Chapter Text
His phalanges curled around the sharpened femur, dragging it through the dust-covered snow. Around the corner was Franny's home, quaint and small, just as she liked it. Fran often asked him to visit Waterfall to find her pink items, her ‘pride and joys’ she proclaimed.
Fran was scared to visit Waterfall after hearing about the cliff that nestled at the end of the tunnel. It’s not… Uncommon to hear the plights of families who lost a child or two from the unguarded edge. The only reason he went was because he owed her for helping him slide by high school. At least, that's what he told himself.
Dust cracked the hinges of Fran’s door with the bone before kicking it in, pointedly avoiding the wooden nameplate nailed into the door. He crept in, route memorized. Fran always hid well, most likely her prey instinct as a fragile rabbit monster.
Dust knew he would find her in the tub, a fluffy pink bath mat outside, a cutesy shower curtain with a copy-pasted bow decal, and inside a cream coloured rabbit shivering. It’s Ironic seeing as despite the fact, she was wearing an overbearing pink sweater paired with a white skirt and stockings over her thick fur.
Dust knew he wouldn’t be surprised when the dust coated the tub, clinging to leftover water. He wouldn’t be shocked when his brain fogged over, because he was already at the next house. A tall bear monster who he never remembered the name of… His house wasn’t far from Fran’s, his feet remembered the path. When he reached the door with a potted plant outside, the key was under the mat.
Dust knew that once he was inside the house, it wasn’t long before the bear monster was dead. Dust clogged his joints, and he could taste the grainy magic in the air. He would move on to the next home, and the next home, and the next home.
Then he would finish.
Dust knew oh so well that he would find himself at Grillby’s door, more dust accumulated house by house. His clothes were spared only when he used his blasters to kill those who thought they could skitter and scamper away from the massacre.
The restaurant appeared almost empty, but even with his eyes closed, he could find Grillby hidden behind the counter, the guards, and the now dust of all that was left. It was so long he had stopped remembering. Stopped thinking as he finished off the rest of the underground.
He would kill them, one by one, kill them.
Papyrus, he would kill Papyrus.
He would kill Papyrus.
Papy’s scarfs kilogrammic mass and the hands of his ghost crawling up his back.
He would kill Papyrus.
By that time, he would be so far. Dust would be far, far, far away. The death of those in Waterfall and Hotland was unremarkable and practiced. Each death led him closer to Judgement Hall.
He’d kill the human over and over again. The splatter of seemingly real blood that would glisten over the yellow hall floor. It would just disappear. He would hear the hollow steps of the hall as if time hadn’t passed and they’d been talking forever just to walk, to take one more step. Their footsteps would run on like a metronome, the vibrations in his chest chaining him down. When they would step forward, the only confidant that would stand beside him would be Papyrus, with a side of bile in his throat.
Then it ended, and he would wake up, he would start again, get stabbed again, feel his dust mix with the monsters of the underground.
Kill Papyrus again.
His scarf flowing in the snow.
He would always be back to tell him he was right, “It’s okay, brother, you are doing what you must.” What he must was sinking his bone into another soon-to-be dead body, only this time the human was behind him.
It was early, much more painful.
It made his eyes shoot open in shock.
And so Dust screamed.
“Damn, what’s got your panties in’na twist?”
Dust audibly flinched, his bones creaking in protest. His soul raced, the voice making his magic want to shift and coil. Something was stopping his magic, making his distal phalanges feel cold and loose. His skull felt fuzzy and full of water. He could hear every shift of cloth and footsteps that drew closer and closer, making him stand up ready to fight with or without magic.
“Stop actin’ weird, just take your food…” The voice trailed off, allowing a small hatch to open. “SHIT—Fuck, fuck, Ow, what the hell dude!” The tray slid into the room with a loud scrape that likely left marks on the cheap metal.
Dust's hand had gripped just below the other's wrist, scratching into the bone where his phalanges curled back towards his palms. His distal phalanges, while not sharp, left scrapes along The Player’s skin. The small gate that slid the tray into the enclosure shut with a slam. The Player backed away from the bars separating them, causing him to slam into the bars in chase.
“Shit, holy stars,” The Player slinked down on the wall behind them into a sitting position. “You’re real lucky I can't kill you for that.”
