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daflangstlairde-art · 18 hours ago

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"she ain't worth a goddamn in anyone else's hands" 5,334 words

Part 2 of ocean depths

Work Summary:

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer. But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had. — Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

Killer wasn't sad when first Horror and then Dust ditched their operation.

It didn't happen fast, nor at the same time, but it happened. It wasn't a shock. And he wasn't sad. He wasn't. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

As he stalked the halls of the dark castle, he felt nothing.

It was emptier than ever.

There was no longer Horror to cook warm soup and to splinter wood with a cleaver. He was introduced to some universe of farmboys. He left. He cared for his own universe, which remained alive.

There was no longer Dust to shadow him because company was better than the emptiness. He was harder for those Stars to convince, but apparently, Underfell admired violence and strength. Apparently, he was being “rehabilitated”.

And, well! We all know how Nightmare was. He had always been above them. Killer could linger in his company only if allowed.

There was... nobody.

Nobody.

Just massive, spanning walls of dark, cold stone. The rare slits of light only enough to illuminate the particles of dust in the air, really. It was all abandoned. Silent and dead. Empty.

Desolate.

Familiar.

...Haha. Hahahah.

How funny.

Killer kept ending up in dead ends.

—

He sat at the kitchen table.

He laid down on his bed.

He wandered the halls.

Emptiness of emptiness of emptiness.

Bored.

Killer wasn't sad. Killer couldn't be sad. Sadness was... it was a sincere emotion.

Killer was drowning in the dark, dark depths.

Killer felt emptier than ever.

It's like he wasn't even real.

—

“If you don't get your act straight, you’ll keep messing everything up.” Nightmare growled, tentacles holding Killer aloft and pinned to the wall by his throat.

Missions were boring. It was the same, all the same. Hurting and ruining and sometimes killing. All alone. All repetitive.

But Killer was Nightmare’s one loyal tool left. The only one.

Of course the Stars tried to break him too. Of course they offered many things that... probably sounded appealing to others. Like forgiveness, or help, or freedom.

Killer didn't care about those. Killer didn't care about the Stars. He didn't even know what their deal was! He had never particularly cared, and only really knew the most vague of details. Because none of it mattered to him.

Nightmare was the only thing that mattered. He was all Killer had. All.

...And Killer was all Nightmare had left.

Killer chuckled low, even as the restriction around his throat tightened painfully.

“Anything for you baby,” he teased, because it drove Nightmare up the wall with annoyance. It earned Killer the prize of pain, just like he wanted it to. He was discovering being provocative and crude made people react hilariously.

Missions were a fog. He lacked drive, he lacked interest, he lacked attention. On missions, heck, in everyday life, Killer was in a fugue state.

But he didn't need a brain! He just had to do as told.

Nightmare says kill, you kill.

—

“Why are you still fighting for him?!” Blue yelled, trying to keep up in parrying each of Killer’s violent slashes. “He doesn't care about you! He– he’s awful to you! I don't understand you!”

Killer just started laughing in his face.

Slash, stab, attack and attack and attack. Again, and again, and again and again, repeat upon repeat.

All the same. All meaningless. All horrible.

—

“I heard them talking about some ‘Cross’ guy,” Killer mentioned, twirling a knife, its point against his fingertip.

Nightmare paused in his irritated pacing, and for a moment Killer was sure he would get another “Shut the hell up while I’m thinking” for his generous efforts to help his boss.

Instead,

“...Cross, huh?” Nightmare hummed, considering.

—

They beat the Stars to it and now, once again, after weeks and weeks of emptiness, there was finally someone else in the castle.

And Cross was even fun to poke fun at!

“What’s got you so angsty?” Killer teased, tailing the guy into the kitchen.

“Leave me alone,” Cross dismissed him all huffy. He had this stoic attitude going on. Not very fun, except when Killer got it to crack. He was still exploring which buttons gave him the best reactions — honestly, he didn't know much about this Cross guy, and didn't care particularly to learn about his tragic backstory or whatever.

