Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Being sheriff was a dangerous gig.

Sure, it started off simple; escapism with a side of roleplay. Yeah, okay.

But the town grew, and soon, so did the amount of bandits. Robbers, muggers, general nuisances, everything. And soon, North Star had a whole town to take care of. He couldn’t just take the label of “Sheriff” and not live up to it, roleplay or not. That meant teaching himself how to point and shoot his pistol--it meant that eventually, he’d have to pull the trigger on fur and scales instead of cotton-stuffed dummies. It also meant that one day, he’d probably find himself on the receiving end of a bullet. It wasn’t exactly something he looked forward to, but it came with the job description. Something that didn’t quite come with the job description was his posse.

His rag-tag group was formed mostly by accident. He had just recently proclaimed his role as Sheriff when he started running into each of the members individually. 

Despite what many would believe, Ace was the first. North Star ran into him at the Saloon about a week after he first pinned the golden badge to his poncho, and the monster’s gusto for gambling was admirable, as was his distaste for cheaters.

Was gambling admirable? Eh, not really. But North Star could see a good head on the monster’s shoulders, though his face was partially shadowed (was it by his giant hat or was it always like that?) and only one eye shone through the veil of darkness. (Did he only have one or was the other one just hidden?) 

Either way, the newly-appointed sheriff kept his eyes on the playing table, just in case. He was sitting at his own table, a mug of root beer in his hands. (He was old enough to purchase adult soda now, but he had to keep his head clear. Just in case.) 

The shadowed monster was playing against a monster covered with scales with a mouth akin to that of a crocodile’s, and a group of varied characters surrounded the table, but judging by how they were goading the smaller one, they probably followed the guy with the scales.

Most monsters weren’t bad about losing but you never knew with the Wild East. This became especially true when the reptilian monster’s hand lost to the top-hatted one’s. The reptilian slammed his hands down on the table, the sound reverberating through the saloon like a gunshot. (Gambler rage was normal though, so no one really cared. North Star did, because now it’s his job to.)

“Yer a cheatin’ brat!” The reptilian one just about roared . The group standing behind him all tensed up, hands going to their hips. “Where’re you gettin’ yer cards from? ‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t from the deck.” 

North Star’s shoulders hunched, the tense air surrounding the table pushing him to his feet, leaving his root beer ignored. Does he engage now? No weapons have been drawn yet, but-

“Could ya calm down?” sighed the top hatted monster with a shadow cast over his face (whom North Star referred to in his head as “Shadowman”). Shadowman didn’t look phased in the slightest, just shuffled his cards. “If ye know me, then you’d know that I hate cheaters. I hate ‘em more than anythin’.” His eye made contact with the crocodilian, his gaze sharp and his voice even sharper, Shadowman fully turned to face the group. “Don’t you ever go around sayin’ I’m a chiseler again. I may not be off the first water, but I sure as hell ain’t no varment.”

Even though the saloon was rambunctious as ever, it felt as if the world went silent. North Star’s breath caught in his lungs. 

Does he go in now? Is this when the sheriff should walk up and calm people down? His brows furrowed in thought, but indecision kept him from leaving where he stood.

Shadowman seemed ignorant of his plight (or maybe he just can’t read minds) as he slipped his cards into a pocket on the inside of his jacket. He tipped his top hat at the stunned group, and while he couldn’t see his face, he looked smug. Then, he spun around and made a beeline to North Star’s table. The star monster barely even registered what happened, and by the time he did, Shadowman had already sat down in the other vacant chair.

Yeah, okay, sure. This is happening now.

“..Uh, howdy?” North Star forced himself to sit back down, though he wasn’t as good at forcing a smile, making it come out wobbly and unsure. “That sure was some fancy-schmancy card playin’.” In the corner of his eye, the group from before started to make their ways to the door of the saloon. Good riddance. “I wouldda set ‘em straight, but it seems ya had it covered.”

Shadowman huffed, his version of a laugh. “Don’t bother yerself with rabble like that, sheriff. I know ma way ‘round the poker table.”

“‘Course.” North Star nodded his head. Awkward silence fell onto the table after that. Shadowman’s gaze fell on the band that was playing on the other end of the bar. Star tried to wrack his head for something to say, only for a question to pop up. Maybe asking this would only be asking for trouble but.. well, curiosity killed the froggit. “Ah, so…” Shadowman’s eye shifted towards the sheriff, worsening his nerves. “Ahem. So, what you said at that table, ‘bout hatin’ cheaters… that the truth?”

The response was instantaneous. “As right as rain, sheriff.”

“Just call me North Star, part’ner,” He laughed. Though, another question started to eat away at him. “Weird question Shadowman—“ the other monster coughed into his fist—“how well can ya fight? Just in general.”

Shadowman’s invisible brow twitched, but he brought his deck back out from his coat without question. An ace of spades was grabbed without looking, and he aimed the card towards his target, magic swirling around it. North Star cautiously turned his head towards the entrance of the saloon. Who-?

He’s aiming for the reptilian he argued with. Shit.

The sheriff didn’t get a chance to talk Shadowman down before the card went soaring through the air at top speed, dodging the irrelevant heads and glasses in its way as it smacked the scaly monster right in the back of the head, sending him stumbling. 

The card gently swayed as it fell to the ground. 

Instead of freezing like he had earlier, the crocodilian spun around at the speed of a revolving chamber, his face the most scandalized the sheriff had ever seen. His sharp glare pierced the surrounding monsters, giving saloon patrons shivers and nervous sweats. 

North Star could feel the murderous intent as eyes landed on his table. He and Shadowman were resolutely staring at the band as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Thankfully, any shivers he felt were hidden by his large poncho. The moment the stare left their table, the flung ace of spades rematerialized at the top of Shadowman’s deck, which he quickly returned to its place in his coat.

North Star soon realized that his shivers were not from fear but from the giggles that threatened to tear out of his throat. His eyes drifted to Shadowman, who met his gaze with his one eye unshrouded in darkness, and he had to stick the edge of his glove between his teeth just to stop his laughter from coming up. Tears threatened to poke out from under his glasses, and eventually he just gave up and placed his head on top of his crossed arms. 

Soon, the sore loser and his gang left the bar, and the moment they did, wild laughter erupted from North Star’s table. The sheriff was just about kicking his feet like a maniac, holding his stomach with his arms in a futile attempt to stop the full-body shakes, his head leaning back towards the ceiling as he laughed. Shadowman wasn’t fairing much better, uselessly covering his mouth with his hands to try muffle the sound the best he could. They could both feel eyes stare from their seats, but neither of them found it in themselves to care.

As all things do, the laughter eventually died down, leaving them both to wipe away tears. “Ah-ahah-that’s—“ Starlo coughed into his sleeve—“Oh, angels, that was hilarious! That’s some aim ya got there!”

Shadowman snorted, “That answer yer question, sheriff?”

“I ‘spose it does!” Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, North Star centered himself, and leaned forward on the table. “‘Ey. What d’ya think about a, well, collaboration?”

Shadowman’s raised brow had him explaining further. “Yer good with handlin’ verment, and ya got a good head on yer shoulders. You’re moral enough, and don’t go off shootin’ fer no reason. If ya don’t got a place to stay, you could lounge at mine.” North Star reached his hand out towards the middle of the table. “So?”

Shadowman raised his hand and comically stroked his chin with loud “Hmms” and “Hrrmms”, but he took North Star’s hand with an invisible grin. “Name’s Ace, n’ I’m lookin’ forward to workin’ with ya!” His grip on the other’s hand suddenly became firm, pausing the handshake. “Just. Don’t call me “Shadowman” again, ‘kay?”

Starlo’s grin couldn’t get wider.

Moray came as more of a surprise. North Star was doing his patrols as usual, making his way around the mines, when he heard it.

The almighty sheriff stopped in his tracks. He whipped his head around quickly, giving himself borderline whiplash. Nothing out of the ordinary stuck out to him from where he was standing. 

What the hell was that? 

North Star stood still for a minute, letting the sounds of the world wash over him. From where he was, he could vaguely make out the sounds of the miners working from inside the cavern, the sounds of their picks breaking away stone an unmistakable noise. The desert winds swiftly blew by his head--forcing North Star to keep a hand on his hat--and alongside the winds was its sharp, piercing whistle. 

But none of these sounds were the one he heard, so what was it? Was he hearing things?

Shrugging, North Star spun on his heel and began to march back towards the town. Clearly, there was nothing here that needed his attention, so he might as well just head home. Would Ace kill him if he said they were having corn for dinner again-?

THERE IT WAS AGAIN!

The star-headed monster’s trek came to an abrupt halt, his body unconsciously forming a fighting stance, his legs spread apart and his hand resting on his revolver. The silence was making North Star antsy. He opened his mouth to, well, do something, when the sound happened again.

Was that sniffling?

“‘Ey, who’s there? Come out n’ show yerself.”

He heard a distinct “ hic ” come from somewhere behind him, though it sounded more like a surprised choke on tears. North Star was not equipped to handle things like this, but could he call himself a sheriff if he didn’t try? “M’ not gunna hurt ya, alright? Just--” he bit into his cheek-- “Are ya hurt?”

He didn’t get a response, not that he was actually expecting one. His fighting stance has long since dropped, as well as his shoulders and grip on his revolver. A sigh slid its way out of his mouth. “Listen, kid, I-”

“M’ not a kid,” a congested, watery voice spat out somewhere on his right. North Star heard a rough SNIFF . “I’m- cough -m’ fine. Jus’... ugh, it’s stupid.”

“Can’t be that stupid if yer cryin’ ‘bout it,” North Star reasoned, tracking down the voice. An out-of-place ball of blue caught his eye on his right, shaking in some alcove surrounded by rocks and pebbles. Cautiously, slowly, he continued forward. “C’mon, partner, I ain’t gon’ tell no one, kay? What’s goin’ on? You aren’t hurt, are ya?”

The ball of blue--which turned out to be hair--glared at him half-heartedly, stopping him in his tracks. Instead of proceeding, North Star just sat down, leaning his elbow on his propped up knee. Looking at them now, they certainly looked young, barr the peeling band-aids and red scratches on their arms. The sheriff frowned and cocked his head.

..Those weren’t self-inflicted, right?

As if reading his mind, the crying monster shook their head. “T-these r’ from the rocks. My, uh, parents run the mines, m-more er’ less.” They still weren’t looking up. “They want me ta- to work in the mines like them. But…”

Silence stretched, sniffling and small coughs sounding painfully loud in the relatively quiet space. North Star decided to take initiative. “...But what?”

“I just-” The blue monster finally began to uncurl themselves, which revealed torn and sweaty mining attire and two blue fins by the blue head of hair, as well as messy bangs that covered their eyes and two sharp fangs that poked from their lips. They looked like they had been crying for a while, poor guy. “I just can’t do it. M’ not good at handling the picks, n’ I keep gettin’ hit with rocks n’ dirt n’ angels , I hate it.” They unfurled a bit more, letting their legs tangle in front of them as they leaned back. “I’m nuttin’ more than a coffee boiler, and it’s just so frustrating !” More tears began to fall, but instead of being ones of sadness, they were ones of frustration. “I wanna be able to help! I WANNA be able to do something! But- but I just can’t figure out these damn rocks. It doesn’t matter how ya hit ‘em, they’re always gunna try fall right on yer head, gettin’ ya covered in junk.” Blue fingers began to run through blue hair, combing it for dirt. Their next words came out mumbled and quiet, “I wanna help people. But iunno how.”

North Star blinked, suddenly looking at the aquatic monster in a new light. “..Say, what’s yer name, partner?”

“Um, Moray…”

“I’m North Star, n’ I’m the new sheriff ‘round these parts,” He gently raised a gloved hand for the other to shake. “I’ve been lookin’ fer some allies to help me out. I already got a pal doin’ rounds out by the saloon. Name’s Ace, n’ he-”

“Woah, wait, you know Ace?” Moray’s eyes sparkled from under their fringe, their body jumping forward in unusual interest. At North Star’s weary nod, the blue monster grinned. “Ah, yeh, I know Ace! That guy’s a real hoot! Ion’ go to the saloon much cause, uh, wellimseventeen, but when my parents bring me, he’s always in the back somewhere playin’ cards. I’ve seen him win more times than I’ve struck gold out here. Oh! One time, I snuck into the saloon to get some burgers, and this one guy started, like, sizin’ me up, n’ kept sayin’ some crap ‘bout me bein’ easy pickins. What a jerk, right?!”

“Right.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Moray pointed at North Star, almost nailing him in the nose. “Talked as if he was some big bug, but c’mon, with a name like Blembino? No way! Uh, but yeah, this guy just kept gettin’ on my nerves n’ I was gettin’ kinda nervous ‘bout a fight cause I really didn’t wanna waste my nice rapier on that guy, when Ace just strolled up told the guy to get lost.” Their hands danced as they told the story. North Star nodded along. “N’ then the guy totally just up n’ left, ran with is tail b’tween his legs. Then Ace turns to me n’ asks how I’m doin, which I tell ‘im I’m doin’ better now, n’ then I told him how I wanted to play the guitar at the saloon one day, n’ ya wanna know what he told me?” Moray leaned closer to North Star.

He snorted and matched their lean. “Yeah? What he tell ya?”

“That he bets I could make a great guitar player!” Moray suddenly JUMPED to their feet, their burst of energy a shocking disposition from their crying session moments prior. “He even said he’d be willin’ to help me land a gig at this place! He brought me over to Dina, n’ now I got a performance lined up fer next week!”

The sheriff couldn’t help but smile fondly from his place on the floor. “When did he up n’ do that?”

“Oh, last week. Tuesday, I think?”

Ah, no wonder the guy came home late. Wish he woulda told me… 

“Well--” North Star pushed himself up and brushed the sand off his chaps--”Seems yer already acquainted with my buddy! That’s great news, ‘cause--” He pointed a gloved finger at Moray’s chest--”I want YOU to join us!”

Moray blinked, their prior energy coming to an abrupt halt. “Wuh- huh?”

North Star continued, oblivious to the other monster’s plight, scratching his chin as he looked out to the dunes. “Er, well, if yer gunna be joinin’ us, I better find us some place better to settle down, but- WELL! That’s a problem fer me. But anyways, if ya partner with my buddy n’ I, you can help out the town! Keeping bandits and verments in line is incredibly important, and I’d wager you’re damn good with that fancy sword o’yers. Y’ain’t even gotta fight if ya don’t wanna! Just makin’ sure the townsfolk are happy is equally as important, if not more. Oh, Moray, buddy, we’re gonna make such a fine wrangler outta you!” He ended his proclamation with another pointed finger going their way. 

They blinked. “W-wrangler-? And wait, you’re.. You’re cool with me joining? Just like that?” Moray, again, had tears threaten to cascade down their face, but this time, their eyes had a hopeful glint in them. “I-I’ll have to let my parents know but-but--” They took a deep breath, centering themselves--”...I want to join you.”

A beat of silence passed. Moray opened their eyes, being met with North Star’s comically frowning face. “Hrm, I can’t hear ya, partner! Ya gotta be louder than that!”

They stumbled, blinking back their tears. “What, seriously? Yer gunna make me, what, yell it?”

“Iiiiii can’t hear youuuuu!” North Star just about sung, putting his hand obnoxiously behind his left glowing tendrils. “What did you say?”

Moray took an even deeper breath than before. They adopted a wider stance, drawing more breath from their stomach. “I said…

I WANT TO JOIN YOU !!! ”

Their screaming voice echoed out from the small alcove and into the sand dunes. The activity of the miners halted, confused at the loud noise. 

(Unbeknownst to North Star, a certain shadowy gambler flinched at the echoing sound all the way back in town, deck of cards fumbled to the sand.)

Moray was left huffing and puffing, their stance one that a fighter would take. 

With a smile so large it was just about falling off his face, Starlo placed his glove on the other’s head, moving to ruffle their hair. 

“Welcome to the crew, Moray.”

“Do we have a name?”

“Er, not yet. But I want sum’ cool with, like, JUSTICE in it or something, y’know?”

“...You don’t even have a group name yet?”

“IT’S A WORK IN PROGRESS OKAY?!”

While they can laugh back on the memory now, North Star’s first meeting with Ed scared the hell out of him.

Moray was adjusting well to the group, they and Ace were getting along like a house on fire. North Star felt guilty at Ace’s questioning look, remembering he never asked the other if this was okay, but the gambler didn’t seem bothered, shrugging off the sheriff’s concerns. (Though he did promise to talk about big decisions with the team first in the future.)

The fish monster was ecstatic when North Star finally finished their outfit, made from their favorite materials and colors in a fancy style. Their new beret sat snugly on their head, and North Star would be lying if he said he didn’t start getting a little concerned that they wouldn’t ever take it off. (He hid his bandaged fingers in his pockets while Moray checked themself out in the mirror. What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.)

Weeks pass, and adventures have been had. A name is created for their group: The Feistyj Three. If up to two more monsters join, which is likely, then the name gets even better! North Star already envisions a future where he gets to say “Feisty Five.”

(Moray and Ace both hated the J at the end, but Star insisted. For the message, he said. “It’s silent, so we don’t have to say it.” Ace flung a card at his head.)

It was an unusually nice day out on the dunes, the wind muted to a gentle breeze. The Feistyj Three were called down to the mines by a fairly small group, which seemed to be led by a beady-eyed bear monster. She introduced herself as Beverly and explained what was going on: apparently, a miner went exploring and found what could be another large find of minerals, and this group, which was formed by the owners of the mine, is supposed to go find it and confirm its existence. However, they didn’t explore the dunes much outside of the mines, so they wanted backup should something happen.

The trio was happy to help, accepting the quest with little issue. Something about the situation scratched at the back of North Star’s head, but he figured it was just nerves. He tried to ignore the goosebumps on his arms.

Star led the pack, with the other two taking up the rear. The group seemed content to talk amongst themselves throughout the journey, so Ace and Moray didn’t see much of a reason to initiate conversation. North Star, however, joined whatever the group talked about, infiltrating the conversation seamlessly. In fact, he was so involved that he failed to notice how far they had gotten from town. He also failed to notice the group halt suddenly, leaving him to walk a few feet farther before the situation caught up to him.

“..Uh, everythin’ alright?” He cocked his head towards Beverly. “Ion’ think we’re at the place yet, ma’am.” A glance was snuck at his two allies, who looked as confused as he felt. “Is there somethin’ ya.. need…?” The sheriff trailed off, perplexed as the group suddenly began to surround the three law enforcers like a crescent moon. Moray and Ace tensed, rapier and magic at the ready, while Star rubbed the back of his head in confusion. 

“We’re exactly where we need to be, actually,” Beverly grinned, though it was sharp and gnarled. Footsteps sounded from behind the trio, and a larger batch of monsters emerged from the incoming sandstorm, all of them either heavily armed or scarily muscular. “Thanks fer bein’ stupid, Sheriff.”

