Chapter Text
The first thing Killer knew was hurt.
Hurt so all-encompassing, so soul-crushing that he couldn't even scream. It burned, oh god did it burn. Twisted and crunched and whistled, whistled and whistled until all he could hear was ringing. The chime of judgment bells, deep and rumbling, gold that rang with a verdict as the king declared upon his dying breath: “You are no longer monster, nor are you human. After what you've done, you are just a killer.”
And then, there was nothing. So much nothing that he couldn't help but ask:
What was the point? What is the point of anything?
It was nothing new, really. He's asked himself that very question multiple times throughout his past and current life.
Somewhere along the line, he had lost the reason to live. All he had was a reason not to die. A sturdy shape, a single colour, a simple name. Now? He didn't even have that. All he had left was a persistent red rash on the inside of his ribcage, rooting into the bones like barnacles, itching and scaling and impossible to scratch out.
- . . .
He'd longed. He couldn't say for certain what he'd longed for. For escape? For nothingness? Maybe for strength. The strength to put things right, just one last time, and yet he…
- . . .
The looming dark had looked upon him, and so, he was judged.
And so, he was judged.
There were multiple benefits to having the Underground all to oneself!
No one to get on his case for slacking on duty, no one to accost him about the dates of the next show, no one to worry about getting home to. Freedom!
It was quiet.
He had so much real estate now, all for free! He could sleep in any house, in any room, in any bed... He could even rename some locations to his taste. Killer Ruins, Dusdin, Wet Socks, Hot Shitty Pit of Shit Die Die DIE and, of course, can't forget Killer Home. Or, err, Killer Estate? Killer New Estate? Killer York?.. Errr... Killerburg! question mark?.. Yeah! Killerburg! That didn't sound too bad.
It was empty.
He could have all the food he wanted, also free of charge! Grillby's burgers, fries, ketchup, or, err, chocolate bars… Cinnamon buns, nicecream, crab apples, steaks, glamburgers… Although those last ones were more glitter than food... Oh!,he was slowly making his way through the most delightfully chalky royal guard rations. There wasn't that much in stock, so his lack of an appetite came in quite handy.
It was lonely.
Wasn't that amazing? He'd achieved what many people could only dream of, all by himself! A land free of suffering: no fear of overcrowding, nor a looming threat of scarsity… Perhaps the key to equality was just a little more bloodshed than the masses approved of.
Everything was perfect for a while. Just him, himself and, of course, he.
- . . .
But then, things started changing.
Killer isn't sure he can narrow down when exactly the oddities started popping up. It was in the little things, at first. A chair standing a way he hadn't left it in. Trash absent where it had been thrown. Extra imprints in the dusty boulevard of Killerburg that he couldn't claim with certainty as his. You know, the little things.
What he does distinctly remember, however, is when it finally clicked.
It was on the outskirts of Snowdin, just about two hundred steps from the bridge. His body was up on extra jibbers, so he decided a little target practice would help get the bug out. He had landed three knives when he felt it: eyes, watching him from the forest, prodding and curious. More and more slashes and gorges were inflicted onto the makeshift target of garbage and ripped fabric — three, five, eight, twelve… And with each minute passed, it became harder and harder to pretend his bones weren't prickling at the forgotten sensation of being watched. Once he narrowed down their position, however, the knife went flying — fast enough to make wood splinter. Their hiding spot was busted. At least, Killer thought it was somebody's hiding spot; but when he went to check for a body, there was none. Not a footprint in sight, either.
There was more weird stuff after that episode. Food supplies started appearing in the long scouted barren Underground, laying where Killer was sure to stumble upon them. Some of his old clothes dissappeared only to be returned mended and clean. And on the topic of cleaning, his bed sheets were also washed. Which was quite unnecessary: detergent had better use being ingested. The marigold smelling foam might not cleanse sins, but it did make nice bubbles. Coming out of his mouth those were quite fun to look at.
