sound reverberating through the dimly lit chamber. “Damn it!” they shouted in a mix of anger, frustration, and horror. Their other hand clenched their clothes above the SOULs, the fabric bunching tightly in their grip. 

The castle around them seemed to echo with the intensity of their emotions. Despite the initial shock, Nightmare's thoughts raced to understand the events happening and what to do. Was it their own magic responding to the perceived threat? Was there an innate defense mechanism within their SOUL devouring his? The frustration from the uncertainty only fueled their determination.

They couldn't afford to lose the little prince, not after all they had been through together. With a deep breath, Nightmare gathered their composure and delved back into their search, propelled by a mix of desperation and an unyielding commitment to fulfill their promises.

The search for a solution became a race against time, every passing moment carrying the weight of their uncertainty. And in the heart of Dreamtale, where magic and emotions intertwined, Nightmare continued their relentless quest to understand the enigma that threatened the very core of their existence. Now, they knew they needed to go back to the beginning. Before the creation of Dreamtale… back when their were three Trees.

So they turned from theories to fables. Before even they existed. There is where they found their answer.In this primordial realm where existence was still a concept in formation, Nightmare unearthed the answers they sought.

The revelation dawned: beyond the Tree of Feelings lay two more pivotal entities. No, the Tree of Magic stood guarded by Lanny, an elfish custodian who had cunningly preserved Dream's statue before they could destroy it… Vivid in Nightmare's recollection were the disdainful eyes of Lanny, laden with blame for Dream and their little prince regarding the tragic fate of Nim.  

But the third Tree was the Tree of Life, guarded by a guardian by the name of Quetzalcoatl.. a potent elixir promising potential immortality and the power to mend a Guardian's SOUL. The last Tree awaited at the nexus of the multiverse.

Nightmare, they, would get that fruit for their little prince… and they would stop at nothing to get it.

--

Dust glided through the dimly lit corridors of Nightmare's eerie halls with a finesse only he could have. Each step was a silent ballet, his movements careful to avoid the slightest noise and the intermittent flicker of ethereal lights. He knew exactly what he was looking for: Nightmare’s journal. The very journal that had transformed into a repository of their thoughts, secrets, and, most intriguingly, the revelation of a skeleton submerged in the Boss’s magic, a discovery that Killer was obsessed with and managed to drag him into.

The door to Nightmare's office stood slightly ajar, providing a sliver of opportunity for Dust's stealthy escape. He slipped through the opening like a whisper, the hinges protesting ever so softly with a gentle touch. Dust glanced around, ensuring that the coast was clear. Nightmare, had long since left the room, distracted and lost in thought, their attention consumed, Dust saw his chance. Silently, he moved towards the desk where the journal had to be.

With deft fingers, Dust picked the lock to the desk drawer and retrieved the small book, its worn leather cover cool to the touch. He held his breath, aware that any misstep could betray him. The words scrawled across the pages held a certain weight, each entry a piece of the puzzle he and Killer had been piecing together—a mosaic of experiences, and contemplations. They had no other options, they had looked at every. single. record. In the entire castle. In his hands, he held a small leather-bound book, its pages adorned with the meticulous calligraphy of Nightmare's musings— The only other place even a clue could be was in this journal.

As he began to make his retreat, Dust cast a wary glance back at the office, with the stolen journal safely tucked under his arm. He hoped he could return it before it was noticed to be gone.

Chapter Text

The air was tense and heavy with anticipation as the dim light from the window created shadows that moved eerily across the walls. Killer and Dust sat in the dark of Killer’s room huddled together, shoulder to shoulder leaning back against the headboard of Killer’s bed. The small leather-bound journal Dust stole sat in Killer’s hand, low almost resting on their thighs that were so close they were almost touching. 

They looked down at the words spread across the pages in faux-cursive handwriting that seemed to mock them with its deliberate loops. Their heads were close but mindful of the other despite their focus being the yellowing pages. There was a new sense of camaraderie as they stole such intimate thoughts from the pages.

Killer would usually have made a joke about the Boss using a quill to write this but jokes just didn’t seem to suit their interest at the moment. 

The pages detailed not only the Boss's strategies but also the vulnerability of someone who, until now, had been a complete enigma. The unspoken truths filled the silence with the simple flip of a page. Each revelation, each detail of Nightmare's inner musing, resonated within their very essence. It was as if the mess of the room held its breath, as the gravity of what they were reading came to life.

… The Corruption should have used the essence of the Black Apples to surround his SOUL and encompass it, sheltering it. But it must have added pressure to it, as I continued to tip the scale in favor of negativity, causing damage to his base HP it seems, depleting it and absorbing it. My SOUL has been using his as the core of itself. 

I can only assume the backlash from Dream the Other Half being released from stone too early is the catalyst for this unfortunate situation. That damned elf and cat had to get involved. I was supposed to have well over 1,000 years, but now it has been cut in half! 

The plan will have to change, he can not rest inside of me anymore… 

The room remained silent, disturbed only by the muted rustle of the worn pages. Each flip was deliberate, almost mechanical. The air seemed to lose its vitality, as the words settled and passed- their eyes scanned to the next. The words etched in the journal held an undeniable weight, but the impact was met with a surreal and aching numbness that rested in their SOULs.

...Potential solutions are scarce, I have scoured half the Multiverse and any possible answer leads me in circles. He is running out of time! Another large crack has stretched across his SOUL, I can feel it as mine attempts to fill it in. I do not know if it’s my own self-perseveration or an attempt to absorb him fully.

The damned Creator is involved now as well, watching my movement and the timelines that have diverged due to my interference. He will soon turn his eyes to Dr  the Other Half to recruit the fool, no doubt. It’s infuriating knowing the Other Half is gaining strength and preparing. I cannot even enter the AU he resides in due to low levels of negativity….

The pair seemed to be getting more questions than answers as they continued to read the words before them. As they continued to navigate through the cryptic passages, the absence of clarity bred a sense of unease. It was unclear who the boss was talking about when referring to “He”. Did Boss have a different henchmen before them? 

They continued to flip the pages, reading. The journal seemed to be both an invitation and a barrier to understanding. 

… Although I do not have access to the Tree of Magic due to the Other Half’s training under its guardian there seems to be possible solutions in the other existing Tree. I will make my way to the Tree of Life instead. There were three trees in the beginning, the one he, I, and the Other Half were born from and the other two. It seems possible that I can utilize the other… 

The pages continue to flip and change. Stories untold unfold but nothing seems to be able to provide any clarity. 

… I have finally managed to retrieve the Fruit of Life… it is far from a normal fruit, its likeness is comparable to a crystal. It shines with vitality and life, using the potential solutions found in magic transfusion theorems it seems possible for this to not only remove him but provide a new magic source to sustain his SOUL…

It’s all just so frustrating. Even in their journal, they speak vaguely and in riddles. 

… It has been done. He is safely removed from me. It was a dangerous excursion but he is safe. 

His SOUL absorbed the magic from the Fruit of the Tree of Life successfully. He shall retain his immortality and live beside me, as he is mine. Though his physical body is still heavily injured from the village’s attack. Half of his cranium was missing and damage to his ribs and spine was still present. In the time he resided in me, his body was completely unable to heal. it will take a very long time to heal but he will. 

It was… terrifying to know he had almost dusted in my arms, almost dusting before me once more. I had to act fast and only just halted his end. Through some theorems and other AU’s information on magic transfusion, I managed to soak him in healing magic, made of the shell of the Fruit of Life. His magic is responding well so far and he.

 Nightmare is finally safe. 

His mind will need to heal as well so I will finish the dreamscape quickly. I can only give nightmares of my own design so a memory will have to do… 

The dimly lit room seemed to close in as the weight of those words settled between them. Killer's response was not immediate; instead, he lifted his head, his semi-permanent grin seemed hollow as he looked at Dust. His soul trembling trying to waver between stages but not able to. 

Killer's eyelight, usually unseen, lit thinly and bore an unusual solemnity as he met Dust's gaze. It was a gaze laden with the weight of recognition. The camaraderie they shared with Nightmare, their Boss, the loyalty they pledged, now stood on shifting ground.

Dust pressed on, his voice carrying a forced edge that sliced through the thickening tension. 

"Who the hell's Nightmare then?"  

—

Axe was hungry. 

Well, he was always hungry, haunted by the phantom pains of his world. But he felt a little less hungry when working in the kitchen or his garden. 

It was the way those moments calmed his SOUL, the way his hands moved mindlessly, and how simple the instructions were that made it easy, natural even. His head injury made it difficult to remember and follow complex directions, after all.

The rhythmic chopping of vegetables on the worn wooden cutting board filled the air, accompanied by the earthy smell of plucked herbs from his garden. Maybe it was how he didn’t have to think deeply to follow a recipe or prune the plants he chose, consider the shortcuts and replacements he would need to use because the food was slowly running out. 

The aroma of simmering broth wafted through the kitchen, a comforting scent that mingled with the robust fragrance of garlic and onions sizzling in a pan. Axe inhaled deeply, momentarily escaping the stale moggy scent that seeped into his joints and clung to him grossly, reminding him of what he really was. Maybe it was the way the different smells filled the air, replacing the acrid memories with the promise of a hearty meal.

Maybe it was everything, how it reminded him, grounded him with the stark difference of his old home; now he had the means to cook a meal, to even grow food to not have to fight like a starved dog for scraps. There was a tactile satisfaction of running his fingers over the velvety leaves of herbs, the rich scent of damp soil beneath his fingertips, it all spoke to a life beyond mere survival.

It was nice. He liked it. He didn’t regret his deal with Nightmare. He wasn’t safe but he was safe from what haunted him. That was enough. 

Axe reveled in the simple pleasures of the kitchen, a refuge from the gnawing hunger that settled deep in his marrow. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables became a meditative act, a therapeutic escape that momentarily silenced the echoes of his past. His hands, calloused from the harsh realities of survival, now found solace in preparing a meal.

The garden, his haven of growth and life, life created from his hands as he tended to the vibrant greens and fragrant herbs. Each bloom became a testament, a proof that he was in a livable world, a stark contrast to the wasteland that had defined his existence before Nightmare's offer. 

The rich smell of simmering broth filled the air, intertwining with the earthy scents of the garden. Axe's senses grounded him in the present. As he stirred the pot, he marveled at the transformation of simple ingredients into a feast – a luxury he had never dared to dream of in the world he came from. And it was enough.

Even if it was enough for him and even if what he now had calmed him and reminded him he was safe, someplace different and far away from what he was, he couldn’t ignore the building tension of his teammates. It struck an uncomfortable nerve in him. Like when his underground began to realize they were running out of food, just before the scale was tipped. 

Cross was anxious. Killer was quiet. Dust was angry. Nightmare was doing nothing. 

Axe did not like it. It hadn’t been like this before. Sure, when Nightmare put together their little team there was tension. It was impossible not to have some tension when they were all the same person who made different and difficult decisions. But that was over, done. It was supposed to be settled by now. 

Axe looked down at the simmering pots on the stove, his usual sense of calm eluded him. The kitchen suddenly felt stifling. The clinking of utensils and the hiss of boiling liquid seemed to echo in his skull, creating an eerie symphony that resonated with the growing disquiet in his mind. 

