Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Creation.

It bubbles up at the slightest ripple in a silver stream. Through the waves and impurities, it branches out through the veins of all living within and of itself. Pink, blue, yellow, red, all combined into one glorious multiverse.

Destruction.

This world must have a balance. That was the main rule when this Multiverse was created. Achieve balance and you achieve prosperity, for when new dots of color appear in the river and turn to fish, each must have its predator.

Creation needs fuel.

Creators.

So, so many of them. Through a flick of a paintbrush, the click of a keyboard, through strings and paint. Bit by bit, brick by brick, story by story, the Multiverse built and flourished with gilded glory. An opposite to every good, every evil, and those standing on the sidelines. Those we call guardians. Those we call outcodes.

There were wars, of course. Well-known ones, such as the X-Event. Lesser known ones, like the Regal Rebellion or Eclipse Uprising.

Then the drought came.

The flooding of creations came to a sudden stop.

With half of the multiverse gone from the X-Event, and with the existence of the multiverse itself at stake, the Hollow War began.

How do you fight a war with so many sides, interpretations, and yet no clue what you are fighting for? A lover of destruction might wish for this, the death of all things, forgetting that means he dies himself. A lover of creation might want things to return to the good old days, forgetting that means he’ll have to go back to doing twice the work with less time to frolic and fool around like he typically does.

And two sides of a coin will fight for dominance, knowing the death of the other will destroy the delicate balance so sought after, for such men are only motivated by one thing.

Hatred of the other.

So, a war with no motivation, the multiverse against itself, and no telling where this tale will begin and end.
You’re probably wondering where you fit into this story.

That’s the problem.

You don’t fit in.

No, you don’t fit in at all.

Chapter Text

You’re running.

You’ve been running for a very long time.

Fire became your blood, steel became your bones, as you stumbled through a decaying street. Flames surrounded you, but they rose unnaturally high, in shades of red, blue, and orange. As a building fell, they lashed at the street, which is crumbled to debris. Their hands reach for you. It’s horror.

Yet stopping to catch your breath will cost you your life.

What began as a typical day had swiftly spiraled into chaos. A B- on your Geometry test seemed to be the start of it all. Can you be blamed for not paying attention when the clock ticks too loud, people click their pens repeatedly, and your teacher can’t do his job for the life of him? You had tucked away the bad grade and convinced your parents to let you ride your bike to the nearby Sweet Scoop ice cream parlor to meet your friends. Then, chaos struck. The sky tore open, emitting a glaring teal light, and storm clouds gathered ominously. Not even their rain could extinguish the fires consuming the small city near Mount Ebott. You called your parents. No answer. Your sister. No answer. Your last hope was Sweet Scoop.

But when you arrived, it was reduced to rubble and ash.

Like most of the city.

Now, here you are, out of breath, some of your hair singed and your knees covered in soot. Tears streak your face. Your whole body stings.

But you’re running on pure adrenaline, and you will not stop until you find somewhere safe to hide.

A bright purple glow emanates from your chest as you run. All humans have Soul traits. Yours is perseverance. It’s not the “coolest” one, you’ve always thought, but it’s like you physically can’t back down from a challenge. And this is certainly a challenge.

Some had always seen you as second best. Determination was the trait that every parent wanted for their child and what every child wanted in order to be considered “cool”. Ever since the monster’s ambassador came to be, of course. But you never really minded. You never liked the spotlight anyway; much too hot and demanding.

Kind of ironic, considering the flames around you right now.

Rounding a corner, you finally find an alleyway that hasn’t been demolished. Dimly lit, with a muddied and wet concrete floor and decaying brick walls, it’s better than nothing. Certainly better than death. You make your way to the end wall, collapsing and panting to catch your breath. You have no food or water, but this place is dark and concealed enough.

Surely, you could stay here for a while. Maybe by then, the threat will be neutralized. Or should you be calling the police? Do you even have cell service? No, you don’t have your phone. It was in your backpack. You dropped it while you ran. Speaking of running, you should probably start doing that again. Run out of town, as far away as humanly possible.

But your shoulder stings and a part of your jacket is singed. It must have been hit by something; if it’s a simple cut, the cat bandaid in your pocket will at least protect from infection. You pull up the jacket sleeve to examine it—

Suddenly, a much more agonizing stab of pain shoots up your arm like a lightning bolt.

The pain is so immense, so white-hot, you swear you lose consciousness for a moment. Warm red liquid begins to ooze from the wound, and you can barely lift your head to look at it.

But you do.

A red, glowing knife has you pinned to the brick wall like a slab of meat. The pain doesn’t process at first…then hits you like a ton of bricks. A cry rips from your throat, a sharp metallic taste flooding your mouth. It’s so excruciating you can barely breathe. It’s heating up, becoming hot, too hot, so hot, you desperately want to pull it out, despite knowing that will make it worse;.

A low chuckle rumbles a few feet in front of you.

“Aww, c’mon kid. Don’t cry. It’s not even that bad. Just can’t have ya goin’ anywhere until we have a little chat.” The voice is low and coarse as if the speaker had chewed on gravel. It’s a man, but his tone seems unnatural as if he was pulled from the depths of the earth.

In the dim light of the alley, the figure emerges. It’s a monster; a skeleton, specifically. His skeletal face is twisted into a grin, sockets oozing black tar that sizzles upon hitting the concrete floor. His bones are stark white and riddled with thin cracks, contrasting sharply with the darkness around him. He wears a tattered blue hoodie, the hood drawn up to shadow his face even more. He wears simple basketball shorts, black Converse, and fingerless gloves. His soul appears to be fully exposed, in the shape of a lethally red target, rising and falling as if it were his heart.

Although he isn’t that tall, you’ve never felt smaller in your entire life.

“You’ve been running for quite a bit,” the figure mentions, his tone almost conversational as he twirls a knife. “I’m almost a little surprised you tuckered out.”

You try to speak, but the pain in your shoulder makes it difficult to form words. “Wh-who are you?” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling.

The skeleton chuckles, sending chills down your spine. “Name’s Killer,” he says, as if that explains everything. “And you, kid, have something we want.”

A murderer who calls himself Killer. That’s ironic. You think of the news headline for your murder; “High schooler Killed by Lethal Target Mascot!” At least your parents won’t have to see it.

Killer steps closer, and you can see the details of his grin—sharp teeth, too perfect to be natural, glinting in the flickering light. His grin twitches further upward as you flinch. Suddenly, you feel a burning in your chest, your blood warming uncomfortably as if you’ve turned transparent and someone is examining you from the inside out.

He tilts his head. “Not too happy to see me, huh? Figures…Perseverance? Heh, not as good as Determination, but it’ll have to do.”

As the skeleton mutters to himself, you reconsider pulling out the knife in your shoulder and making a run for it, but you’d bleed out before you even got to your feet. You muster up a kick in your adversary’s direction, which he easily dodges. Killer nearly laughs at your futile attempts. “Oh, don’t bother,” he says cheerfully. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, desperation creeping into your voice. “What do you want from me?”

Killer’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, the playful tone vanishes. “My boss is the lord of negativity and malice… kinda fancy title, huh? Anyways, he feeds off people who feel like shit, and you seem to fit the bill just fine.”

He steps back, and with a wave of his hand, the knife disappears, leaving you to collapse to the ground, clutching your injured shoulder. Brilliant crimson spills through the gaping wound, leaving your hands slick with blood. The pain is overwhelming, but you force yourself to stay conscious, watching as Killer casually leans against the alley wall, arms folded.

“How old are you? 13? 14? Maybe 15…” Killer ponders, looking at you for an answer. You groan in reply, which earns you a frown. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. I’m tryin’ to be nice here. You aren’t gonna die.”

You grit your teeth, trying to push through the pain, but it’s like kicking a wall and hoping for it to move. The black spots become bigger, darker, threatening to black you out. But your soul refuses to die out without answers.

“Why me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why does it have to be me?”