Wasn’t the wind fine earlier? Where’d the sandstorm come from? Wait, what did she- IS THIS AN AMBUSH???????

North Star’s brain finally caught up now, he drew his six-shooter, pointing it at the bear, who was then covered by the two biggest members of the crew. Moray and Ace already had their weapon and deck equipped respectfully, tensely eyeing the crowd as they waited for movement. The star-headed monster cursed, the three of them now stood back to back in a triangle of sweat and anxiety. They were well surrounded now.

Shit, if only he had been quicker on the draw-

“Ed, grab the big bug.” Someone ordered from behind him. A large red purple-tipped hand snagged his shoulder, dragging him up and away from the direct center of the circle. North Star saw his comrades’ eyes widen, pupils shrunken and mouths open in shock. Two sets of hands reached out for him, but were pulled backwards by the mass of monsters. It, again, took him way too long to realize that his gun had been taken, too.

Now firmly separated and struggling against their captors, North Star’s widened. Goosebumps began to emerge on his skin, sweat beginning to fall from his face (from the heat or anxiety, he couldn’t tell.) Ace was trying his damndest to kick his detainer, though it was a futile effort, his legs soon held and stopped. Moray was biting and scratching at any arm in their vicinity, but as with Ace, they were fully apprehended; a too-giant arm went over the fish monster’s mouth, the owner’s other arm going around their middle, limiting their arm movement.

They were overpowered so quickly. And he didn’t even do anything to stop it.

The disgraced sheriff slowly raised his eyes to his own captor, who he noticed didn’t seem to be holding onto him as tightly as the other monsters were holding onto his friends. The large hand on his shoulder was purple, though it spotted out into a reddish-pink up the rest of its owner’s arm. North Star couldn’t see much else of how the other monster looked from his position--outside of the bottom of their jaw--but he could feel the hand on his shoulder shake ever so slightly. Was he not getting the same level of restraint because he hasn’t technically fought back yet?

Could he turn this around somehow? 

..

How the hell was he supposed to do that? Could he get them talking?

“L-listen here, ‘aight?” He internally winced at his pathetic stuffer, his hands raised in front of him in a silent plea for peace. “What do ya want from us? Maybe we c’n solve this peacefully.”

The crowd, which was chock full of commotion, suddenly quieted; his compatriots stopped struggling, their tense postures making them look akin to statues.

Beverly stepped forward now, her stature requiring the sheriff to crane his neck down. “We knew you were stupid, but I wasn’t expectin’ this from ya.”

His tongue dusted from where he bit, spotting the inside of his mouth with gray matter. Don’t fuck this up, Starlo, like how you fucked up everything else. 

The bear rightly took his silence as confusion, scoffing to the side. “Use what little brain ya got in ‘der. Do the words, “Black Market weapons trade” ring any bells?”

Black market weapons trade, black market weapons trade….

Oh, yeah right, that one.

Roughly a week ago, the Feistyj Three got a tip from a regular at Blackjack’s, claiming they saw some hooded figures the other night hanging around the back of his shop exchanging G and what looked like weird, glowy staffs. The following night, the gang staked out the area, Ace and Moray watching from nearby roofs and North Star listening in from the other side of Blackjack’s. He wasn’t able to get much barr some funky codenames and weird secretive terms he didn’t understand, so he ran around the corner and shot the air with his revolver, scaring off the weirdos. When the three reconvened, Ace and Moray were quick to mention how it looked like they were exchanging money for weapons (which usually isn’t illegal), except they looked oddly like weapons used by the Royal Guard, which WERE illegal to hold onto if you weren’t explicitly employed under King Asgore. 

Asking around the saloon the next day brought him some interesting explanations, some monsters complaining about how lucrative the business was, and a bold few who asked him where the trade was taking place. (They stopped asking once he started threatening jail time.)

Dina’s explanation was the most credible one (simply based on the fact he trusted her and that she usually just kind of knew stuff. The wonders of being a bartender.) She claimed that Royal Guard weapons tended to be specifically tailored and specifically strong against other monsters, and thus are smuggled and traded extensively at stupidly high prices. She also said that the “weirdos” they encountered were probably trying to do said trade, and to be on the lookout, in case they run into them again. Back then, North Star shrugged it off. Psh, what are the chances they run into those guys again?

Well, he was paying the price for his hubris now. 

“So, yer doin’ this fer, what, petty revenge?” Maybe it wasn’t the best question to ask, but he had to know. “‘Cause we stopped one of yer probably many operations? Is that it?”

A vein bulged in Beverly’s head.

North Star took an angered step forward. In the back of his mind, he could hear his friends’ pleas to stop, but he couldn’t- no, wouldn’t take this lying down. Someone was putting the monsters he cared about in danger and he refused to stand there and do nothing like he had been. Should he have been more focused on getting them out of there? Probably. But he couldn’t see a clear way to get out of dodge, so the least he could do is to keep buying time. 

“If all this is ‘bout petty revenge, can’t we cut a deal or sum’?” The guy holding onto his shoulder--Ed if he remembered right--loosened his grip enough for the sheriff to shake it off, throwing his arms in front of him. “I get it, business is business. But as the sheriff, ya can’t ‘spect me to just let y’all do this stuff under ma’ nose,” Beverly raised her arm for something, probably some signal, but his booming voice took everyone’s attention. “This whole trade, it makes a lotta gold though, right? How ‘bout this: you give us a small- just a small- amount of gold from yer earnings, n’ we let ya go? No one has to know what happened today. They’ll b’lieve me if I just tell ‘em we got lost out here. This doesn’t hafta go on the record.”

His stomach twisted; he had to stop talking to swallow down the bile that threatened to spill out of his throat. He would never forgive himself if they actually accepted--he sure as hell wouldn’t be touching the gold--but as long as Moray and Ace were safe, he could play it from there. “Just let my friends go. They won’t tell anyone back in town, I’ll make sure of it.” North Star shot a glare towards his allies. He hoped it came off half-hearted, but by the way they both frowned, arguments on the tips of their tongues, it didn’t work. “We can talk this out, if you’ll just. Let them go.” His faked confidence was starting to wane, the breath in his lungs struggling to stay put. 

Just like when he first met Ace at the bar, the whole world around him went silent. It didn’t take long for Ace and Moray to start protesting, struggling and calling out to him, shouting at him not to do it, to take it back. He kept his eyes trained on Beverly, her expression unreadable. Sweat dripped down his face, he hoped it looked more like heat sweat than one of anxiety. The bear’s head shifted back, her eyes narrowed in what he hoped was thought. Every second of silence that ticked by made the sheriff’s hands twitch.

“I’m gettin’ real sick of you,” Starlo’s heart shattered. “Ed, kill ‘im.”

The large, menacing figure of Ed shadowed Starlo and the broken pieces of his heart that lay in the sand. 

This.. isn’t how they die, right? Out in the desert, outmatched and outnumbered? Away from everyone? Ace and Moray, having to watch their failure of a leader become squished into dust? 

“Bev’rly, you said we was just gunna rough ‘em up a bit!” The red monster emerged on his right, his shoulders tense and his eyes narrowed into slits. “This is NOT part of the plan. D’ya seriously think I’m just gunna-“

“Damn straight!” She raised her finger to point at North Star, eyes still glaring at Ed. “Beat ‘im inta dust! What else are we payin’ ya for?! You SAID you were a bonafide killer! KILL HIM! ”

Ed stuttered, sweat going down his brow, his eyes frantic. As Star looked at him now, he just couldn't see the same darkness in his eyes that the other bandits had. Making a choice, the star-headed sheriff snatched the big guy’s arm, his eyes latching to the smaller’s face.

You don’t have to do this. He tried to school his face into something as genuine as possible, eyes wide and face taught. Help us. You don’t have the heart of a killer. You’re a good man in a bad situation. Please. Please.

The big guy looked back and forth; Beverly to Starlo, Beverly to Starlo, Beverly to-

To North Star.

Ed nodded-

And ROCKED the guys behind him in their jaws in one fell swoop.

HOLY SHIT???

Star was so shocked he didn’t even notice that his revolver was being shoved into his chest until he was nearly toppling over. He fumbled with the gun as it jumped in the air before it finally landed in his palm.

It was still fully loaded.

…

Let’s do this.

He didn’t give himself time to think as he pulled the trigger over and over and over again. Bullets didn’t land in the head, never in the head , but in shoulders and thighs. The first two went into the goons still holding back his friends, the signs of their release being cards flying every which way and the sounds of clanging metal. The screams of pain he heard went into the back of his head, his focus on stopping any fool brave enough to attempt to hurt his allies, which now apparently included Ed. The guy was a damn powerhouse, knocking over lines of the jerks. While the group may have been illegal Royal Guard peddlers, they relied on numbers over actual strength. Sure, they had a lot of big beefed-up monsters, but it was clear by the way they swung aimlessly at him that they barely had any training, if any at all.

This didn’t mean there weren’t any wounds on his own side, as Ace got a quick slash to his side, which was retaliated via card storm, and as Moray yelped, dancing over bullets aimed at their ankles. Ed didn’t seem bothered by the few bruises on his body nor the blood leaking down his lip, which was a calmness North Star tried to emulate every time he felt the ache of his own bruises and scratches. He kept his focus, hardly looking as he reloaded his gun, losing count after the 7th refill.

Despite his ammo usage, it didn’t take long for the bandits to realize the skill difference, some even trying to run back into the sandstorm.

“Thank the angels I remembered my lasso,” He grumbled mostly to himself as he tightened the lasso’s grip on some stragglers. Just about all of the enemy team had been subdued (not dead, they checked), all passed out from their wounds. His team may have gotten out alive, but he was damn near close to succumbing to his own exhaustion, the loss of adrenaline slowing his movements. Beverly’s angered shouts from the inside of his lasso stopped with a swift kick from Moray, which was then followed by a harsh smack from a lucky 7 of clubs, leaving her out cold. “‘Ey, don’t rough 'em up too much, ya hear? We kinda need them, ah, not brain-damaged.”

“Do we? Do we really?” Moray sang from their spot at his side, face amused despite the ragged breaths coming from them. “I think they deserved it, personally. The nerve of those jerks, ambushin’ us like that…”

Ace groaned as he pushed himself up from his similarly placed spot on the ground. “Ugh, we prob’ly shoulda seen that comin’. Who sets up an expedition team to go find some other ore vein in the dunes? I’d bet a lotta money that that ain’t never comin’ true.”

“Pfft, my parents might,” The gilled fencer leaned on their rapier, elbow resting on its handle. “They’ve been lookin’ fer new places t’ mine fer who-knows-how-long. If anyone’s gunna believe there’s more loot out there, it’s them.”

And apparently us too , North Star thought, ashamed. He was so caught up in the euphoria of actively helping out civilians that he completely forgot to dot his i’s and cross his t’s. Come on , Starlo! If there really were another giant ore vein discovered, the whole entire town woulda found out about it before him. Get serious, sheriff. “Welp, nuttin’ to do about it now. Ed?” He called over his shoulder to the other, who seemed to be busying himself with moving all of the unconscious monsters to a singular point, which would be easier to monitor should any of them wake up. At the mention of his name, the red-pink man blinked and looked to his left. “That was some mighty-fine scrappin’ back there. Can’t thank ya enough fer the help.”

Ed blinked as if he were shocked they’d even mention it. “Er, yeh, dun’ worry about it, sheriff. Jus’... doin’ what I can.” He looked composed enough, but it was obvious by the look in his eyes that he was scared. 

Was it of retribution? Punishment? 

North Star couldn’t have that.

“Moray?” Starlo’s eyes didn’t leave Ed’s form, his body turning to his direction. The finned monster in question hummed from somewhere behind him. “Would ya’ mind runnin’ down to Waterfall? We need’a Royal Guard t’ handle this.” No verbal response was given, but the sound of boots running the opposite direction was enough of an answer. He’d apologize for making them run around in the less-than-subpar state they were in later, once the situation was cleared up.

His spurs clanking signified his movement towards Ed, every step of his making Ed tense just a bit more, up until the point where his shoulders were higher than his head. Star noticed how he looked more and more like he was bracing for impact, as if he was going to get hit or worse. An ugly, writhing thing began to twist in his own stomach, which he tried to swallow down. 

I can’t fix what’s already been done, but…

He plopped himself right next to where Ed was on the ground, letting his shoulder gently rest against the other’s large, battered arm. 

…Well, maybe I can still do something right today. 

A blue-silver coat signaled Ace’s arrival, and Starlo’s mouth twitched when the gambler laid his back against Ed’s other arm, as if the big guy was a tree. Said big guy somehow tensed even further, eyes darting between the two of them, like what Dina would do when two monsters at the saloon would start arguing, waiting for the shoe to drop. The silence stretched on for minutes, everyone too exhausted to fill it. The tenseness in Ed’s shoulders soon began to dissipate, too, and it felt like someone accepting forgiveness. He managed to rally enough energy to open his mouth and speak-

Ace snored. 

The sound shattered the silence like a bullet breaking glass. Starlo and Ed both blinked down at the large tophat at his side, who seemed about as dead to the world as the bodies around them. Something that sounded like a crazed giggle began to reverberate in the air, and it took Starlo’s exhausted mind far too long to realize that the sound belonged to him. Every snort and every wrack of his body brought pricks and pain, but his brain was far from cooperative in that moment, his arms curling around his middle and his legs raring to kick his manic energy out, which they would be doing if they were not preoccupied holding his weight. Ed’s own movements were sluggish but strong all the same, a large hand coming to Star’s back when his laughter turned to rough, harsh coughs.

“Bleh, eugh…” North Star’s hand went to his throat. His previous shoulder rest’s own hand went from rubbing circles into his back to patting it like he was a coughing child. “Ffffuck, that hurt. Augh, shit- COUGH - ugh.” When no witty quips came from Ace, he was shocked to see he somehow slept through the whole thing. With his coughing fit subsiding, he leaned back against Ed with a sigh, his hat smooshing and creasing, the fold pointing straight upwards. Slowly, gently, his eyes fluttered shut despite the uncomfortable position (which would definitely leave him with a crick in the neck by morning, not that he cared.) The rapid sound of footsteps, combined with the thud and feeling of someone laying across his legs, fins poking into his thighs, became the last things he registered before he shut down.

Starlo woke up to brown ceilings and the stinging smell of sterilization. 

The clinic. The Royal Guard must’ve brought me here.

Slowly, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. The blanket on top of him slid down, which made him painfully aware of his lack of poncho and shirt, which then made him aware of his lack of a hat. Or glasses. Every object in his view was now just a blob of color, which made recognizing literally anything annoying, so he just gave up on inspecting much else for the time being. 

A painfully recognizable snore sounded out from his left. Startled, he straightened up and squinted his eyes so hard in an attempt to actually see anything that it was actively making his sight worse. He didn’t really need to see to be able to know who it was, though. Ace. A breath he didn’ realize he was holding fled from his mouth in one relieved sigh. If Ace was here, then…

Moray was in the bed between his own and Ace’s. The three of them were pretty heavily bandaged, he noticed, though most of them just seemed to be there in order to keep something on their bruises. (He touched a covered bruise on his chest and cringed when it slid ever-so-slightly. Gross.)

The only door to the clinic opened, nearly making him jump out of his skin, a shocked yelp coming from his mouth. A yellow and purple mass stopped in the doorway, silent and unmoving. “Uh, good afternoon?” It finally spoke, shutting the door. Slowly it advanced to his bed, which gave him a better idea of what he was looking at: the clinic’s main doctor, a medium-size yellow monster with a pointed gray leather mask. (Now that Starlo was thinking about it, were they the clinic’s only doctor? …Was it his job as the sheriff to better employ this place? They didn’t do stuff like that in the movies…)

Two items were pushed into his chest, one small and round and the other brown with something poking from it. His hat and glasses . He placed his glasses on the edge of his nose and shoved them back into place before returning his hat to its rightful place on his head.

Wait, afternoon? “Uh, how long did we sleep fer, doc?” He took in the rest of the room, now that he could actually see. As much as he hated being in the clinic, it had a warm, homely feeling to it, with its wooden floors and scattered trinkets. Despite feeling safe now, he still couldn’t shake off the feeling he was missing something, the thought scratching at the back of his head like a cat.

He was still missing his poncho but it was probably in here somewhere. Ace and Moray were fine enough, just still asleep. So who-?

“ED!” The back of North Star’s head SMACKED against the wall, just about leaving a crack from the force. The doctor immediately began fussing over him, but he had to know. “Ed! The big red guy that was with us. Is he okay? Where did he go? What-”

“-riff, Sheriff, please! Just- just sit calm for a sec'nd!” Gloved hands grabbed onto his shoulders, pushing him back down to a resting position. “He has been properly taken care of, and his wounds have been bandaged accordingly. He simply offered to go n’ talk to King Asgore ‘bout the situation n’ explain. I wanted to say no, ‘cause he was still restin’, but just had this look o’ guilt in his eyes n’, sigh , well, I couldn’t say no.”

Ed… went with them? What would happen to him? Asgore may be incredibly friendly and kind of a pushover, but this wasn’t some petty crime! This was an illegal weapons trade involving the weapons of his own army. Regardless of Ed’s intentions and morals, he still helped them, at least a little bit. Noticing he was deep in thought, the doctor saw the conversation as over and left to go check on his posse. As they fiddled with a tight bandage covering Moray’s ankle, Starlo gasped, a startling thought invading his mind space. 

Would he lock Ed up? Or would he hurt him?

Was he going to see Ed again?

Starlo screwed his eyes shut, hands going under his glasses to rub his eyes so hard he was starting to see colors. If the doctor noticed him shaking with unshed tears, they didn’t say anything. 

Ed was back the next day. 

Starlo just about fainted when he saw the guy standing outside of the Feistyj Three’s house in the early morning, unharmed with a face-splitting grin. 

He spoke incredulously, as if he still couldn’t believe the outcome himself. Apparently, once he told Asgore everything, the king’s face softened, and he sent Ed off with a metaphorical slap on the wrist and a promise to do community service to make up for what he did. (Ed said that he’s been going around doing odd jobs for a while for gold, since most regular jobs were just things he couldn’t really do, like handle things carefully due to his strength and large hands or conversate with monsters, which his menacing stature made difficult. He only said he was a “bonafide killer” to Beverly to get her to hire him, her saying she needed muscle for something. He just assumed it was because they had to move a lot of stuff, which was soon proven to be incorrect. They didn’t pay him anyways.)

At this turn in the conversation, Starlo stood on his chair and stomped down on the chipped wooden table they sat around. Ed flinched hard, but Ace and Moray just exchanged glances, half-exasperated-half-excited. They’d talked about it extensively the previous night, and a decision had been made, 3-0. With an ungloved finger pointed directly in between Ed’s eyes, Staro’s untamed grin opened to say,

“Ed! Join us!”