He felt his hand reaching for his useless eye socket as he stood, the rhythmic throb of the phantom hunger that always lingered in his stomach intensified, mirroring the discord in the air. Looking down at the pots filled with their dinner. Their food. He knew the issues weren’t about food . He knew that. But the atmosphere was too similar to what his underground experienced, the same sort of tension building, before things got worse, was making his hands itch with a need to stop it before it was too late, too far gone. 

He snatched down on his socket. The same foreboding unease clawed at his insides, and Axe found himself teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t define. His hands, once steady and sure, now betrayed a subtle tremor as he gripped the edge of his socket. The kitchen continued to blur in front of him. 

The tension around him seemed to coil tighter, and Axe, his thoughts were loud and quiet at the same time, grappled with a need to stop the impending storm before it swept them all away. It was like trying to grasp at smoke; every attempt at clarity only seemed to shroud his mind in further confusion.

“Hey Axe, I can set the table while you go get the others.” Cross offered his voice a distant echo in the disconcerting fog that enveloped Axe's mind. When had Cross even gotten to the kitchen? The question hovered at the periphery of Axe's consciousness.

Axe nodded, pulling his hand away from his socket, the residual pain lingering on his cheekbone. He didn’t look at Cross either; there wasn’t a need to. The act of cutting the stove and moving the pot to the table felt like going through the motions. The rhythmic clinks and clatters of kitchenware seemed both muffled and exaggerated.

Axe felt numb, disconnected, and kinda wispy. It was a little off-putting for him but he tried to push it aside to go do what he needed to do. As he moved towards the door to get the others, Axe couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t really there, where the lines between reality and illusion blurred into uncertainty. The echo of Cross's words lingered in the air, an invitation to step back into a semblance of normalcy, but Axe couldn’t shake off that disconnection that clung to him.

Dust room first. Knocking on the door. No one answered, which wasn’t unusual but didn’t quite settle Axe as he had hoped- especially as he couldn’t hear the usual quiet shuffling from Dust. 

“Dinners ready.” He called out anyway before moving to Killer’s room. 

The closer he got, the more shuffling he heard, like an argument building to shoving before knives and bones were drawn. The muted sounds of disagreement made Axe's low levels of magic prickle with tension. Each step felt like an intrusion into a space where something was unraveling, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. The dim corridor seemed to close in around him as he approached the door to Killer’s room.

Axe paused outside the door listening to the hushed argument taking place. The atmosphere was charged with an unspoken turmoil, and Axe's numbed instincts poked at him to proceed with caution. The rhythmic sounds of the argument thudded through him, amplifying the sense of impending chaos. He hesitated, hand poised to knock, but a hint of uncertainty held him back. 

“-We can’t keep doing this-” Dust's growl cut through the air, his tone strained and angry. Axe could almost taste the bitterness in the syllables.

“No. You can’t! It doesn’t even matter about the damned-“ Killer's voice was sharp, cutting off abruptly, leaving a palpable tension in the air.

There was a heavy pause, pregnant with unspoken words that Axe strained to understand. The undertones of the conversation clawed at his consciousness, a silent warning that he was tiptoeing into a delicate situation. 

Oh. It seemed he was caught eavesdropping. 

Axe knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the strained silence, each beat hanging in the air like a suspended breath. The door creaked open, and Killer's expression, his usual fake grin, seemed strained, as if holding back something beneath the surface. The room behind him felt charged, 

“Hey, big guy! Dinner ready?” Killer asked in a borderline nasally tone. The black sludge dripped from his sockets a little more heavily than usual. 

Axe nodded silently observing Killer. His eyes then drifted into the room, catching sight of Dust, who stood with his back turned toward the door, shoulders tense

Killer, seemingly aware of Axe's scrutiny, drew his attention once more. “Thanks Axe,” he said, his grin tightening a notch beyond its usual facade. 

Axe acknowledged Killer's gratitude with another nod, turning away to walk down the corridor. As he made his way to Nightmare’s room, the castle seemed to close in but remained just out of the full depth of his consciousness. In the wake of such a scene, he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on between Killer and Dust but his mind was a little too numb to actually provide any possible theories.

—

The scorching sun had just begun to set, casting the gritty streets in a warm-faded glow. The cracked concrete underfoot seemed to stretch like battle scars from footsteps and stand-offs. Each slight fracture seemed to add another dirty secret to the city.

It was when dusk had finally settled that Cross’s shadow stretched a little longer on the roof of the building he and Axe stood on. In the unfamiliar 1920s-style city of the MafiaFell AU, the humid air, mingled with the heat radiating from the sun-soaked ground. The hum of distant traffic and the occasional echo of footsteps amplified the urban noise, signaling the rewrite of the story unfolding in the dimming light. 

The mission was supposed to be straightforward – take out some human official that would vote against the desegregation of Monsters and Humans, blame it on Monsters to cause a civil war, and create negativity. A simple pull of a trigger and they were done. 

But, yet again, Killer and Dust started their damned whispering and then vanished halfway through the mission.

Axe, seemingly unperturbed by the unexpected hot breeze that smelled grossly of exhaust and gunpowder, the distant wail of sirens, and the not-so-subtle frustration of Cross, watched the setting sun. 

Meanwhile, Cross remained kneeled, aiming a sniper carefully as they waited for the right moment to shoot. He aimed the sleek sniper rifle, its matte finish gleaming dully in the fading light. Its barrel was cool to the touch despite the way the concrete of the roof scratched at his knee at an uncomfortably warm temperature. 

Cross sighed, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. Dust was supposed to be the sniper, not him.

Even on a mission, where Cross thrived under the pressure of fighting from his past training as a royal guard, he still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that something was amiss. Especially as Killer and Dust disappeared, again- even when they were gone he could practically taste the weird new conflict between them.

The minutes ticked by like an eternity as Cross held his breath, tracking the unsuspecting human official through the scope. The distant hum of the city faded into a tense silence.

Axe's gaze flickered between Cross and the horizon, almost bored but his stiff shoulders made it clear he was annoyed too. The evening was filled with a charged stillness, a quiet before the storm, but for them, it was supposed to be a simple mission.

Cross exhaled slowly, focusing on his target. The rhythm of his SOUL beat synchronized with the gradual squeeze of the trigger under his prepared focus. The moment was suspended in time, each beat an echo in his skull.

Just as he prepared to pull the trigger, his hands shook slightly with suppressed anxious energy. Cross hesitated, an instinctual feeling gnawing at him to call his blade. But this wasn’t his usual battleground, there was no time for second-guessing. With a swift, calculated motion, Cross pulled the trigger.

The muffled gunshot shattered the silence bringing back to life the city sounds, the recoil of the rifle vibrating through Cross's hands. The bullet sailed true, finding its mark with lethal precision. The government official crumpled, dead.

Yet, as the distant sirens wailed in response to the gunshot, Cross couldn't shake the feeling that something was still wrong. Killer and Dust were still nowhere to be seen, because of this the strategy had to be changed and Cross did not enjoy the sudden change of plans. 

Axe turned to Cross, his eyes reflecting the same annoyance. " Let's go find them.” he said in a gruff tone as he turned and walked off to search for Dust and Killer.

Cross lowered the rifle, scanning the surroundings with a furrowed brow. The sun had now dipped below the horizon, casting the city into an ominous twilight. He sighed and stood up, following Axe, abandoning the gun.

The pair moved in silence, each thinking similar annoyed thoughts about the continued development. Neither had the patience to talk about- at least Cross didn’t. He was fed up with it. It was no longer a mere prank; it was a disruption that seeped into the fabric of their missions. Cross's footsteps echoed alongside Axe's, resonating through the desolate alleys and abandoned streets. 

After some time, they stumbled upon a dimly lit alley. Cross frowned, a peculiar mix of suspicion and concern knitting his brow. There, in the shadows, he spotted Killer and Dust engaged in what seemed like a heated discussion. The air was charged, heavy with unheard words.

Cross attempted to approach them cautiously, but Axe swiftly intercepted him before he could step around the corner. Axe pulled him back by the fluff of his uniform roughly, practically lifting him off the ground. Confusion painted Cross's expression as he glanced up at Axe, only to comprehend the situation when Axe gestured for silence with a single phalange raised to his teeth. Cross raised a brow and was about to ask when a slam of bone-hitting bricks caught their attention. 

Dust had Killer pinned to the wall before he scoffed, shoving Killer further into the brick,

As he let out a heavy sigh, frustration etched across his features. "It's not about trust, Killer-"

Killer shoved Dust's hand off of him and took a step forward aggressive and taunting, the dim light catching the glint in his empty eye sockets as he cut off Dust. "We've been through worse, Dust-?"

Dust's eyes narrowed, and he growled. "I can't stand this shit anymore! We can’t stay still like this-it affects all of us."

Killer's demeanor shifted, his tone taking on an edge. "A little secret doesn’t affect jackshit."

Dust shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You think it's that simple, Killer? So, you’ll just act as a lapdog forever? And then what?!"

“At least I’m not a little bitch.” Killer said, itching for a fight. “You wanna run off with your tail between your legs!” Killer scoffed with his wicked grin. Dust summoned his sharpened bone and shot it at Killer. Killer moved his head and dodged the blow as the bone lodged into the brick wall. 

Cross felt his back pressed against Axe’s larger frame but he felt himself try to take a step back- to press further into Axe and closer to the alleyway. 

But his shoe scraped lightly on the concrete and silence filled the air and the fighting pair drilled. Killer and Dust were now staring at the entrance of the alleyway while Axe sighed and dragged himself and Cross into view. 

Dust looked up, eyes flashing with annoyance as he unsummoned his bones, and Killer's grin seemed far more forced as he unsummoned his knife. The tension was palpable.

“What is going on with you two?” Cross asked before he thought. He hated it when he did that. 

“We're handling it!” Dust snapped, his words sharper than usual but not answering Cross’s question. 

“Yeah, it's just... mission-related stuff.” Killer's tone was a little too defensive, a little too rehearsed.

“Mission’s …done.” Axe said bluntly. The pair exchanged looks.

Cross-eyed them suspiciously, torn between pressing further and just wanting to leave. “Fine, whatever. Let’s get back to Nightmare.” Cross huffed annoyed as he turned to open a portal. He missed the way Dust tensed at Nightmare's name- But Axe noticed. 

Axe nodded in agreement to Cross but made no comment or Dust, his gaze lingered on Killer and Dust as Cross opened a portal. 

Cross glared ahead. This ends. Tonight. 

—

Cross did try to confront Killer about his disappearing act and arguments with Dust after dinner that night. The air crackled with tension as Cross, his expression a mix of frustration and concern, confronted Killer in the hallway with Axe standing behind him for support. 

It wasn’t a rare sight to see Cross so openly challenge Killer and the atmosphere seemed to build more and then crack. Killer's crude charm and fluidity in avoiding direct answers were on full display. It was as if he had a well-rehearsed script for these moments, effortlessly diverting the conversation away from anything that might reveal his true intentions with puns and humor- just like a typical Sans.

