Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nightmare. Once the word evoked a deep terror that seeped into people’s souls. A nightmare was not merely a bad dream that one could wake from. A nightmare, people believed, was so terrifying that the fear would paralyze the victim. Only a demon could be capable of bestowing this awful gift onto others. 

It’s no shock that the vile creature would be called just that: Nightmare. His mere presence causes unease for he naturally sends shivers down people’s spines. He oozes a black viscous liquid that never drips off his being. Tendrils protrude from his back which can easily harden and pierce someone’s soul. When he looks at his victim with his glowing cyan eye, he suffocates the victim with all of the pain, fear, and sorrow from their past.

It’s ironic, then, that Nightmare is in a hellish situation himself. 

For six long years, he, his three most trusted subordinates, and two reluctantly-aligned allies have been locked deep beneath the bowels of the earth. It’s perceptively silent except for the low hum emulating from the iridescent barrier. It separates them from any physical contact with each other. Bound to their cell, their only solace is that they can see the others through the barrier’s semi-transparent shimmer.

The lights are out: an indicator that it’s time to slumber. Not that Nightmare would heed to their captors’ schedule. He cannot trust that nothing would happen when everyone’s guards are down. His sleep schedule has long been ruined.

Nightmare’s cyan eye gleams in the darkness. He fixates on the staircase directly across his cell. It mocks him. Escape is always within sight, constantly teasing him of what he cannot achieve.

He leans forward in his seat, hands draped between his legs. His tendrils flicker with annoyance. 

“Show yourself,” Nightmare growls. Whoever is lingering in the shadows cannot conceal their anxiety nor their fear. If this fool believes they can get an upper hand this late at night, Nightmare would show them otherwise. “I will not repeat myself.”

Moments pass. Then there’s a hesitant footstep from the staircase. Then another. Gaudy sun-colored boots glimmer as the figure emerges from the darkness. 

Dream. Nightmare’s two upper tendrils sharpen. His lower two tendrils elevate him up, making him look much larger than he was. He is in no mood to deal with his brother- his captor. It is humiliating enough to be imprisoned by him. He does not want to hear Dream’s pompous assumptions nor his arrogantly-righteous lectures.

As the figure walks towards him, it becomes clear the intruder is not Dream at all. The intruder is too small to be Dream. Their attire, even though it’s as bright, is nothing that Dream would wear. It’s too casual: the dark shorts, the short-sleeve jacket split between two colors (yellow and white), and the blue bandana wrapped around the stranger’s neck.

Nightmare sways when he sees the skeleton’s face. His annoyance melts away to shock. Words are caught in his throat. His soul thumps loudly in his chest. His feet touch the ground. His tendrils slump to his side.

This cannot be real.

A child stops in front of his cell.

The red cut beneath the child’s right eye socket is unmistakable-

"Cross," Nightmare breathes. Six years. It has been six years since he last saw Cross. He takes it all in. He’s so much taller now. There’s a nearly invisible hairline fracture on the right side of his forehead down to his jaw. Cross surveys the heptagonal room as he fidgets with the sleeve of his long-sleeve shirt. Despite the dimly lit space, it's impossible to overlook the cracked walls, the desperate claw marks, and the broken furniture. He flinches from the sight of it. He takes in a deep breath, instantly regretting it: the air is musty and stale. It's a reminder that he should not be down here. He peers over his shoulder before he musters up the courage to look Nightmare directly in the eye.

“Tell me how to fix it,” Cross demands, voice cracking at the end of the sentence. He winces as his voice bounces off the walls. 

Nightmare’s deposition changes. He glides towards the barrier. Cross doesn’t shrink away. He cranes his head upward to meet Nightmare’s daunting gaze. Unlike his words, Cross’s stance is defiant. There’s Cross, Nightmare thinks as a smile threatens to tug on his face.

“Fix what?” Nightmare asks. His regal, baritone voice easily contrasts Cross’s undeveloped one. 

“How to fix the multiverse!” Cross snaps. There’s a deep groan from one of the cells. Cross smacks his hand over his mouth, peering over his shoulder.

“Boss…?” The voice rumbles. There’s shuffling next to Nightmare’s cell. “Cross!”

The sudden shout startles Cross. He steps away from the newly-awakened prisoner. 

“You’ve gotten so big,” Horror says. He presses his hands against the barrier. The barrier ripples, letting out a soft hum. He looks relieved. “Have you been eating well?”

“Crossy?” The voice behind Cross says. Cross anxiously steps away, now in the center of the room. Killer laughs wildly. “What’s with that get-up?”

“Shut up and let me sleep,” one of the cellmates says.

“Broski, wanna do me a rad solid? Dere’s been a misunderstanding," Another says. Cross flinches voice after voice. His soul is pounding in his chest. He's going to get caught at this rate-

"There can't be two of you," another mutters, curling in on himself. 

"It's the real deal, Dust!" Killer's smile is maniacal. "Crossy's decided to pay a visit."

The prisoner's face is shrouded in shadow except for the intense red and blue glow from his pupils. Cross is afraid to move; it's as if he's ensnared by a predator. Dust twitches, whispering unintelligible phrases. He sways his head side-to-side. His head tilts to the left... to the right... then back towards Cross. There's a long, painful whine. Cross can't help but wince at the pitiful noise. He reaches out, and Dust is terrified. His eyes dart left and right and left and right- He abruptly hunches in on himself.

"STOP!" Dust shouts, covering his head. His scream is visceral. Cross trips over himself. He’s on the ground. There's crackling. An explosion of purple. Cross instinctually covers his face. After the third blast does Cross dare to peek. Bones ripple throughout Dust's cell, fracturing the walls further. A chunk of the wall crumbled down, revealing the barrier's glow: the only reason the cell is intact. Dust lets out another piercing scream, clutching his head as his purple magic quickly ignites all over again. 

Cross can't catch his breath.

"Dust, look at me," Horror begs, pressing his body against the exposed wall.

"Will he ever shut up?!" Error complains, covering his head with his pillow.

"Like you're any help," Killer snaps.

"Dat's what happens when ya stuck down here for too long. Ya crack," Fresh casually says. "It’d be real cool to let us out. Dat’s what pals do.” His request is drowned out by Killer and Error’s argument, by the deafening rumble from Dust’s attacks, by Horror’s placating hollers. Cross’s phalanges uselessly grip the cold concrete floor. The chaos causes the ground to tremble. Cross is frozen in his spot. He’s terrified. It feels as though the basement could come crashing down from the maelstrom of screams. Cross desperately tries to breathe, but he can’t do it. He’s lightheaded, too overwhelmed. He's going to die down here.

"Cross." Nightmare's voice cuts through all the sound. It takes a moment for Cross to register that his name has been called. He turns to see Nightmare kneeling at his level. 

"Focus on me," Nightmare says calmly. It's hard with all the chaos. Nightmare exaggerates his breathing for Cross to follow. Cross’s whole body shakes as he sucks in a breath. 

"Good," Nightmare praises. It's horrible how wonderful it is to hear those words. It’s better than focusing on the painful screams. Nightmare’s voice lulls him to safety. It allows him to ignore how the ground shakes from every attack Dust summons in his cell. Cross knows that the barrier will protect him, but the information fails him all the same. He hates how it’s Nightmare that comforts him.

The screams die down into sobs. Killer still shouts at the top of his lungs.

"Quiet," Nightmare commands. Killer opens his mouth to retort when he sees Nightmare crouching next to the frightened child. He clicks his tongue in annoyance.

"Cross," Nightmare slowly says. "You had something to ask of me."

It takes a moment for Cross to process what was said. 

"The multiverse is dying. Tell me how to save it." Cross's voice breaks as he utters the words. He hates how small he feels.

“I see… Do you remember what I once told you?” Cross opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. “About the natural order of things?”

Cross swallows. He averts his gaze to look at nothing in particular: “They said it was your excuse.”

“What do you think?” Nightmare hums. He tilts his head. His cyan eye glows radiantly. When Cross doesn’t say anything, Nightmare continues: “Is there anyone doing our job?”

“Of course not,” Cross says, gritting his teeth. “We protect universes. We help people.”

“Wow,” Killer snorts. “They brainwashed you.”

“Killer,” Nightmare warns. “If that's the case, then the multiverse is out of balance. It will try to correct itself in extreme measures. Glitches. Cracks. I would be surprised if universes haven’t merged together yet.” 

Based on Cross’s expression, they have. He tries so hard to look emotionless, but Nightmare can read his expressions easily: disbelief, anger, confusion, distrust… all these emotions cycled through before Nightmare’s eyes. 

“So what? You save the multiverse by killing people? By destroying their homes?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

Cross covers his face. 

“What a waste of time,” he mutters. 

“Cross.”

“You-you are down here because you hurt people.” Cross abruptly stands up, looking down at Nightmare. “If I let you guys out, then you’ll save the multiverse?”

“You asked, and I answered,” Nightmare replies patiently. It angers Cross to hear that soothing voice. It frustrates him more that Nightmare isn’t arguing back. Cross turns his heel, walking towards the exit.

“What about helping a brah out?” Fresh says.

“Don’t leave,” Horror begs.

“Crossy, don’t turn away from us,” Killer says.

“Don’t call me that!” Cross shouts, redirecting his anger at Killer. “Not when you all left me!” 

Cross expects Killer to taunt him. To sneer at him. To make jokes at his expense. He doesn’t expect Killer’s stunned silence. Cross can’t stand that look. He stares at the ground as his vision begins to blur. He wipes his face, feeling the wet tears. He hates how vulnerable he is in front of them. He doesn’t want any of them to see how weak he is. 