“I don't think I will,” Killer hummed, as Cross started searching through the cabinets.

“Is this place just empty?” Cross muttered to himself.

“Like my soul,” Killer joked. Ah, a classic.

Cross gave him a flat look and continued searching. “Where is all the food?”

“Oh the guy who did that left,” Killer replied.

“Did... food?” Cross turned around to look at him.

“Yeah, that was his thing,”

“And you... what, don't?”

Killer shrugged. “Nope, I'm not into it,” he chuckled, and Cross groaned.

“Why are you like this?” he demanded, exasperated. “Aren't you, I don't know, uh, in a–” and then he seemed to reconsider his words. Frowning. “...What is the deal with you and Nightmare?”

Killer started laughing so hard he teared up.

Cross disregarded him.

—

Knock-knock-knock at the door. Cheerful as ever. Waiting for the multiple locks on the inside to be unlocked, even when Killer could've just used a shortcut right in. That's to signify he’s coming with no violent intent, or whatever. Well. Minor violent intent maybe, haha.

The door opened, and immediately Red grimaced.

“H–!”

“DUST!” Red yelled to the inside of the house. “NIGHTMARE’S BITCH IS AT THE DOOR!”

“What?” called muffled from inside.

“ONE OF Y’ FUCKIN’ MANIAC FRIENDS!”

Killer laughed. Maybe someone else would've been hurt. He wasn't. Both of those statements were delightfully true.

—

There was one little problem. A little thorn in Killer’s side. Not enough to change his modus operandi — again, emotionless and uncaring — but enough to be noticeable. Enough to be annoying.

“Cross, you're in charge of this mission,” Nightmare stated.

“Yes sir.”

That thorn was called Cross and Killer might just hate him.

Before Killer could stop gaping and reply, Nightmare was already gone, leaving them in some random forest (not unusual, not important).

“Let's go.” Cross turned to walk in some direction for some reason.

“What– do you know where we are??” Killer sputtered, waving his knife.

“No.” Cross didn't even look at him, like he was better or something.

That wouldn't do.

Killer grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

“Then why are you ‘in charge’?” he asked, so very friendly.

“Because I don't fuck off to do whatever I want every time?” Cross raised a brow ridge. Ohohoo, some spunk in him today! “Because I'm an actually good henchman and don't talk back constantly?”

Oh the nerve of this guy. Heh. Heheheh! Hilarious!

In fact, Killer was chuckling. He was laughing. He was hysterical.

“You?” he gasped. “Whatever gets you off, puppet boy!”

Because there were a few easy answers to Cross’ question from awhile ago.

What was their relationship? Easy.

Killer was Nightmare’s. His yes-man, his victim, his tool, his loyal toy, his lackey, the only one who stayed. His bitch, to put it oh-so-elegantly. Everybody knew that.

—

“What have you done with Cross?!” Dream demanded, parrying Killer’s attacks beat for beat. That guy was not to be underestimated, which Killer was admittedly guilty of! What could he say? These positive, soft types never went for the kill — how can you be truly afraid of them?

It's not like he felt much fear, anyway. That was reserved for a special someone.

“Horrible things!” Killer exclaimed, laughing. “He's suffering as we speak!”

“What?!” Dream exclaimed, horrified.

(Cross was probably just sleeping. There wasn't much else to do when you're stuck at the castle and need to pass the time.)

“Terrible!” Killer nodded, dodging to the side and using the movement to try shanking Dream. It was evaded.

“Where is he?!”

“Where do you think?” Killer teased. “Same as always! He's not some treasure to be hidden,”

“Oh,” Dream was caught off guard by that. Probably wasn't expecting it. That meant he also wasn't expecting the knife Killer stabbed into his shoulder, haha.

—

Killer’s gotta give it to the Stars. Having experience with Horror and Dust, they retrieved Cross pretty efficiently this time.

