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Nightmare has never taken surprises very well, mostly because unexpected moments have the disobliging habit of ending in death. Never his own, of course, but shattered souls aren’t useful for the dark guardian. Fortunately, he lived long enough to have a sizeable catalog of potential scenarios stacked in the back of his mind, which means nothing can catch him off-guard and ruin his plans.
Unfortunately, the greatest risk variables in every carefully crafted plan are always other individuals.
And said ‘risk variables’ are why he’s currently standing frozen on the doorstep, staring in disbelief at his subordinates while appendages are holding the heavy double-winged door open.
Nothing seemed amiss on first glance, just two monsters lounging on the oversized sofa. A comfortable silence hangs over the common room. The TV is switched off, no music plays, nothing moves. It’s their usual wake-up routine after a too hearty breakfast.
One tiny little detail, however, is wrong. Killer leans against Horror, his skull resting on the bigger skeleton’s shoulder.
For the first time since Nightmare saved(?), kidnapped(?), adopted(?), subdued them, he senses something akin to affection.
His initial impulse is to scold them for corrupting his castle with this nasty display of fondness, but every word gets stuck in his throat when Horror makes eye contact. Instead of reacting with guilt, fear, or shame — like any sane being would when looking at the appalled gaze of the terror of the multiverse — he smiles triumphantly. The large monster brings his index finger to his teeth, then points at the figure next to him.
Despite already knowing what he’ll find there, Nightmare’s attention shifts from the grinning face to the one leaning against Horror. Killer’s features are relaxed, and he shows no sign of noticing his leader’s presence. He is… asleep.
Peaceful sleep has become a luxury since Dust was forcefully convinced to join them one month ago. This maniac and Killer keep getting into violent fights for no apparent reason, and the only thing that stops them from outright killing each other is their respect for Nightmare. Well, and Horror’s uncanny talent to pacify them.
Frowning, but without a word, he retreats, going as far as closing the doors silently instead of letting the massive wings fall close.
Tentacles flick and brush against the walls to release irritation while he marches through the cold hallway. His predictable world is bound to change, and none other than he himself invited this change. Did he, the god of negativity, create a breeding ground for positive emotions?! The thought leaves an acidic taste in his throat.
Back in his study, he sinks in his leather office chair and searches his soul for any lingering revulsion or anger, only to find nothing. From a logical perspective, he doesn’t need to worry. Killer is a bad influence on Horror, showing him the fun in cruelty instead of deeming it a necessity to survive. And Horror takes care of Killer, who lacks any sense of self-preservation.
He relaxes into his chair. What little positivity they showed won’t affect their ability to hurt others.
A tentacle extends towards the bookshelf, grabbing a thick folder at the far right and handing it to its master. But instead of resuming his work, he stares at the blank cover, pondering why he doesn’t force the scheduled mission onto them.
Killer is sleeping. Since when has this become a valid reason? Nightmare can’t possibly let him sleep out of concern for his wellbeing? Shaking his head to get rid of the ridiculous notion, he puts the folder on the blackwood desk, takes a fountain pen out of the pencil holder, and surrenders himself to the predictable world of notes and plans.
He doesn’t come far until a knock disturbs his concentration.
Judging by the emotional void on the other side, it’s Killer. His nap didn’t last long, then.
“Come in,” Nightmare says without looking up from the handwritten notes. The door swings open.
“You’re supposed to ask, ‘Who’s there?’”
Nightmare doesn’t grace the tease with an answer. The question slipped once, and he regrets it to this day.
Four steps, then nothing. The sudden silence urges the guardian to look at his most loyal subordinate. But he keeps his attention on the page as he finishes the last annotation, letting the stillness become heavier with each passing second.
Not even a minute ticks by before Killer folds under the leaden silence. “Horror said ya needed us for something?”
“I do not need you for anything.”
“Heh, my bad. Do you want something from us, boss?” he reiterates, his voice now a saccharine drawl.
The pen in Nightmare’s grasp stills at the even worse phrasing, and he finally looks up to meet Killer’s gaze with his own calculating one. The sly smirk on the other’s face displays the malicious satisfaction he always gets when he managed to rile someone up.
Nightmare puts the pen aside. Well, two can play this game.
“Bold of you to ask about my wants.” A sneer tugs at the corner of his mouth. “The last person who dared to ask ended up kneeling in front of me, begging for the sweet relief of death.”
The smirk only widens at the threat. “Glad I asked.”
A tentacle snatches the daring skeleton’s wrist, pulling him forward until bones bump against the blackwood desk. The collision would be a lot more violent if it weren’t for Killer’s excellent reflexes that let him catch the impact.
A second appendage wraps around the exposed soul while none of them breaks eye contact. However, the impending danger doesn’t earn the flinch he expected. Nightmare gets nothing, not even a twitch of this plastic smile of his counterpart. It’s infuriating how little the reckless monster cares about his own life… It’s even more infuriating how comforting it feels to see his Right Hand at ease in his presence.