It doesn’t matter what excuse they give at this point. It won’t change anything. They made their choices. They’re in prison because of their misdeeds. They can pretend to care, but Cross is older. He knows better now. He knows that the fake reassurances and sympathies were meant to control him. After all, they’re the most vile beings in the multiverse. They never cared about him.

He can’t stay there a moment longer.

“Cross,” Nightmare calls out. Cross pauses. He doesn’t turn; his back is towards everyone in the room. “We’re here for you if and when you need us.”

There’s a slight tremor in Cross’s stance before he bolts up the stairs.

Chapter Text

Cross can't sleep.

He lies on top of his blankets. His room is nothing like the basement. There are no markings, no cracks, no torn yellow banner on his wall, no broken beds or tables or chairs; it was a normal bedroom. The walls are covered in drawings he and Ink had made over the years. His older drawings are embarrassing to look at, but it’s better than leaving the walls blank. There are a variety of books organized by title names on his shelf. Dream always comes back with another book to add to Cross’s collection when he comes back from his duties. There is a faint blue glow emanating from the echo flower next to his bed. At first, Dream’s voice echoed from it, telling Cross how happy he was that he was there. But it had faded away into silence.

He sinks further into his bed. He stares up at the construction paper stars glued onto his ceiling as if they would provide answers.

Even two nights later, he still feels the phantom tremble beneath his feet. The uncomfortable, stuffy smell is stuck with him. When he closes his eyes, Dust is there before he explodes into a violent purple. His screams shakes Cross to his core. He never heard someone so broken. No matter how much Cross tries, he can’t unsee the basement.

Then Nightmare had to speak. There’s a part of him that craved that parental affection. Did Nightmare really mean it? Would he help out if Cross needed him? He grabs a pillow and smothers his own face. Of course not. They would say anything to get their way. Even Cross saw through Nightmare’s words when he had alluded he could save everyone through violence. So why does Cross care so much?

Cross presses the palms of his hands to his sockets. His gut twists. How could anyone live down there? 

Dat’s what happens when ya stuck down here for too long, Fresh had said. An uncomfortable feeling bubbles inside of Cross. Did the Star Sanses do that to them? Had they made them “crack”? Subconsciously, Cross shakes his head.

They deserve it, Cross reasons, pushing aside his emotions. They’re villains. They weren’t remorseful. They’re upset that they’re in trouble. There were countless stories of their crimes: theft, assault, murder, destruction of AUs. The list goes on and on. This was justice. If the Star Sanses hadn’t put them away, then the prisoners would continue to torture innocent lives.

If it weren’t for the Star Sanses, Cross would be dead.

A soft knock interrupts his thoughts. Cross sits up, knowing Dream is on the other side. Dream knocks; Ink would have waltzed in.

"May I come in?" Dream asks, confirming Cross’s guess.

"Yeah," he answers. The door gently opens. Dream, in every sense, is Nightmare’s counterpart. He dedicates his life to spread peace throughout the multiverse. Whereas Nightmare thrives in negativity, Dream flourishes in positive emotions. Where Nightmare naturally causes others to cower, Dream’s presence is an audible sigh of relief. Nightmare weaponizes people’s anguish, anger, and sadness. Dream utilizes happiness to fight back and to heal people.

Creation and destruction. Hope and fear. There’s a clear distinction of right and wrong.

“Cross?” Dream gingerly asks. It’s the same look of concern Horror had given him. The questioning look to see if Cross was doing okay. 

“You’re back early,” Cross says. Dream smiles; it’s warm and comforting. Cross can’t help but to smile back. Dream sits next to Cross.

"Annnd you're up late," Dream replies. "Bad dream?"

Cross shrugs in response. Dream pets Cross's head. The conflicted emotions about Nightmare are muffled. Dream always had that effect: he brought forth positive feelings in people. Cross leans against Dream, grateful for the relief.

"I'll chase them away," Dream says. 

"I know," Cross says. He closes his eyes, comforted by the warmth Dream provides: the feeling of contentment and safety. 

"Want me to tell you a story?" Dream asks. 

"Mmhm," Cross replies, swimming in the mind-numbing dopamine. Dream shifts, giving Cross better access to his shoulder. He wraps an arm around him to make him more comfortable.

" Long ago, when the formation of the universes was still new, there lived a guardian, Nim, whose purpose was to guard the Tree of Feelings ," Dream recites.

"Can you tell a different story?" Cross requests. 

"Okay," Dream says. He hums in thought. "What are you in the mood for?"

Nothing about Nightmare, Cross wants to say. Instead, he says: "A story about The Magnificent Blue?"

"Which one?" Dream asks. "There's countless adventures."

"How did he disappear?" Cross asks. Dream freezes.

"Is that what your dream was about?" Cross shrugs. Dream pulls Cross into a hug. He rubs small circles on Cross’s back. Shakily, Dream whispers: "I miss him too."

Cross knows it’s a sore topic. He can only catch bits and pieces of The Magnificent Blue. He doubts he’ll ever get a genuine, straight answer.

"Don't focus on him being gone," Dream sniffles. "Remember the good that he’s done. He always gave people a second chance. He believed that the worst people could be great." He pulled back, giving a bright smile. "He even tried to befriend Error once."

Cross blinks before the information truly sinks in. He stares at Dream, his mouth agape. 

"I never heard that," Cross says.

"It was before he became a Star Sans," Dream replies. "He never went into much detail. But he believed that there's good in everyone." 

"... Even Nightmare?" Cross whispers. Dream tenses, stilling his movements.

"Maybe once," Dream hesitantly says. His expression is too complicated for Cross to understand: a mix of pity, disappointment, and, to his surprise, longing. Cross wants to ask, but he’s afraid to. He doesn’t want Dream to leave because he’s soured the mood.

"How long will you stay?" Cross asks. He rubs his weary eye socket. Now that his anxiety, anger, and sadness is pushed to the recesses of his mind, he feels how exhausted he truly is. 

"I don't know," Dream admits. He relaxes as he resumes to comfort Cross. "Hopefully for a few days."

Then Dream will be gone for at least a few weeks. Cross knows this by heart. At least he's here now, he thinks as he drifts to sleep.

When Cross turned ten, he had proclaimed to the heroes: "I want to protect people too!" That changed everything. They introduced him to what's now his favorite area in his home: the training room. There was an enormous skylight that illuminated the entire area. Unlike the rest of the Star Sanses base, it felt lived in. 

It was one of the few rooms where the three of them would spend time together. Ink created an array of training weapons with his legendary paint brush. Dream took the time to go through the proper stances with him. They looked so proud. Cross could see his future so clearly now. This was the start of becoming a hero. His soul swelled with longing. He couldn’t wait for the day he, too, would join them on their missions.

Now, at the ripe age of fourteen, Cross readies the bow in his hand. It was a part of Blue’s written exercise routine: stretches, running, weights, footwork, weapon practice, and finally magic training. It was an accidental find, and a secret he kept from the others. Although Cross expressed his interest in swords, Dream insisted that archery was a much safer route. He adjusts for the arrow to lay on the rest. He pulls the string back, feeling the resistance. It desperately wants to snap back into shape. Cross aims at the target. He breathes in. He lets go as he breathes out-

"C!" The sudden shout startles Cross that his aim is thrown off. The arrow soars up into the air before it plummets down. It hits nowhere near the target. 

“Oof,” Ink says. He drapes his arm on Cross’s shoulder. “I think it’s supposed to hit the target.”

“Yeah.” Cross forces himself to smile. 

Ink is barely a head taller than Cross. Similar to Dream, Ink’s job is to “protect the Creators’ creations.” Each universe is made with a Creator’s intent, Ink explained on different occasions. It was his job to keep them safe. Although Ink can create things from thin air with his 4-foot paintbrush, dubbed Broomie, Ink insists that he’s not a Creator. He can’t, for instance, bring back the dead. Cross doesn’t know what any of that means, but Ink’s adamant of keeping every universe alive.

“Oh! Oh oh oh!” Ink excitedly bounces on the balls of his feet. He twirls around Cross so that he’s standing in front of him. Ink pupils constantly change their color and shape every time he blinks. “Guess who came back with the coolest story?”

“Tell me!” Cross perks up. His mistake is quickly forgotten. Ink vibrates on the spot, barely able to contain his excitement.

“DRAGONS!” Ink exclaims. Cross’s eyes dilate with immense interest. “Instead of Gaster Blasters being cannons, they’re pets! Dragon pets! If your magic was better, you could ride one all day!”

The words sting. It’s true, his magic wasn’t as strong as Ink or Dream’s. The bones he can summon are few and small. Whereas normal Gaster Blasters are about the size of the summoner, Cross’s blasters are about as big as the palm of his hand. He can’t make things out of thin air like Ink can. He can’t heal people like Dream can. And he certainly couldn’t travel to different universes like either of them.

“Croooosssss?” Ink says, snapping Cross out of his stupor. He waves his hand in front of Cross’s face. 

“Can we practice?” Cross blurts out. 

“Riding dragons?” Ink asks as his pupils change into question marks.

“Magic,” Cross says. He forces himself to stop fidgeting with his sleeve. Less confidently, he says: “I want to get better at it.”

“Hmmmm…” Ink skims over his scarf. He looks up at the sky light, seeing the sun not quite above their heads. “There’s still time. Okay!”

Which is how Cross finds himself clutching his knees, heaving out nothing.