Killer effortlessly sidestepped questions, especially when it came to Cross. Exploiting Cross's evident tics and habits was easy for him. Cross’s emotions were obvious on his face most times. The amusement he found in pranking Cross was double-sided— his reactions, so transparent on his face, were almost endearing to Killer. 

Killer made his escape, Dust had long since shortcutted away while Killer diverted attention and scurried off down the hall, his footsteps echoing softly.

Killer lay in bed thinking about the situation. Whether it was the subtle tremble of his hands in anxious moments or the spirited defiance he displayed in a fight, Cross managed to both entertain and irritate Killer. Yet, amidst the enjoyment, there lingered a faint trace of envy. 

Killer's own emotions were muted and detached, a distant echo of what he witnessed in Cross. The intensity of Cross's feelings stirred a curiosity in Killer. He found himself wondering what it would be like to experience such vivid emotions again… or even the deep sense of betrayal that was currently consuming Dust. 

Both Cross and Dust seemed to swim in emotions Killer could only observe.

But Dust was like Killer, Dust had numbed his own feelings, forcing all that self-hate into the hallucination of his brother and insanity.  Killer couldn’t help but wonder if Dust’s little ghost was whispering, urging him, to leave the Boss after reading that damned journal.

The thought made Killer twitch is a slight discomfort. He found himself leaving his room in the dead of night. He needed some fresh air, a moment to… do something, he didn’t know as he began to wander. 

Killer knew, he knew , this… situation would blow up. But for now, he just wanted to enjoy his fun while he could. As he strode through its dimly lit corridors, the air felt heavy with the same unspoken tension as his ever-present grin became a shadow of its usual impish-ness. 

The stone walls seemed to absorb the echoes of whispered arguments and silent frustrations. He found himself heading to the west wing, it had become a habit to seek out the strangeness of it. As his thoughts jumbled and numbed, his smile stretched because, despite it all, it was exciting. A new thrill. He chuckled as pressed forward. 

A glimpse of movement caught Killer's attention at the entrance of the west wing causing him to pause. There stood Dust, his figure partially obscured by the shadows. The erratic energy surrounding Dust was palpable even from a distance, and Killer knew Dust was planning something.

“Whatcha doin’ there Dusty?”He asked playfully but a threatening edge was obvious.

The room remained silent, save for the hum of magic and the distant echoes of Killer's words. Dust turned to Killer, his face blank and eyes wild as his hand twitched. Dust paused before chuckling almost manically.

Dust's laughter echoed through the dimly lit corridor, each strained chuckle sending shivers down Killer's spine. The air thickened with an unspoken threat as Killer narrowed his eye sockets, his playful demeanor morphing into something more serious but keeping his impish grin.

"Something funny, huh, Dust?" Killer's tone held a dangerous edge. He stepped forward as Dust's expression remained blank, his eyes reflecting a wild intensity.

"Just getting answers, Killer." Dust finally replied, his voice carrying an unsettling calmness that clashed with his manic demeanor. Killer's grin faded, replaced by a stern glare as he realized Dust fully planned to either find a way to free the hidden gem Killer found behind the mirage magic or kill the skeleton.

“KILLER!” Cross yelled as he and Axe finally found the pair. It seemed Cross was determined to get answers from him and Dust- he must have searched their room before finding them. Killer almost wanted to roll his eyelights. 

Cross's brow furrowed in concern as he caught sight of Killer and Dust. Axe, standing beside him, felt the unease radiating from the scene. "What in the...?"

Killer's sockets narrowed further as he assessed Dust's intentions. It was clear there was no turning back; the tension had escalated beyond the point of mere confrontation.

"You don’t want to do that, Dusty" Killer warned, a low growl underscoring his words as he barely spared Cross and Axe a glance

Cross, his concern deepening, took a step forward, his eyes flickering between Killer and Dust. "What's going on?"

Axe remained on edge, ready to intervene if the situation spiraled out of control. The atmosphere crackled with a volatile magic urging to be released.

Dust's shoulders tensed as he continued walking toward the clock mirage magic, seemingly indifferent to the intervention. His actions spoke louder than any words, signaling an inevitable collision.

Killer surged forward, magic coursing through his bones as he aimed his summoned knife to intercept Dust before he reached to disrupt the mirage magic. Axe grabbed Cross by the back of his uniform and pulled him back in the nick of time. 

Cross stumbled back into Axe. Cross looked up at Axe, the pair exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. Whatever was happening, they couldn't afford to let it escalate further. Cross righted his posture and summoned his blade, the metallic rasp echoing in the corridor, while Axe prepared to use brute force.

The clash of magic erupted as Killer and Dust collided. Killer summoned his knife, and as he moved with predatory grace, it was obvious he had intentions to subdue not kill. In contrast, Dust brandished sharpened bones, his movements erratic yet surprisingly effective in defense. They jumped back after the first exchange of blows.

Killer lunged forward again, his knife slicing through the air with deadly precision. Dust, fueled by manic energy, dodged the attack with uncanny agility, his right eyelight a blaze. The corridor's dim lighting flickered with every clash. 

Axe, moving like a looming sentinel, attempted to intervene, his body poised to intercept the fighting duo. Cross, more agile, circled the fight, looking for an opening to insert himself into it before the blows turned lethal.

Dust retaliated, his bone weapons slashing through the air with a bone-chilling whistle. Killer parried with the finesse of a trained murderer. The corridor seemed to shrink around them as the intensity of the fight heightened.

"Enough, both of you!" Cross shouted, attempting to break their focus. His voice, authoritative and stern, cut through the cacophony of clashing weapons.

Killer and Dust growled at one another as Cross slammed his blade down between them, forcing the pair to drop back from each other and glare heatedly at Cross.

Before Killer or Dust could bark at Cross there was a subtle sound, a soft hiss of escaping air, the entire clock fizzed out of place, with a grainy pop as the four turned to see a furious Nightmare in the narrow opening of where the mirage magic was prior. Cross and Axe could barely make out the purple glow inside the hidden room.

Everyone froze. Cross’s jaw dropped at the sudden shift and his eyes widened; he didn't know what to do or even what was developing. Axe’s red eye shrunk and trembled knowing they were in deep shit. Killer and Dust stiffened. 

There was a pause, only a moment before Nightmare’s face contorted into pure unadulterated rage.

“ WHAT FOOLISHNESS POSSESSES YOU?! ” Nightmare's roar echoed through the space, the shadows embracing them, their form seemingly expanding with the darkness. The cyan magic in their eye illuminated the scene with an eerie glow as they glared down at their henchmen.

The released aura hit the others like a tidal wave, forcefully driving them to their knees. A suffocating sense of despair engulfed them, rendering them powerless against the overwhelming onslaught of emotions. Cross, unable to resist, found himself sobbing uncontrollably, while Dust, overwhelmed, clenched his head in a futile attempt to ward off the mental assault. Killer clenched his SOUL and clawed at the ground while Axe resorted to a physical response, tugging at his eye and skull injuries in a gritty attempt to counter the mental onslaught.

The oppressive aura not only tormented the minds and emotions of Nightmare's henchmen but also disrupted the delicate weave of magical energies surrounding the skeleton encased in the orb of purple magic, hidden behind Nightmare. As the wave of negativity surged through the air, the ethereal currents of healing magic around the skeletal figure flickered and wavered.

The gentle hum of restorative energy, once a steady undercurrent, faltered and flickered in response to the malevolent force unleashed by Nightmare. The purple glow that enveloped the skeleton dimmed momentarily as if struggling to maintain its luminosity against the suffocating darkness.

The skeleton seemed to shudder within its magical confinement. Its bony form tensed, and the soothing light of the healing magic waned. The fragile equilibrium between healing energies and malevolence hung in the balance, creating an unforeseen vulnerability in the very magic designed to protect and sustain. 

The oppressive silence that followed was abruptly shattered by an unexpected noise, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. Nightmare's enraged aura faltered as their attention was drawn to the foreign sound. A sudden, pronounced pop echoed through the space, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. Simultaneously, the comforting purple glow surrounding the skeleton vanished, leaving behind a residue of healing magic that lingered in the air.

Quickly collecting their aura, Nightmare watched as the healing magic worked its subtle influence on their minions, calming the turmoil.

However, their hopes were crushed when they met with a sight that struck an unexpected chord, like cold water being poured into their SOUL.

Those pretty, hazy purple eyelights staring up at them.

Chapter Text

Where was he?

The world around him was a smudge of shadows, light, and colors. A swirling mess of blurring edges and half-formed, splintered thoughts-. Reality wavered, slipping, and hazing over. Everything felt wrong—cold, jagged, hard, and rough. Distant sounds came through a thick fog, muffled and warped as if filtered through layers of gauze.

Was this a new dream? Is…he awake?

There was yelling- harsh and panicked. it was loud and muffled but present. His body was heavy, anchored to the surface beneath him by a new sense of gravity, yet his mind drifted freely. Every part of him ached and pulsed. Each pseudo-breath sent a dull throb through his bones, echoing through limbs that didn’t quite feel like his own. Every crack was alight with a deep, bone-weary ache that pulsed with his unsteady SOULbeat. His SOULbeat seemed so slow, fractured, flickering like static behind his ribcage.

Then he gasped. He choaked

Was he-….Was he actually breathing?…on his own?

He’s senses heightened at the realization, but a weight still clung to him, like invisible chains trying to drag him back under but he fought it, as if to shock him into action, because just beyond the veil, he sensed the world of the living—so close, yet just out of reach. Colors seemed more vibrant here, though they lacked definition, and fleeting images danced behind his eyelights as they flickered closed. People were moving, yelling, arguing but nothing was clear.

Everything sat at the edges of his awareness, fragments of conversations he couldn’t quite grasp. He tried to listen, but they slipped away, leaving only the faintest trace that scratched at the inside of his skull like needles. Each breath came in slow, ragged, painful gasps, the air scraping painfully down his throat, despite his lack of need for it. Everything hurt—sharp and dull, all at once and every breath brought another wave pulling him under.

His head hurt.

Something gripped him suddenly, cold and unfeeling, hauling him up. He felt a strange, wet static pressing against his bones, vibrating faintly. The world tilted and spun, and all he caught was the blur of cyan light—a single, glowing eye—and a jumble of voices, sharp and urgent but just as distant.

And all he could understand was his own thoughts… and the only words he could muster were.

”…wh-who….?”

__

Cross was at a loss.

Questions remained unanswered, and everyone seemed to be at odds. Everyone was… off.

Killer was twitchy and on edge, while Dust appeared leery and distant, often talking to his brother more and more. Nightmare had locked himself in his room with the small... sans? Not to mention Axe, he was stressed and trapped in his own head again.

And Cross?

Cross was stuck in the middle of it all

He couldn’t decide what was worse: being left in the dark, or being ignored by those who already knew the truth. This he was left feeling frustrated. He couldn’t tell if being left entirely in the dark was worse or better; the unanswered questions made him feel almost empty, painfully so. Each fragment of an answer pushed him further into a feeling of isolation from the facts he understood and those he did not.

