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plasma-studios · 1 month ago

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On Mercy Chapter 15: balancing loyalties - something so delicate

The relationship Nightmare has with his right hand men is… delicate. Here, trust is both a currency and a weapon.

Nightmare knows that best of all. But perhaps his crew knows it second.

His touch was cool. Killer was quiet, so unlike himself, as Nightmare’s cool touch stole the slight warmth away from his wrist. The sharpness from him, too. All bloodlust had been twisted back into a lulling eagerness to peace. Dozens of retorts were on his tongue, and if it was anyone else, he would’ve paid back the slash tenfold. But it was Nightmare.

And Nightmare, so pent up, would not be as tolerant as he usually was of him. Killer was not that foolish. Not when Nightmare was so on edge. The visitor had survived. He had found Nightmare twitching and furious, and still the visitor had left the wrecked room alive.

A single wrecked room would not be enough for his rage. Nightmare was still angry.

Caution, screamed every inch of his head.

The dull sting of the slash in his wrist was only more evidence of the need. It was so faint that Killer knew there couldn’t have been any real ill intent behind it. It would’ve been just instinct, and he couldn’t hold it against him.

He couldn’t, even when he saw Nightmare recognise him and grab his hand; he couldn’t speak even as he held on his bleeding hand, and was silent. Nightmare was thinking.

He had come to recognise that still sea-green glint, come to distinguish when he was considering, when he was observing, and when he was simply biding his time. Nightmare’s silences did not usually bode well.

His gaze was level when he opened his mouth. ““Killer?”

“Yes, Boss?” Killer didn’t hesitate. His eyelight did not waver, and he could not find it in himself to break the eye-contact.

“Are you tired?”

Killer blinked, but he held the stare. Was this another trap, another one of his loyalty tests? Nightmare was always paranoid about everything, even him. Even after all this time, even after all he had done for him.

“No,” He insisted. And it wasn’t a lie. Adrenaline was just now settling down, after the stranger’s visit and the aftermath. If anything, he was nothing but alert as Nightmare held onto his wrist.

His sea-green eye studied him unblinkingly. He was painfully familiar with the way Nightmare held the silence, the quiet quickly wrapping around him like a coiled serpent ready to bite down and draw blood.

It was maddening, this half-fear, half-lure.

Nightmare’s voice dropped to a casual, light volume. “Lying to me is unwise, Killer.” He smiled. No, grinned. “Never better.”

Nightmare’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He could feel his warped soul beating in his chest, and the soft ache was nothing if not familiar.

“Good,” Nightmare finally said, though his tone betrayed nothing. Or perhaps Killer simply could not tell. It was rare, but he could not read Nightmare in every instance. “Because I can’t afford for you to falter. Not now.”

His voice was edged with the same cold precision Killer had come to recognise as Nightmare’s version of serenity. You can’t afford for me to falter? His mind had chosen to grasp onto that, replaying the words a thousand times each passing second. It took him a second longer to formulate his reply.

“I won’t,” He said, with more force than he’d intended, but he didn’t dial it back. He couldn’t afford to, not in front of him. It was better to be insane than cowardly. And he was sure he had seen through it anyway.

Nightmare simply observed him for a few moments. Killer understood this; he was calculating the worth of his just-response. It was a silence that only Nightmare could break, so he said nothing to interrupt it.

The darkness rippled. But it did not swell, and remained sweeping about his ankles. Killer knew, then, that Nightmare’s wrath had not been incurred today. No, not wrath. His petty annoyance had not been invoked. He was not so blind as to think a scratch the worse of his fury.

He caught the falter. He caught his hesitance, the shadows swooping ever so slightly. He caught everything.

“Go rest, regardless.” He let out a small breath. “I have matters to attend to.”

And he let go of Killer’s wrist. The slight body heat that returned at that felt almost unfamiliar, but the cold touch was gone and so was the numbness. But he didn’t move, and neither did the other.

Nightmare’s gaze lingered a single moment longer, then he turned, and in a glimpse of melting shadow was gone. Without their master, the shadows were retreating into the corners. And yet, Killer stayed.

The moment had lasted for two seconds.

He was gone in the next minute, but still his mind clung. Perhaps he would’ve allowed him to slice open his torso if it meant even a second more. It would have been worth bleeding out onto the floor.

He could still feel a ghost of the touch, right in his curved wrist. He touched the spot gingerly.

The iciness of his touch was dissipating, and he could not help the disappointment.