“You almost got it!” Ink encourages Cross after his fourth attempt at teleporting. Cross looks up as Ink waves his arms enthusiastically. It’s not that he can’t do it; he falls short on his own standards. He should be able to teleport ten meters away, to where Ink was standing, but instead he’s only at the three meter mark. 

“One more time,” Cross says as his clothes soak up his sweat. He sways on his feet. Ink gives Cross two thumbs up, supportive and unconcerned. Cross inhales, closing his eyes in order to concentrate. Magic fizzles around his bones. In theory, teleporting is moving through space. The path is a string. He’s on one end, and Ink is on the other. He just has to bring those two ends together. He pictures that he’s next to Ink. It’s only one step away. He moves forward.

He collapses to his knees. He gulps for air, blinking furiously as he waits for his sight to return. 

“You made it further!” Ink exclaims. Cross’s soul pounds in his chest. He did it? He did it! He lets out a sigh of relief as black dots now sprinkle in his vision. As his eyesight comes back, he sees Ink standing above him. 

“See?” Ink prompts. Cross’s smile falters. He does see, and it crushes him. He didn’t make it to the end of the room. He’s only progressed by a couple of inches, his previous attempts marked by Ink’s paintbrush. Ink must have easily teleported to where he was. The congratulations pierces Cross’s soul. All of that effort, and he’s only made a fraction of progress. How could he be by Ink and Dream’s side on their adventures at this rate? How could he be happy with the results?

“Wanna play a game instead?” Ink suddenly asks. 

“A game?” Cross dumbly repeats. He feels so useless. Of course Ink wouldn’t want to train with him anymore. Ink boops Cross’s nasal bone with his finger. 

“Yeah, I’ll be it! And you’ll run away from me. What do you think?” From how close Ink is standing, Cross catches a glimpse of the handwritten note on Ink’s tattered scarf: “Important!!! Afternoon meeting!” He also sees the stash of paint vials draped across Ink’s chest. They’re Ink’s emotions, or so he says. Once he offered Cross to try one to see what he meant. When Cross sipped it, the thick, rancid substance wouldn’t leave his mouth for a week. Needless to say, Ink definitely pranked him. Cross is sure that the paint vials were meant for Broomie.

“C?” Ink asks. Cross nods. Ink helps him back on his feet, brushing away the dirt from Cross’s shoulders. He dramatically takes a couple of steps back. He deeply inhales, puffing out his chest.

“3, 2, 1, go!” Ink shouts on the top of his lungs. Before Cross could respond, Ink grabs his brush and swings it at Cross. Cross backs away, barely dodging the attack. He’s fumbling, adrenaline taking the lead as he continues to back up. Ink swings again, and Cross finds himself nowhere near Ink.

"Very nice, C!" Ink praises. Cross blinks as he’s staring at Ink, who is at least five meters away. He’s still standing upright. Laughter bubbles out from him. He stomps on the ground. He does it again. Every time, a reassurance that he’s standing upright. He puts his hand on his head in disbelief and awe. He teleported! He teleported and didn't feel like passing out! 

"Ink!" Cross laughs. He smiles so wide that it hurts, but Cross doesn’t care. Ink appears next to Cross, ready to celebrate. However, Cross backs away. His determination has been resparked.

“Game’s not over,” Cross challenges. Who was Ink to turn down fun? Their movements flow as if they were dancing. Ink takes the lead, and Cross reacts. They’re both light on their toes. Cross teleports a short distance away, not knowing where he’ll land, but he teleports without the nauseous feeling that usually follows.

Cross teleports once more. He stops in his tracks when he doesn’t see Ink in front of him. He breathes heavily; the magic usage takes a lot of energy. It’s a good kind of exhaustion. He feels accomplished. Cross turns his head side-to-side, trying to catch a glimpse of Ink.

He hears the rustle of cloth behind him. He spins around, but he's too slow. Cross brings his arms up, close to his body, as Ink's brush slams against him. Pain blossoms throughout his forearms.

There's a moment of disconnect. Everything feels like it's happening in slow motion, even though Cross can't move to prevent it from happening. He soars through the air. His mind goes blank.

He bounces off the ground once. Twice. Thrice. He's unable to brace himself as each impact knocks the air out of him. Each crash is thunderous as it echoes in the vast training room. He rolls to a stop.

"C!" Ink shouts. Cross tries to find his voice. Everything hurts. He groans, lying on the cold floor.

"Can you stand?" Ink asks, crouched next to him. It's a genuine question even if Ink's tone is more quizzical than concerned. Cross doesn't want to move, but he forces himself to sit up. 

"Sorry," Cross mumbles. He lowers his head, feeling the sting in his arms and his ribs.

"What for? That was on me. You were great," Ink says.

"Really?" Cross asks, hesitantly lifts his head to meet Ink's gaze.

"Sure!" Ink says.

Despite the agony, Cross brims with pride.

"I can do it," Cross quickly says as Ink offers a hand. "I'll be just as good as Blue!"

Ink abruptly pukes up black ink. Cross winces back as some of it splatters on his clothes. He has only witnessed Ink throwing up a handful of times. The first being when Cross had suggested more color in his attire after Ink told him to put on a large black overcoat with a large white X. It was the right choice, seeing how Ink designed outfit after outfit for Cross to wear. 

Ink wipes the black residue off his mouth with his sleeve. He has a blank, empty stare: his pupils have vanished. Cross swallows, trying to remain as still as possible. Ink blinks a couple of times as if he was recalibrating.

“Why are you on the ground?” Ink asks, expression back to normal. 

Cross's mouth feels dry. Ink pulls him up by his arms. Cross grits his teeth as the pain amplifies from the pressure. Ink pats his back, unaware of Cross’s new wounds. 

"We were…" Cross closes his eyes, avoiding Ink’s ignorant stare. With a steadier voice, he says: "We were talking about Blue."

“Is he here?” Ink twirls a full 360. 

“No.” Cross deflates. It isn’t rare for Ink to forget what he was doing or talking about moments earlier. It’s the reason he has all the scribbles on his scarf: he’ll forget otherwise. Still, it stings to hear how Ink could forget that Blue is no longer here. It’s been years since Blue’s disappearance. 

"Why are we talking about him?" Ink asks so casually. It’s said the same way someone would ask about the weather. It isn’t malicious, but it rubs Cross the wrong way. Maybe it's part of the reason Ink and Dream argue when they think he isn't around. Arguing is the wrong word. Dream confronts Ink. Ink always playfully responds back. It’s as though they’re in completely different genres: the tone of their disagreement never matches up. Neither, it seems, do their viewpoints. Whereas Dream wants to protect people, Ink wants to protect universes. To Cross, they were one in the same. 

"No reason," Cross mumbles.

“Oh, okay!” Ink says with a dopey smile. Later, as Cross cleans up the training room, he belatedly realizes that Blue, too, was a topic the two of them didn’t see eye-to-eye on.

Chapter Text

Cross isn’t sure what to call this room other than Dream’s hideaway spot. It’s unlike any of the other rooms in their home.

For one, there’s a thick, brown pillar in the center of the room. The design creates an illusion of a tree sprouting from the ground until Cross has to crane his head to see it branch into the ceiling. The dome above is covered with stained glass, lit from the Doodlesphere. It's an impressive assortment of glass leaves and apples that makes colors dance around the room. The walls fade from the welcoming blue to earthy green - like being on a grassy hill on a sunny day. 

It feels endless. Infinite.

The room always feels special. Maybe it’s how Dream always visits this room whenever he comes home. Despite never changing out of his uniform, despite leaving at a moment’s notice, he would always return to this spot. Usually, Dream would sit under the makeshift tree, staring off into the distance before spotting Cross soon after. The vacant stare would vanish, replaced with a soft smile and a friendly twinkle in his eyelights. He would extend his hand out to Cross: a straightforward gesture to sit next to him. Cross would sink into the plush cushions surrounding the pillar. He would press his hand into the carpet, mesmerized by its rough texture. Cross would inevitably lean against Dream’s shoulder, drawn in by his radiating warmth. If Cross closed his eyes, he could smell the feeling of home: the wonderful scent of apple cider. Dream would present another book for them to read together. Although Cross hates reading out loud, he could never deny these moments. He treasures what little time he has with Ink and Dream.

But Dream isn’t in his hideaway. It’s only Cross.

Even if the flowers greet him, he is met with eerie silence. Quietly, he tends to the flower beds lined up against the wall. He pats down the cool, damp soil. He observes the flowers as he absent-mindedly wipes his hands on his jacket. It’s nearly impossible to tell their natural hue under the twinkling colors from above.

Chatter bursts into the hushed space. Cross swivels on his toes, oblivious to how messy he got from tending the flowers. He had expected Ink and Dream. Whenever they spoke about serious matters, Dream would lead Ink back to this room. Cross would press his skull against the heavy doors, straining to catch a word of their conversation. Yet, all he could ever gather was a faint muffle. 

But the sacred space was no longer for the three of them. Not with the strangers standing beside Dream. Cross’s mouth hung open, searching for words but unable to. It was unusual to find visitors in their home, much less in Dream’s sanctuary.

”Who’s the kid?” One of them asks as if Cross was the strangest thing in the scenario. There’s no aggression in his tone. He slouches, barely nodding towards Cross as he asks the question. His hands are shoved in his orange hoodie. He’s one of the tallest skeletons Cross has ever seen. There’s a skeleton that stands behind him, fidgeting with his oversized cashmere sleeve. That skeleton is barely taller than Cross. He’s unable to make eye contact; his focus constantly shifts all over the room. 