It reminded him of when he was trapped in that white anti-void—almost. It was the same feeling of being trapped, left to his own thoughts and meager interactions that occurred only when it was convenient for another. Cross couldn’t help but compare this feeling to that time, noting how similar it was but with an added sense of betrayal and confusion, as if he were watching those around him turn their backs on him over and over and over again.

He could feel his SOUL tighten and beat inside him, as if trying to run and hide from the thoughts that made him feel this way.

All he could do, or all he could think to do to lessen it was distract himself, dull his own mind, and train. A constant, mindless motion- something only requiring instinct. So he trained. Moved. Hit the dummy. Harder. Again. Again. Mindless, mechanical, desperate.

Something, anything to just make it stop.

—

Axe was not the best at judging time…

He had gotten better, but still not very good at it.

However one thing that Axe always knew was when it was time to eat, knowing when someone needed to eat. And he knew…the kid—Boss’s little secret—had gone far too long without food. And he hated it. Despised seeing how small and frail the thing was, greying bones…and weak.

It reminded him of when it all started—the food began to diminish, rationing set in, and then there was nothing left. The Monsters began going, and now Pap's was almost gone-

CRINK

A sudden pain from an unconscious tug on his eye socket woke him up a little—enough to keep him cooking. The sound of the pot simmering and the smell of meat baking provided him with some comfort, reminding him that things were different now, even if they didn’t feel stable.

He paused for a moment, the spoon hovering above the bubbling broth, as shadows of the past flickered in his mind, sucking him away from reality again. He couldn’t help but stir the pot harder than necessary, the spoon clanging against the metal. He remembered the hollow eyes of the friends he once knew. The way despair clung to air like a rotten vegetables. The hunger painted starkly across those that survived, a type that never left- no, it haunted.

His hand clenched the rim of his eye socket pulling him back enough to move. As he stirred the pot, he could almost hear the desperate rumbles of empty, almost hollow, bellies echoing through the cold nights, the haunting silence where laughter used to be. The memory felt like a weight pressing against his chest, his very SOUL.

This new silence left him trapped in memories he hadn't realized could choke him the way the they were. He hadn't realized how quiet it could be in the castle. The silence in the castle was unbearable. Too many ghosts. Too many secrets.

—

It was too damn bright.

The judgement hall pulsed with an electric energy, the air alive with the thumping beat of the bass that resonated through the ground and into their bones. Bright, golden lights painted the walls in streaks of yellows and browns creating a kaleidoscope of color that danced to the battle’s rhythm.

Killer thrived in it.

The Sans moved in perfect sync with the rhythm of his own SOUL pulsing in terror.

Killer rushed forward, his usual sly grin splitting his face as he destroyed the tempo the beat with each step, his body loose and erratic. The beat pounded in a heavy, driving rhythm that pushed it’s way into his skull leaving it throbbing.

His hand twitched as he slashed- aggressive and merciless, each thump ending a jolt of adrenaline through him, leaving his SOUL throbbing.

He swung his knife, too fast to keep time with the sudden crescendo, slicing through streams of light that painted the floor the hall.

Then there was dust where the other Sans had stood.

All Killer could do was freeze….then giggle.

His SOUL ached.

His SOUL rejoiced.

This wasn’t real. He knew it. The dream was melting around the edges, the scene folding in on itself, but Killer didn’t care.

He laughed as his blade swung again.

And when his enemy vanished in a cloud of dust, he paused…

...then giggled.

Liquid Hate streaked down his face like tears. The pressure built. Stage 4 was crawling up his spine. But it didn’t matter.

Killer liked this dream.

—

Dust didn’t handle anger. Not well.

He simmered. Then he exploded.

He sat curled on his destroyed mattress knees too close to his chest to be comfortable. He was left trembling and clutching his skull as the echoes of his torment filled the room. The dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls, amplifying the chaos in his mind. The whispers in his head were screaming again.

KILL IT. KILL IT. KILL IT.

Papyrus never stopped yelling

The words blared like a relentless alarm, drowning out everything else, crazed and insistent. Papyrus, screamed and screeched at him, his voice the ever haunting reminder of the choices he was forced to. Dust felt a jolt of something—a mix of anger, sorrow, and desperation—crash over him, igniting a fire in his SOUL.

He laughed through his tears, a manic sound that seemed to bounce off the broken furniture and the crumbled plaster. Throwing his head back, The bones erupted from the walls, from the floor—sharp, wild, hungry. Clean, sharp shards of white flew outwards, shattering anything in their path, echoing the death and destruction that clouded his memories. He needed the EXP…NEEDED it more than anything. Each attack was a tribute, a grim sacrifice to the insatiable hunger that had taken root within him and seemed to cloud his every action in his tumoil.

As he plunged deeper into his frenzy, the world around him blurred, and for a moment, he felt invincible—like a god wielding the chaos of life and death. The frenzy came in waves. It felt like power, like control, like being seen. And for a moment, he was god. For a moment, he felt right.

But when it ended…

He was still just Dust.

Alone. Angry. Betrayed.

And laughing.

—

Nightmare… sensed it.

Every fracture.

The rot in their team was spreading. Guilt, rage, hunger, fear—all festering within like mold under a perfect surface. They could feel it radiating from the walls, coiling around the castle like a thick fog.

And now… their Little Prince. So small. So broken. So free….

They hadn’t expected his arrival so soon but there he lay… not fully healed but enough to survive. Nightmare would make sure, he would rise from the ashes. They had promised.

He had to.

Nightmare sat in silence beside the bed, shadows crawling up the walls around them like worried hands. His tendrils twitched, responding to every emotional shift in the castle, every sharp breath, every tightening SOUL.

So young.

So fragile.

Mortal.

Yet powerful enough to survive*.*

Nightmare knew their team—tenacious, stubborn, dangerous—but not invincible. Not anymore. This secret would break something open, whether they were ready or not.

And Nightmare…

They weren't sure if the truth would fix their team—

or finish tearing them apart.

But one question lingered above them all:

If they couldn't control what came next…

Then what would the little one wake to?

Chapter Text

“The journal.” Nightmare said, voice low and deliberate from where they sat behind their desk.

The office mirrored their ancient and enigmatic presence. Walls lined with towering bookcases held volumes of forgotten history, each spine a testament to centuries of secrets. Journals lay scattered among meticulously shelved tomes, personal records, truths too dangerous to be spoken aloud. The heavy desk they sat at, carved from dark oak, was an imposing relic in itself, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the flickering lamplight. Nightmare rested their elbows on the polished surface, fingers steepled, a single cyan eye glowing above their hands, cold and watchful.

They stared down the figures before them.

Team. Could they even call them that anymore? Nightmare wasn't sure. Not with the fractured expressions staring back, each face attempting to hide the feeling Nightmare could sense.

Hurt. Confusion.

Such quaint, simplistic words. Barely adequate.

No, what lingered in the room was far more potent: anxiety, betrayal, agitation. Frustration simmered beneath clenched jaws. Sadness clung to shoulders like wet cloth. Loneliness, uncertainty. Those always lingered at the edges, easy to miss.

These emotions were delicious in their complexity. Tangible. Ripe for the taking.

But for once, they hesitated.

Should they feed?

“I am missing a journal. Who has it?” The words cut clean through the silence, calm yet unyielding. Their voice remained deliberate, measured, a certainty that left no room for lies. They weren't asking out of ignorance. Nightmare knew one of them had taken it.

This tension hadn’t sprung from nothing. It had roots, deep ones. Long before the West Wing incident, the first cracks had begun to form. A seed had been planted, and now it bloomed in the nervous glances and tightened jaws before them.

Nightmare had their theory. But theories were dull compared to truth.

They wanted to see who would reveal themselves.

A shift. A spike.

Alarm. Anxiety. Apprehension.

Nightmare felt it ripple through the room like a dropped stone in still water. Their eye locked onto Killer and Dust.

Just as expected.

Neither betrayed themselves through expression. Their faces remained unreadable, bodies still, almost too still. But Nightmare wasn’t watching their faces. They didn’t need to.

The sound of their chair shifting echoed like a warning in the heavy silence.

"Killer. Dust." Their voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. Just the sound of their names, spoken with that unshakable calm, was enough to command attention.

The tension in the room coiled tighter.

Dust’s head tilted just slightly, eyes shadowed beneath his hood. Deflective, guarded. He stared forward, arms crossed, posture loose but not relaxed. Calculated stillness.

Killer kept his usual half-smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth but it didn’t reach his eyes. He continued to twirl his knife as his smirk stretched into a grin.

They were both playing their parts well.

Too well.

Nightmare rose from their chair in one fluid motion, the carved wood groaning faintly in protest. Their single cyan eye remained fixed, unblinking, as if stripping away every layer of pretense.

They paused in front of their desk, letting silence press down like a weight. They leaned their weight back on the desk as they stood and crossed their arms. They could feel the helplessness from Cross and curiosity from Axe but they kept their focus on Dust and Killer.

”Well?”

”Fuck you.” Dust spoke first, his voice a shallow growl, more of a grunt than words.

Nightmare tilted their head slightly, not in surprise, but with a slow, analytical curiosity. Killer froze, the knife stilling mid-twirl as his head snapped toward Dust, expression momentarily unreadable.

Across the room, Cross’s jaw dropped. Axe tensed like a coiled spring, fingers twitching at his sides.

"Why should we tell you anything?!" Dust snapped, stepping forward, shoulders squared. His voice rose, sharp with fury and something deeper, something desperate. "We don’t even know who the hell you really are!"

The silence that followed hit hard.

Nightmare didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Only that cyan eye, cool and calculating, remained fixed on Dust.

For a moment, the room felt like it couldn’t breathe.

Then Nightmare exhaled slowly, controlled.

Their arms unfolded from their chest as they rose to their full height, casting a long, looming shadow across the room. The silence was no longer heavy. It was crushing.

"…I see you’ve read it. And Killer as well…" Their voice was low, deliberate; no louder than before, yet it cut through the tension like a blade. "I imagine it made for an interesting read."

Dust stiffened, eyes flicking briefly toward Killer, who now stood unnaturally still. The grin had vanished from his face, replaced by a taut, unreadable expression as he slowly turned his gaze toward Nightmare.

All eyes were on them now. But Nightmare didn’t falter. Even under the heat of confusion, suspicion, and biting alienation, they remained unmoved, expression unreadable beneath the steady glow of that cyan eye.

“Given the current… unexpected circumstances,” they began, voice smooth and even, “it’s become painfully clear just how fragile your trust and your loyalty really are.”

There was no anger in their tone. No disappointment. Just a detached, clinical assessment, as though dissecting a failing experiment rather than addressing people who once stood at their side.

"How can we trust you after you lied?!" Dust’s voice cracked through the tension like lightning. "Who. Are. You?"

His eyes burned, wild and manic, and Nightmare could feel the flare of magic crackling in the air around him, hot, unstable, ready to snap.

For the first time, Nightmare blinked.

Then they smiled.

”I am Nightmare.”The words were plain, almost amused. But beneath the simplicity was weight, finality… a truth too large to challenge.

Killer’s jaw clenched. Still, he said nothing.

Dust growled low in his throat, barely contained.

