Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gradient has always been on the run.

Well, backtrack a bit: specifics were important. That’s what the Doctor had always insisted, at least. The minutate; The details; The fine print and the intricacies. And yet, never the nuance.

Gradient has been— physically— on the run for the past month.

Honestly it was all a blur, how he had left. It feels like one moment he was there. And, well… The next he wasn’t. Gradient remembers fear and pain; He remembers the sweat on the back of his skull and his breath heavy in his ribcage. He remembers yelling— but there had always been yelling. And, Gradient remembers the cold air of an open field: dawn fallen neatly behind the skyline, the sun shining a path he’d never dared take before.

There was confusion. There was grief. And then, there was freedom.

In one hand Gradient clutches his map, worn and aged: stained by tears and paint. In the other he clutches his meal of the day— a single pack of stove top ramen. There was no stove. Or water, for that matter. But, as always, Gradient would make do.

With practiced hands, Gradient lays down his map upon the grass, and unwraps the package for today’s delicacy.

The map is crude. But honestly, Gradient would be surprised if it was anything but. The handwriting is neat as can be for letters scrawled with haste by a nine year old: written with care and forethought. It was a scant list of AU’s accessible from the Omega Timeline, organized by liveability and opportunities for secrecy. And, it was a copy, as stated by the addendum at the bottom. Right alongside it, signed in bright blue crayon, was a name.

PJ.

Gradient had found the paper tucked and folded into the frame of his bed. He’d wanted to brush it off at first— a poor joke, or misunderstanding. Something. And yet… And yet, it wasn’t. He’d just about finished reading it for the third time, mind still a whirlwind of thoughts and denials, when Palette had jumped up to his bed and demanded that Gradient show him the comic he’d been working on earlier that day— Well, Gradient couldn’t say no. His brother had always been his number one fan. It would be rude to not indulge him.

And so, Gradient had put the note out of his mind. He had spent time with his brother; He had forgotten, if only for a little while, that he was trapped in a living hell.

As, the Doctor had lost his mind.

It was likely he never even had it in the first place.

Eventually, Gradient had found himself sitting solemn in the lab. Legs tucked beneath him in his favorite chair. He’d finished up his work for the day, all the organization and notes. The Doctor seemed… decent. He’d been herded to bed without much complaint. Which was a miracle, seeing as how things were as of late.

And so, with the little time that Gradient had to himself: he had pulled the note from his pocket and studied.

One thing soon became apparent; Gradient had another sibling.

Well, okay. Gradient had a lot of siblings. It kinda came packaged along with the whole ‘create a bunch of children from forgotten magic samples to use in your evil schemes’ thing that Doctor had going on. Gradient was raised alongside what felt like a never ending cast of characters.

And then, slowly, it had dwindled.

When Gradient left it had only been him, Palette, Flip, and the new addition of baby Cadet. An echo of what was once a clashing symphony.

While they were all undoubtedly siblings, they often had different parentage. Palette shared his ‘Fates’ magic essence. This was evident with their shared love of the arts and inclination for being ‘the coolest’— that’s how Palette would put it. The Fates kids stuck together. Or, at least, they did. Once upon a time.

Palette differed in his ‘Sun’ ME; This was made clear with his fire magic and ability to light up a room with a single smile. He was great at guidance; Pedantic in his leadership, though. He brought warmth wherever he found himself— the coldest nights, the hottest days— it didn’t matter.

Meanwhile, Flip was ‘Rook’ and ‘Knight’: the eldest. He seemed at odds with himself, perhaps a leftover from the early batches issues with instability. He was kind and considerate, though.

And, Cadet was the newly added ‘Star’ ME and ‘Knight’. He was just a baby. As such, Gradient couldn’t say much about him. He was cute. Weirdly quiet. He looked at the world as if there were nothing but endless galaxies.

Gradient was the only ‘End’ kid. He had been told that the ME was too unstable— every attempt had been terminated before it could even be given the chance to try. The Fates ME had a weird property of stabilization, though. The Doctor had explained this with a rare gentle voice and quiet demonstration. With wonder, Gradient had watched the Doctor demonstrate with live sample: magic swirling together like paint on canvas. Science at its coolest. End ME was pure instability; Fates ME was pure stability.

And so, that’s how Gradient came to be.

Purely normal.

The only Fates at End kid.

Or so, he had thought.

“I know ‘they’re better dry’ is like, a whole thing. But, you look kinda, um… disgusted. Are you okay?”

Gradient whips his head around. He should be alone— he had checked before he’d sat down: this barren field seemed desolate, only a spattering of houses dotting the horizon. Post Pacifist. Solitary. And yet, apparently it wasn’t. His luck just had to catch up with him, didn’t it? Run out of another AU; Mistaken for which created him.

Just a few feet away, is a human.

He’s just taken a bite of his ramen— and, well. Yeah. It kinda was disgusting. Gradient had been able to focus on the novelty of it the first… four times? After that it just became sad. The dry noodles would stick between his teeth, coating his mouth with the taste of cardboard. Pathetic.

With hesitation, eye-lights trained on this winged human, Gradient slowly chews and swallows. He grimaces.

“Um,” he says, staring with sheer bafflement as the human sits down beside him, legs tucked beneath them and wings rested against their back. Gradient clutches what’s left of his food— like that would be of any help in an ambush. But, still, he holds it close to his chest. He holds it close to his chest, and stares.

The human is staring at him, too: brown eyes wide and curious. They tap their feet atop the dewy grass, as the morning sun peaks above the horizon in faux greeting. They’ve still kept their distance. With a quick once over, Gradient concludes that there’s no visible weapons. The heart locket betrays their fallen human status, though. There must be a knife hidden somewhere.

“Uh,” he repeats, perhaps a little stupid. They’re smiling at him. Patient; Waiting? Their hair is tied into a loose knot, the remaining strands left free and messy. Gradient trails the line of one particularly wild piece of hair: defying all gravity, beholden to the wind. They’re… not doing anything. And so, Gradient says a single, “... Um?”

It smells of daisies and dawn. They’re on the Surface— some random countryside, free and unbound. Post-Apocalyptic, if Gradient is remembering correctly. He didn’t really have time or resources, before moving to the next spot. All he had was a name on a list.

“...Do you want something else to eat?”

The human holds up a thermos— pulled from their… fanny pack? Mini pocket dimension, most likely. They hold their thermos in Gradient’s direction, smile still wide.

Gradient stares at the offering. He blinks.

“It’s soup— chicken noodle, with a bit of spice. It’s hot!” the human says, waggling the container.

How long had it been, since Gradient was privy to a hot meal? Days— weeks? A month? There had been that abandoned quiche that was a little warm; But, it definitely was not hot: lukewarm, at best. Gradient’s mouth begins to water. When did he last have good protein for that matter? He’d been living on these ramen packs for the past while now: one a day. It was all he could manage. And, when did he last have something spicy? Something nourishing; Something good.

Gradient throws down his ramen pack and takes the thermos.

He’s rushing to unscrew the lid— possible poison be damned— when he remembers himself.

“Um, thank you,” he says, mouth half full of the most delicious soup he’s ever had. He swallows, and the human looks at him with a little laugh: pride painted across their expression.

“No problem! It’s my dad’s recipe, he’d want me to share it. I’m Mess, by the way. Messenger. But, you can call me Mess,” Mess says, holding out their hand with a mediocre wink.

Gradient gives it a good moment. Still, Mess sits with hand outreached. Bizarre.

It’s a little awkward, adjusting the thermos to his one hand in between sips. But, with only a little struggle, Gradient gives them a proper handshake. He has manners, after all. Despite what most people assume.

Gradient is in the middle of swallowing another mouthful of pure delicacy when, again, he remembers himself.

“...I’m Gradient,” he mumbles. The wind has picked up— he’s holding his map down with the edge of his shoe, practiced. From here, he traces all the AUs with his gaze: crossed out, except for one. Here. His last option. His last hope.

Mess hums, content. It doesn’t take long for Gradient to finish off the last of this meal. He should have savored it. The chance of getting something like this again any time soon is slim to none. Alas, he can’t help his hunger. The soup is gone in minutes.

Awkwardly, Gradient hands the thermos back over to Mess. He picks up the discarded ramen pack and puts it away in his backpack: there will be no waste. Then, he picks up the map, and puts it in his pocket. Gradient looks back over to Mess who is… still sitting next to him. Expectant?

The morning sun has risen proper, now. The sunshine warms Gradient’s face. He’s tempted to pull down his hood— to truly allow himself to bask. But, it isn’t safe. It likely will never be safe. And so… would it really hurt? Truly? With a quick breath for confidence, Gradient pulls down his hood.

Still, the human stays.

This is… weird. Usually when people catch a glimpse of his appearance, they jolt. They connect the dots. They run; They fight. They become afraid.

For, Gradient is the spitting image of the Destroyer of Worlds, Harbinger of Death, and the One you Cannot Escape From.

“... Aren’t you afraid of me?”

Gradient expects a longer pause; Part of him expects no reply at all. But, Mess is pretty quick with their answer of, “...No?” There is a small moment, as they look Gradient over— Gradient is brave enough to watch their gaze, brows furrowed and mouth quirked: confused. “...Should I be?” they ask with pure honesty.

“No?” Gradient is quick to respond. “I- Uh,” he adds, pulling at the ends of his hoodie strings as Mess gives him a proper perplexed look. “I mean. Um. I-I look like… him, right?”

Mess blinks.

“...June?”

…Who?

It’s Gradient’s turn to look confused. June? There are other errors out there— he thinks. He’s heard. But… not any that he looks like, last he checked? The only other full skeleton error was… the name escapes him. An Underswap variant; Was that ‘June’? They were different, though. Gradient had only been mistaken for him once or twice before— quickly ditched when the realization hit.

“No? Uh-“ Gradient twitches, fighting back a glitch that threatens his spine. “I-“ he jerks, as his neck is hit with the full force of the glitch. Eugh. He sighs. “Him,” he repeats, quiet. Ashamed. “You know, Error?”

The Destroyer.

The End.

Again, Mess blinks. They stand up, and Gradient is about to accept his fate— abandonment or punishment. Maybe both. Who knows. But, this isn’t what Gradient gets. What Gradient gets, is Mess walking a few feet in front of him, hand rested on chin like an ancient philosopher.

“I mean…” they trail off, eyes narrowed. They shift from foot to foot. Pondering. “…Kinda?” They shrug their shoulders: wings stretched out, showing their batlike features. Gradient is busy trailing the line of their wing’s membrane when Mess waves with their hand, “Look up? Then down.”

Gradient obliges. Mess hums.

“You’ve got his skull shape— you know, rounder,” they say, tracing the line of their own cheek. They move their hand, pointing at their eyes, “His socket shape too, I think. Smile?” Gradient hesitates, before smiling. Mess nods, content. “Less… murdery. But, kinda similar— oh you have fangs!”

Gradient is quick to slap a hand over his mouth. Without thinking, he pulls his hood back over his head, whining as Mess laughs.

It shouldn’t be embarrassing, as it’s one of the few ‘Fates’ traits he got. It was something had shared with Palette; Trebuchet as well, now that he thinks about it. And yet, it still sends a glitch through his marrow once more. It’s worse, when Mess falls to their knees in front of him and gasps.

“Are you related?”

…Kinda? Technically— yeah? But not really? But yes? Gradient can only shrug his shoulders at that, nodding as much as the glitches will allow.

“Woah…” Mess trails off. They’re settled on their shins, leaning forward to further inspect Gradient’s appearance. It feels like static: the glitches burning against his bones— an old CRT left on too long. Gradient hopes they’re not too apparent. Too ugly. “...How?”

Evil science. But, that probably isn’t the answer that Mess is looking for.

Error is his… ME donor? That sounds like Error had gone down to a fertility clinic and offered up his magic for the sheer benefit of trying couples. Error, a philanthropist, who would have guessed? No. That was… silly.

Error is his… something. What he should have been and what he isn’t: powerful and determined. His model— his blueprints. His destiny and his worst ending. Error is the shadow that Gradient lives in; He is what he needs to be and what he fears most.

Error is Gradient’s father.

“Uhhhhhhhhh,” Gradient mumbles. He fights the urge to chew on the aglets of his hoodie strings, they’re already frayed and breaking enough as is. So, he simply fiddles with the fabric, staring as Mess waits. “He’s my… dad?”

It feels odd to say. The Doctor had always referred to which made them as ‘donors’; The kids were expected to follow suit. There would be consequences, otherwise. They were their magic essence; They were nothing but their titles. The building blocks for the Doctor’s ‘beloved’ children.

And yet, technically, Error is his dad. He didn’t raise him; He likely doesn’t even know of his existence. And yet… Gradient is his kid. Gradient is his magic. Gradient is his son.

“Woah,” Mess repeats. There’s practically stars in their eyes, as they lean even closer. “...Who’s the other parent?”

His other parent. His second donor.

His fate.

“Uhhhhhh… Erm… Ink?” Gradient says, before realizing that he could have lied; And, probably should have, going by the pure shock on Mess’ face.

“So the cheating rumors are true!”

The what now?

Gradient blinks, as Mess sits back.

“Well…” they say, once more bringing a hand to their chin in thought. “Maybe not? They could have been together and split— maybe a one night stand— how old are you?”

The… cheating rumors. Gradient digs deep within his memory; With effort, he pictures headlines on newspapers run past: titles of blog posts he skimmed in the rare free, safe sacred downtime. His mind comes up empty.

“…Fifteen?” Gradient replies, shaking off the shock as best he can.

Mess snorts.

“Fifteen? You’re just a kid!”

Gradient narrows his eye sockets. Age was always hard to grasp— especially with humans. But, Gradient would bet what’s left of his ramen that Mess is still a teenager: their full cheeks and wide eyes evidence enough.

“...How old are you?”

A pause.

“...Sixteen…”

“Hah!” Gradient yelps, and almost immediately regrets it. It’s not because Mess reacts badly. No, they stare at him with a slightly guilty expression, hand working at the back of their head with gaze politely averted. It’s just… the sound was loud. Needlessly loud. He pulls his knees tight around his chest and mumbles a quiet apology. Mess doesn’t hear it.

“...Are you on the run— from Error?” Mess asks, almost a little timid. “Is that why you were forcing yourself to eat gross dry ramen, alone?”

Gradient is on the run.

Not from Error— no. It wouldn’t exactly be great if he found him. But, he’s not an active threat. At least, Gradient hopes. No.

Gradient is on the run from his father. The one who raised him; The one who created him.

Gradient is on the run from the Doctor.

It’s not like he can say that, though. It would take too much explanation: too much faith. And so, all Gradient can do is meekly nod. Mess watches the movement, slowly nodding as well: acceptance. They lean forward again— quiet when they ask, “...Do you need help— a place to stay? There’s places in the Omega Timeline— I don’t know where you’re at with Ink, but the Stars have always been trustworthy from what I know—”

“No,” Gradient is quick to respond. He almost regrets it, when a look of concern flashes across Mess’ face. The Stars— he’s thought about it, before. In the quiet, cold of night; The scorching heat, breath heavy in his chest. They could help. They likely would help. And yet, the Doctor’s words ring like a stone bell inside his head. They were untrustworthy. They were quacks. They were nothing but a figurehead for a corrupt, desperate system. You should not expect help in this world— if you want something done right, you must claw for it with your own passion and need. You cannot rely on others. If you do, you will only ever be met with disappointment and ruins of your own creation.

It’s funny, how the Doctor had always relied on him. Maybe it was true. Gradient had abandoned him; Gradient had failed him.

He fiddles with the hem of his hoodie, as he explains, “I-I’m looking for my sister. She lives in this AU— I think. I just…” Gradient sticks a hand in his pocket, feeling the edges of the note. Aged and worn. “I don’t know… where. I…”

“Do you have a name?”

Gradient blinks. Mess looks clears their throat, fist politely covering their mouth. “I deliver mail here sometimes— If you have a name, I could maybe point you in the right direction. It’s— I’m not supposed to give out information, usually. But, if it’s for a just cause…” Mess trails off.

“PJ,” Gradient responds. His sister. The one who came before him.

Another fate. Another end.

“Gotcha’,” Mess says, standing up with hand outreached.

It’s weird, how Gradient doesn’t hesitate to take it. Their palm feels warm against his chilled bone. Solid.

Trustworthy.

Gradient was wrong, before.

As this stranger turned guide pulls him along towards his single goal, he realizes: with the Doctor, he had always been alone. He had always been running— from the fear, from the scrutiny. From himself. It was never him, who was loved. It was what he could be. What he wasn’t. What he dared to become.

Here, hand in hand, running like the child he never got to be in a green grass field: sun shining bright and warm across his bone, with smile wide and fangs free; He knows.

Gradient has always been on the run.

It had been a bad night.

Well, most nights had been bad since Gray had left. If they weren’t bad, they were horrible. And, if they weren’t horrible, they were downright awful. Palette can’t remember the last time there had been a good night, actually- even before Gray had run. A week, a month, a year? Years? Had there ever been a good night?

The Doctor had always slept like a soldier. Talking, walking, the turnings of a page- it was all enough to rouse him from his slumber. And, never wanted to wake the beast.

He isn’t a beast that’s- that’s mean. And wrong. Wake him like a sleeping babe. That’s more like it. Accurate. Palette would throw back one of those bubbling mystery potions that were always kept on display in the lab then wake Cadet. Well, okay. Maybe Palette would take any chance to try one of those mystery potions. They were green— goopy! Like a cartoon! They must taste interesting. Deadly, but interesting. And— Palette’s getting off track, here. Sleeping babes. Sleeping babes you must not wake. Cadet— the Doctor. Maybe what’s most important is that Flip would kill him if he woke either of them. Yeah.

The Doctor needed his sleep. He was ill, after all. Without rest he got… worse. Sicker. Hurt. He shambled through the halls like a spector: movements sluggish with words sharp as Palette’s butterfly knife. He was an important man— it’s essential that he’s kept in peak health. For the good of the Multiverse. For the sake of the Multiverse.

He did the dirty work. No one wanted to do the dirty work. He was a good man, doing what needed to be done. A hero.

And, most importantly, he was Palette’s father.

Well, not either of his biological fathers- those were… unimportant. Irrelevant. The Doctor was the man who raised him. That made him his father: no questions asked.

…What was Palette thinking about? Ah— right. Sleep. The lack of sleep. Bad nights.

It was Palette’s fault.

He’d been late on the medication prep— too caught up in his own art. He’d foraged a new set of watercolors, the last time The Doctor had taken him out. They were bright and vivid: still laid neatly in its package when Palette had picked it up with curious hands and wide sockets. A gift from the Multiverse itself. His old set had been running out- the green and blue were already long past gone, the red and orange not too far behind. It was perfect. A streak of good luck, it seemed. Finally.

The day had been fine. The Doctor was in a good mood- which was hard to come by, as of late: recent events no doubt the culprit. Palette had been given free reign to do whatever he pleased. It felt like a breath of fresh air. Peace.

With his ‘Guide to Sea Life’ laid neatly out in front of him, Palette had continued his series of sea creature studies.

Red— that’s the color he’d been layering over his Callistoctopus macropus, when he had heard the telltale sounds of the Doctor stumbling his way to bed.

The Doctor was heading to bed. The Doctor needed his medicine before he slept. Palette hadn’t prepared his medicine.

It had all gone downhill from there. As expected. A good day had been turned into a bad night. Palette had turned a good day into a bad night. Again.

There had been a lot of bad nights, recently. Palette had caused a lot of bad nights.

Palette turns in his bed, clutching his plush penguin tightly to his chest as he does so. Gradient was usually in charge of medicine prep. Gradient was usually in charge of well… everything that had to do with the Doctor. Flip cleaned and managed the house, Gradient cared for the Doctor and aided in his research, and Palette sharpened himself into the finely tuned weapon he needed to be. It had worked. It had worked well.

And then, Gradient had run.

Palette turns again. The blankets get caught on his legs- he grimaces, making a feeble attempt to kick them off. They remain. He groans.

Gradient had run, three weeks ago. Gray was gone.

The memory of that night is… foggy, to say the least. Palette had been getting in some extra training after a well fought night at the Ring— running off the high from his current win streak. It had felt like magma, through his bones. Burning; Power. The training dummy was no match for his barrage of kicks and fists of burning paint.

There had been yelling. But, when had there not been yelling?

…It had been worse, those past few months. The Doctor’s temper was nothing less than a hairline trigger; Gradient seemed in a perpetual struggle to keep himself tethered to the present moment.

The noise had been faint in the training room, carried over from the distant lab. And yet, it was audible. Screaming— from the doctor. Shattered glass. Gradient’s feeble apologies. All typical. It had been an hour? Maybe? That didn’t mean much. The Doctor’s ‘lectures’ could last up to four hours, at least. Once, during a particularly bad go of things, Palette had kept his eye-lights trained on his wristwatch clock: seven hours.

Palette considered stepping in. Palette… Palette knew what it was like, to be on the other end of the Doctor’s fury. The Doctor had a funny habit of knowing what hurt. How to hurt. How to take you apart, piece by piece, and build you back together: broken, suffering, and drained.

It was deserved, though. The Doctor never snapped without reason. Mistakes were mistakes; Mistakes should be corrected.

The Doctor corrected.

His methods were… well, his.

If Palette stepped in, he would have somehow made it worse. He would have made a mistake— a stupid slip of the tongue, an ill timed joke; Gradient would be forced to bear the weight alongside him. Palette didn’t want that. Gradient was his brother— his best friend. It was awful what he was going through. If Palette showed his face, it would turn from awful to downright torture. Palette could handle it. Gradient could not.

And so, Palette stayed in the training room.

The fighting continued.

And then there was silence.

More silence. Footsteps. Rummaging, somewhere? Even more silence.

And then, the next morning, Gradient was gone.

“Time to get up.”

Palette snaps up, soul pounding hard in his chest. He’s thrown his legs over the side of his old bunk bed, sheets finally tossed to the barren floor, when he looks up and is able to take a well needed breath.

Flip. It’s just Flip, in the doorway— baby Cadet settled easy in his arms. He blinks at Palette, still groggy himself. Cadet reaches out and pulls at the ends of Flip’s bandanna; Flip gently pushes his hands away, as he steps back out into the hallway.

Seven a.m: that’s the time shown on Palette’s watch. A little on the early side, but nothing Palette hadn’t seen before. He groans as he stands up, stretching his aching limbs. It was Fight Night. Or, well, Fight Day: the True Underground ran from dawn to dawn. But, Fight Night was catchier— and that is when Palette was going to do his fighting. The evening show. Prime time entertainment.

They’d get there early afternoon, likely. The Doctor had information to share and relationships to maintain. Palette would train: wander, when time permitted it. Rest when he could, practice when he couldn’t. And then, as day turned to dusk, he would perform.

Confident in the burning lights of the Ring, with sword ablaze and smile wide, Palette would become Daybreak.

Palette hurries through the hallways of this house; He is expected, therefore he shall appear: timely, and professional. It would be a good day, if Palette had any say in it. He’d win his fights, continue his streak. He would prove his worth.

He would make the Doctor happy.

It will be a good night.

“So you’ve never met her— your sister?”

“I haven’t. She just, uh, left me a note.”

Well, left a note. Not specifically for him. Gradient had done the math— he hadn’t even existed at that point. It was likely PJ’s escape that had instigated his creation, actually. No two donor combos would exist at the same time. PJ’s… departure, had opened up the opportunity for Gradient’s existence.

The note… it was for whoever found it. Gradient just happened to be the lucky bastard.

Mess nods as they walk backwards with alarming ease.

“And she’s… going to help you?”

This gives Gradient some pause.

What did he expect, from his newly discovered sister?

Help— that was one thing. But… what was Gradient expecting her to do? Understand, perhaps. To believe him. That was a start. Maybe. If she knew what it was like— she might be more inclined to help. Why she hadn’t already? She might just… also feel alone. Also feel like it’s impossible to act, when it’s only yourself against the world. Gradient would show her otherwise.