Then there was Epic. Cross would seldomly see Epic with Dream or Ink, but it’s hard to forget the purple, swaying trench coat he always wears or the blatant scar over his left socket. Aside from the occasional “sup, bruh?” they never really spoke to each other. He was a stranger, just like the other two.  

Dream steps towards Cross. Belatedly, Cross hides his hands behind his back. Dream softly laughs as he brushes some of the dirt off of Cross’s jacket. Dream adjusts Cross’s jacket before he examines Cross’s hands. The smile hasn’t left Dream’s face.

“Were you taking care of the flowers?” Cross fumbles for a response before Dream beats him to it: “They look wonderful, Cross.”

Cross shyly averts his gaze, smiling at the praise. It’s impossible not to notice the others in the room. It’s weird having one visitor. It’s stranger to have multiple. It’s outright bizarre for Dream to bring so many people into his special room.

“Who are they?” Cross asks, eyeing the strangers.

”These are some of my friends,” Dream replies. He motions to the tallest skeleton, “This is Stretch,” then to the meek skeleton, “and this is Ccino.” Cross notes how it sounds like the drink cappuccino. “And you remember Epic, don’t you?”

Why are they here? Cross wants to ask. He feels the question getting stuck in his throat. But Dream gently puts his hand on Cross’s back. Cross can feel the warmth radiating from his touch. 

”Go get washed up,” Dream says. “We’ll read together afterwards, okay?”

“I want to stay,” Cross states, his soul hammering. Dream’s grip on Cross’s jacket tenses for a brief moment. The others look uncomfortable with the idea. But Cross isn’t a child. He’s fourteen, a teen . 

”It’s big bones stuff, bruh,” Epic deflects. Cross bristles at the statement.

”I’m not a baby bones,” Cross snaps.

”I dunno, squirt,” Stretch says, scratching his chin. Cross feels the heat rise to his cheeks. “I think you have to be this tall to join the conversation.” He puts his hand up to just above Cross’s height.

“Is it because the multiverse is glitching?” Cross blurts out.

”How do you know about that?” Dream asks tensely. 

“It’d be weird if he didn’t know about it,” Stretch remarks, giving an easy shrug. “I’m sure the squirt’s universe has been affected by it.”

“No, that’s not possible,” Dream says. It isn’t possible. Cross rarely thinks about it because it’s not a topic that usually comes up. He doesn’t have a universe. He never did. Cross doesn’t mind since Ink and Dream were in the same boat as him; they return to the Doodlesphere because they don’t have a universe they belong to either. 

“Cross, how did you hear about that?” Dream asks. Cross swallows. There’s no way that he could admit that he snuck into the basement. Ink and Dream had scattered conversations, but Cross could never truly connect the pieces. Not until Nightmare had asked him if the multiverse was glitching. Then all the scraps of the Star Sanses’ conversation made more sense.

“I saw it on Ink’s scarf,” Cross misleads. Dream’s hand drags across his bottom jaw. Dream’s sockets are dark underneath. The hems of his uniform are fraying. The longer Cross looks, the more exhausted Dream seems.

“Let me help! I-I’ve been training hard with Ink. I can use a crossbow, and- AND I can teleport.” The words tumble out of Cross’s mouth. “You don’t have to do this alone. I can be a hero like you!”

The room echoes Cross’s proclamation. Dream is stunned into silence. Cross puts his hands on Dream’s.

“I can make you proud,” Cross whispers. Dream is visibly conflicted. Underneath the faux leaves, rays of colors rest on both of them. Cross feels the desperation gnawing at him. He wants the Star Sanses to see his worth. He wants to be officially part of the family. He’s tired of being left behind. 

There’s a hand pressed against Cross’s back. It lacks the warmth that Dream’s had.

”Don’t sweat it, bruh. We got it covered.” It’s the most that Epic’s ever said to Cross. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Who is he to get in between their conversation? Who is he to usher Cross out of Dream’s special spot?

”Wait.” Dream stops Epic in his tracks. “If he knows this much…”

”He shouldn’t get involved.” It almost sounds angry.

”We can’t keep him in the dark.”

”That’s funny coming from you, bruh.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“What the heck is all the uproar for?” A new voice slices through their argument. The nasally, pretentious voice makes Cross’s insides curl. Blood-colored boots clack against the tiled hall floors. Unlike the other skeletons nearby, the newcomer’s black uniform clings tightly around his bones. There’s a whip latched on his belt. Scarlet gloves travel up his arms. Unfortunately, Cross knows who the voice belongs to. He reluctantly looks up, faced with the three deep cuts that mar his left eye socket: it was none other than Crimson.

“A friendly disagreement, bruh,” Epic says. There are unfamiliar faces behind Crimson: monsters that Cross has never seen outside of books. They wear similar white lab coats except for a gray human child with hollow, black eyes. The situation unnerves Cross. Why are they here?

“I think Cross should stay,” Dream calmly states.

“Absolutely not!” Crimson sneers, showing his sharp fangs. His red pupil scans Cross. His face contorts to disgust. “Why the frick is he covered in dirt? Well, given his background , I suppose it’s only natural.”

”Knock it off, bruh,” Epic says defensively. Cross shrugs Epic’s hand off of his shoulder. He scowls as the frustration builds up. How can Epic defend him when he was actively trying to kick him out? At least Crimson was straightforward with his disdain. 

“The multiverse is my home too,” Cross says, voice shaky.

”Well I don’t want Nightmare’s brat in this heckin’ meeting,” Crimson hisses.

”I’m a Star Sans!” Cross yells, voice cracking at the higher pitch. It’s raw and hoarse. His chest heaves as he angrily glares at Crimson. He was never Nightmare’s kid. Nightmare was horrible to everyone; he wrecked people’s lives. He and the others only pretended to care about Cross. They were tricking him when he was in the basement. It was all an act for their escape. Cross never mattered to Nightmare, so why should Cross care? He doesn’t.

Dream bends down to Cross’s eye level. He pats his shoulder.

”We can talk more about this afterwards, okay?” Dream softly suggests. Cross turns his head away from Dream. He strides down the hall, but not before hearing Crimson say: “You don’t belong here.”

Cross quickens his pace. He walks down the cluttered hallway full of memorabilia Ink keeps. The heavy doors close with a grunted thump. Bitterness burrows in his soul. No matter how hard he tries, he will never be free from Nightmare’s shadow.

Upset voices overlap each other as they disperse out of the doors.

“The nerve! He shows up late, then discards our ideas-“ A low, hoarse voice.

”I-it’s not like w-we have a viable solution…” A skittish feminine voice.

”We only need to get rid of the excess-“

”B-But we don’t have anything that could do that. We can’t turn something into nothing…”

”Bruh, it’ll be alright,” Epic says.

”It’s okay. I accepted what’ll happen.”

”Ccino… there’s still room in the OT-“

”Thank you, really. But I want to go home…”

”The Omega Timeline is getting crowded,” Stretch says.

”It’s infinite,” Dream retorts.

”You try walking around there.”

”You can teleport.”

”Sure, but Blue would say that’s bad for my health.”

Dream’s laughter titters in the hall.

”He was always like that…”

…

”Ink…” A child’s voice.

”Hm?”

”If there’s anyone you need to talk to…”

”Talk about what?”

”You haven’t been the same since… I knew him too. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

”Frisk, you’re so silly sometimes. Who are you talking about?”

Guests pass the junk in the hall, paying no attention to it. Voices recede. Footsteps fade out. A hush blankets the hallway.

Cross tumbles from behind the random robot statue in the hallway. He squeezes past the random bike and the ice cooler. He looks over his shoulder before he sneaks back into Dream’s special room.

The room is filled with dead air. Cross walks beneath the faux tree under the judgmental gold and amethyst lights. He stops at the opposite side of the room. He swallows, but he does not say anything. He gingerly pushes the flowers aside. 

He squints.

He breathes.

He spots the echo flower that he’s planted. The one from his bedroom. The one Dream had gifted him. He had expected Dream and Ink to have another private conversation behind closed doors; he hadn’t anticipated all of the guests. 

Cross’s soul hammers. It’s so loud in his skull. He takes another cautionary glance behind him. It’s just him and the apple tree.

He leans forward. The voice is oddly faint. Frowning, Cross practically sticks his head in the flowers just to hear it echo in a deep cadence: “Got you.”

Bones jut out from the ground, trapping Cross where he stands.

Chapter Text

The intense orange light encircles Cross. He focuses on the echo flower before him: the soft blue hue now appears as a decaying brown. He forces himself to stay still despite the chills that crawl up his spine. His fingers ache from how hard he grips the edge of the flower bed. If he moves, the surrounding bones could skewer him where he stands.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts as if it could shield him. He squeezes his eyes shut as if it would make the problem go away. His mouth moves on its own volition: “I shouldn’t have snuck in and eavesdropped, I shouldn’t have messed with the flowers, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Sorry, kiddo, didn’t mean to scare you witless,” Cross hears clearly. Then, as if his captor were talking with himself, he says in a hushed tone: “Shouldn’t have done what she would’ve…”

The ground swallows the dangerous orange glow as the bones retreat. Colors stream down from above as they resume their previous task of shimmering against the textured walls. Cross should be surrounded by holes from where the bones emerged, but the green coarse carpet beneath his feet disagrees. Cross blinks as his eyelights adjust to the dimmer lighting. His captor, about two arm lengths away, keeps his hands tucked in his thick orange hoodie. The hood of his captor's jacket puffs around his neck, accentuating his long skull and sharp cheekbones. Recognition dawns on Cross as he stares at the skeleton's frustratingly familiar relaxed posture. A purple blush creeps up to Cross's cheeks; his earlier fear distorts to anger.