Killer’s grin widens. “Why not you?” he counters. “You just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Or maybe, the right place at the wrong time. Depends on how you look at it. I mean, we don’t usually take kids, but…”

He crouches down to your level, his empty eye sockets boring into you. He pokes you gently. “Hey, c’mon now… don’t go unconscious. Stop fallin’ asleep.”

But it’s no use. You’re so dizzy, so unbelievably dizzy, that the skeleton’s face is nothing but a blur of black, white, and red. You feel nauseous, sick, cold—so cold, unbearably cold, with nothing between your blood and the earth.

You struggle to cough out words, and when you do, they come up with blood. “My… my f… family…”

Killer’s grin remains stark, indifferent, void of any sense of mirth. “Your life is over as far as any of us are concerned, kid. You don’t gotta worry about anythin’ anymore. Hey, no more homework! That’s neat, right?”

Somehow, that one sentence alone makes this whole ordeal infinitely worse.

As you struggle to process his words, a new presence makes itself known. The air around you grows colder, and a dark, oppressive energy fills the alley. It’s as if the warmth of the wildfires and destruction has been sucked out by a vacuum, leaving the air dry and bitter, doubling your physical pain. Killer steps aside, his grin widening as he looks towards the entrance.

“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

From the shadows, a tall, imposing figure emerges. His form is shrouded in darkness, tendrils of inky blackness swirling around him like living shadows, highlighted by a turquoise so unnatural that it is color turned inside out. His eyes glow with a malevolent light, and his presence is suffocating, as if the very air around him is poisoned. He’s a bit taller than Killer, with a stark, deep purple suit, an imposing cape, and some sort of crown-like headband on his head. The figure seemed to have no mouth, but a hole in his face, ripped apart by an outline of sea green, as if he’s a malevolent sea serpent brought to life on land.

You wonder why he’s wearing a suit for this sort of thing, but push the thought aside. That should be the least of your concerns.

“Hm.” The figure grumbles, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that seems to vibrate through your very bones. His expression is highly irritated. “A child. Disappointing as always, Killer.”

Killer’s grin becomes forced. “Heh, c’mon boss! Y’know, kids always cry and stuff. Won’t that be good for you?”

“I despise children,” Nightmare spat, bringing a hand to his temple. “They are obnoxious, docile, whiny little brats who do nothing but eat their fill and then complain. Put it out of its misery.”

You let out a sound halfway between a groan and a screech, black dots dancing in your vision. The newcomer glares down at you and clicks his tongue. “So pitiful. The thing can’t even speak. Go on, Killer.”

“Boss—”

“Are you hesitating? Are you complaining? Perhaps you’d like to be locked in the dungeons instead?”

“No, but—”

“Correct. You don’t. Get rid of it.”

“But boss—”

“WHAT, KILLER? WHAT?! WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE SO IMPORTANT THAT YOU—”

“Boss, there’s NOBODY left.”

“Nobody left,” Nightmare chuckled, an impossibly wide grin spreading across his face. “Killer, you fucking imbecile. You absolutely pathetic whelp. How can there possibly be nobody left in an entire universe?”

Killer nods towards the sky, which is now covered by blue strings.

His boss’s grin is quickly wiped clean.

Three new figures appear in the alleyway, as if out of thin air. You believe that they’re covered in blood, as it’s hard to see, but it’s a miracle you’re even alive. Words become fuzzy.

“…killed at least 9… myself…”

“Take in…? Where they… maybe it’s…”

“Go…”

Suddenly, arms scoop you up.

The simple gesture is enough to make you pass out, your soul beating thrice before going cold.

Chapter Text

It takes you an unusually long time to realize that you’re awake.

Then again, it really should come as a surprise. Your whole body feels sore and tingley all over, as if your blood had run dry and you were left with permanent pins and needles everywhere. And you’re cold. Unbearably cold, propped against a rough stone wall. You have to use all your strength to open your eyes, and even then, your vision is blurred. After a couple of blinks, you can see, but not comprehend your surroundings.

Three rough, stone walls surround you. The fourth is made of iron bars. The floor is damp, and the ceiling drips unusual condensation in shades of shock blue and poisonous green; you have no clue what those substances are. There’s what appears to be a toilet and a sink to your life, and a bench with a blanket to your right. You would’ve thought they’d at least take the liberty of putting you on the “bed” instead of the ragged rock, but maybe even that is a mercy too great. Still, you feel numb, knowing you should be upset and uncomfortable yet unable to express any of it. You know this will fade.

But something else might not.

You try to move your right shoulder but choke out a cry. Using your other arm to peel away your jacket, you can see the cause of the alarm. Your shoulder is not healed. Far from it, actually; although it’s wrapped in gauze, the bandage is nowhere near sterile, covered in grime and some sort of filmy powder. The gaping hole isn’t gone either. That’s going to take a while to heal. If at all.

All that you know right now is that you’re thirsty, and the sink is your best option. You force yourself to stand, but the simple motion makes you dizzy. Your limbs are stiff, abnormally so like a marionette with the strings pulled too tight. How long have you been out for…?

That doesn’t matter now either, you conclude. Water is what you need.

Off you shuffle to the sink, which is in a crumbling state of decay. The base of it is covered with green stuff, which you can only presume to be mold that formed on account of the constant dripping of the ceiling. You tug at the handle, but it won’t budge. You try again, nothing.

Frustrated, and still in a daze, you tug with all your might–

Water spews out violently into your face, glacially cold, like knives cutting at your skin. Thankfully you close your eyes in time, but you stumble back as the spray only grows stronger. You hear soft footsteps, but don’t process them as you fight your way towards the sink.

Step out of the way.

The thought crosses your mind, but you don’t give it any attention, the water pressure now on your shoulder. The bloom of red-hot pain leaves you stunned.

Step out of the way, goddammit!

Finally, you use your remaining two brain cells to step aside and rush to the sink to turn it off, collapsing to the floor.

“hngh–”

A grunt comes behind you, and you turn yourself around.

Standing there behind the bars is another skeleton. He’s a few inches taller than Killer, wearing Converse a few sizes too big and black sweatpants a size too small. He has gloves too, you think; not long ones, just simple white gloves. He’s wearing a hoodie similar to Killer as well, but it’s dusted in a white powder and the hood is a simple gray. Pulled over his head, it obscures his entire face in a dark shadow…except for a very clear frown, teeth unnaturally white. Why is he soaking wet…?

Your heart drops as you glance back at the sink. Seems you’ve moved out of the way a little too late.

“watch it,” he mumbles, clearly not happy. The air feels charged, as if electricity has weaved itself into the dungeon. His hands seem to twitch, longing to attack in some form, but he restrains himself, shoving a tray under the cell bars.

You pulled yourself towards it. Food. You almost smile in relief…almost. A stale roll, some sort of watery broth, and a bruised apple, all drenched in nasty arctic water from the sink. Not exactly a meal.

“if you aren’t finished by morning, you’re not gonna like what happens to you,” The figure said, voice deep and low. “same goes for each meal.”

“But…this is inedible,” you say, as loud as you dare. You spy a bug on the outside of your apple and shoo it away. Eugh.

“might be. doesn’t matter.”

With that, he turns to leave, taking the electric air with him.

You turn your attention to the food and poke at the apple. As expected, it’s mushy on the inside. The broth doesn’t look half bad, so you dip your finger into the bowl and taste. Immediately a foul taste pervades your mouth, almost like rotting mushrooms. You immediately recoil. Everything on the tray was completely inedible, and that’s when you realize you quite literally can’t win. Eat and risk some sort of food poisoning, or don’t eat and die from either starvation or the unrevealed ‘consequences’ promised. But those aren’t the only choices you have.

There’s still the matter of deciding if you’d rather pick the way you die, or try to live.

Better think fast.