He had already crumpled to the floor, scraping at his skull. His own magic had begun turning against him. Dust’s bones itched; they felt tight, compact, closed. A breath sucked between his teeth, slow and agonizing. There was a sharp tingling that he could feel encase his leylines like a bundle of ants.
“Can you quit that dumb shit and eat, I can’t sit down here all day y’know?” The Player rolls their eyes before standing. “Despite how entertaining it is to see you sit here whimpering, pass the tray back if you aren’t trying to eat.”
It was like The Player's words were fueling the overarching urge to just move his body and release what felt like overgrown marrow trapped in his bones. His body snapped up, grabbing the tray like a rabid beast, he hurled it across the cell and into the bars.
The clumpy chicken soup splattered across the stone and bars with a loud, wet, squelch. A piece of toast left stray crumbs where it had bounced against the cell bars and muddled with the leftovers of a spilled orange juice cup. Most importantly, The Player on the other side was covered in the discarded food.
The Player vanished, leaving him to stumble back onto the floor with his bones clattering with the contact. He didn’t understand why his bones felt like vile tasers, it was nothing like when his LV flared up, nor was it like any other episodes.
Dust strained his hand into his pocket, allowing his phalanges to caress the ratty scarf in his pocket. It was probably the only thing left grounding him from the heinous flow of magic in his leylines. He knew Papyrus was here, he was next to him, utterly berating his foolishness. Yet, he wanted and yearned for Papyrus so bad.
“WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THAT DISGUSTING SCARF? I AM RIGHT HERE, HOW DARE YOU!” He flinched, one hand gripping his skull, the other wrapped tightly around the scarf in his pocket. Dust allowed himself to collapse, heaving without lungs.
“You killed him too, wow, didn't expect that new guy!” The Player interjected. He glared up at The Player, stuffing the scarf further into his pocket. Dust stared up at him, the area that was once muddied with discarded food chunks looked spotless. The image of Target and The Player swayed in his vision. He couldn't let himself be fooled, not by someone who admitted they killed his brother. It wasn't just that, no, they bragged about his murder.
His voice crackled over the voice of Papyrus while still holding a low, eerie tone, “Get the hell out.”
“And why would I do that? I just wanna chat, one dirty brother killer to another…”
“Shut up, get the hell out.”
The… He didn't know anymore—stepped ever so closer to the cell. A safe distance from reach, yet close enough to attempt intimidation. “Or what, Mr. Caged man?”
Without warning, his body launched up again, ready to attack. Dust’s head hurt more than ever, and his vision swam heavy, but his body screamed at him to fight. His slipper pushed into the ground, and his body moved forward on its own. His soul pounded, his vision faded, and a wave of pain ran up his side as his body clattered to the rough cell floor.
“WOW SANS, ARE YOU SO LAZY THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN STAND?”
Dust looked up to see papyrus hovering beside him. His brother was the only thing he could see for a while. His vision was fogged, and his ears were shot, too. Whatever was happening to his body was seriously messing him up, distorting his magic. He’d have to figure it out when it passed. Dust’s mind was far from able to decipher the mess that had been the past couple of minutes.
“GET UP, SANS, YOU HAVE TO KILL THAT NO GOOD HUMAN…”
Papyrus was right, he couldn’t sit here forever, not when there was a threat. “Y’know this would be much easier if you said yes to the boss, right?” The Player—No, Target ranted. “That anklet really isn’t helping you right now. Boss’ would take that dumb thing off if you joined him.” Was this because of the anklet, that stupid magic blocker?
It was pointless to think about it because there was no way he would let himself be used like this, not after what The Player made him do. “You heard me before, get out. I don’t want to join you, or help your boss, I want no part in it.”
“THAT’S RIGHT, BROTHER, YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BE FREE FROM THE PAIN. NOT AFTER KILLING ME OVER AND OVER, IF ANYTHING, THIS IS THE PERFECT PUNISHMENT.”
Target stood up, hell, when had he even sat down? Just when it seemed like he ended the conversation, finally taking Dust’s words to heart, he turned around. “Boss finds you interesting, I don’t get it. But if it helps your choice, take this. It will help with the boredom,” Target tossed a book he’d grabbed from his inventory through the bars of the cell. “Seeya, new guy.”