”What are you doing here?” Cross demands. His frustrations grow as Stretch merely raises a brow at him. Then Stretch’s gaze lingers on the echo flower behind Cross. The faint blue is barely hidden by the golden flowers in the flower bed.

“What about you?” Stretch says casually. Cross grits his teeth. Disgust creeps in his chest: he pleaded before some stranger like a coward. Cross declared that he was a Star Sans, and yet he had crumbled under the pressure. If only Stretch didn’t notice the flower, then Cross wouldn’t be in this situation.

“That’s none of your business,” Cross snaps. Stretch lazily scratches at the jaw, eyes no longer honed in on him. 

“Well kid-“ Stretch starts.

”I’m not a kid.”

”Squirt,” Stretch corrects himself. Cross protests, but Stretch continues: “I’m looking for answers.”

”Why not ask Dream?” Cross glowers. Stretch’s gaze flickers to the blue bandana tied around Cross’s neck. Then his gaze goes through Cross as if he isn’t in the room with him. Whenever Dream sat against the tree-like pillar, he would make a similar expression: drooped sockets, eye lights that stare ahead at nothing in particular, and the smile that would always disappear. However, unlike Dream, Stretch quickly forces himself out of the moment. He resumes scratching beneath his jaw - a forced casualness. 

“Eh… Dream’s preoccupied these days,” Stretch replies nonchalantly. Cross frowns, not satisfied with that answer. “But maybe you’ve heard something.”

”Why would I tell you?” 

“Humor me, squirt.” Cross's frown deepens at the nickname.

Stretch digs in his hoodie pocket. He pulls out a folded piece of paper. It’s worn at the edges. Cross curiously watches as Stretch unfolds the photo. The creases are embedded into the photo, but Stretch treats it as a precious item as he tenderly makes it as presentable and neat as possible. 

Cross’s mouth parts as he takes in the image. In the photograph, Stretch lazily smiles as he’s packed tight with several unknown faces. All unknown except one: a smaller skeleton donning a shiny chest plate stands in front of Stretch while striking a heroic pose. The unmistakable blue bandana drapes around his neck.

The Magnificent Blue.

”I’m looking for my bro,” Stretch states.

Stretch talks, but Cross doesn’t listen. Not when Stretch holds out the crinkled photograph that preserves Blue’s enormous smile. Whenever Cross reaches for a memory of Blue, it would fade away like smoke; the impression lingers, but the details blur. They blur so much that Cross can’t clearly describe Blue at all: not his voice, not his clothes, nor his face. Blue becomes a myth, just a collection of stories stitched together from others’ recollections. A myth suddenly made tangible with the photograph before him. A photograph of him and Stretch-

”Wait,” Cross abruptly says, jolting from his spot. He does a double take. Cross can’t see the resemblance between the two skeletons, but they stand close to each other in the picture. Two skeletons among all the other monsters.

Cross points at Blue, slack-jawed.

”That’s your brother? You’re the Magnificent Blue’s brother?!” Cross exclaims, the pieces finally clicking in his brain. Stretch smiles in amusement as Cross struggles to find his words. “But he’s- you’re- but-“

“He is the coolest,” Stretch agrees as he puts the photo away. Any earlier feelings of distrust melts away as Cross is unable to contain his wide, toothy smile.

”What was he like? How did he join the Star Sans? I mean, besides being awesome,” Cross rambles. “How many bad guys did he put away? Do you know how many AUs he’s saved? Is it true that he wore a cape or has he always worn a bandana? What kind of tacos were his favorite?”

“… There are different types of tacos-?” Stretch finally replies, trying to keep up with Cross’s questions. 

“You’re looking for Blue? Blue’s alive?” Cross interrupts. Everything goes off-kilter. Dream speaks as if Blue passed away. Ink always changes the subject. No one touches Blue’s belongings. Dream lingers pass Blue’s room, but no one enters out of respect. Entering his room would disturb it; it wouldn’t be the way Blue left it before he vanished. If they moved things around, then Blue would really be gone.

“He’s not-“ The words get stuck in his throat. He forces the words out, and the words break as he whispers: “If he’s alive, then why isn’t he here?”

Tears block his vision. He refuses to let them fall, but the world blurs together. He can’t make out the pillows against the pillar nor the apples in the stained glass. The dancing colors in the room blend together until they muddy together, becoming unrecognizable.

Unrecognizable like when monsters dust once they pass away. What if Blue is nothing but ash? A heap of grey with no one around. Bile threatens to worm its way up Cross’s throat. His legs collapse beneath him, but someone guides him to the uncomfortable carpet. His expression twists as he holds everything in. Either Blue abandoned them or he died - neither of these thoughts comfort Cross in the slightest.

”My brother’s not dead,” Stretch says.

Cross digs the palm of his hands into his sockets to prevent the tears. He hears the rustle of cloth, but dismisses it.

”Kid,” he hears.

”I’m not a kid,” Cross grumbles. He lowers his hands to intimidate Stretch, but with the deep frown and the tearful eyes, it comes out as intimidating as a miserable, wet cat. The corner of Stretch’s mouth twitches before he nudges a wooden figure against Cross’s arm. Cross hesitantly takes it. He bounces it in his hand, unsure what he’s supposed to do with it. A black robe covers most of the wooden doll, save for its hooved feet and horned head.

”What am I looking at?” Cross asks. Then his fingers graze over the hem of the robe. Cross turns the doll around, tracing along the robe’s edge. Stitched in blue thread is Blue’s name.

Cross studies it before his hands scramble for his inner pockets. He pulls out Blue’s work out regime. His eye lights dart between the two signatures, trying to catch a flaw.

”My brother isn’t dead,” Stretch repeats. Cross lets out a shaky breath as tears drip onto the doll.

”I don’t get it,” Cross says.

”Blue wouldn’t leave without telling me. This is a message for help,” Stretch says.

“It’s a toy,” Cross points out.

”It’s a doll,” Stretch emphasizes. “Error’s got a whole collection.”

”What does that have to do with Blue?”

The flower above them softly echoes the last phrase. Cross’s dried tears have crusted on his cheeks. He resists the urge to itch them. Stretch leans back, tilting his head up towards the lit dome. Irritation prickles Cross as he’s met with Stretch’s profile view.

”Nah, it’s nothing.” Stretch takes the doll from Cross’s hand, but Cross squeezes its legs.

”Don’t lie to me. I’m tired of being left out. What did Error do?” Cross says. 

“It’s a feeling, squirt,” Stretch says. Cross sets his jaw. His grip doesn’t let up. He doesn’t take the verbal bait. After a moment, Stretch finally exhales.

”Error disappeared when Blue did. I doubt that’s a coincidence,” Stretch says. 

Cross’s brows bunch together. 

“Error didn’t disappear.”

”No one’s seen him in years,” Stretch says, huffing out a breathless laugh.

”I’ve seen him.” The room stills.

”He’s in the basement,” Cross continues. Stretch turns to face Cross, but no words come out.

”They’re in the basement,” Cross says with his head down towards the doll in their hands. Stretch studies Cross. He sluggishly squeezes the doll, and Cross lets go of it. But Stretch’s eyes never leave Cross.

Shakily, he asks:

”Can you show me?”

Cross peers his head through the doorway. He’s immediately greeted with an overwhelming pungent smell. Paint of all hues splatters across the walls including the ceiling with a canvas precariously tapped to it. Canvases litter the floor, making it nearly impossible to see the smooth concrete beneath. Finished paintings cover the tan dry walls and the accent wood slat wall opposite of them. Stretch lets out a long, low whistle.

”And Blue complains about my room,” Stretch says to himself.

Cross carefully steps between the paintings on the floor. He makes his way towards the wall across from them. Rendered paintings and drawings of varying sizes align on the wall in a chaotic grid. Cross searches for a specific image among the cluttered wall. He perks up when he spots it: a finger painting he made years ago of him, Dream, and Ink. Stretch observes as Cross tip toes his way to the amateur drawing.

Cross’s hand hovers beneath the drawing. He avoids looking at it, embarrassed by its quality. Instead, he puts his other hand below the one hovering in the air, then repeats the action with his other hand. Four hands down. He carefully squats down until he’s eye level with a small square painting of an ocean shore. His fingertips hold the painting’s edges, adamant about not touching the canvas’s face. He delicately sets it down.

Cross puts his hand on the newly, naked space. He pushes against the wood panel as it resists before it ever-so-slightly sinks in. There’s a soft click to the left of him. A large canvas opens a hair’s breadth. Stretch approaches the large canvas. 

“Impressive,” Stretch compliments as Cross puts the canvas back. “How’d you find this out?”

Cross averts his gaze with purple-tinted cheeks.

”I read it on Ink’s scarf,” Cross mumbles, embarrassed. “And I saw the canvas move one time.”

Stretch moves the canvas towards himself. The large canvas swings open, not touching the ground. The space behind it reveals a hole in the wall, not a doorway. Fear grips at Cross all over again. The last time he went to the basement had been his first. He could not contain the giddy energy as he previously climbed into the hole and descended down the stairs. When he couldn’t see the light of the entrance, doubt sank in. But by then, it was too late. He made it to the bottom. The darkness never scared Cross; what resides in it is a different matter.

”Gonna keep watch?” Stretch asks, snapping Cross out of his stupor. Stretch teeters in the hole, waiting for an answer. Cross shakily stands. He eyes the closed door. He waits for a brief moment before he steps forward. Despite his senses telling him to turn back, he promptly follows Stretch inside the hole. He faces the spiral staircase that lingers in his nightmares. 