Cross’s eyes flicked rapidly between Killer, Dust, and Nightmare, trying to read them all at once, to find sense in the spiraling chaos.

Axe’s eyelight was gone. A subtle sign, but one Nightmare didn’t miss.

"Though I was not Nightmare, originally,"they continued, voice dipping lower, more intimate. Their gaze snapped back to Dust with a calm so sharp it stunned.

"I am Nightmare now. I am the same one who recruited you, who offered you purpose, power, and a place when your worlds had already discarded you."

They let the silence stretch, tension tightening with every second.

"Do not mistake that."

The words hit like a cold slap. Measured, precise, cutting.

"Who I was before is irrelevant. You were chosen by me. The one standing before you."

Their eye burned brighter now, the glow intensifying, not out of rage, but out of certainty, conviction. Silence loomed until Dust scoffed bitterly.

But Killer was the one who broke the tension.

"Then who was Nightmare?" he asked quietly, his voice carrying a weight rarely heard from him.

All eyes shifted again back to the figure at the center of it all. Killer, the first of Nightmare’s henchmen, the most loyal, was the one questioning them.

Nightmare didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, they tilted their head slightly, as if amused or recalling something distant. Their face turned away briefly before they sighed.

They were all a Sans. Different versions shaped by different decisions. Each knew how to spin half-truths, how to weasel out of uncomfortable conversations. It was a practiced and perfected art, honed after enduring countless RESETS.

But Killer was the one pushing. Not Dust. Not Cross. Not Axe. Killer.

Nightmare almost chuckled, tendrils flickering in amusement in place of a laugh. So this was the line they wouldn’t cross, what they refused to accept and move beyond. It made sense. Loyalty required trust. Trust required truth. A name, an identity; these were core truths of a person. To omit them was to shake the very foundation of any relationship.

Adorable.

Nightmare decided to give them what they wanted.

“The child you saw,”they said, their gaze sweeping the group, reading their reactions and emotions carefully.“That is Dream’s... ‘brother.’”

A silence heavier than before fell over the room.

Cross’s eyes widened. Axe’s hand twitched toward his weapon. Dust’s pseudo-breath hitched. Even Killer’s expression dropped, replaced by something more complex—curiosity mixed with unease.

Nightmare let the weight of their words settle before continuing.

“I carry his legacy, his name. All the burdens and responsibilities that come with it… I suppose you could say I made a promise I intend to keep.”Their voice was steady, but the word promise lingered like a whispered echo inside the room. A Sans never made a promise carelessly.

They paused, eye locking onto each member of the team in turn. One thing was clear: the ties that bound them were deeper and more fragile than any of them had dared admit.

—

Pain curled through him like cold fire. His bones ached down to the marrow. Every breath was a battle; what little voice he had was hoarse and caught in his throat.

His eyelights flickered heavy as lead, reluctant to open. The left one struggled more, sending a sharp ache through his skull. He hissed at the pain, shifting focus to the right. The world was a haze of shadows and muted shapes, their smeared edges blending like a faded painting left out in the rain. His mind grappled to make sense of it all.

His body felt foreign. A dull ache pulsed deep in his bones, and every movement sparked pain through limbs that seemed distant, disconnected. Pseudo-breathing came slow and ragged, like dragging air through thick, damp cloth. A bitter taste clung to the back of his throat.

But he was so very alive.

Where am I? The question was a whisper on the edge of his fractured mind, barely formed and already slipping away.

Faint light filtered through curtains, casting jagged patterns across the room.

A low, persistent ringing buzzed in his temples, drowning out every other sound. The quiet was there, but not really. It felt hollow, distorted, like silence stretched too thin.

His head throbbed with every pulse, each SOULbeat pounding a slow, fractured rhythm beneath the surface. It wasn’t steady. It wasn’t right.

This wasn’t his usual dream.

No… it was something else. Something new.

Overwhelming.

He tried to move, but the command didn’t reach his limbs. His fingers twitched—barely. The effort sent another flare of pain slicing through him. He grit his teeth, a low groan catching in his throat.

Something was wrong. He was hurt.

The room swam again, shadows bleeding into light, edges melting away. Shapes loomed and receded at the corners of his vision. Were they real? He couldn’t tell. His mind skittered away from the thought, like it was afraid to follow it too far.

He blinked and fixed his gaze on the ceiling, trying to understand it, trying to make it make sense.

It was there. Solid. Dark. But it shifted, too subtly, impossibly, as if the surface was breathing with him, or against him. Cracks dotted his vision like spiderwebs across the beams, like veins. Or were they moving?

No. That was the dizziness again. Or… something worse.

He clenched his jaw. Focus. He had to focus.

But his thoughts kept sliding, like water across glass. Every time he grasped at something….an idea, a memory, but even that slipped through his fingers, leaving only a vague sense of wrongness behind.

What had happened?

Why couldn’t he remember?

Another flicker of movement, a whisper of light dancing across the ceiling. He blinked hard.

Nothing.

Just the ceiling.

Just the silence.

His fingers twitched again. This time, they moved a little more. A start. A tremor of control.

He….was free.

He wanted to smile, but even that small impulse sent pain lancing through him. Tears welled in his vision in a sharp, burning sensation. Even that hurt. But one tear slipped free, tracing a slow path down his cheek and landing on the silk sheets beneath him.

It was proof.

He was alive.

Chapter Text

Cross couldn’t breathe. At least, not properly.

His breaths came shallow and sharp through his teeth, barely filling his lungs before the weight in his chest forced them back out again. A phantom pressure curled around his ribs, tight, unrelenting. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, jaw tight, eyelights dimmed to slits as he glared at the floor beneath him like it held answers.

How was he supposed to stop the way the walls choked him?

He couldn’t even tell if it was the air pressing in or the thoughts screaming behind his skull.

He couldn’t breathe, not with Nightmare’s voice still echoing in his head like an unfinished sentence.

Sharp.

Clinical.

Final.

Not with the way Dust had stood there, eyes burning, practically daring them all to snap, to speak, to choose. To pick a side.

And Cross had done nothing.

Just stood there like a glitch in time, paralyzed by something deeper than fear. A slow, creeping corrosion.

The silence had stretched long after they’d left the room. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t safety. But it hadn’t stayed behind, either.

It clung to Cross like oil, thick, suffocating, impossible to scrub off. It coated his bones, seeped into the cracks of his thoughts. No matter how many halls he paced, no matter how many times he told himself to move on, to let it go, the scene refused to leave him.

That cyan eye.

That voice.

“Who I was before is irrelevant.”

Bullshit.

Cross moved without direction, eyelights fixed on the floor, not watching where his steps took him. His boots were nearly silent against the cold, hard stone, dull thuds swallowed by the walls. Even his footsteps sounded smaller now.

Somewhere along the way, the air had changed. He noticed the shift too late. He blinked and realized he’d stopped moving.

His head lifted slowly, hesitantly, like part of him already knew what he’d find.

A wooden door stood before him—warped at the edges from years of neglect, its surface scratched and dented. The grain was dark, familiar and the edges jagged.

It was the door the kid was now behind, the one Nightmare had spoken about but never clearly introduced. The one who was Nightmare, but not. Cross didn’t know. Not with the way Nightmare spoke about him. Not with the way his very existence had seemed to unravel the fragile bonds holding their team together.

He hadn’t seen Dust since the fallout. No one had. Killer had vanished not long after without a word, without his usual smirk. Axe had offered nothing. Not even a grunt.

It was like the entire world had dropped a few degrees colder, and Axe... Axe was just quiet. Unaware. Or maybe not unaware at all. Maybe he was simply waiting, the way Cross had been.

Cross swallowed the knot building in his throat. The soft hum of the estate filled the air, vents clicking on and off, pipes shifting in the walls but all of it faded beneath the weight pressing down on his chest.

I don’t belong here.

He hadn’t said the words aloud. Not yet. But they sat behind every breath. Every step. Every half-swallowed truth. And if he said them, really said them. What would that make him?

A traitor?

A coward?

Someone finally honest?

Did it matter anymore?

The thought sat with him longer than it should have. Shame twisted in his chest the moment it formed, but it didn’t vanish. It stayed.

He hated that it stayed.

Cross’s hands trembled again as he looked around, his nerves frayed at the edges, barely holding together. He felt hollow, unmoored like a string cut loose, drifting further with each step. Was this how it had started for Killer and Dust? A strange, morbid curiosity? A pull toward something they weren’t supposed to be near?

A door they were never meant to open?

Cross didn’t know. Not as he stared at the doorknob. Not as his fingers hovered, inches from it. Not as something inside him twisted, cold and aching, aching and ready.

Cross had been a puppet in someone else’s schemes too many times and now… now he would get answers.

So he opened the door.

The hinges groaned in protest, loud in the quiet hall, a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. The air beyond the threshold was colder—sharp, dry, stale. The kind of cold that wasn’t from temperature alone.

He stepped inside.

His eyelights adjusted slowly, revealing shapes in the gloom—a bed with silk sheets and a figure wrapped in them, delicately, preciously.

The kid.

He was far too small. Tiny.

Smaller than even Cross remembered from the West Wing incident, like something had been hollowed out or drained. His bones barely pressed against the blankets, his skull resting heavily against the pillow, eyelights dim and flickering beneath barely parted lids.

Still.

Too still.

Cross's breath caught, throat tightening at the sight. It wasn’t the way he looked, it was the feeling. Like the entire room was holding its breath. Like the walls themselves knew something fragile was balanced here, and one wrong move might break it.

He stepped closer, boots soundless against the carpet.

The air around the kid felt… wrong. Not in a hostile way, but off. Too quiet. Like the usual hum of ambient magic had been muffled, the natural currents of energy stilled to a crawl.

Cross hovered at the bedside, unsure if he was trespassing on something sacred or cursed.

The kid looked half-dead.

But not dying.

No, Cross had seen dying before. This was different. Like he was stuck. Like something inside him was fighting its way back to the surface, slow and painful.

Cross stared down at him, searching the too-small frame for signs of life, of injury, of truth. The way Nightmare had spoken about him, the way the team had fractured after… It all pointed back to this.

To him.

And yet, there was nothing monstrous here. No threat. Just a child. Alone. Barely breathing. Cracks stretching up the left side of his skull

Was this the original Nightmare?

Cross didn’t know.

He only knew that whatever or whoever this was, he didn’t match the legend. The terror. There was no cyan glow in his sockets, no shadows slithering at his feet. Just a kid, small and still, lying in a bed that seemed too big for him. Fragile. Breakable.

And yet the air around him thrummed with something old.

Cross’s SOUL itched with it. He didn’t like it.

He shifted his stance, almost backing away, and felt the floor creak behind him. Cross turned, shoulders tensing on instinct.

Axe stood in the doorway.

Silent. Watchful.

He wasn’t leaning casually. He wasn’t relaxed. He stood like someone who’d been there longer than he should’ve, listening, weighing.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, neither said a word. The only sound was the distant murmur of air through vents.

Then Axe spoke.

“Needs… to eat,” he said, voice flat and toneless but not unkind. Just tired.

Cross blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. His gaze dropped to Axe’s hands.

He was holding a bowl, steam curling slowly upward from the surface. Soup, by the smell of it. The scent was faint but grounding: something earthy, simple.