He had a whole speech planned, but he and the rest of his posse were trapped in a spine-crushing bear hug by their newest member before he could get any other words out. A lot of tears were shed that day, but none of them could find it within themselves to be embarrassed. The Feistyj Three had become the Feistyj Four, and he, for one, could not be happier.

When North Star thinks about the day he met Mooch, he feels like his head gets beat in with a two by four.

Ed, like Moray, was getting along spectacularly with the rest of the posse. Sure, their first meeting had been less than stellar, but it wasn’t an issue to anyone, so North Star chose to ignore it.

They were able to land him a part-time job at Blackjack’s, actually! He mostly moves stuff around in the back, but occasionally, Blackjack will call him out to the front when a customer is trying to be sneaky. (Once, the shop owner had woken them up at the crack of dawn to complain about Ed’s performance, even going so far as to say that every single dropped or broken box would be added to a tab they’d have to pay.

But they’ve never seen hide nor hair of said tab, and Ed was sure still employed. Isn’t it supposed to be mailed to him or something? Was the tab even an actual thing?)

Regardless, life was going well. The new building housed all of them perfectly, the four of them even having schedules for different chores.

(Teaching Ed cooking techniques was fun, and he ended up falling in love with the art. You’d think him a professional chef, and not someone who just learned what paprika was a few months ago.)

Life was good. But Starlo knew it wouldn’t be long before the floor would fall out beneath them again. They couldn’t rely on miracles like this. In order to better protect his friends, he’d have to become stronger. Become better . 

So, he threw himself into training.

Muscles, punching, shooting, lassons… he practiced a little bit of everything. 

He did it alone for a few weeks, up until Ace caught him sneaking out one night. They had a talk about it in the morning--North Star only vaguely mentioned getting stronger--and he was shocked to learn that they were all interested in becoming better, too! So now, instead of North Star sneaking out in the middle of the night to work out, it was the four of them doing it together in the day. The first few times left them all winded, exhausted beyond belief. However, as most things do, it got easier. They all had far more energy, and they were able to far better hold their own in fights.

He knew, though, that raw strength wouldn’t be their savior if they got caught in a nasty situation like that again, so the best option was prevention, and the best way to prevent something is to notice the problem early on.

So, he watched.

Every building they entered, every street they walked upon, he watched. Any out-of-place movement or action was logged in his mind. He kept track of every part of himself, looking for anything missing or wrong. Every interaction was treated with caution, every word weighed for truth. 

Some may call him paranoid, but he preferred the term “aware.”

Sure, maybe Ceroba and her husband shoot him looks of concern from across the bar when they think he won’t notice. Maybe the conversations he has with his friends have become more stilted, filled with bland words and jokes told under minutes of consideration. Maybe his posse shares uneasy glances with one another behind his back, as if they think something’s wrong with him.

Maybe there is. Maybe he hasn’t let his guard down in weeks.

Maybe he’s exhausted.

(Whenever he thinks of the ambush, the badge on his poncho starts to weigh more. He tries to stop thinking about it, and about “what if’s”. About what would’ve happened if the bandits had been just the smallest-bit more trained. He fails.)

Sure, it’s keeping him up at night and stopping him from forming meaningful relationships, but being para- ahem, AWARE also has its perks!

It’s how, while strolling around the center of town with his friends, he immediately caught the empty feeling of air where his gold pouch should be.

North Star spun on his heel like a top. Moray jumped, Ace startled, and Ed reached out as if he was going to grab his shoulder, but none of that mattered as a flash of grey and green ran around the side of the jail. 

He shot off like a gunshot, legs moving so fast the world around him became nothing but a blur. “‘EY! GET BACK ‘ERE!” The words echoed, bouncing off of the buildings like a ricocheting bullet. “DROP THE GOLD N’ STOP RUNNIN’!”

The grey-green blur didn’t stop, but if anything, sped up. North Star coulda sworn they stuck their tongue out at him as they passed a corner. Gritting his teeth, he tried to match their pace. The two ran through crowded streets and sparse alleyways, nothing mattering more than the thief in front of him. Monsters shouted with concern as he zig-zagged around, past, and through groups, his eyes never once leaving his target. They soon returned to sprinting around the backs of buildings, and despite his recent training, North Star was starting to fall apart, the little breath entering his lungs and pain in his legs making him light-headed. 

Why the hell did I opt for heeled boots again-?

The grayeen (he should make a patent for that) blur tripped, a meek “ No! ” escaping from their lips as they went tumbling, rolling a few feet further like a misshapen ball, finally landing on their side. The sheriff slowed to a trot, and then a full stop, leaning on his knees for support.

“Augh, yer- cough, breathe -yer a damn rat bastard…” He growled with what little air he had left in his lungs. “If ya..augh…stay down, maybe I’ll, hah, maybe I’ll shorten yer…sentence…” Raising his head to finally get a good look at the culprit, he was soon hit by the realization that the thief was starting to look a lot less like a menacing, conniving pickpocket and more like a hungry teenager.

Just don’t think about it, Starlo. Shaking it off, he slowly walked up to the curled up ball, which was holding their knee with a pained expression. Looking closer, he noticed their distinct lack of shoes, as well as the many tears that decorated their--her?--green clothing, small holes and incorrectly-sewed patches that didn’t cover what they were supposed to. She seemed to be some kind of squirrel monster, though her fur was matted and clumped with dirt and sand in several places. Her pant leg was rolled up, revealing a gross layer of dust over the knee. 

North Star sucked a breath through his teeth. Looks painful . “Need some help, there?”

His hand moved to better inspect it, but the squirrel hissed , her bushy tail hiding most of her body. 

Something still told him the tail was supposed to be fluffier than it was .

“G-GIT OUTTA HERE!” She shouted at him. “ION NEED YER STUPID HELP! GIT! GO!”

Sighing, the star monster crouched down into a squat. “In case ya forgot, ya stole ma’ gold. I ain't leavin’ ‘till I get it back, and somethin’ tells me I’m not gettin’ it back that easily. So, either I sit here with you in awkward silence, or I help you.”

The two were locked in an incredibly tense staring competition, one that would surely go in the history books. Normal mortals would simply tremble in fear at the pure power being displayed here.

North Star looked away first. “Whatever. But I still ain’t leavin’.” He let himself fall back on his butt, legs crossed. Every pain-filled inhale the following seconds whittled away at his resolve, like a wood carver breaking away at a project. He cursed under his breath. Making a decision, his hand dug through the pocket strapped to his belt, specifically the one full of medical supplies. As he lifted his hand out from the small bag, a small roll of bandage slipped out with it. “Oh noo, a roll of bandages fell out of my pocket,” His voice was as flat as a plank of wood, the country accent dropped completely. Tiny pupils watched the item roll towards her, bouncing back slightly at her leg. “Hopefully there are no small, thieving squirrels around to steal it while I’m not looking.”

Sticky hands snatched the roll before he even finished his story of woe. North Star decided to get a better look of the area in the meantime. There wasn’t much to note, really, just a bunch of dirt, sand, and dust covered in shade. And now that he was looking at it, quite a few sharp-looking stones stook out from the ground. He couldn’t see the exact one the smaller monster tripped on, but it honestly could’ve been any of them, considering how far she rolled. 

The pitiful sniffling eventually stops. He turns his head to face forward, and ends up half-shocked that she’s still there. She’s sat on her knees now, closed fists shaking by the bottom of her thighs. The bandaging job isn’t half bad, and he feels a small, strange swell of pride in his chest for just a second. North Star breaks the silence for a second time.

“...So are ya okay now, er- OUGHK- ” His bag of gold is chucked at his chest at the speed of a train, sending him keeling over with the bag held to his chest. The pain feels more like someone just beat his chest in with a rock. The air left his lungs in one fell swoop. “Fffffffffffrrrrick!” He wants to swear so bad , but swearing in front of a child is unbecoming of a cowboy. The sting makes him want to scream it from the rooftops regardless.

“Hey!” Star brings his head up towards the other end of the alleyway, where squirrel girl is standing at its mouth, light from the street giving her a backglow, making her look more powerful than she actually is. “Ma name is Mooch! I stole yer bandages, n’-n’ I’m gunna get yer gold one day, fair n’ square! I’m sparin’ ya today, so count yer blessings!” Mooch finishes her proclamation with a fuzzy thumb poking her chest, a face that is equally stubborn as it is DETERMINED. With a final nod, she turns away, jogging out to rejoin the general populace.

North Star is left still wheezing on the floor.

Little shit. … Was his gold pack always this light?

North Star eventually managed to reconvene with his posse back near the bell, bag of gold in hand. He apologized for running off like that, and now that it was over, he was able to explain what happened. He figured they’d have some sympathy, but by the end, they were hollering with laughter at his expense, all flailing fish limbs and coughing shadows. Ed, angels bless him, didn’t laugh, but acknowledged the situation with the seriousness it deserved.

“Don’t let those teenagers get da best of ya, boss!”

…If only he could say it in a less demeaning way.

Regardless, they told him they’d all keep an eye and an ear out for the little scamp. If her threat was anything to go by, they’d be seeing a lot more of her, so it was good to be prepared. Turns out, she stole a good 10g from him, which while not a lot, made him nervous. He never once saw her reach a hand in, and the bag was still closed the way he closed it, but thinking about it for too long gave him a headache so he just decided to let the matter be for now.

Their assumptions ended up being correct.

Not even two days passed before Mooch struck again, running off with his bag of gold. The chase went about the same way (minus her tripping), ending with Mooch making off with a few more coins. Then, not even a few days passed after that before she tried it once more. She proceeded to give it another shot, so on and so forth. In the weeks following the initial pilfering, it became almost like a routine: Mooch makes off with one of the Feistyj Four’s gold bags (commonly North Star’s), they give chase, Mooch either gets too tired or cornered, she relents the loot (after somehow snagging some for herself), proclaims she’ll get it someday, and leaves. 

Starlo even started leaving other things in his gold bag, like snacks or bandages. If she wasn’t going to willingly accept help, maybe he could still give her some. (Sometimes she didn’t even take the gold, opting just to take the food and materials. His stomach always churned when that happened.)

The routine was random yet consistent at the same time, Mooch always stealing from them once or twice a week. 

So it was weird when they didn’t spot her for 5 days in a row.

Something felt off in the air in the Feistyj Four’s hideout, the air tense. There was a squirrel-shaped elephant in the room, one everyone was aware of but wouldn’t talk about. North Star tried to ignore it, busying himself with getting ready for sleep, cowboy pajamas equipped and his day clothes folded accordingly. The other three were in similar states.

Moray was the one who eventually broke the silence. “Uhm… d’ya think Mooch-”

“She’s fine.” Starlo wasn’t turned to them, body tense and mouth flat, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his bed. “Mooch is fine. It’s just been five days. She’s fine. Just.. changing career paths.”

Mooch had grown on all of them, going from a biweekly annoyance to a regular figure; once a monster who brought nothing but headaches to Mooch , the sneaky little brat who never failed to spice up their day. Even on days when she wasn’t stealing from them, she was around, sneaking by corners. Sure, it’s only been five days. But since the day he met her, he’s always been seeing her around. Her being gone for more than two days…

“..Let’s just go to bed. We can- we can look for her tomorrow.” He spoke with a tone of finality. They finally relented, falling into sleep. Star hoped the weird feeling of dread in his chest would disappear come morning.

It was roughly two in the morning when the knocking started.

Everyone groaned, all in various states of awareness. “Aaaaaace,” Moray whined from their sleeping bag, “It’s your turnnnn!”

“ Y a w n, s’rry, Ace. It is yer turn,” Ed rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, body sitting up from its place on the floor. The knocking got louder and more frantic with each passing second. “Ugh, who’s even up at dis hour…”

Starlo brought his arms up and tried to cover his ears with the top parts of his arms, turning his body towards the inside of the couch to try to escape the sound.

A thud signified Ace rolling out of his hammock, his half-off socks trudging behind him on the floor. “Yyyyup, Ai’ll geht it.” An attempt was made to muffle his yawn. Star was close to returning to the soft, warm embrace of sleep, dark arms of twilight returning him to dreams of rootin’ n’ tootin’ and cowboyin’ and horse ridin’ and days spent with his best buds doing nothing but running around with their heads held high, laugher never ending-

“Ugh.. what do ya- WHAT THE F- MOOCH?!”

A few things happened at once.

Everyone simultaneously slips from their beds and sprints to the door to meet a shocked, still Ace at his side. And in front of them-

Was Mooch.

Her left eye was bruised shut, dirt and sand and dust powdered on her face and tangled in her hair. The torn green clothes on her back were torn even more, sleeves and pants near shreds. Dust spilled from her arms, making small piles on the patio.

The worst wound was the one on her side, dust pouring out of it in waves. Mooch’s eyes were empty and afraid and terrified , shakes wracking her too small body. In the unbelieving silence, she managed to utter one meek word:

“ please.”

They were moving before their minds registered the motions, all exhaustion leaving their bodies like the desert winds.

Mooch was gently yet hurriedly rushed to their sofa, all limp limbs and fluttering eyes. Moray softly slapped the side of her face. “C’mon, Mooch, no napping on us now! Come on, open your eyes, Mooch.” Her eyes opened into disgruntled slits, a pained groan escaping her lips. “A- ai’m sorry, but ya gotta stay awake, okay? Can you do that for me?” She gave a slow nod. “Okay? Okay.”

The most pressing wound was the gash in her side. When Mooch’s arm was half-covering it, it looked manageable. Looking at it now, though…

“We gotta take her to the clinic.” Starlo dashed to his boots. “Ed, you-“

“NO!” Mooch’s screamed plea burned in her throat. Words devolved into messy, painful tears cascading down her face. Every single monster but the patient froze, Starlo mid-way through his first boot. “N-no. I- ngh, I-Ion wanna…”

Ace grabbed her pudgy cheeks the kindest he could. “Mooch. Mooch, listen to me. The clinic, they can help. The needles suck, but they can help you better than we can. So just-“

“No!” A tiny foot crashed into Ace’s chest. He didn’t even move an inch. “T-hey cost munney. I-Ion have it n’.. n’ ion trus’ em.”

Every word was clearly sending agony into her system. They had to get her to stop now . Star dropped his boots and sprinted back to the squirrel. Ace stepped back, and ever so gently, Starlo put a hand on her head. 

“Okay. Okay, we won’t take you to a clinic. Not now. But in the morning, when you’re better, you’re going to get a check up. You won’t have to pay a cent. Just keep your eyes open, and don’t talk . Can you do that for us, Mooch?”

She blinked up at him. Best answer we’re gonna get . 

The fish monster stepped forward, a box of medical equipment cradled in their arms. “B-but sheriff, the clinic-“

“I know, but she won’t cooperate otherwise and we have to help her NOW. Put the box here.” Moray took no time relenting the loot, and Starlo got to work. His medical knowledge may start and end at “keep the wound clean and bandage it”, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

He washed his hands before he went to bed. That should be fine, right?

…

No. No, he shouldn’t be taking chances.

As fast as he monsterly could, he dashed to the sink and scrubbed his hands with soap, his skin turning a strange orange color. He dried his hands but wetted a clean rag before he turned the sink off. He snatched a bar of soap. That’s how you clean wounds, right?

Returning to Mooch’s side, he saw that the others were working on giving him better access to the wound, her raggedy jacket and shirt being replaced by one of Moray’s smaller graphic shirts. The gash stretched from a bit above her hip to about halfway up her ribcage. The shirt covered a smidge of the top, but he doubted Mooch would appreciate it if they didn’t give her anything.

Star didn’t notice any debris (barring the dust), so he went straight to cleaning. As soon as the warm water touched the start of the wound, Mooch flinched hard , slow-blinking eyes wide awake. She started squirming, gasping out breaths, voice crackling but still pleading stop it hurts it HURTS-

Ed had to hold her down. Her movements were only making it worse, dust collecting in between couch cushions. Starlo tried to be as quick as he could whilst also being thorough, but it was hard to do when everything he did sent Mooch hurting even more. He wanted to speed through it so unbelievably bad, but he couldn’t risk an infection. So he kept pushing forward.

He couldn’t look at her face. Couldn’t bring himself to. 

It felt like it took years, even though it only took a few minutes. But there was no time to think about it so he didn’t think at all, tossing the rag somewhere indiscriminately. Mooch wasn’t struggling as much anymore, exhausted and in so much pain. Ace and Moray tried their damndest to keep her awake and distracted, talking about nothing and everything at the same time, weaving intricate tales that sounded like absolute gibberish but could be Librarby masterpieces. As Star readied the gauze, he distantly heard the squirrel giggle softly, quietly, at something stupid someone said. Distantly, he hoped it wasn’t something at his expense, but it probably was. He didn’t care.

Vaguely he knew that they were supposed to put something else on the wound, but as much as he doesn’t want to take chances, he also just can’t leave the wound open and dusting for Asgore-knows-how-long to find something he wasn’t even sure they had. Ed pushed Mooch’s body away from the couch with a gentle touch, her head lolling forward, desperate for sleep. The sheriff bit his cheek so hard he tasted dust on his tongue. Roll of gauze in hand, he got to work. Thankfully, this seemed less painful for her (or maybe she was just too tired to react) as he wrapped the bandage around her torso, basing how tight or loose to make it on her miniscule reactions. Finally, finally , he cut the gauze, folding it by the top of the wound. It felt like it took hours to dress it, but judging by his internal clock, it hasn't even been ten minutes. 

Alright. That’s the worst one out of the way. Now..

Now they had to deal with everything else. They decided to let Mooch rest, though Ace kept a good watch on her, checking her pulse every so often, just to be safe. Thankfully, the other wounds weren’t nearly as pressing; the scratches on her arms, while fairly big, seemed to have vaguely scabbed over at some point, which made it easier to deal with them. The dusting had come from reopened scabs, so all in all, everything else was manageable. All the bruise by her eye needed was ice.

Soon, Mooch was fully--or, well, mostly --cleaned up and taken care of. The Fesityj Four stood around her for some time, just watching her chest go up and down.

“She was attacked.” Ed stated the obvious.

“...Yeah, she was.” Ace agreed.

“How do we find out who did it?” Moray questioned.

“We’ll ask her when she wakes up,” Starlo crossed his arms over his chest, the pose hiding his shaking hands. His hands weren’t shaking from anxiety this time, but rage. Not at Mooch, never at Mooch , but at whatever sorry bastard did this to her. “We’ll give her time to recover. But once she’s well enough, she’ll tell us everything.”

Star may not be the most socially aware monster in the Underground, but even without looking at the others, he could tell they shared his anger, something raw and pointed. Maybe even primal.

Someone beat up a teenager. Someone beat up a small, starving teenager with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back. She was attacked once, and then attacked again. Were they the same monsters, or was it someone else? Did she know them? Did they attack her with intent to kill? What situation could a monster be in where they’d have to stoop SO FUCKING LOW -

“She’s joining us.”

