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The box sat empty on the stump of the once great tree, the dead AU bleak and grey around. It was a simple box, just cardboard, the kind of thing that might be delivered in the post.
Yet it had a sign posted to it.
Wish Box, it read, in thick black marker, the handwriting messy and large, almost as if written by a child. No instructions to elaborate on the simple message. Just those two words. Nothing else.
And the box sat there, empty and unassuming.
Until the first person came by, a tall skeleton with a hood drawn over his face. With a red scarf draped around his shoulder, one that was tattered and warm, the skeleton didn’t look like anyone special. Unless you knew his name, the one of an infamous villain.
Dust. The ruthless, silent Bad Sans, who could strike you down with his magic as easily as breathing. Yet he was there, and his curiosity was peaked, as he approached the box, glancing inside.
Nothing. He wasn’t sure whether he was surprised or disappointed. That was until he read the sign.
Curious, the villain thought, tilting his head as he studied the cardboard box, lifting the simple paper, taped on with what looked like sellotape, checking the other side, as if to find some hidden message, yet… nothing.
Who would leave just a box out here, in the middle of nowhere, on top of a tree stump? And in an uninhabited world, with such a strange sign posted to it?
Was it meant to be a trap? A trick, perhaps. Possibly to lure in any unsuspecting passerby to revealing… something. Or perhaps a wish… maker? Like one of those anonymous sentimental write-your-deepest-desire-here, we promise we won’t show a soul. Or a make a wish foundation thing. But why put it here?
Dust was almost tempted to call the box out on its bullshit as he scowled at it, raising an eyebrow. Maybe he should leave a note saying, ‘I wish to die’, with a smiley face emote scribbled on, and be done with it, move on with his damn life. But for some unknown reason… he hesitated. Puzzling indeed, and the villain didn’t like puzzles much anymore.
He sighed. A piece of paper and a pencil lay tucked under the corner of the box, so he took them in his hands, delicately, noticing the ripped edge of the large sheet. Hesitantly, he scrawled out a message, tearing the paper, and after folding the scrap in half, dropped it in the box.
To hell with it.
So the villain stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away.
The small, pudgy skeleton trotted through the forest, flowers in hand, stopping occasionally to kneel and plant one in the dirt. He was small, yet strong, and just as infamous as the villainous Sans who had come before him, as a member of the Stars. A wonderful fighter, with his blue bandanna tied around his neck, the colour being what gave him his name.
Blue, the Swap Sans. He’d come here for no particular reason, just to see the abandoned Dreamtale. And once he’d seen how dead it was, well, who could help themselves? He knew how sad the derelict state of the AU made Dream, his friend, so maybe he could help in just a small way, and see if he could brighten it up a bit.
It wasn’t difficult work, either. He wouldn’t mind doing anything more challenging. But it was peaceful, and calming, and the sun shone weakly on his shoulders.
He enjoyed it, in a way.
Though it was a bit challenging, making his way through all the undergrowth. This AU hadn’t been lived in for five hundred years, and it showed.
He huffed as he pushed his way through the tangles of brambles and vines, before pausing as he spotted the stump on top of the hill. A box lay on top of it, and his interest was immediately peaked, the swap Sans wrenching his left foot free from a particularly thorny patch before climbing the hill, tilting his head with a slight, quizzical smile on his face.
How interesting!
He reached out, peeking into the box by lifting one of the cardboard flaps. Just one slip of paper nestled inside, though that was surprise enough. He would have peeked at it, to see what it said, but… no. He didn’t think that was a good idea.
“A wish box, huh?” he said, tipping his head, blue eyelights shining as his smile widened. It was a nice thing, honestly. It seemed harmless, innocent. And seeing the sheet of paper, and the pencil, tucked neatly under the box after the last visitor, he wrote his wish in small, neat handwriting, after only a moment’s pause, tearing it off the main sheet. It… was probably just a harmless wish, he decided, placing the slip into the box, folded neatly into quarters.
And as he placed the large sheet of paper back under the box, along with the pencil, he stepped back with a small smile. And taking one last look at the stump and the strange box, he picked up the flowers and the trowel he’d brought along, and trotted off, a new spring to his step.
The next two arrived together. The skeleton with the black tears, and the one with the broken skull. They had come, searching for a hint of a friend of theirs, rather, their boss. Nightmare, the infamous Guardian of Negativity, practically a god in all but name, leader of the gang of the Bad Sanses (as poorly named as they were).
