Chapter Text
The world did not end with a bang or a flash or a dying star. It ended with two simple words:
"Hello, Jon."
Ever since the Archivist read those words, his faithful tape recorder whirring on and on, the world has not been the same. None of them have.
Skeletons roam free, cracking bad jokes amidst a war between positive and negative. Former people called Avatars run amok, having earned the favor of their Patrons once the tear in reality finally let them through. Demons run around swearing and shooting and making deals. Stressed people in white lab coats report to their supervisors, panicking about things like "XK-Class Scenarios" and "rampant anomalies."
What's left of the world keeps turning, even amongst the rubble of far too many multiverses collapsed on top of each other. Groups have been established. Society is being built from the ground up by things that couldn't be more different.
"You're doing it again," Martin's soft, worried voice floats from the kitchen as he walks out, holding two mugs of steaming tea. "Overthinking."
Jon looks up from the window he'd been staring at; it's not a normal view. "It's raining again."
After a long time wandering -- and sometimes fleeing -- the wastelands, they'd ended up in Night Vale, of all places, where Cecil's smooth baritone makes the strange feel normal and the mundane feel strange. It's one of few places considered "safe" in this apocalypse. Martin settles on the sagging couch next to Jon, undeterred.
"Normal rain, or the Glow Cloud?" he asks calmly, handing Jon the slightly chipped "World's Okayest Boss" mug, a relic from a bygone time.
"Glow Cloud," Jon mumbles, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. Martin reaches across the couch, ever so carefully, to place his hand on Jon's back. A grounding weight, he can only hope. Judging by the way Jon leans into the contact, he's right. "I still can't believe it. How many realities collapsed because of me?"
Martin sighs softly. Jon has been spiraling into guilt and self-reproach since Elias tricked him. Ever since the worlds shattered. "It's not your fault, Jon," he mutters. His mug of tea clinks gently as he sets it on the coffee table, freeing his hands to gather Jon tenderly into his arms. "It's not your fault."
They lie there for a while, collecting fragile moments of respite amidst the weight of realities collapsed. Neither dare to speak, too afraid to shatter the tranquil scene. Still, reality has a way of finding them anyway, and the radio crackles softly to life, inviting the gentle resonance of the voice of Night Vale into their silence.
"Close your eyes," the voice from the radio says, echoing their comfort. "Let my words wash over you. You are safe now. Welcome to Night Vale."
The sound of Cecil blatantly ignoring the fact that nobody is supposed to acknowledge or speak about the Shape in Mission Grove Park becomes a gentle counterpoint to Jon and Martin trying their best to live a normal life. While Night Vale is far from the most normal town, it's ten times better than being attacked and kidnapped as often as they were before. Unfortunately, being in the desert, they don't see many good cows.
"And now, a message from our sponsor," says the voice on the radio. Jon and Martin don't think much of it until they hear the message: "Tired of your home? Sick of comfort? Come to the Hole in the Vacant Lot out back of the Ralphs and huddle with Us."
Jon freezes. Martin's knuckles go white on the kettle. Cecil continues: "Who are we? Good question. Come to the Hole in the Vacant Lot out back of the Ralphs and huddle with Us."
"Buried?" Jon mumbles. Martin nods. They move slowly, to turn up the volume.
"Why do we want you to come? Why did we spend money for this airtime? We understand you are confused."
"Why here?" Jon hisses. "Why now?"
"We don't know it's the Buried," Martin offers, trying for optimistic and landing somewhere closer to pleading. "The rift jumbled everything up, but Night Vale is weird on its own. Maybe it's just... Night Vale-weird."
The voice continues, "But: Hole, Vacant Lot, Ralphs, huddle, Us. For the low-low price. Act today. Or tomorrow. Not Wednesday. Wednesday is no good for Us."
"What do we do?" Martin asks. "Who is 'Us'?"
Jon shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. There's some kind of... interference. I can't Know things like I used to." Normally, this would be a relief, a break from the oppressive weight of Knowledge forced into his head. Now it just makes him feel ill.
"Anyway, we’re almost out of airtime, so just come on down to the Hole in the Vacant Lot out back of the Ralphs and huddle with Us. Or else."
A small, hysterical laugh escapes Jon.
"Back to our regularly scheduled programming."
Not even a day later, Jon and Martin find themselves in the Vacant Lot out back of the Ralphs, staring at the Hole. Bound by a sense of duty, hunger for answers, the anxiety of the slightest trace of the Fears here in their sanctuary (ish), or even simple curiosity, they're here.
"It's... just a hole in the ground." Martin stares incredulously. "There's nothing else there. I thought they said Wednesday was no good. Did their schedule change?"
"Intangible, I think," Jon mumbles, gazing intensely at the Hole. "Invisible. But you're right, it's... just a hole. It doesn't... seem like the Buried? It's just... here."
"Great," Martin sighs. "We're jumping at shadows on our holiday."
"We're not on holiday," Jon huffs fondly. "But... yes, I suppose we did get all worked up for nothing."
Just as they turn to leave, each mumbling their own apology, a shout rings out, loud and clear, from behind them: "JONATHAN SIMS!"
Jon stumbles in his haste to turn and see who called, Martin steadying him hurriedly. The shrill voice continues, almost too fast to keep up with, "Do you KNOW how long I've been looking for you!? And you were holed up in Night Vale!?"
Jon finally finds his balance and turns around just in time to see a rather short, paint-stained skeleton giggling to himself over the pun. "But really, really. Of all places, the second most horrifying dimension? Well, I guess Creepypasta would have something to say about that, but still! I'd think you'd take shelter in the Omega Timeline, but no! You were in the place with Secret Police and non-existent Dog Parks!"