It was divine judgement. There were no dissenters.

None of them really slept. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, but the warm embrace of sleep evaded them all. It was silent most of the night, minds blinking in and out of sleep, quiet air occasionally broken up by the odd comment. 

The moment Mooch blinked awake, they were out the door. The four of them watched as the doctor worked, undoing all of their work to check in on the wounds. The squirrel drifted in and out of sleep the whole time, occasionally flinching and whining when too much pressure is pushed on an injury. 

“Y’all did a pertty good job, all things considered,” The doctor applauded them on their work, grabbing something Star assumed was ointment. “I would’ve liked some antibiotics there, but it turned out fine. She is gunna need some stitches, though.”

With that confirmation in place, everyone but Moray left to go do their rounds. Nothing was out of the ordinary, thankfully, but North Star couldn’t help but be extra vigilant today. The monsters who hurt Mooch were still out there. He wouldn’t be able to find much without description from her, but maybe he could spot something.

His vigilance ended up paying off.

Early afternoon by the oasis, he spotted a group of suspicious figures loitering around some trees, bandanas covering their faces. He approached the group to ask for their whereabouts, keeping an easy smile on his face. They immediately tensed, but relaxed once the sheriff began a conversation. 

Everything was fine for a while, the group explaining themselves with a shrug. “What, it’s illegal to hang around?” He didn’t have a good answer for that, but before he left them alone he had to make sure of something.

“So, I wanted to ask ya sum’.” Any conversations happening within the small group of 4 stopped. “I was made aware that a small squirrel monster got hurt somethin’ fierce last night. I don’t know much else b’sides that, but would you fellas happen to know anythin’?”

The biggest one of the group, some big guy with dog-like features, laughed in his face. “What, Mooch?” North Star hid his startle with a nod. “Puh-lease, that little brat was askin’ for it! She ran into me n’ made me spill my drink! I’m sure that counts as assault, sheriff.”

Star went silent. He didn’t see any guns, but they probably had knives. He took a few measured steps back before speaking again, face and body tense. “Runnin’ into someone ain’t assault, but clawing them open sure is. Actually, with her wounds, I could probably make an argument for attempted murder.”

“Oh c’mon, relax , would ya?” A smaller, goblin-esq monster snickered, body lax. “No one likes Mooch, not even you, I’m sure. She’s a cold-hearted thief! And she-“

“Is a starving teenager with no other options.” The sheriff had to look off to his left and take a deep breath. No flying off the handle. “Listen, I’ll have a talk with her once she wakes up about the pickpocketing thing, but y’all had no good reason to do that to her. So-“ He grabbed his revolver. “-we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Get moving.”

The other three monsters grabbed at their weapons, but their leader threw his hands up, a nervous yet smug expression on his face. “Come now, sheriff, we don’t need to make a scene! Mooch is a-“

A gunshot rang throughout the oasis area. The leader’s eyes widened as a thin slice of grey opened on his cheek, dust blowing away with the wind. 

North Star’s gun smoked. “I’m not asking again. Get. Moving.”

It didn’t take much to get them moving after that, the sheriff trailing behind them. Their knives and daggers were confiscated by the time they hit the jail, bodies pushed into the first vacant cell. The group started complaining but he tuned them out. He decided to ring the bell, Ace and Ed returning to the center of town within minutes.

Star motioned to the jail, and the three walked there in silence. The gambler and fighter went in first, confusion on their faces as they gazed upon the gaggle of monsters behind bars.

“They confessed to hurting Mooch,” He started, eyes trained on the doggish monster. “I don't know if they attacked her first or second, but they got to her regardless. Mooch’ll be able to confirm their story when she’s up n’ attem.”

The Wild East’s jail was much less an actual penitentiary and more so a prop, but it could hold monsters there for however long they had to be. Most “bandits” ended up just being annoying jerks anyways, or well, that was the case at the start.

As much as North Star doesn’t want to be involved with the Royal Guard, there really isn’t anywhere else they can take the criminals. So, when they get a new batch of evil-doers, he sends a letter to the leader of the Royal Guard, troops arriving to collect the bandits within almost minutes . The less he interacts with them, the better, honestly.

To the point: the moment Mooch tells them her side of the story, the group’s going to the Royal Guard holding cells in Snowdin. Or was it Waterfall? Whatever, doesn’t matter. 

“I’m gunna keep watch tonight, alright? Y’all go keep tabs on Mooch, lemme know what she says.” Star wants to see her, he really does, but making sure these jerks stay put is important.

It didn’t take a lot of convincing to make them leave. He leaned against the wall of the jail, ears already closed off to the swearing and shouting from the imprisoned monsters.

This was gonna be a long night.

Mooch spilled everything the next morning, confirming it was the same group of monsters that attacked her both times. The dog monster and his goons were out of the dunes within minutes.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few months since the Feistyj Four became the Feistyj Five. 

Mooch was a welcome addition. Once she fully recovered, she became a valuable asset. (Not that she was recruited based on usefulness, of course.) While she did still pickpocket from time to time, cases had gone down drastically, and most of the time, she stole from jerks and bandits so North Star couldn’t find it in him to be mad. Having her stop completely is probably an impossible task, so he just tried to have her keep it down as much as possible.

(Once the barrier broke and she started stealing from humans, though, he had to sit her down for a talk. She called him “Nerdlo” and said he was old. It was funny until Clover and Kanako started saying it too.)

When the posse broke the news that Mooch would have a place to stay for the foreseeable future, she just about cried. She actually DID cry when they told her she could bathe and eat as much as she wanted. (As much as she denies it, she cried a lot those early days. Ed likes to poke fun at her for it.)

Suddenly, a year passed from when Star and Ace first shook hands. From a nameless handful of weird loners to the Feistyj Three to Four then Five. Being a sheriff (and technically town mayor) was hard work, but his fam- friends made it easier. 

One day, exhausted from work, he swayed on his feet as he entered their flat, legs giving out the moment he hit the couch. Moray announced an impromptu movie night, Ed made snacks so fast his limbs were almost blurs, Ace and Mooch argued over the film, and then Starlo was sandwiched between his closest friends as one of his favorites played on their old TV, the strong smell of popcorn and salt infiltrating the atmosphere. That day, Star felt so incredibly loved , and staring into the black and white movie, he made a silent promise, almost a prayer:

He would keep those smiles on their faces as long as he could.

He’d be the rock they needed him to be.

Not to say he hasn’t been, but… well, he could always be doing more . Star knew he’d never be able to repay the kindness they’ve given him, but at the very least, he could try. Or, well, try harder. But in all honesty, he didn’t know what to do. He offered hugs, let them talk to him, and prioritized their safety first over his, but he still felt like he wasn’t doing enough.

He tried keeping it on the backburner, at least for now. Star had to spend his time wisely, and he couldn’t waste it on worrying about something he could figure out later. 

It was an unusually hot day in the dunes, and the Feistyj Five were strolling around town. The heat and light from the swealterstones were making him better appreciate his poncho, objects and monsters becoming wobbly hazes of color in his peripherals. 

No one was coping well with the heat; Moray was just about melting into a blue-silver blob on the floor, Ace had taken off his suit jacket and was fanning himself with the card that lives in his hat. Ed didn’t look too bothered, he always ran warm, but even he was starting to pant. Mooch was swaying on her feet, mumbling incoherently. Her fur, while not incredibly thick, would be more suited for a place like Snowdin, where trapping heat would be beneficial. Now, all it was doing was making her miserable, clothes melting to her body more so than others. Her jacket was off and held under Star’s left arm, but it didn’t seem to be helping her condition much.

If Mooch was struggling like this, then he couldn’t imagine how Ceroba was handling it.

North Star was chugging along, too. Being a farmer meant working long hours in the sun, so while he was still far from resistant, he didn’t quite feel like he was dying. Was he sweaty as hell? Yeah. But his thoughts were still coherent enough that he was able to focus on things that weren’t shade or water. And as much as he wanted to help his friends find some relief, they already drank their water supply, so they’d be running on fumes until they reached the saloon.

“Eh, Mooch? Want me t’ carry ya?” Ed offered with an outstretched hand towards the squirrel. Mooch blinked up at him, which made the bigger monster feel the need to specify. “I’m sure the sand’s hard on yer feet, since ya don’t wear shoes. So, uh-”

The squirrel gave an affronted GASP . “Waah- no way! I’m an expert at walkin’ on sand!”

“Mooch, that wasn’t-“

“Really, Edward?” Moray turned their head to smirk, smug expression dimmed by the sweat dripping from their face. “You dare disrespect th’ Master o’ Sand? Why, we could have you executed of, ah-“

Ace’s flat voice cut into the conversation. “Lèse-majesté. Defamation against a monarch er somethin’.”

North Star snorted, his free hand pointing at Ed like was accusing him of a terrible crime. “Yeah, how dare you defame the great Master o’ Sand? Jail! Jail for Ed for one hundred years!”

The pink-red monster groaned, head leaned back. “Augh, stop gangin’ up on me! This ain’t fair-“

BOOM!

A thundering explosion sounded from the east side of town. Gasps were heard all over town square, varied hands pointing up in the direction of harsh, black smoke. All laughter was gone from the group, stunned looks shared with looks of dread.

..That’s in the direction of Blackjack’s, ain’t it?

Ed hoisted Mooch onto his shoulders and the four of them ran in a mad dash in the direction of the explosion. Star shouted to the nearby monsters to get somewhere safe and somewhere preferably away from the fire.  

Closing in on the destination, a monster with a large sack of something over their shoulder nearly knocked North Star off-kilter, the heat and adrenaline simultaneously slowing but speeding up his thoughts and movements.

“DON’T LET ‘EM GET AWAY!” Blackjack’s furious voice cut through the haze. “GET ‘EM!”

Oh, damnit. The monster with the bag, right? Star turned on his heel and pushed past his crew, lasso already in hand. With skilled precision, he aimed for their right leg and sent it. The hooded criminal went down with a shocked yelp.

“Mooch, help me restrain him. The rest of y’all, work on Blackjack’s shop.” The pickpocket slid from Ed’s shoulders and hopped over to North Star, who handed her jacket back. He didn’t need to look behind him to check if the others were doing their jobs. “Shouldn’t be too bad. Don’t nab anythin’, alright Mooch? Jack’ll have my head.”

She pouted, but that was the best confirmation he was gonna get. Keeping his eye on the downed thief, he grabbed a pair of cuffs off his belt. They were trying to crawl away, though they weren’t getting far, the lasso, bag of loot, and heat weighing them down. Sighing, he tore the bag from their grasp and took hold of their arms. The sheriff went to start his whole arrest spiel when Mooch suddenly shouted something.

He probably should’ve guessed there’d be accomplices.

Star leaned back just in time to dodge a sharp, glistening blade that was aimed at his neck. He reeled his right arm back and slammed his fist right into the attacker’s jaw, which knocked them out cold. Quickly, he shoved himself up to his feet. A quick look at Mooch showed she was holding her own, sending magic coins and bags flying every-which-way at the group.

There seemed to be about seven of them, which included the original thief and the guy he knocked out. The thieves sported various daggers and knives, but at a quick glance he didn’t notice any guns. 

Just to be safe, he kicked the back of the thief’s head to ensure they’d stay unconscious, and swiftly retrieved his lasso. He twirled it gracefully in the air, forming a mighty circle of rope above his head as he tried to judge when and where to send it. 

Ugh, damn, how separated can you get… THERE!

Sensing an opportunity as the bandits had shuffled closer together, North Star sprung into action. Gritting his teeth, he swung his premium lasso at the ruffians. However, he misjudged, and only managed to restrain about four as opposed to five he was hoping for. With an angry growl, he yanked the captured bandits over to their fellow downed comrades, which caused the heap to start shouting out profanities in anger as they tumbled to the ground. 

“Save yer words fer the Royal Guard.” North Star tightened the grip of his lasso to the displeasure of his captives, causing them to flail more than before despite the more strict conditions. The sheriff couldn’t help but sigh into his cheek as he dropped into a squat. Couldn’t they tell that there wasn’t a way they’d escape? What a buncha-

“ AAH! ” a half-gasp-half-scream escaped Mooch’s lips from behind him. Star turned to ask if she was okay-

…no.

-only to see a gun aimed directly between her shocked, terrified eyes.

No.

Time seemed to slow. The entire world was frozen. Nothing mattered more now than the scene in front of him. Mooch was frozen in space; one foot was on the ground, and her mouth was open in a silent scream--a silent plea for help. Her hands floated in front of her uselessly, terror and fear keeping them still. The last bandit, the only one he didn’t capture, held her six-shooter with skill, eyes sharp with malice. Movement drew him back to the gun, where her finger slowly tightened on the trigger. Centimeter by centimeter, millimeter by millimeter, the trigger moved back.

(A dead body and gunpowder and burning flesh and oh god he just let a child die of my god he just killed his friend there’s so much blood THERE’S SO MUCH BLOOD-)

NO!

Starlo’s body moved on its own. He dropped his lasso, eyes never moving from the scene. Every footstep felt so large yet so small at the same time, the distance between him and Mooch shrinking but growing simultaneously. He just had to reach her. He had to move faster but he wasn’t moving fast enough and why did everything feel so slow MOVE FASTER STARLO-

Mooch started to cry, entire seventeen-year-old life flashing before her eyes. 

Just a little further. JUST A LITTLE FURTHER-

The monster holding the gun hardened her grip. Her finger squinched further on the trigger.

Please, angels, please not Mooch ANYONE BUT MOOCH-

It didn’t matter what happened to him. It didn’t matter and it never would. It never would, because as long as his family is okay, then nothing else matters. Starlo lurched his body forward, hands close enough to touch-

The trigger was pulled.

NO NO NO-

“MOOCH!”

He shoved Mooch down to the ground; a strangled yelp escaped her lips as she rolled backwards and onto her stomach. An ear-piercing BANG filled the sandy, evacuated streets, the sound seemingly echoing for miles. Smoke drifted from the barrel of the gun into the atmosphere. Star stood with his back facing the enemy, arms stretched wide, his entire being cloaked by shadow, expression unreadable. He shook with deep, shaky breaths. 

Mooch heaved, body curling over itself as she choked and coughed. She shook like a leaf, eyes still blown wide with fat crocodile tears cascading down her face. Ever so slowly, she lifted her head. North Star wasn’t looking at her, but instead the ground, and if she looked closely, it looked like he was gritting his teeth. Gently, the squirrel pushed herself onto her elbows, throat dry and face sticky with tears.

“...S--Star?” Her voice shook like how she was shaking. “Sheriff, what-?”

Another blood-chilling gunshot rang out in the vacant area; Mooch cried out and covered her head with her arms, body again curled over itself. After a moment of silence, she slowly straightened herself out, eyes returning to her leader. North Star’s right side was facing her, but his face and left arm were aimed at her almost murderer. Smoke wafted from his own barrel, left arm stiff while his right side wobbled. The bandit howled with pain, the hole in her shoulder evident as she spasmed, gun dropped to the unforgiving sands in front of an unforgiving sheriff. Mooch watched her crumble to the ground, curses and swears dripping from her snarled mouth. North Star’s expression didn’t change, and nor did his body, except for the fact his gun lowered to the criminal's head. 

Urgent footsteps caused the smaller monster to look behind her, relief flooding her veins as the visages of her team became clearer. Moray and Ace dropped to their knees, eyes prickling with tears of their own over wobbly, relieved smiles. The finned monster opened their arms for a hug of which Mooch successfully delivered. A shadowed hand squeezed her shoulder comfortably, and she sent the hand’s owner a grateful grin. The entire time, Moray garbled apologies and grievances, hug tightening the longer they rambled. Despite the situation, the other two couldn’t help but snicker, Mooch reassuring Moray that as far as she was aware, she was fine. 

Ed sent the trio an uneasy but pleased glance while he approached North Star. His mouth opened, but it closed once he better saw the situation, Wild Revolver still leveled against the downed monster with no emotion bar gritted teeth. Softly, Ed placed a large hand onto his boss’s right shoulder. The recipient convulsed with what he assumed was shock, the gun in his hands finally starting to tremble in his grasp.

“Boss?” He made his voice as gentle as he could, hand squeezing the other’s shoulder. Star gasped, grip almost loosening entirely on his six-shooter. “She’s already down. She ain’t a threat no more. Jus’ put the gun down. It’s over now. We’re all fine, n’ she’s disarmed.” The sheriff sucked in a deep breath, and Ed’s hold loosened. “Please.”

It took a moment, but eventually, Star relented. The revolver missed its home twice, but eventually found its holster on Star’s belt. 

Since the shop’s fire was extinguished, the posse got right to work apprehending the thieves. Ed carried the three that were downed and Ace and Moray pushed the lassoed lot to their feet, flanking them from both sides as they made their way to the prison. Mooch went to follow, but was suddenly stopped with an intense feeling of wrongness --like something was desperately incorrect, her stomach grumbling and folding in on itself. She turned to ask Starlo about it, only to see that throughout the good ten or so minutes it took them to round up the bad guys and explain the situation to Blackjack, the sheriff hadn’t even moved once , feet still planted at where he had shot. Or, well, maybe that wasn’t exactly right. He was trembling.

Almost cautiously, she put herself right in the middle of his field of view, and while she tried to come up with something to say, she twiddled her thumbs. “Uhm, is everything okay? Y-you haven’t moved in a while, n’ we’re all gunna head to the saloon fer a celbri- celebratory party. D’ya wanna.. come with…..?” Mooch quietly trailed off as she became more and more uneasy by North Star’s unwavering eyes. She opened her mouth to ask again if he was okay, but a left-handed glove came down and ruffled her hat. “Wah--Starrr!” Her whiney voice elicited a near-silent chuckle out of the other, so she considered it a win.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” She watched as he straightened up from his half-lean, though thankfully she wasn’t paying enough attention to notice his pained gasp and sudden interest in his right side. “I jus’... think I’ll retire early tunnight. Heat’s killin’ me, heh. Go n’.. n’ have some fun fer me, kay?” He smiled down at her the best he could, which thankfully seemed to be enough, making her smile in turn. The pickpocket practically bounced as she trailed after her friends, almost as if she hadn’t just seen her life flash before her eyes a few minutes ago. Something ached within his chest, but he wasn’t sure if it really was his heart or.. something else. 

The moment she was out of view, Star turned like a clock’s hand and sped off in the direction of his family’s farm the fastest he could, right hand specifically tensed over a spot on his right, a ways above his hip. Every step sent electrifying agony up his right side, each laboured breath more painful and prickly than the last, lungs feeling as if they were collapsing. He almost collapsed himself as he speed-walked, but thankfully most of the town was still either evacuated from the attack or smartly inside in order to avoid the stifling heat, so he didn’t have to worry much about others seeing him in the state he was in. Eventually, he found himself on the one path to his parent’s house. As he got closer to his destination, he sucked down a deep breath and cautiously lifted his right hand ever-so-slightly---

---only for dust to come spilling out from behind his fingertips.