—

Killer’s skull slammed into the wall behind him so hard the pain reverberated through it and echoed throughout his body. He groaned, a gutteral drawn out sound. The tentacle that’d grabbed him by the throat now also lifted him off his feet by it, in that uncomfortable way where Killer’s body dangled and felt like it’s about to drop away from his head.

“HOW DID THEY KNOW HE WAS HERE?” Nightmare demanded, shoving rage and disgust and fear into Killer’s soul like it's nothing, like it doesn't drown him.

“How am– I supposed– to know?” Killer choked out, grinning, hands clutching onto the tentacle in a poor attempt to hold himself up a little, to loosen the pressure. He was barely able to think through the onslaught of horror and misery. It was like a diseased, starving, feral animal clawing at his body. Unrelenting with you're horrible disgusting scum you're going to die die die you are going to SUFFER there is no escape you–

“You useless tool!” Nightmare pulled him away from the hard stone wall, only to slam him against it, and again and again and again until Killer was crying out with the pain. Everything was ringing with the building concussion. It was a little difficult to hear whatever Nightmare was saying through it, pardon Killer’s manners, but it sounded something like “This is your fault, isn't it?!”

In case it wasn't clear, Nightmare was really pissed. This whole weakening of his forces seemed to be really getting to him. How sad.

Killer blinked against the shapes swimming in his vision. He could feel that hateful substance trickling, leaking even, from his eyes down his face. Warm. No, it was cold. He could never quite decide. The probably-blood oozing down the back of his skull was certifiably warm, however.

“That’s very– presumptuous of you–” he struggled out, breathing heavily, breathing through the pain and the merciless barrage of rancid emotions. Grin widening. “I can see you’re– angry, baby– are you hhngh on your period?”

Nightmare was livid. Killer started laughing, even as there were great efforts being put to choking him out.

“Shut. Up.” Nightmare said, cold and reverberating off the walls until it surrounds you. He lowered Killer down slowly, but didn't let go of him — it was just so Killer wasn't held aloft anymore, but rather, Nightmare, with all his engulfing darkness, loomed over him. “Need I remind you betrayal. Isn't. Tolerated?”

Killer couldn't help but snort and cackle at that, past the rancid, cloying smell of death from Nightmare’s general aura.

“Betrayal?” he exclaimed. “Me? Please. You and I both know I'm all you really have.”

There was the kicker.

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer.

But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had.

He was the only one truly allied with Nightmare. Not through force or violence or threats, none of that — because he wanted to be. Because Killer was an empty husk of a being and adored the force and the violence and the threats and the fear. A living wound that only exists when it's bleeding.

Nightmare knew that Killer knew that. But Killer knew that Nightmare knew it too. They both knew where they stood. They both knew Nightmare could leverage whatever suffering he wanted against Killer and that Killer would only enjoy it the worse it is. Killer only did as told when he enjoyed it, because he wanted to. He misbehaved for the very same reason.

Killer was so ruined through his own fault. There was nowhere further Nightmare could ruin him. Nightmare couldn't hurt him because Killer hurt himself, and Nightmare was just the most intense, most effective, most convenient way to do it.

That's why Nightmare’s glare narrowed. That's why the tentacle holding Killer’s neck loosened, letting him exhale and inhale deeply.

“You're not as clever as you think you are, loudmouth.” Nightmare spoke slowly. Promising danger. He always carried out his promises. He was cute like that.

...Except.

Except it wasn't what Killer expected. It wasn't sickening, merciless violence. It wasn't choking suffering. It wasn't burning agony. It wasn't animalistic fear.

It was... white.

Just white.

Endless, shapeless white.

All it took was a moment for Killer to be brought there, and a second one for Nightmare to be gone, and then it was just Killer and the endless white abyss.

He exhaled, standing amidst it all. It was so much larger than anything that could be conceived, and yet. And yet it was empty.

Hah. Hahahah.

Like his soul.

...It was always... a strange experience. The way the emotion would rise, like a tidal wave. A split second explosion of anger-hate-fear-despair at the devouring vastness, at the fact that he was just ditched there. When Nightmare knew he despised the emptiness. Or, rather, precisely because he knew how much Killer hated it.

