#but the anti-scraping attitude is exhausting because it tells me

[ms-demeanor]

I don't care about data scraping from ao3 (or tbh from anywhere) because it's fair use to take preexisting works and transform them (including by using them to train an LLM), which is the entire legal basis of how the OTW functions.

[save-jacksepticeye]

Turning Back Time

A/N: So I wrote this mainly because I was bored, and I figured I’d post it. I’m warning you now that it’s pretty gory, because I’ve wanted to get back to writing horror and gore, so if that’s not your thing, I suggest you move on. 

“Come on, Jack! Let’s hear that mantra of yours again,” Anti taunted. Jack stood in front of him, suspended from wire-thin, iridescent strings. He slumped heavily against them, not even reacting as they dug into his skin, sending rivulets of blood running down his bare arms. “Positive! Mental! Attitude! Isn’t that what you tell your fans to do when they’re feeling down?” He chuckled. There was a sharp burst of static-noise and Anti’s head jerked from side to side, leaving pixelated copies hanging in the air.

Jack drew in a wheezing breath and tried to lift his head, only to drop it as he succumbed to a coughing fit, hacking up a glob of blood and mucus. Anti fiddled with his knife, waiting for Jack to finish before stepping closer. The blade flashed and Jack cried out in agony as it bit into the bare skin of his chest, every muscle in his body tensing against his bonds. He was weak, emaciated, his body stained with his own blood, some old, some new. Scars criss-crossed his skin like some macabre mosaic.

“That’s more like it. That’s the loud Irishman we all know and love!” Another flash of the now-reddened blade, another agonized scream. This time, the blade caught him in the ribs and dug deep. Anti relished the feeling of his knife scraping the bone. Hot blood coursed from the wound and Anti licked his lips, partly in satisfaction, partly in anticipation for what was still to come.

This time, when Anti stepped away, Jack was able to raise his head and look him in the eye. Jack was almost unrecognizable under the bruises and scars and fresh cuts. Nevertheless, the familiar blue eyes gazed out, boring into Anti before shifting to the camera set up to the demon’s left. It was trained on him, red dot blinking, reminding Jack eerily of an eye. And why shouldn’t it? After all, they were watching, no doubt. Time was different in the void than it was on the outside, and he was certain that this video was already up, and his community, his poor community, was watching with not the faintest clue in the world that what they were seeing wasn’t fake.

“Please,” he croaked. His voice was so quiet he wasn’t sure if it would even pick up on the recording. “Please help me. This is not a–” He cut off as Anti pressed the blade of his knife into the soft flesh of his stomach, his breath hitching in his throat. He braced himself for the pain, but he still cried out when Anti drew the blade across his skin, this time agonizingly slow.

“Help,” he said, louder this time, his voice cracking from the strain. “Please, you have to help me, help us!” While he spoke, Anti circled him, planning out his next move, no doubt, or maybe he was enjoying his feeble attempts to cry out. Jack let his head drop, too exhausted and light-headed from the blood loss to do much else. He groaned as the hilt of the knife cracked against the back of his skull, blasting stars across his vision and igniting a painful throbbing in his head.

“We’re not done yet, Jackaboy,” Anti whispered in his ear. “Oh, we are far from finished.” He snapped his fingers and his knife disappeared, replaced with a scalpel. Another snap of his fingers, and a figure came shambling out of the shadows, feet dragging as they lurched forward. Jack’s eyes widened in horror when he saw the iridescent light of the strings wrapped around their limbs. They pulled and tugged, turning the figure into a walking meat puppet.

“Jesus, no,” he breathed. “Not Schneep too. Oh God.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, unbidden, as he gazed at what used to be his friend. Now, he stared ahead with sightless, cloudy eyes, his white doctor’s coat and his blue mask stained red with his own blood. There was a blank, slack-jawed expression on his face, and for a minute, Jack wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive.

Schneeplestein’s milky eyes shifted to him as he was brought to a stop directly in front of him. Jack thought he could see a glimmer of life behind the dead eyes, something desperate, calling out to anyone who would listen, and he realized Schneeplestein was still aware. Somewhere deep down, he knew what was happening, but he couldn’t stop it. He was trapped, forced to watch.