You look around the cell for anything of use. There are no vents, no windows, and no cracks in the walls. Although rotting and decaying, the toilet, sink, and bench are stubbornly stuck in place. The bars are too narrow to fit through. You can’t chip anything off the walls. The sink could be used as a distraction, but for all you know, the man with the gloves will be the only one coming down here and your life in itself is a ticking time bomb. You could just be sitting here, waiting to be executed. But when? Today? Tomorrow? A few years?

How can you even measure a prison sentence if you have no clue what you’ve done?

Besides, it’s not as if you can just walk out the door…oh wait. You can.

The door opens with a creak, almost embarrassingly easy, and the tears you didn’t even know were flowing down your face dried up. You take a step outside, looking around. A hallway to your left…and a set of stairs to your right.

You run. Again. Until fire becomes your blood and steel becomes your bones and the only thing that you can think of is freedom. A familiar warmth pumps through your heart, spreading it throughout every vein and artery. A purple glow thrums in your chest. You soul is hard at work to keep you going, and you won’t stop until it’s satisfied.

Up the stairs you go; so many stairs that it’s impossible to tell where ground ends and ceiling begins and your world is turned upsidedown. After what seems like hours of one foot being placed in front of another, you see a door. You heart drops, your breathing slows, as you realize. What if this one is locked too?

You pause.

Then, slowly, very slowly, you turn the doorknob.

Not locked after all.

Relief flows through your chest, a smile finally makes its way onto your face, and you open the door, ready for freedom–

But it’s not freedom at all that greats you.

It’s the most magnificent foyer you’ve ever seen; pure obsidian floors that twinkle with bits of mica-like stars, enveloping your footsteps like liquid. The walls are made of black stone, the ceiling a plethora of blues and pitch, somehow enchanted to look like the night sky. Two large staircases lead to the second floor, lined with black marble, and the chandelier, oh, the chandelier, large and magnificent with dripping candles and jewels the color of howlite and blood.

Your kidnappers live in a mansion. No, not just a mansion, but a castle.

You lose your breath as quickly as it returns to you. Aren’t castles in the middle of nowhere? Will there be anyone to call for help? You know sure as hell that you don’t have your phone anymore.

Suddenly, footsteps. You gasped and looked around frantically, searching for a hiding place, before settling on a moldy gargoyle. Your back is pressed uncomfortably against the wall, and the stone smells like decaying flesh. You gag.

“Caught ya!”

Although you can’t see anything, you hear a snap, and recognize the voice as Killer.

“Ugh– man, stop doing that!” That’s a voice you don’t recognize.

“Not my fault you’re bitchin’ and whinin’ about it…ain’t ya supposed to come from a royal guard or some shit?”

“That was from a long time ag–”

“Whatever, whatever. Nightmare seems pretty mad at me as of late and I just broke something in the left wing…was hoping you’d cover for me.”

“Uhm, no?! What’d you even break anyway?!”

“Uhh, just a vase or something…I dunno, I wasn’t paying attention. C’mooon, Crossy, you know I’d do the same for you!”

“Last time I asked you to cover for me, you put a snake in my bed.”

“It was funny.”

“No, it WASN’T.”

As their arguing continues, you remove yourself from behind the gargoyle, darting into the room behind you. It’s a handsome study, with a rug and a fireplace with a mantle. It’s warmer than most of the castle, you notice, so you shut the door quietly and sit by the fire. A strong flame thrums from inside, also a strange turquoise color, and you wonder if they’re made of magic.

You turn your head, surprised to see a mug made out of clay on an ornate table in front of the purple velvet couch. You cautiously get up, swaddle yourself with a blanket on the ground, and pick up the mug.

Whatever’s inside is frothy and brown, the top splotted with globs of white goo. You sniff it, and your mouth floods with saliva. Rich, warm, and nutty. It’s hot chocolate.

Without thinking twice, you take a sip.

You almost sigh with relief. The thick liquid cocoa moves down your throat and warms your belly, filling the aching void of hunger. You sit on the couch, finishing the whole thing, finally satisfying your stomach. It could’ve been poisoned or worse, but that was one of the best drinks you’ve ever had.

As the numbness of sugar melts away, you realize that you’re still in a house with murderers. This room, like your cell, has no windows. You stand and walk behind the couch, examining the walls for weak spots. You press a stone, nothing. You press a stone, nothing. You press a stone…

And let out a short yelp as the floor gives out beneath you.

You’re behind a bookshelf, a missing book allowing you to view the room you’re in. Five skeletons sit around a large table draped in dark purple lace, an exquisitely tall candle in the center dripping wax onto a large map. The room was dimly lit, shrouded by plum-colored fog, and illuminated only by teal candles. The map sprawled across nearly the entire table lengthwise and was covered in cursive handwriting, but that's all you could make out.

Nightmare stood at the head of the table.

“The Hollow War has gone on far too long,” Nightmare snarled. “I ask one simple thing of you. Destroy AU’s, but leave them alive. Apparently, that is too great of a task for you to handle. I ask you another thing; capture at least ten healthy, human adults to use as batteries for the next part of our strategy. Not only do you fail at this miserably, but you bring home a child who snivels and sobs and doesn't eat meals. What good is that supposed to be to me?!” Oh. So that explains why they took you.

Nightmare begins to move about the room, his tentacles swaying, occasionally brushing a shoulder or hand. “In short, you have failed me in every way possible. So now you will make up for it by discovering the means of this.” Nightmare reached out a hand and placed it carefully on the map. An array of golden sparks shot up in holograms from different points on the paper.

“Positivity spikes,” he declares, voice booming throughout the room. The others flinch, except for Killer, who is playing with a rubber band and frankly looks bored. “Not just from one timeline, but from all over the multiverse, or what's left of it. Spikes at this level could only come from…him,” Nightmare seethed. “One or two in a month, I can handle. That can be dealt with and snuffed out. But ten in one week?! ABSOLUTELY unacceptable. You are to find out what is causing this and quick, or you will not enjoy the consequences–”

“Boss–” Killer cut in, receiving a menacing glare. He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. “Uh, sorry. My lord, what type of consequences are we talkin’ about…?”

“Let's see,” Nightmare mused. “If you fail to deliver by Friday, you will all be spending your weekend in the dungeons. No entertainment, no sleep, and certainly no missions. If you want to be lazy, you may do so.” He leans in, punctuating each word. “Within the confines of a cold. Dark. Cell.”

“But we can't find out something like that in such a short amount of time!” Said a voice from the left side of the table. He was dressed in some sort of X-themed outfit, black and white, with a fluffy white hood and a scar over his eyesocket. “It's just not realistic. These spikes are so scattered that retracing his steps in two days will be nearly impossible–”

“Thank you, Cross, for volunteering to take Killer's place for dishes tonight,” Nightmare quickly interrupted. “In fact, you should get started now. You may go.”

“My lord–”

“That also means you'll be delivering food to the dungeons tonight. It's a long walk. I hope you're prepared.” Nightmare's gaze darkened. “If you are unhappy with this outcome, think before you interrupt me again.”

With a sigh, Nightmare sat down in his seat, holograms melting back into the map. He raised his hand, adjourning the meeti–

“Wait.”

He's stopped.

Why has he stopped?

Your heart pounds faster.

A grin spreads across Nightmare’s face. It's the first time you've seen him smile, but it doesn't look happy. It doesn't look happy at all.

“Which one of you showed the human to their cell yesterday?” He asked, voice sickeningly sweet.

Silence.

“I won't ask again.”

All heads in the room slowly turned to Killer. His grin twitched downward somewhat, calling them out for snitching. He spoke up. “Uhm, heh, that'd be me, boss.”

“Did you lock it.”

“What?”

“Did you lock their cell door?”

“Yes…?”

“No, you didn't. And I'll tell you how I know,” Nightmare began, eerily calm. Suddenly, the room grew dimmer. Objects began to shake, as if a small tremor in the ground was itching to break into an earthquake. “There is no presence from the dungeons as of now. No disdain, no fear, no pain. Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.”