His slippers barely made a sound against the floor. Where was he going? Normally he had an objective, be it one Nightmare gave him or by his own will. The amount of times he’d poked into Dust’s room or snuck into Horror’s (and even Cross’s short time spent here hadn’t been free of his pranks) was— not few. But Cross had been away for years, first in the Council and now with Nightmare’s brother, Dust was out on his mission, and Horror had been becoming increasingly agitated the past few weeks.

His head was still quiet, the heat of the thrill not quite returned to him fully yet.

Normally, he’d have been delighted to feed into it. But Horror’s dissatisfaction had been not so subtly aimed at Nightmare, and he did not want Horror dead. Even if Nightmare wouldn’t tangibly be with them, he was always watching. Even if Horror didn’t bite most of the time, there was not telling if he’d accidentally provoke him into saying something treasonous while provoking him for fun.

Nightmare was always so unpredictable. But betrayal was something he’d never forgive.

He would not want Horror dead. Injured, cursing, but not dead. Would Horror’s company be so bad?

He flexed his fingers absently. The absence of Nightmare's cold touch seeped into them like a new ache. His eyes were dripping onto the floor, and if he could, he’d break his own skull to find a way to stem the flow.

But he couldn’t. I can’t afford for you to falter. That was as good as a command. If he was alone, perhaps he would’ve done it on some impulse. But he was not.

On instinct, his fingers found the grip over the hilt of his knife. That was one of the reasons why Nightmare had taken a liking to him. Not just an orphan, but one with no other family. And one whose family had not been killed by Nightmare’s command, but by himself.

His trusted. His killer.

He had long forgotten his actual name. If only he could forget the faces, too.

At least, I can be good for this.

If he understood Nightmare, he knew what he wanted from him. And he knew Nightmare better than the rest, though he would not claim to know him wholly. But he understood this.

Nightmare was all he had left. Even if Nightmare did not fully trust him, he trusted him most. So he could not falter.

He was not tired. He could continue this for the next few decades, if he was allowed to live that long. His own hesitation hung on him like a shroud. If it were anyone but himself, he would’ve cackled at their misfortune. He could hear the mockery in his own head.

Even after everything, it was still not enough.

He had always wanted more. It was who he was. To take, to want, to burn for something he couldn’t quite have and burn everything down to have it, if he could not have it.

And even after it all, he wouldn’t have even gotten what he’d wanted. Even after his desperate attempts, all they left them was alone in a ruined town with no more family to his name.

All it had done was leave him a blood-soaked fugitive.

He did not want to see Horror, he decided. It would be better for them both. Besides, the lull in his head was nice, but the moment of lucidity would not last. Even if he believed he’d be able to be careful enough, once the lull had died down, perhaps in the heat of the moment he’d say something unforgivable to Horror.

The shadows had collected at his feet. He started, and moved away from the spot. They did not follow him.

There was a stark difference between his dripping eyes, and Nightmare’s liquid flesh, he thought. The shadows collecting in the corners were almost incorporeal, Nightmare’s form icy shifting mass. His eyes were simply leaking. And what came out of his eyesockets was warm and runny, and got everywhere.

Nightmare’s touch always stole the warmth from him. And the heat always came back.

Killer let out a long sigh.

The very thing that could break him was the only thing he wanted.

Though, some part of him mused, it felt as if everything he was bracing against was not in spite of his loyalty to Nightmare, but because of it. Wasn’t that ironic, worthy of mockery?

He did not know where to go, but he’d spent too much time wallowing here. Perhaps he should just retreat to his room, but he was not sure he remembered the path. Most days he just slept in Nightmare’s. But it felt wrong, somehow, to seek him out again in such a short time.

He glanced down, and noticed detachedly that the shadows had not approached him again. ***

Killer was upset, however faintly. That was new. Nightmare rarely ever left him upset. Mutely, he thought of going back, but dismissed the thought. Killer wasn’t a child. He had survived worse. He’d manage.

The seeping sadness gave him enough of a boost that it wasn’t entirely unwanted, and wasn’t severe enough that, by virtue of being Killer’s, it wasn’t wholly unwelcome. It was not paralysing grief, or anything to that extent. It benefited Nightmare without doing Killer permanent harm, and perhaps that was enough.

There was another reason he had not wanted to see Killer. After all Error had said, the bastard, he had begun to think about him. Killer clung to him because he had no one else. And that was so dangerous. This kind of devotion, where Killer could read his every twitch— he held Killer’s life in his hands, but he was not invulnerable to him either.

It was dangerous. Loyalty based on fear was always fragile.

Error was getting to him. He sighed, and silently cursed him again.