And just as quickly it would be gone. Like a sudden electrical surge that blew out the fuse. And he was numb as ever. All the feelings he may have felt about this just the lingering buzz in the non-air. Only serving to make him even more aware of the nothing that remained, that lingered.

Killer couldn’t parse whether being stranded in the Antivoid was a worse or better hell than the Void. He supposed it didn’t particularly matter.

He sat down on the concept of a “ground”.

He didn’t even have a shadow. It was all empty. It was all nothing.

He didn’t have the energy to laugh. He laid down, staring up at the whiteness (as opposed to the whiteness to the side, or even: the whiteness down below).

—

Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

It’s... familiar. In the worst of ways, You hate “familiar”. You hate the staleness, the sameness, the stillness. It’s all the same, for hours upon hours upon hours.

Haha. Funny how you keep ending up in dead ends.

It’s more barren than your own universe. It’s more repetitive and deprived than hundreds of repetitions of the same goddamn day remembered with crystal clarity. It’s not warm and it’s not cold. It’s not nice, and it’s not even painful.

If the Antivoid was painful, that would’ve been a mercy to you.

The emptiness devours you whole. It rips you up piece by piece. Slow and deliberate, unbothered by the passage of time, which makes sense, because it’s not like time changes anything at all around here.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. It couldn't have been that long, but it already feels like weeks. The void spaces have that effect on people. It’s by definition. Here, eternity is stored in every second.

You sleep, mostly, to pass the time.

When you’re awake, you self-destruct. Your mind is starved and desperate, looking for something something something to grasp but there is nothing. It’s just you. You engrave your own bones with sharp points. You claw at your being. You seek and seek and seek and you find nothing but yourself, until your self is indistinguishable from the nothing as well.

You feel like screaming just to hear something, but nothingness has no voice.

—

You wake up. Again. All the same every time. Repetitions for eternity. You despise abstract concepts, except you don’t, because emptiness doesn’t contain emotions.

...Except.

“Good thing it’s not Error who found you first!” Ink jokes, standing over you all cheery. He’s... he’s colorful.

It takes you several moments to remember that, conceptually, you have a body, and you leap to your feet.

“Woah there buddy!” exclamation mark in his eye, Ink stumbles back so you don’t ram your head into his accidentally, but that triggers some desperation in you and you grab him by the scarf and yank him back.

The feeling of something material in your hand, something that isn’t you, is like a shock. Except you still feel nothing. You just stare at the bunched up fabric.

Ink remains in place, a little awkward. In a position showing he’s unsure what you’re up to, whether to be prepared for an attack. You consider attacking. You feel nothing about the concept.

“Heeeeyyyy,” Ink draws out, regaining his nonchalant cheer with a blink. “Yyyoou okay there...?”

How are you supposed to answer that? The question strikes you as absurd. Nonsensical. You laugh even though you feel no amusement. That’s normal for you.

“...Right,” Ink clears his throat. “Sssooo whatcha up to? Where’s Nightmare?” he asks, mostly curious. Ink has always struck you as a weirdo freak, something off about his reactions, but you’ve never thought about it too deeply.

You shrug. You’re still holding his scarf. You’re unsure why. You don’t particularly care and he doesn’t seem to mind it either, so. No reason to stop.

(He’s real he’s tangible he’s something different he’s something something something–)

“Well I’m just passing by, I’ll be out in a–”

“If you so much as think about leaving I’ll stab you through the spine.” you immediately counter, calmly threatening.

“Awww if you wanted company you could’ve just said so!” Ink takes it in stride, and again, off reactions. It’s the most interesting thing that has happened in what feels like eternity so you latch onto it.

“You’re weird.” you point out.

Ink laughs. “Yeah, I get that a lot! Part of having a creative nature,” he strikes a pose all cheeky, eye light in the shape of a sparkle. You’re still holding him by the scarf. “Soooo what have you been up to??” he asks, rocking back and forth on his feet all silly.