The broken skulled, tall and bulky skeleton was quiet, like his teammate Dust, yet still did talk, unlike the mute skeleton. His name was Horror, his single eye watching Killer, the other, as he yapped on and on.
“I still can’t believe the boss keeps telling us so little,” the black teared, melodramatic skeleton whined, slumping against Horror’s side as they walked side by side, though Killer had to lengthen his strides to keep up with the tall skeleton. “He only just let slip that his birthday’s in a few months, and not even willingly! Can you believe that? Who doesn’t tell people about their birthdays, Horror?!”
The taller skeleton started, clearly not expecting to actually have to participate in this conversation. “... um… right… yeah, unbelievable.”
Luckily Killer seemed to buy it, going off on his little rant about how their boss was so private and grumpy and surely something could actually get him out of his shell, right? Maybe a book, or like… a plant? Nightmare seemed like a plant guy, when you got to know him, didn’t Horror think so?
Killer was cut off by the growling of Horror’s stomach, and the blank eye socketed skeleton gave the taller one a deadpan look. “Really, man? At least pretend to be listening to me.”
With a sheepish chuckle, Horror kept walking. “... sorry. I’m hungry, Killer.”
But the maniac didn’t seem perturbed, a slight grin on his face as he elbowed Horror in the side. “You’re always hungry, uh…. What’s a word that means cannibal?”
… Horror shrugged as they walked down the narrow path, pale, limp grass growing through mossy cobblestone streets, flowers planted by the side of the road. The path was long and winding, and seemed to be going uphill, when Horror noticed the stump and the box first. “... hey man, look over there.”
Killer glanced over, jogging to the box, lifting the flaps curiously. “... what’s an amazon box doing all the way out here?”
Horror shrugged, walking closer, silently wishing that he had his axe. Though knowing Killer, he probably had enough knives for both of them in one pocket alone.
He looked at the label, pointing at it, letting Killer read it. Watching the insane psychopath’s face light up like a kid on Christmas morning was kind of amusing, to be honest.
“Oooh, a wish box? Huh.” He picked it up, shaking the box. “Like… if I rub this box, do I get three wishes, do you think?” Horror couldn’t help but snicker at his innocent and incessant curiosity (which would probably get him slapped if Nightmare was there to witness it).
“... I don’t think that’s how it works, Kills,” Horror stated, his voice a low, amused rumble.
“... hm.” Killer then spotted the piece of paper and the pencil. “Oh, are you meant to write something down?” he mused to himself, picking them up. “Sure, let me just…” he scrawled something down, tearing off the bit he’d written on and dropping it in the box with a slight smirk, while Horror tilted his head.
“... you put something down?” the not always so gentle giant asked skeptically, only to receive a shrug in response.
“What’s the worst that could happen, man? Worst case, nothing happens, best case, something could happen.” Killer grinned, before beginning to run down the hill at a stupid pace for how steep it was, leaving Horror alone, who paused, thinking. But then… oh well, he supposed. Killer was right, it couldn’t be that bad. So he wrote down his wish, stomach still rumbling, dropping it in the box, before walking after the energetic skeleton with a sigh.
Let’s hope Killer didn’t forget what they were here for in the first place.
… damn, he wanted Korean fried barbecue…
… the dark god was the next one to enter the dead AU, his folded raven wings both shining and dull as he stepped onto the dead grass. He liked it here. There was nothing to kill, not even the grass… much. For as the skeleton stepped past, the pale grass wilted even further under his touch as he made his way up the hill,using his scythe as a hiking stick.
Yet Reaper hesitated as he saw the box, something new to this familiar landscape, on the tree stump of the deity.
“Hm?” the skeleton said, his voice echoed, as if from the back of a cave. “What would this be?”
He carefully stepped closer, avoiding the roots of the tree stump, and the clumps of moss that grew on it. With a moment of hesitation, the god of death lifted the box, reading the sign written in that almost childish, yet careful print.
A… wish box.
Strange, but… Reaper knew better than to doubt the power of such things.
After all, ignoring such an obvious invitation was considered quite rude, especially among the gods, though he couldn’t sense any divinity radiating from it.
So the god of death lifted the piece of paper, and the pencil, tapping it thoughtfully against his chin.