Cross tilted his head, fully turning now to face Axe with a frown. Axe didn’t answer right away. Just stared past Cross, toward the bed.

After a long pause, he continued. “He is… hungry.”

That last word caught Cross off guard.

“You’ve been here,” Cross said quietly, more realization than accusation.

Axe’s gaze flicked to him. His face was unreadable as ever, but his bright red eyelight betrayed something else.

Resignation. Maybe even guilt.

It passed quickly, like a shadow slipping under a door, but Cross saw it. Felt it.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, brow furrowing as he turned slightly toward the bed again.

So Axe had known. Maybe not everything, but enough.

Enough to care.

Enough to come.

Enough to bring soup.

Enough to stand here like a silent guard while the rest of them fell apart piece by piece, unraveling in arguments and silence and the weight of unspoken questions.

Cross stepped back from the bedside, a quiet gesture of respect, of surrender, allowing Axe space.

Axe approached with quiet steps, careful, measured. Strange, how someone built like a walking fortress could move like that. Like he was afraid even sound might shatter something in the room.

He crouched beside the nightstand and set the bowl down with a soft clink, not once tearing his gaze away from the kid. His hands lingered for a moment, adjusting the spoon beside it, pushing the bowl a fraction closer.

Like it might help. Like it mattered.

“Can tell by the graying bone,” Axe said, voice low, almost clinical. But there was a thread of knowing beneath it. Cross didn’t argue. Didn’t need to.

If anyone knew the signs of long-term hunger—knew what it did to a body, to a SOUL—it was Axe.

Cross's eyes drifted toward the kid again, watching the slow, uneven rise of the silk blankets with each breath.

“…He’s… not awake yet,” Cross murmured, eyelights dimming.

“Not really,” Axe agreed. “Only for seconds. Tries to move. Fails. Stops trying.”

Cross’s brows pinched, arms tightening across his chest. “How long?”

Axe didn't answer right away. Instead, he finally stood back up, slow and deliberate, arms hanging loose at his sides like the weight of the question pulled on them too.

“Few days,” he said. “Maybe more.”

Cross’s expression twitched. “You didn’t say anything.”

“No one asked.” Axe's voice was steady, but his tone wasn’t defensive. Just honest.

Cross let the silence hang between them.

It stretched out, heavy and unyielding, filling the room like a thick fog.

Axe didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t offer any reply.

Cross took a slow step forward, the weight of exhaustion and frustration dragging at his voice. It came low, rough, tinged with bitterness and something he hadn’t meant to reveal, hurt.

“Nightmare’s been hiding him, protecting him, pretending to be him,” Cross said, voice shaking slightly. “While the rest of us are left in the dark, tearing each other apart over half-truths and some... some sense of what? Friendship? Loyalty? Trust?”

He swallowed hard, the words bitter on his tongue. “And you’re just… playing nurse?”

The accusation slipped out before he could stop it, sharper than intended.

Axe slowly turned to face him, the faint glow of his red eyelight steady and unwavering.

His skull tilted just a fraction toward the bed.

“...’s just a kid,” he said quietly, the simplicity of the words carrying an unexpected weight.

Cross stared at him, the words hanging in the air, raw and undeniable.

For a long moment, he fought to find something to say. Words formed, caught, and died in his throat.

He looked back down at the kid, the fragile shape beneath the silk sheets, utterly still, the untouched bowl of soup beside him.

Cross’s chest tightened with a knot of conflicting emotions, resentment, confusion, and something else he wasn’t ready to name.

The truth pressed in on him: beneath the anger and the questions, the kid was just that, someone small and scared, lost in a world he didn’t understand.

Cross’s voice softened, barely above a whisper. “He looks like Dream.”

Cross’s words hung in the air, fragile as glass. Axe’s red eyelights dimmed slightly, as if the weight of that simple truth settled heavily on him, too.

“He does,” Axe said quietly, voice rough but steady. He took a slow step closer to the bed, his gaze never leaving the kid’s still form.

Cross swallowed hard, his throat dry. The anger and frustration that had boiled moments ago now twisted into something quieter, something that felt dangerously like guilt. They’d been so caught up in blame and suspicion, so focused on what Nightmare had done, that they’d forgotten who they were really dealing with.

A kid.

Cross glanced down at the bowl of soup again. The warm steam still curled in lazy spirals above it, untouched and cold. He could almost feel the emptiness beneath the fragile silk, the hunger that went far beyond what food could fix.

Silence stretched again between them, but this time it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like something was shifting, like the first crack in a frozen lake.

Cross exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He looked once more at the kid so small, so fragile, but still breathing. Still here.

And then froze when he saw those purple eyelights.

-----

Something smelled warm.

That was the first thing I noticed. Before the pain. Before the cold.

It drifted in slowly, like fog curling through a broken window. Rich, soft, unfamiliar. Something like herbs. Maybe broth. I didn’t know the name, but I knew it. Knew the way it curled in my chest and made something inside me ache.

I tried to breathe deeper, but the air caught. The sound stuttered around it, fragile and thin, like I’d forgotten how to. Everything hurt, but not in the loud way pain usually did. It was quiet now. Dull. Old.

My fingers twitched beneath the sheets. Silk—cool and smooth against bones that felt too light.

I didn’t know if I was awake. My thoughts were slow, muddy. My body is heavier than it should be.

But the smell was still there.

Warm.

Close.

Safe?

I didn’t open my eyes. Couldn’t. It felt like they might shatter if I tried. But I turned my head just a little, chasing that scent.

And for a second, just a second, I thought I heard voices.

But they were far away.

And then a little closer.

”-like Dream.” Someone said.

The voice curled through the fog like a thread, tugging me closer to the surface. Dream. The name fluttered in my skull like an echo of something I should remember…. my brother, right?

I forced my eyelights to crack look, just enough for the dim light to slip in. It stabbed at me, too bright, too sharp. The world came in pieces, shapes smudged and bleeding together, outlines melting at the edges.

Two figures.

Blurry at first. Dark shapes against a dim background, tall and unmoving. One nearer the bed, the other further back. My vision tried to hold onto them but kept sliding, like oil on water.

I blinked hard. Once. Twice. The shapes gained edges.

Bones.

Skulls.

The first one, further, was smaller, shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides like he wanted to fight something but didn’t know what. His face looked sharp even through the blur, eyelights pale and dim. He radiated a kind of cold anger, but under it, hesitation. Sadness.

The second stood closer, broad and solid, like a wall. Red burned faintly where his eyelight should’ve been. He didn’t move much, but he filled the room, his presence heavy, quiet, patient.

I stared at them, or tried to. My vision wavered, swam. For a heartbeat, their outlines flickered, their features sliding and blurring.

My breath shuddered in my chest. The smell of soup pressed closer, grounding me, making the room feel real even when my thoughts didn’t.

I blinked again. My eyelights flickered weakly. My throat ached, but still, I tried to form a sound.

eyelights met eyelights.

“…who…”

It was barely a whisper. Not even a word, just a dry rasp. But it was all I could manage.

Pain laced down the side of my neck as I shifted. Turning my head felt like trying to move a boulder with broken hands. The ache bloomed deep behind my sockets, dull and heavy, crawling down into my jaw and spine.

But I turned anyway. Just enough.

My gaze dragged slowly toward the two figures.

The smaller one, the one further back, stiffened. His whole frame locked, like the air had frozen in his lungs. His hands curled tighter at his sides, and his shoulders dipped half an inch, like the weight he’d been carrying suddenly doubled.

He looked scared.

Not the loud kind of scared. Not the flinching, backing-away kind. But the kind that lived in your bones. The kind that made you hesitate. Like he wasn’t sure if I was real or if he was.

The taller one stepped forward.

I caught the movement first: the shift of shadows around his boots, the slight sway of his coat. Heavy but careful, like a mountain learning to tiptoe.

He crouched slightly at the edge of the bed. Red glowed softly in his socket, not burning, but watching.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at me. And not in the way others had. Not with pity. Not with suspicion.

There was something steady in his gaze.

Like he’d been here before.

Like he’d expected this.

Like maybe… he wasn’t afraid of me.

I tried again, lips barely parting.

“…who…”

It hurt to try. But I needed to know.

I needed to understand.

But no one answered.

The smaller one just stood there, eyes wide, expression frozen, like he couldn’t decide if he should speak or run.

The larger one moved.

Quiet, steady. He didn’t flinch at my voice or react like I was dangerous.

He just reached.

A bowl clinked softly as he lifted it from the bedside table. Steam curled up from it, slow and lazy, carrying that warm scent again, rich and earthy, grounding in a way that almost made my chest ache more.

Soup.

He picked up a spoon, held it carefully, awkward in his large hand, but deliberate. He crouched beside the bed, knees creaking, and dipped the spoon into the bowl.

It scraped gently along the bottom.

I watched, or tried to. My vision still swam at the edges, shapes blurring when I blinked. But I could see the careful way he moved. The way he tilted the spoon just enough, testing the temperature.

Then, without a word, he offered it to me.

My gaze dropped to it. My arms didn’t move. I wasn’t sure if I could lift them even if I wanted to.

My chest stuttered with a weak, shallow breath. My body ached for what was in that spoon, but I couldn’t do anything but stare.

The big one hesitated, just for a second. Then, slowly, he brought the spoon closer, steady hand guiding it toward my mouth.

I parted my lips.

It was clumsy. The spoon bumped slightly against my teeth. A bit of the broth spilled against my chin. But I swallowed.

Warmth spread across my tongue.

The taste was mild. Brothy. Faint herbs. Nothing sharp. But it hit something deep, something starved. Not just in my stomach, but somewhere farther in.

Something that hadn’t been fed in a long, long time.

My eyelights fluttered faintly. I managed a slow breath through my nose, weak but clearer than before.

The second spoonful came just as gently.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush.

Just fed me.

Quiet. Careful.

Present.

I blinked at him slowly. At the glow of that single red eyelight. At the strange softness beneath all that quiet strength.

I still didn’t know who he was.

But I didn’t feel afraid of him.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the pain… dulled. Just a little. The intent in the soup is enough to give some energy and comfort.

Just enough to breathe. 

Nightmare’s pen stilled mid-stroke.

The soft scratch of ink against parchment faded into silence as they lifted their head, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular, though something had clearly changed.

The emotional current of the estate had shifted.

Not dramatically. Not violently. But it was enough.

A ripple of unease here. A pulse of cautious hope there. Cross's storm of confusion. Axe’s quiet tethering. And beneath it all… a flicker, faint, uncertain, but awake.

Nightmare leaned back in their chair, fingers still curled loosely around the pen. The faint hum of the magical wards that lined the walls grew louder now in the quiet, like they too were holding their breath.

Their gaze drifted toward the far wall, not looking at it, but through it. As if they could see beyond stone and wood and time.

The smirk that pulled at their mouth wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel, either.

Just… knowing.

Measured.

____

They let the silence stretch for a beat longer, then murmured into the stillness of the room, voice low and amused:

“Seems… you’re making friends.”

