Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All these worlds, all these beloved, cherished, nurtured worlds that Ink adored.

"Do you love anything, Destroyer?" Nightmare once asked, oily voice knife-smooth against a numb and paralyzed patient.

"No." he never lied about that. He never felt like he was lying. He didn't love anything. He didn't like the way he knit, he didn't like the sloppy way he went about, he didn't like any of it. Yet every time he glanced in a mirror he'd praise and call himself handsome. What a perfect reflection of the only reasonable one in all of reality. Doing everyone a favor. Keeping things clean. Being smart in the killings, not mindless. It all had a very specific reason to exist, he had a very specific reason to exist.

He didn't love anything. And it bothered him to no end.

Was he unlovable? Doomed for eternity to talk to himself?

Oh but what use were friends anyways, all they did was slow a working monster down from his true goal.

That's right, he didn't need to be loved. He needed to be feared. Get things done, not lollygag and indulge a cruel end like some people did. Things need to be cut off, a trapped leg or useless eye, there's absolutely no excuse. When a tree is healing from a nasty lightning strike, you saw the limbs that aren't going to make it. You put the dog down. You mourn a miscarriage. Most things don't work out. Most AUs deserve to burn. Clutter, dust everywhere in this big old house, was he the only one who saw it?

He's a cleaner. That's his point. That's it. There's nothing to love even if someone tried.

And he should be perfectly okay with that.

The tempting pages swayed with innocence. To be picked off and eaten. Crunch, crunch, crunch...

...Was there a way to turn back time? If he avoided some thoughts, stayed silent about some revelations, maybe he wouldn't be here. Maybe he'd be drifting off to the sound of humming and crayon scribbling. You shouldn't mess with normality, if its perfect then why change it? Change stressed him out, made no sense, was wild, unpredictable and vile. It took what he even somewhat enjoyed and twisted it into dreadful, terrifying concepts and ideas. Something as peaceful as a pencil warped into a deadly weapon. Why ruin perfection?

He breathed heavy, dead set on a goal, crushing tangled knots that trailed behind him, bunching from his eyes in flowing streams of falling water. Damp, not just some silly metaphor. He needed to fix this fever, he only recently realized how scalding the temperature was. How long had be been boiling? Months? Years? Decades? Had he fallen for a trap he couldn't see? Was he in danger?

//What's he going to do about it?

Why ruin perfection. A shaken, angry and shattered exhale left him, refilled with rage. A painful meltdown that occurred earlier stabbed him to act. He glared at flittering painted pictures, direct heart and mind of the enemy he cried desperate to lash out against.

This had to be done. One sharp needle prick before things knit smoothly again. He just needed to show that he was still in control, and forever will be.

Prove it then.

Prove it to yourself.

/* He's so, so pathetic. * / someone laughed.

He stalked through and crumpled one of the pages in a fist, tearing it off its suspension with shaky fingers. It depicted a calming, tranquil world, full of love, life, and stability. The waxy gentle crayons that had been used to color it in lined baby blue caverns and light pink inhabitants. People caring for one another, without the real threat of death and danger hanging in the air. If there was a problem, you'd tell someone. Ask family or friend. They'll help you!

It was only a portal, but he stuffed it in his mouth anyways, chewing the toxic crayoned paper like gum. Soddened and wet in his teeth, the AU would be lost forever. Not destroyed, but in such a deep, impossible to reach place in reality that even Ink themself couldn't rediscover it again unless it was handed to them. Good. Riddance. Such a tooth-rotting AU had no place here anyways. He spat the disgusting ball of its remains and moved on. The original universe was already about compassion and feelings, that glob on the floor was just an overexaggeration that wasn't worth playing with.

A whole AU dedicated to shitty group therapy sessions. That never solved anything, sissy nonsense that featherbrains listened to.

Another one, hanging above in reach. He smiled wide, and stood on his tippy-toes to bite the corner and tear it down. He ripped it up like a dog, trying to pull it from his own stuck teeth and rending it to smithereens. Small pieces of bent and tattered fluttered to the floor. His hands gained energy, and they teetered like frantic bird wings in a rush of euphoria. Oh how liberating. He did that, look how a single thought in his mind could effect the world around him, look how it did something, look how it shown itself in slobbered and torn fragments. More.