“...Yeah,” Gradient finally responds.

They’ve only been walking for a little while. Their destination isn’t far. As, PJ lives in one of those quiet little houses, shadowed by the hill. For a month, Gradient had searched. High and low; Day and night. He had searched, until he was discovered. Until he was mistaken for what he wasn’t— or the risk became too high. Gradient had searched, and Gradient had found nothing.

Name by name, crossed off the list. This was his final hope.

“I’ll wait outside for you…?”

Gradient doesn’t process that he’s standing in front of a nondescript house until Mess is speaking to him. It’s small— quiet. The bright paint of the exterior seems to have been worn down with age and weather. And yet, as Gradient trails a hand down the rough wood, he knows that it is loved.

He’s here. After a month of looking, Gradient is here.

“Okay,” Gradient mumbles, staring at the sunflower-yellow paint that stains the doorknob. Was his sister an artist as well? It seemed silly, that such a trait would be inherited. But, the love of creation lived through fate, it seemed. Did she draw, write, paint? Would Gradient find out?

Mess walks off, likely attempting to give Gradient some sense of privacy.

Gradient reaches out. Gradient pauses.

He just… needs to knock. He needs to ball up his fist, rap gently against the wood, and wait. That’s all. It’s not hard.

And yet, Gradient can’t seem to move. Frozen like stone: rendered immobile. He’s come so far; He’s faced so much. Why does it seem like a door is going to be his final downfall? A stupid door. A stupid, paint stained door. No. Gradient… he won’t let it. He waits. He still can’t move.

This is stupid. This is so, so stupid. Why is he shaking? It’s just his sister. Who may or may not even be home. PJ is family. What if it were Flip, or Palette— would Gradient be trembling like a newborn deer? No. He wouldn’t. And so, Gradient reaches out his hand once more.

Gradient doesn’t get to knock, though. As, within the single space of a breath, the door is opening.

In the doorway stands a skeleton.

She’s shorter than Gradient expected. Small. Gradient isn’t exactly tall himself— but PJ has to look up at him with confusion, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a quiet frown.

This is all that Gradient gets to process, before PJ slams the door in his face.

Huh.

Before he knows it, Gradient is reaching out and knocking. That— That can’t be it. After all this time— after all he’s sacrificed. It was a misunderstanding: an assumption based on appearance. He needs another chance. He will get another chance.

Gradient is still knocking when the door cracks open just enough for PJ to glare at him.

“Go away,” she hisses, gearing up to shut the door once more. It may be stupid— It definitely is stupid. But, before Gradient loses his final chance, he stuffs his hand into the gap of door and wall.

The door slams… uncomfortably, against his metacarpals. Gradient simply bares his teeth and breathes through the pain. He’s been through worse, after all.

PJ stares at him like he just doused himself in gasoline and lit a match.

“I’m your brother,” Gradient mumbles. With his free uninjured hand, he reaches for his pocket and pulls out his map. His guide. “I got it— your note.” Meekly, he holds up the page and waves it, as if that will make what it is any clearer.

It’s only a pause, but Gradient feels as if a century passes.

“...Come in.”

As always, Gradient shall do as he’s told.

PJ’s house manages to be both clean and cluttered. There’s paint stains just about everywhere— that’s the first thing that Gradient notices. And, seeing PJ in proper lighting, the reason seems… pretty evident.

As, PJ is made of ink.

“...How’s that hand?” PJ asks as she rounds her kitchen table. She sits down with a huff, propping herself up with crossed arms. She looks at Gradient, brow raised and mouth quirked to a side in a manner that feels all too familiar.

Gradient bites the bullet and sits himself down in the one available chair.

“Uh,” he says. It’s… not great. But, Gradient has dealt with worse. It’s not like PJ can really do anything about it, even if he was honest. It would just make her feel bad. Maybe. And so, Gradient shrugs. “S’fine.”

PJ hums. She reaches for a mug that’s sitting solemn on the table, surrounded only by a single newspaper: sudoku puzzle half filled out. She sips, gaze still trained on Gradient. He’s being sized up— it’s clear.

“What do you want?”

Oh. Straight to the point. Okay.

…What does Gradient want?

His family. Peace. A decent drawing tablet. Some more of that excellent soup; Maybe a place to sleep that’s inside for once. All normal things, considered.

“Um,” Gradient says, feeling as if his mind is nothing but sludge and dust. “I got your note.”

It’s a nonsensical answer. PJ rewards him with a proper pitiful look. It feels almost… nostalgic, in a way. It’s been awhile since Gradient was looked at like he was the stupidest thing in the entire Multiverse. Usually people just look at him like he's a murderer, nowadays.

If only to make matters worse, Gradient lays the map out on the table and carefully pushes it over to PJ.

PJ, with a look of poorly hidden disdain, reaches out and pushes the paper back over to Gradient.

“Look, kid. I’m only going to ask this one more time. What do you want?”

Okay. This is going worse than Gradient expected. He needs to fix this. He can do better. He can be better.

“Help,” he mumbles. “I want— I need help. I escaped but there’s still— there’s people I left behind. He’s still doing, y’know, evil science. Evil stuff. Using us—”

“Kid,” PJ cuts him off. “It sounds like you're doing fine. You escaped. You’re free. Congratulations. You can build your own life.”

Gradient blinks.

“But—”

“But what?”

For a moment Gradient believes himself ice under that harsh, cold stare. “But what?” PJ repeats, impassive. She takes another sip from her mug. The ink stains the corners of her mouth. “Do you think you can stop it— we can stop it?” She scoffs. For a moment, Gradient thinks he picks up on… defeat? Regret? Something in between?

“They’ll be doing what they do ‘till the end of time. He’s just a symptom. If anyone could have stopped it, they would have. If they’re y'know, not already in on it, that is,” PJ continues.

The True Underground.

The Ring; The Market.

Gradient shudders.

Silence hangs in the air like the last thread of Gradient’s hope.

“…Look, kid—“

“Gradient.”

PJ blinks at him. Gradient clears his throat, gaze averted.

“My name,” he mumbles. “It’s Gradient. My name is Gradient.”

PJ nods, slow. Understanding. Her touch is surprisingly gentle, when she reaches out to pat Gradient’s hand; Her voice soft, when she speaks.

“…Look, Gradient. I’ve… I’ve been where you are,” she mutters, almost hesitant. She pauses to take a breath: practiced, by the looks of it. “It’s not fun. It’s hellish, actually. Being on your own for the first time, learning that the Multiverse doesn’t care— no matter how hard you beg and cry.”

She looks directly at Gradient, when she speaks.

“Eventually you learn that you were always on your own. You learn that you will always be on your own. Nobody is going to save you. Nobody is coming to help. It’s just you. Alone.”

Her words are as sharp as the Doctor’s wit. Her tone, however, is not unkind.

Worn.

Experienced.

“…I suggest you get used to it.”

There it snaps, the last of Gradient’s hope.

“There’s some free space on this land. I won’t run you out if you make use of it. It’s your choice, at the end of the day.”

Gradient looks around PJ’s house.

How long ago, had she built it? How long had she been hiding?

How long has she been alone?

“Okay,” Gradient mumbles, as he stands up. PJ doesn’t say anything as he walks to the front door. Gradient can only imagine her stare. Her disappointment.

It is his choice. And, even if it’s stupid. Even if he’s doomed. Gradient wants to help. Gradient wants to do what he can, even if it’s small. Gradient won’t give up.

He can’t.

He has people to save; He has people who need him.

“…Thank you,” Gradient whispers, as he steps back out into the light.

For showing him what he doesn’t want to become.

Palette shifts where he stands in the viewing area. He’s got a good spot— a perk of being a semi well known fighter— people typically made room for him wherever he went.

He really should be down in the ready room. But… Palette yearned for the fresh air. Or, fresher air. The True Underground was… underground, after all. The ready room, despite having a designated smoking area, always seemed to be infested with the stench of smoke and fury.

And so, Palette settles himself against the glass that separates the viewers from the entertainment. The Doctor is here somewhere— likely seated in one of the more comfortable viewing lounges: fights broadcasted to high definition screens. He’d be watching, as he always was.

“Now, for our first evening fight— drumroll everyone!” The unmistakable voice of the announcer calls out.

The crowd obeys; Palette gets lost in the sight of the fighters entering the ring, rising up from the hidden stairs like fish to their homeland. He claps a few times, if only for the support of fellow peers.

Before it can be announced, Palette is able to clock the unmistakable form of Riptide. She marches to her starting point, raising her signature spear in a clear rallying signal. The crowd, as always, responds. Riptide is well loved. And, for good reason. She’s powerful; She’s intelligent.

And, she’s named Riptide for good reason.

Mindlessly, Palette scratches at his right shoulder. That dislocation had taken ages to heal; It still burned, on occasion. A reminder of his failure.

“Our good ol’ fishy friend— Riptide!”

Almost in protest, Riptide glares up to the glass of the viewing area. More than displeased. But still, a good sport, as she flips her spear to the other hand: showing off while preparing her fighting stance.

“And, who else do we have up on the docket, Copycat?”

“Oh– U-Uh. We have…” there’s the distinct sound of shuffling papers over the intercom. “Pan! We have Pan. Have any, uh, other notes, MT?” Copycat mumbles.

“...Besides the fact that I just docked your pay, no! I do not.”

Pan hadn’t been fighting for long. He was decent, from what Palette had seen. He had a lot of passion, but not a lot of technical skill. He threw his magic around like he had unlimited energy, and he’d been decimated in every hand to hand match he’d entered. It was… unfair, pairing him up with Riptide. But, it made for good entertainment. He stands, aloof, at his starting point.

Entertainment just happened to be the name of the game.

“Well— I believe we’re ready to get rolling—”

“I declare my right to an end!”

Pan’s voice rings out.

It feels as if all the noise gets sucked from the Underground. A chasm. A supernova.

And then, the cheers.

Pan is shaking, from where he stands with trident raised. Here, in the light, Palette is able to see the softness of his youth; Palette had mistaken him for an Asgore, at first. The horns— the regality of how he carried himself. But, the life in his eyes betrays his ‘Asriel’ status. He’s still trembling, as the words echo within the Ring: carried by passion throughout the entire Underground.

It’s been awhile since an ‘end’ match had been called. They were risky and brutal; And, that was the point. The magic inhibitors for the ring would be turned off, the ATK limiter would no longer be capped— allowing for, well.

An end.

Death.

The patrons were likely scrambling to get to the designated viewing spots, if they weren’t already there. They needed to keep a close eye on their fighters— their currency, in a way. It was important, to count one’s losses. The collectors were making another round, now: retaking bets. End fights had higher stakes. And therefore, had higher turnouts.

“Riptide!” MT’s disembodied voice calls out, “will you be accepting any tributes?”

With a cold nonchalance, Riptide shakes her head: the hair from her helmet swaying with the motion.

She doesn’t need any. If desired, another fighter could volunteer to take her place— either from a desire to protect, or a desire to take the possible winnings themselves. But, Riptide is strong. A veteran. She knows her skills. She knows the outcome.

Palette knows the outcome, too.

It’s not a pretty one.

About a minute— that’s how long it takes for the Underground to settle down. Riptide holds her spear in hand. Pan holds his trident like a lifeline.

“Do you know the rules my dearest, most pathetic little Copycat?” MT speaks, as the lights begin to dim. A spotlight appears on the fighters. And then, like the first spark of life, the Ring is drenched in light.

Copycat stutters: genuine, or feigned, Palette doesn’t know. “O-Of course I do—”

“Fight for yourself, fight for your devotion, and fight for the right to fight! This is gonna be a death match, folks. I expect it grisly and gruesome,” MT booms out. “You’ll be forgiven, if a hand slips or… rips,” he laughs at his own joke, and Palette has to take a breath to prevent his cringe. Pan is unable to hide his though, by the looks of it. “But! At least attempt to restrain before you turn your opponent to nothing but a stain! We want a nice little ending— final words and all— got it?”

And then, the horn blares.

The fight begins.

It’s quick— all things considered. Palette presses himself against the glass as the voices of the announcers fade as the reality of the fight soaks his consciousness. He picks up on the mistakes: the way Pan depletes his magic like he is nothing but a well, how Riptide leaves herself vulnerable with a certain swing of her spear. The barrage of magic— it fills the Ring like air in lung. Feeds it; Revitalizes it.

There’s a moment, where Palette is convinced that the fight will have a different ending. With a lucky strike, Pan is able to throw Riptide’s spear clean across the battlefield. With an upwards curve it hits the viewing glass with a hearty clang! The glass could withstand just about anything; Still, there’s a ripple in the crowd. A cheer.

The right to fight.

The right to an end.

And then, Pan charges.

It’s a mistake— clear as day. Palette has the urge to cover his sockets. But, the moment shall live on in his memory; It would be rude, to pretend otherwise.

Feigning surprise, Riptide allows Pan to take a swing. She dodges, of course. And, what Pan doesn’t know, is there’s a barrage of magic spears heading straight for his back.

With a careful side step, Riptide watches as her rain of spears slices through Pan’s fur. He collapses— pinned to the edge of the ring. He heaves. And, when Palette presses himself closer to the glass, he can already see the formation of dust.

Restrained, all right.

Palette gulps.

“I believe we have ourselves a winner! Or do you think good ol’ Pan here will make a last second comeback?”

“I—”

“Of course he won’t! He’s already as good as dust, isn’t he?” MT snickers, laughter carrying like the call of a canary.

Riptide looks up at the viewing area, searching. For just a moment, Palette feels a flash of confusion— what is she doing? And then, it hits.

Permission from her patron.

The only way to get out of a death match would be the disapproval of the winner’s patron— what they said, went. And so, if a patron made the decision of mercy, mercy it would be. Riptide nods, as she finds what she’s looking for. The crowd is chanting— but Palette is too engrossed by how Riptide marches over to collect her spear. She walks back to Pan, crumpled and wheezing, and she kneels.

Riptide says something. Pan, through heavy breath, responds.

And then, it’s over.

There is nothing but a pile of dust and Riptide.

The horn blares.

Palette shoulders his way through the cheering crowd— it’s going to take a bit for the dustrunners to clear the Ring. But, still, Palette doesn’t want to risk being late for his own fight. He was already on thin enough ice with the Doctor as is: any mistake would mean punishment.

And so, with years of practice, Palette maneuvers himself through the thick fury of the viewership.

He’s making his way to the fighter’s stairs when, with the power of sheer chance and bad luck, Palette crashes into an unsuspecting monster.

“Sorry!” Palette cries out, as he tumbles to the floor, skidding along the concrete like butter across hot pan. He flips himself back over— looking to the poor person he just bodied. And, he pauses.

They’re… standing. Blank. Palette blinks.

He narrows his eye sockets. And— Oh. Right. He clears his throat, pulling himself back up with only a little wince. It’s a Desire… or maybe an Afterimage—?

The monster turns around, showing off their dead, empty stare.

Yup. A Desire. He was right the first time.

“S-Sorry,” he stutters, looking back over his shoulder as he jogs his way to his destination. It’s easy, running through the halls of the market. He’s been doing this for… five years now? Since he was… ten. That’s right. It’s almost second nature at this point. He whips past seller after seller: some he recognizes, and some he doesn’t. The Doctor is here somewhere, off in one of the more secluded viewing areas. Probably.

And then, Palette finds himself at the fighter’s entrance. He doesn’t think, as he presses his phalanges into the sensor. And, he doesn’t flinch when it takes a magic sample. It’s simply checking that it’s, well, him. That his soulmark remains. It does, of course. Palette rushes into the transition room and then he’s running down the set of stairs: three at a time.

One day he’ll let himself slide down the railing. One day. Not today. But, one day.

The ready room smells of smoke and regret. Typical, of a night like this. Palette dances past a group of fighters, sitting around a viewing screen. They’re facing away from it— focusing on their card game: sound enough to carry the wins and losses.Also pretty typical of a night like this.

Palette slides past a row of lockers, spares a glance towards a lone figure exiting the smoking area, and then ends his journey with a small pirouette as lands atop his marker.

The viewing screen, hung right by the stairway exit, flashes orange.

And, that’s Palette’s cue.

With hand settled against the hilt of his sword, Palette ascends the stairs: careful and restrained.

Here, in the Ring, Palette is known.

Here, in the Ring, Palette is loved.

“Look at that, everybody— our rising star! Let’s just hope he doesn’t fly too close to the sun, hmm? Drumroll, everyone, for the bright— the shining—!”

Palette, as always, will indulge his fans. He looks up at the viewing glass and smiles wide as MT calls out his name— his title.

“Daybreak!”

The crowd erupts into cheers. He’s been a fan favorite as of late— crawling through the ranks at a steady, but desperate pace. He knows the Ring like he knows his own soul; It is but his second home. Palette, almost guilty, raises a hand and waves to the viewership. His gaze trails the sea of faces— most he knows, some he doesn’t. He frowns, as he finds the dedicated patron area empty.

The Doctor isn’t here.

He’s watching, of course. But, he isn’t here.

That’s fine, though. Palette understands. He takes a breath; He’ll be fine.

Palette’s attention snaps to his opponent. They rise from the stairs— almost leisurely in their walk. Palette narrows his sockets, brows furrowed, as he attempts to discern the silhouette.

Ah. A Sans.

He stands at his cue, hands stuffed into his pockets. His face is shrouded by darkness, as his hood is pulled as far as it will go. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Palette allows himself to think of Gradient. Around his neck is a red scarf— typical. Everything else is… as expected, except for the cap laid neatly beneath his hood.

Without thinking, Palette tips his own cap.

The Sans, slowly, tips his back.

“And, uh, on the opposition is—” Copycat calls out, pausing for a failed dramatic effect. “Solitude!”

Solitude… Oh, right. He’s relatively new here. Palette had caught a few of his fights over the past month or so— mostly hand to hand combat. Less risky; But, a good way to practice for a newcomer. He was quick and efficient. If his magic was up to par with his fists, it should be an interesting fight.

“Will Daybreak break our newbie? Or, will Solitude fight for his right to stand alone? We’ll find out— drumroll, everyone!”

The crowd, as always, obeys.

As a Sans, Solitude will likely favor a good defense. Tiring him out, or trapping him into a corner, is the name of the game. It’s likely that his HP is low— the inhibitor magic of the Ring will prevent death, but it still means a quicker end goal. Bring his HP down enough: Or, restrain him. Those are the conditions for a win.

The lights dim.

MT knows by now to keep the Ring in darkness as long as he can, for Daybreak. The rules would be bent for good entertainment. And, Palette always made good entertainment.

It’s his first fight of the night. And so, with practiced ease, Palette unsheathes his sword and draws it against the back of his hand.

His blood— his magic— drenches the blade.

And, with just a little effort, Palette sets his sword ablaze.

The arc of fire dances through the dark abyss. Palette can’t help but smile, as his weapon illuminates the entranced look of his viewers. Perhaps it was a cheap trick: flashy. And yet, it remained a staple of his.

His fans seemed to like it, after all.

There’s the spotlights; There’s the light.

And, there’s the horn. Marking the start of their fight.

Solitude charges at him.

Okay, so not defensive. Pretty on the offense, actually. Palette has to tuck and roll to dodge Solitude’s strike: the newly summoned bone clashes against the Ring’s wall, but Solitude isn’t at all deterred. He’s already up and running towards Palette once more like a shark chasing its meal.

Palette doesn’t remember this during the fights of Soltidue’s he’d caught. He’d been good— sure. Decent. But, this?

This is something else.

This is a real, honest fight.

Bone meets blazing sword; Palette has to combat it with all his strength. And, even then, Solitude doesn’t relent. The telltale sound of a blaster whirrs behind him— Palette, as a last ditch effort, channels his paint with a swipe of his blade and throws himself down into the portal.

He arises to another strike, breathless. And then another.

When— how? Palette hasn’t been challenged like this for… well, since he was a kid. From what Palette can only ascribe to good luck, he’s able to drench Solitude in a smear of his paint— thanks to his blade.

With a little mental effort, Palette sets that paint ablaze.

However, in a display that steals both his words and actions, Solitude is already dropping and rolling. With what seems to be practiced movements, he tears his jacket from his body— evading the wave of heat.

Huh.

Practiced.

Solitude knows Palette’s moves. Solitude had been watching him. Studying him.

Solitude was prepared.

MT— or maybe it’s Copycat, Palette couldn’t say— is saying something, now. The crowd responds. Palette is too busy standing slackjawed, realization drenching his sensibilities, as Solitude throws himself at him.

Solitude… here, in the light, with jacket discarded and face clear as a bright blue day: Palette realizes he knows who this is.

Those sockets tell all.

This isn’t Solitude.

This is Dust.

Palette hits the floor with a thump!

His hat tumbles off his head and his blade clatters to the ground: extinguished. Palette, if he were free from the shackles of shock, would have been able to get out of this bind. Alas, Palette is slowly accepting the reality that he just fought Dust. A member of the Murder Time Trio. Dust: the right hand man.

Dust; The stolen word and the one who sees all.

“I yield!” Palette cries out.

The horn blares.

Dust frees him. And, in a gesture that Palette doesn’t know how to read, he reaches behind Palette to retrieve his own hat.

By the time that Palette is returning his cap to its rightful place, Dust is gone: burnt jacket and all.

Again, the announcers are saying something. Probably calling the results— wisecracking about the loss of Palette’s win streak— how a newcomer was able to restrain him in less than a minute flat. Palette couldn’t be bothered to listen, as the second he’s back on his feet with sword in sheath, he’s racing back off to the fighter’s room.

Palette had just fought Dust.

The one and only.

Nightmare’s lackey.

Palette barrels into the ready room. He scans the area— there’s still an ongoing card game, there’s someone making use of the showers, and the fighters for the next rounds are preparing.

And yet, there’s no sign of Dust.

It’s possible he had already left— satisfied with his victory, off to go do… something. And, if he hadn’t, there was one singular room left to check.

Palette, with bated breath, walks into the designated smoking area.

He doesn’t really know why he’s so focused on finding his defeater. Maybe it’s the novelty of coming face to face with one of the King of Negativity’s men. Nightmare had gone MIA, after all. It was reasonable to be a little curious as to why an associate of his would be showing his face.

And, more importantly, why that associate would choose a fight with Palette.

Palette’s gaze lands on a lone figure, tucked into the corner of this mostly barren room. Hood pulled high and cigarette lit in hand: Dust doesn’t bother to acknowledge the new presence.

“I’m sorry,” Palette mumbles, stepping closer to Dust. Dust, eventually, turns towards Palette. He stares at him— at least, Palette thinks he does. It’s a little hard to tell with the shadow cast across his face. Palette takes a breath as he tucks his hands behind his back: confidence. Confidence is always important. “About the jacket,” Palette clarifies.

It’s burnt— clearly.

Wardrobe destructions weren’t exactly uncommon in the Ring. Magic could be destructive. Destruction was actually encouraged, so long as it was entertaining. Your clothes may be burnt, ripped, or shredded; You, yourself, may be burnt, ripped, or shredded. Anything went, as long as you were prepared to take the blame if it failed. Palette, with his flames, had been the cause for… a lot of flayed fabric. He’d been accosted once or twice after a particularly ruinous fight.

Dust stares. And then, Dust shrugs.

Huh.

Well… that’s good. Probably. He doesn’t seem to be angry— he doesn’t seem to be… anything, really. The myriad of questions that had once tumbled around in Palette’s skull have died like ash upon Palette’s tongue. He really should be going, now. He had another fight coming up— he should be preparing. Licking his wounds; Calming his mind. The Doctor wouldn’t accept anything less.

And yet, the curiosity burns like the sun within his marrow.

Dust had studied Palette’s fights. It was likely that Dust had requested a fight with Palette, considering how Palette was usually paired with… flashier fighters. Why—?

