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There was only darkness around. Thick and impenetrable darkness. A darkness in which there was nothing and no one alive, and even something lifeless would have been imposible to find. There was no sense of time or space, as if this place shouldn't be felt in any way. It was a void. In this thick darkness, the body seemed to cease to exist, along with the ever-glitching heart, his soul. It was as if only his consciousness remained, or perhaps even his very essence.
"Who the hell gave Ink so much red paint?! We agreed that we wouldn't give him more than a certain amount of dangerous emotions, so who is the bastard who filled the vial to the brim?!" suddenly, the first voice broke through the darkness.
The sound came from all directions at once, and strangely enough, it didn't hurt the ears with its high-pitched tone. Oh, right, he didn't have a head, let alone ears.
"It was me. So what?" a second, calmer voice came from everywhere.
“‘So what’? You're asking me ‘so what’? So the fact that he downed the entire vial in one gulp, instantly killed Error, vomited ink on his ashes, and then immediately forgot what he had done, is normal for you? He has no idea how to use emotions properly, and you gave him full access to ‘rage’!” the first voice shouted even louder than before.
Oh, right, Ink. Error remembered, remembered his death, his last seconds. He remembered the pupils filled with pure malice, the pain that pierced his soul, and the slow fall into the void, during which he lost feeling in his crumbling body. And for the details of what happened to his ashes, thanks, that’s valuable information.
"Let him learn how to use his emotions. You shouldn't limit someone like him during the learning stage. He'll use what he has, gain experience, and learn from it," the second voice replied calmly. "And Error could have escaped, he's not weak."
"Tonight, at three o'clock in the morning, in the third alleyway west of Central Park. I'll stab you, bitch," the first voice said menacingly.
"I'm in another city, smartass," the second voice said, and then fell silent.
"Are you done arguing?" another calm voice spoke.
He didn't wait long for an answer, but when he received only silence, he continued, "In case you've forgotten, we're here to decide what to do about Error's death.”
“Resurrect him, what else?" the first voice was heard again.
"But why? He just destroys universes, the creations of young authors, and prevents the multiverse from expanding," a new, fourth voice joined the discussion.
"I like Error himself, and it would be a shame to lose such a character," the first voice replied. "In addition, he's cleaning up the multiverse, not just destroying other people's work. At least, he should be. For now, he's just cutting down left and right."
"And he and Ink go well together," the second voice added.
"Yes, like black and white," a fifth voice chimed in.
"Ba-dum-tssh!" a sixth voice said, completely uninvolved in the discussion.
"It was an accident!" said the fifth voice, and then continued, "Actually, I completely agree. Ink is much more interesting in the company of his complete opposite, his enemy. Without Glitch, our Ink is just empty."
"Ba-dum-tssh!" again, the voice imitated the sound of a comical drum roll.
"It did it on its own!" the fifth voice replied more plaintively.
"Okay, let’s drop it. What's the final decision?" finally, the third voice, which seemed the most calm and normal, spoke again.
"Of course we're resurrecting him!" the first voice replied immediately.
"I agree with him for the first time," said the second voice, followed by the other voices.
"Great, who was responsible for resurrecting Ink?" the third voice asked again.
"Me," came a new, seventh voice.
"Will you take on Error?"
"I had assumed as much, so I've already started his recovery," the seventh voice replied.
"Thank you," the third voice said.
"How long will it take?" the first voice couldn't help but ask.
"About six months, maybe a little longer," the seventh voice replied calmly.
"Six months?! You've already restored Ink in less than a month! What the hell? Are you a racist or something?” the first one raised his voice again.
“First of all, Ink is soulless, all I need to do is restore his body and give him those bottles of paint, and I've had enough practice him because he dies so often. However, Error has a soul, and it will take a lot of time and effort to deal with it. Secondly, even with his body, there will be challenges, as I need to preserve the unique features of his buggy code, which is not as easy as it seems. Thirdly, shut your mouth and try to deal with it yourself first, and then yell, you asshole, or I'll catch you in the third alleyway west of Central Park," the seventh said, becoming increasingly irritated with each word.
There was a tense silence. As far as Error could tell, none of their Creators were going to say a word, preferring to keep quiet rather than become the next target.
"Well, since we've made our decision, I think we can go our separate ways. If anything happens, notify us in advance. And it would be best to try to ensure that he doesn't die again. I believe that such a long period without a destroyer of the multiverse would not be beneficial," the third voice finally added.
The Creators bid their farewells one by one, and the void once again fell silent. Time passed in the multiverse as thoughts drifted through a black skull that didn't yet exist. Then, one day, his empty eye sockets filled with the familiar white light of his part of the Void. As the vision began to clear, the pupils began to move, he could finally feel his body again, the familiar image of "home" finally emerged. The colored phalanges scraped against the bones, squeezing against the sternum, the ribs twitched in a jagged breath, and the eye sockets widened. It was madness. Lucky Ink. He forgets everything quickly.