“Boss– my, my lord, hey, I really didn't know, but I still got the keys on–” Killer chuckled, fumbling with his jacket pockets. Unable to produce anything, he went silent once more.

“One thing I do know,” Nightmare continued. “Is that a certain someone is very scared right now. I can feel it, dripping off their bones and pouring from their eyes. And they are nearby. Which means that your little human, the one you personally butchered, captured, and supposedly locked up, is in this very room.”

All the members of the table stood. Their lord’s words are barely audible, but you make them out just fine.

“Find it.”

Without a second thought, you push down the bookshelf down, which falls on the table and splatters candlewax all over the map. Chaos explodes throughout the room; whoops and cheers, exasperated groans, and one voice that cuts through the rest.

Nightmares let out an ear-splintering scream, a roar that could shatter windows, rattling the objects on the walls. “MY MAP! YOU INSOLENT LITTLE– FIND THEM! CATCH THEM! OR SO HELP ME, YOU’RE ALL GOING TO GET IT!”

You seem to have formed a habit of running for your life.

You bound outside the map room, leading into another grand hallway. You run left, then forwards, forwards, right, left, then back until you don’t know don’t know which direction is which. You turn a corner and place your hand against the wall, heaving for breath. Everything is still.

Everything is silent.

…

“Hey.”

You try to scream, but before it gets out, a bony hand is clasped over your mouth and a knife is poised at your throat.

“Aww, c’mon, we’ve met before,” the voice taunted. Killer. “Now here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna behave and head right back to where you’re supposed to be, or I’m gonna take this knife here and gut you like a fish. Understood?”

You don’t say anything.

He laughs. “Aha! Right, forgot you couldn’t say anything. Alright kid, let’s go.”

Before he can move another inch, you remove a torch from the wall and bash it in his skull, cursing up a storm. “AGH! Ugh, FUCK! The kid just fucking– THE KID JUST SET ME ON FUCKING FIRE?! Oh STARS, ugh, that fucking HURTS, YOU LITTLE SHIT…!”

As he yells and struggles to extinguish his coat, you somehow make your way towards the main foyer, out the doors, into the outside. It’s bitterly cold, and the wind howls as the full moon spotlights you running through a decaying garden. You follow the path, seeing dense forest, hope unwillingly swelling in your chest again. Just a little bit more. Just a little bit more. Freedom is within your–

“I wouldn’t go any further if I were you.”

You stop, heart sinking. You gaze down.

There’s nothing.

An endless void of nothing.

You turn around. Sure enough, Nightmare stands alone, his expression lethal. “But…but…”

“But but but!” Nightmare mocks. “Yes, unfortunately, not every world plays by your rules, little human. You say that there is something beyond this domain. I say there is not. And in my world, we play by my rules.”

He inches closer, like a predator cornering prey, tentacles swaying upwards with a delighted grin on his face. He sees this as a game. “However. I know your kind adores making up all the rules on your own. Isn’t that right? So here is the choice I am giving you.”

In a flash, a tentacle grabs you by the throat, immediately cutting off your airways. As you strangle for breath, the light begins to dim, gasping in horror at the void down below you.

“You can choose for me to grant you a mercy. Even I do not know what waits below, but you will likely die a merciful death, although cold and alone. No pain, no blood, nothing at all.” You nearly scream. Death? Is that what he calls mercy?!

“Or, I can let you live, and you will struggle for survival every single day of your life. I will make sure of it.” Your air is running out.

“Tick tock. Hurry up before you die right here.”

Your lungs seem to collapse into themselves.

“Live or die.”

You have no clue. Make a decision–!

Your soul glows brilliantly within your chest.

You shake your head no.

Nightmare scoffs as he drops you for a split second, still in his grasp, but the pressure is only on your torso now. The fire empties from your lungs as you heave for air, ground finally close beneath your feet. “Back to the dungeons with you. No food for a week. And I better not see this kind of behavior again, or you will be granted a death with much more pain and blood than the original offer.”

As you’re carried out away from the midnight, you glance behind you, processing everything that’s just happened.

No food for a week.

No freedoms at all.

You are never going home.

Chapter Text

It's been 5 days since you've last been fed.

There's something stirring in your stomach, a sense of horrible dread mingling with the pit of hunger. The first 2 days were bearable. Uncomfortable, yes, but you could live with it.

Not anymore.

Now the cold walls seem to close in on you, the rough wood of the bench you've been laying on digging into your skin. The temperature is nearly unbearable now, leaving you subject to fits of shivering and blinding headaches. You snivel under the thin blanket, congested, hungry, cold…you're convinced you're coming down with something, too, which is the worst thing that could possibly happen right now.

The morning after your return to the cell, something had surrounded it. A faint teal bubble, silently thrumming, like a layer of thin, sticky gel. When you went to get a closer look, it was covered in some kind of flowing script, stained purple and violet, humming with electricity. Desperate as you are, you assumed touching it wouldn't do you much good. The worst part of all was the door.

Outside of the bubble, hanging complete ajar. Taunting you.

Now you are here. Cold, alone…and hearing things.

It started around day 4, you recall. The hallucinations started out pretty small, just a whisper here and there, or a flicker of light. Now it's voices. Sentences. Languages you know, languages you don't understand, encouragement and desperation and hopelessness. Shadows dance on the walls, and you can't decipher if this is Nightmare's doing or a bad dream.

“Don't worry. It's not so bad. You get used to it.”

“No,” you snivel, hopeless, burying your head in your hands. Your hair is beginning to tangle profusely from neglect. “It won't. Stop trying to tell me it will.”

“I understand how you feel. You needn’t cry. They aren't planning on your death as of late.”

Tears flow. “Maybe I should just die. Then I wouldn't have to hide here anymore.”

“Oh, no…you don't leave this place. Death will not satisfy you.”

You feel a strange presence around your shoulders as you lay on your stomach, head still buried in your hands. It feels soft, odd, somewhat comforting…? Like a soft wave that you aren't expecting.

You look up, and gasp.

The walls are covered in beings of shadows and light. Willowy purple, soft yellow, green, blue. There is a figure hovering in front you. It appears to be a blob of pillowy, soft blue light, with two dots of stars for eyes and a form that somehow looks like it's wearing a dress. Their voice sounds feminine.

“Who…?” You can barely get the words out. “Who are…?”

“I am what's left behind when belief outlasts the body. I think I might've had a life once. I'm not sure. It's all so fuzzy now.”

Even without eyebrows or a proper face, she looks…sad.

“He doesn't destroy what amuses him.”

“Who do you mean?” You ask, summoning the courage to sit up. It feels like twisting the knife in your stomach, rearranging your guts like a pumpkin being carved, but you manage.

“I mean you must make yourself the joke, not the target. Do you want to survive, or to help?”

“What…?”

“You cannot have both in this place.”

“Your cryptic messages are confusing me,” you snap, losing your focus. Spots are beginning to appear in your vision, so you use another deal of strength to lay yourself down again. “Go away–”

“Why?”

“I DON'T KNOW!” You roar, using every fiber in your body to aggressively fling your blanket towards the figure. You let out a choked sob, closing your eyes, and opening them to…

Nothing.

The room is bare. And it is cold.

…Was that a dream? You can quite tell what's real and what isn't anymore.

One thing is certainly real, however. You raise your head to see your blanket, your beloved thin, hole-riddled blanket, soaking up a puddle of liquid in a corner of the cell.

Your heart drops.

Maybe your brain isn't working correctly right now, but you know that you will die without that blanket.

Your muscles won't allow you to stand, and if you did, you know that you'd vomit from the action. In a split-second-positively-stupid decision, you roll off of the bench.

When you make contact with the floor hard, you hear a soft crunch. Something hurts, but you're so disoriented that you can't tell where, and the adrenaline shields you from the pain. You crawl your way towards the corner, palms digging into jagged stone, finally reaching the blanket.

It's wet, covered in a thin, oily film. Freezing cold, falling apart. It's hopeless.

You cry out in frustration before slumping against the floor.