For Blue, Cross thinks as they descend downward.

Chapter Text

"Stay behind me, kiddo," Stretch says.

"I'm not a kid," Cross grumbles. Regardless, he stays close behind as they make their way down the dimly lit stairs. The claustrophobic-inducing walls force them to go in a single file line. The further down they go, the dizzier Cross gets. He reaches for the hem of Stretch's hoodie, only to pull his hand back at the last second. He refuses to cling onto Stretch like some scared kid. He braces himself as he continues onward.

The last time he trespassed, it was deadly quiet. The silence pierced by Nightmare's threat. But as Stretch and Cross continue downward, he hears the faint screams from below. 

He could hear-

The unnatural crackle and the ungodly, garbled shrieks. The castle's stone floor barely cushioned his fall as he, moments early, accidentally ran into the skeleton at full speed. The skeleton before him distorted in and out of existence. Hide and seek was long forgotten as Cross couldn't tear his eyes away from the stranger's twisting form. The skeleton before him distorted in and out of existence until it finally became solid. Those nasty yellow teeth twisted into disgust. Those disfigured sockets honed in on the seven year old splayed on the ground. Cross gaped at the stranger's lava-like face: dark, blackened bones with color lit beneath the surface.

As soon as the screeching stopped, Cross found himself hovering in the air. He helplessly kicked his bare feet, unable to touch the ground. 

"What sort of soul is this?" The voice would skip like one of Nightmare's old records. Confused and scared, Cross attempted to untangle his soul tightly wounded by blue strings. The strings refused to be undone as the small soul desperately pulsed. With a flick of the stranger's wrist, Cross hovered higher. The stranger’s yellowed fingertips puppeted the blue strings. He inspected the color of Cross’s soul with a disgusted scowl: he could not tear away from the sight of the bright red spots bleeding into its whiteness without fully mixing.

Cross called out for help.

All warmth left the stone corridor as the darkness swiftly crept in. The strings that coiled around his soul suddenly went slack. Cross tumbled to the floor. Tiny footsteps clattered against the stone. Ignoring the stranger's trembling form, he raced into the darkness. Relief flooded him as he was wrapped in a familiar embrace. 

Up in Nightmare’s arms, no one could touch him. He peeked at the stranger: the stranger clutched his chest on his knees. He cursed at Nightmare. Nightmare looked down, unfazed.

”You’re a guest in my domain,” Nightmare said. “What makes you think you can do whatever you please?”

Cross held onto Nightmare, not really paying attention to the conversation between them. He buried his face into Nightmare’s rough coat: the faint smell of apples comforted him.

”… I wouldn’t be here if your brother wasn’t involved,” the stranger hissed, anger evident. The words ring in his skull. Since when did Nightmare have a brother?

”How’d you end up with Ink and Dream?” The question promptly snaps Cross back to the present. Screams echo up the spiraling staircase, but they come less frequently.

”They saved me,” Cross says.

”Sorry, kid,” Stretch says after a few steps. Then he puts his hand up before Cross could argue: “I meant squirt.”

Cross puffs his cheeks. He opens his mouth, but Stretch beats him to the punch.

”Things are rough out there. Shouldn’t have to experience losing your home.”

“My home is here,” Cross says.

”You know what I mean,” Stretch says. Cross’s brows bunch together. A few more steps then: “It wasn’t easy when Blue and I lost our home.”

Cross stares at the back of Stretch’s head. The question threatens to erupt from his mouth: what happened?

“Sorry,” Cross eventually replies instead. He finds his own response pathetically inadequate. However, Stretch waves it off.

”Dunno why this is a big secret. But they got the right idea. Error's dangerous,” Stretch says, changing the subject.

”I know,” Cross mumbles. They approach the inevitable end of the stairs. 

“A quick, friendly convo, then we leave,” Stretch says, turning to reassure Cross with an uneasy smirk. Stretch strides in. Silence soon follows, save for the soft mumbling from Dust’s cell.

Cross belatedly follows, mimicking Stretch’s pace. Instead of following his casual saunter, Cross’s walk is too awkward and strained; his short legs reach further out than usual.

”Crossy, what are you doing?” Killer asks, amused. Cross turns away from him, making the mistake of looking into Horror’s cell instead. Horror stands eerily still, save for his large, dim pupil that locks onto Stretch.

Cross hurries to Stretch’s right side, away from Dust’s and Horror’s cells. He focuses on the repulsive lingering stench of cigarettes on Stretch’s hoodie.

”Not even a hello?” Killer continues. Cross resists the temptation of reaching for Stretch’s sleeve. Instead, he shoves his idle hands into his pockets.

”Crooooooossssss,” Killer exaggeratedly drawls from behind. 

“TSSP,” Error snaps. It’s more of an abrupt sound than a word. He sits on a couple of pillows stacked on each other. He narrows his asymmetrical sockets as he knits. He lets out a frustrated growl as he misses several hoops. 

“For one day ,” Error bitterly mumbles under his breath. He yanks on the yarn, undoing the row of work he had done. 

”That’s no way to greet an old pal,” Stretch says with a bitter undertone. 

“Neh neh neh neh neh,” Error childishly mimics, his voice clipping every other word. “Go reset yourself.”

Stretch’s lackluster smile suddenly strains.

“It’s not like you have any place to go. Wouldn’t hurt to answer a few questions,” Stretch says with an easy shoulder shrug.

“You’d have better luck talking with a rock,” Killer quips, lazily sitting on his bed.

“When’s the last time you’ve seen Blue?” Stretch presses. Surprise flickers over Error’s usual annoyed demeanor. 

”Before we got locked up,” Horror says unhelpfully from their left.

”Was it in Underfell?” Killer asks from their right.

”Maybe…” 

“You radical brahs lookin’ for Swap?” Fresh chimes in. “This cool, funky neighbrohood homie totes can help out.”

”You can?” Cross asks. In lieu of all the other prisoners, Cross forgets Fresh’s colorful presence. Strange seeing that Fresh wears the most colorful outfit out of the batch of prisoners, but even his outfit has greyed over the years. The hems of his outdated jacket are frayed. Fresh’s bones seem sickly dull.

”’Course, little man,” Fresh casually says. His grin shows off his gold tooth that no longer shines. “Just need ya ta press the button and let me out. Then we can wiggy on out and find ourselves a Swap.”

He moves his shoulder up; the movement trickles down to his elbow then to his hand as he belatedly points at a console next to him.

”No,” Stretch says sharply. He grits his teeth, shoulders tense. His slack posture straightens as his body shakes.

”Nah, brah?” Fresh repeats, tilting his head as his glasses dimly flash “wha?”.

”I don’t want a Swap. I want my bro,” Stretch says sharply.

”Uh, sure broski. Let’s skedaddle and find yer Swap,” Fresh says. Cross frowns, backing away from Fresh’s cell.

”Don’t be like dat. Yer cool brah is willing to help a friend out,” Fresh continues. His smile widens out of desperation.

”We’re not friends,” Cross states.

”Ye-ouch!”

”Why bother asking us?” Error interrupts.

”I know you took him again,” Stretch snaps. Error scoffs before he erupts into a cruel laughter.

“I wish. At least he let me think,” Error says.

”That’s a load of bologna ,” Stretch says. The last word overlaps in an upbeat mechanical voice that sounds nothing like Stretch. He reaches for his own throat, bewildered.

”If I knew Blue was missing, you don’t think I would’ve leveraged that? My sanity is already at its funking limits, why would I want to spend another second with these tubular idiots?” Error retorts. He grits his teeth before he hurls a ball of yarn at the barrier. It bounces back with an unremarkable roll. “HOW IS THAT A REPLACEMENT WORD FOR BOOYAH. CRUNK. UHOH!”

Error’s whole frame shakes with rage as Fresh shrugs. 

“Swearing is totes not rad. Especially around the little brahs. You gotta chillax,” Fresh responds.

”I’ll chillax you!” Error snaps, kicking the items in his room in a temper tantrum.

”Where is he?” Stretch demands, his patience wearing thin.

”Why not bother Ink and Dream?” Error sharply says. Stretch closes his mouth, staying tight lipped. Whenever Cross would ask about Blue, he never got straightforward answers. All eyes are directed at them as they don’t respond. Error chuckles, his voice clipping.

”Oh, that’s funny,” Error says, truly amused for the first time during their visit. “Don’t trust them?”

“Well, let’s go to Muffet’s,” Stretch says to Cross. Cross turns to follow Stretch. He locks eyes with Nightmare. Nightmare doesn’t say anything. If and when you need us… 

Cross heads towards the stairs, watching as Stretch is already a couple steps ahead.

”I’ve been around Blue for a while. I’d recognize his code anywhere,” Error says.

Cross stops in his tracks. He lingers in the threshold between danger and safety. He could take a step forward and leave them behind.

”You can find the Magnificent Blue?” Cross finally speaks, turning to face Error. Error leans in. His yellow pupils, prominent against his bold red sockets, lock in on Cross.

”I can find your Blue,” Error says, revealing his hauntingly yellow teeth. Then he leans back, uninterested. He drops his shoulders, eyes darting toward the top of the barrier. “But not in here.”

Cross grits his teeth. Stretch waits for Cross to turn, for him to follow him up the stairs.

”Come on, squirt,” Stretch urges. Cross grips the railing. Ascending up the stairs would mean starting from scratch. Ink refuses to talk about Blue; Dream grieves for him. If they couldn’t find him, what luck do Cross and Stretch have? If they leave now, they’re left with mere scraps: a doll and a photograph.