///
Dust woke up next to a pile of thrown-up magic, a spine filled with unruly pain, and the dreadful wish to be back in the empty Judgment hall. His jacket was scrunched up beside his back, most likely taken off from the now warm, damp air of the cellar.
The distant feeling of a nightmare he could no longer remember caused Dust to flip over, his aching body to reach into the ketchup-stained jacket pocket. Normally, the scarf was in his left pocket, but he couldn't feel it. Maybe he should check the other pocket, or his shorts, maybe even around the dark room. Except, it was nowhere to be found.
His non-existent breath quickened with each passing moment, the scarf nowhere to be found. His anxiety climbed in a way that made Papyrus lurk.
“OH, YOU LAZY IMBECILE. NOT ONLY DID YOU PASS OUT, BUT LOSE MY SCARF! YOU NO GOOD, TERRIBLE, DIRTY BROTHER KILLER.”
He knew he was terrible. Dust had gotten cocky leaving the scarf in a easy place to find. Before, it was safe in his locked room with no access. Now his careless attitude only caused him to lose the item he held dearest. It was stupid, really. It would have been safe if it weren’t for his sentimental idiocracy.
Dust’s non-existent chest felt tight. A rough cough tumbled through his lips as Dust attempted to catch his breath. Stars, was he really reduced to a flimsy baby bones? The collar of his dirtied shirt felt too tight, like he was trapped in it. He had triple-checked each pocket by now, eyes sweeping across the empty cell. Had he lost it, really truly lost the last of his brother?
“YOU DISGUSTING PIG, COULD YOU BE ANY MORE PITIFUL. HOW DARE YOU LOSE MY SCARF? ARE YOU STUPID?”
“Sorry Paps, m’ sorry… You’re right, I’m stupid Paps…”
Dust scraped himself up using the wall, fragile marrow creaking with the LV in his bones. “We can find it, we will find it, Paps.”
The sound of his slipper echoed down the hall. The cell bars were cold when he touched them, grounding, in a sick way. Outside of the bars were more cells on his right. The cells seemed to go on forever. Some of the ones he could see had dust or blood around the bars. While he wasn’t squeamish, the thought of his fate left his magic curling in his non-existent stomach.
“YOU BABY BONES, CAN’T HANDLE A LITTLE DUST?”
“Sorry, Paps,” he said with a shake of his head.
The left side of his cell had stairs that trailed up until it was out of view. It seemed like he was in the second cell from the exit based on the placement. Otherwise, the prison seemed normal, likely in some sort of basement in Nightmare’s residence.
With no sign of the scarf, Dust took a step back from the bars. His feet didn’t stop, though. Dust couldn’t help but pace the room in an attempt to jog his memory on what happened to his scarf. It wasn’t long before he had come to realize that anything after Target left him with the book was at most blurry before he passed out.
He still doesn’t know what happened with his body yesterday. His LV could have flared up, that wasn’t outside of the realm of possibilities… But, Dust had never had symptoms like that. Flair-ups were never that vile and disorienting. Honestly, he could still feel his magic balancing out. It was clear the fatigue was what caused him to pass out, but what happened during the time he passed out and his scarf went missing?
“It seems you’re doing better, huh, new guy?”
Dust startled to a halt, glaring at Target between the bars. Target seemed to be more unstable on his legs, but that didn't matter. Target knows where the scarf is.
“Where is it?”
Target tilted his head, “Huh? Where’s what?”
Does he think Dust is stupid? “You know exactly what I am talking about, don’t play stupid, where is the scarf?”
“Come on, dude, I come to bring you food and you accuse me of something… I’ve been nothing but nice ya’know!” Target holds the tray up as if it explained everything. A mild pout rested on his face.
“No, I know you know. You and I both know that you know,” Dust crept to the bars, hands squeezing them when he reached the cold metal. “You brought up my brother yesterday, right? Don’t lie, I may have been out of my goddamned mind but I remember what you said… The only thing related to that is my scarf. You know I have his scarf, so where the hell did your stupid fucking ‘Boss’ put it.”