You gesture around with a flat expression. “Nothing,”

Ink snorts. “How long have you been here?” he prods you (literally, with a finger, which you allow because he’s physical and here and real).

You shrugs. “Not like I can keep track,” you huff.

“Yeesh. You gotta be careful with that one, spend too long and the glitching disease will get to you,” Ink says like he’s joking, except that is literally a fact. People go insane and corrupted in the void spaces.

You consider demanding from Ink to get you out of here.

...You remember you have nowhere to go.

You remember how livid Nightmare was. And how much more powerful he is than you. And how he owns your soul. And how if he wants you to be here, here you will be, so there’s not really a point to it. Everything always ends up like this for you, huh? Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters. That’s how your existence has always been, and how it always will be.

“Need me to get you somewhere?” Ink offers, lifting his brush, like he was on a similar train of thought but departed a few stations earlier.

“...I’ve stabbed you several times,” you point out like an echo of amusement, because Ink is best described as quirky. And again, considering circumstances, it’s currently the most interesting thing in your life. What a tragedy.

“Yeah...?” Ink prompts with a question mark in his eye, like he isn't seeing how that relates to his question at all.

You tilt your head.

“Why do you want to help me?” you ask, because the closest thing to emotion you have right now is curiosity-fascination. Though that doesn't say much, considering it just as distant as everything else. “We're enemies, or something,”

“Oh!” Ink exclaims. “Oh I don't really care,” he shrugs. “I mean, I guess that's the narrative, yeah! But it's not like I hate you personally or something,” he chuckles.

Weirdo freak.

You've never cared to learn anything about the Stars. You realize you barely even know their tragic backstories. You still don't particularly care, but Ink is a natural yapper, so maybe you can use him to fill the silence.

(Until he leaves, of course. Until you are left alone. You are always left alone.)

“You don't find my actions abhorrent? Not how I've killed hundreds? Not how I enjoy torturing others?” you seek for the buttons to press, grinning. You recall that yeah, Ink is a lot more difficult to get a rise out of compared to the other two, who are so openly emotional.

“I mean,” Ink scratches his skill. “On one hand, a good story needs villains. On the other hand, the best narratives are about how good triumphs in the end, and so you need someone to be that component as well. In that sense, I am against it!” he concludes. “Although works that explore dark endings are also fascinating and have their own merit,” he considers. “Like tragedies, or darkgrim stories. They–” he starts rambling, distracted by the topic.

It's interesting for maybe a second. It quickly stops being so. You can't bring yourself to care about whatever he's talking about, or to want to.

You consider attacking him, again. But then he might leave, depending on whether he has something else to do instead or not.

“Are the other two coming around?” you interrupt, though Ink doesn't seem offended that you completely ignored his spiel.

“Hm? Uh, I don't think so, why?” he asks in turn. Damn, that means they have no business around here. Though, after a brief pause, Ink’s eyes widen and he exclaims a “Wait!”

He tries to pull away but you hold onto the fabric of his scarf tighter, summoning a knife in a kind reminder of your threat. Ink lifts his palms placatingly, chuckling.

“Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere!” he assures. “I’ll just call them over too and then we can all... talk!”

Oh.

That meant he was going to seize the opportunity to try and “reason” with you like they did with Horror and Dust. Again. Like you didn't laugh in their faces every previous time. Respect for the persistence?

“You do realize that won't work, right?” you generously point it out to Ink.

He blinks.

“I’m not betraying Nightmare,” you snort.

Ink tilts his head. “Why?”

He asks it so simply. No “You know he doesn't love you, right?”, no “But he's awful to you!”, none of that. Maybe that's why you answer him.

“Because,” you say, almost amused, shrugging. You're unsure how to finish that. You're unsure how to explain, so you just say the truth — “I don't care about anything else,”

Ink is looking at you curiously now, his previous idea of calling for backup seemingly forgotten, which is typical for him.