… perhaps something simple, to avoid offense. Yet it couldn’t be meaningless, that simply wouldn’t do.
“Quite the dilemma, hm?” the winged god said with a slight chuckle, yet kept thinking. “Not something limited use… and perhaps not too specific. So… not a love favour, perhaps.”
The god of death simply sat there, enjoying the faint sunlight as he turned the puzzle over in his head for quite some time. It was quite a nice reprieve, actually, from all the reaping and sobbing and emotional reactions. Being death was no easy task, and quite… busy.
It took him a while (with maybe a touch of procrastination) to finally think up an answer, which he wrote with a slight smile on his face. He liked that idea. Not too tricky, not too easy. Wouldn’t cause offense.
So the god of death stood, dropping the small slip of paper in the box, before stretching his wings with a slight chuckle. “Thank you,” he said, in his soft, echoing voice. “For a much welcome reprieve. But alas, I cannot stay. I hope that whoever you are, you take no offense.”
Gathering up his scythe, the god of death opened his wings, taking off into the sky.
A glitching portal opened soon after the death god left, letting the Destroyer glance out after sensing the presence. What the fuck could have interested a being like Reaper to stay for thirty damn minutes when Error was in the middle of a destroying spree? The god of death was always busy during those times, yet he’d been nowhere to be seen.
It was fucking weird, Error thought, yet it definitely caught his attention.
So he’d tracked Reaper’s signal to this dumb world, the black boned skeleton glancing around. Didn’t look like Reaper was still here, anyway. Good. The bird brain anomaly could be so annoying.
Pulling his azure blue scarf up, the god of destruction stepped into the world, frowning as he sensed the overlapping trails of multiple beings. Four mortals, one god. Most at different times, with only one pair, though they all seemed familiar. Not fresh enough to be able to tell who they were.
With a shrug, Error squinted around, tracking the trails, only to spot a cardboard box. “... hM?” the glitchy skeleton wondered aloud. “Th3 fUCk is ThIS?”
Walking over to the stump with the strange wood, he picked up the box, squinting to read the writing through his blurry eyesight.
“... wISh… BoX. Ha, wH0 beLIev3s in ThoSe thiNGs?” he snorted, setting the box down with contempt.
Wishes were dumb. Hopeful optimism at best, naïvete at worst. Can’t rely on a wish to solve your problems, Error thought with a slight scoff. That left you no better than a puppet dancing on a string. Seriously.
Yet he couldn’t help wondering why so many people were drawn to this. Five, altogether, judging by the number of scraps of paper inside. It was just a dumb box. It wasn’t magic or anything.
You could only rely on yourself to solve your problems.
With an eyeroll, he decided to prove the box wrong. Grabbing the piece of paper, he wrote the first thing he could think of, dropping it in the box, before walking away with a scoff.
It wouldn’t come true anyway.
The Creator ran through the AU, dancing between the dead trees and pale grass and flowers, though DreamTale was mostly dead. Ink didn’t seem perturbed, simply waltzing through with his silly grin and lacksadaisical attitude.
His eyelights flickered between different colours as he took in every detail, trying to memorise one of his favourite worlds that he had ever made. He drew inspiration, helping him get past the artist block he’d gotten recently since the… what was it again? He couldn’t remember. Oh well, that wasn’t uncommon. Ink was a very forgetful person.
Glancing around, he noticed something he’d never seen before… or had he? No, not this specific thing. Just a box, huh?
The creator grew closer, examining it with a silly grin on his face.
Ooh. A wish box?
His previous train of thought had departed without him. So he sat at the tree stump, cross legged as he grabbed the box, examining it. Huh.
Seemed like it already had some wishes in it. Maybe he could use his magic and grant them with his creation powers. After all, he could paint anything to life, right?
… but nah, there were already six wishes in there. Hunting down all the wishers and granting their wishes would be a pain in the pelvis, and he had better things to do.
… what was he doing again? Oh, right. Box thing.
… so what was he meant to do with this? Maybe just leave it? But that would be boooooring and this thing was already so interesting to him. Maybe he could do something else with it? Like throw a wish in there?
But what would he wish for? He could already create anything with his brush-
“Oh, wait a sec,” he said aloud, face falling. “Forgot about that.”