Suddenly, the prospect of hurting him doesn’t sound too appealing anymore.
“Get Horror and meet me in the throne room,” he orders, letting go of his soul and wrist. But Killer neither moves nor does he come up with another petty remark. He almost seems hesitant, which isn’t something his emotionless subordinate is known for. Nightmare raises a brow-bone. “Is there something else?”
Killer shrugs. “Just feeling kinda selfish today. It’s not fair to give him attention for the cardinal sin I committed.”
“Oh?” So, he is aware of the mishap and expects punishment. A chuckle threatens to escape, but Nightmare swallows it in the last second. “How noble of you to take the blame. I do not take your nap amiss. You needed restful sleep.”
The masklike smile on the other’s face does twitch now, for the briefest of moments. “What happened to ‘Weakness will not be tolerated in this castle’?”
His tentacles swish around Nightmare’s frame in irritation. “Do not test me, Killer,” he says, gaze hardening. “I am pleased with your work, and therefore, will tolerate whatever this was.”
That seems to pique Killer’s interest. “Tolerate, huh?”
“As long as it does not get in the way,” Nightmare adds, hoping to eliminate whatever stray notion is forming in the other’s mind.
Killer tilts his skull. “… In what way?”
If all the former interactions have prepared him for anything, it is how to stop an eye roll from escaping. “In my way, of course. The way which seeks to extinguish all positivity inherent in the multiverse.”
The smile he gets cuts deeper than the sharpest knife, as if Killer actually likes what his leader said, almost as if he’s on board with this goal. “Got it, boss.” He turns to leave. “But just to let ya know, whatever this was, it has room for more than two monsters.”
Although nonchalantly spoken, the statement lets Nightmare’s tentacles freeze.
For the second time this day, Nightmare finds himself at a loss. Killer couldn’t have possibly suggested his participation in whatever they were up to on the sofa? Before he can come up with an answer, the door clicks shut, leaving him alone in his bewilderment.
But speaking of more than two, he almost forgot about Dust. He should have finished his job by now. Gathering supplies shouldn’t take long, considering Horror already showed him how they do it.
Relieved about the distraction, he opens a portal to the universe he sent him to. But when he steps through, instead of the mixed bag of emotions he expected to be greeted with, the town sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.
The next thing he notices is the insufferable heat.
And the unnatural light.
Orange flames illuminate the small backstreet he chose for his entranceway. The smell of smoke and adrenaline lingers thickly in the air like a weighted blanket. Alarmed by the unexpected commotion, he hurries through of the narrow way, only to discover the mayhem going on in the main street.
People and monsters rush in every direction, senseless with panic. Children are crying for their parents, dogs are barking, cars are honking, glass is breaking. An orchestra of destruction, of which he is the only one enjoying. Houses that sheltered so many are now deathly squares of fire, taking everything alive and sacred inside and casting it as gray confetti and black smoke into the sky.
But this beauty comes with an unpleasant aftertaste.
Dust disregarded his orders again. What makes it even worse is that’s the third time he got surprised today.
His eyelight wanders along the street in search of his disobedient lackey but can’t sense him between all the panic and desperation. Tentacles coil behind his back. What now? Should he wait until Dust comes crawling out of whatever hole he found, or should he search for him? A human jumps out of an open window, their feet crack audibly upon hitting solid asphalt. All the fading emotions of shattering souls don’t help him contemplate his options.
Right now, Dust might be a liability, but once he’s stable, his strength will serve him well. Losing him to a mindless killing frenzy doesn’t sit well with the guardian.
Two appendages crash into the hood of a car honking at him, wanting him to get off the street. Once he makes eye contact with the passengers, dread pales their faces. As he watches them dash out of the vehicle, a solution arises. He’ll let Dust’s teammates deal with this mess. They seemed to enjoy the warmth of each other’s presence, so they won’t mind a little extra heat while searching for Dust.
And eventually, he can spend the rest of this messy day in peace.
It’s almost dinnertime when Nightmare emerges from the depths of his sanctuary, the library. Reorganizing a bookshelf took longer than expected, but the monotone task put his mind off this unpleasantly eventful day.
Much to his displeasure, he quickly discovers it’s not over yet. Instead of sensing his subordinates in the kitchen, where they’re supposed to be, he locates them in Dust’s room, which doesn’t bode well for the upcoming night.
Aside from their exhaustion, he paid little attention when they brought Dust back. Nightmare figured Dust can explain himself after he recovered enough to stand, and as for the remaining two, they did their job. That’s where his concern ends. He’s not here to babysit them between missions.
The guardian makes his way to Dust’s room, ignoring the obvious contradiction of his current thoughts and action. He’s concerned about his castle, not about its inhabitants.