He sits on the ground. He pats the ground in an invite. You sit down too, mostly because you're still holding his scarf.

“Nothing? Really?” Ink asks, pulling his leg closer to rest his chin on his knee.

“Nope!”

“You don't have a family?”

You burst out laughing. You pretend to wipe a tear, even.

“What? Do you know nothing?” you exclaim, cackling.

Ink is just staring at you with question marks.

“Know what?” he asks. What an idiot. You'd roll your eyes if you had any. At best, you manage to mimick the action.

“I killed them all,” you say easily. “Many, many times,”

“...Oh. Right.” Ink seems to remember. “But why??”

Huh. Apparently Killer wasn't the only one who couldn't give a flying fuck to learn anything about his supposed enemies.

Killer sighs dreamily, “To listen to their sweet sweet cries of pain,”

Ink grimaces. “Oh. Really??? You come from a twist on the original timeline though, right?” he asks, frowning in confusion. “The classic version of Sans is not like that,”

“Clearly I'm not the classic version of Sans,” Killer pointed out flatly, and to emphasize the point, he gestured to his soul. You know. The one that is nothing like a monster’s or a human’s.

“Oooohhhhh,” Ink nodded along, hand reaching forward– Killer flinched. Body immediately strung tight, ready for the barrage of suffering that always followed when his soul was grasped and squeezed and–

But he was so baffled by the action, he let it happen.

Ink pulled his hand back, however, staring at his face.

Killer snorted, and moved his hand to offer his soul, that wretched thing. It's not like he cared if anyone did anything to it. Or hurt it.

(His soul. His being. His self. The essence and shape of his existence condensed into one. The most vulnerable part of you. The most you part of you.)

“Go on,” you shrug. “Not like I care,”

Ink hesitantly reaches out a hand to prod the cursed thing. It feels just as uncomfortable and bad as you'd imagine, to have your soul poked. He pulls his hand back.

“...Well,” Ink starts, “at least you have one?” he offers, chuckling. “Better than nothing!”

You tilt your head. That's a strange way to say that.

“What, you don't?”

“Nope!” Ink says as easily as you would.

It's your turn to blink and stare. At his neutrally cheerful grin.

And suddenly... it does make sense. The sense of emptiness behind half his expressions. The lack of care where others would have at least some. The odd view of the world. His flat affect, even if it was a positive one.

...Huh.

Ink was telling the truth. He was soulless.

You raise a hand to where yours returned to the middle of your chest. Always sitting in front of it. Always bare. Detached from the rest of you.

“...How?”

“Just never had one,” Ink shrugs.

You can only think of one other soulless creature — that yellow flower.

But... it doesn't make sense. The wretched flower reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom. You reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom.

Yet here Ink was. Playing as one of the so-called “good guys”.

“Then how do you feel?” you press the issue.

“Oh? I’m good!” Ink says cheerfully.

“No– how do you feel feelings if you're soulless?” you huff.

“Huh? Oh!” Ink exclaims, and then takes out one of those colorful vials he carries on a sash everywhere he goes. “I don’t! Not naturally, anyway. I have these to help me!” he shakes the little vial — yellow, barely anything remaining inside. They're all in different quantities.

You frown. “What? How? Are they magic?” you reach to take the vial but Ink pulls it back. Now that's interesting.

“Sort of?” Ink squints at the vial. “They correspond to different emotions, but I think they only work on me,”

...Of course.

You let go of his scarf.

You consider fighting him to snatch one of the vials and try it anyway. You know it's pointless, however.

The disappointment is crushing. You feel like a drug addict who was just handed a bag overflowing with white powder only to discover it's flour.

“You should leave before I dice you into dust.”

The disappointment is crushing.

Hah. Hahahah. As if. As if it could be as easy as drinking some paint. Of course not. When has your life ever been easy? No, you are doomed to be like this forever. You knew this. It's downright hilarious you thought (hoped), even for less than a moment, that there could be anything else.