Cross aches for The Magnificent Blue’s return. He could solve everything: he could bring the Star Sanses back to its original glory. He could save the multiverse from the brink of collapse. With Blue back, Cross could finally live with a complete family. No missing pieces, no painful memorials, no more grieving. Everything would be as it should.

Error’s smile taunts him. He dangles hope in front of Cross, but it could all be a lie. If Cross lets him free, he would betray the people who rescued him. Worse, he’d unleash the destroyer; the multiverse would face its greatest devastation. 

Cross takes a step up. Stretch exhales through his nasal, relieved. He continues up the stairs, but Cross pauses once more.

“Is it true that you and Blue were friends?” Cross asks.

“Something like that,” Error says. Cross takes a step towards Error.

If he left Error to rot in his cell, then the multiverse would die. If he let Error loose, then the multiverse would be doomed. But if he let Error free, if Error kept his end of the bargain, then The Magnificent Blue would save the multiverse from its destruction. Fear and hope swirls in the pit of Cross’s stomach. The multiverse needs its hero. The people need The Magnificent Blue.

”You’ll find The Magnificent Blue?” Cross asks.

”Kid, no-“ Stretch interjects. Stretch’s sneakers squeak against the pavement as he hops down several steps down the stairs.

“If you let me out,” Error says. 

”You swear?”

”Yes.”

”Swear on your threads,” Cross demands. Error crosses his chest.

”I promise.”

Cross walks towards the panel. Stretch puts a hand on his shoulder.

”Kid, we’ll find a different way.” Cross shrugs his hand off.

Cross yelps as Stretch suddenly throws him over his shoulder.

”Hey-!” Cross kicks his legs. Stretch wraps his other arm around his legs, restraining his movements.

”He won’t keep his promise, kiddo,” Stretch reasons. Error’s cell gets more distant as Stretch carries him away.

Cross refuses to leave empty-handed.

He summons his crossbow out of thin air. It’s as natural as breathing. He moves his arms towards the target and pulls the trigger. The arrow cuts through the air. It pierces the center of the console. Small sparks fly from it. Stretch snaps his head to the side from the sound.

The barrier flickers before it disintegrates. The lights abruptly change red. Alarms wail all around them.

Cross watches in horror as Error remains seated.

Nightmare, however, steps forward.

Cross shot the wrong console.

Chapter Text

In the dim lighting, Nightmare merges with the darkness. His cyan eye disappears from view, grayed by the daunting red light swallowing the room. Cross barely perceives Nightmare’s silhouette as his tendrils ripple outwards.

Both Cross and Stretch gape at the sight. Unlike Stretch, who would have gone white with fear were he not a skeleton, Cross nearly lets the crossbow slip from his hands from sheer mortification.

How could he hit the wrong console? Cross internally berates himself as Nightmare rolls his head. Pop, pop, pop, his bones crack as he rolls his shoulders.

Stretch slides his foot back. He inches back, Cross still draped over his arm. One step, two-

The darkness abruptly latches around Stretch’s waist. He tugs, but it coils around him. Stretch’s teeth chatter as his legs give out. He goes down one knee at a time, his eye lights struggling to stay bright. Cross rolls off of Stretch’s shoulder.

“Kid.” Beads of sweat roll down Stretch’s skull. “Run.”

Cross’s legs refuse to budge. His small hands shake, still gripping his crossbow.

Nightmare’s hellish figure remains as still as a statue. He observes.

Watches as Cross attempts to lift his arms. But to Cross, they weigh a ton. His treacherous arms won’t cooperate. They won’t steady. They won’t aim.

This is Nightmare’s doing. Only Nightmare hasn’t laid a finger on Cross.

Three of his tendrils sharpen, no longer pliant and malleable. Cross’s soul hammers in his chest as his fingers graze over the trigger.

“Squirt,” Stretch wheezes, the panic rising in his voice.

Cross stays rooted to his spot. Fear creeps in, but not because he fears the darkness. No, quite the opposite. The reason his arms won’t budge, the reason he’s frozen in place - it has nothing to do with Nightmare’s powers. The darkness welcomes Cross as it always has; it poses no threat to Cross.

A part of him yearns to drop his crossbow. To run into the darkness to hide away from the mistake he made. To have the darkness envelope him in a comforting embrace. He would be that seven year old that runs into Nightmare’s arms.

That terrifies Cross.

In his hesitance, he slips up once more. Nightmare’s tendrils strike at the three consoles simultaneously. The fizzles are barely heard over the blaring alarms that echo all around them. Cross lamely watches the barriers flicker to nothing. Killer giddily hops in and out of his cell. Horror cautiously reaches his hand out, only stepping forward when nothing happens. In the end, Cross couldn’t raise a weapon against Nightmare. The realization twists inside his gut.

Nightmare walks forward. Cross braces himself, only for Nightmare to walk past him.

”It’s your deal,” Nightmare says before he enters Dust’s cell.

Cross bites his tongue. His shaking arms finally obey as he shoots at the right console.

”About time,” Error grumbles. He kicks his knitting to the side as he strides forward.

Stretch’s taut stance suddenly slackens. He heaves as he inhales the stagnant, stale air. The cold, slimy tendril pats his cheek patronizingly. Surprisingly, it doesn’t leave any residue behind.

”Kid,” Stretch says, voice thick with worry. Cross tugs on his own sleeve. He faces Stretch, not shying away from eye contact. He juts his chin with a false sense of confidence as he continues to play with the hem of his sleeve.

“Blue would’ve,” he whispers.

Crackling laughter interrupts the two.

Error, with a wicked smile, flicks his wrist triumphantly. 

“Huh?” Error remarks when nothing happens. He flicks his wrist again. Nothing changes. Error throws his hands out as if he’s ripping the air open. Yet, nothing comes.

He stomps his foot. His slipper claps against the harsh concrete. 

Error grumbles, voice climbing up in intensity.

”Stupid, funking, tubular, wowza! ” Error shouts, each word censored with the same upbeat, out-of-place voice. Finally, a glitch tears through the space. Instead of glee, Error kicks the closest thing to him: the wall. More outdated slang erupts from Error. The glitch, barely the size of Cross’s hand, dissipates into nothing.

“Get us out of here!” Error demands, pointing at Nightmare. Sparks of violet magic ripples across the concrete floor before they vanish. Dust cannot be seen, not behind Nightmare’s hunched form.

”I can’t,” he calmly replies, not bothering to look over his shoulder. 

“Eat my shorts,” Error barks. Killer snickers, too amused by the response. Nightmare doesn’t dignify Error with a response. He shields Dust from the noise. Or, Cross briefly wonders, is Nightmare shielding everyone from Dust?

Error trudges up the stairs, weaving around the others so no one touches him. Cross hurries after-

“What about me, little man?” Fresh interjects. Instead, Cross chases after Error. Error promised to find The Magnificent Blue. He owes Fresh nothing. He ignores the tinge of guilt as Fresh calls out: “Little man! Brah!” It vanishes when he faintly hears: “Nightmare, I did ya a solid back then.”

The obnoxious wails of the alarm drowns out their voices as Cross hops up the steps.

”Seriously, squirt?” Cross startles as Stretch says it right behind him. Yet Stretch prevents him from falling backwards. Stretch holds onto Cross’s upper arms before they take another step up. Nausea overtakes Cross. His vision spins the same way it usually does when he teleports. Instead of a hole, the bottom part of the wall appears to be kicked outward. 

“I’m not sorry.” Cross steadies himself as the nausea lingers.

“Squirt, we should be on the same page,” Stretch says.

“You want Blue back too, don’t you?” Cross challenges. The fire in Cross’s words is snuffed out when Stretch doesn’t argue back. He pats Cross’s back.

“Your soul’s in the right place, but you have to judge the situation before you act.”

CRACK. They both turn towards the yawning archway. Cross stumbles through, blinking as his eyes adjust to the bright light. A sharp, harsh pop rings throughout Ink’s studio space. Error digs his heel against the canvases on the floor. Another short pop. Error drags his ankle across the broken canvas with a groaning tear. He kicks upward. The canvas, previously hooped around his ankle, crashes into the other paintings on the wall.

“Cool it with the tantrum, pal,” Stretch remarks. Error opts to stomp on the leftover debris. The wood splinters beneath his slippered foot. He kicks another one of Ink’s creations. He wickedly grins as it spirals into the air, colliding with the wall. The paintings tumble onto the floor. They lay stagnant on the floor, unresponsive and bent in unnatural ways. Somehow, it angers Error more. He glitches momentarily before stomping on the remains, his smile long gone.

“Stop that!” Cross yells. He squeezes past Stretch, pulling on Error’s faded blue scarf. Error hobbles on one foot. He twists his body, now looming over Cross.

“D-d-don’t touch me!” Error growls, yanking his scarf back.

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t wasting time instead of finding Blue!” Cross shouts back.

”Neh, neh, neh-“ Error mocks.

“You’re ruining Ink’s hard work-“

“Like this?” Error tauntingly digs his heels into the canvas, smearing the paint.

“Knock it off,” Stretch intervenes, leading Cross behind him. Error laughs at the display.

“As if some anomaly can tell me what to do,” Error sneers.

“I can,” Cross snaps, stepping in front of Stretch again.

“Puh-lease,” Error purposefully laughs to get on Cross’s nerves.

“You owe me. I let you out, so you listen to me,” Cross says.

“Ha! Hahaha! As if-“ Tzzz! Anger fizzles to sheer confusion. Cross takes a few steps back, unable to look away. Error’s form shreds and merges together as if trying to put the pieces back in place. Except for one spot: the leather cord wrapped around his ankle.