Maybe if you die in your sleep, you won’t have to feel the pain of dying when you’re awake.

You let your eyes flutter closed. This isn’t so bad, you think. Yes, everything is gone now, but it’s better this way. Nobody has to mourn. You’ll see your family soon. The pain is lessening now, even. You hear footsteps come down the corridor and smile to yourself. It must be your Dad. Or was it your Mom?

Maybe it's those strange spirits again.

Someone knocks on an iron bar, you think.

“Go away,” you mumble, barely able to force out the words as if they're covered in mucus.

“Can't do that,” says a voice. It's a male one, on the deeper end, but the warmest thing you've heard in a while. It's slightly recognizable. But you've already decided to give up on hope.

You don't say anything for a while, and eventually, the cell door creaks open. There's a strange repetitive loud sound. Muffled footsteps of boots against stone make their way towards you, and you feel strong hands wrap around your body. You weakly kick, trying to struggle free, but give up after about two seconds.

You're sat down on the bench, a hand supporting your back. “Easy, easy…I've got you. Try not to pass out.”

You look up, and through the black spots, see a skeleton. You think he's brought you food once or twice, an outfit of black and white, a jacket with a fuzzy hood…

You begin to realize that repetitive loud sound is you. You've been crying.

And not just that.

Suddenly, your teeth feel strange, numb and cold, beginning to chatter. Breath seems to pull itself from you, again, again, again, again, you aren't getting enough oxygen, your heart speeds, you think that he is saying something but you can't hear or see, everything is fuzzy, everything is going dark, everything–

The skeleton waits a few minutes for you to calm down.

Eventually, the chattering subsides and your heart rate returns to normal. The skeleton pulls out a crinkled, brown paper bag, grease dripping from the bottom. “Name’s Cross. Wasn't supposed to bring you this, but they gave me an extra.”

You suspect that to be a lie, but this guy is currently saving your life, so you don't bring that up.

Cross pulls a golden-bun cheeseburger out of the bag. It has tomatoes, lettuce, some kind of sauce. The works, basically. You’re not a huge fan of toppings, but complaining would likely cost your life.

Not a price you’re willing to pay over a few onions.

He puts the burger in your hand.

You hesitate a little. Your motor skills aren't fantastic right now. What if you choke? Then all bets are off. Do skeletons know CPR? Was this poisoned?

“Hey…hey.”

He has to physically guide your hand to your mouth to take the first bite.

Embarrassing.

But it’s worth it. Savory and salty, caramelized onions, crunchy lettuce. It takes around 30 minutes to get the burger down, along with a couple of fries and a few gulps of water. While you aren’t completely satisfied, you feel substantially better. Your vision clears, the pit in your stomach vanishes, and you’re able to stand on your feet with a little help before sitting back down.

You clear your throat. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

A thought worms its way into your head, a thought that you've been thinking since the moment you arrived here. You aren't supposed to ask it, you won't, but something urges you to.

“Is he gonna kill me?”

Cross looks away.

“I can't tell you much about that,” he says slowly, voice low. “I can't tell you much in general. But between you and me, I'm thinking of asking him to send you to the Omega timeline.”

“Omega timeline?” You blink. “What's that?”

Cross looks away. “A place for wayward souls. I stayed there for a while…it's pretty empty, but there's things to do, some places to go, nice people…they're mostly the people left from our duties.”

People who escaped you, you fill in the blanks.

“Why?”

“You're a kid. You need to live out your days. It's the way we keep the balance,” he says. The answer is very vague, and doesn't really answer your question. Maybe it's something he doesn't have an answer to.

With that, he pats your shoulder, muttering something along the lines of don't tell, and blips out of existence.

Silence.

–––

The hum of the dungeon feels heavier now, the quiet stretching into a deep, oppressive silence. You can still feel the weight of the conversation lingering in the air, Cross's words sinking into your mind like stone in water. Don’t tell.

Don't tell. Don't tell. Don't tell.

There's only three options you can see in front of you right now; Nightmare betrays his word and kills you, Nightmare keeps his word and allows you to live out the rest of your days in a tortured horror, or Cross somehow goes through with his plan. Even then, it would be a new place to adjust to, a new life, with new people and new troubles…

Or maybe none at all.

That's the thing about wishes to escape. People never really specify where.

You stare at the spot where he had stood, as if you could somehow pull more answers from the emptiness he left behind. But there’s nothing. No lingering trace of his presence—just the low thrun of the magical surroundings of your prison.

With a sigh, you sink against the cold stone wall, the texture rough against your back. The longer you rot here, the smaller the room seems to get. Suddenly you feel a strong longing for your comfortable room back at home.

What color were the walls…?

You curl into yourself, knees drawn up to your chest, trying to find something to focus on. Anything to stop your mind from spiraling further and circling back to your old home. Even freedom doesn't mean everything magically goes back to normal.

And then there's something in the air. The sound of footsteps echoes down the corridor outside your cell, but you can’t tell who they belong to. There’s no distinct pattern to them. No one comes to visit you, not unless they have a purpose. Your breath catches, your heart thrumming a little faster, but the footsteps fade, and the dungeon falls silent once again.

Hours pass—or maybe it’s only minutes. Time is hard to keep track of here. Perhaps here, there isn't even time at all.

Just as the ache in your body from staying in one position for too long becomes unbearable, a faint, familiar pressure fills the air. It’s subtle at first, like a change in the atmosphere, but then you hear it: the soft murmur of voices. Three voices.

You freeze, listening intently.

You can't help the slight tremor in your hands as the sounds grow closer.

There’s a brief silence, followed by a faint, shimmering ripple in the air just outside your cell. A distortion, like a pocket of reality bending and folding. You can feel it vibrating against your skin, like the quiet before a storm.

Your breath catches in your throat as the distortion spreads further, until—finally—they step into view. The figures of three skeletons materialize, standing just outside the barrier of your cell. The barrier hums slightly, the turquoise glow flickering as if sensing their presence.

“Did we miss something?” The one in the middle mutters softly, his voice carrying an almost gentle tone. He's dressed in golden robes, a circlet of gold crowning his head. His gaze lingers on the walls, tracing their lines.

“I don’t know,” Replies the one on the right, removing the comically large paintbrush strapped to his back. “Maybe Blue messed with the data or something. He likes going to the control room to mess around and stuff.”

The one on the left shifts uneasily, blue eye lights fixed on the one who spoke. “Hey, that TV is the only one with multiverse-wide streaming services! It's not my fault that NTT is one of the most inspiring celebrities of our time. And Ink, by the way, the remote barely works anymore after YOU painted over it for the millionth ti–”

“SHH.”

The whisper is so harsh that Ink and Blue immediately shut up.

“Might I remind you two that my brother feeds off of negative energy? If we argue, he will sense us. Let's use our inside voices, please.” The middle one ends the sentence on a sweeter note. “Shall we try a breathing exercise?”

“No offense, Dream, but we're kind of on a mission here,” Ink said, leaning against the cell across from you. “I think our readings just went out of whack. I mean, there's no way that his gang took out 6 Fell verses in a few weeks. You need to chip away at those things!”

“And how do you know that, Ink?” Dream asked, eyes narrowing.

“Haha– hey! No need to point fingers. Me and my buddy Error just like to play around a lot, that's all.”

Blue's eyes wander, scanning the walls, before landing directly on you.

Your heart gives a jolt, your face aglow with happiness. Was this it? This was it! These were the good guys. You call out, you're going to be rescued!–

He looks away.

…What?

Dream tilts his head slightly. “I don't know. There's a presence here, I can sense it. Scared and alone…we were meant to come here, I just know it, but...” He trails off and pinches his forehead, eyes creased with worry.

Blue steps forward, placing a hand on Dream’s shoulder. “Hey, don't beat yourself up over it, Dream. You've saved so many lives today alone! Sometimes the data glitches. That's not your fault.”