It's so funny you're chuckling.

It's so funny you're laughing.

When Ink leaves, you're still howling with laughter, black liquid streaming down your face.

—

The quiet around here was deafening. It was starting to make Killer hyperaware of every quiet rustle of clothing from every little movement. Several times he caught himself starting to talk to himself, trying to fill the quiet with jokes or something. But that was a slippery slope, so he shut the hell up. If he didn't talk, hopefully nothing would start replying. He refused to get corrupted by the glitches.

Luckily — and that is a weird descriptor — Ink returned. For some known-only-to-him reason.

“Why the hell are you back?” Killer asked, not bothering to get up this time. Just laying on his back. He's here on a vacay.

“Well!” Ink said, and judging by the changing direction of his voice, he was moving around. “The empty white is literal torture, isn't it?” he chuckled.

“What would you know,” Killer mimed rolling his eyes. Wasn't Ink some almighty creator? He could just hurl some ink around and it wouldn't be white anymore.

Ink laughed. “Oh trust me, I know,”

Killer felt like he was missing something.

“Can't you just, I don't know, paint it?”

“Yep! That's what I'm doing right now!” Ink explained cheerfully. Killer pushed himself up to look, now.

Huh. Yeah. Ink was going around with his brush, using the white space as a big canvas. Killer squinted, unable to decipher what exactly he was drawing, besides some colors and shapes. Red and pink, blue in different shades, yada yada.

“...What is it,” Killer observed Ink’s movements, walking around him, deliberate but free flowing.

“Just whatever feels right,” Ink shrugged. “The different hues have different, you know, vibes, depending on how you mix them, how you use them against one another– oh can you step to the side there?”

He did, getting to his feet and stepping aside.

“Thanks!” Ink said, filling in the spot.

Killer squinted, still trying to figure out what it all was. The warm colors looked like a flame maybe...?

He kept watching Ink work for a few more moments. It was weird, to be alone with someone, without a constant background thrum of negativity. Killer couldn't call it pleasant, but... it was better than the emptiness.

Suddenly he was hauled up and his reflexes immediately fired off, magic materializing in an immediate attack and just as soon he was dropped.

“Wow you are jumpy!” Ink exclaimed, holding the wound that Killer cut into him. It didn't seem too deep, mostly due to Ink’s durability. He was standing on top of a short pillar of ink.

“Don't forget who you're talking to,” Killer threatened with a low tone, grin stretching as he gripped a sharp, sharp knife in hand.

“Whoops!” Ink didn't seem all too affected. “Don't you wanna see what it is though?” he leaned on a hand, all silly.

...

Killer accepted being lifted up by a glob of ink, mildly curious.

He stared at the splatter on the white ground.

It was a moth. In shades of icy, hopeless blue. Surrounded by scorching red flames. Huh. Okay them. Pretty cool, or something. At least it was colorful.

Ink put him back down on the ground. With his hands on his hips, he admired his own work, chuckling.

“It’s nice to fill the emptiness, don't you think?”

Killer had never bothered caring about the Stars. He didn't care about them as people, what they felt or what they thought.

He... never would've expected to find understanding with one of them.

“...Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it is.”

—

“ARGH we’re too late?!” Dream blurted out.

“Huh, I could've sworn he seemed to be staying here for longer,” Ink commented, much less affected.

“The one time he and Nightmare aren’t attached at the hip–” Dream continued groaning.

“Maybe Nightmare sensed we were planning to talk to him–?” Blue suggested, trying to investigate the nearly empty white space. All that remained were splotches from Ink’s activities. No Killer in sight.

Dream sighed loudly, rubbing his face, greatly dejected. “That's... possible,” he breathed.

“We should've come here sooner,” Blue put his hands on his hips.

“He wasn't very happy with the idea,” Ink shrugged.

“It’s... we’ll have another opportunity,” Dream concluded. He had to stay positive and hopeful. “No matter how long we need to wait, we’ll figure out how to help them,” he remained determined.

30 notes · View notes