He slapped his hand back, but it was an immediate regret. The action sent him stumbling to his knees, eyes dotted with black spots from the absolute white-hot pain that overtook his entire system. Starlo wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, body folded, eyes wide with tears, mouth agape with a desperate need for air, and hands shaking as they covered the front of the wound, more gently this time. A harsh swallow was taken, and slowly, he began to push himself back up to a standing position. Every movement was even more agony, and he was certainly dusting from his back, but the longer Star stays out here without medical help, the higher the likelihood he faints from dust loss. Or worse. He tried not to think about the possibility of worse. After what felt like hours, but was likely just a few minutes, he was back to swaying on his boots. 

Okay. Okay, I can do this. Just one foot in front of the other. Don’t look down, North Star, it isn’t there. If you don’t look at it it isn’t there.

He blinked, and suddenly he was at the farmhouse’s doorstep. A measured look was taken at the stairs. Star swallowed harshly once more and steeled himself, shoulders pushed back like a soldier as he slowly made his way to the first stair. Left leg up, okay that’s manageable---hurts like a brat, but it could be worse. Right leg u---

Suddenly the ground looked a lot closer than it was five seconds ago.

Fuck.

Starlo honestly had zero goddamn clue how he actually managed to get to the bathroom but HEY he was here so whatever. Vaguely he remembered stumbling up the second floor stairs but, well, he had more pressing matters. His hat, poncho, and vest were already thrown off to the side by the bathtub, his undershirt half unbuttoned. Yellow, ungloved hands stilled as he neared the middle. The wound was already visible in the mirror, an aching void between his ribs and hip, dust pouring from both sides of the injury. If he were smart, he’d have already gotten to work on bandaging it up and disinfecting it. Maybe even going to the clinic like a rational monster. 

But looking at it without something over it will make it feel more… real.

…

He’s never been hurt like this before.

The realization made the air stale. Any remnants of adrenaline fled away, leaving him shaking and afraid unsure of what to do. His body was melting like Nice Cream a half hour ago, but this thought made him feel like he was dunked in ice water in Snowdin. Hot tears threatened to leak from his eyes, glasses vaguely fogged. This was new territory

He could dress wounds, of course. Any reliable cowboy could. But this wasn’t a scrape or quick slash from a dagger. It was… It---

He bit his bottom lip so hard it dusted.

Man up. It isn’t an “it”, it’s a bullet wound. And it’s only going to get worse the longer you sit here crying about it. Be a sheriff, North Star. Man. Up.

His remaining fears slunk down his throat as he just about tore the remaining buttons from their places with sloppy precision. The shirt joined its friends on the floor, dust sprinkling from where it held the wound.

The wound… it looked so much worse now that he could actually see it in full. It looked like a hole was carved out of him, gunpowder stench sticking to it. He tried to stay calm, but the wound was far larger than any bullet wound he’s seen in the movies. Most of those were thin holes that spilt blood; this one was at least an inch in width and height, as if someone had carved it out of him. Star turned to the side in an attempt to see it from behind---

“Oh.”

Gunshot wounds usually left larger exit wounds, it’s how it worked. The bullet expands and deals more damage leaving than it did entering. Any cowboy worth their salt knows this. But whatever magic bullet his shooter used must’ve been real enchanted, since the exit wound was about two and a half inches large, if he eyeballed it. Something else he noticed, which definitely feeds into his “enchanted bullet” theory, was that the puncture was leaking some strange, deep purple colored liquid. Strange enough, it didn’t seem to really come out of the front. Just the back.

For a few seconds, Starlo just stood in front of the mirror, staring into his own blank reflection. Great. If the bullet wound wasn’t bad enough, now it’s a magic bullet wound, and now it’s leaking some weird liquid and he has no idea what it is or how to combat it.

…Well, cleaning and bandaging it would probably be a good start.

He wet a rag and grabbed a roll of bandages from their first-aid kit. More gentle than he’s ever done anything in his life, Star patted the area around the spot, being careful not to aggravate it too much. He couldn’t really clean the backside of it well, but whatever. He’d live. Probably. 

The bandaging process was also relatively quick. It went around the wound a few times, covering most of his stomach in gauze. A few strips of medical tape held the dressing in its place after he cut the roll, and once he made sure the bandages would stay, he gave the ending strip a light pat.

“Welp, that’s done.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back for a job well done. Er, well, a job done well enough. He wasn’t dead, so he must’ve done something right. It didn’t take long for the medical supplies to be returned to their rightful spots in the med-kit. Once it was back in the cupboard, however, Star went back to staring at himself in the mirror. “...Now what?”

He’ll have to wait for it to heal. Damn, if only there was a quick and easy way for monsters to heal themselves, and if only he had a surplus of it in his own hou---

Right. Monster food. The incredibly abundant healing item and something he eats literally every day because most things in this world heal you if you eat it. Hell, he could probably eat gunpowder and be fine. Why did it take him so long to remember that? He probably just has to eat some corn and the wound’ll just go away. 

He’s a different kinda stupid, ain’t he?

A long, frustrated sigh filled the now dusty bathroom. The mental pat on the back turned into a mental forehead slap. Welp. At least he’s still home alone . He sped downstairs as fast as he could (which with how bad the wound was hurting, not very), and rummaged through the pantry for literally anything edible that wasn’t old or expired.

No. No. No. Ew. No. Eh, mayb--- no that’s super old. No. No. Y- nevermind. Blegh. No. Jeez, how long has it been since we restocked?

North Star may be suffering from a magical and incredibly painful gunshot wound but it would be a cold day in hell the day he willingly eats anything old past like two weeks right now. Not for any rational reason like the food tasting bad or possible sickness—he’s eaten stuff older than a month before and been fine—but goods past the due date usually didn’t heal as well. 

Finally, after sifting through his entire pantry and fridge for something he liked that wasn’t old, he found some popcorn in a bag. He chucked it in the microwave and set the timer for a few minutes, staring into the barely see-through window as the timer went down. His leg started to jump up and down impatiently. As soon as this finishes cooking he can put this behind him. No one has to know he failed his job as the Great Sheriff of the Wild East (™). At worst, all that’ll be left is a small scar until he can get like a Feisty Slider at Dina’s saloon or something, and at best it’ll disappear entirely. Wow, Starlo, when you’re not being stupid you’re actually really smart. Has anyone ever told you how handsome and cool y-

ding!

Any rational thought he had left in his brain fled like dogs the moment the microwave beeped. He flung the door open so hard it sounded concerning to the integrity of the machine and tore into the still-hot bag like an animal, trying to ignore the ache in his side. He tossed a few steaming pieces of popcorn into his mouth, even flicking a few in the air to catch. 

Heh, sucker. Nice try with your stupid magic bullet. Try again in another one hundred yearsss.

The entire bag was demolished in just a few minutes and tossed somewhere in the direction of the garbage can once emptied. Starlo snickered, a stupidly smug smile on his face. Oh, the joys of being a monster. Free healing! He slapped where the wound was with joy—-

—-and woke up on the floor five minutes later, head and body aching like he was run over by one of his own magic trains at least 100 times.

“Whah… hahpeh..?” His mouth was as dry as the sands outside, and his tongue was still burned from the popcorn, scratching the roof of his mouth uncomfortably. “Did iht not..” Carefully this time, he poked around the spot of the wound, whole-body flinching at the responding pain. It did NOT heal, and if anything, got worse, entire right side screaming at him louder than before. 

That’s..not supposed to work like that.

Cold, hard, absolute fear enveloped his flesh, digging its sharp, deadly claws into him. It wasn’t healing. Popcorn restores health. He knows this. Everyone knows this. It’s monster food. But it didn’t heal anything. If that didn’t heal him, then… …he had to check something.

With a grunt, he pushed himself up to a sitting position that unfortunately was not beloved by his side. It.. was probably fine. Yeah, it was probably fine. But any good cowboy makes sure to check their i’s and dot their t’s (or however that saying goes). Body shaking with exertion and effort, Star pushed his SOUL from his chest to the outside of his body. 

Every soul has a different color, depending on its core trait. Purple for PERSEVERANCE, green for KINDNESS, blue for INTEGRITY, the list goes on. Something else about SOULs, though, is that they can tell you more about your health---specifically, how much more damage you can take before it shatters.

Starlo’s always been a dull, yellow thing; enough JUSTICE to taint it but not enough DETERMINATION to make it vibrant. Star let it float in his hands, head tilted down slightly, eyes wide with disbelief. It’s had its fair share of scratches and small cracks, imperfections gained from his scuffles. But the SOUL in his hands wasn’t just scratched, no. A few thin cracks lead around the edges and towards the core, but it wasn’t quite impacted yet. Most pressingly though, on the right side of the heart, part of it was missing. Not floating aimlessly around the SOUL, but just. Gone. A whole circle taken out of his SOUL, as if it were carved out by a professional. On closer inspection, though, something else was amiss. The edges of the carving were a deep purple, the same exact kind of purple that surrounded his wound. If the hole wasn’t there, it would just look like a strange bruise on his heart.

He heaved himself off of the floor, eyes not once leaving the dim yellow thing in his teal-tipped hands despite the strenuous pain. The bathroom door was locked behind him; his hands were white-knuckle gripping the counter. Pale, white eyes stared back at him, light yellow heart-shaped object in his peripheral vision. This whole situation was worse--so much worse than he thought it was. Monster food couldn’t heal him, and whatever liquid entered his wound--probably some kind of poison--was affecting his SOUL directly. Usually, in this scenario, you would go to the clinic. You’d pay their ridiculous rates and get everything figured out for you.

Starlo wasn’t going to, though. 

Going to the clinic would mean he gave up, that he couldn’t handle this on his own.

But that wasn’t the real issue. If he went… then everyone would know. Fans, enemies, friends , family , they’d know. They’d know how pathetic he is--how he can’t even take care of himself when it matters. A mighty sheriff being left scared and vulnerable on the medical table? The great sheriff of the Wild East getting injured by something easily avoidable? Getting injured in his early days was excusable, he was new to the job, after all. But now? He’d be a laughingstock! It would confirm what his family thought: that he couldn’t handle it. His posse-

(Ace breaking the news, hat low on his head. Moray clicking their tongue with pity, looking down at him. Ed taking his star from his poncho to hang off his vest. Mooch kicking him out of the door. Laughter. His friends laughing at him because he could barely even keep them safe much less himself and how could they have such an incompetent leader who can’t even take a bullet-)

No. They won’t know. They’re never going to. He won’t let them. It’ll be fine, he’ll be fine. He just has to keep an eye on it and it’ll heal on its own. No one is going to notice anything off, and before they know it, he’ll be back to full health. He’ll have to practice living with a hole on his torso, but those cowboys in the movies have gone through worse and been fine. 

All he has to do is wait it out.

He can do this.

Chapter Text

Turns out, hiding a wound is harder than you’d think.

What happened to the cowboys in the movies kind of varied. If you were a bandit, it took one bullet and you were down; A hero could take tens of shots and walk it off. Star was in a weird middle point where he felt like he was dying but was going to have to walk it off anyways. 

He eventually left the bathroom and returned to he and his brother’s shared room, SOUL trailing him like a shadow. If he was going to take life by the neck and force it to go back to normal, then he’d have to act like everything’s normal--like he doesn’t have a poisoned wound that could be slowly killing him. 

The next couple of hours turned into a strange routine; Starlo would walk around his room while trying to keep his gait as even as possible before turning to punch or kick or pretend like he was reaching for his revolver. Between (or even within) these movements, he’d stumble or even fall flat on his face, hole in his torso protesting with every shift of his limbs. It was a never-ending ache, but it didn’t take long for him to get used to the feeling. The wound started to remind him of the static that would appear on his favorite television: annoying at first, and then dulled to background noise that you just kind of got used to. 

It took a few hours, but eventually he felt like he had it down. Sure, his right leg had a bit of a limp and his arm wasn’t as quick as it usually was, but the changes were hardly noticeable, so he deemed the whole thing a success. 

Decked out in his usual ensemble, Starlo thanked his past self for getting such a massive poncho, the thing swamping his entire torso. In the off chance that his bandages would get air from under his shirt, it still wouldn’t see the light of day. Small blessings. Another blessing was that he technically didn’t have to see anyone until tomorrow, so he had even more time to get used to the wound. Plus, he was sure it would heal on its own. Maybe it’ll just be easier to deal with tomorrow. His belt, which usually hung low, was raised and tightened for some extra pressure. All in all--and despite the constant ache in his side--he wasn’t doing too bad! Better than he was doing, at least.

Humming, he took another look at himself in the mirror. There was a slight lean on his left leg, but he looked just fine. If he played his cards right, he wouldn’t have to really see anyone the next day. 

His plan was simple: Take over the mines for the day. It didn’t sound like a crazy idea, but the entire posse heavily disliked watching over the mines, mostly since virtually nothing ever happened over there besides miners slacking off. Oh, and that one guy stealing his brother’s dynamite. But besides that, there wasn’t really much to note about that side of town.

This made it the perfect spot for Starlo to be.

No one would reasonably need him, and he could spend the day under the shade somewhere while keeping an eye on the workers. If anyone thought he was acting strange, he could play it off as boredom or exhaustion. It was perfect! All he had to do was watch over the mines and go home, where no one would bother him-

Shit.

Starlo grimaced as a memory resurfaced, one from days ago. It was a particularly drowsy day, and the posse was bored out of their minds. Everything changed, though, when Mooch ran into the saloon, raving like a madman. The posse couldn’t understand what she was rambling about until she dropped an old vhs tape onto the table. Its title was smudged from water and age, but the sheriff could decipher it well enough: Hang ‘em high . A western none of the posse had seen before. Ed had swung around Mooch all while Ace and Moray cheered, clinking their mugs of root beer together. In the heat of the moment, Star had gleefully announced a movie night at their hideout, promising delicious Dina-prepared snacks and root beer.

He was still on the fence on whether or not he regretted the offer.

Acting in front of the town was nothing--he’s been doing it for about a year, after all. Acting in front of his friends, though? His posse? They’d catch on. Oh, they’d catch on faster than you could say buncha’ munchy crunchy carrots. When they inevitably caught him, they’d be so incredibly disappointed. Not only was he weak, but he thought he could hide something from them. He’d be kicked out before the title card even played.

They wouldn’t… kick him to the curb, would they?

It was a train of thought he’d been entertaining the past few hours. The main reason he was even hiding this wound was so his posse didn’t think lower of him than they already surely did, but he was starting to feel a little torn. Maybe it was wishful thinking to think that the injury would disappear before the others caught on. Maybe. But either way, his own foolishness and stupidity got him--and almost Mooch--hurt. They should be angry with him on principle alone, for almost letting such a thing happen to their youngest member. 

But would they absolve him of his title? Would they tear his badge from his poncho? Or would they forgive him? They shouldn’t. But would they?

His head hurt.

A strong, angry sigh spilled from his lungs. Welp, he was already knee-deep into this plan, even forgoing medical help for it. He’d just have to turn North Star up to eleven. No, he’d have to turn him up to twelve. 

Would they believe him if he said that he was challenging himself to stand all night for “endurance training”?

“Uh, Star, ya good? You’ve been standin’ there a while.”

Star gasped, choking down a yelp. He spun around to face the door, where he was just now hearing knocking. Orion wasn’t supposed to be home yet. It was still-

“Yeah, I’m- I’m fine, Ryan. Just- what time is it?”

Some short hums sounded from beside the door. “Dunno. Like, nine?”

Time froze. Starlo froze. The farmer’s brows furrowed in concern, but he wasn’t able to say anything before his younger brother suddenly came back to himself and ran up to the doorframe. “NINE?!” The word was strangled and loud. Two pairs of eyes blinked at each other. Orion went to voice his confusion but Star spoke first with an intensity very unlike him. “It is not fucking nine, ryan.”

The other stiffened, baffled. “I’m… pretty sure it is? Go look outside, man,” Work boots carried an exhausted body to the bathroom door. With a hand on the doorknob, Ryan half turned towards him, blank eyes turned tired. “Ma thought she heard you freaking out a little when she came in the door. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Damn. He was really hoping he’d be in bed by the time the family came in to retire for the night. Time really flew away from him.

“It’s- uh, yeah, sorry, I’m fine. Just bit out of it s’all,” Star rubbed the back of his head with a sheepish expression, a light grin awkward on his face. “Didn’t, ah, think it was that late already.”

Awkward silence. Orion was studying him with squinted eyes, his mouth in an upside-down smirk. A bead of sweat dripped down the sheriff’s face. He wasn’t sure how long they stood staring at each other for -- hell, it could’ve been hours for all Star knew -- but eventually, his brother must’ve seen what he wanted in him, plaid-clad shoulders drooping with a huff. “Whatever. M’ too tired t’ even ask why yer still in yer work getup. Say hi to mom n’ dad n’ go to bed, man.” The bathroom door closed with an unintentional slam.

The stress in Starlo finally left his body with a sigh of his own, tension loss making his body just about collapse in on itself. He turned towards the stairs as rushing water sounded from the other side of the bathroom door. At the top of the case, he called down to his parents.

“Night, ma! G’night, dad!”

A gruff chuckle. Strong footsteps made their way to the bottom of the stairs, revealing a pair of tired yet lively eyes that lit up at the sight of his kid. “Get some real nice shuteye, son! Happy t’ see ya.” 

Soft giggling echoed from the kitchen; his mother’s way of saying goodnight. Even though Star was still probably poisoned and in pain, he couldn’t help but grin down at his father. He sped off towards he and his brother’s shared room while Soloman’s deep voice rumbled something incoherent to Crestina.

Star changed as fast as he monsterly could, almost tearing holes in his sleep shirt (which was definitely not a gag gift Ceroba bought him months ago that he couldn’t stomach tossing despite the fact he told her he did. Even though the skeleton on the front looked funny and they used the wrong “your”. Why would a human be underground committing genocides? Are they stupid? They never got far past the ruins.) 

He had to grit his teeth to avoid making a pained sound when he had to lift his arms up, but overall, he was handling everything pretty well. The shirt covered the bandages like he was hoping, though it probably didn’t matter much as he rarely saw his family in the morning due to their differing schedules. Better to be safe than sorry, in any case.

That included not curling up into a ball on his left side like he usually did. Every fold of his body cried out on his right side when he tried getting comfortable, and figuring it would be better not to risk it, he laid down on his back. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he could feel how bone-tired he was. Stress and anxiety kept him from feeling much before, but it was beating him like a freight train now.

Starlo was out cold in seconds.

Sometimes he feels like he underestimates just how boring the mines are.