Looking up to scan the rest, frightful berries in the eyes of a rejuvenated bear, they took on a light of reddish hue and vulnerability.

He breathed in-in-in and let himself laugh with glee, a rising orchestra of glitching and audio distortion, switching octaves that replayed over itself in waves. Letting out that twisted ecstatic glee, the anticipation of destruction that he craved like a helpless heroin addict. He had control of it, nobody was allowed to steal it away from him. It was the one thing that was truly his to own. The sound of himself carried much more noticeably than what he was used to, and even bounced back to him, where otherwise in his Anti-Void it would vacuum sound right as soon as it left. Unfamiliarity forced him to shut up. There was a pause, before he flared open his jacket and started rummaging through it. Turning out pockets that emptied dust and crumbs, wrapping paper, needles, and a Capri Sun. He stopped to enjoy the drink in a few quick squeezes. And soon found the doll he'd been working on a few days ago. A small, anxious looking Frisk. Their neutral face framed under a dark cloak that ended at the knees, laced with intricate sharp patterns. Underneath, a tan shirt and pair of black cargo shorts.

Maddenedtale. What a dumb, uncreative name. Taking a core theme and slapping it as the title was by far the laziest thing Error thought could be done. And it happened so frequently in the multiverse that he figured they must be doing it on purpose to annoy him. How MADDENing, snicker snicker. If they could name something like that, they probably had considered, "Pissed-offtale" or "Mildlyupsettale." He slunk through The Doodlesphere, for that palette of blacks and tans, with the common highlights of red and dusty silver. He recalled Ink talking about it once.

"I met the Sans there. His family, they uh..." he cringed at his mangled leg, tapping the end of the brush to a charcoal bloody knee, "Ran me over and called me names. I figure very respectfully." they nodded sarcasm.

They surely seemed like a lively bunch. Running over people they hadn't even bothered to say 'hello' to. It had made Error's teeth get better acquainted with each other by grinding and tapping, looking at the horrible twist in Ink's ankle, snapped fibula with ugly cracks splintered heel to hip. Nobody should be able to harm them like that.

"Oh, and it was hotter than hell there too!"

Error ran his fingers across the pages, waiting for one to singe him in a trail of smoke. Hotter than hell. A vast desert under a dead yellow sky, tainted by the blistering, blinding, and boiling blare of the sun. Full of cruel people who committed cruel acts. Ink had limped for weeks. And yet, the scatterbrain still claimed to like it. He willingly went back to something that hurt him over and over again like an abused dog. The idiocy, he should learn to recognize when something isn't worth his time or energy. He should learn when to leave people to their suffering. Crippling, lonely desires that overshadowed basic needs and drove them mad.

Maddenedtale, he met with the painting, something harmful that in his opinion, made one grave mistake in it's short lifespan. Running people over only mattered when his morality lined up just right. The Destroyer, the Justice per se, cut open the portal and fell in to it. He sprawled out on the sand, face up to a sky roughly the same color, with the variation of smothered red clouds. There was a silence, and the warp in space excused itself in a flurry of shrinking glitches and errors. A thorough wind grabbed at his clothes and forced him to his feet.

Big. Error hated the claustrophobic cramped interiors of most underground AUs, here under an open sky, the ability to run and run 'til his legs gave out was more than tempting. Not much of a desert, but a rolling dead savanna with pockets of dunes and sandstorms. Outertale was bigger, obviously, and therefore better than this dehydrating hellscape. Grains caught in his shirt, and he twisted to shake them out.

A warning, the revving of engines. He looked behind to encounter a raging monster truck (fashionably named after its drivers) blasting at him at full speed. Nothing to wrap his strings around, he frantically jumped out of the way. The chorus of cruel laughter that followed came from an open window, a lizard-type leaning out and biting its lengthy tongue at the intruder. Tied to the hitch some character on a sandsail surfed behind, gripping the pole with one hand and a spear decorated with feathers in the other. Error chalked up his smile, and tapped toes on the ground to wedge the measly plastic flip-flop strap between them.