The room is dark when he steps inside. Only the bathroom’s light shines through the ajar door. His impassive face scrunches up in unease as he approaches the ensuite bathroom. What are they all doing in there? They all have their own restrooms, no need to share Dust’s.
“… even a supply run’s too much to handle?” Killer’s muffled voice unleashes a violent shuffling that sounds like limbs flailing in water. Nightmare’s hand stills right above the doorknob, unsure whether he actually wants to see what’s behind.
“Shut up, lapdog! I’m not a soulless marionette that does everything it’s been told.” More splashing, like water rushing down an object or body. If Dust is lively enough to insult Killer, he can’t be too badly off. “Stop it, I can do that on my own!” Nightmare senses Horror’s glee before he hears his baritone chuckle.
“Soulless?” Killer inquires, more amused than offended. “You’re seeing ghosts but can’t see a soul when it floats right in front of ya?”
“Tch… I don’t care what happened to you, but this maimed thing doesn’t count as a soul.”
Killer’s snickering blends with Horror’s disapproving growl. “Welp, your past isn’t my past, and your soulution to RESETs wasn’t my soulution.”
“Yeah,” Dust grumbles, “that’s why Papyrus can’t stand you.”
“He’s here?” Horror joins the conversation. “Right now?”
The question lingers in the sudden silence. The newest addition to the group has grown reluctant to speak about his dead brother ‘haunting’ him. After a few tests, Nightmare deemed it a hallucination, most likely to cope with murdering his sibling. A predicament the dark guardian can’t relate to at all.
“Not right now.”
Someone starts tapping his knuckles on the porcelain bathtub. “So…” Killer muses, “He forces ya to disobey, but bails when you’re about to face punishment?” The tapping stops. “Now, that’s soulless.”
Oh, that’s interesting. Nightmare didn’t know the imaginary brother is involved in Dust’s occasional noncompliance.
“Save your commentary for someone who wants to hear it. What does a dirty brother killer even know about Papyrus?”
Bones clack softly against the tile floor. “A lot, actually.” Killer’s voice gains a sinister edge. “I know the sound his soul makes when it shatters better than everyone else, heard it enough times to get bored. You heard it, too, don’t ya? You look like someone who killed his brother.”
A big splash and scuffling follow his taunt. “Will you ever stop talking?! I don’t need magic to kill you!”
For Reaper’s sake, what are they doing in there?! Curiosity gets the better of the eavesdropping guardian, and he finally opens the door.
Killer’s feet dangle over the bathtub, while his upper body is forcefully held underwater by Dust. Dirty clothes and Killer’s jacket lie a few steps away on the floor, soaking up the growing wetness as the puddle around the bathtub expands.
Dust sits upright in the bathtub, completely bareboned. Ash and soot turned the water sloshing inside the tub into a milky gray. The murderous expression on his face as he tries his best to keep Killer submerged only adds to the unintentional hilarity.
Horror’s position on the top end of the tub isn’t any less puzzling. He’s holding a sponge like he’s been trying to clean Dust’s back. The uninvolved monster seems entertained by their harmless brawl, since drowning should be impossible for a skeleton.
Some soaps are scattered on the floor, together with various towels that fell victim to a desperate effort to keep the onyx floor tiles dry.
Nightmare’s mandible twitches. This is an absolute masterpiece of a disaster.
As soon as Dust notices their leader’s presence, he lets go of Killer. He slides deeper into the bathtub to cover his bare ribcage as his ‘victim’ resurfaces. Stains from black tears are smeared all over Killer’s cheeks when he turns his skull to look at him. Unbothered, he puts up a single hand in a sloppy wave.
“Heya, boss,” he greets, standing up and stepping away from Dust, his wet footsteps highlight the huge puddle surrounding the bathtub. “Just having a little chat with the newbie.”
So, that’s how their concept of conversation looks like? No wonder it always ends in violence.
Why even bother to get agitated at this point? He had no expectations prior to checking in on them, so he really can’t complain about the scenery.
“I can see that,” he replies lightly after a pregnant pause.
Three pairs of eye sockets gaze at him, expecting some sort of outburst. But all they get is a doubtful look. A tentacle winds itself around a stray bar of soap, then puts it back on the edge of the bathtub.
“Dust. I expect a detailed report of what went wrong as soon as you finished cleaning.”
“Yeah, sure,” a beat of silence, “boss.”
“Heh, good boy,” Killer teases, and gets rewarded with a water splash. Considering his depleted magic, this is probably his only way to hit the nuisance.
“For the rest of you,” he looks at Horror, then at Killer, “I do not care who is at fault for this chaos. You will clean this mess before anyone is having dinner tonight.”
Nightmare gets a glimpse of their sobering faces before he leaves the room. A quiet chuckle escapes his throat. ‘Random’ doesn’t begin to describe the days, months, and years ahead of him. But he’ll find a way to deal with every unexpected moment lingering just around the corner.
Perhaps souls who can’t stand surprises simply need to get surprised more often.