He turns his head, “But what if–”

“I'm with Blue on this one,” Ink offers softly. “We've checked the entire cell block, Dream, and there's nothing here. We could be off somewhere else helping others in need. How about a bake sale! You love those, right?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, I suppose,” Dream sighs, managing a smile. “Yes, you're right. I'll get started on cupcakes when we get back.”

It's a perfectly happy scene, the three of them sharing reassuring smiles.

But tears are dripping down your face as they exit. It must've been the bubble. Never seen. Never heard.

Never even sensed at all.

You cry into your hands, feeling the weight of the whole word on your shoulders. You are alone again. You've been alone for a long time now. When does it end? When does it stop?

Suddenly, an icy chill runs down your spine and makes the hairs on your neck stand up.

You lift your head. It's exactly who you're expecting.

“You–!” You gasp, pressing further back against the wall.

“You don't appear happy to see me. What a shame.” Nightmare sighs, but his grin never leaves his face. There's a twinge of suspicion on his face. “How have you been faring? You seem to be doing…well.”

He must've noticed that you've eaten recently. Although you still feel ill, you aren't exactly incapacitated. You decide it's best not to answer the question.

“It's rude to ignore someone, human.”

You gather that's not an option either. “I've…been better.”

He grins. “We have much to discuss.”

Something appears in your hand. You take a closer look, and discover it to be a necklace..

The chain is thin and silver, barely long enough to wear around your neck, so smooth and cool to the touch it feels as if it's wet. The pendant is a bit large and hefty, a band of silver imprisoning a Roman clock. The numerals shine brightly, glowing and pulsating with each loud tick of the clock. The middle of the pendant is something you never even thought to be possible; it swirled with navy, purple, cyan liquid, pin pricked by dots of white, like elegant painters strokes so real it seems as if the whole thing were a painting brought to life.

You are mesmerized by the scene, nearly transported to peace, until you remember where you are.

“Yes, yes, I know. It is one of my favorite pieces, personally,” Nightmare nearly boasts, grin widening to sharp points. “However, that is not what I am here to discuss.”

“I don't understand,” you say simply, voice quivering. It is the most honest you've been with him as of late.

“Patience.”

The energy seems to drain from the room, any warmth that could be salvaged slurping up the walls and exiting through the other side. There is a slight tremor beneath your feet, so soft that you barely notice.

“Three days,” Nightmare says, his voice dripping with venom. “That is the timer the clock you hold has been set to. 72 hours, if you would like to be exact.”

“For wha–”

“--you serve no use to me as of now,” Nightmare interrupts. “When we first invaded your universe, I gave my boys a simple mission; find ten healthy, human adults to use as batteries. I feed off of hatred. Negativity. Fear. Fear is best of all served when it has had time to build, to marinate…someone who has lived in fear all their life gives off blandness, a dullness that I have grown to dislike…but someone who is happy? Someone who has experienced the joys in life, the highest of highs, surrounded by love and contentment? Now that is something I enjoy. The fear hasn't yet been experienced. A steak left to go cold versus one right out of the oven…”

You have to admit, as scared as you are, you zoned out halfway through. This guy loves to monologue, huh...

You notice Nightmare's tentacles are poised upwards, sharpened to deadly points, as if looking for something to strike. With his grin turned gaping hole and his skeletal hands gnarled into fists, he looks like a demented jack-o'-lantern. He quickly snaps out of it.

He clears his throat. “You are a child. Happy as you are, there has been no time for your sense of fear to bloom into something worth savoring. So you have until the time runs out to find something–anything else– that makes you useful to me.”

You pause, scared for what you're about to ask. “And if I don't?”

Nightmare grins.

Your heart drops.

He has made his point abundantly clear.

Chapter Text

You really don't like looking at it.

In fact, you don't want anything to do with the pendant you've been given; cold and wet to the touch, ticking violently, driving you crazy. The moment Nightmare retreated, you had thrown it into a corner of the cell and gone to bed, still riddled with whatever illness you had. About three hours later, you awoke, the damn thing somehow ticking even louder than before!

So now it sits under a pile of rocks, concealed and muffled , at the very least. Hopefully, it'll clear your mind to figure out the next phase in your plan.

You breathe in and breathe out. What you don't know can't hurt you.

“That isn't true.”

You look up from your ‘bed’. That blue, ethereal blob hangs over you, eyes flickering in and out of existence.

You frown.

“If you're going to keep pestering me, can you at least tell me your name?” You ask hoarsely, bringing the damp blanket up closer to your chest.

“I have no name.”

You snort. “That's silly. Everyone has a name.”

“I'm technically not a person.”

“Stars, you piss me off,” you murmur, flipping yourself over. Of course, you'd like some company…one that showed up announced and had a corporeal form and had an actual life force. Maybe your wish should've been more specific.

“I only wish to help you. Not many have survived down here this long.”

You sigh into the bench. Even if that was true, who's to say that this woman, or girl, or whatever it is, isn't a part of Nightmare's team? 

“Nothing you can say to me will help me,” you say. “I know that what Nightmare said was a lie; he told me that I would be fighting for my survival in here, but now he's gotten bored of me and has decided that I should find the answer to an impossible question or die for his amusement. If you want to help, you can start by telling me about the Hollow War, who those other guys were, and why they couldn't see me!”

Silence hangs in the air for a few moments.

Then a voice begins speaking unsteadily.

“I believe that a part of me died and left fragments of my Soul behind. As I said before, I have no real memories, and no way for this piece of me to leave the mortal plane, therefore I have no clue what the Hollow War is or the identities of the other men who showed up. Do you see my font? Do you see my words lingering in the air?”

You look very closely. Although you've never noticed before, unlike other humans and monsters you've spoken to, you can't see this being’s words. “No, I don't.”

“Correct. That's because I don't think I even have a Soul. I don't know what I am, who I am, where I came from. But I can assist you with your last question.”

“You can? You know what this magic bubble is?” You stand up, gasping, and point at the teal barrier surrounding your cell.

“Yes. I can read the inscriptions lined on its surface. See the way they swirl and dance? That is an ancient language of magic, one I cannot recall the name of, but I can read it. This type of magic works with ruins…check along the walls for symbols.”

You hurriedly rush to the walls of your cell, checking every single stone, sliding some back, even removing a few from the wall only to find another layer of bricks beneath (so much for escaping). Just as you begin to give up hope, you feel something rough beneath your feet.

You look down. It is the carving of a star.

“Yes! That's it! The ruin is hidden under the floor! Quick, kick away the loose dust.”

You stomp at the stone beneath you, and slowly, the floor withers away to reveal a magnificent stone carving. It stretches across the cell in patterns of stars and swirls and ringlets, meeting together to form a complex pattern in the middle.

“Well, what now?” You huff, quite worn out after the hard work.

“Theoretically, the magic should disable if you destroy the ruin–”

You pick up a large stone in the corner, preparing to throw it, until you are interrupted by a large shriek.

“No! There is nowhere to run from here. If you escape, and the bubble is destroyed, and stars forbid Nightmare or one of his gang members find you, they will know what you have done. Your end would be one of blood and pain…trust me.”

“Okay, then what do you suppose I do?!” You shout.

“Remove a tiny sliver from the center…something that can easily be replaced. That way, you can simply disable the bubble, not destroy it.”

You hesitate for a moment, before bending down and searching for a loose pebble. You suddenly find a small slither disconnected on the outside and wiggle it loose. The ruin glows for a moment before going cold.

You look up to find the bubble nowhere in sight.

Thankfully, the pettiness of the door being left a jar now works in your favor.

Then the panic settles in.

“Wait–” your breath begins to quicken, the illusion of joy beginning to fade rapidly. “Hold on– what am I supposed to do now?”

“Prove your worth, I suppose.”

“But I don't know what I'm trying to prove!” You gasp. “Oh no, this was a bad idea. I'm turning the bubble back on–”

“If you do not do ANYTHING, you will die. Your death will be agonizing. I do not know how I know that, but I do. If you don't put yourself out there and find something, anything, you will wait in here for your execution date, which is slowly ticking closer and closer. Your soul is one of Perseverance. You have lost sight of what you're supposed to persevere for…or who.”