It spun on its heel in a sharp turn back, tilting over and digging up dust into the air. More characters emerged from the skylight, cheering and barking. Guns pointed out and fired around their target, who replied with messy, throaty laughs that he forced past the back of his tongues for an oddly growlish sound, similar to a motor. He lassoed his strings, and cracked them out to latch 'round the side mirrors like the horns to a bull, and heaved the truck to the side. Extra string materialized and wrapped around his legs, fastening him to the ground as he planted his feet and directed the vehicle around in circles. A blinding cloud of tan erupted into the air after the absurdly large tires, bullets shot up all around the Destroyer, bouncing off the sand and hitting him in the shins, not even a dent in HP was made.

His laughter built up to manic, a rough voiced cackling as the characters scurried over their own truck and shouted to each other. The one caught up on the sail was jerked into the round-a-bout, and didn't last a second before getting crushed under the main vehicle. The broken body of a bird-type crumpled in the path, ran over again and again at the wrath of Error's self-soothing, with a drive of revenge.

//I guess he's good at it, at least.

A spear was thrown, and was swiftly redirected without much effort with Error's very own.

//What's he thinking about?

//He thinks he's impressive.

"I ₐ₋₋ₐ--am impr̷̯̲̦̳̹̰̱͎̪̲̀̈́̊̏e̸̢̡̯͕̘͓̩̪̰͉͂̀̽͋͠s̵̖̆̄̑́͐̃̒̕s̶̫̺̼̤̳̯͆͒̈--ₛₛ--ive!" he shouted, to the further disturbance of his opponent, "Watch."

And with a heavy heave, he tangled his arms thick and pulled to the side, it tipped and went down with a horrible scraping sound. Someone inside screamed, the lizard-type at the window had their arm squished and torn in a bloody mess that smeared the door. He let out a mad cry of effort as the truck was dragged across the landscape and sent flying over a dune. He ran to the crest to admire as it tumbled down, crunched along the edges with the hood popped open and bent. People threw themselves out the windows, a spew of blood dousing them as they went. Everyone else was rattled like an egg before hitting the bottom in a pool of broken glass and twisted metal.

And finally, the sick monsters who ran over strangers for fun, when surely they already know that stranger's pain belongs to someone else, dusted and cried as their spontaneous ambush was effectively shot back at them.

Someone could paint a picture about it, he looked between a square made with his pointers and thumbs to visualize as he'd seen his companion do. To mimic without goal. A canvas propped up on an easel, Error would watch from above, leaning his head back and upside down from a nest of web as an artist did what they did best. The clikkity-clak-cl-clikkity of a brush against the sides of a plastic cup, sure to tap the rim twice before selecting a new color. Stalling, putting their hand on their hip and chewing a nail, tilting their head, and then looking at the canvas from further away. Circling back, taking another glace at the reference photo, throwing their phone a distance, and once again taking up Paint to Picture.

He'd watch until he got kinks in his neck, then opted to roll over on his stomach. It was brilliant, no scene or character, no star or pooling black nothing greater than the stunning... vividness of their work. No it wasn't perfect, by what standard Error would use on everything else, but in the special list formulated just for them, the phrase "Perfectly imperfect." loved to repeat itself. So calming, the atmosphere of a content and happy individual. Nothing to fear and nothing to fight, just a simple painting brought from the depths of their wild ideas.

/* Ooh. * / a voice hummed, the voice of a child tattling on their fellow peer. The sound everyone knew as, 'you've done/said something taboo.'

And just like that tight fists formed again, nails dug into the palm. The blurry image at the bottom of the dune meant nothing anyways.

A character crawled back up like a bat out of hell, brandishing their gun and aiming it for the assailant's head. Error barely missed the movement and ducked as a flying tube of metal and fire burned past him. And in response threw a flurry of bone attacks to get a better sense on where the character was. Couldn't be sure where exactly which messy dot it was, had to be sure by hitting it with something. The fuzzy colorful blob knelt down in pain as solidified crimson magic impaled their leg. He giggled, and shot at the center of that blob. In a few short breaths a rush of energy filled him. A crumbling, dusting figure stooped and toppled over.

With a sigh of satisfaction, the Destroyer turned towards the baobabs, following Ink's semi-detailed words about the AU. "The Ruins --Frisk goes there first as usual-- are right at the base of Mt Ebott. Big mountain, it's a lot more sharp-edged and clay-red."