Target sighed, he sighed like this was some fucked up game. That scarf was the last of his brother's. If he lost it… He didn’t know what would happen. He doesn’t think he would be able to live without it. Papyrus’s last bits of dust, his intent, his will, just gone. Death would be better than losing his brother, even the ghost of him that follows closely behind would be devastating.
“That quick? I can’t have any fun watching you squirm without it, seriously dude, no fun.” Target pulled out Papys’ scarf.
“Give me back that scarf, I swear to the everlasting stars if you don’t give me that—”
“Ah, ah, ah… I need something from you in trade for this bad boy.” Target set the tray down on the ground before standing up to cross his arms. “Hm.. Maybe I’ll give it back if you join us? Seems fair, right?”
Dust was seething. Fair? He thought taking the last of his brother's life was fair? “You know what Target, screw you, I’m not joining your gang! You think stealing my scarf is going to make me what, run around with you and your psychotic Boss? No, I’m never going to join you—”
“Shut up, you sad sack.” Target’s tone was eerie.
The scarf was held taught in front of him, the flimsy fabric holding onto the seams for dear life as it was manhandled. “Look, you don’t have a choice. This isn’t your situation to play, so don’t try to act all big and bad. Join us, or I rip the scarf.”
Dust didn’t know what to do, he’d rather go back to the resets than join them. But, he would also rather die than let anyone ever graze that scarf. He knew the right choice deep down, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to make it.
“You know what I hate?” Dust pushes out, his blood boiling as the rage seeps in with each word. “People who act exactly like The Player… soulless, heartless, cruel beings,” Target's eye twitches at his words, and that only fuels him to keep going. “You guys take everything, you are the type of people who take, you took my brother, you took my friends, my home, and the whole fucking Underground! And it’s all just to appease your cruel, sadistic tendencies. You people don’t do it for the greater good, and that’s what makes you sick, invalids, too sick to even be human, and so heartless that ‘monster’ is too kind.”
He chokes at the end of his sentence, not trying to pay any mind to the dull magic forming in his eyes, yet the moisture only causes him to weakly scrub at his eyes. “So yeah, I’ll join you, not because I want to, but because you took my will. The moment, and I mean even the glimpse of a way out, and I’m done.”
Dust takes a solid breath before glaring up at Target. He looked desolate, but his soul swirled wildly, the scarf once held taught now loose in his phalanges. The black ichor from his sockets thickened to run down his chin. They both stood for a second, Target’s mouth opening a couple of times as if he were lost.
Then he spoke.
“You don’t know shit, you know nothing about what I do. If you say anything like that again, I'll kill you, I don’t care what Boss says. Take your food, he’ll get you tomorrow.” Target tossed the scarf at the bars like it stung him. Then the tray was slipped through its slot with blue magic, sharp with attitude but careful not to topple anything off the tray.
Dust stood there dumbfounded as Target left, reaching for his scarf his phalanges ran over the tattered fabric. He glanced over it, checking for any changes, though he found none. He tied the scarf tightly around his wrist when he was done looking it over. It felt more secure; if he felt it move, he would know.
“YOU BABY BONES, CRYING LIKE AN IDIOT. IF I COULD, I WOULD SNATCH THAT SCARF FROM YOU FOR WHINING. YOU ARE A BROTHER KILLER TOO. YOU DID THAT ALL BY YOURSELF. TRULY NO BETTER THAN THAT PESKY PLAYER!”
Dust glanced up at Paps for a moment, then at the book across the room. It wouldn't be long until Papyrus was yelling at him. Maybe he deserved it. Dust grabbed the tray of food and took it to the book. He curled up into the corner, picking up the book.
“DON’T IGNORE ME, YOU DISGUSTING DUSTBALL. YOU SHOULD SUFFER. I HOPE THE PLAYER FINDS YOU HERE AND KILLS YOU AGAIN AND AGAIN. I DON’T CARE IF YOU FOUND MY SCARF YOU ARE TERRIBLE—”
The book was titled ‘The Worm Ouroboros’, good thing he wasn’t picky. He pulled the cover open, and the pages crinkled like the book hadn’t been used since the 18th century. Flipping to the first page, he took a bite of the casserole on his tray and began reading.
Just one more night, and he’d be free from his cell.
One more night.