His best brush, his favourite one had been sliced in half in his last fight. The one that was as tall as he was, that he’d affectionately dubbed ‘Broomie’.
It was a real pain, honestly, he thought moodily, cheerful mood from two seconds ago completely gone as he scowled at the cirrus clouds in the grey sky. Broomie had been his best companion, and a truly loyal friend. Even if other people didn’t understand why he was obsessed with a paintbrush (IT’S PERFECTLY NORMAL, THANK YOU VERY MUCH, he’d say whenever questioned).
All his small paintbrushes just weren’t as good. Not for creating. It took sooo looooooong to colour with a normal paintbrush. Not to mention how atrocious his shading looked.
Almost without realising, he’d scribbled a note and dropped it in the box, returning to his cheerful mood almost immediately. Ah well. He’d better get home.
“Bye, strange weird box from the middle of nowhere!” he yelled as he teleported away in a puddle of paint.
The chill skeleton walked through the AU, the original simply not caring what happened.
Sans was like that.
He smiled as he noticed the small things, the trees, the wind, the faint sun. Faint, yet there.
“... huh. This place is kinda… dead,” he said, glancing around, then snickered. “What do you call a dead plant?” he asked no one in particular.
“... dearly depotted,” he said, a grin spreading over his face as he kept walking, almost past the box on the tree stump. “Why, hey there. What are you for? I gotta say, you’ve stumped me,” he said with a smirk, picking up the box, turning it around.
… a wish box. Huh. Like… what were the limits here? Cause there were a bunch of things he technically could wish for. But not all of them were likely to happen even if he worked towards them for a hundred years (like being able to afford therapy, hah!).
“Ah well.” He set the box back down, glancing down at the stump. Cosy spot, maybe just to sit and nap for a bit. So he wrote a short note, dropped it in the box, and just… settled at the roots, sitting against them.
“Heh. Nice spot. I can’t be-leaf how comfy it is. It’s not even close to my roots, but oh well.” He smirked at his own bad jokes, before yawning and settling back.
Sans was a lazy person. So he might as well take advantage of that. So he dozed off, ready to go once he woke up.
The golden clad skeleton sat at the base of the stump, head in his hands, not even having noticed the box.
The tree stump was very special to him. More than special.
It was the last remnant of Dream’s childhood, a childhood that everyone else seemed ready to forget and move on from. Not many people even knew the truth about his childhood, nor the fact that he’d lived in that tree for years, alongside his twin.
… yet he couldn’t even recognise Nightmare anymore, the guardian of positivity thought sadly, eyes half closing as he rested his head back against the stump. He knew… deep down, that that husk, though it had his brother’s name, was not the same person. He thought he’d always known, somehow.
His brother was dead.
And Dream buried his head in his knees, the guardian trying to compose himself. Yet failing. He only wanted one thing.
And so when he saw the wish box, he reached for it, almost without thought, dropping the slip of paper with his wish written down in the box.
… it may be useless. It was useless.
But Dream sat there, head buried in his knees as he cried quietly.
… so many people had dropped their notes into his box.
So the child took it down from the stump where it had rested for days now, looking at the notes inside, a slightly sad smile on his shadowed face, though invisible in more ways than one.
His skeletal hand was both tiny and faded as he grasped for a paper, making his phalanges corporeal through effort. He lifted the folded paper out of the box, sitting, as the small child read quietly, invisible and almost ghostly. His long sleeved purple, button up shirt was loose, his golden crown resting on his brow. A belt with the letters ‘NM’ was buckled around his waist, yet nobody could read those words.
The ghost child sat there patiently, deciphering messy scrawls, neat handwriting, taking each wish that had been placed with so much trust in the box he set out.
His purple eye read quickly and carefully, before the child got up, and set to work.
The hooded murderer walked alone, Dust’s scarf wrapped more tightly around his neck. He didn’t know what to think of that random note he’d gotten. Surely it was some kind of joke, right?
It was dark, cold, and hell, it was starting to rain. Maybe this was a bad idea.
But he ducked under an awning, sheltering before he could catch a cold.
That’s when he caught a glimpse of another hurrying up the path, and both of their gazes locked, souls stopping for a brief moment.
“...hello, Dust,” said Blue awkwardly, glancing around at the empty street.
“...” Dust raised his hands, signing a message to Blue. Did you give me that note?
