Chapter Text
Thirty days.
They had managed to turn out something for thirty days, and they’d be damned if they couldn’t find something to finish off the month.
“Aftermath… after… math…” they mumbled to themselves, turning slowly in their swivel chair. Maybe they could turn around the definition, do something funny about something after a math class, or... something? Baldi’s Basics, maybe? Immediately shaking their head, their fingers drummed on the surface of the desk. They’d done this entire thing with the Egos and Sides, and they were going to stick with that.
Besides, that was a stupid idea. Definitely one of the worse of the unused ideas slowly piling up at the bottom of a messy Google doc.
Maybe the definition of the word could spark an idea? It had definitely gotten them started on Day 7’s ‘Transformation’ prompt. Fingers slowly tapping at a banged-up keyboard, the aspiring author clicked on a few websites, finally settling on the usual dictionary.com definition.
“Alright… ‘aftermath,’ noun… something that results or follows from an event, especially one of a disastrous or unfortunate nature; consequence… ’ great?”
So… maybe… the aftermath of each of the stories? Those were all ‘disastrous events,’ they guessed. Maybe they could somehow combine the random bits of the month into some megaverse? I mean, the thought of crossing over the egos and Sides had been brought up by their beloved ‘Random Commenter’ in one of the first chapters, and the thought had been there ever since then...
...but they weren’t sure they could, well… write that. Or, at least, write it well enough to feel satisfied with it. After all, they already struggled to portray individual fandoms correctly, but pushing two completely separate ones together and trying to work out interactions while still staying in character?… Yeah, that would be an epic fail. As for a ‘megaverse’... there were so many different versions of each of the characters at this point, from nice/demented Anti, to various stages of insanity that the other characters had been shoved into. The author hadn’t started out the series with the same universe in mind; each had been its own separate thing, and it would be hard to try and fit everything into one chapter without any previous planning and with the time on the clock slowly ticking down towards the deadline.
And… geez, they still hadn’t even written an ending note, had they? It was going to have to be something good, a way to finish off the month by thanking everyone who had read the messily thrown together crap-bundle of a Goretober that this was. Still surprised it had gotten any kudos, let alone any comments, it would be difficult to put the gratefulness the author felt into words, but the readers definitely deserved whatever crappy ‘thank you’ that they could manage to write out. A big thank you to those who had also done their own prompts, but still took time to give the author’s ones a shot, like StarlightXNightmare and Anxiety_Induced_Romance. A big thank you to those who had commented, brightening the author’s days with keysmashes, screaming, insights, or heartfelt(?) compliments that made the author feel way better about their works than they should've. A big thank you to anyone who left kudos, the silent readers that still offered their support, heck, to those who had even given the works a shot, really.
...Yeah, they weren't sure how they were going to word that. After all, it was important, but they never really had been too good with their words.
Oh, and Subtle_Shennanigans would definitely need to get some sort of special… thing? After all, she had started this whole thing with her own Goretober prompt list, as well as sharing her ideas, being a general ray of sunshine, breaking the author’s heart over and over with her incredibly written works, and…
Groaning, the author tugged at their hair, staring at the still-blank Google doc in front of them. “One thing at a time,” they quietly muttered to themselves. “First things first, you have to write the final chapter. Then you can worry about heartfelt endnotes.”
..or maybe they should just write the endnotes first? They really weren't getting very far with this whole 'writing' thing, anyway… Or maybe they should just quit this whole thing all together and just go rewatch ‘ The Office ’ for the fifth time...
And then a heavy hand fell onto their shoulder, gripping much too tightly to be comfortable.
“October 1st…” a smooth voice suddenly whispered in their ear as the author jerked around in their seat, hands immediately flying up to either attack or protect.
Their arms only made it a few inches away from the keyboard before more limbs grabbed them in iron grips, pinning their wrists to the armrests as more grabbed at their ankles to stop them from kicking out in fear.
“‘Extra Limbs’…” The voice had now multiplied into two... three... eight... all sounding vaguely the same, but with different accents and tones...