At first, he thought that, perhaps, his mind was fracturing more than it already had, making whole chunks of his memory fall into the void of his subconscious. He humored the thought of there being some odd supernatural entity residing in the Underground beside himself, and, funnily, benevolent enough to feed him and do his laundry. He ran a dozen more crazy theories in his mind that could potentially explain the abnormalities, but none felt quite right.
He set up a few bizarre experiments to try and prompt the entity into answering, be it simple notes with silly requests, ouija board ghost talks or the summoning thing with two pencils and a sheet of paper, but none really lead to anything — well, other than amusing Killer for a while. And Stars know he needed it. He was bored out of his mind!
Which brought him to that one day.
He wasn't sure why he humored the weird urge. There was no point in performing for an empty room. There was no point in serving the tables, not like anyone would walk in at any point, he knew. No reason to light the candles to cast the stage in gentle orange glow, but something compelled him to do so regardless. Perhaps it was the romantic in him, suffocating and desperately heeving for a change of atmosphere from gloom to swoon even for a second; perhaps it was foreboding. Nevertheless, Killer found himself on the stage.
He doesn't remember what he'd said, what jokes were cracked. His mouth had been moving, there was noise coming out of it, but no words really registered in his mind.
Until he noticed movement in the audience.
What was mere second ago an empty restaurant hall, barren of any life just like the rest of the Underground, held a single person in its belly.
He had a listener.
"Well-well-well, it looks like someone is late to the performance! What took you so long, hmm? Downed too many of those shiny foods and got stuck in the 'throne room'? You are old enough to know glitter isn't edible, right?"
There was a deep, exasperated sigh.
"Wow, if that is the level of crowd work here, perhaps I shouldn't have bought the ticket after all."
Oh.
Oh, they were real.
"Ah, don't be like that. We can still have a good time on tonight's show. At least I think it's night?.. Hard to tell time here, being underground and all. Speaking of which, you're from around here?"
"Well, uhmm... not quite?.. but I am decently familiar with the layout so as not to get lost."
"The whole place is basically one straight tunnel to the surface. Not a lot of opportunities to take a wrong turn there."
"I suppose. Now that you mention it, why stay here when you could go and purge it too? More LV for the LV addict."
Familiar with his line of work, huh?
"Bah! It's a funny story, really. You see, our dear king Fluffybuns lowkey took the human souls with him, so-o-o... Yeah, it's kinda hard to get past the barrier these days."
"He absorbed the human souls before facing you?"
"He sure did!"
"And you still won?"
"Heh, sure did!"
"Wow. That's kind of impressive."
"Only kinda? Habibi, you're hurting my feelings. Is what I would have said if I had any. Speaking of which, what brings you here tonight? Had a nasty break-up and need to take your mind off of things? Perhaps a harsh day at work? Your boss an asshole? We have all night and I have all ears. Actually, I'm the only ears in here, and I don't even have any; ya know, being a skeleton and all, heh."
That got him a dry chuckle.
"Not sure we're close enough yet for me to share such sensetive details about myself."
"Bah, don't be so shy, honeypie, we're all friends here. C'mon, spill your dirty laundry so I can make fun of it for the crowd."
"Why ask for more laundry when you can't even handle your own?"
Oh, they funny, huh? Cue the sitcom laughter, because he got himself a smartass right there.
"How would you know about my self-care habits, hmm? You the one who's been picking up my shit or what?"
They hummed in confirmation.
"Should I thank you or something? 'Cause I don't remember looking for a babysitter."
They didn't answer, the nature of Killer's statement leaving them little room to come up with a retort. Or maybe they simply didn't care enough to think of one.
"...A-a-a-anyway, coming back to my question — why don't you tell us more about yourself? Since you already know so much about me, it's fair I know more about you — that's how friends are. You agree that we're friends, right, darling?"
"Ew, don't call me that. But alright, I'll humour you," They crossed their arms, "What would you like to know?"
"Lemme think, hmm... Why-y-y not tell us about your daddy issues? That's a very normal thing to ask ten minutes into meeting someone, trust."