It doesn’t matter. Palette takes a breath. Dust is a villain: the trio are villains. Nightmare is a villain. They are beneath him— unbecoming of the Multiverse, as the Doctor would put it. The suffering they induce is needless and their methods are barbaric. Another breath: he grounds himself. To indulge in a fight was fine; To socialize after was a step taken too far.

Palette stumbles back.

The cold, dark sense of dread settles deep into his bones; A rushing river: his breath stolen as he’s pulled down, down, down into the ocean depths.

“How interesting,” the King of Negativity drawls, freezing hand settled like ice upon Palette’s shoulder.

Palette can’t help how he whips around, nearly losing his footing as boot slips on the slick tile of this floor— but the hand of the King remains, a steady support. His hat— it’s been knocked askew from the sudden jolt. But, with careful and precise movements, the King takes his chilled hand and tidies Palette’s cap.

“Do you truly believe he needs your preoccupation, fallen star?”

Standing in front of Palette, arms now tucked neatly behind his back, is Nightmare.

The Moon.

“I—” Palette stutters. Out of the corner of his socket, he sees Dust walking over to the door. Cigarette still laid neat in his hand, he closes the entrance, leaning back against the metal frame. He puffs a plume of smoke. It would be hypnotizing, if Palette wasn’t already focused on the threat in front of him.

Dust was his anglerfish. Nightmare is his killer whale.

The pictures Palette had seen— they were always blurry and out of focus: a product of Nightmare’s aura, it seemed. Palette knew he was corrupted; Palette knew that his single socket was haunted by clear seawater cyan. Beyond that was up to the imagination.

There is nothing more frightening, than something being left up to your imagination; The figure in the dark, the implication of the silence.

But, here, Nightmare is clear.

He stands only a few inches taller than Palette. Still, Palette feels like nothing more but a child as Nightmare looks down upon him, eye-light burning like the heat of a save point. He carries himself with a sense of regality— his trench coat swallows him like the robes of a king, edges nipping at the floor.

Nightmare’s features are sharp: angular. Palette fights the urge to trace the shape of his own face.

The issue with pictures— it was the same, for Nightmare’s brother. He photographed like a snapshot of the sun: bright, shining, and out of focus. Warm and golden: that’s all that Palette knows.

It’s a silly thought, but Palette had always wondered: is his smile just the same? Does he burn just as bright? Throughout his life, he’d been called a sun; A star.

Palette feels a twitch at the edge of his mouth, pleading.

What does it look like, when Nightmare smiles?

Could Palette find out?

“I’ve witnessed few beings with your skill and passion— How long ago was it now, when you took your first step inside the Ring?”

Nightmare’s dark tone snaps Palette out of his thoughts. His voice is… different, than Palette expected. And yet, it fits. Haunting and melodic; clear and lilting.

Palette clears his throat as he fixes his posture.

How long had he been fighting… he remembers throwing his first punch at age five— another sibling, the name escapes him, had stolen a pack of crayons right from Gray’s hands. It was simply… wrong. And so, Palette had gotten them back. With a well timed punch, sure. But, he’d gotten them back. Gradient had smiled, Trebuchet had cheered, and all was right in their small world.

Palette had taken his first life at age six.

But, how long had he been fighting at the Ring—? “Five years,” Palette responds, head bowed. “Um, thank you,” he adds, as he remembers himself.

The sheer power behind the strikes; The crushing weight of restraint.

“But— Um,” Palette breathes, eye-lights trained on the dusty, tiled floor. “I lost, though?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes it’s a mistake. The age old lesson feels like hot coals burning at his marrow; When someone compliments you, you do not argue. There is a fine tight-rope line between humility and ego. The Doctor— he had taught this well. And yet, it always felt like that line was less walkway and more thread.

Once again, his curiosity had gotten the best of him; He is nothing but a simple, mangy cat.

With head still bowed, Palette waits for retribution.

“Hmm,” Nightmare hums, “I would hardly categorize it, as such.”

Palette blinks, as he looks up. He finds Nightmare: still stood aloof, shoulders shrugged. “The outcome was already set in stone, much before you dedicated yourself to the battle. You see— my associate,” Nightmare gestures vaguely, as he speaks. Dust puffs at his cigarette: seemingly indifferent to the acknowledgment. “...He’s… familiar, with the way of the fight. There is a reason I trust him so. If the battle resulted in any other conclusion, well… Let’s just say, I’d be more than disappointed.” Nightmare steps back, arms outstretched. “And yet, here I am.”

“D-Dissapointed?” Palette can’t help but stutter.

In the distance, Palette hears the blare of a fight’s start. How many fights had occurred, since Palette had wandered off— how much was he missing?

“You are… fascinating, Daybreak,” Nightmare continues. His tendrils— flowing with corruption— snap with the emphasis. “I find myself curious— how did you receive that name?”

His name. His title.

“The crowd, after my first fight.” Palette trails the hilt of his blade; The memory surfaces within his skull. You don’t choose your stage name— it’s chosen for you. Either by your patron, the announcers, or the crowd. “They uh. Kinda latched on to my, um, fire stuff. I think.”

Nightmare hums, apparently pleased with the answer. He shrugs his shoulders, as he says, “A fitting way, to gain a name. Intriguing— for I find myself with a… similar history.” And, there, another snap of his tendrils. “Your flame—,” Nightmare pivots, “is it inherent to you, or merely a property of your weapon?”

“Uh, it’s inherent,” Palette responds. His blade was simply a conduit: something to focus his magic through.

Nightmare narrows his socket.

Oh. Right. Fire magic isn’t exactly… typical, of a skeleton. It’s likely that Nightmare has discerned him as a ‘Sans’, which would make it all the more suspicious. Not impossible, but simply unlikely.

“My, uh,” Palette coughs, swiping his fist across his mouth. “My grandfather was an elemental. Fire elemental.”

Slowly, Nightmare nods.

“It is… quite the spectacle— your flame. You seem to wield it in a… unique, style. Tell me— that liquid you use as a starter— is it gasoline, kerosene? It doesn’t seem to hold such scent, though.” Nightmare looks over to Dust, still leaned easy against the doorway. His jacket remains charred and stained.

Ah. The paint.

“Slime,” Palette lies. He feels lightheaded, as the word leaves his mouth.

Slime— slime? Really? He could have just lied about the gasoline scent— say it was, y’know, magical! But no. Slime. Palette apparently wields the power of slime, now. Cool. At least it reminds him of those bubbling potions back home. Palette feels the call of hunger deep within his marrow. Goopy…

“My grandmother was a Moldsmal,” he continues. “Uh. Interesting couple— her and the elemental. I’m told.”

Again, Nightmare nods.

Another blare of the horn; Another battle.

How much, had Palette tuned out? How long, had Palette been in conversation with the King of Negativity? He has battles coming up— it sends an anxious heat through his bones, not knowing how long he had to prepare; When he was next expected. What he might be missing.

It’s always been a flaw, how his mouth moves faster than his thoughts. And so, without a chance of stopping himself, Palette asks, “Why are you here?”

Nightmare stills. Surprised, perhaps. Enraged by the audacity— Palette will just have to see. A second passes like the turn of a century. Palette, once he’s able, is backtracking as quick as a lighting flash.

“I mean— Um. Uh. Why are you here, with me? Talking.”

It’s a poor recovery. And yet, Nightmare seems unbothered.

Palette, once more, feels the cold seeping chill of dread. As, Nightmare takes a step forward. Pallete, with all he has, resists the need to flinch.

And yet, punishment never comes.

“I will be honest with you, Daybreak. I have been keeping a close eye on your battles for a while now.”

A month. That’s about how long ago Solitude— Dust— had shown up. All this time, Nightmare had been lurking in the shadows. Perhaps… Perhaps he’d been here even longer. Watching. Plotting.

“I believe… hm,” Nightmare trails off, bringing a hand to his chin: in thought. He shakes his head. “Perhaps there is a better way to go about this— do you find yourself… satisfied, with your patron?”

His patron.

The Doctor.

“S’fine,” Palette mumbles, quiet. If the Doctor heard him… well, it wouldn’t exactly be a pretty sight. The Doctor gave him everything he had; The Doctor created him. Cared for him. Without the Doctor, Palette would be nothing. The Doctor was a good patron. A great patron. And yet, all that Palette can muster is a simple, “He’s fine.”

Nightmare raises a single brow. Somewhere, within the depths of Palette’s mind, it registers as familiar.

“…A fighter like yourself— I imagine you may wish to seek something better than… ‘fine’.”

Palette shrugs, gaze averted.

“I’m looking for someone experienced with the True Underground. Someone who has… been seeped within the culture, so to say.” Nightmare gestures vaguely over to Dust, now looking at Palette with still shadowed expression. “My associate here has served me well. However, I find myself in need of something… different. A guide, perhaps.”

“I will be clear with you, Daybreak,” Nightmare continues. “I find myself unimpressed with certain aspects of this land. It is often barbaric— needlessly cruel. I seek to… influence, in the ways I can. Create change. From what I’ve witnessed of you— I believe you may feel the same.”

Palette thinks of a spear and a pile of dust.

“I am offering you my patronage. You will be cared for, kept safe, and polished into something truly devastating."

It should be an easy answer. Here, the King of Negativity; The villain of the Multiverse, is offering his support. Nightmare is luring him to the depths— stealing him from his home. His family.

Nightmare is offering the chance to run.

It’s easy— the answer.

And yet, Palette finds himself without response.

“I expect you to think on it. I will be here next week. Then, you can deliver your answer.”

With that, Nightmare turns on his heel and steps towards the door.

“Wait,” Palette says, hand outreached. His soul is pounding in his chest like the wings of a hummingbird— his breath heavy and drowning. What is he doing— why?

“How— how will I, uh, give my answer?”

Nightmare stills. He looks to Dust, and then he looks back to Palette. He stretches the moment: skilled.

“Hmm…” he ponders, aloud. And, with a whisper of a smile, he delivers his own answer.

“When it has reached your last battle of the night— this following week— declare an end. From there, you shall be taken care of.”

An end.

Death.

Dust opens the door and Nightmare follows behind him. However, right before he exits, he turns back to Palette.

“It has been nice speaking with you, Daybreak. I thank you for your time.”

“Palette,” Palette calls out, hand still outreached. He clears his throat, as Nightmare raises a brow at him. He settles his hand against the hilt of his sword: touchstone. “My name— it’s Palette.”

“Well,” Nightmare says, tucking himself into a bow. He pulls himself back with elegance, as he dusts off his coat. “Thank you, Palette,” he says, smile wide with aura bright.

And then, Palette is alone.

Another blare of the horn: yet another fight, missed.

Well, stars.

The doctor isn’t going to like this.

As soon as Gradient exits PJ’s house, he crashes.

Honestly, he should have expected it— he’d gone too long without one: his luck, as always, would catch up with him.

Still, it wasn’t pleasant. Oblivion never was.

Here, within the darkness, Gradient counts the seconds. He has no feeling; No sight. He is nothing, and there is nothing, and it is all nothing but nothing.

And then, he is.

“...Are you okay?” Mess asks, face clouded with worry with hand outstretched. They don’t touch him— which is a welcome change. They do hover, though. Concerned.

“Uh,” Gradient says, looking up from where he’s laid back against the grass. He’d gotten farther than he’d thought it seemed, as PJ’s house is nothing but a dot in the distance. A memory. “...Sure,” he mumbles.

Maybe he still is a bit out of it. Regardless, he pulls himself up. The wave of nausea is almost instantaneous.

Gradient vomits.

“Eugh…” he mutters, swiping the back of his fist across his mouth. The magic tastes like acid: burning across his tongues and gurgling at the back of his throat. Unpleasant, truly. Gradient would take a crash over that anyday. And yet, with his ME? He was doomed to both.

Mess grimaces from where they sit. Just a bit, though. Gradient is honestly surprised that they’re still here. And, when Gradient fumbles for his glasses— when did he lose those? He’s downright shocked.

“Um, I’m sorry. About that.”

Mess stares down at the vomit— ink— staining their pants and sweater. They blink. And then, they’re giving Gradient a thumbs up. The brightness of their smile rivals the sun.

“It is… only slightly disgusting! I’m fine. Truly.”

“It’s uh. Ink, if that makes you feel any better.”

Mess, again, looks down. They ponder, for a moment, scratching a finger across the stained fabric. And then, they nod.

“...A little. How’d it go with your sister?”

Oh. Right.

Gradient shrugs.

“It uh. Happened. I guess.”

Wow. A pure artisan with words, he is. Connoisseur of sarcasm. He needs a reward. Several, actually. Gradient sighs, as he pulls his knees to his chest. It happened. It sucked. He was back to square one. And, he doesn’t know what else he expected, honestly. By PJ’s own admission, this was how things were. This was how it was always going to be.

The heat against his face… it’s unusual. Gradient mindlessly rubs at his cheek and finds it hot with tears.

Oh.

Huh.

“...Do you have someplace to stay, tonight?”

He wipes at his face again; He finds more tears. And, then, there’s a glitch: pulling at his spine. Beckoning him forth— dragging him down.

“Uh,” Gradient mumbles. He shrugs, feeble. “I’ll find a place.”

He always had. Sometimes it was abandoned houses. Sometimes it was dreary labs. But, most often, it was benches and the chill of the sky. He’d find a place. If it would be comfortable was another question entirely.

Mess frowns at that. Gradient spasms as a glitch jerks his neck.

“Hey,” Mess calls out, brows furrowed as Gradient glitches again. They worry at their lip, teeth digging into the sensitive skin. “I-I have a call to make. It’ll be quick. But, uh, don’t worry. Okay?”

Gradient doesn’t really have the opportunity to worry. As, once again, he’s being pulled down under into another crash.

It doesn’t matter, if no one cares. It doesn’t matter if he’ll always be on the run. It doesn’t matter if the Multiverse is cruel and unforgiving.

It doesn’t matter.

As here, in the darkness of oblivion, Gradient is nothing.

“C’mon, Sunshine. Option one, or option two?”

Dream is pulled from his thoughts by Ink’s campfire-warm voice. They’re in his apartment— it had been a quiet day, not unlike most days of this past year or so. Ink is sitting on his coffee table, posture relaxed with legs lazily rested on the couch that Dream finds himself on. Ink smiles, as he waggles the two color samples held expertly in his grasp.

“Um,” Dream says as he leans forward. They’ve been wedding planning for… Dream steals a look at the clock— three hours now? Sure, if given the opportunity Dream would subject himself to just about anything if it meant time spent with Ink: from dangerous adventures to mind numbing paperwork, Dream would do it all; Ink’s smile and wit was always enough to keep Dream entertained. It’s just… Dream was already seeing color wheels in his nightmares as is. He doesn’t know if his mind will survive another hour of hex code after hex code.

“...The one on the right?” he mumbles, pointing at his choice. It’s... a nice gold; So is the other option. Which, is likely because they’re very nearly the exact same color. Nearly the same color, Dream is careful to distinguish, even if the thought is his alone. He’s spent too much time around Ink to fall into that carefully laid trap. It takes a moment, with sockets narrowed and brows furrowed, but Dream is able to pick up on the subtle warmer tone of his choice: proper sunshine-gold.

“#ebc849… good choice!” Ink says, as he throws the other card over his shoulder. It lands, sadly, in the sizable color graveyard that’s accumulated on Dream’s carpet. “#ebe349 would have been fine— but I agree, too… lemony for the occasion. We want soft and warm. Golden, like your smile!”

Ink is about to show off another set of cards when Dream can’t help himself. He can already envision the color samples that will be chasing him in what should be pleasant, aimless slumber. And so, he settles a careful hand atop Ink’s thigh.

“May we, ah, take a break? Perhaps?”

With incredible precision, Ink raises a single brow. He follows the line of Dream’s touch, gaze eventually landing on his face. Ink waffles, for a moment: practiced in his ruse. “Hmmmm…” He repositions his legs, settling them against Dream’s lap as he uses his newly acquired cards as a fan. “I don’t know… you did kill me. Twice. I am of the belief that you, as they say,” Ink clears his throat, “owe me this. Big time.”

Dream can’t help but sigh at the reminder.

The weight of his sword; The weight of the world in his arms.

“You know what? Screw it,” Ink says, throwing the cards he once lovingly cradled in hand. “Buckle up, buttercup. This time, you’re gonna be the sad dead flashback wife.”

It’s expected, how Ink throws himself into Dream’s arms. Dream can’t help but laugh as Ink pushes him down onto the couch cushions, blowing a well practiced raspberry at the cusp of his cheek. The blossom of warmth bubbles within his ribcage; Ink, without hesitation, licks the bridge of his nose.

“Actually, I changed my mind,” Ink says, right before another sloppy lick. He pauses, kissing just beneath Dream’s circlet: just as sloppy. “I don’t think we want the main character death warning.” Another kiss— this time hitting the mark of Dream’s mouth. “Yet.”

Dream pulls Ink down into a proper kiss.

It feels like sunshine and life. It tastes of paint and cherished memories. Ink fits in his arms like the warmth of his soul rested bare within his chest; Dream will never, not once in his eternity, get sick of this.

“Mwah,” Ink says, as he presses a playful kiss to the corner of Dream’s mouth. He leans back— just enough to give him the benefit of a vantage point. He looks at Dream, eye-lights dancing between color and shape, and he smiles.

Genuine.

He looks like a cat, settled cozy against Dream’s ribs. Dream breathes. Here, in this quiet peace, he shall immortalize this memory. When he reaches out a hand, Ink is quick to nuzzle into the warmth of his palm: catlike, truly. It’s a little ironic how Dream is the one purring right now, and not Ink.

“Hey,” Ink mumbles.

It’s… uncharacteristically shy, for Ink. Sure— in the comfort of known presence, Ink could be quiet. He often was, actually. At peace. But— shy is a little… unusual. Dream presses into his point of contact, and feels the comfort of a gentle kiss pressed into his palm. “Uh,” Ink mumbles, again. “Would you mind— if I started sticking around a little more? Just for a bit. Nothing crazy.”

Dream raises his brows, curious. Ink typically behaved as he wanted with little warning. To give a heads up… it was odd. And yet, Ink did always manage to surprise him. The only event of note that’s coming up is Ink’s birthday. Perhaps—?

Ah. Right. The anniversary. Trademarked, as Ink would put it. Dream can’t help but cringe a little.

“I would have no objection,” Dream responds, soft. “You are always welcome, cielo.”

Ink hums, as he rests his head against Dream’s sternum.

Peace.

They don’t stay like that forever. But, that’s okay. Absence is but a stop on the way to presence.

“Hmmm…” Ink rumbles against his chest. “Watcha’ thinking about with the invites?”

Ah, yes. The invites. The people he is inviting, to their wedding. He’s thought about that. Yes.

Dream leans forward and presses a kiss to Ink’s forehead. It’s a poor evasion— it’s clear. Still, Ink accepts the affection, even if it’s with a roll of his eye-lights.

“Erm,” Dream says, hoping that Ink will be entranced by his sheer innocence and general warm nature.

Alas, Ink is immune. This time, at least.

“C’mon, Dreamy— you haven’t thought of one? One single person you’d like to invite?”

Well— no. He hadn’t.

It’s… Sure, Dream knows a lot of people. He’s friendly, with those he encounters. He could be considered a universal acquaintance. A pillar of support.

But, they’re not his friends. Or, at least, friends that he’d wish to invite to a small, private wedding.

Blue and Cross were both invited on account of their Stars association. They would have been invited regardless— friend status or not. June was invited, too. But, Ink was his friend as well. The same went for Core.

Ink had his parents— his extended Undertop relatives. Dream had… well. Dream had Ink. Ink was Dream’s family.

Dream, once upon a time, had Night.

“I shall… think more on it. Have you given any thought to your name?”

Ink blinks at him.

“Uhhhhh,” he trails off. He opens his mouth and closes it, brows raised. Searching. “Yes…?” he tries.

Dream gives him a look.

“…No,” Ink corrects.

Dream sighs. He can't help but smile at Ink’s sheepish expression, though. “Your true name,” he repeats, quiet. “For the name exchange.”

The public ceremony was Ink’s domain; The private ceremony was Dream’s domain.

Or, as Ink liked to put it, Ink was in charge of all the ‘cool party stuff’ and Dream was in charge of ‘all the cool weird fae world building stuff’.

“I don’t know,” Ink mumbles, pouting just enough for Dream to be able to pick up on it. “I like my name— why do I have to choose another? Can’t we just exchange with what I already have?”

“To give power to a known name would be dangerous. You will keep your name, it is a fine one, after all. Your true name… it shall simply be what casts the shadow of your name. It shall be a culmination of what your name means to you— who you are.”

Ink hums, at that. Pondering his words with a quiet determination.

“...How’s it going with your new ‘radical’ neighbor?”

Dream can’t help but throw back his head with a groan. Ink snorts, giving his chest a few small pity taps.

No, Dream doesn’t hate anyone. Dream was kind. Dream would support anyone who came his way. Dream was a Guardian: it was his job.

And yet… Fresh seemed to put every single skill of social pleasantness to the test. He wasn’t a bad person. No, he seemed adamant to be as friendly as possible. Pedantic, almost. He’d check up on Dream multiple times a day to make sure he was still ‘rockin on’ as he put it.

He was simply… annoying. His aura— it was weird. Dream liked weird; Ink should be a clear enough example. But this was… bad, weird. Weird that made Dream’s marrow feel like sludge; Weird that sets his teeth on edge and his phalanges itching for the wood of his bow or the hilt of his sword.

“...Fine,” Dream lies. Ink rolls his eye-lights with a smile.

Soon enough, something catches Ink’s eye. And, before Dream knows it, Ink is pulling him back up to a seated position. “You know what time it is?” Ink asks, grabbing the stack of papers laid neat on the corner of the coffee table.

Dream sighs, as Ink hands him the newspaper. He already knows.

“Tabloid time,” Ink winks, cracking open his own newspaper.

It was necessary, as a so-called ‘public figure’. That doesn’t mean it was pleasant. Of course, Dream liked being able to inspire the inhabitants of the Multiverse. To be able to help— it invigorated him. Energized him.

And yet, if Dream were to write up a list of pros and cons, he feels as if the cons would pile up until they were drowning him in his own regrets.

If only he could live a life in the shadows— still inspiring and helping as he could.

But, no. Dream is forced to read rumor filled article after rumor filled article. He must ‘stay aware’ and ‘keep an eye on his image’. Apparently. Dream doesn’t know why it matters that much, it’s not like he truly cares if people see him as a villain. He knows who he is. As, this is what he has fought to become.

The cheating allegations… those were a little bothersome, on the other hand.

“Who are you cheating on me with, this time?” Dream mumbles, as he flips to another page.

Ink hums, resting his head against Dream’s shoulder. He flips to another page: scanning. “Hmmmm…” he trails off, flipping to yet another page. “Uh… Lemme see here— oh sudoku! Wait. Hmmm… Cross?” Ink seems genuinely baffled at the possibility, face scrunching and voice pinched.

“How could you,” Dream deadpans. Ink laughs until he snorts.

It was… interesting, having a semi-public relationship. They hadn’t intended on the information leaking— but, alas. It had. Their attempts at privacy had been taken for caginess; Their free and open displays of affection had been taken as overcompensation. Nothing would stop the force that was the rumor mill. It didn’t help that the Multiverse seemed convinced that they were seeing other people. Was their relationship a cover up? A fabrication? On the rocks, due to a string of infidelity? There was no consensus. Simply rumors. Rumors and articles and blog posts and misinformation.

In reality, they were happy. Ink pauses in his reading to nuzzle into the warmth of Dream’s shoulder. Dream presses a chaste kiss to the top of Ink’s skull. They knew what they were, and no one could sway them otherwise. They were, simply, together. They would each bask in the privilege of getting to know the other, however that opportunity would present itself.

The ringing of his phone snaps Dream out of his thoughts.

Is that—?

“I apologize— I need to take this,” Dream reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Ink shuffles himself over, allowing Dream to stand up. It’s the ringtone for any Stars or Star adjacent connections. It was likely a fluke— or something benign. Still, Dream flips open his phone and answers the call.