The plan went off without a hitch; Moray was ecstatic to be relieved from mine duty, being tasked with saloon security instead. If any of them had questions about why he would willingly pick the objectively worst job, they didn’t voice them. All the better for him. Even better, none of them picked up on the fact that he was hurt! Yeah, their meetings never really went on for real long, but still.

He kept tabs on his wound throughout the day. It wasn’t like he was slacking off--he was still keeping watch over everything and doing his rounds. He just paid a little more attention to it whenever it ached or made his breath hitch.

Waking up that morning wasn’t nearly as painful as he figured it would be, with the poisoned gunshot wound and all. He always woke up later than his family, so the bathroom was fully up for grabs. 

He just couldn’t make himself look at the thing. Old bandages were trashed and clean ones rested in their stead, but Star didn’t take one glance at the hole in his torso. Didn’t wanna risk not being able to eat the leftover breakfast his mom leaves for him.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much to note throughout the day, either from the mines or his own body. Thoughts of the impending movie night kept him occupied as the swealterstone in the sky slowly dimmed. 

(Chujin tried telling him about it once. Something about a night curtain and machinery. Star wasn’t really paying attention.)

The sheriff ended up lingering a little longer at the mines that he was supposed to, watching as the miners chatted and made their way back to town. A few of them waved a hand or spoke a greeting in his direction, of which he was more than happy to return. After a few minutes of silence, though, he realized he couldn’t stall for any longer. With a resigned sigh, North Star made his way towards the hideout. 

It was only once he reached the door that he remembered his promise to pick up food from Dina’s. He grumbled all the way to the saloon. Dina cocked a brow at his strange mood but didn’t comment -- bless her heart -- and instead shoved a whole buncha bags of sliders and fries into his hands.

At his surprised expression, the bartender just snickered. “Oh, please, I could hear ya chattin’ ‘bout yer new movie from across the room. Just pay me back later, Star.”

If Dina wasn’t in his top five monsters list already, she surely was gonna be. 

All the weight in his arms put some strain on the gash, but at least the two buildings were nearby. Starlo raised his left leg and knocked (kicked) on the door, which was quickly opened.

“Hey, nice. Lemme help you out with that.” Ace happily slipped some bags from his boss’ hands and closed the door as Star dropped his cargo onto the counter. Moray, Mooch, and Ed were bickering over something on the floor by the television. He assumed it was about seating, which was proven right when their resident thief began holding onto one of the couch seats with her life as Ed and Moray each tugged at a leg to get her off.

A snicker brought him back to Shadowman, who was looking upon the scene with amusement. As the argument got louder, Ace brought Starlo down by his shoulder to mutter something to him. Star bit down a hearty curse when his wound cramped. “Fency told me they wanted t’ give you their couch seat as thanks fer taking the mines job. They’re just arguing over the other spots now.”

Well shit, he’d feel like a right asshole if he didn’t accept the offer now. He tried to sound grateful, but his voice came out strained due to his position. “Ah, I’ll have t’, uh, tell ‘em thanks fer that. Thanks fer lettin’ me know. And for taking some bags. Off my hands.”

A beat. One singular eye is lidded with concern. “Are you-”

“FOOD’S HERE, Y’ALL!” The shouting match stops and four heads turn towards North Star, who is cupping his mouth with one hand and has his back straightened to full height. “COME GET YER FRIES B’FORE MOOCH TAKES ‘EM ALL!”

Conversations are forgotten as grubby hands fight over bags of grease. He tries not to laugh when Ed takes a bite from an offended fish’s burger. Ace gives Starlo a look -- his patented “We’re talking about this later” look -- and the sheriff pretends like he didn’t see it. Maybe if he just ignores it they’ll both forget. Cause that’s how that works.

Since his team was now thoroughly distracted, he took the time to take his own bag of food and sit down on his gifted seat. It was the seat on the right side of the couch, perfect for curling up into a ball of blue fish limbs, which of course, wasn’t a trend he’d be following today. A deep breath was taken and he began to lower himself onto the cushion. In the back of his mind was a visual of his late grandfather doing the exact same thing the last time he visited. He tried not to cringe at himself.

Finally, he plopped down, a small poof of dust flying out from his weight. His head went back, eyes facing the ceiling, and his legs were stretched out in front of him. An internal blaze became lit underneath his meat, burning away at his lungs and ribs. It felt as if he could taste the smoke arising from the sizzling sensation. Leather gloves dig around his paper bag and he tries to focus on the fact that they’re going to certainly need a wash by the end of the night. Fortunately his thoughts do drift, though not the way he wants them to. 

He thinks of his earlier conversation with Ace. After a year of working with him, he’d gotten used to the other’s usual lack of expression; sharp words and wit were preferred over smiles and sobs. The guy was the poker champion for a reason. Him looking so worried didn’t fit him at all, and Starlo felt sick knowing he was the cause.

Chatter broke him from his stupor as his friends returned to the living area, having fought their own wars for sitting places and snacks. Half-glazed eyes watch as Ed and Moray drop down into piles of pillows on each side of the television. Mooch curls up into the left side of the couch this time, leaving the middle open for-

Oh, for fucks sake.

Ace gently places his tophat on his bed and stalks over, skillfully maneuvering around the squirrel wriggling under a stack of blankets to take his place, handing out bottles of root beer before sitting down. Star not-so-expertly tries to make himself smaller by shifting further into the right side of the couch. He grimaces when the gambler moves just the tiniest bit closer. 

How is he supposed to get the gambler off his case for now?

…Well, come to think of it, there is one very obvious option.

“Ed!” Said giant blinks over at the sheriff with wide eyes, being met with a light smile. “Why don’t ya do t’ honors t’day, eh? Start it up!”

On most movie night days, the posse lets North Star put the VHS tapes in. Something about boss’ honor and respect. It’s nothing to write home about, but it’s touching nonetheless. He might as well give the honors to someone else tonight, mostly seeing as he himself is certainly not going to get up to do it.

A predictable snaggletooth grin widens. The giant jumps to his feet, snagging the tape from the TV’s head and poking it through the slip of the player. Bright, neon blue transitions to a fuzzy, unsaturated field as the soundtrack starts up. Everyone finishes settling in. 

In Star’s indiscreet squirming, he accidentally smacks the wound on the couch’s arm. All of the air in his lungs vanishes into dark grey vapor and leaves him silently, breathlessly heaving, head facing the nearby wall. He hopes no one can see the small beads of sweat drip down his face. Unbeknownst to him, a shadow whispers to a bandit, weary eyes looking over his form. 

It blessedly doesn’t take long for the attack to cease; it ends just in time for the group of five to watch in shock as the main character is ambushed and hanged. For about thirty minutes, any thoughts of his injury vanish. His poncho bunches up at his stomach as he leans forward, entranced, to see the protagonist take down one of his almost-murderers.

Mooch leaps up and cheers when the battle ends. (It wasn’t really a battle, all things considered, but whatever. Still cool, so who cares.) Scaly fingers toss a thin tomato piece at their boss. It leaves red residue where it hits and lands on his poncho. With a shrug, the slice is retrieved and consumed. He almost chokes on it when a single eye at his left narrows in disgust.

Chuckling, North Star leans down to snag his own bottle of root beer, only to feel a taught pull at his right.

The poisoned hole pulses, leaving the sheriff with his arm half-outstretched and frozen. Any good mood in his system is replaced by cold, raw anxiety. Something is pumping his bloodstream, but he can’t tell what. All he can hear is a high-pitched hum. The chatter of his friends and the intense music from the VHS don’t exist anymore. 

Four bodies shake with laughter and cheer, crinkled eyes looking back and forth from the television to their friends. Someone makes a joke. They all hollar. Someone points at the TV with urgency. Everyone turns to the screen and jeers when the villain gets one up on the hero. A red arm nudges a blue shoulder with a smirk. They cough when liquid goes down the wrong pipe. Gray fuzz motions around the room with a fry. Dark hands try to hide a wobbly lift of lips.

Starlo does not see any of this. 

He does not see anything.

Static fills every atom in existence. Each twitch of flesh sends shockwaves fizzling up and down his veins. A void swallows all of his friends; darkness chews on his senses with jagged teeth. His body trembles when he moves back, spine collapsing in on itself. He can’t get his hands to stop quivering. It takes years. Decades. Centuries. His dominant hand inches towards his right. Bit by bit. Little by little. It takes hold of his glove. Leather is pulled back like skin. He can’t get his hands to stop quivering. It lands limply on the floor, soundless. His fingers are a deep purple. His veins are bright and pulsing and shifting and getting tangled together. Unconscious movements shift his sleeve up. He blinks. It blinks back. Eyes widen from the limb, all staring directly at him. No. No. They’re looking through him. They’re looking within him. Vile liquid spills from their sockets. It burns. It’s burning him. It’s burning holes in the couch. They know. They know something. His heart thunders and pounds and stills like a dead man’s organ. Is it moving? Is he dying? He thinks there’s spiders. What do they know?

He can’t get his hands to stop quivering.

An unseen force touches his arm. Shocked gasps tear from Starlo’s throat. The lack of breath in his lungs makes itself known. His head feels too light on his shoulders. Is it still even there?

Someone has intertwined their fingers with his, squeezing occasionally as feeling slowly yet surely comes back to him. He’s gripping their hand so hard it’s painful and leaves his fingers tinged white and will surely leave a bruise on theirs, but they don’t move away. 

More hands. Some of them pat his arms, some of them poke and prod at his hip; Star soon realizes they’re trying to get him to react. Large, bulky arms wrap around his shoulders in an embrace and compress him from time to time. Despite the lack of room, he feels safer than he has in days.

Voices. A monster is talking to him. He’s too woozy to understand still, but the tone is patient and gentle. It makes him want to breathe slowly. So he does.

In - hitch - and out. I- cough- and out. In, and in and out and in , and out. In and out. In. And out.

“-doing great, Star,” The deep voice has a mysterious tilt to it, though it is strained with nerves. It shouldn’t sound like that. It shouldn’t sound nervous. “In, and out. Just like that. You’re gonna be okay.”

Everything keeps going fuzzy, and then it keeps clearing up. Words faze in and out with his breathing, only letting him catch some things.

“What…penned?”

“....the doc..”

“..hould we get Cer…..?”

“ Hic, hic, sniff…. ”

In due time, spasmed breaths smoothe out into a regular pattern. Starlo’s grip lightens as his stress drops; small impressions of scales are left on his ungloved digits. A sigh spills from his chapped lips, all remaining tension blowing away with the puff of air. Unconsciously, he falls to the side, where his comforting captor is sitting. He now realizes that he was moved to the center of the couch. Mooch is curled up into a ball at his left, and Ed took his place on his right. Moray is right in front of him while Ace is to their right, squeezing his shoulder. 

The puffball coughs and hiccups. Guilt brings a tremor back to his limbs and makes his heart weigh heavy in his sternum. It feels like a monumental effort, but he lifts his arm over to the group's youngest. Her sniffling levels out as he strokes the unruly hair on her head. They should really start helping her brush that mess.

Taking in another deep breath, Star tries to voice his thought, but finds himself unable to speak it. A glass is held in front of him by steady, reliable webbed hands. Moray must’ve let go at some point. It’s upsetting him a little that he can’t remember when they left.

He handles the cup the best he can while being manhandled, and by that, he manages not to spill it, even despite his still-shaken hands. Most of the water blesses his sore throat, but a few thin streaks drip down his chin. Someone -- probably Ace -- pats him down with a handkerchief. He feels like a child. It’s not a good feeling.

When the glass empties, it gets pried from his hands. There’s a clink somewhere off in the kitchen. Green fabric sits up next to the sheriff and Mooch nuzzles his side, face upset and afraid both. Star can’t help but wrap an arm around her in the best side hug he can muster for the time.

Ed, surprisingly, is the first to speak up and break the fragile, tense silence. “...You okay, boss? Ya… ya scared us a lot.”

It takes him a minute to speak. “I don’t.. whaht happehn?”

Mooch’s voice crackles when she talks. “Y-you started breathin’ hard n’... n’ ye just started lookin’ like you were seein’ ghosts,” She took a deep breath to center herself. Her next words are quieter this time. “Ace tried shaking you, b’t you weren’t reacting n’ he said yew weren’t breathin’ right n’ that you could’ve.. Um….”

“Asphyxiated. North Star could’ve asphyxiated.” A weary expression greets the sheriff. Ace looks exhausted, a kind of exhaustion Star hadn’t seen on him before. The guilty rumble turns into a nauseous tidal wave. “I ain’t a doc… but God Star, that wasn’t good. Heard you move, and you were just starin’ down at your arm. Tried askin’ you what was up, but your eyes were, like…” Shadowed hands dance as if trying to grab a word from thin air. In a move incredibly unlike himself, Ace chokes and gives up. “Point is, something was wrong. What in Asgore’s name was that?”

Their favorite fencer returns with another glass of water, of which Star accepts gratefully. The large, red arms holding him captive gradually fall to the wayside as he takes careful sips. No noise comes from the television, proving itself to have been paused some time ago. Bright light bathes the room in blue and grey. His hat is gone; a turn of his head sees it on Moray’s abandoned pile of pillows and blankets. A gentle breeze makes the hideout’s blinds flow ever so softly.

His posse doesn't make a sound. Mooch is blinking up at him, tail curled around the arm curled around her and her grabby hands folded in her lap. Star’s arm rest (more of a body-rest, really) shifts slightly, letting him get more comfortable from where he’s leaning. Marine fins look between the other four members before lingering on him; it’s a nervous tick they do when they want to help but don’t know what to say. Ace’s expression has gone hard to read, but there is still stressed tension in his shoulders. 

Starlo feels loved.

It makes his next words hurt.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

There’s no flavorful accent. There’s no bravado. Just a tired farmer’s boy.

The gambler looks like he wants to protest -- to poke through his words until he can’t deflect anymore -- but he doesn’t. He just nods. “...Okay. That’s- I get it.”

Moray tries to protest. “Ace-”

“-I get it. That whole thing must’ve been a lot. We can talk about it tomorrow.” A beat. “Would probably be a good idea to get you home, actually.”

Grey claws almost smack Star in the face. “Ooh! Ooh! I’ll do it!” At her boss’ exasperated look, she bristles. “Hey! Y-you helped me out yest’rday, okay? It’s only fair.”

She’s pulling him up before he can argue. The only reason he doesn’t yell out in pain is he’s too tired to. His- The crew bid him and Mooch farewell, mentioning that they should give him some space.

No! He wants to cry. I’m scared. This hurts so much. I don’t want to leave. Don’t make me leave!

Mooch’s hand grounds him as they walk. Familiar desert terrain morphs on their short journey, and soon, the comforting visage of the farmhouse welcomes the two.

Just before she turns to run off, she captures the sheriff’s legs in the tightest hug she can muster. He leans down despite the pain to return the affection, and he almost misses her next words from how quiet they are.

“Please be okay. Ion’ wanna lose someone else.”

Starlo doesn’t cry. It’s a near thing, though.

Giving his knees one last friendly pat, Mooch scurries away. The house is almost haunting as he turns around to scale the stairs. Someone’s watching him. No one is around.

This is getting so much worse so much faster than he thought it would. 

The door wails as he shoves it open. There’s no one to greet him, which he was expecting. His leg closes the door and he locks it, body facing away.

At a snail’s pace does he climb up to the second floor. Entering the shared room, he chucks his boots, hat, poncho, and remaining glove off to the side. Ryan stirs a little at the thuds but stays fast asleep even when his younger brother flops onto the bottom bunk. 

For the second time in two days, Starlo is out like a light within seconds. 

Orion wakes up to an empty bunk.

Blinking, confused, he pats the abandoned pile of blankets just to make sure. Nothing. 

His younger brother was never an early riser, only waking up earlier than nine from a nightmare or anxiety, but even then, Orion would’ve heard him freaking out.

It’s especially strange since he’s out and about at SIX.

Socked feet shuffle out the bedroom and to the bathroom. Soft yellow light shines out from under the door.

What the hell? When he speaks, he makes sure it's at a just-audible whisper. “...Lo?”

Something drops in the bathroom. There’s silence, and then there’s panicked movement. “Sorry, Ryan,” The voice is shaky and strained. “Did.. did you need to-?”

“Oh, uh, nah. Just makin’ sure you’re okay. I mean, you’re never up this early, so…”

“Yeah.” … That’s all? Before Orion gets a chance to interrogate, his brother starts back up again, voice even more cracked and frazzled. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Pfft, I always wake up at six, Star.”

“Oh.”

…

“Star.”

“...Ryan.”

“Let me in.”

“I… can’t do that.”

Cold, raw concern grips Orion. The farmer fights with the doorknob. His lips set into a grimace. Locked. “Stop being a dumbass. Let me help.”

Nothing comes from the other side of the door. Ryan’s grimace morphs into gritted-teeth scowl. Fine. If he was gonna be like that, then he’d have to play dirty.

“I’ll tell mom and-”

The door swings wide open. The older brother has to fight down a gasp at the younger’s appearance. “Holy shit, you look terrible.”

Terrible doesn’t even scratch the surface of how Starlo looks. His body is hunched over, shoulders exhausted from carrying an invisible weight. He’s still wearing his sheriff’s outfit from the other day, but there’s purple stains on the poncho and belt. Their family’s trademarked glow is pale, too, almost gone entirely. What makes Ryan pause, though, is Star’s eyes. They’re almost sunken in nature; massive eye bags fall into his face and give him the look of a dying raccoon. There’s a small line of violet liquid dripping down his chin.

There’s gagging. Orion’s not even sure who’s doing it.

Star shakily wipes his mouth with his beloved poncho, frowning as he does it. “M’ jus’... sick. M’ sick, is all. Dun’ wan’ mum n’ dad seein’ me l’ke this.”

“What virus makes you look like that? ”

“.....Bad one.”

“Well no shit, man.”

Apparently, Lo’s not in bad enough shape to not be able to giggle. “M-mum would kill you if she heard allat swearing from ya.”

Ryan scoffs. “Not if this disease kills you first.”

The sickened smile fell as fast as it came. A shadow comes across his face, swollen eyes becoming entranced with the ground. 

As much as the farmer wants to throw Star over his shoulder and run down to the clinic, if he hadn’t gone down there already, then there must be a good reason. It’s a reason he surely wouldn’t be told, but it has to be a good one nonetheless. Maybe it’s for that little squirrel girl’s sake; she did always seem to hate hospitals and doctors.

“Listen,” Tired eyes blink back to the present, though they look slightly glossed over now. Orion tries to muster as much ‘Solomon Seriousness’ as he can. “I’m not gunna make you go to th’ doc, but you need t’ promise me somethin’.”

“..Hm?”

Ryan grabs Starlo’s shoulders and squeezes hard. His younger brother flinches something fierce. “When- no, IF this gets worse, you are going to go to the clinic. I won’t make you go now, but the moment it gets worse, you’re going. I won’t tell our parents, but it’s not my fault if they find out on their own. Kay? Okay?”