Claws of one hideous beast of a mountain scraped the sky. Bloody in color, striking against the yellows and blacks of its homeland.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Error rambled in his head. So stupid. Giving directions and explanations for all his beloved AUs to a murderer. A mad critic. One to boo the movie of the year even if it made them smile. Why did he bother to see him at all? Why bother? Did he have something else in mind? Did he want to hurt him? Get into his head and drive him to suicide? Kill him off?

//But he knew this would happen right?

//You give him way too much credit.

That's a lie. Error had known of the risks for years now, he just never assumed he could have let himself slip up. Everything was perfect, perfectly perfect, why did everything he tried to have get violently ripped out of his hands and discovered to be terrifying? Something that was his, that he thought was undoubtedly his. And now its anything but. He'd let himself believe that there was someone out there who could tolerate him.

The way he smiled at him, and brought him gifts. Like the headphones, the spoon, pressing paint onto his face and making him look like one festive sugarskull.

The way he spoke about his interests, and left out not a single detail, metaphor, simile, or alliteration. Dropping in at random and droning on for hours about anything, the slightest mishap in the AU they were exploring, Blue burning dinner and setting smoke alarms off. And to Error's surprise, the Nothing. The crippling, lonely Nothing that they both experienced. Ink would materialize, sit down with his Cyan and Blue, and in haunting words described something that previously Error thought he was completely unique for.

Mastery in words, color, comfort... like the world depended on him to know everything. Ink said once, "I am the Protector, after all." and it was wrong, Ink should be like one of the dolls, a special one that always stayed in his pocket, never to face deterioration or cosmic stress.

The time they were angry at him. Error didn't think he had made a mistake in his wonderful plan, the end of all ends, it's as much a part of him as Ink's nature was to them.

The time they cried because of him. He had tried to reason with them, they were being stupid and irrational in the moment.

The time they called him pathetic.

The time they beat him into the ground.

The time he ripped them limb from limb in defense, and maybe rage.

They were the absolute enemy.

And he was their enemy.

And Error was in danger. So. Much. Danger.

A frightened and shaken man broke into a series of sporadic teleports closer to his destination.

...

He'd feel better once he got that disgusting, horrible feeling out of his system. Frisk happily and unknowingly swung their little feet over the edge of a toppled pillar.

Children were awful. They screamed and cried and whined and demanded everything. Error's unstable march approached silently, save for the dreadful slap of his flip-flops.

[That Dream From Earlier, Like The First Chapter Or Something]

Error's dreams loved to take turns halfway through. Suddenly the little theatre man in his brain changed it's opinion about what was being shown, and hastily switched out the tapes to something more horrible.

When you're asleep, you can't remember where you were before. For a while his dream was calming, irrelevant, and a little abstract in that shady area between REM and deep sleep. Then there was a lack of sound, the ambiance of a happy daydreamer picking up their things and leaving.

His mind stopped, whirred, and worried. There was silence. What was it supposed to make up now that the calming thing had vanished? It shifted through its memories, and found some things to smile at. This one's good, that one's about having fun, there that one-- seemed a little uninteresting but reflected daily life, which is what a dream is best at, the only dreams you remember are the rare exciting ones. Sitting alone watching an incoherent show, it recalled, painting on a coat of 'new' to it as it always did, the show was quieted to politely make room for the constant Nothing.

It dragged, no time to create a plotline, the show became rather boring, the words mumbled and whispered and the colors saturated and merged. Boring. Error felt a bit hungry.

He checked the inside of his pockets, and somehow found them all empty. He grew curious, and looked again. His needles were missing, his candies and pocketed drinks were missing, the dust was missing, and his 2DS was missing. Error's expression flattened out into something not so irritated and not really disappointed, and his second instinct was to glance over at his minifridge. Sure, it was easier to keep snacks in his inventory, but a cold soda had a pleasant spark to it, and frozen chocolate tasted better than anything he kept on hand, after it warmed up a little. He stood, it felt like an accomplishment, and took a weirdly lengthy trek over across.

Just keep walking, you'll get there eventually, reason worked to add logic to a world that had none. He looked at his feet, they were indeed moving, he looked at the minifridge, it seemed like it could be getting closer. Walking on invisible clouds step by step as if he were half-floating. Once he reached it, in some sort of mysterious timeskip, he pulled the little door open with his foot and squinted down inside. Four candy bars on the left, two soda cans on the right. He selected two of the four, and knocked them together to hear them click, and get some of the ice off. Then he stood up and shut the door with his heel as he turned.