You take some deep breaths. “Well, I want to live…”

“Yes, you do. What else?”

“I want to find out what's going on, and how I can help…”

“Yes, and?”

“I want to find out how this world works,” you mutter, feeling nausea rise in your stomach.

“The answers to all your questions await you just through that door. All you must do is go upstairs and search. You have something to fight for, so fight for it.”

You feel your legs begin to shake, knowing this being is correct. “If I go, you have to come with me.”

“I physically can't leave this place.”

“Well, have you ever tried?” You shoot back.

You receive no response.

“You said you wanted to help me, and I'm about to go upstairs and experience one of the scariest things in my life. I need you by my side.” It's more of a plea than a demand, but a desperate one nonetheless.

Silence.

“I suppose I have nothing to lose. So long I've been waiting to vanish…If I dissipate, it will only benefit me. Just so you know, there is a very good chance that I might cease to exist.”

“I'll take those chances.” You take a deep breath and brace yourself before exiting the cell. There are no repercussions, and you still appear to be in one piece. A blue shroud of light tentatively flies out of a cell. It takes a few moments for you to realize that is your friend.

“Hm, I don't disappear after all. Everything's a bit hazy, but I'm still here…”

You can't quite make out the being's face anymore. “I think you should have a name.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then. I will be Ghost.”

“No, not like–” you nearly facepalm, but stop yourself. “A name has to define you. You really want to be defined as ‘ghost’ for the rest of eternity?”

“Well, I am a ghost. Being named Ghost would only be logical.”

You take a deep breath. “How about something that means something to you?”

You watch the being think for a moment.

“...My name is Lucille.”

“Lucille! That's a nice name,” you grin. “What made you think of that?”

“I don't know. Lucille is the only name I remember, somehow. It might not even be mine, but somebody must've given it to me, and if it's taking up space in my mind I should get to use it.”

“So you're a girl?”

“Yes.” 

“Okay, let's go.”

You reach out to take Lucille’s hand, forgetting that she isn't corporeal and is currently a blob of light, and your hand slips right through.

In the split second that you have to decide your next course of action, you determine that your mistake would be embarrassing to mention, and you trek on.

As you walk through the dungeon, the air somehow grows noticeably colder, the type of cold that bites at your skin and makes your teeth chatter. Nothing here is normal; the fire is green and the stones have rotted and when you glance back at the cells that line the walls there are no prisoners to inhabit them.

Sometimes there's a blood stain or two. Otherwise, they're cold and bare.

Eventually, you both make your way to the staircase and climb up the long flights of molding stone, approaching the door at the end of the path. Suddenly, your breath quickens, your hands begin to shake, and you begin to doubt.

“You will not get this chance again.”

You look back at Lucille.

“You understood me perfectly. You will not get this chance again. Now open the door.”

With that, you throw the door open, making sure to snatch the handle before it bangs against the wall.

                                –––

You have been roaming the halls with Lucille for about an hour now. Every so often, you see a figure pass by, or the fire on a torch falter, and feel your heart begin to race. Lucille quickly (and frankly, aggressively,) calms you down. You didn't want Nightmare being alerted of your location.

Eventually, you come across a dead end. Your forehead is beaded with sweat, and your legs feel like jelly. You slide back against a wall. Lucille seems displeased with you.

“Do you wish to be killed?”

“Shut up, give me a moment,” you huff, too tired to bother with being polite. “No, wait, sorry, don't shut up…sorry, I'm terrified.”

Lucille's gaze softens. She draws closer.

“I understand. But I sense something here…in that door behind you.”

You look over your shoulder. When you see the door, you quickly stand. It's made of purple wood and decorated in gold carvings, a decoration that once might've been beautiful stripped away by the hands of time to become something dusty and forgotten.

You hesitate. “Do I open it?”

“I don't think there is anyone behind it, so yes.”

You open the door.

Your heart stops.

The room you step into is ginormous, rocky with jagged edges and a cavernous echo that rings throughout the space as you gasp. The air is damp and heavy, carrying the scent of mildew, dust, and hints of lavender, though you can't place from where. The more you look, you realize this room is a labyrinth, leading to different rooms in every direction each filled to the brim with ancient artifacts.

You and Lucille move further into the room, the door closing quietly behind you. Strange tools, half-formed objects, arcane symbols, things you couldn't even imagine were scattered left and right, piled up high towards the ceiling. It looked like the mix behind a workshop and a warzone.

You approach a wooden table covered in scraps of parchment, each one scrawled with incomprehensible notes. Diagrams of fractured souls with traits you've never even heard of before, like Creativity and Humility and Honor.

“I never knew this existed,” you marvel. “At school, we were taught about the main 7.”

“Well, with the existence of the multiverse, there are infinite soul traits. It'd only be logical.”

“Do you think there's a Soul trait for stupid?”

You expect Lucille to disapprove of your joke, but instead, she giggles and moves on to examine more artifacts. 

You both move deeper into the maze of hallways. The deeper you went, the stranger it became. You seemed to be moving underground, as you have to keep equalizing your ears every so often. 

Eventually, you both come across a large mural.

The canvas is vast, spanning across the entire wall, its edges frayed and blackened as if singed by a vengeful fire. It was a war. Terrible war. The background was a fractured sky of gray and dark clouds, shattered like glass, fire burning in scattered ruins and the horizon and casting deadly shadows and tufts of smoke onto the foreground. Soldiers clashed in the fight, some human, some monster, crying for their friends and mothers and family.

Above the chaos, a ginormous shadow loomed, spindly hands encasing the chaos. Grinning.

The painting felt alive. The colors seemed to move and sway as if enchanted by magic and brought to life. Suddenly, you felt the pain, the fear, the desperation for just one more chance of life.

A single tear runs down your cheek. Your mouth hangs open.

Lucille caught up to you, closely examining the mural.

“This is a prophecy. I can see scriptures etched in the paint.”

“What? Where?” You move closer, snapping out of your trance and curious to see.

“No, you can't read it. Only I can see it.”

“Ugh, no fair…” you mumble. Suddenly, you get an idea. “Hey, we've traveled ridiculously far into this thing, right? If we tell Nightmare about this prophecy, he's probably never seen it before and he'll let me live!”

“No, I don't believe so. Nightmare is technically a god, or at least some form of demigod, from what I've seen. He's lived for a very long time. He has likely seen this already, especially with the Hollow War happening. This is probably a prophecy of the outcome.”

You huff, taking a step back to admire the painting. It was unfortunate your idea was a flop. You begin to think…even if you do ‘prove yourself,’ you aren't going home…so what would become of you…?

“You seem to be really into that picture.”

You turn around sharply upon hearing another voice in the room. Killer stood behind you, leaning against a wall and fiddling with a dagger.

Your heart practically stops.

It takes him a few moments before he looks back at you, seeing the shocked expression plastered on his face. He grins.

“Hey, take it easy. I ain't gonna hurt ya. At least not yet.” He flips the dagger in the air. Lucille places a hand on your shoulder; you figure she can't be seen by him.

“Why are you…what?” You shudder breathlessly.

“I like coming down here to look at old shit,” he shrugs, before putting a hand over his mouth. “Uh oh. I just swore in front of a kid…whatever, you're a rebel anyway, right? Probably swear all the time.”

He looks at you expectantly.

You remain frozen. “I guess…sometimes, my parents let me…on occasion…”

“See, that's the spirit!” Killer teleports behind you to give you a rather aggressive pat on the back. You sputter.

“Look, kid, at first I thought you were a boring, snively thing–”

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Anyway, you're actually not that bad! Hey, you set me on fucking FIRE! Now that takes some guts. Serious guts. Urgh, getting really mad thinking about it right now, actually…still got burn marks on my jacket…” He trails off, the grin never leaving his face. It's pretty unnerving to look at.