“Hello? This is Dream speaking.”

The Doctor was not happy

Even without words, that had been made starkly, lighting bright clear.

The twitch of his lips— the glower in his eyes. How the air of the room felt like the weight of the ocean, as he marched his way into his lab, Palette in tow.

Palette had missed one of his fights.

He’d lost track of time— speaking with Nightmare. Indulging in the darkness. He should have just… left. Escaped. Never sought out Dust in the first place. It was his fault. He should have, well, been better. Done better. It was yet another mistake.

“You hate me.”

The Doctor’s words are ice-cold. He turns to look at Palette, hand rested carefully atop one of the many counters. There’s a beaker right by his fingertips— if he shakes or tremors, it’ll be knocked over. Palette fights the urge to move the glass. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. He’s fine.

“I-I don’t,” Palette stutters out. “I’m sorry,” he adds. Meek.

He doesn’t. He is.

“Liar,” the Doctor seethes. He shakes— he’s sick— the anger is making him feel worse. And, he coughs, as he takes a step forward; His whole body heaves: wracked with failing air. When Palette reaches out, he simply glares. His eyes are dark. Darker than corruption. Darker than anything Palette knows.

The burning heat of fury.

“I see it, when you look at me,” the Doctor growls. Again, with effort, he holds himself up: hand shaking as it grasps upon the resin. “I know it, with how you behave.”

Palette stares down at his feet. The dust, as always, remained caked into his boots.

He’d failed. He’d lost.

“I’m sorry,” Palette mutters. He can already feel the burning heat of tears. The heat within his throat. He can’t cry— he won’t cry. It’ll just make things worse. It’ll just be another mistake. “Please—” he whimpers, despite his best efforts.

His vision blurs, as the Doctor lunges forward.

“Liar!” The Doctor cries, and Palette flinches.

It feels like eternity: as the seconds pass. The silence. When Palette opens his sockets he finds the Doctor, mere inches away, unreadable.

“You believe me a villain,” the Doctor states. Plain. He stands back: posture straight. He no longer shakes. He no longer trembles. And, with a quiet determination, he mutters, “You believe… I would hit you? Harm you?” He looks bewildered, head cocked to the side. He leans in further, voice low. Quiet.

“Do you really think that, Palette?”

Palette hiccups. Right now, if given the chance, he’d wish that he were dead. He’d wish that it was his fight that was an end. He’d wish that he were nothing more than a pile of dust.

But, all Palette can do is shake his head.

And, despite his wishes. Despite his prayers: the tears roll.

“Say it.”

The Doctor is about an inch away, now. Palette can smell the sweat on his skin; He can count the constellation of freckles across his cheeks.

“Say it, Palette. Say that you hate me. Say that you think I’m a villain.”

“No,” Palette mumbles. Yet another mistake. “I’m sorry—”

Centimeters away, now.

“Say it,” the Doctor commands.

And, as always, Palette cannot refuse a command.

“I hate you,” Palette lies, tears choking his breath. “I–I,” he stutters. A breath. He needs to breathe. But, alas, he can’t. And so, drowning in his own sorrow, he repeats.

“I think you’re a villain.”

A second. A breath.

And then, the consequences of his mistakes.

The beaker explodes against the tile floor.

The Doctor stands, breath heavy, snarling: arm still poised with the strike. And, within the space of a single moment, he draws himself back up: refined.

“Look,” the Doctor says, gesturing idly to the shower of glass that has befallen the lab. What he had done; What he was driven to do. “Look at what you made me do.”

Palette, slowly, turns his head and looks around. The tears have stopped. He’s fine. This is fine. This is what he deserves. And so, he nods. He looks at his mess. He looks at his consequence. He looks at the shattered beaker and the frost of glass.

The Doctor, practiced, begins to walk away. He’s halfway out the door, when he pauses.

It feels like a century passes. The pain. The suffering. And then, the truth.

“You’re the villain, Palette,” he says, walking away. “Clean up your mess,” he calls out, finally gone.

Palette, with practiced movements, drops to his knees.

The glass stings against his palm. This doesn't bother him, though. He’s been through worse. He’s done worse.

A villain. That’s what the Doctor sees him as. That’s what the Doctor believes him to be. That’s what he’s been commanded to be.

Palette has made a lot of mistakes, recently. Well, looking back, it seems like his life was nothing but mistakes. Failure after failure. Disappointment after disappointment. When had Palette succeeded, truly? Never, it seemed. His life was hurt after hurt after hurt.

A villain.

That’s what he was.

And, that is what Palette would become.

Palette sucks in a breath, as he collects piece after piece: cut after cut.

It doesn’t hurt. He won’t allow it to hurt. There are no tears falling down his cheeks. There are no sobs, escaping from his chest. There is no tearing pain within his soul. No. Palette is clam. Palette is fine. Palette will do what he needs to do.

For the rest of the night, Palette cleans.

It is his mess, after all.

Chapter Text

Mess is a little thankful that the line doesn’t pick up as they watch Gradient spasm into a crash.

Okay. This is fine.

The phone rests awkwardly pressed against their ear and shoulder as they hover over Gradient’s frozen form. Count the minutes. That’s what Mess needs to do. Like a seizure— the longer it went on, the worse. But… how long was it until they needed to start worrying, again? Gradient sputters, suddenly: ink spilling from his teeth, shimmering down his chin like an oil spill. And then, like a computer broken under the weight of an impossibility, Gradient freezes once more.

That… doesn’t seem good.

Can he choke— Can skeletons choke? They can eat and drink: clearly. The way that Gradient had consumed that soup like it could be his last meal haunts Mess’ memory; As, it was possible that he thought it would be. And, from what Mess has witnessed, they can breathe: breath heavy in his chest, Gradient had wheezed from joy as Mess had led him running down that hill. They can eat, drink, breathe— it seems only natural that they could choke.

A seizure. It’s like a seizure. That’s what June had told them the one time they were witness to a crash. Count the minutes, remove any obstacles, and don’t touch unless you absolutely have to. Mess had already moved Gradient’s backpack to safety the first time he’d collapsed: it rests, protected, by Mess’ side.

This… This seems like a situation where touch may be in order. And so, carefully, Mess reaches out and rolls Gradient over onto his side.

He feels like static, against their bare hand.

And there. Gradient is safe: flopped over like a dog resting in sunlight. Or, he should be safe. Maybe? He’s still glitching— how long has it been? Too long, Mess decides. And so, once more, they dial the open contact for the Stars’ main number on their phone.

…No one answers.

Cool. Great. Fantastic, even. It doesn’t help that the third time is not the charm. More ink spills from Gradient’s teeth: coating the grass in a fine, dark film. He sputters— cough ragged as a well used cloth. And, for a moment, Mess thinks that he’s going to wake up.

Mess is wrong.

Okay. Plan B.

It’s a little embarrassing, how empty their contact list is. They do have the excuse of losing their old phone— dropping it mid-flight over a body of water wasn’t exactly a great outcome for something electronic— but, still. It doesn’t take long to open up the number for emergency OT services.

“Huh?”

Mess’ thumb is right over the ‘call’ button when Gradient’s voice catches their attention.

He’s already sat himself up, blinking blearily in their general direction. His glasses are pushed askew— they should have removed those, now that Mess thinks about it— making him look like he’d just faced the Multiverse’s strongest gust of wind. He blinks, again: slow.

Gradient does look a lot like Error, in all honesty.

They hadn’t noticed it the first— the Destroyer of Worlds, Harbinger of Death, and the One you Cannot Escape From wasn’t often at the forefront of Mess’ mind. Mess had only seen him in person once. And yet, their picture perfect memory served to immortalize his features within their mind for all eternity, once called upon.

Gradient looks a lot like Error. Gradient does not look exactly like Error.

Mess will stand by their original guess of June. He’s got the same softness to him; The same anxiety hidden by a thick coat of curiosity. The smell of someone who had been forced to survival. The smell of someone who, despite everything, had still survived.

“...Are you okay?” Mess asks, reaching out a tentative hand as Gradient doubles over. He heaves, for a moment: forearms shaking where they hold him aloft above the dewy grass. A moment passes. And then, he sits back.

With fist quickly swiped across his mouth, Gradient mutters a quiet, “Yeah.”

Unlikely. But, Mess will just have to accept that answer.

“Is that normal?” Mess trails off, as Gradient pushes his glasses back to their rightful place. He twitches once they’re settled— nose crinkling like a baby bunny. “The… Crash— is it normal for them to last that long?”

“Uh,” Gradient mumbles, as he reaches for his backpack. Mess is quick to push it over, and Gradient hums in acknowledgment as he slings it over his shoulder. It’s heavy— Mess hadn’t dared look inside it; For the fact that it would be an incredible invasion of privacy, and that Mess had been a little more than preoccupied at the time. But, if Mess had to guess, they’d wager that it was filled with clothes, food, and whatever else Gradient had deemed necessary for survival. “Yeah,” Gradient finally continues. “They, uh. Can last a pretty long time. S’fine.”

Again, Mess finds themself just a little doubtful.

There is silence. And then, there is not.

“Thank you—” Gradient blurts out, rocking forward onto his feet. He stands: wobbly as a buttercup left to fend for itself in a storm. Mess follows, wings stretching as soon as they’re able. Gradient clearly stares at the movement; Curious, perhaps. Maybe a little off put. “For the food and. Um. Help.”

Mess nods. But, before they can process it, Gradient is stepping away.

“I’ll, uh. Be getting out of your hair, now. Sorry for all the trouble—”

“Gradient, wait.”

It’s a little embarrassing, but Mess does their best to conjure the authority of their father. The firm movements of his signs; How it would displace the air around him not out of fear, but out of respect. They shape their voice in the same way. Or, they try. Perhaps it comes out a little… forceful, as Gradient flinches into attention.

“I…” Mess trails off, clearing their throat. Gradient blinks at them. Is he breathing—? It kinda looks like he isn’t breathing. And so, as if to be an example, Mess takes a deep breath. They correct their posture: straight and confident. Safe. “I really think you should seek help. From the Stars.”

For a moment, Mess is worried that Gradient is going to run. He looks unsteady. Maybe it’s just the lingering effects of nausea, or maybe it’s the learned behavior of escape. Mess doesn’t know. Either way, they’ll give him space.

“Again, I don’t know where you’re at with Ink, but if it has to do with Error—”

“I’m not on the run from Error.”

Mess blinks, as Gradient chokes on his own words.

“I mean— We’re still related, and I am on the run. But—” Gradient pauses, wracked with a full body jerk. He grabs at the strings of his hoodie as if it’ll ground him. His nose twitches again: a nervous tic, perhaps? “But, I’m not on the run from Error. I don’t— I don’t think he knows I exist.”

Finally, Gradient breathes.

“I–It’s complicated.”

“Okay.”

It’s like Gradient hadn’t even considered the possibility that Mess would accept his explanation. And so, he stares. Sockets wide. Very nearly frozen.

“Okay,” Mess repeats. “Okay. You’re on the run. You don’t have a place to stay. It sounds to me like you still need help?”

Tentatively, Gradient nods.

“The Stars. Does Ink know—?”

“No,” Gradient is quick to reply. “Well, uh,” he amends, shifting from foot to foot. He stares down at the grass as if it will give him some sort of answer. He looks up to the sky; It seems to know that there is nothing there to help him. “I-I don’t think he does. At least.”

His mouth trembles. Gradient looks cold, despite the quiet heat of this Spring morning. Small.

“I can get you to them. They’re— I think you can trust them. I’ll, uh, just need to make a little stop on the way, though.”

For a moment, Mess thinks that Gradient won’t respond. And then, he nods. Meek at first; And then firm.

“Okay,” Mess says, as they stretch out their wings to their fullest. “How are you with heights?”

June's shop is as welcoming as always.

The door bell chimes softly, as Mess is immediately hit with the aroma of old books and antiques. It's an acquired scent— they still wonder how Trebuchet manages to stay here as much as he does. The pay must be good. And, well, June is a sweetheart. Even if he does have a tendency of jumping a bit every time he sees them; Mess won't blame him for it, it's not like they're not used to it.

Gradient had refused to come in. He’d been hesitant the moment that he’d learnt that Mess was taking him to the Omega Timeline; Mess had chalked it up to normal anxiety about new spaces— The OT could be pretty overwhelming, after all. But, once landed safely in the outskirts, Gradient had refused to follow once Mess had informed him on what their stop was.

That was fine. They’d simply walk in, get what they needed, and leave. The only issue was, well, the possibility that Gradient would take the chance and leave.

And so, they had worked out a deal.

Mess had been put in charge of Gradient’s backpack. And, Gradient had gotten Mess’ locket.

"Y'ello?" Mess calls out, gaze scanning the shop. There seems to have been a minor rotation of stock: a stack of new books here, a large fancy mirror there, and a couple rubber ducks have been moved about. Overall, nothing out of the ordinary. They look over to the register. And— there. That's who they're looking for.

"Bucket!" Mess greets, walking over with their hand raised.

Trebuchet finally looks up. He's still tapping away at his phone by the time that Mess is leaning on the counter, smile wide. But, when Mess reaches over to try to flip the brim of his hat, he laughs as he bats their hand away: smiling back. His faux dog ears twitch in feigned exasperation, dark magic stark against the brightness of his bone.

"I still have no clue where you got that name from," he says, snapping his phone shut with a click and sigh. That's the sound of someone who just lost a game of Tetris, if Mess knows Trebuchet as well as they think they do. Despite his loss, Trebuchet leans forward on the counter, brows raised with curiosity.

Mess shrugs. "Y'know, how your name is spelled?" They raise their finger, carefully spelling out the letters. Trebuchet watches the moment, eye-lights lazy but mouth still quirked to the side. "B-u-c-h-e-t, Buchet," Mess says, making sure to say it as 'boo-shay'. "Kinda looks like someone was trying to spell 'bucket' but fell flat on their face."

Trebuchet wheezes. He tucks his face into his hand, hiding a snort. "It's French," he says, voice still muffled by his palm. "I think that's just... the entirety of the language."

"Yep!" Mess says, popping the 'p'. "And that's why you're 'Bucket'."

Trebuchet laughs again, unable to hide the sound this time. He laughs even harder when Mess leans forward once more and is successfully able to flip the brim of his hat. He scrambles to catch the item mid air— succeeding with skilled practice. He holds the hat down with both of his hands, like a guardian of the most important object in the world. "Okay. I still think it's stupid. And dumb."

"What, would you rather I call you 'Shay' instead?"

"I'd rather you call me my name. Trebuchet," he says the syllables clear and slow: Treh-boo-shay. "Or, what, long words that hard for you?"

Mess stands back with a snort, arms crossed. "Anyway," they say, coolly avoiding the jab. "Is June in?"

Trebuchet leans back too. He relaxes in his chair behind the register, settling his legs on the wooden counter-top. He hums, hand placed on his chin. "He just stepped out. Why?"

Oh. Mess is just harboring Error's possible illegitimate child, who seems to be on the run for his life. That's all. Nothing much.

"Uh," Mess says. They blink. "No reason."

Trebuchet stares at them. "You wanted to see my boss for... no reason?"

It seems they've walked themself into a corner. They sigh. Time to put on their serious face— trademarked.

"I wanted to ask him if he had any of the Stars' phone numbers. Still no reason."

Trebuchet raises a careful brow. He looks well beyond his fifteen years of age, when he makes that face. Or younger actually, like a baby who's just eaten a lemon. It would be cute— like a picture of a puppy— if it didn't make Mess feel like a criminal on trial. "Don't they have a public number you can call? Or, couldn't you just ask your dad? I thought he still worked with them."

"I tried that number. I don't think anyone is manning it right now," Mess sighs once more. Poor management: The bane of their existence. They'll be filing a formal complaint, when this current situation is taken care of. "And, uh."

Mess leans forward, hands laid on the cool wood. They look around as if checking to make sure they're truly alone. "I'm, uh. Grounded."

Trebuchet blinks. It takes a second. But, soon enough, he's leaning forward with a wicked grin. "What. You— grounded?" His voice is laced with pure disbelief— like it's the funniest thing in the world. Unimaginable.

Mess nods their head, embarrassed. Their face feels hot with flush when they raise a hand to cup their cheek. They avert their gaze. "I-"

"What did you do?"

It's impossible to fight back a groan. Regulate their nervous system— that's what they need to do. That's the broken record motto of what seems to be every adult in their life. Take a deep breath. In, and out.

"I'll tell you. Later."

Mess doesn't know if they could stomach the thought of having to tell Trebuchet. Cool as ice, Trebuchet: that they were grounded for picking up extra shifts at work without telling anybody. Sure, they were supposed to be taking a break. But... work was important. They were needed. It called to them— the desire to help. It felt like burning coals in their chest when they couldn't be doing something.

Trebuchet narrows his eye sockets. But, eventually, he does seem to accept the answer. He reaches over to a drawer on his side of the counter, rifling around for only a few seconds. When Trebuchet draws himself back up, Mess can see that he's opening up a phone with careful focus.

"Is that—?"

"June's phone? Yeah."

Trebuchet clicks around on the device with ease— navigating to the contacts, most likely.

"And, does he know—?"

"Nope," Trebuchet is quick to reply. He reaches out the phone screen, showing his chosen contact. Mess is quick to pull out their own phone: copying the numbers down with precision. Only after they have everything neat and ready to go, do they look closer at the contact. The name is written without any flair: simply 'Dream'. In the notes section is a single word: friend, with a smiley face tacked on at the end.

"I chose him because he's cool. And easy to manipulate. Probably," Trebuchet shrugs. "Wait. Hold on." He brings the phone back in front of his face, tapping away. "This is what June has as his boyfriend's contact."

Mess leans forward once more, narrowing their eyes. They slap their hands over their mouth when they finally process what they're seeing. The shriek of laughter still manages to escape.

'Kitten', with three separate heart emojis; That's what June has his mystery boyfriend named. Trebuchet is pulling the phone away before Mess has time to try reading what's in the notes. They're almost thankful— they don't know if their ribs could have taken it. They don't know if they want to know.

Trebuchet grins to himself, opening up the drawer once more to deposit the phone. He shrugs, smile still light.

"Thank you," Mess says, still attempting to quiet their giggles. "I need to get going— see you at school?"

There's a beat of silence before Trebuchet nods his head with a quiet smile. He reaches over and grabs his own phone, likely starting another game of Tetris. "Sure," he mumbles, enraptured.

Mess begins to walk away. They have what they need— they'll text, or call? Dream, tell him the basics of what's going on, and get his help. Mess hopes that Gradient is fine where they'd left him. He should be fine. He will be fine.

"Hey, Mess?" Trebuchet calls out.

Mess has their hand on the door knob. They turn around, brow raised.

Trebuchet clears his throat. "Are you, uh, going to that school dance?"

“…The one that's in like, a few weeks?"

"Yeah," Trebuchet says, looking back down at his phone once more.

Mess pauses. "I don't know. I have work. Probably not— I'll have to see."

There's a beat of silence before Trebuchet says, "Oh. No, yeah. I'm probably not going. It'll be stupid and dumb." He taps on his phone with incredible skill. He manages to shrug, nonchalant always. "...If I was going, I'd be going with my boyfriend and some friends. It would be cool if you went with us. Too. Hypothetically."

Mess hums. They'll think about it. They wonder, had Gradient ever had the pleasure of attending a horrible school dance? It doesn't seem like he's been to school. But... he does appear smart. He was probably home schooled. Evilly, perhaps. Maybe... Maybe Mess could sneak him into that dance. Make him drink the low quality, but still great tasting punch. He'd probably hate it. But, it was a rite of passage.

"Thanks again," Mess calls out, polite as always, before they open the door and head off to find Gradient.

Gradient feels like an ant within the vastness of the Omega Timeline.

It’s not like he hasn’t been here before. The OT was the home of the True Underground, after all. And, for years, Gradient found himself down in the belly of this city: witness to gruesome fight after gruesome fight, apathy molded to perfection as he took notes on strategy and form. He knew the OT— at least, parts of it. The landscapes seemed to morph into nothing but a sullen backdrop as he’d follow at the heels of the Doctor down into the depths. He always kept his hood up; Always held his head low. They’d arrive in the early eves of morning, basked in the trails of darkness: hidden.

Here, in the shining rays of early afternoon, Gradient feels exposed.

“What’s he like?”

“Hm?”

Mess turns around, still keeping their steady walking pace. They blink at Gradient: curious.

“Ink,” Gradient clarifies, clearing his throat. “What’s he like?”

Mess is still wearing his backpack— they’d cited something along the lines of ‘needing a good workout’ as reason enough— slung awkwardly around their shoulder. They hum, spinning back around. “He’s… nice?” They say, voice a little unsure. “Pretty quiet, actually.”

As they continue on their path, Gradient conjures up everything he’s heard about the Fate. Rumors in the Underground, stolen looks at headlines, and blog posts hidden in the depths of the Undernet: Gradient thinks of it all.

What was Ink like?

A protector, a guardian; A monster, a villain.

That seemed to be the general consensus.

“And Dream?”

“He’s also nice,” Mess hums.

Gradient had been informed by Mess, after a slightly awkward wait in a dark alley, that they were taking him to Ink and Dream: the remaining heads of the Stars. Or, well. Dream was the head; Ink remained an ‘ally’. Whatever that meant, in this context.

He was being taken to an apartment building in the heart of the city. Mess had apparently given Dream and Ink the ‘basic rundown’. Gradient didn’t have much to worry about— or so he was told.

“Dream is… He’s sweet.”

The architecture of this city feels claustrophobic. Towering. Every time they pass someone new— going about their day, flitting through shops, or simply taking the opportunity to relax— Gradient feels the urge to hide himself further. Make himself smaller. Become nothing but nothing.

“He watched me a few times when I was, uh, younger,” Mess adds, perhaps a little quiet.

The Guardian of Positivity, taking time out of his day to… babysit?

Wasn’t he busy— Didn’t he have more important things to do? Like, battle Nightmare. Or do good. Well… babysitting could be considered doing good. Keeping an eye on children; The future generation. Perhaps that was one way the Dream had decided to fill his quota.

“Cool,” Gradient mumbles, gaze trailing yet another passing bystander.

It isn’t much longer until Mess stops at an inconspicuous building. It’s tall— the view from there must be something. Gradient trails the decks that climb along the brick wall. There’s plants hanging, here and there. Some decoration. He finds himself lingering on a particularly flora filled balcony that sits near the very top. Gradient thinks he spots some strawberries, but he can’t be too sure.

“Gentlemen first,” Mess says with a cheeky grin and wink, as they hold open the front door.

Gradient can’t help his snort, as he walks into the building.

The elevator wait is only a little awkward.

“Dream lives here,” Mess explains, leaning back against the support bar. They’re headed towards the top floor. The ‘penthouse suite’ that wasn’t actually a penthouse suite, they’d explained: just a regular apartment, on the top floor.

“And, uh,” Gradient trails off, fighting back a glitch. He needs to take a breath. Calm his nerves. It’s not like this is a huge deal. It’s not like he’s meeting anyone important. No… just the Stars. Just his other father. He’d met his sister, that morning. And that went fine. Peachy, even. No big deal. It’ll be just fine. “...Ink lives here too?”

Mess shrugs.

“Ink and Dream are usually together.”

Well. Okay, then. They’re close friends. Probably. Makes sense.

The elevator stops. Mess glances towards Gradient. And then, they’re leading the way.

It feels… lived in, here. The hallway isn’t long— before Gradient knows it, Mess is standing in front of an unremarkable door. It’s wood. Typical. But, as Gradient steps closer, he spots a line of painted stars across the trim.

A comet; A constellation.

“Do you want me to knock, I can introduce you—”

“No,” Gradient is quick to respond. He can do this. He needs to do this. He’ll be fine. What’s the worst thing that could happen— he gets laughed at and shooed away? It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Gradient is fine. “Just, uh. Stay nearby.”