Star nods wildly. The action makes the elder sigh and drop his arms. A weird silence takes over between the two of them, making them both feel shifty and uncomfortable. It might be the most awkward Ryan’s felt in months.

“So, uh… Since you’re awake, do ya want breakfast?”

His brother smiles; it’s a genuine one this time. “Sure. Let me just do something n’ I’ll come down.”

Giving a smile of his own, Orion turns and pads down the stairs to where Cristina and Solomon are getting ready for the day. Both of them wave, and then brighten at the prospect of Star coming down for breakfast with the family. When he finally makes his way down, food is already served with a hot plate left for him. Starlo looks way better than he had a few minutes ago, but something in Ryan’s stomach still churns a little at the sight.

He forces himself to shake it off. Whatever. Lo’s an adult, he can handle himself.

Too preoccupied with eating, he fails to notice Starlo drop his fork three times.

Chapter Text

Starlo went to bed feeling like shit.

He woke up feeling even worse.

It was some early time in the morning--early enough for the “sky” to still be dark. Not that he was paying attention, too busy puking his guts up in the bathroom.

The toilet flushed, and he was left heaving and coughing. His throat was burning--no, worse than burning. It was practically scalding .

Every part of him felt disgusting. He hobbled over to the mirror. Sweat dripped down his face in waves; from exertion or sickness he couldn’t tell. His eyes were wide with shock; if he had pupils they would surely be shaking. Purple dribbled from the corner of his mouth, leaving small, gross stains on his shirt. Upon further inspection, his entire body was shivering like a leaf. Looking at himself was making him dizzy from the movement.

His entire outfit was horribly stained from sweat and poison. The spectacles on his face were partially fogged and frankly hard to see through, making him aware that he’d completely forgotten he even had glasses. There was no sign of his belt when he woke up.

Grumbling, he wiped the purple dribble from his mouth with the back of his hand. He still couldn’t get it to stop quivering.

His condition made him scared to look at it again, but he had to. He had to. His stomach churned fiercely as he painstakingly unwound the gauze holding the wound in place. Each strand tickled his skin,the lack of pressure making him aware of the pain again. Finally, after what felt like hours, the last of the bandages fell.

The sight left him frozen.

All around the hole spread a sickening, deep violet that surrounded it like vines. Vaguely, he was reminded of the markings he saw appear on his hand the other night. He couldn’t ignore the resemblance. The strands curved around like petals, all intertwining and coming apart at the seams. His ribs were almost breached--he didn’t doubt that they’d be reached by the end of the day. Half of his stomach was hugged by the purple vessels, and Starlo had to assume that there was a similar effect happening to his right leg. Actually, now that he was… kind of thinking about it, there was a weird numbing ache going on inside of his thigh. 

It’s… probably fine. Yeah. Yeah, it’s totally fine. He’s recovering. Probably. Totally.

Star did a few small laps around the bathroom. His stride still seemed somewhat unaffected by the wound, but his right leg had a stronger limp than before. Hardly noticeable, but noticeable enough when you’re picking apart the details.

However, he tried to think about the positives. Like, how it could be worse!

“It could totally be worse,” He whispered to himself, a manic kind of energy underlying the quiet words. “And uh. It’s probably gonna be worse. Soon. Eventually.”

After a short moment of quiet, he sighed, bringing his dominant hand down his face.

“Okay--whatever, not important.” Suddenly, he pointed at the mirror with his left arm. “What’s actually important is figuring out what the hell I’m supposed to tell the posse.”

Feigning exhaustion probably wouldn’t work; he promised he’d get better sleep after all the paranoia stuff, and he really didn’t wanna break their hearts like that with a lie. Telling them he was sick wouldn’t work either; hallucinations aren’t symptoms of a common cold, and they’d just get more concerned. If they all grilled him, there wasn’t a non-zero chance that he wouldn’t drop the act and just show them the wound. Which, of course, was completely non-negotiable.

It’d be real easy if he could just not talk to them today.

Starlo blinked. His reflection blinked back.

Is… is there a way he wouldn’t have to see the posse today? Could he somehow just ignore them? No, no. Not ignore. He’s just… giving them space. Yeah, just giving them space.

So how’s he gonna go about that?

Cleaning the wound’s probably a good start.

With a sigh, Star grabbed the bar of soap off the counter-

And then he heard Orion, and just about had a heart attack.

“...Lo?”

He reapplied the gauze in record time, as half-hazard as it was. It took him a minute to remember how to speak. “Sorry, Ryan.” … “Did.. did you need to-?”

The rest of the conversation went better than Star thought it would, especially after his brother actually got a good look at him. Thankfully, he was able to clean himself up a little after that, lessening his eye bags with water and changing into some actual clothes. His parents brightened once he stumbled down the stairs, all glowing bodies and smiling faces. Crestina’s food was as good as ever—even if he couldn’t stop fumbling his stupid fork.

For most of breakfast, everyone ate in silence. At least, until Solomon cleared his throat. “Not that I’m not happy you’re spending more time with us Star, but it’s weird seein’ ya awake so early. There a prob’lem, son?”

“Ah,” Starlo swallowed his bite of pancakes. “N-nah, it’s just-”

Starlo stilled. His mother’s food was warm and filling, but all he felt was a cold chill. 

There were eyes watching them. No, watching him. The corners of his vision started going dark, making everything blend together. There were eyes somewhere. But where?! BUT WHERE?! 

His mother frowned, placing another plate of hashbrowns down on the table. “Star, dear? Are you alright? You stopped talking so suddenly.”

Star gasped back to life. The eyes and the darkness were gone, as if they were never there. Everyone at the table was staring at him. There were new eyes now. But he could see these ones. “I… yeah. Yeah, sorry. Yeah I’m fine. Jus’ tired, ‘sall.”

Solomon leaned across the table slightly, making his concerned face all the more visible in the dark, even despite his constant glow. “It is early, I s’pose, but… well, ya never get like this unless there’s sum’ goin’ on with yer friends. Did y’all fight?”

Yawning, Star went to correct him. In the back of his mind, he saw that this could be an opportunity to get away from the posse for a while, but lying to his family about that seemed a little--

“Uh, yeah. We had a pretty nasty fight the other day n’ I just kinda need sum’ space fer a while. If they come up t’tha farm, could ya just tell ‘em I ain’t here? Feel bad lyin’ to them but… well, y’know.”

He’s shocked at his sudden ability to lie--not that his face shows it, still flat with exhaustion.

“Oh you poor thing!” Crestina squished his cheek once she shuffled over. “I am so sorry to hear that, love. Is there anything else we could do?”

The lie tumbled out of his mouth easily. It left a sickening feeling in his gut. “Nah. Just tell ‘em I’on feel good n’ don’t wanna talk to ‘em right now. I was wanting t’ help out ‘round the farm, anyhow.”

Breakfast wrapped up nicely after that, with his parents ecstatic over his rare farm involvement. Just as he stood at the sink to wash his plate, though, Orion came up and elbowed his back. “Y’ain’t gotta perform fer the family, yaknow.”

Starlo turned the water on, and then he blinked over, confused. “Hm?”

“The accent. You were doin’ it.”

“I was? I mean, it ain’t that weird, right? All of y’all do it. Ain’t like I got it outta nowhere.”

“Mom doesn’t, not really. But I guess.”

The two of them just stand for a while, letting the sound of rushing water and scrubbing fill the air. Suddenly, Ryan heaves a sigh. “Jus’... you ain’t never really got Dad’s accent, though. Y’only got it from those movies, not him. Sounds weird, s’all. Anything to do with your…” He looked around quickly, making sure their parents weren’t listening, and then he dropped his voice to a whisper.  “...illness?”

“Ain’t a bad illness, Ryan,” Star couldn’t help but grimace, catching the accented word once it left his mouth. The dishes clinked and clanged together when he set them out to dry. “Weird cold. Tried taking some o’that medicine and couldn’t stomach it. I’m well enough to work on the farm, before you say anything.”

Orion nudged his back and stalked off, probably to go fiddle with the tractor. A quick glance also showed that Solomon had vanished, which left only Starlo and Crestina in the kitchen alone.

She never really did a lot of manual labor; as much as she tried, she really couldn’t move all the stuff the guys could. Not that she minded, since she hated getting all gross and dirty out in the fields. Instead, she put her expertise to pretty much everything else. The guys did most of the dirty work, sure, but Crestina was, quoting his father, “One bright n’ handy woman!” They were statements no one disagreed with, even outside the house. If Star had to make a list of his top five monsters, his mother had to be near the top for all the hard work she’s put in for the family.

He got made fun of a lot as a kid for being a “mama’s boy.” Even as a young adult he never understood the insult. Why insult someone for being closer with their mom? She taught him how to sew, and it was a skill he treasured greatly. Sure, only Ceroba really talked to him until he became the sheriff, but she’s worth about ten people so it didn’t matter.

(Really he just wished Crestina would stop trying so hard to get him a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or anyone. It made bringing her into town more than a bit embarrassing sometimes, especially when ‘Roba was around.)

Starlo hobbled upstairs and tried to change into his work clothes quickly. Keyword being ‘tried’, as any fast movements started making the room spin. Finally, he slotted his hat onto its perch and, after stumbling down the steps, pushes the front door open.

Orion and Solomon were working the tractor out front, a large pile of corn already taking up the back. Snagging a large woven basket, he made his way to the two. Solomon stopped the vehicle once Star got close.

“Ready fer yer first batch?” His father grinned, already hopping out to procure some of his haul. A chuckle left Starlo’s mouth as he made his way around, handing the basket over once they convened. Solomon scooped a bunch of corn into the basket before handing it back. The sheriff pulled on the carrier, but found it unmoving. He looked up to meet the older man’s light glare. “Jus’... dun’t ferget t’ sep’rate the husks from the corn in the basket this time. Alright son? I wanna hear you say alright.”

It was a hard-fought match with his own mind to not say anything snarky in response, instead choosing to bite the bullet. “Alright, yes sir. I won’t do it again.” Apparently he was still fighting himself as he let “Even though I did it literally once, like, five years ago. Let it go, dad.” slip out.

Both Orion and Solomon just laughed deep-belly roars in response, the sun retaking the tractor’s wheel. A tear came from Ryan’s eye, of which he wiped away with a wheeze. “Make sure ya dun’t eat the husks, neither!”

The moment their father’s back was turned Star flipped his brother off. Ryan just laughed harder, giving the cowboy a chance to leave with his newfound vegetable gains.

Assholes, the lot of them.

Shucking corn was relatively easy, actually. All in all, it’s probably his favorite task on the farm. Formulaic and simple, it’s pretty hard to mess up (Not counting what happened five years ago, of course). Generally, though, as much as he adored the thrill and chill of being the sheriff, just… being able to sit down and enjoy the wild sounds of nature while doing something monotonous and mindless was great sometimes. Gave him something to focus on other than whatever was tearing apart his brain. Today he’d be distracting himself from something a little more physical.

Star sat down at his favorite spot: a nice little shaded place behind the house. Somehow, the swealterstones never seemed to reach the specific little area and always kept it darkened from the heat. Not… that it was quite hot out yet, seeing that it was still about seven in the morning, but it was still a nice, comfortable little shaded spot either way. There was already an empty basket to the right of where he usually sat, fragments of husks stuck to the bottom. The tractor’s incessantly loud motor could be heard from here.

Sitting down was shockingly easy. The wound barely even hurt when he kicked his legs out in front of him and set the basket down to his left. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough medical knowledge to know whether or not that was good, especially since it was hurting like hell only about an hour ago. 

A husk hit the area between his legs. A cob was tossed into the empty basket.

Grabbing the next cob, Starlo couldn’t help but scowl at his own thoughts. He grit his teeth and shook his head as hard as he could. Everything was spinning and warbling too much to think. 

Another husk hit the area between his legs. A cob was tossed into the vaguely empty basket.

Once his head cleared, he forced himself to think of literally anything else. As per usual, his thoughts drifted to Cer-

Posse. His posse.

He cared a lot about his posse. 

They meant the world to him, truly.

Another husk hit the area between his legs. A cob was tossed into the partially empty basket.

No one still had any idea on what kind of monster Ace even was, but there was a betting ring. Moray bet one of their fancier ribbons that he’s some kind of rat creature and was just embarrassed to admit it. Ed bet a fistful of gold that he’s actually some kind of hellish demon that gambles with mortals for fun and then steals their souls. Mooch just thinks he’s made of shadows. North Star himself had called them all out on it once he found out about the bet, but secretly he believed that Ace was some kind of fluffy thing; explains why he’s so secretive, don’t it? Hard to be feared and respected when you look like a shadowy fluffball. In all honesty he wouldn’t be surprised if Ace was in on the bets somehow too. Sounds like something he’d do.

Another husk hit the area between his legs. A cob was tossed into the basket.

Speaking of Moray, they were getting real good at the guitar. Dina had been letting them play at the bar a whole lot nowadays, and they’ve been getting almost as popular as that one trio of colorful characters (No musician’s as popular as that purple-triangle guy, but in Star’s eyes, it was pretty close). Someone even asked the fish monster to play at some hoity-toity event they were planning. Moray turned them down obviously; it was out of town, anyways. But they blabbed about it for days, so elated after being asked for their talents. Star was proud of them then, and he still is. He’s real proud of his family.

……

Another husk hit the growing pile between his legs. A cob smacks the rim of the basket and lands next to it.

What’s Ceroba doing these days, anyway? He hasn’t talked to her in a while. Maybe he should go do that sometime. Chujin doesn't like him much--the feeling’s mutual, of course--but it makes talking to his childhood best friend difficult. Was it because he has- had a crush on her once? Crushes are things kids have, he doesn’t get those anymore. It’s not like he’s going to try anything regardless. Starlo may not be the smartest tool in the shed, but he’s not a terrible guy. If she’s happy, then he’s happy. 

He’s not a terrible person. He isn’t.

Is he?

Another husk hit the area between his legs. A cob is limply flicked over to the basket, but just lands on his right leg instead.

He’s abandoning his… friends. He’s abandoning them for a really selfish and stupid reason. Instead of tackling his problems head on like a true sheriff. As much as he wishes he were a West Clintwood hero… well. Just look at him. How pathetic.

Starlo slapped his own face so hard it bruised.

Back to work.

Time passes. Eventually, the swealterstones bathe everything in golden hue and make the corn glow. Orion ran by at some point to toss a water bottle to him, something he was thankful for. A while later, his stomach growled. The lack of a tractor’s motor made him assume it was about lunchtime. Crestina coming out the back door with a sandwich confirmed his theory.

“How’sit going, honey?” She leaned down towards him with the plate, of which he took with a grateful smile. “Hm. Looks like you’re missing some cobs, dear.” Crestina motioned over the basket. Star had to push himself up a little to see over it clearly, but even from his half-raised position, he can spot a few stray corn cobs lying sparsely on the grass.

“...Whoops.”

His mother giggled with shaking shoulders. “You’re missing way more than usual, Star. Oh, I won’t say anything, just try t’ pick them up before your father sees them. He’ll just make fun of you, ya know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get them later. Sorry, mom.” He could taste tomato, bacon, lettuce, and mustard on the sandwich. It’s a favorite of his. A soft smile snuck its way onto his face. Swallowing down a bite, he craned his neck to meet his mother’s eyes. “Thanks, by the way! It’s real good.”

“Happy to hear that, love.” Star watched as she moved to enter the house before suddenly pausing. Quickly, she turned back over to him, a light frown spreading over her face. “Oh goodness, I completely forgot! Your friends are right outside the farm. Your father is keeping them busy I believe, but you may want to get a little further from the house if you’re still wanting some space.”

The cowboy was up on his feet in seconds, brushing husk shavings off himself with twitching fingers. “D--dang. Uh, yeah, thanks, mom. I’ll.. uh, be in the back. Y’know.” He motioned half-heartedly to the far reaches of the corn farm and scurried off, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his maw.

Dirt and sand crunched under his work boots. The backdoor closed far behind him, signifying Crestina’s return to the house. Star was far enough that he didn’t hear his father or the posse, but he felt their judgemental stares all the same through the walls. Flies and some bees buzzed around like white noise; a cricket chirps to his left. 

At some point, he forgot he was even still walking, mind empty with the buzzing of bugs to keep it company. The further he walked, the more corn he saw, almost like a never-ending maze. He turned around, trying to gauge if he’s far enough--

The house is gone.

He blinked.

It isn’t there anymore.

All he sees is wheat.

Starlo turned back around.

Pale-brown wheat is all that meets his eyes. They tickle the top of his thighs. Each brush pricks.

For miles, all there is in the world is pale-brown wheat. The sky is a deep, grieving grey.

Time passes. His legs don’t move. They can’t move.

A fickle breeze is pushing the wheat, making them wave in the wind like old friends.

Music is playing from off in the distance. Yet he hears it clearly. There’s a violin; there’s a piano; there’s a trumpet. Each instrument melds into the next, until all he hears is a lost memory he never had. Someone could be singing along with the track, honeyed words riding atop drifting, solemn melodies. Or maybe it’s a trombone, hollering its serene message to all who care to hear it. Starlo cares. He can barely hear it over the violin. The piano is too loud.

This is beautiful. This is horrendous---repulsive, even. His heart aches. This is all just a burning memory. A photograph smolders and turns to ash. He can smell smoke. It tastes like sugar. It feels like rot.

Rot.

The wind is carrying something rotten.

His side pulses in tune to the siren song. It wails and cries with the singer, screaming something about running rabbits and a farmer’s pie. He’s really hungry. When was the last time he’d eaten? It feels like it must have been some time ago. There’s still mustard on his tongue. Taste buds cry out rot.

Giggling.

Someone is giggling.

“C’mon! We’re gonna be late!”

Starlo’s legs move on their own. A shadow dashes by him, leaving wheat to bend and sway in its wake. A second, slightly smaller shadow hops after the first one. Despite the smaller’s exhausted panting, it seems happy.

“W--wait up, ■■■■■■! You’re run--running too f-- huff --fast!”

The thing crooning in his flesh leaves North Star moving at nothing more than a brisk walk. The shadows dance and twist as they rush around wheat. Laughing, the bigger shadow pops out of the crops to scare the smaller, laughing harder when the smaller yelps and swears, landing on its behind on the dirt.

“N--now, ‘■■■■, you can’t do that! Mom could’ve heard, n’ I’d be in real big trouble!”

“Psh, I’ll just tell your mom I told you to say it. She loves me, ■■■■■■; she won’t care.” It leans down to haul the other off the ground. With a grin, it uselessly brushes some residue off the smaller’s lean shoulders. “Let’s go! We’re gonna be late at this rate!” It grabs the smaller’s hand. Starlo’s own left hand tingles pleasantly. He doesn’t notice.