Peeling back the wrapper eagerly, and bit into the frozen chocolate. He let it soften up and melt in his mouth, and hummed in content. Then chewed, swallowed, and went for another bite.

"Aren't you gunna share?" someone asked.

"Nah. Don't be greedy." he answered. Crunch!

"Oh. Alright silly. I was hoping for a different answer."

Error didn't comment immediately, and instead took time to enjoy for a few moments. When he felt that the conversation still was waiting for him, he swallowed again, "That's too bad I guess, sometimes you don't ₐₗw₋₋always get what you want."

He headed back to his beanbag, eating along the way. They followed behind like a parasite, too close they could snap at his ankles if they wanted.

"I think we should watch Undernovela today." they said.

"Great idea!" Error snapped his fingers, and quickened the pace. Sitting down at the cold beanbag, he crossed his legs up and a glitchy window to the AU flickered in. They settled down somewhere behind his head, perched like a grim raven. Things were fuzzy around the edges as the AU went about its usual, exciting day. Less exciting day, he couldn't make out head from tail about what was going on. The chocolate lost its flavor, or maybe it didn't have any to begin with. But it was just a quirk of the current reality, Error didn't mind it entirely, it still had the same effect of what he remembered, it still made him giggle, glee, and remain entertained.

"Hah. Look at that." they pointed one long arm at the screen, looming over their clawtips hooked the air above, then curled away again.

"Yeah. Uh, which part?"

The creature sighed a deteriorating sigh that held no accent, going quiet.

Error finished his first bar of candy, then hesitated before deciding to open the other one later, he thought, what if he was asked to share again? There was no real problem to it, sometimes he wanted things to himself, sometimes he didn't, but he hated the question, it felt more like an accusation. A judge on his character, a written off note by the creature that he couldn't control or combat. It led him to grow more object aggression in attempts to drive off any thought at all that he could share, so that way he could stop thinking about it, and they'd learn not to ask it.

He could hear their amplified breathing, and tried to refocus onto the screen of nonsense, it droned without having any eyes that had the intent to view it.

In the silence Error thought, maybe they should have gone somewhere else, the visitor loved experiencing, looking, wondering and pacing, Error didn't mind it, killing two birds with one stone, remembering new places to take down, watching a friend finesse and shake their hands in tune with their words. The option felt distant now, and he didn't want to look up and ask in case the answer wasn't what he expected.

Someone ran the back of their gentle fingers down the side of his face, coal marked claws caressing to his jaw, shockingly cold.

"You aren't talking." they observed.

"No, I'm not." Error confirmed, on instinct jutting a shoulder up to remove the hand, glitches chased up after the retreating talons.

"Why not?"

"I'm trying to w₋₋wₐₜcₕ₋₋watch the screen."

"And not me?"

"You're not happy with it?" then Error scoffed, "ᴼ⁻⁻Okay, deal for a while."

"Kind of selfish."

"You think I don't ₐₗ₋₋already know that?"

"Kind of selfish..."

"You think I don't already..." Error trailed off, runny black paint dripped onto his forehead, and drew down the bridge of his nose, then over his cheek, he decided to ignore and scrub it away. They zone out like that sometimes, or talk too fast and end up drooling, they probably forget to swallow. Nothing really wrong with that, just a bit gross. He pulled the back of his scarf over his head to compromise. Disgusting...

"...I'm bored." they spoke in the silence, the screen, although playing colors, refused to make noise, perhaps too intimidated by the Nothing. "And then you'll say:"

"That's not my problem."

"And then I'll say:" and the creature waited.

Error grew irritated, "If you wanted to be a dick today, why cₒᵤₗ₋₋couldn't you ᵍ⁻⁻ᵍ⁻⁻go somewhere else?"

Hands pressed on his shoulders, he shut his eyes tight to escape the shattering pain that must not exist to anyone else but him. Someone leaned over the glitches and [errors], "Why can't you go somewhere else Error? You're being a real dick."

There was a choke in his throat, "I allow you to be here, asshole. This is ₘ₋₋ₘ₋₋₋my home, ₘ₋₋my place!" he countered quite weakly, he could have done better.