Gradient knocks on the door.

There’s a solid moment where Gradient considers the possibility that no one is home. Maybe Mess had gotten the wrong address— Maybe, in the space of time that Mess had taken him here, they had left on a mission. Something important. Maybe, just maybe, this is a trap of some sort.

The door opens.

Gradient is stood face to face with Ink.

Or, well… maybe not face to face, actually. Gradient has to look down in order to make eye contact with the Guardian of Fates. He’s short— shorter than PJ. If Gradient is seeing things right, then he can say with certainty that Ink barely comes up to about his chin. And yet, still: Gradient can feel the rushing river of power and knowledge that flows from him.

Ink peers up at him with curious eye-lights and careful smile.

Gradient had seen pictures of Ink before. They don’t do his presence justice. Hours spent in the mirror with photo in hand— tracing the edges of his skull and the shape of his sockets. Gradient had searched for something, anything that he had in common with his other donor. He had his fangs. And, well. That was about it.

“I’m your son,” Gradient blurts out.

This is, objectively, the wrong thing to say.

Ink blinks at him.

And then, Ink laughs.

It sounds like nights spent in the lab with little sleep, and a reprimand for a mistake you hadn't even considered; If Gradient closed his eyes and tilted his head he could maybe mistake it for Palette. Palette was never this… snarky, though. Dry and sharp.

Leaned against the frame of the door, Ink shakes with laughter.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Ink says, finally drawing himself back up to his full height. There’s the hint of tears at the edges of his sockets— pure elation and disbelief. “Can you repeat that?”

Gradient spares a glance over to Mess. They’re standing a little shell shocked, Gradient wants to say. They meet Gradient’s gaze. And, almost timid, they shrug.

“I’m…” Gradient trails off, losing confidence as Ink fights back a wobbling smile. Gradient straightens his posture. Steels himself. There’s movement behind Ink: Gradient pays it no mind as he continues. “I’m your son.”

He is. Gradient is.

Ink is his other donor. His Fate.

“Look, boy,” Ink says, sharp enough to use as a weapon: wiping away at his socket with a shaking hand. He breathes. When he meets Gradient’s gaze, Gradient knows deep within his soul: Ink sees him as nothing but a scribble of lines and bucket fill of color. “I’ve been around the block. I know these…” Ink waves his hand about in a vague gesture, “...Games.”

“I—”

“Boy,” Ink says, perhaps a little terse. His eye-lights flash a vivid sunset, before settling into a hazy dusk dawn as he blinks. Ink takes a breath; Gradient holds his. “You’re the little runaway that Messenger here caught?”

Everything feels a little fuzzy, as Gradient nods.

Ink nods too, stepping aside. The doorway. It’s open. Gradient should be walking through it. And yet, here he is. Stuck. Ink looks at him with brow raised and smile still carefully quirked. A moment passes. And then, Gradient walks inside: Mess on his heels.

“Just curious,” Ink says, back turned as he leads Gradient to what he recognizes as a well loved living room. Mess stands shoulder to shoulder with Gradient. When he looks over, Mess gives him an unreadable expression. It feels… reassuring, when they bump their shoulder against his. Ink throws a glance in his direction, expression painted with… honest intrigue? “Who do you think your other parent is?” He pauses, turning around with hand placed upon his chin. He leans forward. He snaps, as he comes to his own conclusion. “Don’t tell me… Glitchy! You think glitchy and… me?” Ink barks out a yelp of laughter.

Someone has joined them. Someone is saying something. Gradient couldn’t be bothered to process this, though. As, he’s busy feeling his last shreds of composure be shredded and deleted.

Ink and Error are his donors.

Gradient is the son of Ink and Error.

It may be stupid, but Gradient feels as if he’s at his limit. It’s just… too much. It’s been too much. Gradient is tired. Gradient is hungry. Gradient is done. He’s been… pitied and made fun of and considered a joke one too many times.

And so, Gradient reaches out.

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting. Something. Anything. And, that’s exactly what Gradient gets. Latched onto Ink’s forearm like a lifeline: Gradient feels his magic— what has created him and what is him— respond. It feels like waves of an ocean crashing together; It feels like the final merge of all your layers.

Ink stumbles back as if he’s been burned.

“I…” Ink mumbles, stricken: eye-lights rapidly dancing between color and shape.

And then, there’s the Sun.

Dream’s palm is warm against Gradient’s shoulder, as he settles himself into Gradient’s line of sight. He smiles like there’s something to smile about; Gradient, for a moment, feels like there is.

Warm. When did it get so warm in here? Gradient looks around. He finds himself in a cozy living room; Sparse and clean, but well lived in. There’s a couch, a chair, a coffee table, an old rickety television set, a rug, a set of bookshelves, pictures and art hung across the walls, and so, so many plants. It smells like warmth. It smells like life.

Gradient looks back at Dream as he fights back a sniffle. He’s crying— When did Gradient start to cry? And, there: he hiccups. He’s crying. Loud and glitching. Loud and ugly.

Despite this, with a voice that sounds like summer rain, Dream addresses Gradient with a simple, “Hi, there.”

The colors— they’re pleasant, here. It feels like someone had challenged themself to design with the entire rainbow, and yet it manages to feel… cohesive. Daylight gold and dawn blue overwhelm the color palette.

Palette.

So, that’s where Palette got his forehead.

“Hi,” Gradient mumbles, staring at what is nearly a carbon copy of his brother.

Nearly. There are differences. Dream looks older, for one: mature. He’s clearly seen some things and been through some things, but that’s pretty much common knowledge at this point. He looks… He looks like he should be out in a garden, fists stuck in a tangle of weeds as the sun beats down, shining, across his bones. Dream looks like he should be wandering in some forest somewhere, taking a path only he knows: confident as the morning dawn.

A deer. Dream looks like a deer. Kinda.

Gradient allows his gaze to falter back over to Ink. He’s standing, stricken: staring down at his ribcage like it’s hiding something from him. Gradient can tell that Mess is still standing solidly by his shoulder; A faint pillar of comfort.

“What may I call you?”

Oh. Gradient blinks. When did he start feeling so… fuzzy? Dream’s hand still rests kindly against his shoulder. As Dream looks at him, Gradient gets the distinct feeling that he’s trying his best not to kneel down: despite being relatively the same height.

“G-Gradient.”

“Oh, a fine name,” Dream replies. If it were anyone else— any other tone of voice, Gradient would take it as pity. Mocking. And yet, here, he doesn’t. “You may call me Dream.”

“Okay,” Gradient sniffles.

“Gradient…” Dream trails off. He bites at the inside of his cheek: pondering. “I fear it’s already slipped my mind— how did you say you were, ah, born?”

Evil science. But, again, Gradient gets the feeling that this isn’t the answer that Dream is looking for.

“Created,” Gradient says. He was created. “With abandoned magic— from uh. Battles, or trainings. Or uh. Stuff that was just… left behind.”

He’d been taken to collect samples, once. It was… well, it was a mess to put it bluntly. The Doctor had explained that it would get cleaned up— hours or days after the conflict. Whenever time was found or made. As such, there was a sweet spot of collection. That’s what they were aiming for.

Gradient remembers the ache of his knees; The ink swept into jars and the bones placed neatly into bags.

Dream nods. He spares a look over at Ink. Ink returns the look; It’s clear that something has been communicated. A silent language.

“Gradient… Messenger let me know that you were in some sort of danger— that you were on the run from someone. Is that true?”

Once addressed, Mess steps forward. They look at Gradient, giving a subtle, encouraging nod. Their smile is a little wonky— a gap in their teeth that Gradient hadn’t noticed before shines clear. It’s charming, in a roundabout way.

“Y-Yeah,” Gradient answers. “Kinda? Yes. From the one who, um, created me. But— uh.”

Dream smiles at him. Gradient feels the urge to continue.

“There’s others,” Gradient finally chokes out. “He uh— made us to fight in a fight club. Or, well, not me. But, the others—“

“Fight club?” Ink asks, finally stepping forward. He looks… mostly recovered, from that little trick that Gradient accidentally pulled. He stands, hand on hip and brow raised. “Like… battle rings?”

Gradient shakes his head. Battle rings— the only thing they had in common was the aspect of, well… battle. Battle rings were for healthy sparing; the Ring was for blood, dust, and entertainment. “No—“ he’s quick to respond. “It’s uh. Well. I guess like a Battle ring, but. Um. Evil?”

That gets him well earned, confused silence. Gradient clears his throat.

“There’s fights but they’re… dangerous. People lose limbs— they get scarred. People die.”

Oh, do people die. Gradient had worked as a dustrunner, for a bit. Usually it was pretty mild: cleaning up evidence of injury: making sure the Ring was nice and clean for whoever occupied it next. But, then there were the proper cleanups. The piles of dust. The corpses.

“There’s a black market, too,” Gradient continues. “Blueprints, drugs, contraband, Desires— anything you can think of is sold. A lot of it gets smuggled out to non Multiversal Aware AUs.”

“…Where is it located?” Ink asks, taking another step forward. He’s shoulder to shoulder with Dream, now. Or, well, shoulder to chest. His gaze has gone from sharp to curious. He doesn’t blink, as he waits for an answer.

“Here. In the Omega Timeline. Hidden.”

The blind spot.

Ink shares a quiet look with Dream.

“Look, kid. I just want to be clear. Are you saying that Core Frisk knows about this?”

Gradient shakes his head. “No— there’s, uh. Blocking technology I think? Something like that. Inhibitor magic.” It was bragged about enough for it to get lodged into Gradient’s memory. Hidden right beneath Core’s beloved sanctuary; An oasis to those who seek it.

A hell, for everyone else.

Another look is shared.

Dream gently pats, where his hand remains resting against Gradient’s shoulder.

“You mentioned others,” Dream says. “Are they in danger— immediate danger?”

Gradient blinks.

“What day of the week is it?”

“It’s Monday.”

Mess’ voice is a welcome interjection. They appear to hold no judgement for the bizarre change of pace. Simply an honest answer. Down to earth.

Gradient nods. Okay… okay. It’s Monday. That’s good. That means there’s time.

Again, Gradient shakes his head. “Uh, not for like. A week?”

Yet another look is shared between the two Stars. Dream looks back to Gradient.

“You are in need of somewhere to stay, correct?”

Well, it’s not like running from AU to AU had killed him— clearly. If he needed to make do, he’d make do. Somehow. He always had. But… someplace to stay would be nice. Someplace warm, hopefully.

Gradient lets his silence speak for him.

“I have a guest room. I’d be happy to take you in for as long as you need it— if not, I know there are others out there who would be happy to host you. To keep you safe.”

Oh.

Gradient could stay here. With a Star; With the Sun. With Dream. And Ink? He feels a little light headed, thinking about it. A place to stay. A warm place to stay. Safe.

“Okay,” Gradient says.

Before he knows it, there’s a bucket being shoved into his hands. Which is odd because he isn’t— oh. He is.

Gradient throws up.

The ink splatters into the receptacle with a few painful retches. It does nothing in practice, but the few pity taps that Mess gives his back manage to feel comforting. Kinda. His throat already feels like acid from the last round; This… repeat offense only serves to agitate what little he has left of his composure.

“Wow,” Ink whistles, regarding Gradient with an uncomfortably unreadable expression. “…You really are my spawn. Dunno why you didn’t just open with that.”

Dream sighs. He’s stepped away— when did it get so… cold? The room has come spinning back into focus; The pleasant fuzzy warmth has dissipated into a hum of radio static white noise. The heat briefly returns as Dream presses the back of his hand against Gradient’s forehead. He hums: displeased?

Oh.

His aura.

“Have you eaten?” Dream asks, biting at the inside of his cheek once more, as he takes a step back.

“I gave him some soup earlier, but uh. I think it would be good if he had something else,” Mess responds, when Gradient can do nothing but dumbly stare at the small god in front of him. Mess eyes the bucket still tucked in Gradient’s arms. They lean over, carefully taking it and setting it down. Gradient wishes he had the words to thank them. But, alas, all he can do is blankey stare.

He’s really here. Gradient made it. He’s… safe? Maybe? He’ll have to see. He feels safe. But, he’s felt safe before. He’s been wrong.

“I’ll be on that,” Ink pipes up, already making his way to what Gradient presumes to be the kitchen.

Ink will be… getting him food? Making him food?

His father. Feeding him. Imagine that.

Suddenly the Multiverse feels huge. And Gradient feels so, so very small.

“Are you okay?” Mess whispers.

“Yeah,” Gradient mumbles.

He’s okay. Gradient is okay.

Mess shrugs his backpack off their shoulder and gingerly hands it to him. With practiced ease, Gradient slings it around his back once more. The weight feels as if it belongs. Gradient remembers then. And so, with shaking hands, he reaches up to take Mess’ locket off his neck.

He forces himself not to flinch, as Mess reaches over and undoes it for him. They smile, locket now tucked safely within the palm of their hand.

“Messenger,” Dream addresses, voice gentle. Mess blinks, standing to attention. “I am under the belief that someone is expecting you, back home.”

For a moment, Mess stills. And then, they deflate: embarrassed. They nod, eyes closed.

They turn to Gradient, shame still haunting their expression. “Um…” Mess trails off. “Do you have a phone?”

Not anymore. He left all his electronics back with the Doctor. He didn’t want any chance of being traced: tracked. He shakes his head.

“We’ll be taking care of that,” Dream says. His expression… softens? As his gaze moves back and forth between Gradient and Mess. He stands with arms now tucked behind his back; He manages to make it look comfortable. “Don’t worry, I’ll be putting you two back in contact. Thank you, Messenger.”

Mess salutes. And then, with a careful pat of Gradient’s shoulder. They’re on their way out.

“Oh, Mess?” Dream adds, before Mess can shut the door behind them. Mess pauses. Waiting. “Please know that you are always welcome here. And, ah… let Ember know that it is of my opinion that he shouldn’t be too hard on you.” He smiles. Bright as the sun.

Gradient doesn’t see Mess’ reaction, before they shut the door. He imagines they nod. Or salute again. Or both.

And then, Dream turns his attention back to Gradient.

He looks… kinda dorky, at this distance. He does look like a deer. A deer that’s just stumbled out of a forest into its first open clearing: eyes bright and wide, ears flopped over with a careful innocence.

Dream smiles at Gradient; His natural grin is a little lopsided.

“Let’s get you settled. We will discuss what you shared after you are cared for and rested. Okay?”

Okay, Gradient thinks. As, he steps forward into what will become his new sanctuary.

“I declare my right to an end!”

Palette would like to say that he doesn’t know how he got here. He’d like to say that his hand had been forced: that this was an unexpected mistake— a slip of a tongue. He had experience with those. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched. But, alas, Palette can remember every vivid moment that had led him down this dark, dreary path.

It had been a bad week. As most weeks had been, as of late. This next week would likely be bad as well. And the week after that. And so on, and so forth. It seemed his destiny. His purpose, in a way.

Different. It would likely be different. Bad, still. But, different.

If Palette succeeds, he will find himself under the patronage of the King of Negativity.

Well, probably. Palette had considered the possibility that this was a huge setup of some kind. Palette doesn’t know why that would be the case; It would still be a whole ton of energy put into him, just to trick him into… what? Killing? The amount of negativity that would gain seems rather negligible, all things considered. Death wasn’t common in the True Underground, per se. But, evidently, it still haunted its corners and corridors.

It was… hypocritical, wasn’t it? Nightmare had spoken of a desire for change; He had gone so far as to condemn the barbaric ways of ‘this land’.

He was a villain, though. He didn’t have to make sense.

And, it seemed pretty in line with what Palette knew about Nightmare. To take a life as a test, in order to prove yourself worthy of saving lives— it seemed… fitting, in some weird, odd way.

In front of him, frozen like stone, stands Salvation.

“Look at that folks, another death match! Who would have thought our little fallen star would be so bold? Will he devour us as he goes supernova? Or, will he become nothing but nothing in the dark of night?” MT calls out, voice booming as always.

Salvation stares at Palette. The hot, fervid lights of the Ring casts a halo shadow on their mop of hair. They’re a good fighter. Always pleasant— always forthright. They’d given him some honey as a gift once, after a particularly rough battle: smile shining bright. Palette hadn’t allowed himself to look at the roster. He had only one scheduled fight— likely a roundabout punishment for his absences last week. And so, as Palette had ascended the stairs, he had felt his soul drop as he realized who exactly would become his victim.

Or his killer. Palette would be fine, if it was their knife that solidified his end.

Ashes to ashes; Dust to dust. It was all a cycle.

Inevitable.

“Since we had one of these last week, I don’t think I need to remind—”

Silence. Murmuring. Palette looks up at the viewership, and finds the crowd parting like the sea. Someone is trying to get somewhere, fast. Palette has an inkling about what it could be. But, he’ll allow himself these few seconds of ignorance.

Salvation looks up, too. They grasp onto their knife like a lifeline; In a way it might be. They don’t shake— they know better than that. But, they give off a sense of… fear. Worry. Concern. Palette attempts to follow their gaze but doesn’t find anything but the solid glass that separates them from their onlookers.

The mic crackles, as MT returns. “...It seems like we have a tribute!”

Salvation blinks as they look up, brows furrowed.

“Remember, Salvation. If you accept— all your possible winnings will go to your tribute. Your points, your fame, and your honor. All of it. But, in return, you may just leave with your life.”

For a moment, Salvation pauses. Here, in this burning light, their youth is revealed. They can’t be much older than Palette; Still, Palette hopes they are.

Salvation nods.

Acceptance.

“You saw it here, folks!” MT calls out, and Salvation visibly relaxes. "Salvation has opted for aberration! Bring out the lucky tribute!”

The peace doesn’t last for long.

As, ascending the stairs like a soldier on their warpath, is Respite.

Salvation just about jumps out of their skin when they realize who has volunteered as their savior. They nip at Respite’s heels as they walk forward— determined, hopelessly, to halt their march; It is no use, though. As, Salvation had already accepted. Respite is wearing a cool, harsh mask of an expression: they pause directly on their mark, ignoring their companion’s hurried pleas.

A duo act; Respite and Salvation.

Palette allows the memory of Gradient’s collected voice to guide his analysis. They’re friends under the same patron— close. A ‘Frisk’ and ‘Chara’ who hail from the same land. Salvation favors a methodical approach, while Respite favors ruthless passion. And, judging by the… less than pleased look on Respite’s face, Palette should expect nothing less than reckless abandon.

Respite says something to Salvation. Salvation refutes. An expression is shared. A moment. And then, Respite is reaching up towards their own neck.

Their pale hands don’t shake, as they unclip their locket. And yet, Salvation does, as Respite lays it carefully around Salvation’s neck. A breath is shared. Salvation, in acceptance, presses the hilt of their knife into Respite’s hand.

And then, Palette and Respite are alone.

“Eyes on the ring, everybody! This is not a fight you want to miss!”

The Ring darkens. Palette’s blade burns like the last match struck in endless night. And then, the Ring is drenched in light.

In the sea of brightness, something catches Palette’s gaze. Up in the dedicated patron viewing area are two figures. In the split second that he has, Palette narrows his sockets: begging for more detail, reaching for what isn’t there.

What is there.

Stood solemn at attention, watching, are Nightmare and Dust.

The horn blares.

Respite tackles Palette to the ground.

He should have expected it; The first rule of battle is to always keep your wits about you. Palette finds that his head has slammed back into the cool metal of the Ring’s floor— his hat, thankfully, remains atop his head.

When Respite tries to lodge their blade into Palette’s shoulder, Palette is quick to give them a burning reminder with the palm of his free hand. They jump away— glare blazing just as hot as Palette’s flame.

“You,” Respite seethes.

Palette jumps up to parry another strike. Metal clangs against metal like the crashing of a thunderstorm. Palette doesn’t have to check to know, deep within his soul, that his sword has been chipped.

“How dare you,” Respite grunts out, as Palette side steps another slash.

How dare he? The words settle like stone at the bottom of the sea within Palette’s mind. How dare he hurt; How dare he kill. Palette had threatened a loved one— a sibling. How dare he? And yet, it’s not like Palette hadn’t done it before. It’s not like Palette hadn’t done it to himself.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. A cycle. Inevitable.

Another strike. Another dodge. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat.

The thrum of battle runs through his marrow like gasoline to lit match. He knows this path like he knows the back of his own hand: his blade. The pain— the suffering, it infests Palette’s soul as a gentle, blurry coat of catharsis.

Restraint. Palette needs to focus on restraint.

When Palette slams the hilt of his blade into Respite’s stomach, they stumble back: startled.

There. His opening.

Somewhere, in the quiet pit of Palette’s mind, he considers the viewership. Entertainment.

And so, as Respite chokes— stunned and hurting and afraid: Palette swings his sword, watching the arc of paint that splatters against the edges of the Ring. He doesn’t think; It’s all fuzzy, as he calls to his flame. The burning. The light.

This is a circle of hell.

His fire blazes like an endless dawn.

Respite feels like nothing beneath Palette’s grasp. His restraint. They gaze up at him— skin glistening in the new heat, gaze burning just as hot. The edge of their mouth quivers. A snarl. A warning. There is no acceptance of their fate. Palette hasn’t accepted it himself.

“Coward,” Respite spits, flailing against their bind. Palette only has the one free hand; The other is occupied with his blade. The end. Their end.

The announcers are saying something. Their words flutter past Palette’s skull like fish through river. He could grasp for them; He could catch them. And yet, he won’t.

Respite looks at him like he is nothing. And, here, Palette is.

And then, Palette remembers.

His gaze snaps up to the crowd— searching. He doesn’t process the joy, the confusion, the need; Palette is too focused on finding the King and his right hand man. And, there.

Nightmare peers down at him with a cool, calculated indifference.

It feels like the chill of night.

Palette doesn’t process Respite’s sharp retorts and biting remarks; He simply stares at Nightmare, waiting. His gaze extinguishes the burning magma coursing through Palette’s veins: cooled to ice, very nearly stone.

A moment. Another moment. Still, Nightmare stares.

Is this… his punishment? Permanent indifference? Palette knows that sharpness of silence well. It doesn’t seem implausible that Nightmare would hold the same knowledge.

And then, Dust leans over to Nightmare.

His mouth moves; A statement.

A moment; A moment.

Nightmare shakes his head.

Mercy.

Nightmare has chosen Mercy.

“I yield!” Palette shouts, abandoning his blade and victim.

The weight of the battle comes crashing down upon Palette like tidal wave across unsuspecting sand. It’s hot— burning. The Ring is silent but Palette can hear the shouts and screams and disbelief that has washed over the viewership. They wanted blood; They wanted dust. They wanted more.

And, more is exactly what they’re going to get; As, Respite tackles Palette back down onto the floor.

Respite’s hand is tight around his throat, their knife raised above his skull like the blade of a guillotine. Palette is quick to flail— hand, feebly, keeping that blade from dropping. He puts a little bit of heat into it. Flame. Burning. But, still: Respite has held to their decision. Respite has held to their determination.

The… battle should be over? Why isn’t it over? He yielded. He did everything right— Why?

Respite smiles; Palette sputters.

Entertainment. He should have known. It made a good story— It was a good story. And so, it shall be. Palette, the villain: finally taken down with a twist ending and public execution. It’s what he deserves. It’s what should happen.

And yet, Palette fights against his fate.

“I hope you never see the light, Day,” Respite whispers.

Final words.

Here, within the darkness, Palette thinks of his family.

Palette thinks of Gradient. Palette thinks of Flip. Palette thinks of little Cadet. Palette thinks of all those he’s lost; Palette thinks of all those he has hurt. Palette thinks of the Doctor, and Palette thinks of the King.

Palette thinks of the Sun.

The knife is inching closer, now. His grip is slipping— he’s only preventing the inevitable, at this point. He fumbles, weakly. It’s probably pitiful, how he grasps for nothing and how he will become nothing.

A knife. His knife.

With the last of his strength, Palette reaches for his butterfly knife tucked safely against his hip.