More than once does he lose sight of the gleeful silhouettes, their childlike bodies contorting cartoonishly around the stalks that are just shorter than them. Despite the larger shadow’s insistence on being fast, it still takes the time to scare and jeer at the other. Off in the back of his mind does he recognize this as good-natured heckling, but he isn’t quite sure how he knows that.

“Can--can we take a… uhg… a break? I’m tireddd, ‘■■■■!”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be if you ate better! Just eat, like, shrimp or something.”

“Euhg, I hate shrimp, you know this! It doesn’t even deserve to be eaten, especially if it’s rotten n’ broken.”

Maybe he turned around at some point as he stalked behind the dark outlines. Maybe he’s just walking in circles. Maybe he’s on the other side of a wheat-riddled world. Maybe he’s. Maybe.

That haunting melody is louder now. It’s hard to hear. A new instrument is there. He can’t tell what it is. He remembers it from when he was. Why does he. Useless information.

An entity tugs his hand, stopping him in his tracks. Looking up yields a cheeky shadow. The wheat is almost as tall as his head. They’re running late to something. It means the world to them. She’s been waiting for this for months now; he didn’t even remember what they were going to. By the time they get there, it would be cancelled due to something the adults wouldn’t tell them. She had to hear it from her strict father: there was a human. Humans fall down sometimes. It means nothing. She had cried. Tears had slipped down his own face. Whose tears are they really? It means nothing, not anym■re.

■■■■■■ was crying, partly for the event, partly for the child. ‘Pitiful human,’ her mother had said to them. ‘They had what was coming for them.’ 

Most of that night had drifted away from Starlo in the vast sea of forgotten memories, but the end of that dreary day never left. He had found ■■■■■■ with her head buried in the knees hugging her chest under some large, oak tree on the farm. When he approached to comfort her, her icy gaze had made his blood run cold. Her voice was strong and rough, unaffected by salty tears.

“Is it really that much of a crime to want to live?”

Another tug---on his arm now. His head had fallen to look at the ground at some point. Looking back up, her muddled and unseeing face is frowning. It feels like disappointment. His right leg gurgles in agony.

“Why do y■u still even remember this?”

An explosi■n in his mind swallows everything into a sea of red and then orange and then yellow and then white and then white and then v■id and then burning and fire. Starlo’s throat is too charred by ag■ny to think. Or move. ■r scream.

Music is getting louder. There’s a classical feel to it this time. Somehow it didn’t disappear in the flames. Footsteps clang and clack on marble flooring.

‘When life soon will fade,

I’ll meet you at the masquerade,

While our hearts swinging to violins singing ‘til dawn.’

Someone tugs on his right hand. Starlo blinks back to awareness. Lights don’t flicker above him; they can’t, not at a fancy event like this. Guests would complain, surely. North Star wouldn’t have. He didn’t have a right to.

The party visitors are incoherent and unidentifiable--or maybe that’s just because they're moving too fast for him to keep up. Or it could be the masquerade masks they all wear. North Star’s been invited to a lot of these hoity-toity ventures due to his fame of being the Great Sheriff. The locations change, but it’s always the same thing: neatly-dressed patrons with not a single hair out of place waltz and gossip as if the less fortunate are below them in value. Then, someone brings out ‘party favors’ and someone ends up hospitalized. No one remembers those people. The staff say it won’t happen again but it always does. No one else remembers.

Maybe they do, and they all show up anyways. He does. He doesn’t even know why he bothers showing up to these.

(He does know. Or maybe he doesn’t.)

Cheers echo from the walls behind him, like usual. Must be another art exhibition going on. Last time he and his friends had gone to one, they were accosted with canvases made of ink and stone and statues doused in gasoline. The room’s snack table was covered in severed limbs and lanterns, with the table cloths melting into the floor like glue. This was customary, of course, but just really boring, so the 0194u374q of them decided not to go again. 

A sickeningly sweet smell wafts from a line of paper mache tables off in the corner of the ballroom. Several masked partiers sneak small, bite-sized metal cupcakes from the stacked tea trays that rest on monochrome table coverings. A lady made of wood carefully and secretly slips a snack to her particularly annoying-looking white dog. Cookies with perfectly even chocolate chips sit together on the bottom floor, resting just underneath frosted brownies that carry the right amount of sprinkles. The cupcakes, of course, live up top. Those are always the first to go. They taste like cotton. Everyone eats them, anyway.

Over to the other side of the room are the meal tables. Set similarly to the desserts are stuffed mushrooms cooked to perfection, skewers packed with rare underground vegetables and beef, smoked salmon prepared so wonderfully you can still taste the salty seawater, among others. The platters look never-ending, truly, but all of them empty by the end of the day. 

There’s a shrimp cocktail in his hands. It took a lot of practice to be able to hold the glasses right, his large labor-addled fingers making the motions difficult. Of course, he got it figured out eventually. They all have to. North Star really didn’t want to get stared at again. If he focuses hard enough, it’s almost like the shrimp is alive and wriggling in agony, asking to be useful. A hole is torn through the side of it. Most guests would complain and get a new one. He hates shrimp. He always consumes the cocktail anyways. 

Making his hands stop quivering is hard.

Another tug on his arm. Blue feathers greet him once he blinks over to his assailant. Her face is hidden by a gorgeously crafted homemade mask, but he can still tell who it is. There is a tense line in her shoulders. “You’ve been spacing out a lot today, St■r. You okay?”

“...Fine,” He takes a sip of the drink. It tastes like ash and decay. Burning the inside of his throat, it muddles the noise in his mind a little. She is still waiting for him to talk when he lowers the glass. “I really don’t wanna be here, ■■■■■■■.”

■■■■■■■’s questioning stare morphs to a look of pity with creased brows. A frown merges with her beak. “Yeah, same. People keep talking over me, and ■■■■ looked really uncomfortable earlier. It’s brave of him to come, though. Makes you feel less alone.”

She is referring to herself but North Star understands it all the same. The fact that ■■■■ even bothered to come means a lot. It means that it isn’t just the two of them miserable like usual. Instead, it’s the three of them. ■■■■■■ never goes with them; no one blames her. 

Someone bumps into someone else on the dancefloor and he watches as they merge and mesh into one undignified, estranged mass. 

They should be embarrassed, really. To get his mind off of second-hand embarrassment, he turns to his ally.

The blue b■rd’s dress is a sparkly and pale sky-blue, shimmering in the white, nauseating lights like stars. Fabric cuts into a flowy skirt above her ankles; she always did hate trains. A pale gold bow wraps around her waist, showing her partial curves. Somehow she managed to tame her normally wild blue hair today--it’s wrapped up in a bun with the same color fabric as the bow. Amazingly, even her wings are neat, all pressed down and sleek where they poke out of her translucent puffy sleeves. By all accounts, ■■■■■■■ looks spectacular.

North Star thinks he looks terrible. His suit is tailor-made, not that he wanted it to be. Really he wanted ■■■■■■■ to make a nice one for him, but sponsors wouldn’t have it. You have to wear Mettaton-brand, they said. Good for publicity, they said. Now he’s stood here in a dark teal suit jacket and slacks, decorated with precisely neat stars on the cuffs. Brown work boots were exchanged for black dress shoes that match his outfit, sized so perfectly his toes have no wiggle room. His tie is the same gold as the stars on his sleeves and slacks; his dress shirt is as white as snow and perfectly ironed. His beloved cowboy hat had to be left at home. The one on his head is the same teal as his suit with a black band and golden trim. A shiny sheriff’s badge hangs on by his breast, boldly announcing his name to all who care. By all accounts, the outfit is undeniably straight and proper. He despises it. It makes his torso ache with tightness.

His mask has to be the worst part. Its gold glimmers too brightly; its teal isn’t dark enough; its material is too scratchy and rough on his skin and it takes a village to stop himself from scratching his face so hard it bleeds; he can barely see. They make him take his glasses off for these events since he looks, to quote them, “unprofessional”, but they usually have something they deem better for him to wear that still allows him sight. However, they refused to add anything to the mask to help, claiming the additions would be too last-minute. The company is supposed to excel at last-minute adjustments. Hard to tell if they were truly too busy or if they just didn’t like him.

A sigh brings him away from how itchy his clothing is. ■■■■■■■ leans against his arm, a tiredness lingering in her eyes. He follows her gaze to their vampiric friend out on the cold granite floor. ■■■■’s cloak covers whatever poorly sized suit they’re making him wear this time, though when his hands move sporadically as he tells a story, rich violet velvet pours out from the dark. Their friend’s conversation mates look bored. Everyone is at this party. Even ■■■■, as he shakes with anxiety.

“They need to stop with these already,” Her hair pulls from her bun while she nudges North Star’s arm with her head. “All these people, waiting for the deaths of children. They say monsters can’t live without kindness, but it’s starting to look like they can nowadays.” A silence neither comforting nor awkward takes hold for some time. ■■■■ is still trying desperately to talk to the guests correctly. Suddenly, his friend sniffs sadly. Quick glances show a warbling of lips. Warm aqua eyes become cold steel. 

“...Maybe we aren’t as different as I wish we were. From… you know. Them.” Strained feathers motion across the entire ballroom. For just a moment, everything is coated in baby blue. It looked far better than sickly gold and red velvet. 

Lady Whatever-Her-Name-Was spins by standing in place; her friends clap and bow to show respect for her performance. North Star never quite saw the appeal himself. 

Her next words come after minutes of silence. When she speaks, it’s with crackled despair. “It feels like we’re happy C■■■■■ died.”

The truth and the lie spill out like alcohol from his teeth. “I don’t know, fe■th■rs. I just don’t know.”

Another song. A different song, like all of the different songs before it. There’s a swing beat and a trombone. Water stains his sleeve. He can’t remember where the live band is, or if there even is one. Was the flooring marble or granite? 

“If…” His companion’s voice is strained and gentle, moreso in the way one would softly clean an open wound. “If I was one of those children, I’d… I’d be so scared of dying. No one would be willing to help you and suddenly you're the enemy of monsterkind.” She takes in a breath, turning her eyes to meet his jawline. “How would you feel?”

Distantly, a monster mocks ■■■■ for his shyness and shabby cloak. The shrimp in his glass stares up at him like a brother. They share the same wounds, but they are so different. 

He eats the shrimp. His torso begs for mercy from this torture.

Better to be useful and used up than thrown away.

“Accepting. It was bound to happen.”

North Star wants to go home.

■■■■■■■ wants to go home.

■■■■ wants to go home. 

C■■v■■ just wanted to go back home.

…

Where is he, even?

“Star.” The vampire stands in front of him now. Partygoers croon and hollar politely, even as an unforgiving void swallows it all up like broken, abhorrent shrimp that don’t work right anymore. Purple hands grab his cold, ungloved one; the one not holding the half empty glass. It feels like the farm’s chilly north winds. “We should go. I don’t think we’re supposed to know each other.”

Probably not. White eyes glare into tasteless liquor. But maybe someday. In a worse time. Remember to bring flowers to the funeral.

No one will remember the shrimp. It understands, because it does not remember itself.

Everything is so cold.

Where did the sun go?

It was here a minute ago.

Did he lose it?

Something warms up his hands. It is not the sun.

It is metallic and red. Blood, he recalls vaguely. Humans have that. 

Liquid is gushing out of somewhere. He hurts. It’s coming from him. Looking down takes a chopped effort. Bright, grotesque crimson blood oozes from a massive gash in his stomach. No. No, it is not a gash. It is a cavity that ate away a third of his flesh, his bone, his meat, his dust. Part of his right leg is missing around his hip. 

Purple seeps into the fluid. The resulting color reminds him of paint.

There is an ache in the back of his mind, and it questions if what he is seeing is real. He can’t move his right arm anymore, the limb useless like a malfunctioning shrimp that no one wants anymore because it’s stupid and lame and makes rash decisions without thinking. Forcing his left arm into action takes effort that leaves him wheezing and sweating. It must have taken hours. He makes it touch the wound.

Nothing. He feels nothing.

“...Do you think we’ll die early?”

Starlo hums. A■■ takes another swig from the adult soda they bought from the saloonkeep. Star nurses his own. It tastes like shrimp. He hates the taste of shrimp. He drinks it anyway, letting the fuzz of tipsiness cloud his brain like old cotton. If no one else will bite the bullet, he’ll have to. Both the predator and the prey understand the sacrifice. It’s pointless and trivial. It means so much to the prey.

The gambler looks up to the stars from their perch. They’re sat on the edge of the jail, legs dangling uselessly above the sign. Well, stars might be a little far-fetched a term. Swealsterstones shimmer like stars, so it’s close enough.

“I--I mean-” ■c■’s voice uncharacteristically stutters and cuts from the drunken buzz gifted by the drink. His tophat is off, revealing a face not hidden by the shadow of a brim. Starlo tries not to look at him. ■■e said it was okay to see him like this, but they’re both drunk. He might not mean it. The voice next to him continues with a ramble, furry hands gesticulating every other word. 

“Like, our job’s dangerous, yeah? We’re gun’ run outta luck at some point. And--and, it’s less of if it’ll run out and more of when we’re gonna run dry. It’s like, like being dealt a. A bad hand. You know you’re gonna lose but you don’t have no choice but to play it but in the end you know it’s just a waiting game for when loss is gonna run up on ya. Like, are we gunna go down swinging ‘er are we gunna get taken somewhere n’ shot in the back o’ th’ head? Jus’... I dunno, man. I jus’ dun’ know.” He takes another long swig to nourish his dry throat. It doesn’t help. He does it anyway.

Another hum. White eyes that have long since gone blurry watch nothing. “We do get mixed with t’ wrong crowd often.”

“ hic, ” Sounds like crying or a drunken burp. Could be both, could be neither. “Dose… those guys I f--fought that one day… dey kinda scared me a ‘lil, I, hic, ain’t lie. Do ya t--hink dey’ll start huntin’ us down?”

“Yerrrd-- drhunk,” Starlo means to nudge the other’s shoulder but falls, laying his head on it instead, hat long since discarded behind them. “Yain’t meanthah….”

■c■’s breath hitches; tears well up in his eyes and burn. He’s thankful that his boss pretends not to notice. Or it’s possible he’s so gone he doesn't even realize. Thankful, either way.

“But--but-” Sporadic breaths turn to hyperventilating inhales. “Wh--what’s gun’ hap’en if dey g--hic--get us fer real dis taime?”

“Then we die together.”

Starlo hadn’t moved an inch, like he hadn’t said anything at all. Cold desert winds rushed by with voices taunting them to go back inside. They’re too wasted to hear it. 

There is a melody, out in the breeze. Each instrument is old and passionate. Star thinks he recognizes it, but A■■ knows he doesn’t.

Night covers all and though fortune may forsake me,

Sweet dreams will never take me home.

Pitch black is all he can see.

“You’re… leaving?”

Starlo might not know where he is, but his feet know where he needs to go. Even if he can’t see it right now, he can feel the coarse wood of a doorframe underneath his ungloved hand.

“Yep. I figured I’d have time before it all went downhill, but.. well, you know how bad it’s gotten. You don’t need to worry about it, M■och.”

The rustling of fabric. “Nah, I ain’t worried. I mean, ya know we don’t wanna have’ta see ya die. M’ just feelin’ like ya got sum’ else on yer mind.”

“C’mon, spit it out, boss!”

“...Heh. It’s just.. something’s telling me I deserve this and, well, maybe I do, but I’m just worried about what’ll happen after I…”

“Worried? About what we’ll do? Star, be serious! No one’s gunna go searchin’ fer you. All you gotta do is, uhhh-”

A pretentious sigh. “Write a letter, is that what you were going to say, Mor■y? Hm, but yes, writing a letter would be a good idea, North Star.”

“What would I put on it?”

“Whateva yer heart says, boss!”

…

“Kay, well, to get a bit more specific, why dun’t ya just say yer goin’ on a long trip someplace? Pack a bag o’ yer stuff n’ go when no one’s lookin’.”

“Say you’ll make it big, Star! By the time they find you, we’ll all have forgotten about you.”

“A big part of this was to be famous and remembered, fencey.”

“Pshh, who cares ‘bout allat?!” Scales dig into the back of his neck. “Ain’t no one gonna ‘member yer face anyways. Like what ■d said, pack sum’ bags n’ skip town. Go find somewhere nice t’ lie down ‘er whatever.”

“Hm. Yeah. Yeah, you’re all right. I should go do that. I’ll… be seeing you all again, ah, eventually.”

…

Quick footsteps. “Star, wait!”

“M■r■y?”

When they speak, he can imagine a mocking smirk. “Just… make sure your posture’s fixed by the time ya croak. Don’t wanna go out lookin’ like a shrimp now, would ya?”

“Hah, guess I wouldn’t. You know I hate shrimp.”

“We all hate it, boss. But better fer it to be eaten n’ sacrificed than tossed, raight?”

“Boss?”

“Boss?”

“Boss?”

Boss?

The sky is dark when he comes to. He must have been out running around for hours; his lungs ache. His back pulsed from where he lay on the rough sand. Somehow, his location was both a mystery and not at the same time. The family’s house stood far off in the distance like a beacon. Couldn’t be earlier than one in the morning.

Shaking hands pushed a SOUL to come forth. The heart-shaped object could barely even be called such anymore, being nothing more than a thick sliver of pale, sickly gold. It continued to fade, even as he held it, particles waving off into the wind like stardust. He’s exploding, imploding, drifting like an old, wasted comet.

His veins broke through his skin with violet fervor, tinging the tips of his fingers bruised. To make his hands stop quivering would be a fruitless effort, much like most of his life. The rest of his flesh must be faring similarly.

Everything came together to form a peaceful conclusion:

Starlo is not going to last much longer.

It felt like acceptance---like a warm blanket on a cold desert night. Heat sank into his bones like hot chocolate---like getting a perfect score on a hard test. Not that he would know how that feels, of course.

It felt like waking up a month after a funeral. It’s like offering your head for a bag of rocks---it’s like hearing the laughter of your closest friends when you do something stupid.

There is something in the back of his addled mind telling him that he should be scared-- no, terrified of death. That he should cry to the sky and ask why he refused medical attention and beg for a second chance to the angels above. To draw dust and raise a fist to death itself.

He won’t. Maybe it has something to do with the purple ghost haunting him, but there is just something about all of this that felt… right. Felt deserved. Or maybe, maybe it is because he was tired. Tired of so much. Tired of hurting and hiding and expectations and walking and breathing and pretending and performing and having a heart. Tired of himself. Tired of North Star the egoist---of Starlo the pathetic farmhand that stutters and mumbles and cries.

Off in the distant wastes of the unforgiving desert, someone called for him. They met his glassy, blurred gaze with a grinning maw. The shadow jumped and spun and motioned out to the unknown. 

Join me! It cried. Play with me, sheriff! 

Entertaining the townspeople was part of the job description.

Smiling a corpse’s grin, he slapped his legs like he’s leaving the family gathering.

Well.

Time to go.