Their eye dropped back to the paper in front of them. The ink had begun to pool slightly at the tip of the pen, forming a blotch. A minor imperfection in an otherwise flawless report.

They didn’t wipe it away.

Chapter Text

Warmth lingered behind his ribs, real warmth, not imagined, not magic.

It clung like the aftertaste of a dream. Something soft. Something steady. Something he couldn’t name but didn’t want to lose.

He sat up. Barely.

Or tried to.

The thought came first, like a command whispered through a tunnel. Simple. Obvious.

Move.

But his body didn’t obey right away.

It stalled. Disconnected. Like the message had to crawl its way down rusted wires, through limbs that no longer remembered how to be limbs.

His fingers twitched beneath the sheets, small, broken spasms like a glitch stuttering to life. That was good, wasn’t it? Movement. Even if it felt wrong. Even if it burned and ached.

He grit his teeth, jaw creaking under the strain, pain shooting through his temples as he pushed one elbow beneath himself, slow and shaky. His bones felt like carved chalk. Hollow. Brittle. Wrong. The weight of his own skull threatened to drag him back down, every inch an argument against motion.

But he moved.

His other arm followed, stiff and unsteady, shaking with the effort. The sheets tangled around his legs like vines, unyielding and too heavy. He fought them anyway, dragging in short, shallow breaths, each one thinner than the last. The sheets felt slippery and hot from where he had lain.

Pain bloomed. Dull at first, then sharp, splintering down his back like ice cracking in spring. His ribs protested the angle, a warning hiss from lungs that had forgotten expansion.

His vision swam. The room tilted. Darkness flirted at the edges of his sockets.

No. No… don’t stop. Keep going. Keep-

His spine bowed forward under the strain, shoulders curling as though protecting something that wasn’t there. His weight collapsed halfway, trembling arms catching just in time to stop a full fall, elbows locked, breath hitching.

The silk sheets slid down with him, pooling around his waist in a quiet sigh.

He didn’t fall back, but he didn’t rise either. Suspended. Caught halfway between lying down and sitting up, leaning back on cool pillows and a wooden headboard.

His head hung low, chin nearly touching his sternum. Eyelights dimmed under the weight of gravity and exhaustion.

But he stayed there.

Up.

His bones remembered now, barely, but they remembered. He could feel the resistance. The ache. But also the presence. The existence.

He was here.

Held up by nothing but willpower and muscle memory and pain.

But he was up.

He had moved.

And now… now he needed to breathe again.

Then his neck screamed as he shifted. Slowly. Deliberately. His head lifted a fraction from where it hung forward, trembling with the effort. The weight of it dragged like it was made of stone. A migraine bloomed behind his sockets, sharp and sickly-sweet.

Still, he moved.

Inch by inch, he tilted his head back—not far. Just enough to rest it against the headboard behind him. The wood met his skull with a soft thud. Cool. Solid. Real.

It felt like a wall. Like something to hold him up when he couldn’t.

The breath that followed was thin, shaky.

But it was a breath.

His eyelights flickered open again, vision still swimming, but clearer than before. He stared upward past the edge of the bed canopy, past the shadows of motionless figures standing nearby, and toward the far side of the room.

The window.

Glass panes fractured the outside light into sharp lines across the stone floor.

It was night.

He could tell from the deep blue bleeding through the curtains, the faint silver glow of moonlight pooling near the sill. No movement. No warmth. Just cold stars and colder silence.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. Or… not asleep.

Not dead, either.

Something in between.

His gaze lingered on the edge of the window. There was comfort in it, somehow. The stillness. The distance. The fact that the world was still turning, even if he wasn’t part of it.

His skull pressed a little harder into the headboard, grounding himself.

The ache in his chest hadn’t gone away, but it had dulled.

Outside, the moon kept rising.

Inside, he stayed still.

Alive. Hurt. Waking.

“You’re awake,” A voice said.

His breath hitched, eyes darting to meet a single cyan glow.

And everything stopped.

Their voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to. It rang inside his head like a bell tolling in a cathedral, sharp and immediate, striking something deep, too deep to ignore.

He knew that voice.

He knew it.

Not just the sound, not just the shape of the words, but the weight it carried. The rhythm. The echo it left behind.

Like memory splintering open at the seams.

He knew it in the way lightning knows the ground. The way bones remember a break.

A slow, creeping cold rose in his chest.

The voice. The promises. The pain.

The tone was different. Quieter. Rougher around the edges, carrying power and authority. But underneath, it was the same. The same cadence. The same steel wrapped in silk.

It was that voice.

But it's closer.

His sockets widened, breath catching painfully in his throat. His spine pressed harder against the headboard as if he could sink into it and vanish. The tremble in his arms returned, stronger now, not from exertion, but fear. Recognition bloomed like fire down his spine.

His voice, weak and cracked, barely made it past his throat.

“...No,” he rasped. “You’re not…”

The cyan glow didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just watched.

And the silence that followed was worse than the voice.

Because now he knew.

And somehow, that was more terrifying than not remembering at all.

“…Ah. You know my voice?” they continued, smooth as a knife sliding between ribs. “How precious.”

His stomach twisted.

No. No, no, no-

He tried to push himself back, further into the headboard, but there was nowhere left to go, not with his weak body. The wood pressed cold and solid behind his spine, unforgiving as the weight of memory slamming into his chest.

His arms trembled violently, barely holding him upright.

Their presence was closer now, inside him. Not in the way speech usually lived in the air, but like it curled into the corners of his skull, clawing up through some splintered place in his soul.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Blinked. Hard.

Once. Twice.

The blur that clung to his vision faded just enough to give the glow a shape. Lines solidified into bone.

And the face behind the voice took form.

A skull. Tall. Round. Familiar in a way that made his soul jolt with sick recognition that should not exist. One cyan eye burned steadily in the right socket, casting long shadows over a smile that wasn’t a smile at all, just a knowing.

Cold. Detached. Mocking. Strangely observant.

The black ichor creeping up their neck, curling along the jawline like cracked ink. The shape of them was too close to what he remembered from—

Dream. Dream. Where was-?

The thought splintered, panic rising sharp and breathless in his chest.

His breath came short and fast, wheezing through clenched teeth. His ribs refused to expand fully. His hands clawed weakly at the sheets, scrabbling for something—anything—to ground him.

The cyan eye flared faintly.

It didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Because the damage was already done.

And he couldn’t look away.

He couldn’t un-know it now.

This was them.

The one that whispered promises.

The mask that smiled like it had something to hide.

His mouth opened, words caught on the edge of a scream that never made it out.

“You—”

The rest shattered.

And all that remained was the sound of his pulse pounding in his skull and that cyan glow burning in the dark.

And the voice he had known for so long but didn’t have a face for until now… smiled.

Not with kindness.

Not with cruelty.

But with something worse—familiarity.

That horrible, effortless ease of someone who had lived behind your eyes. Who knew every crack in your voice. Every fracture in your thoughts. Who had worn your fears like a coat.

“We have a lot to discuss,” they said.

The words were quiet. Unhurried. Like they weren’t standing beside a child barely sitting up, barely breathing. Like this was just the beginning of a pleasant conversation.

His stomach dropped.

The room felt too small. Too cold. The walls were closing in again, but not like before—this time, it wasn’t the quiet that choked him. It was proximity.

He tried to speak. To ask why, or what, or even how—but his voice had turned to splinters in his throat, caught behind the pulse thundering in his skull.

That cyan glow didn’t blink.

Didn’t waver.

Just studied him.

Like a mirror that remembered more than the reflection ever did.

The child’s shoulders trembled as he curled tighter into himself, eyelights flicking wildly between them and the nearest corner of the room, as if searching for an exit that didn’t exist.

“Don’t strain yourself,” they added, not unkind, but not gentle either. Just… certain. “There’s time. You’ll remember. I’m not here to hurt you.”

The smile didn’t fade.

And the child could only stare, every instinct screaming to run, to fight, to hide, but his body wouldn’t move. His bones, so recently reminded of how to hold him upright, now felt like they might betray him all over again.

Because the thing in front of him wasn’t just a stranger.

It was the voice that had lived inside his head for so long.

The one who had whispered to him in the dark.

And now it had a face.

Then the face tilted slightly, not with malice, but with quiet observation, like they were studying the cracks in a mirror, not sure if they were pleased or disappointed by what they saw.

Then they moved.

Not fast. Not looming. No sudden lunge or dramatic threat.

Just a slow, measured step toward the bed.

Then another.

The floor didn’t creak beneath them. The shadows didn’t shudder.

And somehow, that was worse.

The child’s breath stuttered in his throat, a weak, ragged wheeze. His body froze again, held in that half-sitting position, ribs aching, arms locked at his sides like broken supports.

They stopped just beside the edge of the bed.

Then, wordlessly, sat down.

The mattress shifted under the weight, slow and deliberate. No announcement. No flourish. Just the quiet rustle of fabric and the groan of silk under stress as they settled beside him, far too close.

They didn’t reach out.

Didn’t touch.

But they didn’t have to.

The presence alone made the air feel heavier, tighter. Not magical but personal. Intimate in the way a haunting was.

The child’s vision was clearer now. Too clear. He could see the jagged ink trailing up the side of the skull. The faint etch of age or fatigue behind that burning cyan socket. The calm curve of bone lips shaped into something too knowing to be kind.

He wanted to recoil.

But he couldn’t.

His legs weren’t listening. His arms trembled just helping to hold him upright. His soul rattled like something in a jar, fragile and exposed.

They didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

They looked forward.

Hands folded loosely in their lap. Legs crossed. Relaxed.

As if they belonged there.

As if this, this was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve been healing a long time,” they said, finally, tone almost conversational. “I didn’t expect to welcome you back this fast.”

The child swallowed, the movement scraping down his throat like broken glass.

He said nothing.

Couldn’t.

—

Killer would like to say he wasn’t eavesdropping.

But that would be a lie.

Killer pressed his back against the cold stone wall just outside the door, the faintest crease of shadow cloaking his figure. He didn’t need to see the scene unfolding inside to know the weight in the room; he felt it like a pulse, vibrating through the wood beneath his fingers.

His breath was slow, measured, but his heart was anything but calm.

He could almost hear the child’s struggle through the thin barrier of the door, the shallow breaths, the tremors, the unspoken fight to hold on.

Something raw and fragile was at stake here. The conversation inside was quiet. Too quiet.

A dangerous silence.

Killer leaned forward slightly, willing his ears to catch every word, every subtle shift in tone, every breath between sentences.

Killer’s mind churned as he listened, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the figure sitting beside the child, the one he knew all too well.

Nightmare, or Not.. Nightmare? He didn’t know. He didn’t know if it mattered. His boss, his master, his... something more complicated than simple allegiance.

Killer clenched his jaw. He’d spent years trying to decipher what Nightmare truly was, what he wanted—not just from the world, but from those like Killer himself. Was it cruelty? Power? Or something buried deeper, hidden beneath layers of menace and cold control?

He’d seen glimpses, occasional moments when Nightmare’s mask slipped, revealing something almost kind, fractured but there. A flicker of care, or maybe regret. But those moments were rare. Too rare.