It feels like ice within his hand. Freezing. Eternal.

Respite gurgles, as Palette plunges his weapon into their jugular.

Palette would like to say that it was a mistake; that his hand slipped. That he’d only meant to stun— not kill. Palette would like to say that it was a complete accident. Palette would like to say that he’d never intended to kill before.

But, Palette is not a liar.

The blood spurts across Palette’s face like the trail of a comet. He flinches, as Respite’s still warm body collapses against him.

Dead weight.

Palette’s breath is heavy in his chest. Palette is breathing. Palette is alive.

Palette won.

Palette failed.

“Sorry,” Palette mumbles, pushing the corpse off of him. The blood— it smears down Palette’s once shining white coat; It was designed to be resistant to dust, after all. Humans were… messier. Gruesome. “I’m sorry,” Palette pleas, as he rests the body down into its final resting position. He stares at their open eyes. Their shock.

The dustrunners will be here soon; Palette hopes they can give Respite the respect they deserve. The respect that Palette wasn’t able to offer.

The announcers are saying something. Palette couldn’t parse it if he tried. As, he’s too busy standing himself on shaking legs, collecting his blade, and fleeing his way down the fighter’s stairs.

Palette nearly collapses once he reaches the landing. He leans himself against the wall, heaving; He won’t lose himself. He doesn’t deserve it.

Palette had failed. Palette had gone against orders. Nightmare had instructed him towards Mercy; Palette had chosen to kill. He’d thrown away his once chance to embrace what he truly was. He’s alone, now. Pathetic. Miserable. A villain who can’t even be a villain.

Meekly, Palette wonders what the Doctor is thinking. He’s here, somewhere. Watching. As, he always is. To go back to him— it might be just as bad as simply throwing himself to the ocean and letting whatever’s out there take him. It’s what he deserves, though. And so, Palette gathers his courage and walks forward.

“Steady yourself, Daybreak.”

Palette stumbles back.

There, standing in front of him, is the King and his right hand man.

Nightmare smiles at him. It feels like ice.

Right in front of him is Nightmare and Dust; Nightmare stands with arms carefully tucked behind his back, and Dust stands aloof: Palette’s duffel bag slung with ease across his shoulder.

Palette blinks.

And then, before Palette can process anything, they’re turning on their heels and walking away. When Palette remains shocked into immobility, Dust throws a curious glance back at him, waving his hand in the universal sign for ‘Come on. Get moving.’

And so, Palette gets moving.

“I’m sorry,” Palette mumbles, as he’s guided through the ready room back towards the main body of the True Underground. For a moment, he believes that he’s not getting an answer: that he shall be doomed to silence forever.

But, eventually, Nightmare doesn’t bother to turn around or stop his march as he utters a simple, “That is foolish of you.”

“I-I,” Palette stutters. “I failed. I went against your—”

“You behaved as was required of you. You listened. You survived.”

Palette feels the finality in his voice. They’re climbing a set of stairs, now. Palette’s breath feels like waves crashing upon his soul.

“Why… Why did you ask for Mercy?” Palette can’t help but ask.

Finally, Nightmare turns around. He stands, almost regal as he stands upon the steps; His trench coat serves as a cape, beheld to gravity. Nightmare looks out into the distance; It’s as if he’s deemed Palette unworthy of his gaze: his attention. And yet, he speaks.

“Control,” he says, an answer to itself. “I was seeking the power of control.”

Palette stills, hand rested carefully against the railing.

“This land… you feel it, don’t you? To enter you must have a LV above two. It is required that you have stolen a life. To go against your instincts is a more treacherous path than the ease of following them. You have proven yourself, Daybreak.”

“But—”

“Your assailant… They behaved as an animal. It was only fair to put them down as such. A small mercy, in a way.”

An animal; A Mercy.

Nightmare turns around. It seems he’s spoken his mind. But, as Palette finally gains the courage to continue on his heels, he turns around once more.

“Do not forget that.”

Nightmare’s words are cold. They settle into Palette’s marrow like the cold downpour of Winter rain.

Nightmare’s castle is… as expected.

It’s dark. It’s dreary. It’s unimaginably large. Standing in the hollow of the front courtyard, Palette feels like he’s been transported to the pages of a storybook; He’s at the entrance of the villain’s abode.

The King.

The Moon.

“Dust. Show our new associate his quarters,” Nightmare says with a wave, as the castle’s doors open. “Daybreak,” he says, and Palette feels a spark within his marrow: a call to attention. “...Make yourself comfortable. This is your home now, after all. We shall debrief in the morning.”

And with that, Nightmare disappears into the shadows.

It’s a nice night, Palette realizes. The air is chilled, but not unpleasant; The full moon hangs in the sky like a guiding star. The courtyard is… Well, it’s beautiful, to put it bluntly. There’s an abundance of well cared for foliage— flowers that shine in the darkness, vines that crawl across the stone of this sanctuary.

Dust doesn’t follow inside the castle. Instead, he turns on his heel and heads towards his own decided direction.

Palette blinks.

Perhaps… Perhaps there’s another entrance. Or maybe another building entirely. Maybe Palette’s ‘quarters’ is a piece of land out back; He’d make himself comfortable amongst the cold of night and burning map of the stars.

As Palette follows, he soon finds that Dust is leading him to… a bench? Dust is quick to sit down, settling Palette’s bag by his feet. Palette stares, as Dust fishes around in the pocket of his pants.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

Palette sits down, as Dust taps out a stick: practiced. And, Palette stares as Dust taps out another.

It feels like sin, taking the cigarette from Dust’s hand: clearly offered.

The Doctor would hate this. He would never hear the end of it. Even here, in the comfort of Palette’s mind, he conjures the lecture and disappointment that would be thrown his way.

Palette is already enough of a disappointment as is. And so, with practiced magic, Palette lights the cigarette.

The smoke settles like the heat of a fireplace behind his teeth.

Comfort.

“You did good,” are the first words that Dust says to Palette.

His voice sounds like the crackles of flame.

Quiet.

Dust puffs on his cigarette; Palette mirrors the movement.

It comes easy, to him. Perhaps it’s something about the blazing flame within him. The heat; The light. He’s been around fire and smoke his whole life. It’s not like he’s anything but indifferent to the feeling of ash down his throat. It’s… calming. Freeing.

Burning.

“...It doesn’t get easier.”

Those are the words that Dust leaves Palette with.

Dust finishes off his cigarette. Palette finishes off his. He watches as Dust throws the end to the ground, grinding it with his heel as he stands up. Palette does the same.

And then, Dust is leading him within the castle.

It’s all a blur, as Palette is guided through the halls. They’re dark— shadowed by the chill of night. It feels like a labyrinth. And yet, Dust seems to know the way like his soul was a map.

Dust comes to a sudden halt in front of an unremarkable door. He opens it, waiting for Palette to enter.

The room is quiet. Small. There’s a bed with bedding, a little night stand, a few lamps, a desk with a chair, and a rug covering the cool chill of the floor. Dust walks inside, sets down Palette’s bag, and gestures towards a previously unseen door— a washroom, likely. Dust pauses, as Palette processes. And then, he leaves: shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.

Palette is alone.

His feet, aching and burning, guide him to the washroom without second thought. It’s small like the main room: quaint. Palette doesn’t think as he shrugs off his tarnished coat: hands unbuttoning like it’s just another, regular night.

There’s a mirror. Palette, despite the call of his instincts, can’t help but stare at it.

His reflection stares back.

The streak of blood dances across his face like a constellation of stars.

Palette washes himself as best he can. The water of the shower is comfortably warm, and so is the main room itself as he steps back towards the bed. His bed. Palette reaches into his duffel bag— rifling for something soft to dress himself in. Over the past week, he’d deliberated over what to bring. Typically, he’d pack a change of clothes and his sword: not wanting to bring attention to himself as he traveled through the Omega Timeline. He couldn’t bring much, as the full bag would look too suspicious under the Doctor’s prying eyes. As such, he’d settled for a few changes of clothes, his sketchbook and watercolor set, and his penguin plush.

He’d gone back and forth, on whether he should bring his plush or not.

It was… childish. A relic from his past. He couldn’t begin to imagine how Nightmare would taunt him if he found out.

And yet, Palette couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind.

And so, Palette crawls into bed: warm and clean as he can be, with penguin tucked safely into his arms. When he reaches to click up the gentle light of the nightstand lamp, he finds himself pausing.

Sitting on the aged wood, is a pack of cigarettes.

Palette considers them, for a moment. And then, he reaches past them to turn off the light for good. He rolls himself to the side, pulling the decently soft comforter on top of him.

He has done what he’s needed to do. He is becoming what he has always been destined to become.

The warmth of the night settles into the marrow of his bones.

A reminder.

Palettes allows the dark, dreary blanket of sleep to pull him down under.

Chapter Text

Gradient’s first thought upon waking up is that he’s been kidnapped.

It’s only logical. He’s somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere indoors; Somewhere… that smells like paint? Gradient sits up, hands bunched around blankets. Soft blankets, to be precise. Soft blankets that cocoon him as an unexpected chrysalis: safe and contained. He is held.

He is trapped.

Gradient sits up.

The blankets fall away with less effort than expected. And yet, still, he sits: soul pounding like the clicking tracks of a passing train within his chest.

He's in a room— a smallish room. One could call it quaint, if they were in the right mindset. But, alas, Gradient is busy panicking.

Kidnapped. He's been kidnapped; That's the most likely answer. Gradient has been kidnapped and taken. Discovered. Who knows what his captors are planning— what sort of revenge they have in store: what retribution they have planned for the Destroyer of Worlds, Harbinger of Death, and the One you Cannot Escape from. Something fitting, likely. Strings tied around his soul; A noose around his neck? Something painful, of course. They would be too entrenched with the thick miasma of revenge to notice that he was but a teenager. Perhaps they'd go for the guillotine— the eternal stretching wait of a final moment. He'd just have to find out.

Gradient doesn't want to find out.

His legs feel like jelly, as Gradient stands. He wobbles towards the window, nearly colliding with the nearby paint-splattered wall as he struggles to orient himself. The door is out of the question; Any captor in their right mind would keep it locked. And so, in just a few labored steps, Gradient finds his hands anchored against the frame of the window. It's something to try, even if it's likely to fail.

With a breath, Gradient leans all his weight against the cool glass.

It opens with a single push.

Oh.

The cool air of a brisk Omega Timeline morning whips past Gradient's face. It's pleasant, all things considered. The smell of rosemary and coffee wafts past him as he blinks away the Spring wind. Mind still nothing but morning sludge, Gradient dares to peek his head out into the open vastness.

He's met with an over ten-story drop and a sharp jagged chill through his spine.

Gradient staggers back.

The Omega Timeline. He is in the Omega Timeline.

Gradient takes another look around the room.

It’s quaint, as he’d noticed before. Small, but not uncomfortably so. The bed he’d just abandoned looks… lonesome, tucked in the far corner. A singular plump pillow lays at the head; The blankets that Gradient had discarded strewn themselves across the mattress and floor.

Maybe it’s silly, but Gradient can’t help but walk over, carefully shaking out the covers before rightfully settling them back where they belong. They’re a nice forest-green, matching with the baby blue of the sheet itself. When Gradient smooths the fabric out, he finds that they are indeed soft— not a falsification of his hurried mind. The little nightstand by the bed’s side catches Gradient’s attention.

There’s a clock, a little notepad and pen, glass of water, and an empty ceramic bowl.

Ink had handed him that glass and bowl, yesterday. At the time the bowl was full of hearty stir-fry: warm and wafting in its scent. A smile had graced Ink’s face, as he had placed the food in Gradient’s hands; ‘Something filling, for the surprise fankid’ he’d winked, shuffling Gradient off to what he’d eventually deduced was the guest room.

The Stars. Ink and Dream. Gradient was with Ink and Dream.

Gradient is… safe?

…Hopefully.

He’d been a little out of it, when he’d found himself in their presence. More than out of it actually. His mind was nothing but fog and the faint call of a forever booting up computer. The aura of the Sun didn’t help much— warm, burning, all consuming, and then suddenly not.

Mess had left. Dream had shown him to the washroom; Gradient had taken the shower of his life. And then, as soon as he had dressed (in the last clean clothes he had: baggy pajama pants and a shirt with a hole right through the eye of its printed cat) Ink had shoved a meal into his hands and sent him off. Gradient can now remember the pure divinity of those seasoned vegetables and freezing water: consumed while sitting criss-cross on the sturdy bed, mind numb, as he stared at the painting hung on the parallel wall.

Now standing, Gradient allows himself to walk over to the piece of art. It’s acrylic— it has that smell to it— the one that Flip had always looked at him like he had two heads for mentioning. Abstract. The colors swirl together like the endless thoughts within Gradient’s skull; syrupy and churning. It might be bad conduct, but Gradient can’t help but reach out a careful phalange: feeling the paintstrokes. Feeling the life.

It’s a nice painting. Gradient blinks, as he takes a step back.

The room is rather plain. There’s the bed and nightstand: window and curtains against the wall. Gradient’s worn backpack sits on the edge of the plush rug that covers most of the already plush carpet— safe and sound, he confirms with a quick glance. Besides that, there’s a lamp, closet, and a small aggregation of potted plants in the corner: two large viney ones and a small flowering one.

They’re well taken care of. Gradient only knows about plants as much as some sibling had rambled to him once upon a time. But, these plants give off a sense of… brightness. Warmth. They smell fresh and natural.

Gradient can’t help but think of abandoned labs, lone park benches, and his soul pounding heavy in his chest.

Stealing a glance at the nightstand clock reveals that it’s just struck seven a.m.

…Just how long had he slept?

Gradient stands in the middle of this room. The pastel painted walls surround him. His room back… back there was larger. And yet, it had felt like an endless cave: the farther you dived, the more likely you were to get caught. Trapped. There was no place to hide despite the darkness. Despite the twisting turning walls and murky scent of sea. You would be seen; It would be known. Always.

Was this place the same?

Watched.

He was being watched. He could feel it.

Gradient stumbles back. His shoulder blades meet the hard wood of the door. And then, there’s the burning of static within his marrow. The glitches. Water within the electrical system; Acid poured into the still lake.

The crash lasts for maybe a minute.

Usually time is hard to tell, when Gradient finds himself within the void of his mind: the endless. But, he just so happened to be staring at the little nightstand clock. And, so, he was able to witness the choppy jump from ‘7:01’ to ‘7:03’ in real time.

Breathe. He needs to breathe. Count the seconds; Count the glitches. He’s fine. He will be fine. He wasn’t fine. He is now fine.

…Is he allowed to leave this room?

It feels like a silly question. But, Gradient doesn’t know the answer. He’s in someone else’s— Dream’s— home. Would it be counted as… snooping? If he left the confines of this designated holding area? Or, perhaps he was expected; Perhaps he was being rude, by keeping his hosts waiting.

And so, Gradient turns around, pushes the door handle, and walks out into the hallway.

Gradient is immediately hit with the scent of coffee, herbs, and life.

Breakfast.

The kitchen isn’t too hard to locate. Gradient simply uses his sense of smell as a guide.

Gradient pauses, as he hears the telltale sound of people. Quiet conversation; Gentle rustling. A hushed laugh.

That’s never a good sign.

Gradient peeks around the wall's edge, careful to keep his movements silent as he looks into the kitchen.

Dream is standing in front of a stove, spatula in hand as he pushes something around in a pan. His back is half turned to Gradient— focused both on the food in front of him and Ink to his side: who is sitting on the counter, legs swinging like a child on a swingset. Ink seems too enraptured with whatever Dream is saying to notice the new presence, leaning forward in what should be an invasion of personal space. Dream… is clearly too nice to say anything about it.

“—Want me to get out the iron—?” Gradient hears Ink mutter, voice low and nearly inaudible. Dream laughs and replies— Gradient can’t make it out. The same can be said for Ink’s response. But, Gradient is able to see when Ink reaches to his side, plucks a raspberry out of a bowl, and holds it in front of Dream’s face.

Dream leans forward, taking the berry between his teeth. And then, as Gradient is blinking away the confusion, Dream fully closes the distance.

Oh.

“What, not a shipper?” Ink addresses Gradient directly.

It feels like Gradient is nothing but a half-finished sketch, beneath Ink’s gaze. It’s softer than it was the other day— smile gently quirked to the side, fangs teasing at the corners of his mouth. Still: his eye-lights are piercing; The frozen underbelly of a lake. He tilts his head to the side like a curious hound, sizing up fresh meat.

Dream has stepped back from the quick kiss with Ink, now half turned to Gradient. He pauses to take his pan off of the heat, flipping the contents onto a plate. When he’s finished, he fully turns his attention towards the intruder.

And then, Gradient is in the presence of the Sun.

“Please, don’t mind him,” Dream says with a gentle smile.

He’s already dressed for the day: cape warm in the low light and circlet shining. He looks at Gradient with soft sockets: unshakable. It’s… weird, seeing unknown expressions on that face. Gradient keeps expecting the relaxed wit of Palette’s smile; But, instead, he finds something… calculated?

Ink snorts. Dream rolls his eye-lights even if Ink won’t see it.

“You’re together?”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Of course, it’s the wrong thing to say. Gradient has, and always will, say the wrong thing. At the wrong time, too— but that doesn’t really matter here. They were obviously together; The soft glances, invasion of personal space, and kiss were evidence enough. And, if they weren’t together? That would just make things worse.

Dream simply laughs. Light and melodic: somehow completely genuine. Barely audible. He reaches over and hands a food filled plate to Gradient. Gradient stares at the fresh omelette and fresher fruit, as Dream steps back. He looks very nearly shy, as he coughs into his fist.

“I apologize— I don’t believe there was ever a proper introduction,” Dream says, gesturing over to Ink. Ink, still swinging his legs, appears to bask in the attention. “This,” Dream looks over to Ink and smiles. Bright and warm. It feels like Gradient is staring at the golden expanse of the sky; It feels like he should look away. “Is my fiancé.”

Oh.

Oh. Palette would be furious.

Gradient uses every single bone in his body to stifle his laugh, distracting himself with the realization that Ink looks… smug? Something like that, with how he leans himself as close to Dream as possible: smile almost, but not entirely, concealed. He winks.

“Ink and I will be out on the balcony,” Dream quickly pivots, as Ink hops down from the counter: plucking another berry from his bowl of fruit. Dream pauses, if but for a moment. “It would be nice, if you joined us.”

‘It would be nice’ implies some sort of choice. However, Gradient knows better. He’s been tested enough.

And so, Gradient obediently follows on Dream and Ink’s heels as they lead him outside.

This is where that rosemary smell was coming from, earlier. The coffee too; There’s two mugs settled on a small patio side table. Besides it, there’s a small corner couch: tucked into the only space it would fit.

“Refreshing, isn’t it.”

Dream pauses to look out in the distance. And then, before Gradient can worry about where he’s expected to sit, Dream is guiding him over to the couch.

It’s… decent, out here. There’s about one million plants tucked into the corners and hung upon the railing: all healthy, all bright. When Gradient sits down, he looks up and notices a strawberry plant dangling right above him.

Dream sits down— giving Gradient as much space as possible. Gradient is a little worried about where that will leave Ink. Sure, he’s technically his father, but it’s not like he’d reacted with anything but discomfort when he was forced into any type of physical contact with the Doctor. Gradient doesn’t worry for long, though. As, he watches with poorly concealed curiosity as Ink jumps up onto the railing, settling himself as if it were the most comfortable seat in the Multiverse.

There’s silence.

Gradient glitches as he hears a very quiet rustling, but finds that it’s just Dream reaching over to pick up one of the mugs. Okay. That’s… suspiciously normal. Gradient looks down at the food in his lap. It looks good. It probably tastes good, too: if the meal from last night was any indicator. And, so, Gradient takes a small bite.

It tastes amazing.

“Uh. T-Thank you,” Gradient stutters out. Dream gives him a gentle smile; Ink stares at him with unblinking sockets.

Again, there is silence.

The Omega Timeline is peaceful, from this distance. It can’t be claustrophobic— not this high up. Not when it looks like nothing but a tiny ship in a glass bottle. It feels almost… powerful. No one can see him, up here. No one can mistake him for who he’s not. No one can follow through on false retribution.

The True Underground remains, deep within this city: buried alongside its other secrets. And yet… here, in the sky, Gradient can convince himself it’s nothing but a memory. A bad dream.

Gradient had always thought he was afraid of heights. It feels silly to admit— that he’d been wrong about something that was supposed to be so innate. Intimate. The viewing areas in the Ring had always felt so high; The Doctor had always waxed poetics about the dangers of falls and the horror of flight. He had feared it. And, so, Gradient had feared it as well.

And yet, it had felt like freedom, tucked in Mess’ hold as they had flown the other day. Gradient had dared to open his sockets just as they had barreled through a portal; The swirling landscapes and shifting terrain had awed him.

Here, in the safety of the morning dawn, Gradient can feel nothing but peace.

Well, that is until the silence infests his mind.

“Um. You want me to talk, right?”

“Oh. Ah— only if you wish—?”

“I told you he’d think this was some kinda setup,” Ink snorts, having flipped himself over in the single second that Gradient had looked away. He somehow makes railing dug into the backs of your knees look comfortable. He pops another berry into his mouth: bowl still perfectly upright.

“I…” Dream trails off. His sockets have widened, mouth pulled into the gentle curve of a frown. He looks at Gradient; And, Gradient swears that might be… guilt? There’s guilt, gently overlaying his face. Bright as dawn. “I thought, erm, that you might enjoy the company? It sounds lonely, what you went through.” It reads as almost… nervous, how he toys with the handle of his mug. “I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

‘What he went through.’

What exactly does he think Gradient ‘went through’?

“Um. It’s okay,” Gradient mumbles. “Don’t you like. Uh. Need the information, though?”

Dream blinks at him. Ink simply smiles with a sharpness that Gradient has begun to recognize, as he says, “It’d be appreciated.” He somehow manages to shrug in his position. Somehow. “We would be investigating either way.” He sounds… honest. Relaxed.

Investigating. They would be investigating.

Gradient was being taken seriously.

Suddenly, the cold chill of fear glitches like a skipped record down his spine. They would be investigating. They would be entering into the world of the True Underground. They would be trying to stop— fix— do something about it. And, as Gradient stares at the gentle expression of the Sun and the keen curiosity of his Fate, he realizes that they don’t know. They don’t know the intricacies. They don’t know the culture. They don’t know the risks. They may try. And, they may fail.

It haunts him: the potential for failure. The chance that everything will go wrong.

The possibility that everything will end.

“Um,” Gradient repeats, cold. “I don’t… I don’t know where to start?”

There’s a beat of silence. Dream’s gaze manages to soften even further. And then, again, Ink speaks.

“Hmmm… How about telling me just how much child support I’m gonna have to cough up?”

“Ink,” Dream hisses, expression still imbued with what is frankly a disgusting amount of affection: despite the attempt to chastise. “That’s— He’s—”

“What?” The corners of Ink’s eye sockets crinkle, mischievous. When he shifts his gaze towards Gradient, Gradient can feel it. It is like there is nothing in the Multiverse, but Gradient. It feels like there is nothing in the Multiverse but Gradient and still, Gradient is nothing. See through. “I do think it’s a good question. You said there were others— how many? Are you all, uh, little fusions of me and Glitchy?”

Gradient is quick to shake his head.

“O-Only one ‘combo’ of each donor pairing is allowed to exist at a time. Shared ME is fine— it’s about that specific, uh, matchup?”

The divine flavors of his omelet are enough to distract him, if only for a moment. It tastes like clear skies and flight.

“There’s. Uh, me,” Gradient says between bites. Briefly, he wonders if it’s possible to infuse positivity into food. That’s what it tastes like; It would explain the looseness in his tongues: the inclination towards sharing. Gradient peers at Dream— still looking at him with patience. Would he be above drugging his guests for the pursuit of knowledge? His words say he would be. But, as always, it could be a farce. A mask.