Still, the soft sadness was a strange buzz in the back of his head. Strange, but quiet, and he tuned it out soon enough. There were more pressing matters.

Horror put down his butcher knife.

“Hello, Boss.” Stilted as ever. He did not turn to look at him, instead gazing intently into the slab of meat before him. Ah, the ever-dutiful but disturbingly dispassionate subordinate. He let the infraction pass; at least he did his job.

“Is that for you?”

“It’s for the dogs,” He said neutrally. “They need feeding.” The mutts. He’d forgotten about them, but the dogs were occasionally sent out to kill. Not very often, though. They died too easily in war, it was not what they had been bred for.

“How can you tell?” He was admittedly curious. The mutts seemed no less tamed with full stomachs than those starving.

Horror’s eyes flicked to him, then flickered back as he resumed chopping.

“They’re always hungry, aren’t they?”

“But why bother? Isn’t this a waste, carefully chopping up the meat for the mutts? Scraps would suffice. A starving dog will eat anything.”

The butcher’s knife stopped, an inch from the board.

“Raw or fresh, slabs or sliced. They don’t care about your standards.” He let out a quiet breath. “But yes, they’ll eat what they can get.” He resumed the methodical chopping. “I’m just making sure it’s not anything they can choke on. A dead dog is no use. And a well-fed dog is a loyal dog.”

His gaze flickered back to Nightmare’s.

Nightmare smiled, slowly.

“Besides,” He continued, with the air of pointedly ignoring the subtext, “I gotta keep them fed, or else they’ll be eating the flesh off the dead men. Kinda hard to herd when you’re so hungry.”

Horror paused, the butcher’s knife hovering above the cutting board. His blade gleamed in the dim light.

The distrust was coming off him in waves. It was admirable, how one man could be so distrusting and still maintain surface composure. It was almost brave.

“They’re falling apart,” he said softly, almost as if the admission itself was a fragile secret, one that might dissipate into the air if spoken too loudly. As if it would escape Nightmare if he was careful with it.

“We need more dead. Even with Dust’s sabotage. We don’t have enough new dead to make up for the decomposing.”

He was blunt with it. He was blunt with everything, except the edge of his knife.

“Some are already unusable.”

Nightmare let a soft breath. He knew this already. Dust’s selective destruction could never make up for the dead that came of international war. The dead were a resource, and that resource would run out sooner or later if it wasn’t replenished.

“Let them rot.” He tilted his head to the side. “We don’t need them at the moment.”

Horror let out a sharp disbelieving noise. But he was not a fool; the disdain left him sharply thereafter and he looked back at him with nothing on his face.

“It’ll take time to get the numbers up. The longer yo— we wait, the more we’ll lose and the longer it’ll take. It’s not like we plan to lie low forever.”

No, they did not. And the concern, however stained with his own disgust, was true. And healing them just prolonged the rot; it was useless to delay the inevitable. The dead only gave out when their crumbling bodies were truly incapable of anymore movement; but that also meant that it was inevitable for their numbers to go down without continual war keeping the death toll high.

“We still need some at minimum. You can’t fight wars without an army.” His patience was giving way, the exasperation colouring his tone.

“I can get more. I could kill them all in a day.” It wouldn’t be hard. Mortal souls gave way so easily; the only problem was that he might accidentally unleash too much and end up vaporising the small worth they held.

Horror paused.

“You didn’t,” He said it slowly, carefully. “You didn’t do that before.”

“That was before my brother stepped in. Didn’t want to be too arrogant, throwing my weight out.” The slight shift in Horror’s gaze might as well have been a scoff. If he didn’t himself find his previous inclination foolishly optimistic to the point of hilarity, he wouldn’t have let it pass without any comment. “But he acted first, and we’re not at a standstill anymore. So I think it’s quite fine, don’t you think?”

Horror closed his mouth, turned away, and took a few moments to give a pensive nod. Hm.

He had let them bathe in their war victories for long enough, hadn’t he?

The darkness collecting in the corners was beginning to spill over.

Despair meant desperation, but they had already gone to Dream for help once because of it. They could not go to him a second time; Dream had already lost the advantage.

Horror resumed chopping, the rhythmic sound of the knife striking wood punctuating the silence. He did not say anything when Nightmare left the room.

#utmv #killer sans #nightmare sans #horror sans #utmv fanfic #utmv fanfiction #on mercy #on mercy full fic #on mercy fic #killermare #gonna be posting each chapt in a separate post now because i jst realise how long the reblogs are getting #sorry mobile users #just use 'on mercy full fic' if you want to read it #:') <333

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