And now, here he was, witnessing Nightmare face to face with the child, the real Nightmare. Killer swallowed hard, feeling the weight of it press down on him like a stone.

He hated the way his chest tightened at the sight. Hated the way the child’s fear echoed in his own ribs. Hated the reminder that even monsters had histories, and that history was a tangle of pain and loss and desperate hope.

Killer pressed his hand against the rough stone, grounding himself.

He was here. Watching. Waiting.

Killer shifted slightly, the stone cool against his bones, grounding him in the moment even as his thoughts spiraled.

Nightmare wasn’t really Nightmare, not anymore, if he ever truly was. The revelation had come like a shockwave, fracturing everything Killer thought he knew. The name, the face, the voice, familiar, yes, but now laced with something alien. Something fractured, layered with deception, or maybe survival.

And yet... Killer didn’t care.

Or at least, he told himself he didn’t.

Because caring was dangerous. Caring was a weakness. And in this life, weakness was a luxury no one could afford.

But beneath that stubborn denial, something gnawed at him. A complicated knot of emotions, he wasn’t ready to unravel loyalty twisted with doubt, fear tangled with something like respect, or maybe something deeper.

The cold stone pressed into his back was a harsh reminder: he had no choice but to keep moving forward, to stay in the shadows and wait.

His emotions came in waves, dull and numb but always simmering just beneath the surface. Maybe that’s why caring was so hard. Maybe that was why he found himself strangely comfortable in this chaos.

Killer pressed his back harder against the cold stone wall, the rough surface grounding him as he listened.

Inside the room, the voice, calm, steady, unyielding, spoke again.

“When you’re healed,” they promised softly, “everything will be yours. Everything you were meant to have. A place to belong. Power. Control. A world remade in your image.”

Killer’s pulse quickened. The words echoed in the silence like a dark hymn.

The child’s shaky breath answered, barely audible but confused. “…What do you mean?”

There was a pause. Then a chuckle.

Killer swallowed hard, a chill creeping up his spine.

The voice’s tone shifted, smooth but edged with something colder, more certain.

“What you were… is a memory fading fast. A shadow you can’t hold onto. But I—” they paused, voice dipping low, almost tender — “I can give you a future. Your name. A purpose. Everything you lost, reclaimed.”

Killer’s grip on the stone tightened, fingertips scraping faint grooves in the wall.

The child’s breath hitched again, words trembling through the silence, confused.

“Who you were,” the voice continued, threading with something like reverence, “is the foundation, but not the whole. You’ll become someone greater. Someone they’ll remember. Someone they’ll never forget. I have built that for you, little Prince. An emerging empire.”

Killer could almost see it pressing down on the child — the confusion, the fear, and underneath it, the unbearable cost of erasure.

And in the silence that followed, the child’s small, fragile voice broke through like a ghost.

“…An empire? …Prince?”

The voice didn’t answer immediately.

Then, finally:

“You’ll be what you were always meant to be.”

Killer’s breath caught.

“…Who… are you?” the child asked, meek at first but gaining strength, voice less hoarse with every word.

“I became Nightmare,” they said quietly, almost reverently, “the moment you ate the apple.”

Another faint rustle echoed through the door, fabric shifting, maybe the child trying to move again.

Then, quietly:

“…You took my name.”

The words weren’t angry. Not yet.

They were cracked. Brittle.

Nightmare, or the one pretending to be, answered with no shame.

“I protected it.” A pause. “I became it, when you couldn’t. When you wouldn’t survive it.”

Killer blinked, a cold tremor crawling through his ribs.

There it was. The truth lay bare like a corpse on a table.

Not stolen.

Assumed.

Like a mask taken up by necessity… or by design. And the worst part, there was no rage behind the voice. No guilt. No gloating. Just certainty.

Killer’s breath came out shaky, and he didn’t know if it was fear or awe—or something else entirely.

The child spoke again, quieter this time.

“…Then who am I now?”

Another pause.

Then, from inside the room, Killer heard the soft creak of weight shifting. The voice moved closer. Not with menace, but with a kind of gentleness that chilled more than violence ever could.

“You are mine.”

Killer didn’t think he should be listening anymore.

—

Axe came right on time. Always on time for meals. Following his usual path through the winding halls, steps silent, tray in hand.

He didn’t like being late.

Not for this one. Not for food.

The castle corridors were quiet tonight. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that scraped at the edges of your mind if you let it. Even the torches lining the stone walls flickered softer than usual, their shadows dancing slower like they were watching.

He adjusted his grip on the tray.

Simple food. Nothing fancy. Soup, bread, and water. Nothing too heavy. The kid still wasn’t able to hold solids. Probably wouldn’t for a while.

He turned the corner and paused.

“...Dust.”

The other skeleton leaned against the wall just outside the hall that led toward the old royal wing. Arms folded. Head low. His posture looked relaxed, but his sockets were sharp. Focused.

Watching.

Dust glanced at the tray, then back up at Axe.

“Late,” he said, not accusing. Just stating.

“I’m exactly on time,” Axe muttered, shifting the tray slightly. “You’re here.”

Dust didn’t respond right away. His gaze flicked toward the hallway behind Axe. The one that led to that room.

“You knocking?” he asked.

Axe didn’t.

He raised one hand and pushed the door open.

The hinges creaked softly as the room opened before them-

Stillness.

Moonlight spilled through the tall window, washing the stone floor in silver. The air was dim, cold. The figure in the bed sat propped up, pale blankets gathered like armor around their frame. Small. Still.

The child turned their head slowly at the sound.

Their eyes tracked the tray in Axe’s hands.

They looked… tired.

But awake. More awake than anyone had seen him before.

Dust stepped forward, quiet and careful.

Axe followed, slower, and set the tray down on the nearby table with a soft clink of porcelain.

No one spoke at first.

They just watched.

Waited.

Then, gently, Axe broke the silence.

“...You hungry?”

The child didn’t answer right away.

Then, barely, they nodded.

Dust’s gaze shifted toward the tall figure still seated beside the bed.

They hadn’t moved.

No words.

No acknowledgment.

Just presence.

Letting the moment play out.

Dust didn’t trust it.

But for now, he stayed still too.

Letting the silence speak.

The child’s eyes moved, slow, cautious, from Axe, to the food on the nightstand, then to Dust, and back to Axe again. As if mapping the space. As if trying to piece together who was who, what each of them meant.

Nothing in their expression gave much away. Just quiet observation. Exhaustion. Wariness.

But they were aware.

More than before.

Their fingers twitched beneath the edge of the blanket, barely a shift—but it was something. Small signs of life in a frame still too delicate, too thin. Still recovering. But recovering nonetheless.

They tried to sit a little straighter. Wincing. Their bones hadn’t quite caught up with the will to move yet.

Axe stepped in before the effort became too much. Same as before—fluid, practiced. He picked up the bowl and spoon with steady hands, not waiting for permission but not forcing it either. Just offering.

The child’s mouth pressed into a faint pout, subtle but unmistakable.

A flicker of attitude.

Dust blinked.

Axe paused mid-motion, quirking a brow.

“…What?” he asked, voice low, but not unkind.

The child didn’t answer. Just looked at the spoon. Then at Axe. Then turned their face slightly to the side, nose wrinkling in the smallest, most unimpressed grimace.

Axe huffed, barely suppressing the twitch at the corner of his mouth and a deep chuckle.

“Picky now, huh?”

Still no words. But the expression held—somewhere between petulant and playful.

A shadow of self, peeking out.

“You weren’t making faces last time,” Axe muttered, dipping the spoon into the soup anyway.

“They weren’t awake last time,” Dust said under his breath, not taking his eyes off the child. The one who had been the beginning of the downfall.

Axe ignored him.

He held the spoon near the child’s mouth.

“C’mon. Just a little.”

The child hesitated. Then, reluctantly, leaned forward and accepted the bite—small, cautious.

They chewed. Swallowed. Expression unreadable.

“…Too hot?” Axe asked.

A tiny shake of the head.

Another spoonful. Then another.

Slow. Methodical.

They were still so quiet, but no longer completely passive. Their eyes tracked every movement, flicking to Dust whenever he shifted. Occasionally, they glanced toward the figure still seated beside the bed.

The bowl was half-empty when the child leaned back again, eyelids heavy.

Axe paused, gauging.

“That’s enough?”

A small nod.

He set the bowl aside carefully, then picked up the glass of water, offering it with the same quiet patience.

The child took slower sips this time. Small, deliberate. Their fingers trembled slightly against the rim, but they didn’t spill a drop.

When they finished, they let their head fall back gently onto the pillows. Not in exhaustion, but with something closer to surrender. Their breathing remained shallow but even. Hands curled under the blankets, twitching now and then like nerves still rebooting.

Silence settled again, low and thick. But it had changed.

It no longer pressed down like a weight.

It waited.

Dust’s arms remained crossed, his stance unmoving, but his gaze didn’t waver from the figure in the bed. His sockets narrowed slightly, calculating. Listening. Measuring.

And finally, he spoke.

“Who the hell are you?”

The words weren’t barked. They didn’t bite.

But they had an edge.

And in a room like this, that was enough.

The child didn’t answer at first. Their gaze dropped to their lap, to the folds of the blanket. Their lips parted, then closed again.

Finally, in a breath barely louder than a thought:

“…I… suppose I was Nightmare.”

Axe looked up at that—subtle, but focused.

Dust shifted his weight, just slightly.

“Is that right?” Axe asked, his voice softer than before, more careful. He wasn't doubting. He was asking.

The child hesitated again.

“I think so,” they murmured. “I think that name… belonged to me. Once.”

Dust clicked his tongue, short and sharp. Then turned his head to the side, leaving only the curve of his jaw visible beneath the shadow of his hood.

Something unreadable passed through his posture.

The child blinked, eyes unfocused but thinking, clearly thinking.

“…And… what are your names?” they asked at last, voice faint and uncertain, like they were afraid the question was wrong somehow. Or that the answer might hurt.

“Dust,” came the reply, short and clipped.

“Axe,” said the other, gentler. His tone carried less judgment—still guarded, but not cold.

The child repeated the names under their breath. Testing them, memorizing them like small anchors.

“…Dust. Axe…. Nice to meet you.”

Dust’s brows lowered, sockets narrowing beneath the shadow of his hood.

That voice.

Nice to meet you.

Like they were strangers. Like none of it had ever happened. Like the world hadn’t bled under that name. And to the kid, they may be strangers but the other way around, not after how his existence shook them all.

His jaw tightened, the bones grinding slightly. A familiar pressure pressed behind his sternum — not anger. Not quite. Something darker. Something more complicated. A grief with teeth. It sat in his soul like a bad taste.

“…Right,” Dust muttered. His arms uncrossed, fingers flexing once at his sides. “Real polite of you.”

The child blinked, confusion fluttering behind their eyelights.

Axe gave Dust a look. Quiet. Steady.

It was enough to keep Dust from saying more. To help silence the murmurs of Papyrus.

For now.

Axe crouched down, his movements slow and deliberate, bringing his gaze closer to the child’s eye level. He studied them—not clinically, but like someone trying to fit puzzle pieces back into a shape that no longer made sense.

“Nice to meet you to,” Axe said softly.