But… Maybe that food is just that good. Maybe it’s been awhile since Gradient had been privy to breakfast.

He’ll circle back to that thought later.

“There’s the, um, the Doc’— he’s not a combo but, uh… The one who created us. He was kinda a faux father figure?” Gradient shrugs. The Doctor called himself a father; Not all fathers are great, Gradient will give him that. Points for realism, perhaps. “There’s…” Gradient trails off. Does— Should he use names? It feels almost… dangerous. Palette especially would throw a fit over it: he was weirdly particular about introducing himself. “...I have three siblings. Not all of us share ME. There used to be more— a lot more— but, uh. Not everyone made it.” He shrugs.

It looks like Ink is about to say something, but Dream is quick to shoot him a glance. They blink at each other. And then, it appears as if Ink has gotten, considered, and understood the psychic message. Ink nods, looking back towards Gradient.

“My older brother— he’s like… an adult? He’s a few years older than me. He was a fighter for a while, but lost a leg. He never really recovered.”

Gradient remembers the incident. There had been dust; There had been so much dust. He shudders.

“M-My other brother, he’s, uh. About the same age as me. He’s still active in the Ring— at least he was when I was there.”

Palette would, forever and always, hold the couple of days of age above Gradient’s head. He can’t count the ‘what’s up, little brother?’s and ‘you’ll understand when you’re older’s; It would be meaningless, in their prevalence. They were the same age. Practically. Those days meant nothing. They couldn’t mean anything! They were days! Still, Palette would disagree: smile wide, sharp, and familiar.

As such, Gradient will leave out the little detail of age order. It didn’t matter that Palette was his older brother; He was virtually his twin, after all. An older twin, maybe. But, Gradient is straying from the point, here.

“The youngest, um. He’s like, a baby? A couple of months old. I think.”

This simple fact gets another glance between Dream and Ink.

“Where you lived— do you know the location? It could be a name or coordinates.”

Again, Gradient shakes his head as Dream speaks. That information was held by the Doctor, and the Doctor alone. He was their ticket in and out of their homeworld— blank and very nearly empty. It feels… embarrassing, not having that information. A child who doesn’t know their own address. It burns, a bit. He mumbles a quiet, “I-I’m sorry”, as a glitch worms its way across his neck.

“It’s okay,” Dream says, quiet and honest. He breathes— careful in how he sets his mug down. It doesn’t make a sound; Gradient nearly feels jealous.

Once more, there is silence.

The wind has shifted. Almost in unison, the leaves of the many plants flutter in the breeze. They’re just as well taken care of as the ones in the guest room. Shining. Happy. The chill seeps into Gradient’s bones— he can’t help but feel a little exposed. He wishes he had grabbed his hoodie. It would protect him: shield him.

“You said that no one would be in danger for the next week,” Dream says, a statement. It’s not harsh, though. Simply a reminder. Curious.

A week. Less than a week.

Gradient takes the last bite of his omelet. He narrows his sockets in focus, as he divides the fruit by color: hue, chroma, and value. “The True Underground runs from dawn to dawn. Sunday.”

“...Sooooooo…” Ink trails off. He’s still hanging upside down, but he’s shifted to a singular leg as his only support. “This, uh, True Underground— it’s an evil fight club, you said?”

“The Ring,” Gradient corrects. He hesitantly picks up a raspberry with his fork: it tastes tart. Perfect. “It’s one facet of it. There’s commentated battles— both with weapons and magic and without. They’re brutal, and technically you’re not supposed to be able to kill in them. But, y’know, people succumb to their wounds. There are death matches— those are pretty rare though.” Next, Gradient takes a bit of strawberry. It’s sweeter than he wants it to be. “It’s… both a method to earn currency, and entertainment. The fighters gain points for their patrons. Those patrons use those points at the Market. There’s vendors at the Market, too. But, they’re kinda their own thing. Seer’s are there to watch fights— they can gamble for currency. They’re not allowed in all the areas, though. ”

The explanation comes as second nature. He feels the cold chill of distance wash over him. He isn’t Gradient, now. He is simply a scientist: a lab assistant. A viewer.

“...Patrons—?”

“Are supposed to take care of their fighters. It’s like…” Gradient splits what’s left of his fruit pile down the middle. He gestures to each side as he speaks. “Symbiotic, kinda. Mutualism? A fighter’s patron is supposed to take care of them— protect them from being found out. Sometimes there’s gold exchange. Sometimes the patron protects, or offers change, for the fighter’s home AU if they have one. There’s a lot of different situations. The fighter gets to fight without any concern.” Gradient gestures to the other side of his fruit pile: the cool tones. “Patrons get the majority of their points— but not all. They get social status from their fighters. When they do well, or when their fighters create interesting battles, they are rewarded for it.”

“Why would a fighter want to fight— what does the Ring offer that they can’t get elsewhere?”

Ink’s voice is a little surprising. His brows are furrowed; Despite the nonchalance of his body language, there hasn’t been a point in the conversation where he’s seemed anything but focused. Attentive. He’s set his bowl of fruit somewhere. What has taken the space in his hands is a pencil: twirled about as he waits for a response.

Gradient considers the question, as he skewers a blueberry.

“There’s a couple reasons, I think?” It’s not like any of his siblings really had to have a reason; They were told to fight. And so, they fought. Just as Gradient was told he would work in the lab, and so he did. “There’s the notoriety— skilled fighters are seen as kinda… mini celebrities? There’s also a kinda sense of community, in a way. Similar morals.” Gradient shrugs. “I think the main draw for a lot is the, um…”

Gradient is briefly brought back to awareness when he realizes that Ink is writing on his scarf. He looks from Ink, to Dream. Dream simply gives him a small smile; Gradient clears his throat.

“I-Is the. Uh. High? Um.”

It’s only a little surprising, how Gradient doesn’t flinch as Dream settles a warm hand against his shoulder. It’s not there for long— just a reminder. Something to ground him. “Breathe,” Dream says, gentle. A reminder; Not a command. Gradient breathes.

“The high. It’s, uh…” Gradient continues. He busies himself by staring at his organized fruit. He’s not exactly sure why he’s embarrassed to say it; It’s not like it really… affects anything. The Doctor— he simply liked to ignore it. “When a fighter wins a battle, they’re administered a dosage of pain relievers through their soulmark— that’s what they say the drug does, at least. It uh, gives a sense of adrenaline? And helps with pain from injuries sustained in fights. But, um, it’s easy to get reliant. If you win a lot, and suddenly stop winning, it’s not uncommon for people to crash. Get sick. Die.”

Gradient remembers how it had been with Flip. He had been one of the top fighters: beholden to a nearly endless win streak. And then, well… he wasn’t. The pain of amputation was bad enough; The Winner’s Chills were just the cherry on top of the already burnt, fried, nuclear cake. Their saving grace had been the amount of points Flip had wracked up, alongside the other fighters at the time. Proper pain relief was acquired. Flip had made it. But the Doctor, to this day (Gradient doesn’t need to be there, to know), holds the loss of ‘valuable assets’ above Flip’s head.

“...Soulmark?” Dream asks, almost… hesitant?

“Oh. Yeah. Uh. Soulmarks,” Gradient awkwardly gestures to his chest, as if the subject matter isn’t crystal, zero percent opacity clear. “You’re given a soulmark, when you’re initiated. They check it when you enter. And, um…”

He needs to get it over with. Let it spill: oil into the ocean. The information burns like citrus in his mouth.

“The Golden Flower Protocol. If The True Underground is discovered by Core Frisk, or there’s a serious attempt to take it down— they can remotely access the soulmarks and. Uh…” Gradient draws a line across his neck; He watches as a fresh layer of mortification paints Dream’s face. “Go down with the ship, style. I think they even have control over whole AUs… it’s, uh. Yeah.”

“We cannot tell Core Frisk,” Dream mumbles, expression carefully reeled in: his voice— quiet and calculated— betrays his continued dread. Ink looks… carefully blank. He blinks, trailing a hand across the sash that sits across his chest. He pulls out one of his colored vials, opens it, takes a sip, closes it, and settles it back in its original place: all in one, fluid motion.

“Nope,” Ink whistles, eye sockets wide and mouth pulled into an almost exaggerated frown. He tsks. “Yeah, we. Uh. Hm… Nope.”

Dream sits back with a sigh. For a moment, he seems to indulge in the gravity of the situation: hand rested between his eye sockets. He takes a breath, and then, he sits forward: collected. “I apologize,” he addresses Gradient. “It’s… Ah…”

“Core gets a little overbearing, when it comes to the good ol’ OT,” Ink interjects, having flipped himself upright once more. He hops down from the railing and strides over to the couch: settling himself on the arm with ease— closest to Dream, still giving Gradient a decent amount of space. “I’d say we’d have about… five minutes? Before they’d be off, ‘saving the day’ and accidentally wrecking carnage in the process.”

“I think you’re being generous,” Dream mutters, looking over at Ink. He sighs, again. Ink rests a hand on Dream’s shoulder, and Gradient carefully averts his gaze until the affection is over with. “We keep this to as few people as possible, until we know more… Stealth?”

Ink nods.

Gradient feels as if he’s walked into a war meeting— two ambassadors discussing matters of life or death; Gradient is nothing more than the intern, handing out coffee orders and trying his best to shuffle the sensitive information into the box in his mind labeled ‘forget’. A bystander. Small.

“Kid,” Ink directs his voice towards Gradient. It carries like a perfectly tuned flute over the small distance. “What are the requirements for getting in?”

Oh. Gradient only has to dig a bit, until he’s rediscovered the rules in his mind: he relays them just as they were once relayed to him.

“An LV above two, a recommendation from a trusted member, a willingness to receive a soulmark, and confirmation that you are above the age of ten. I mean— you also agree to not spill all the secrets, but I think that’s inferred?” He recites. “Um… should we be talking about this?”

A pause. Gradient feels as if he’s said the wrong thing.

“I-I, uh,” Gradient stutters. “Can’t Core Frisk, um, h-hear this?”

The True Underground was safe due to the inhibitor technology; The same went for Gradient’s old home.

“It’s unlikely,” Dream explains, voice soft. “They’ve learned to control their omniscience over the years. I’ve asked them to keep from my personal conversations, and I trust their word. And even so, it’s… difficult, seeing and knowing all possibilities— information tends to get lost.”

“You know the panopticon, kid?” Ink asks. Gradient nods. “It’s more like that. They bank on people believing they are being watched and heard, so they can relax. Play in mud and swing on the swings. Do weird, colorless kid stuff.” Ink just about shudders at the word ‘colorless’.

A moment passes and then. Once more, Gradient is being questioned.

“Are there any special accommodations for those without souls— or souls that would be incapable of receiving a mark?”

Gradient blinks, as Dream leans forward. He seems… intense. Not angry, or upset. Simply: intense. Curious. Serious.

“It’s rare,” Gradient shrugs. Soulless ‘Floweys’ were the most common offender you’d find. Sometimes there were unique situations with fallen humans— soulless, or souls being combined. Usually they found a way to make things work, though. They had a team of scientists after all; Even Gradient had once been consulted. “If they really can’t give a mark, they might take an important item or keepsake— something that proves dedication. It depends, though. It’s a case by case kinda thing? Someone without a mark can’t be a fighter, though.” Gradient returns his attention back towards what’s left of his food. He carefully eats the line of remaining berries, as Dream and Ink share yet another look. Gradient sets his plate on the side table.

The strawberry plant above him hasn’t bloomed, yet. It will, come Summer. Here, in the Spring, it continues to rest.

Gradient is brought back to the present with the realization that Dream and Ink are sharing hushed, nearly inaudible whispers. There’s a pause; A moment. And, then, Gradient is being addressed once more.

“...Gradient,” Dream starts, a little hesitant. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth— not so much a falter, but a sign that he’s tasting his words: being careful. “I have a reason for asking this. But, ah, how exactly are… we, viewed there?” Dream gestures vaguely to himself and Ink; Ink is looking at Dream with a sharpness previously unknown to Gradient— he wonders, briefly, what exactly he missed from that tuned out conversation. “Would our presence initiate the Golden Flower Protocol?"

That is an interesting question. Gradient has to think, for a moment. Sift through the sand; Gather the memories.

“I…,” Gradient trails off, tentative. “…I don’t know? It’s…” He bites at the corner of his cheek, as he thinks. “I don’t know?”

He looks from Dream to Ink. The Sun. His Fate.

“You’re… Um. It’s weird?” It is weird, how they were viewed. Gradient is almost thankful— they weren’t talked about much. But, occasionally, there would be tidbits: gossip. Reminders. Gradient had shielded Palette from it the best he could; That doesn’t mean he himself wasn’t privy to eavesdropping, though. “You’re… you. Uh. The Stars— you are seen as being connected to Core Frisk? But… I don’t know. A lot of people think you’re in the know. That you, uh, just don’t care.” He shrugs. He keeps his gaze averted. “There’s rumors— that you’re already um. Members. But, uh. Yeah. Rumors.”

Again, Dream shares another look with Ink; Gradient is beginning to wish he had the translator for the apparent language of glances.

“Dreamy, c’mon. Really?” Ink snorts, brows raised as he stares at Dream. Dream doesn’t back down, however: gaze just as intense.

“I believe it would work,” Dream says, emitting heat from where he sits. Gradient still wishes he had donned his hoodie. “It’s… unorthodox, perhaps. But, we are working with what is available. The fewer who are aware, the better. This would keep it that way. I am willing to take the backlash.”

Ink narrows his eye sockets. The familiar chill of fear settles in Gradient’s marrow: the warmth from Dream only emphasizes the cold. The freezing nights. “I’m going.”

“No. It would appear too suspicious—”

“Investigating and correcting AU interference is kinda, y'know? My whole shtick?"

“—And I have dedicated myself to helping those in need. I will infiltrate, you will keep tabs, and we’ll… acquire a fighter. We have undercover members for a reason—”

“You are not benching me for the storyline of the—!”

“I’ll fight.”

Gradient’s voice is meek. He stifles a cough, as he is stared at; It isn’t the first in his life he’s been considered with such surprise and horror: it will not be the last.

It’s cold, up here. Distant. Gradient stares out into the world— the buildings, the experiences. It won’t be long until people start to go about their days— breathe life into the city built on death and destruction. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t him. He shares the face. And so, he shall bear the consequences.

“I’ll fight,” he repeats, diving headfirst into feigned confidence. “I’m marked. I’m already technically registered as a fighter— I know the layout, the culture. I-I’m… I’m trusted. I’ll get you where you need to be— I wouldn’t even have to win, and I could sign up for less—”

“No.”

Dream’s voice is firm. Stern. He doesn’t look angry, simply… Intense. Warm. Still, Gradient knows that looks can deceive. And so, as a testament to how he had never truly learned— the Doctor would be happy, delighted, to point out— Gradient keeps his posture firm. He stands his ground.

“Kid…” Ink adds, mouth quirked to the side in a small frown. Conflicted. “You’re like… twelve. Do you really want to battle to your death in the evil, angst with the dead-dove-do-not-eat tag, fight club?”

“Fifteen,” Gradient corrects, too caught up in the heat of the moment to feel the marrow churning embarrassment. “The beginner fights usually aren’t that bad— My whole thing was taking notes and strategizing for battles. I may not have the physical skill, but I know the patterns and data better than anyone there. I’d fight enough to keep away suspicion and that’s it.”

He was going to do good. This was his job: his duty. He wasn’t going to let things slide— a blind eye turned towards what screamed for recognition. Gradient isn’t going to be like the Doctor. Gradient isn’t going to be like PJ. Gradient isn’t going to be like Error.

Gradient feels a glitch crawl its way up his neck. He slaps a hand over it: phantom mosquito.

He’s too restless, here. And, so, Gradient stands up: Dream and Ink watching as he staggers. He crosses his arms— the softness of his hoodie is deeply missed.

“You are aware that you are asking us to condone the endangerment, neglect, and drugging of a child?”

The most frightening part of that sentence, is that Dream still does not sound mad. Not upset, even. Stern, maybe. And yet, completely absent of vitriol. It’s scary, how well he hides it.

“I-I’m not—“ Gradient stutters, stepping forward. A glitch, as always, dooms him; It makes the executive decision that now is the perfect time to infest his marrow— jerk his neck, and disorient his perspective. He loses his footing.

Dream’s hands are warm and careful against his shoulders.

Finally, the embarrassment settles in his bones, as Dream gently guides him back to the couch.

“It’s not your responsibility.”

And yet, it is. He owes it to his family. He owes it to himself. He was born, because of the True Underground; Gradient has accepted that he will likely die because of it, too.

It smells like smoke here, amongst the coffee and rosemary. It reminds Gradient of Palette. The flame; The magic. Hours spent beneath false sky: paint to canvas, watching as fire raged beneath young hands. Fireflies caught against an open sky. A rare moment of peace.

“My brother,” Gradient mumbles. He’s closed his sockets; He doesn’t know if he can bear the pitied expressions— the lack: what’s hidden. “He’s an accomplished fighter. He’s already in it, so…” Gradient breathes. His skull is filled with nothing but haze. “I could get him on your team— I would be there as your guide. I’d only need to fight in my initial battle. It’s… in any case you’re going to need a recommendation. I’m kinda the only one who could do that?”

Palette… He’d be pissed, for starters. And he had good reason to be. But, Gradient would take his brother’s fiery rage if it meant getting him out of the Doctor’s grasp. If it meant doing good. It might take a bit, for Palette to get over who he’d be working with. But… if Palette had always been good at one thing, it was trusting Gradient.

“He has a point, Sunshine.”

Gradient opens his eye sockets, and finds that Ink is standing over Dream: expression painted… hesitant. He spares a look at Gradient, before settling his gaze back to the hand he’s settled on Dream’s shoulder. “‘The fewer who are aware, the better’?” Ink reminds, the softest he’s heard Ink’s voice so far. Gradient knows it's not him who’s being addressed. “I think he’s right. Which, I’m not too surprised about, seeing as he’s my spawn and all.” Ink flashes a quick wink in Gradient’s direction; Gradient has no clue how he feels about it.

“I…” Dream trails off. He’s staring at Gradient, mouth pulled into a thin line: it almost seems as if it threatens to wobble. And, then, Dream is taking a breath. “We’ll consider it,” he says with an air of acceptance. “If all else fails, we’d need gear. And training— even if it’s a singular fight, I’m not letting anyone out into the battlefield without preparation,” Dream continues. It seems as if something has shifted; The donning of a mask? A title? It feels… powerful. Burning.

“Oat’s market?” Ink hums. “It’s got some nice, artisan stuff. Would be a good public place to stir some controversy, too.”

Dream nods, as he tilts his head up to Ink. “...Are you suggesting that because you want more of those colored pencils?”

“I—” Ink struggles, glancing at Gradient as if he had anything to do with it. He sighs. “Those are the best tasting ones around— do you want me to go hungry? They’ve also got those live blacksmiths demonstrations, I think it would be a crime if we didn’t show the surprise collab around the place.”

“We’ll go,” Dream says with a small wave of his hand. Ink scribbles something down on his scarf. It appears as if a small smile briefly crosses Dream’s face, but Gradient isn’t sure if it was just a shadow cast by the still rising sun.

At least it isn’t The Market, Gradient thinks. Maybe it’s outside. He hopes it’s outside. Nothing felt worse than those dingy halls and saccharine smell.

“We still need to figure out who’s offering up their status—”

“We can discuss that later,” Dream breathes, giving Ink yet another completely unreadable to Gradient, but picture clear to Ink, glance.

“No. You’re going to say that until the last moment, and then try to sacrifice yourself like the little golden boy hero you believe yourself to be. I’m going. It makes the most sense. My relationship with Core is rockier— it would be easier to accept. Undercover is, y’know, kinda my thing?”

“That would make it more suspicious,” Dream murmurs, brow raised. He glances at Gradient— almost apologetic— before he’s turning himself towards Ink; At this angle and in this light, Gradient can see when Dream fiddles with something around his neck beneath his cape: jewelry, perhaps? “You’re the expected spy, I’m not.” Dream takes a breath, and Gradient swears he sees him frown: genuine distress. It looks… uncomfortable. “Your downfall is expected, mine isn’t. My fall from grace would avert expectations, while playing into preexisting rumors…”

“They’d eat it up,” Ink mutters, voice fighting back defeat with the power of acknowledgment. He sighs, running a hand across his sash. “…We’ll go together. Figure something out— there’s a story, here—“

“I have an idea?”

Both Dream and Ink blink at Gradient, as he speaks. His voice is a little shaky. But, despite, he clears his throat as he continues.

“It’s. Um. Pretty out there, but. U-Uh…”

“Let us hear it, kid,” Ink says. It’s weird, but Gradient can’t help but think of Palette; He had somehow made Gradient’s art feel… worthwhile. Special. Something worth indulging in; Something that someone could want to see.

Dream gives Gradient a gentle smile. Ink gives a subtle nod of his head.

Gradient takes a breath. And then, he speaks.

“…How much do you know about Desire?”

Palette wakes up with a start.

His soul is pounding; His body is activated, ready for anything— despite the thick fog of sleep that hazes his bones. A quick glance at his wrist watch supplies him with the information that it is no later than nine a.m.

That’s odd.

The past month alone had ingrained in him that he should expect to be called awake at any moment. He’d awaken with pounding soul when he was called; He would awaken with pounding soul when he wasn’t.

Palette is kneeling on a surprisingly soft rug, hand dug into the pits of his duffel bag, when he realizes where exactly he is.

Nightmare’s castle. His new room.

Finally, Palette is able to retrieve his cap. It settles nicely atop his head.

Palette knows… something happened, last night. Something big; Something that feels like a tender wound within his mind, writhing and alive: suffocated. He had secured his spot under Nightmare’s tutelage. He made it. It… doesn’t matter how. It doesn’t matter that Palette can’t remember. It’s safer that way, honestly. Kinder. He breathes a little deeper. He finds that there is almost no breath left to take.

And then, with hand outreached, Palette finds himself in front of the door.

Nightmare did say they’d ‘debrief’ in the morning.

…What does Nightmare consider ‘morning’?

It’s possible that he wakes up at the crack of dawn; It’s possible that he’s been waiting for Palette this entire time, disappointed in his supposed laziness— ready to punish, or abandon. If this were the case, Nightmare would likely be quite displeased to find out that, if given the chance, Palette would sleep his way through morning to afternoon. Sometimes evening, if Palette really put his mind to it.

On the other hand, Nightmare could be a night owl— it would make sense, with the whole… being named ‘Nightmare’, and all.

Briefly, Palette wonders, does he create nightmares? Does he… eat them? Does he simply embody them? Was it just a name? Maybe he’ll ask. Maybe he’ll find out.

Palette rests his hand on the door knob.

…Is he expected to stay, or leave?

Palette wasn’t exactly given any directions. Or rules. It could be that Palette is expected to sit idle: a weapon in the wings. It could be that Palette is overthinking this, and he’s already making one hell of a first impression by not taking the first step. The initiative. Perhaps it’s a test. Perhaps Gray had rubbed off on him more than he realizes. There’s so many options, and so many opportunities for failure.

Then again… Nightmare did say to ‘make himself comfortable’.

Palette walks out into the hallway.

It’s… Well, it’s a hallway, all right. Dark, only a bit foreboding— seemingly endless in its length. There’s an overwhelming prevalence of grey; But, that could be blamed on the stone material. It is a castle, after all. A proper one. Storybook. The ceiling is high, the air chilled, and the windows glass stained.

The windows are interesting, actually. Palette can’t help but situate himself in front of the nearest one.

Flowers? No, that seems like it’s the shape of an animal— but Palette might just be looking at it wrong. He tilts his head and finds that the gentle lavender glow of the filtered light shifts to a very nearly piercing cyan; When he tilts his head back, it follows. This doesn’t clarify what exactly the subject of this art is supposed to be; Palette’s guesses currently consist of a crab wandering through a desert, a canopy of ever growing flora, and a monster experiencing the horrors of lycanthropy. The themes are muddled. But, at the very least, it makes for curious entertainment.