You stand in silence for a few moments.

A question itches at the back of your throat. One that you're too scared to ask, but feel like you must anyway.

“So…” you mutter. “Can I go, or…?”

“Of course you can't just go, ” Killer scoffs, as if the very idea was ludicrous. “If you were a normal weirdo and I didn't have orders to kill you, maybe then, sure. But as I said, you've got some guts. Wouldn't be fun if I just put you back.”

If you thought Nightmare was hard to impress, this guy was the polar opposite.

“Hmm…what can we do…hey, I know.” He teleports in front of you. “I'll give ya a 15-second head start. You run back to your cell. If you make it, you get a prize. How's that sound?”

“What's the prize?”

“Shut up. Any more questions?”

You think for a moment. You're pretty sure you don't have a choice as to whether you're playing or not, and you know what will happen if you lose. And about breaking the barrier outside your cell…well, that must not seem a big deal to him, since he's expecting you to find and enter it.

“What happens if another person sees me?” You ask, voice still shaky.

“Uh, I dunno. Too bad, too sad.”

You take a deep, silent breath, attempting to calm your nerves. You don't outwardly agree, but your face shows your concession pretty clearly.

Killer grins. “Great. And hey, forgot to mention, I started counting 5 seconds ago. Might wanna get running.”

Your heart leaps in your throat. Without another word, you turn on your heel and sprint down the hallway, nearly banging your head on stray rocks above you. Behind you, a deep voice echoes, but you feel Lucille's presence beside you. Thankfully, she's lightning-quick, and is guiding you through the labyrinth.

It's almost as if she's been here before…

You quickly shake away the thought, nearly losing your balance as you attempt to orient yourself to each new hallway. You had gotten so caught up in your little treasure hunt, that you lost all sense of where you were.

“Seven…ten…eleven…thirteen…”

What? Could this guy count, or was he doing it on purpose?! You feel your heart begin to race, and shivers assault your body as your breathing picks up. You're not quite aware of what's happening, as Lucille's words are a jumbled-up blur in your brain, but what thoughts you could salvage told you to take advantage of the adrenaline.

Suddenly you are  lightning-quick, no longer aware of the world around you. The edges of your vision have gone fuzzy and you burst your way, throw the purple door, and round a hallway, making your way towards the West Wing.

You hear footsteps.

Your head start must be up.

You hold your breath, hiding behind a small extended piece of wall. You peek as much as you dare.

Thankfully, it isn't Killer. Cross walks down the hallway somewhat resigned, with a different skeleton next to him. You recognize him quickly by the white gloves; he's the guy who you nearly killed with a sink when you first got here.

“killer is still messing around down there?” The other one scoffs. “thought he wasn't allowed to interact with the battery after the last incident.”

“The boss has a soft spot for him. Not sure why, considering how impulsive he is. He gets let off for things we'd probably be murdered for,” Cross replied stiffly, keeping a steady pace.

His companion scoffs. “i heard he wrecked five of the training dummies yesterday. axe told me he was given a ‘stern talking to’ before he went back to his room to nap.”

“What do you think he's up to down there?”

“dunno, probably got a little reckless and cut off a limb or something.”

If your heart hadn't been physically pounding out of your chest before, it was now. What is the true extent to the things these guys have done…? Torture? Cutting off limbs? Killing millions of other innocent people? What was that painting really about?

If it really was a prophecy, could it be prevented?

Thankfully, the dungeon is in the direction behind the two. You wait until they pass, and begin to book it down the hallway as quietly as you can. Lucille is very vocal with her frustration.

“What are you doing?! This is reckless! You're practically begging him to find you!”

You pay her no mind, rounding a corner, then another, until you begin to believe you're going in circles, before ending up in a different but similar hallway as the one before.

You hold your breath.

You don't know where to go.

It's deadly silent.

…

“Gotcha.”

You don't have time to react before Killer grabs your arm with an iron grip.

He grins, but there's no humor behind it. “Gotta hand it to ya, kid, you ain't half bad. But stopping in the middle of a hallway out in the damn open? C'mon, you can do better than that.”

He raises his free hand, clutching a dagger with a gnarled blade.

“I was hoping you'd make this more interesting, but hey, a deal’s a deal,” he says, twirling the blade lazily. “At least you almost made it.”

You struggle, panic clawing at your chest. Fire becomes your blood. Every neuron in your brain is firing off at rapid speed. “Wait–!”

A loud crash echoes in the distance further down the hall. You quickly glance over at the commotion. Lucille retracts her hand, her glowing, blue, corporeal hand before it returns to normal. A vase has been knocked to the floor.

Killer pauses, his grin faltering as his head snaps towards the noise.

“What the hell–?”

Taking advantage of his distraction, you kick him in the shin as hard as you can. It isn't much, but it's enough to make him let go of you. You stumble back, your legs moving before they've even touched the ground.

“HEY!” Killer snarls, sounding absolutely furious. But it didn't matter. You were already running again.

This time you don't stop to think. You don't question Lucille about the vase or ask her for directions or encouragement or even try to keep track of where you are going. All that mattered was putting as much distance between you and him as possible.

Suddenly, the corridor opened to a massive, open space. You recognized this place, with the sky swirling and the magnificent chandelier. This was the throne room.

You were close. Impossibly, insanely close.

Lucille darted ahead, gazing behind you.

“Behind that pillar. Now!”

You quickly rush and hide. Your chest heaves, your breaths shallow as you attempt to remain silent.

Killer's footsteps echoed slowly as he entered the hall, also short of breath.

“You know, kid,” he wheezes, footsteps heavily against the reflective floor. “You're really startin’ to piss me off. I mean, that's the kinda thing we need around here. Maybe Nightmare was right about you bein’ a little more…useful.”

You don't respond.

Killer chuckles. “You know he's not really plannin’ to spare you, right? He never assumes anyone to pass his stupid fuckin’ test. Not you, not adults, not boss monsters. It's designed to be failed.”

“Were you designed to be a self-absorbent suck-up who thinks he can get away with everything? Because that's what I've heard as of late,” you say dryly.

“What?!” he shouts. “Who told you that?!”

You run from your hiding spot to the door adjacent to it, hesitating before full-on throwing yourself down the stairs. You tumble impeccably fast and actually find it to be a little fun, minus the hundreds of stone stairs banging against every part of your body. Eventually, you make it through the catacombs of the dungeon, Killer running close behind you, clutching a dagger. You can see your cell, so close, so insanely close, and you approach it. Just as the dagger reaches up to stab you–

You throw yourself into the cell.

Killer stands there as you collect yourself, picking yourself up from the floor. Hot, thin blood rushes down your cheek. It seems you've scrapped it pretty badly on the rough floor.

Killer claps, slowly, mockingly.

“Alright, kid. You played dirty, but technically ya made it back in one piece. You win. I lose. Nice job,” he says, sounding almost disappointed.

“Where is it then?”

“Huh?”

“Where's my prize?” You ask firmly.

“Prize?” Killer looks away. “I dunno what you're talkin’ about.”

You're more concerned about your injuries, so despite being annoyed, you decide not to press…

“I'm just playin’ with you,” Killer scoffs. “So dramatic. Here.”

He throws a book at your face. You bring it down to examine it. It's leather bound, with a faded cover worn by time. There was something about the book felt in your hands. As if it were meant for you to find it.

“What is it?” You ask quietly.

Killer rolls his eyes. “You think I know? Just some old shit I shoved in my pocket while we were down in the old shit room. Anyway, Cross should be down to bring you some food soon, so I'm gonna leave. Thanks for the fun time!”

And with that, he vanishes.

In the silence, many thoughts run through your head.

The fate of the others who were whisked away to this place. The painting. Lucille.

And most importantly, the clock is ticking away in the corner. It's dinnertime. Meaning a day has passed.

48 hours remain before your execution unless you prove otherwise.

And currently, the odds don't seem to be in your favor.