“I heckin’ knew it.” The words register, but the dread suspends, not fully yet realized. Not even when Crimson and Epic stand at the doorway. Crimson yanks the leather whip to the side using the force of his whole body. Error’s distortion calms down, but not before he slams against the barren wall. Error peels off the wall, falling onto the floor with the rest of the deceased canvases.

“Deep breaths, buddy,” Stretch placates.

“You let Error out,” Crimson says, repeating Cross’s earlier words.

“No, yes, we- I-“ Cross stammers. The words bubble out, foaming over the metaphorical pot.

“Bruh, what do you mean let him out ?” Epic says, gesturing to the torn wall behind Cross and Stretch. ”Don’t tell me he came from that creepy hole.”

Crimson summons his horned blasters — hovering blood-soaked skulls about half Stretch’s size. Their one-eyed pupils, a mere shape of a distorted star, target Cross and Stretch. Their bottom jaws click, splitting in half similar to an insect’s mandible.

Stretch pulls Cross towards him as the blasters’ plasma shoots out of their unhinged, chipped jaws.

“BRUH!” Epic shouts as the two disappear out of view.

“Come back, you heckin’ traitors! You damn cowards!” Crimson demands.

“What are you doing? ” Epic says. Crimson spots Stretch with Nightmare’s brat in the corner of his eye. He redirects the blasters, demolishing the walls as he follows Stretch’s path.

Teleportation ties point A and point B together for the closest distance; the longer the distance, the more magic it consumes. The more it’s used, the more magic it takes. Stretch carries Cross over his shoulder as he teleports, stops, and teleports. Cross’s magic climbs up his throat, his stomach unable to keep it down. He covers his mouth as he propels between tight knits of impossible space. The constant switch between regular and impossible space equivalent to a rocket ship blasting at full speed then abruptly slamming its brakes.

“Let him blast us,” Cross groans.

Crimson fixates on the moving targets. Then, unexpectedly, the back of his heel collapses into the floor. Or rather, it sinks into a tiny, white hole. Error snaps his portal shut, snapping the heel off. Regardless, Crimson loses his balance, his blasters aimed up at the ceiling instead.

The center of the ceiling collapses with a resounding, defeated crash. Epic coughs, waving the dust out of his vision as he presses against the supporting walls. Error continues to lay against the wall where he had been slammed against.

Error lowers his arm. He stares up at the long stretch of white through the new, crumbling gap in the ceiling. Gold glimmers so infrequently above that it could’ve been mistaken as a trick of the eye. In contrast to the dark basement, the white above is a welcomed sight.

The debris in the center of the room rumbles. Crimson’s blasters push the rubble from the inside out. Crimson, for the most part, remains unscathed. 

But Cross and Stretch do not emerge from the pile of debris.

The hallway is a stranger to cleanliness; Ink’s collection clutters the halls. If not for Dream, the narrow, walkable path would be nonexistent. The items (ranging from oddly-shaped lamps to stout, reptilian armor to a single sock) pile on top of each other, sloping to the cleared floor. 

A sharp gag. Behind Ink’s tetris-stacked assortment of junk, Cross hunches against the wall. His shoulders shakes as he heaves; the acid gnaws the back of his teeth. His stomach squeezes until nothing is left but humiliating emptiness.

Stretch idly pats the center of Cross’s back. He sits on top of the bed that’s currently folded into an extremely-easy-to-draw box. 

“Floor was tacky anyway, kid.”

“Not a,” a momentary pause as Cross forcefully swallows his burp, “kid.”

Stretch offers Cross a drink. Cross languidly grasps the item. His brows furrow as it feels unfamiliar in his hands. He glances at the small, clear container in the shape of a smiling bear.

“Honey?” Cross teeters between disgust and disbelief.

“It’s better without the medicine,” Stretch jokes. Reluctantly, Cross relents. He squeezes the bottle of honey into his mouth. The amber honey comes out slow, but the natural sweetness hits his tongue. Yet the honey isn’t solely sweet; there’s a tinge of nuttiness to it that confuses Cross.

“Not bad, right?” Stretch says. Cross hands the bottle back to Stretch without saying a word. He refuses to admit it doesn’t taste bad on its own. But the honey helps with his stomach pain; monster magic heals the body easily.

The ground rumbles. Souvenirs clatter onto the floor.

Error’s shin slams against the corner of a table. He nearly trips, cussing up a storm, as he staggers towards them from down the hall. His arms swing back and forth.

A crackle of magic.

BOOM! On the far end of the fall, purple magic explodes from the studio. Bones skewer the adjacent walls. Crimson and Epic skid out of the studio into the hallway. Epic, with a rubber chicken in hand, propels back into the fray. Crimson, on the other hand, spots Error in the corner of his eye.

He re-summons his one-eyed blaster.

Error rips open a portal.

“WORK!” Error shrieks in frustration. Crimson’s blaster opens its jaw, the magic powering up to let out a blast. Cross, hidden by the fallen memorabilia, summons his own blaster; it fits neatly into his palm with a tiny pink bow on its head.

His soul hammers inside his chest as it disappears from view. It reappears in front of Crimson’s blaster; a mere mouse by comparison. Yet, just as quickly, it blasts away, straight into the opponent’s eye. The red blaster thrashes, wailing from being momentarily blinded.

Cross’s blaster vanishes. Error leaps over the fallen collection. Crimson fixates on Error. He lunges forward before teleporting behind him-

A wall of orange bones erupt from the ground, creating a barrier between them and Crimson.

“NO!” Crimson shouts, startled by Stretch’s interference. 

Error slices the air with his hand. He screeches as none of the portals are big enough for him to escape. 

Stretch’s bone barrier rattles.

“You, out of everyone, can’t defend him!” Crimson shrieks.

Countless tiny portals litter the space around them. Yet, as Cross leans to the side, they seem whole in another angle.

“Can’t you piece them together?” Cross asks Error.

Error inhales sharply, cheeks puffed out, as he makes a strangling motion towards Cross. He breathes heavily. His pupils, mere dots.

“It’s not a quilt,” Error says through closed teeth. His grin strains against his face.

“He decimated your home!” Crimson shouts, voice raw. Stretch summons another row of bones as the front one cracks.

“Listen to him!” Stretch snaps. With a frustrated wail, Error stitches the tiny portals together. 

“He erased everyone. He left you to rot!” Crimson howls with uncontained wrath. The attacks happen at shorter intervals. Stretch finds himself staring at the trembling wall of bones.

Error frowns when he manages to make a portal half his size on the floor.

“Told you,” Cross taunts-

“He deserves the same!” The bone barrier shatters. Cross covers his head as the magic blast roars above. With a rough tug, he flails backwards. He loses balance, arms circling around. For a brief moment, Crimson swings his whip; it arches in the air. Then it’s out of view. 

Cross falls down into the stitched portal on the floor. Much to his confusion, he finds himself staring up at lifeless, grey sky. He had expected to come crashing down on his feet, not landing straight on his back. Disorientated, he manages to sit upright on the dead grass. He turns. The portal hovers in the air. On the other side, the whip snaps in the air before the blaster’s beam roars. It dies down, revealing the tiled ceiling; Cross dumbly figures out he’s watching from below despite the portal hovering in the air in front of him.

Worn down soles. Cross immediately rolls to the side. A pair of orange sneakers bullets through the portal, soon followed by the rest of the tall, lanky figure. The momentum slides Stretch through until gravity takes over. Friction slows him down, bunching his hoodie together. The wilted grass itches his exposed bones, some stuck between his vertebrae. He languidly sits up, scratching his back to soothe the friction burn.

A blur of dark mass crashes soon after. Stretch folds forward while Error’s sandals push against his back. Error frantically waves his pinched fingers as if he’s tugging a loose thread, unraveling a stitching from its seams. The portal zips itself shut, no longer seen.

The naked limbs of the blackened trees rustle from the soft breeze. The smell of the earth permeates the air. Except for Stretch and Error’s snide remarks towards each other, no other sound disrupts them. No crickets chirping in the distance, no birds singing their soft melodies, no streams that gurgle between rocks as it flows—just the three of them in a hushed space. 

Beyond the sea of trees towers a ghastly castle. Neglect forces it into the early stages of decay, a mere shell of its glory days. The windows frown from the weight of the stone. Vines and moss latch onto the exterior like parasites; they thrive as the castle dulls over time. Roots disrupt the formerly flat pavement, a miniature mountain range of its own. Moths flit and crowd the entrance. The metal’s skin flakes off as Error pulls the door knockers. The castle groans awake from its hollow slumber. 

“What are we doing here?" Cross asks.

“You kept yapping,” Error says.

“What?”

“You distracted me.” Error enters the dim halls. Cross’s cold sweat uncomfortably glues his shirt to his ribs. He bats at it before zipping his short-sleeve jacket up instead. The tips of his fingers graze against the cerulean bandana. 

He enters the shadows of the abandoned castle.

“Where are we?” Stretch asks.

”It’s…” Cross flounders. Shame overwhelms him. He’s positive the castle would feel the same. The wallpaper bubbles against the wall, slumping down as if it were melting. Rats skitter about, unseen, but heard nonetheless. Larvae squirm on the tapestries; little white lines slowly chewing away memories…

No name could properly describe this place. Once, perhaps, but not now. Like a puzzle piece too worn around its edges, it no longer snaps into place; it wiggles in its designated spot, and with its gaps, it ruins the seamless image. An imperfect piece… a shameful memory… So, Cross admits:

“It’s where they found me.”