...All in that same, all-too-familiar voice...
The author froze, words sticking in their throat even as their mouth moved soundlessly in fear.
Before they could even process what was happening, what they were hearing, the shadows at the edge of the vision they were seeing, and they honestly hadn't had enough caffeine to process all this so late at night, they were roughly pulled from the chair from the many limbs that still held tight grips on them.
“October 2nd…” A noise of a knife being slid from its sheath, and then a slice through the air as a gleaming knife blade found its way to the author’s throat. The now-shaking author was shoved forward into someone else's grip, and then pulled back before the knife could dig too deep, leaving a small, stinging scratch to trickle warm blood down their front.“‘Blood Sport,’ wasn’t it?”
“Fô̷͖͆͘l̷̞̝̮̋l̴̮͈͍̈̆ö̴̟̱́͠͠ẁ̶͕̗̤͝e̶̺̔ͅd̷̤̑ ̶͔͎̫͊̃b̸̯̳̐̍͝ỷ̵̫̣ ̸̙̞̣͑̓Ó̴͓̿͜c̶̞̅̈́t̷̳̊̒̍ŏ̵̡̬̜b̵͙̪͈̄͑̒e̴̝͋r̷͉͜͝ ̴̖̺̓3̸̱̦̀ͅr̸̠̙͋͗̎d̶̤̈́̿,̸͕̅̉”̶̳̭͑,” a gravely, choked voice managed to say. “‘P̶͍̐̚l̷̥̏͠a̶̙̖̔́ỳ̸͍̐i̵̡͝n̵͖̓g̸̰̈́ ̷͉̽w̵̪͙̽i̸̹͖̇̀t̴͕́̓ḧ̷͔́ ̸̮̆Kṋ̴̇̍î̶̢v̵͎̀e̴̡͛̑s̴̹̀̊.̸̬̄’̸̖̥̾̈́ ̶̤͠B̸̹̦͒͒o̷̫̓̊ý̵͙̎,̶̛̭ ̷͍̾͑y̸̼͍͂o̴͌ͅụ̵͒ ̸̨̀̈h̶̪̅͋a̷̤̽͜ḑ̴̐͝ ̵̘͌͘͜f̵͓͓̈́u̸̡̽n̵̲͕͑͆ ̸̳͌ẅ̷̳̦̽ḯ̸͓͊ț̷̈́́h̷̨͐ ̶̫͂t̷̺̏̈́ḧ̵̠́ḁ̴̮̾̌t̷̙͙̿͊ ̸̟͍̀̽ò̵͎̕n̷̲̗͌͂ḙ̸͉̉,̶̢̣̋̃ ̸̩̈́d̵̹͈̍̂i̴͈̚d̴̨͓̉n̵̙͉͆̄’̵̮̓t̷̛͈ ̴̯̉ỷ̷̗o̸̢͕̍u̷̲͎͑̓,̴̟͌̈ ̶̢͐͠K̴͖̈́́?̸̮͈̽̈́ ̸̩̆S̵̟̆̊h̸̫̰͌ǎ̵̖̘m̶͔͔̉͠e̸̝̬͌ ̸̮͐Î̶͈̮ ̸̛͙͗c̷̢̩̓a̴̤͑n̵̡̦̏’̶̢̨͑t̵̛̼͎͗ ̸͕̀s̶̙̈́ȃ̸͓ÿ̶̡̟́̋ ̸͇̦̀t̶h̶͕͈͠͝e̵͍̗̋ ̴̭̭̿s̸̫͆̋a̷͖̞͘m̷̞̘̔ě̷̞͒.̸͈̍͘”̵̞͉̉͝
“And then, October 4th: ‘Horns ,’” a low, rumbling voice said, and a familiar, eyeshadow-darkened face rose up in the other's vision. “Because making me the villain wasn’t good enough; you had to hurt him . You made me hurt him .”
The knife was removed from the author's neck, body being shoved to the side only to be blindsided by a blunt force hitting their stomach. Falling back into the wall, gasping for air, two figures stepped into their line of vision, one holding a bat over one shoulder. “‘Hey, Batter Batter…’” The one holding the bat hissed.