"I'm... sorry?" Jon says, utterly dumbfounded. "Do... I know you?"
"No! Not at all!" The skeleton beams. Somehow. "I'm Ink Sans! Protector of... well, I was protector of the AUs, but I guess that's kinda gone out the window."
"Out the window," Jon repeats, with a sigh that seems to come from the depths of his soul. Martin places his hand back on Jon's shoulder, a gentle reminder. He shakes his head -- not your fault, the gesture seems to repeat.
Ink Sans -- comprehending none of the emotional nuance -- continues energetically. "And we have been looking all over for you! We thought you'd go to the Omega Timeline or something, but Frisk said they hadn't seen you. Some of the newer residents said they did, but they had NO idea where you went. We looked everywhere your home universe touched, but Dream insisted you wouldn't be there, and besides, his magic got weak because of all the negativity, so--"
Another shout, this time from a lower, wearier voice that still manages to be just as lively. "Ink! Are you scaring the Archivist? I told you to wait up for me!"
The source of the voice jogs into view; a taller, cheerful skeleton, looking profoundly exasperated with the paint-stained one. His blue bandana stands out starkly against the purplish sky, his eyelights glowing bright. "Dream's still arguing with his brother, no surprise there, but they were on their own. I didn't see any of the Moons, so I left them to it. He should be catching up soon." His bright gaze flicks over to Jon and Martin, and he turns to them with a friendly smile. "Hello, humans! I'm Blue, or Swap, whichever works! Sorry about Ink, he gets very excited." A lighthearted glare is shot at the latter, who is now whistling innocently. "You must be the Archivist, and his partner! It's nice to put faces to the names!"
Jon blinks, severely off-balance now. Of course, skeletons are a common sight in the ruins, and Night Vale isn't a normal place, but he's never spoken to a Sans directly. Especially not one with so much energy. Not to mention, Blue called them humans. Both of them. Despite everything.
Martin recovers quicker, taking Blue's offered hand in a whoopee-cushion-free handshake. "Martin," he says, clearly still recovering, but much better at hiding it. "And this is my partner, Jon."
Blue nods cheerfully, but before he can say anything else, someone else -- a decidedly taller, golden-clad skeleton holding a glowing bow -- sprints into view, looking winded and slightly terrified. Blue's attention shifts the newcomer; "Oh, Dream! Right on time!"
The new skeleton -- Dream -- skids to a halt next to Swap, panting hard. "Sorry..." he huffs, in a voice that suggests a melodious quality, when he's not running for his life. "Nightmare wouldn't let me leave until he was done yelling at me! It took a while to convince him I wasn't there to fight...." After regaining his breath, Dream straightens up to properly greet Martin and Jon. "Hi, sorry! Lots going on!" His face falls slightly, and then he looks profoundly empathetic. Gently, he continues. "We've been looking for you two. You're not in trouble, don't worry. We could just... use some help."
Jon has regained his bearings by now, and stand up straighter, fixing Dream with a slightly suspicious stare. "Help?"
Ink shrugs. "It's pretty disorganized. You contributed to that, right?" Blue swats his arm. "What!? It's true!"
"What he means to say," Dream interjects, "is that there's a lot of negativity. We aren't blaming you for that, or any of what's happening. But you are powerful, and we could use some help." He raises a hand, a small swirl of golden energy held gently within it. "My magic relies on positivity. Or, rather, it is positivity. With all the fear around, it's a little difficult to get enough to fight. And my job... well, I'm the Guardian of Positivity, so my purpose is to keep balance and, more relevantly, to fight for hope. We thought that, maybe, you could help provide some?"
In Dream's magic-enhanced vision, Jon and Martin share that fragile flame of hope, held between them so very delicately. Swirling around that hope is, of course, fear and guilt and shame, all that comes with Jon's role of Knowing. But that hope, Dream knows, could grow to an inferno with the right kindling, a beacon in the darkness.
Jon and Martin share a look, a world of conversation passing between them in that one glint. Dream can see it, clearer now, their love that feeds the fragile hope and keeps the darkness at bay. Jon looks away, a darkness brewing in his thoughts. Martin speaks for him; "We're struggling to keep hope on our own. We're jumping at shadows here. I don't think we're the saviors you need."
"We don't need saviors," Swap replies gently. "Look at me. I don't have any special magic or powers, I'm just a normal skeleton! I trained hard to keep up with Dream and Ink, to stay part of the Star Sanses, and--"
"And now he's an important part of the team!" Ink finishes, sounding incredibly proud. "He's actually the most responsible, to be honest. We wouldn't have lasted this long without him."
Swap sighs, exasperation and fondness mingling on his face. "That's true. So, if I'm not a 'chosen one,' but I can still help people, you can, too! We don't need a pair of all-powerful saviors. We just need... people. Who've seen the worst of fear, and survived anyway. Who chose to stay together, even after... well, everything." He gestures towards the ruins outside Night Vale, towards the worlds that have collapsed.
Jon and Martin share a glance, another conversation exchanged in silence. They're not saviors, far from it. They hardly even feel like people anymore. But if Jon can use his condition to help beings he's hurt, if Martin can prevent others from falling to despair like he once did...
"Alright," Jon finally sighs. "How can we help?"
Ink squeals, absolutely delighted. With no regard for personal space, he reaches to take Jon’s hand, but is held back by the more socially apt Dream. Still, Ink’s excitement bubbles over. "C’mon! Let’s go, there are worlds to save, and characters to meet!"
Excitedly, the paint-stained skeleton dashes off. Dream and Blue share an exhausted sigh. "Is he always like that?" Martin asks.
The Knowing comes back to Jon, unbidden. As long as that skeleton drinks the paint… "Yes."