"Oh, I trust you, alright," They paused before going into their little speech, "I don't think I really have someone who fits the title of a 'dad'?.."
"How so? He abandoned you or something? No need to be shy, we understand.”
"Well, not quite? I don't have a dad in a sense that my mother created my brother and me all on her own. And I'm not sure if I can call the person who prompted her to do so 'dad', since, well... He played no real part in the process beyond stabbing her."
" 'Stabbing'? Sugarcube, that's a very childish way to describe sex."
"What? Ew, no. I mean he literally stabbed her. Bleeding wound and a scar and... Yeah..." They paused, seemingly lost in thought for a second. Jeez, was it that nargly? After a brief second of silence, they picked up, "She did get revenge by mortally wounding him back and later breaking him down into nutrients so... A partial win on her part, I suppose?"
"Soo, he attacked her, she attacked him back and then... Ate him?"
"That sums it up pretty well, yes."
"Damn. She a praying mantis or something?"
"Why are mantises always accused of cannibalism? They don't hold a monopoly over it,” They grumbled before continuing, ”No, she wasn't a mantis. She was something akin to a nymph? Although she fused herself with a tree after the injury, so?.. I'm not sure, it's complicated.”
"Huh." That gave Killer pause, "You know how all those psychic guys say that what you see in your parents you gonna fish for in a partner? Imagine what kind of bitches you'll be pulling with those role models."
A snicker before they answered:
"By 'psychics' you mean psychologists?" an amused kind of smile could be heard in their tone, "Perhaps there is some truth to it. I've been told that I have weird tastes."
"Weird how, hmm?"
"Well... I'm drawn to people with... Maniacal tendencies and the like." they laughed somewhat awkwardly.
"Oh, I know someone with 'maniacal tendencies' around these parts. Could set you two up if you're looking for a good time, habibi."
"Wouldn't that be nice." amusement bled full force into their tone.
At that, Killer, shuffled his feet to the edge of the stage before promptly hopping off of it. He walked up to the table that his date sat at and outstretched his hand.
"Name's Killer. You?" he smiled invitingly.
They took his hand, allowing themselves to be pulled up from their seat.
"Nightmare. Always great to make new acquaintances."
"Nightmare, huh? Nice meeting you too. Hello and goodbye."
Oh man, he definitely butchered that line! It was such a cool phrase, how could he have forgotten it? Oh well, too little too late. That Nightmare guy would be too dead too fast anyway. Oh, did he forget to mention? There was a knife poking the poor fella.
Nightmare's sockets flew wide open with surprise as the blade, having been stalled for a second by false muscles, fully sheathed itself in between his ribs.
Three, two, one... a-a-a-and...
- . . .
Why was he still standing?
"Hhhah..." Nightmare hoarsed, mild annoyance in the twist of his browbone and displeasure on the curve of his mouth. His hand wrapped around Killer's — which was still clutching the handle of the knife — before slowly tugging the foreign object back out, inch by inch.
What a stupid move. Sure, okay, maybe the initial hit hadn't killed him, but the hemorrhage from all the torn false muscles and cut leylines would surely finish the job, was he that stupid and —
There was no blood.
Why was there no blood?
"Aww, I bought this sweater only two weeks ago..." Nightmare sighed, dissapointed, "Do you have anything to say for yourself, 'Killer'?" for someone who's just been stabbed, he sounded way too casual, more like a tired mom scolding her toddler for stealing a cookie than a victim of attempted first degree murder.
The addressed skeleton could only blink, dumbfound.
"Not quite the outcome you expected, huh? So much killing intent, and yet..." Nightmare lifted the blade closer to his eyes to examine, "It's like putting cheese in front of a mouse with no trap to snap its neck... Perhaps you could adapt your strategy next time?" Nightmare tapped his cheek absentmindedly, the other hand drawing little circles in the air with the knife's point.
Oh, adapt his strategy Killer will.