There was another crack as the wooden bat hit the author upside the jaw, sending them stumbling to the floor as stars danced in their vision.
“October 5th,” the other voice said in echo, nudging the figure next to him before taking a step back and letting another take their place.
“Immediately followed by October 6th,” the calm voice said in an almost complete monotone. And then the trembling author was being heaved up, pinned against the wall by an iron-tight grip to the throat. “‘Drowning ,’ the first one you were legitimately proud of writing, yet still nervous about posting because you had once again dove into, pardon my pun, a lesser-known fandom of your target audience.”
Water was still dripping from his hair, icy brown eyes blinking past tears as they stared into the author’s terrified eyes. They were choking now, not only from the grip on their throat, but also from the freezing water now filling their lungs. Trying to push words past the liquid surging up in their throat, the author could only choke out a pitiful slew of unintelligible whimpers as salty water poured from their mouth.
And then they were being tossed into another grip as they choked on the last wave of water, a glowing ‘G’ illuminating the darkened vision of the air-starved storyteller. “Transformation,” the robot said in quiet anger, followed by a scalpel to the stomach. Wiggling it around for a few seconds, he finally tugged the surgical tool back out, wiping the blood-stained tool on the author’s shirt before releasing his grip. He watched with a tight-lipped smile as they fell to the floor with hands clamped tightly over the red stain blossoming on their stomach. “October 7th.”
“You see, K…” a low voice rumbled in the air around them as yet another figure stepped in front of the author curled up on the ground. Blue and red aura flickering in the darkening room, his hands fell to clasp comfortably behind his back. “ You created us this way. Our initial creators came up with our designs, certainly, and even designed their own brand of torture surrounding our existence. And they will pay for that.” His head jerked to the side, neck cracking unpleasantly as and making the others in the room wince at the sound. “But you… ”
The front of their shirt was grabbed in a tight grip, knuckles white as they were slammed back into the wall once again. “You infected us all, Du absolutes Arschloch,” a thick German accent hissed in their ear before releasing their hold, letting the author fall back to the floor with a whimper as they clawed at the pus beginning to ooze from their eyes.
“October 10th, ‘Hanahaki.’”
“October 11th…”
“The twelfth of October…”
The murmured listing of dates and prompts continued as a meaningless background noise as the figures seemed to only multiply in their swimming vision.
“You hurt us all,” a pitifully choked voice continued before breaking off into a coughing fit, the sickly sweet smell of copper and flowers filling the air.
Fingernails dug into their upper arm, biting into soft skin and leaving trailing marks of scratches down the author’s arms. “Again,” a low voice hissed.
“And again,” a louder, more angry voice proclaimed, blood from his figure bleeding onto the author’s clothes as he pulled them against his chest, fingers only digging deeper into already torn skin as they struggled for release. “Let ting the blood stream across your pages all for a stupid story.”
“And again…”
Hardwood floor beneath their shaking hands for only a moment, and then they were yanked up in another rough grip.
“Marring our skin with bruises and blood, taunting our minds with your obsession with making us suffer.”
Aching splotches of purples, blues, and reds trailing across their skin, creating an almost beautiful mix of color both on and spilling from the revealed inner beauty behind scraps of ripped skin.
“And again- ”
“Treating us like insects just to be squished under your thumb-”
Their arms were fighting to be free, breath coming in gasps as they tried in vain to flick away the feather-light feeling of millions of spiders crawling over their body, up their neck, into their mouth that they couldn’t seem to close tight enough-
“15th… 16th…”
Their nose was screaming in pain, a sudden yet forceful nosebleed sending rivers of scarlet liquid down their face, mixing with tears and blood from other wounds, filling their mouth, leaving them choking once again as the world seemed to spin around them...
“October 17th, remember that screwup?” Fingernails, pressing harshly into their neck, sending shocks of pain through their body. “Electrocution,’ asshole.”