"I pity you." they leaned away, the hands lost their grip, but didn't leave. Then they started humming, they've always been a musical being, if Error were brave enough he'd admit to liking it. This tune sounded like any other song they might warble, but it felt distorted, there was something off about the pitch.

"You should be grateful I even let you near me." the doomed glitch chose his fate clearly in the tone of his voice, "A rat like you, a liar," he squirmed under their touch, not in the good way, "you're nothing but a useless ʷ⁻⁻walking corpse and I hope you realize that. You're not even good at your job! Sitting here with ₘ₋₋ₘ₋₋me, what's your real goal?"

"And you're the crybaby monster with no heart to anything. Not 'a'. The. Crybaby. That everyone hates, schemes against, and backstabs eventually. Nobody has ever loved you, look at your home, look at your dolls and your webs, and look at your face in the mirror and tell yourself how handsome you are." their hands suddenly snapped to grip Error's neck, "What a pretty face. It never belonged to you."

Skeletons breathe air out of spite, just as a joke they keep running. The animated remains of vaguely human-looking beasts have an infinite source of giggles and gags. But like every other living being, as they are, a lack of a head is as suffocating as heaving lungs. The creature's claws dug hard under his jawbone, fingers that forced his head to look up. Dribbles of inked spit leaked onto his face, ran past the creature's chin from one gaping, swallowing smile, all traces of the lucky monster Error loved to see gone and twisted into what they really were.

Everything was so less colorful, the lineart had turned to a frantic artist's shaken scrawling. "You are pathetic. Hopeless. I always thought you were just a means to an end, and this face will be mounted on my wall for me to gawk at." Error hissed best he could and sank his own nails into their wrists, but they stood firm and planted their feet on his shoulders. Grabbing at the creature's arms, screaming and kicking.

"GET Ơ̵͔̜̻̱̼̜̯̅̈́͑̽͊̌͒̕͠F̵̡̜͕̣͙̐̌̑͠F̸̻̦͇̍̌͝ OF ME-- THIS ᴵˢᴺ'ᵀ⁻⁻ᴵˢᴺ'ᵀ⁻⁻ISN'T LIKE ʸ⁻⁻YO̵͇̺͈̼̞͗͐̐͋̋̏̃͘U̵̟̝͋̆!"

"What isn't like me, Error?"

They pulled at his head, drawing blue blood and marveling down at the sight with a devilish look of pleasure. Like this is all they have ever wanted, they've been waiting for this moment since the very beginning. His vertebrae being separated messily from the rest of his body, each individual spine popping from it's brother and flickering with struggling magic. Gaze consumed entirely by the coal black sockets that bore into his soul, the edges of his vision registered nothing else but incoherent panic. Panic. Error tore his fingers down their arms, marked them up with awful cat-like leavings. He screamed, he tried to thrash, the creature made use of their leg strength to push him apart.

He gurgled up blood, mouth quivering he begged to be released, he made promises that would never sway the demon latched onto him, he apologized, he started to cry.

"Ṕ̷̢͓͈̳̥̱̞̓́̌̓͜͝L̴̤̫͕͚͍̦͕̺̤̂̇̚̕͝ͅË̶̞̜̬̰͍̥͎́̄̊̿̓͘͝A̶͖͎̗͙̖̳͕̝̟͑S̷̢̧̛̟͔̳͍̟͙̗͇̅͐͗̓̍̇̒̈́Ė̷͉̓̒̇͑͌̏̚̚!̴̰͊͆̋͝͝͝ I'M ˢᴼᴿ⁻⁻SORRY, I ₜₕₒᵤGₕₜ₋₋ ᵢ ₜₕₒᵤGₕₜ₋₋I THOUGHT-- PLEA̵͖͉͎͉͓̭̬͎̩͌̈͋́͂͝S̷͇̝̘̟̮͈͓̆̅͐̓̿Ę̵̡̢̛̭̙͔͐̆͊̑̕͜͠ LET ME GO!"

"Let me go~ Let me go~" they sung. "The scorpion said to the coyote, 'take me across the river please, I won't hurt you.'" tantalizingly slow, there was a horrible wet pop.

The screen flickered out, whatever show they were watching was no longer being viewed. The room drained of it's love, and the demon sat victorious. As was right. As was supposed to happen. As was predicted.