A tug of a string, and he held out his hand to Anti. Schneeplestein’s eyes shifted to his hand as Anti placed the scalpel in it. His fingers slowly curled around the scalpel.

“Doctor, your patient is waiting,” Anti crooned. Schneep swung his head around, once again fixing Jack with his dead eyes, and lurched forward, scalpel held out in front of him. Jack squirmed uncomfortably and tugged at his bonds. By then, his wrists were numb, and he felt nothing as fresh blood ran down his arms. Pain still flared in his torso, however, and he grimaced.

“I’m so sorry, Schneep,” Jack croaked, “I–” He broke off as another coughing fit wracked his body. He drew in a wheezing breath and continued. “Whatever you do, I know it’s not you. It’s not your fault.” His voice cracked and darkness pressed at the edges of his vision. He was running out of time. He would die again, and Anti would turn back the clock for another round of torment, continuing the never-ending cycle of pain he’d been enduring since Halloween.

Jack was dragged out of his thoughts as the scalpel sunk into his shoulder and he gave a weak cry. It dragged across his chest, making a thin line from armpit to armpit. Down the middle of his chest.  Scraping bone. Barely avoiding evisceration. Anti frowned, his body flickering like a lightbulb, and took a step towards Schneeplestein.

Then, he started grinning again. “Lost your nerve, eh? We can fix that.” He snapped his fingers and the strings around Schneeplestein’s arms and neck tightened, digging into his skin. Blood oozed from the new wounds.

The scalpel sliced through Jack’s skin again, deeper this time. A deep, throbbing agony flared throughout his body as a torrent of his blood and guts fell to the floor with a wet slap. He didn’t have enough energy left to scream, so he groaned and clenched his fists, making one last, weak attempt to tear at his bonds.

Jack didn’t even register it when the scalpel in Schneeplestein’s hand disappeared, replaced with a bone saw. All he knew was that he was going to die, and then the other egos would be next. Whatever happened to them would be his fault. He wasn’t strong enough to keep Anti at bay, wasn’t strong enough to save them.

He felt his life slipping away, pouring out onto the ground with his insides. He was able to give one last, longing, desperate look at the camera before his vision faded completely and everything went black.

Jack woke with a start in his bed, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His heart was pounding, threatening to burst out of his chest as he gazed around the room with wide, frightened eyes. With a shaky hand, he felt his torso, and he let out a shaky breath when he found everything intact. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was all nothing more than a terrible nightmare.

“Sean?” He started at the sound of Signe’s voice. “Sean, what’s wrong?” She rolled over and gazed at him, concern in her eyes. He pulled himself up and ran a clammy hand through his hair.

“I…yeah,” he said, “Yeah, just another nightmare. It’s no big deal.” Signe’s brow creased with worry.

“That’s the third one this month. Are you sure you don’t want to go see a doctor or something?” He met her eyes as she propped herself up on one elbow, and instantly felt bad for making her worry.

“I’m fine.” He put as much sincerity into his voice as he could, even though he was far from okay. The nightmares were beginning to get to him, if they even were nightmares. Some part of him deep down knew that these were too vivid, too real to be dreams. But he didn’t want to worry Signe. “You don’t need to worry, I promise.” He took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

Signe didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue. “Okay,” she said, “But Sean?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise you’ll tell me if it gets any worse?” Leaning forward, Jack planted a light kiss on her forehead.

“I promise.” He gave her hand one last squeeze and rolled over. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fall back asleep. Images haunted him, endless visions of torture, pain, and death, flashing through his mind and jolting him awake when he was almost asleep. He tried hard to convince himself it was just stress, but he found himself unable to believe it.

He tensed when he felt a cold breath on the back of his neck, and a static-laced voice whispered in his ear, “Until next time, my little puppet.”

A/N: One thing you should know is that I love author notes too much. And if you read this whole thing, thank you so much, and please tell me what you think! I’d love feedback.