“And again… ”
“...I actually have no complaints,” soft lips whispered against their skin, even as more and more figures crowded around. The soft warmth of a tongue toying on their skin, and then teeth were sunk deep into their upper arm. Author’s head thrown back in a silent scream through tear-filled eyes, the other only chuckled as he dug in deeper, pulling away once he had bitten off a decent sized chunk. “October 18th was a good day for me. Kudos to you,” he mumbled, mouth full as he stepped back and let another take his place.
“Again and again, torturing us repeatedly in uncreative ways, going in f̵̭̣̂̊u̴̖̿u̷͎̖̐̏u̴̡̗̚͝ǘ̸̖͙͆u̵̧͇̽̃ing circles all to try and impress the oh so many eyes of your audience-”
The author was shoved backward, tripping over a bleeding body on the floor. A half-mouth opened in a disgusting manner, brains and blood dripping through the mouth and the missing half of her head, ribs piercing the remaining skin of her stomach, revealing so many, too many bones sticking out. “You’ve ripped us apart,” her mouth twisted grotesquely, voice watery and deformed.
“You’ve sewn us back together,” mixed voices said in perfect unison, a disgusting amalgamation of bodies standing over them as they scrambled back against the wall.
“All for some stupid challenge- ”
Their arm was being twisted behind their back, so far, too far, they weren’t even that flexible to begin with please please stop-
“And, what, hurting us wasn’t enough? You just had to inflict eye trauma upon your readers for making them read this thing? This thing that you didn’t even seem to try on.”
A harsh snap, a fiery bolt of pain running through their now bent arm.
“This thing that you lost motivation for-”
Tears pouring down their face as their shaking body finally dropped to the floor in a pitiful heap.
“How f̵̭̣̂̊u̴̖̿u̷͎̖̐̏u̴̡̗̚͝ǘ̸̖͙͆u̵̧͇̽̃ing pathetic can someone be to lose motivation for a voluntary, one-story-a-day challenge? You were the one who decided to make each shitfest five-f̵̭̣̂̊u̴̖̿u̷͎̖̐̏u̴̡̗̚͝ǘ̸̖͙͆u̵̧͇̽̃ing pages or more. Knowing they’re just pretending to care, feeling obligated to read, and then forcing so much on them anyway-”
“And you kept doing it. You kept doing it, day after day, after day… ”
Vomiting blood wasn’t a good sign, was it? But, at this point, as long as the blood wasn’t coming from a new wound in their body, the author’s hazy mind was beginning to consider themselves lucky.
“You’ve hunted us down , experimented with us to your heart’s content.”
Gagging on the coppery liquid forcing its way out of their mouth, they tried to suck in just one breath of air, just one , their head was spinning too much, make it stop make it stop make it stop-
“October 23rd,” There were hands clawing at their heart now, ripping past fabric to leave gashes in skin. “Gorge It Out..”
“October 24th, ‘Amputation.’”
They couldn’t yank away, not from the hands grappling at their limbs, not at the blade that was being pressed hard against their thigh, too hard, s top please stop stop stop they didn’t’ deserve this- not from the fingers forcing something down their throat...
“Dinner is Served… ” a light voice cheerfully giggiled at the same time as another, darker voice whispered, “ ‘Dental’ into their ear. The fingers forcing bloody chunks of things the author didn’t want to know tightened, and their eyes rolled back in pain as they felt and heard a tooth crunch simultaneously.
No, heck no, teeth , not the teeth, they could barely handle the dentist’s sometimes and now they were struggling to breath again, feeling bloody gums and flesh clogging up their throat, forcing rattling breaths to whistle from their mouth.
Their breaths came faster and faster until they weren’t sure if they were taking any air into their lungs at all. They couldn’t move, they couldn’t protest, they couldn’t they couldn’t they couldn’t do anything-
"Oh, but don't worry," a low voice said soothingly, and through tear-blurred eyes, their hazy mind managed to process the almost gentle touch stroking their hair.
"We'll give you what you so desperately wanted..."