Blue raised an eyebrow. “... note? Did you get one too?”
Dust paused, before nodding hesitantly, pulling into his pocket, bringing out a note.
It read, Come meet me at the cafe at the corner of UnderSwap. Bring nobody.
He beckoned Blue to come to his side, who read the note over his shoulder. “... strange. That was my note too.” To verify, he brought out his own, before glancing at the other side, searching for a hidden message, but finding none.
… yet he couldn’t deny, it was beginning to rain quite heavily. “... do you want to come over?” he asked with a small smile. “My place isn’t far, and I made tacos.”
If there was any expression that Blue could never have expected to see on Dust’s face, it was that absolutely floored expression of disbelief, making him chuckle to himself.
“I promise I won’t hurt you,” the Star Sans said gently. “But you’ll catch a cold out here.”
… he had a point, Dust realised, grudgingly nodding, gesturing for Blue to lead the way.
And the small ghost child watched as the two walked off together, smiling as he read Dust and Blue’s respective slips of paper.
‘I’d like to meet that annoying little Star Sans. Blue. That’s my wish. -Dust.’
‘I wish to help improve someone’s life -Blue.’
Two down.
… the next few wishes were easy enough.
A gift wrapped knife was delivered onto Killer’s chair. A pile of food for Horror. A weird box for the edgy guy named Red with a taser in it. Should he be condoning that? Probably not. Did it matter? Not really.
A stuffed toy of a strange skeleton named Geno for the god of death. A demonic toy that went by the name of a Furby for Fresh. A box of wool for Error, a new brush for Ink. And a bottle of ketchup for Classic.
The ghost child was doing rather well in granting all these wishes. It made him… content. Happier. His true life was over, but… he was doing something nice, and that felt good. Fulfilling.
That vanished once he read Dream’s slip of paper, making tears come to his eyes, which he furiously tried to rub away.
‘I wish for my brother back,’ the shaky yet familiar handwriting read, quite simply.
… that was the one wish…
Gods, the one wish Night couldn’t grant.
Anything else. Anything that could be achieved with telekinesis or psychic abilities. But Night couldn’t go back to Dream if he tried.
The small skeleton child slumped back against the tree stump, tears streaming down his shadowed face as he covered his head with his hands, silently sobbing.
It took a long time before the ghost fell asleep, the wish of his twin haunting his mind.
The ruler of Negativity sensed him. The small one who had once lived. Night.
Yet Nightmare wasn’t quite sure where he was, though he could sense the child’s distress.
So he excused himself from his gang’s shenanigans (ugh) and decided to go for a walk. Might as well clear his head. And on his way, he could find the little ghost boy.
Almost without thought, his magic took him to Dreamtale, his old AU. The landscape was almost as dead as he remembered it, as he walked through the crumbling stone houses of the village without remorse for the devastation he had caused.
They had deserved it for what they had done to them. Every scar, every cut and bruise, every ounce of pain had been repaid tenfold, and no more.
He still remembered how the kid had been, all those years ago. Night had been so innocent and optimistic, trying to figure out what to do to make people like him, like he’d been raised… no, trained to do.
Look how they’d repaid him for his kindness.
And the king of negativity, the hulking, powerful monster with the dark goop oozing from his bones, stood over the sleeping and distressed child, who leant against the wish box, barely making an impression with his tiny form on the flimsy cardboard.
Nightmare raised an eyebrow as he noticed the slip of paper in his hand, crouching down to read the handwriting.
… was that really what had upset Night so much? Dream’s stupid wish to get his brother back?
… he’d known about the small version of him planning to make that box. He wasn’t blind or stupid. Yet… his creation had been Night’s death.
Dream was never going to get his brother back. Nightmare knew that, and he knew Night did too. Nightmare wasn’t going to pretend that he cared about Dream just to spare his feelings, when he didn’t honestly give a damn about the positive guardian. He wasn’t going to pretend to be Night, when he’d really just taken his place.
With a sigh, the guardian of negativity teleported away, arriving back with a small toy in tentacle. A plush skeleton, wrapped in a golden outfit. A toy of Dream.
And the guardian of darkness carefully deposited the small toy in the arm of the ghost child, who clutched the toy, even in sleep, visibly calming.
Silence rested over the two of them, its blanket heavy and yet somewhat comforting.
… and the guardian of negativity turned, walking away.