Everything quieted for a few split seconds, and quiet murmuring and clacks of fingers on keyboard keys echoed around the room.
"...A story. That’s all this really was for, wasn’t it? To create a story to give that lovely audience of yours that you're so desperate to win the favor of, so desperate to impress, so desperate to hold onto throughout every one of your shitty stories with the false promise that each one will be better than the sloppy chapters of the day..."
"But... this time..."
The keyboard's noises stopped, and a steady voice filled that empty silence. "'The narrative ego stops to explain that the author has already gotten their turn playing god. That their playthings are now merely wishing to force their tormentor to suffer in the same way they were forced to endure their undeserving punishments.'"
“You brought us into existence, tore us from our intended forms to play with us, to break us and fix us as you saw fit…”
“And until we get recompense for all that hurt… until we get that revenge on you for all you’ve done to us, you’re stuck here, honey,” a new voice said with a small giggle.
“You’re stuck here with us . ‘Til Death Do Us Part,’” a lower voice finally finished with a wrong-sounding chuckle.
They couldn't breathe, they couldn't breathe, they couldn't breathe, and the ego holding the author's laptop took a moment to turn away from the text-filled screen in front of him and enjoy the situation of their tormentor finally getting what they deserved. Only one moment, however, for he was a man of his word, and he would uphold his promise. The author bleeding out on the floor would get a story. And if the author's chapter was to be up in time, he would have to make it quick. He hadn't promised it to be well edited, well written, interesting, or even the preferred shortened length. And yes, admittedly, he was being a bit cruel with the length, playing with how much the other truly hated how long some of their chapters were, but...
This was goretober, was it not?
It seemed as though they were providing more than enough of that aspect.
He smiled as he heard another pained sound in front of him, feeling the coppery tang of blood enter his mouth as the blood seeping from his bandaged eyes continued its steady stream down his face.
His fingers fell back to the well-used keyboard, resuming typing with ease as he saw the scene playing out before him in his mind's eye, for once content to let the others help move the story along, and not just take control and micromanage the narrations himself. He watched as more and more figures stepped up to share a bit of their pain with the one who had caused it, stepping aside to only have more and more personas replace them.
Until there was only one more left. One of the many versions of the personas from the other series, the one with glasses. This one looked angry, but his face was blotchy with tear-filled eyes, cardigan nearly falling from his shoulders and the rest of his outfit in similar dispensary. If the ego were to guess, he would say that this one was from one of the non-'insanity' days, as they had begun to call it, but that thought quickly changed as a nearly crazed look entered his eyes, falling down to kneel heavily in front of the broken form in the center of their messy circle of abused characters.
That was the only one he was glad he couldn't physically see. His mind stayed forcefully blank until the scratchy screams had faded, the only sound now being stunned gasps and heavy breaths from the surrounding figures.
He only brought himself to 'look' at what was going on once the Side was finished with his job, panting heavily with exertion, but a crazed, proud look in his eyes as he admired his work. Brushing at his now soiled blue shirt in an effort to get some of the mess off, he stood up, staring down at the now visibly shaking form below him.
He smiled, lips stretching far too wide, showing far too many teeth, and just being far creepier than a smile should have the right to be. His voice was light, but shaking with emotion as he gave the other their little group's parting sentiments.
“We hope you enjoy the ȁ̸̹͇̯̰̩̯̦̦̾͑̿́̈̋͂͘f̸͈̖̺̜̗͋̀͒̏͘͡͞t͎̱̰͕͉̗͖̺̬̆͂̂̽̓ͅḝ̨̬͚͈͔̫͔̙̈̈̓̎͌̄̄̉͢ȓ̟͈̥̜͔̊́̄͑̔͑͠m̵͍̤̤̜͗͌̊̒̽̄̉̀͋͘͟͟ą̞̭͈̺̫͔̩̠͕̎̐̽̿̈́́̋͆͡ţ͇͖̝̬̤̿̐͐͋͑̈͘͢ͅh̢͓͕̼̯̹̻̜͊͒͆̒̀̎͊̊ of your actions, kiddo.”