Palette is busy craning his neck with squinted eye sockets— the light still shimmering and unreadable— when he’s startled by a sudden presence behind him.

“Oh,” the man, now in front of him, whistles. “I didn’t know that Night was picking up strays again.”

Palette had spun around at near lightning speed, hand already on scabbard that wasn't there, when he was faced with a man that— only for the briefest of seconds— Palette thought was Gradient.

It isn’t Gradient, of course. Gradient had run. Gradient wasn’t here.

The man smiles, and it’s made all the more clear that the only thing this person has in common with his brother, is that he’s glitched.

They’re stars: not code.

His glitches— they’re different than Gradient’s— this is the first thing that Palette notices. They have the same warmth, even from the decent distance: television static. That’s what had tripped him up; Gradient had always moved as if it were his job to be unseen, but the telltale CRT white noise would always give him away.

Palette blinks, as the man reaches out his hand.

“You can call me June,” June says, brows slightly raised as Palette gives his hand a firm and quick shake.

“Palette,” Palette replies. “Or, um… Daybreak?” He quickly backtracks.

It’s almost as if June is surprised by his pleasantries, brows still raised as his gaze trails over Palette’s form. Palette knows when he’s being sized up; It wasn’t uncommon in the Underground, a simple fact of life. You wanted to know who you were fighting. You wanted to be prepared.

Palette isn’t innocent, either. He can very nearly feel the welcome deadpan of Gradient’s voice as his guiding Polaris.

June is about the same height as Palette— give or take a few inches. He’s a skeleton: a ‘Swap’ variant if Palette could wager a guess, looking at the bandanna tied around his neck. He’d likely have excellent magic control and a punch to boot (if the glitched nature hadn’t changed that part of him). His features are soft, bathed in the gentle lilac light. Almost… homely. Some might be unnerved by the ceaseless smile; Palette finds himself comforted.

He would be a pain to fight. Especially in fist-to-fist, magic-to-magic combat. But, Palette could do it if needed. Probably.

“Palette…” June says, as if he’s testing out the syllables. “If a dog walked up to you and bowed its head, would you pet it?”

Palette blinks. Slowly, he nods.

“What if the dog was… a little odd— rough around the edges. Maybe it’s a stray, maybe it’s been beat upside the head one too many times. It shakes and tremors. It’s got spittle at the corners of its mouth. Still, do you pet it?”

Tremors… that usually meant fear. It needed comfort.

“…Is it friendly?”

“Very.”

Again, Palette nods his head.

June hums. He takes a step back; He seems engulfed in the emptiness.

“Now… what if I told you that the dog has rabies?” June asks. He hasn’t stopped smiling; It stretches at the corners of his mouth. It almost looks painful. “Would you pet it?”

Palette stares at the concrete floor. Mindlessly, he traces a shape of circle with his heel. He imagines its sand.

He nods.

Again, June whistles.

“Wow,” he laughs. It sounds bright and blistering. “He really knows how to pick them, doesn’t he?” He brings his hand to his chin, sockets narrowed. “I can work with that,” he murmurs.

Before Palette can question if he was meant to hear those words, June is speaking yet again: expression shifted, despite no noticeable change. “You know… I don’t think Night would mind if I stole you for a bit. What do you think? Want the grand tour?”

Palette doesn’t get the chance to answer before June is settling a gentle hand against Palette’s shoulder, guiding him down the hallway at a brisk walk.

“If he does mind,” June says, as he leads Palette through a turn. They’re met with another corridor. It smells like… something herbal, crisp? Foresty. “Well… that’s between me and him. The torture chambers aren’t that bad— so don’t you go worrying about me. Okay?” Palette watches as June winks, having stepped out in front of him: walking backwards with a sense of incredible confidence and precision.

“Um,” Palette says, stricken with the realization that all he knows about this man is a name and a hypothetical. “Who are you— do you work for Nightmare?” June blinks at him; It seems as if he knows the names of every star that has ever, and will ever, exist. “...Does he work for you?” Palette corrects.

Again, June laughs. It hitches on the last note like a scratched record, and Palette can’t help but feel drowned in an endless sea of nostalgia. He waves a hand, amused. “No— No… Well? Hmmmm…” he trails off. June hops a step, and then does a quick twirl: not losing an ounce of speed. “We’re… partners. Companions. Equals, let’s say.” June comes to a complete standstill, and Palette has to stop himself from barreling into him at the last moment. June looks around as if there’s something to see; Palette follows his gaze and finds nothing but castle walls and morning light.

“Just so you know…” June murmurs, having leaned in close. Palette holds his breath. “If you ever have any issues with him— he’s working you like a mule, or being as closed minded as a bank on holiday— you come to me. I’ll… iron things out, so to speak.” He winks again. And then in a single motion, he’s pushing open a previously unseen door.

Palette is overwhelmed by the smell of butter and batter. They’re in a… kitchen? Palette looks around as June bustles his way over to a pan. It looks like a normal kitchen. On the larger side, sure. But… normal. A normal kitchen.

“Are you hungry? Any allergies?”

“Uh, kinda. No—”

Suddenly, June is shoving a plate of pancakes into Palette’s hands. He’s being looked at expectantly; The hunger pangs in Palette’s marrow. He might as well. And, so, he starts to eat.

“What’s your favorite color?” June asks, as Palette shovels another bite into his mouth. It’s good. A little… herby? But, the fluffiness more than makes up for it.

“Cyan.”

“Favorite place?”

Another few bites.

“...The beach.”

“Have you ever been?”

His first pancake is gone. Palette remembers the sun on his bones and the sand between his toes: the call of the ocean. It must have been on the Surface in some AU— abandoned. Hidden. The memory is fuzzy; The life it breathes remains.

“Once… I think?” he says, staring down at his quickly dwindling food. “A while ago,” he mumbles.

“Do you have any siblings?”

Palette blinks. He looks up at June. He looks down at his pancakes. He reaches to scoop up another mouthful; He feels the churning, acidic bright-lab-white nausea in his marrow.

June walks forward and gently takes the plate from Palette’s hands.

“I had a brother,” June says, voice even. He settles the plate on the counter, as he picks up a glass of water to hand to Palette. Palette can sense when he’s been given an order; As such, he takes a few careful sips.

It seems like June is about to continue, but Palette is left with a hand against his shoulder as he’s guided back out the door.

Palette is led through various castle rooms. None of them are particularly remarkable. Which, in itself, is a little remarkable. It’s as if Palette has been transported to the halls of a storybook castle. Briefly, Palette wonders if he was. It’s possible that Nightmare had taken over a fantasy AU; Perhaps, at one point, this was nothing but a palace on a page.

It makes Palette itch for his watercolors.

For the entire tour, June keeps the space filled with light small talk. It’s almost… nice. Palette doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was able to talk about his own interests. A month, maybe. A little longer.

June is guiding him through the courtyard— just as fantastical and vibrant as last night— when he asks about Palette’s favorite animal. It’s embarrassing, but Palette doesn’t remember much of the tour from that point forward. June could have shown him a room made of gold with the answer to all the Multiverse’s problems and Palette would only recall the pure joy of informing June about penguin social behavior. June was a good listener, Palette had found out. He smiled and nodded as Palette chattered: asking appropriate, and unique, questions when he could.

Maybe he was more like Gradient than Palette had first assumed.

Eventually, Palette is snapped back to reality (and proper social expectations) when June leads him into a throne room. Palette blinks. It’s a room with a throne. An actual throne room. With… a throne. And books. A throne and… books?

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” June asks, as he skips over to the throne. He jumps up the small set of stairs and leans himself against the shining silver of the seat. He gestures Palette over with an energetic wave.

“Um,” Palette says, allowing his gaze to wander across the room as he follows. This seems to be the main entrance— missed in the darkness of the night. The bookcases that stack the walls are tall and full: fantastical. Would it be possible to read all those books, in a single lifeline? The moon was immortal; It would make sense if Nightmare was as well.

June leans forward— something that Palette is quickly getting accustomed to— and smiles what could be called a wicked smile. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret…” he murmurs. He looks around as if someone may be listening. “This…” he trails off, gesturing towards the books, “is nothing more than a glorified reading room. And, this…” he presents the throne, “is nothing more than the Multiverse’s fanciest reading chair.”

Palette does not expect it when June grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him into the throne.

It’s comfortable. Palette is barely able to register this fact, however, as he’s busy fighting off the cold chill of wrongness that sparks through the entirety of his spine.

This is not his place; This is not his power.

“Awww!” June coos, clasping his hands together out in front of him. “You look like a little baby otter— I just wish I had my camera on me…” June pauses. Palette is almost thankful when he’s pulled from the throne, being guided along to yet another room. “Lemme show you the library. Now that is a sight to behold.”

June is right. The library is a sight to behold.

If Palette thought there were a lot of books in the throne room, he was wrong.

The library is nothing but a sea of knowledge.

Well… correction: the library is nothing but a sea of books upon shelves, a scattering of tables and chairs, and various artifacts hidden in crooks and crannies.

When was the last time Palette had read?

It seems like an eternity. All these books— he can sense that they’re loved. Known. But, how? How could someone have the time? The patience?

“Soooo…” June starts. He’s sat himself down at one of the tables, and Palette quickly situates himself across from him. “What do you think? It’s one of my favorite areas, besides the armory— Which I’ll show you another day. Night gets…” June waves his hand about, as if grasping for his words. “...Finicky, about his weapons. I’ll convince him though— just gotta butter him up,” he smiles.

Palette allows himself another look around the area. There’s a couple of card decks in the center of the table; Palette reaches over and mindlessly grabs one. “It’s… It’s magical,” he says, almost quiet. It feels like the castle swallows his words; He wonders how they taste. “...Why do you call him ‘Night’?”

June laughs a simmering, unashamed laugh as he gently takes the deck of cards from Palette’s hands. He pulls out the cards as he speaks; Palette watches as June shuffles with a skilled efficiency. “Because that’s what he wants me to call him,” he explains, gold-trimmed cards dancing across his fingers.

“Should I, uh, be calling him that too? How did you learn to shuffle like that?”

June tilts his head, brow raised. A couple stars phase in and out of existence; It feels familiar.

“What did he introduce himself as?” he asks. The cards fly across June’s hands, and Palette briefly wonders how that’s physically possible. “And, I worked in a casino for a bit, once upon a time,” he says with a small smile. For a moment it seems like he’s… lost, within himself. And then, in just a second, he’s back.

Introductions…

“I don’t think he did? Uh, introduce himself.”

June nods, humming. He pauses. And then, he’s back to shuffling.

“I’d ask him, then. Who knows,” he spins a card, catching it just as he glitches. “Maybe he’d like you to call him ‘Your Lord, His Darkness’ or ‘Supreme King of Night, Nebulas, and Narcissism’."

Suddenly June freezes. For a brief moment Palette is concerned he’s crashed, but within the space of a breath he’s leaning forward. His expression is blank and serious. For the first time in his presence, Palette feels afraid.

“If he tries to get you to call him ‘Boss’, ‘Master’, or stars forbid ‘My Liege’, tell him— And you can write this down if you want—” June doesn’t give Palette the time to process those words, let alone procure a writing implement, “—that June says ‘You’re being a top tier freak. Bad. Stop that.’”

June nods. Palette nods as well, and only then does June continue to shuffle.

“...What kind of cards are those?” Palette asks. June had spun a card around on his fingertip: dancing. It was gone before he knew it, but Palette is convinced he saw an image of a tower— or lightning? Something like that.

June carefully sets the deck down between them. “Do you know what tarot is?”

Palette blinks. June taps the top of the deck.

“Tarot is typically used for divination. Y’know…” June splays out his hands with a wink. “Magic. Real magic.” He picks up the deck, and hands it over to Palette. “I could do a reading for you if you want. Just… Don’t let Night know— he gets a bit weird, with ‘withcraft’.” June leans close again, and Palette knows to expect it by now. “Weirder than me,” he whispers, almost as if it were a dark secret.

“Um,” Palette says, feeling the weight of the cards in his hands. “Sure?”

“Great!” Juniper exclaims, clasping his hands together. “Hmmm… We’ll do a simple three card spread— see how your near future is gonna be. Shuffle until you’re satisfied, okay?”

Shuffling is harder than it looks. He’d only done it a few times— he usually always had Flip or Gradient there to shuffle for him on the rare occasion that a card based game was held. Unfortunately, they’d had to dial those games back a bit, on account of the famed ‘double draw four’ incident.

Palette, if asked, would plead the fifth.

He frowns. It doesn’t help that these cards are larger. Clunkier. Still, Palette tries.

“Oh! Looks like we have a flyer. Let’s see here…” June says, as he picks up a card that had escaped from Palette’s grasp.

A person in bed, head held in hands: nine blades hung above them like art affixed to wall. That is the image that June places in front of him.

“Nine of Swords,” June says. He sounds almost… solemn. Serious. Palette waits for a moment— it could be the start of a joke, a fluke. But, as seconds pass, Palette realizes that this is June’s honest reaction.

“It is, uh. Bad?”

A beat.

“No— No. Well. Hmmm… No, it’s…” June takes the deck from Palette’s hands; He carefully sets down two more cards. “It’s a sad card,” he finally says. “It’s about pain and grief. Anguish.”

Oh.

Palette stares down at the person. Their face remains hidden in their hands.

“Does that mean that. Uh. That’s gonna happen? To me?”

June hums. “It could happen. Or, it could have already happened. It could also be about someone around you— or a warning. Maybe a sign. Maybe all of the above.”

“That’s… Um. A little vague?”

“Sure is!” June beams, as he flips over the two remaining cards.

Palette is met with a family in front of a rainbow, and a man… hanging— floating in air?

June stares. He blinks.

“Wow,” he says. “Your cards can’t seem to make up their minds, can’t they?”

Palette doesn’t have time to consider that rhetorical question, as June is pushing the first card forward. He taps the image, smiling.

“Ten of Cups,” he smiles. Palette leans forward— those do appear to be cups, shimmering in the sky. “It’s a happy card. It means good times are on the horizon. You can expect your wishes to be fulfilled, and your needs satisfied. Think of… good times with family!”

A sunset. Sand between his toes. Two equally small hands in his.

“And this… is the Hanged Man.”

June taps said card. Palette is wondering where the ‘hanged’ comes from, when June rotates the image.

“Don’t worry— Or, well. You can worry. I won’t stop you. But, this card doesn’t necessarily mean you’re gonna be hanged. It usually represents that you need to make a sacrifice, that something may change.”

Once more, the card is rotated.

“—But, this card is reversed. That means an opposite, or twisted meaning. I get the feeling that… Hm,” June sits back, bringing a contemplative hand to his face. “I’m sensing that this card means action and change. Which, I feel like you’ve had a lot of recently, haven’t you?”

Palette leans forward and rests his head in his arms. He stares at the nine swords: a guillotine ready to strike. The happy family; It is nothing more than a taunt. And then, the hanged man.

His crimes; His fate.

There had been a lot of change.

“...Hey, don’t ruminate on it too much, kiddo.” June pats Palette’s shoulder. Palette feels bad for flinching, when he sees a couple stars dance across June’s face. He knows guilt, when he sees it. The expression may stay the same; But, the glitches show all. “The cards don’t have to mean anything, if you don’t want them too. They won’t judge you. They can’t hear— I promise.”

The cards stare up at him. Palette averts his gaze. He nods.

“I can give you the rest of the tour another time. Let’s get you to Night— he won’t be long, and then you can spend the rest of the day acclimating, okay?”

“You know, you never actually answered my question.”

Ink stands aloof against the wall of the Omega Timeline lab. It’s an empty corridor— near the top of the building. White. Familiar.

The smell of isopropyl alcohol will always be a comfort, for Gradient. If it’s a pleasant comfort: that’s another story entirely. All the same, it resides in a certain, detached box within his mind. Waiting.

Ink briefly meets his gaze, before turning his attention back to the closed lab door to his right. There had been a slight increase of volume from the room— not so much yelling, as an exclamation of surprise, perhaps. A yelp? Ink frowns, but it reads more like curiosity than anything properly blue. Gradient finds himself frowning as well.

They’d been waiting for… a bit.

Gradient was there to see Sci.

Sci needed no explanation. Head scientist of the Omega Timeline, founder of Multiversal Internet, and gold medal owner for most obnoxious author of any scientific paper that Gradient has read.

Sci was also, apparently, the Stars go to medical expert.

Gradient simply hopes that his medical care is more… concise, than his academic ventures.

“How many, uh… little combos there were from my magic. You never said.”

Once more, Ink briefly meets his gaze. Gradient almost wants to say that he reads… skittish? But, still— his expression is too sharp. Calculated. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, accompanied by a twitch at his hand: phalanges trailing over his bandolier. The vials are a slightly modified rainbow; Gradient considers asking about it, but finds that his words have been replaced by a fresh wave of nausea.

“Uh…” Gradient mumbles. “Dead or alive?”

Ink snorts. “Yeesh, kid. That’s dark.”

There is silence.

Gradient shifts from foot to foot. If he strains hard enough, he can hear the faint flow of conversation. It’s light: quick. He wishes his hearing were anything but subpar; The permanent static in his mind had a tendency to cloud his concentration. For a moment, he thinks he hears Dream’s voice. Just a moment. And then, it’s gone. He sighs. It was best to prepared. To go in blind… it was less than preferable.

“...I’m one of the last ones,” Gradient finally responds. “There used to be more. But, uh, we kinda dwindled, over the years,” he shrugs.

Ink stares at him with unblinking sockets. Gradient finds that it’s easy to stare back. Eventually, Ink clears his throat. He looks up, and then, something seems to cloud Ink’s expression. There’s a furrowing of his brows: another twitch of his mouth.

“ —What were we talking about?” Ink sounds genuinely confused, voice airy and… faraway. Quiet. Gradient quickly glances around, when he’s snapped back to focus with a resounding snap from Ink’s fingers. “Oh, right! Fankids… Uh. Dream… Was Dream’s magic ever used?”

Gradient… does not like where this is going.

The bile in his marrow rises. He nods.

Ink takes a step forward. He looks… intense. There’s a shine, in his sockets. Gradient swears he sees the flash of the sun.

“Has…” Ink trails off. Gradient presses himself closer to the wall. It’s a solemn comfort, as Ink is taking another step forward. Gradient can’t decide if Ink is a stalking fox or excited bunny; Either way, the sickness rises. He glances around. “Has there ever been a combination? Of me and Dreamy?”

Yes, Gradient thinks.

No, says the ink spilling from his teeth, drenching his front, the floor, and Ink in, well… ink.

Ink blinks. Gradient blinks back.

“Uh,” Ink says, raising an ink covered hand. He turns it around in the artificial light, brow raised curiously. “Sorry I asked, kid. Seems like…” he trails off, giving Gradient a thorough look. Gradient is still battling the aftershocks of nausea, and can’t bother to look anything but drained. It doesn’t matter that Ink is seeing through him. There’s nothing to find but the churning in his marrow. “A sore spot. Sorry.” He sounds… less than genuine. But, Gradient will accept it.

He sputters, again. The aftershocks were always the worst. Gradient is almost thankful that Ink has taken a step back: watching from a careful distance. He heaves. Sputters. And then, just when he thinks it's done, there’s more ink spilling upon the once pristine, white floors. He groans.

A moment passes. Gradient swipes the back of his fist across his mouth.

“Do you know how to clean that up?”

He coughs again. It’s dry.

“U-Uh, yeah. I’ll. Um. Go find some cleaning supplies—”

“No,” Ink says, raising his still ink-covered hand in Gradient’s periphery. The ink… obeys. “Y’know, clean it up. Re-absorb it?” Within a moment, the ink is gone. Ink shifts to his other foot, head tilted.

A glitch wracks his neck. Gradient shakes his head.

“Here,” Ink says as he kneels in front of the ink. He waves his hand across the puddle, and it listens: bubbling, as if a call and response. “It’s an easy fix,” he mumbles, brows furrowed as the ink swirls around his arm. He nods, when there is nothing left but a clean floor. He looks up at Gradient and smiles: bright and cunning.

Maybe… Maybe that is his natural smile.

Ink stands up, and gestures towards Gradient’s still soaked chest. “Try it,” he says, arms now crossed.

Easier said than done.

Gradient looks towards the door. It’s still shut. He looks towards Ink: standing expectant. He sighs.

He closes his sockets. He imagines that the ink is gone. He imagines it is nothing more than magic through his marrow: life running through his bones. It is his magic; It is him. His code; His linework.

Gradient opens his sockets. The ink is still there.

He doesn’t know what else he expected.

Still, it stings like acidic ink against his throat. He sighs again, heavy.

Ink… doesn’t look disappointed. Which is both nice in its break from pattern, and frightening in its unfamiliarity. He simply stands with hip angled, hand on his chin with sockets narrowed in thought. It seems he’s about to speak, when Dream pokes his head out from the door.

“Come in,” Dream says, gentle in his warmth. Ink is quick to make his way over. Gradient is quick to follow.

The room is large; Machines line the walls. It’s tidier, than Gradient expected; He knew it would be clean, but he can’t help but be impressed by the sheer lack of loose papers and cups missing from countertop.

There’s a chair, opposite to a substantial desk. Dream has situated himself next to it. Ink has claimed his spot in the nearest corner.

“Wow,” Sci whistles, leaning back in his office chair. He looks Gradient up and down with a raised brow. “They really did just hit copy and paste with you, didn’t they?”

“Your hypothesis on mind, body, and magic errorization is incorrect.”

The words are tumbling from Gradient’s mouth like ink. He couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I agree— for most they will have symptoms in all those areas,” Gradient continues, watching as Dream considers him with a curious— nearly worried expression. He sits down in the available chair. Sci stares at him, and then sits forward. “But, it's not impossible for someone to lack one of those criteria.”

“...Errorization begins in the soul. The soul is connected and interwoven with all those aspects— even if nearly undetectable, an error will meet all those criteria.”

“Not mind.”

Sci narrows his sockets. He rolls forward with a squeak of his chair, hands steepled in his lap.

“There are soulless beings who are still conscious,” Gradient continues. Part of him itches for his lab coat: the protective cloth. The detachment. “The mind— intelligent thought— is not inherently connected to the soul. It works on a different mechanism. The errorization can hit body and magic through the soul, and miss the mind.”

“...Any conscious being at one point, in some way, had a soul. It’s basic awareness theory—”

“—Which is likely incorrect—”

Gradient expects himself to glitch more, when Dream lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Gradient,” Dream says, quickly removing his hand to gesture over to Sci. “This is Sci. Sci, this is Gradient.”

Sci follows the movement. He blinks, and then he shakes his head.

The outreached hand is unexpected. Gradient stares at it, as the embarrassment sets in. He looks around as if there’s someone to get permission from. And, then, he hesitantly reaches out and gives Sci probably the worst handshake he’s ever experienced.

Despite this, Sci doesn’t seem disoriented.

“I need you to know. Those two—” Sci tilts his head towards Dream and Ink, “—are insane. I’m not a medical doctor. I have a PhD in—”

"Theoretical physics and engineering.”

“...Theoretical physics and engineering. However. I do have extensive experience with treating errors. And, again, these two—” once more, Sci gestures towards Dream and Ink. It feels… pointed. Sharp. Gradient feels a glitch shudder down his spine. “—Are insane. I can’t count how much I’ve been forced to learn, over the years—”

“What he is trying to say,” Dream says, walking forward. His posture is straight; He simmers like the surface of the sun, when he smiles at Gradient. For a moment, Gradient forgets where he is. He imagines clear skies and rosemary. “Is that he is well versed in unique scientific problems. Including those of the medical variety.”

“Well versed my—”

“He keeps his mouth shut,” Ink interjects. Gradient stares at him, from where he’s practically blended into the wall. He shrugs.

Sci blinks in Ink’s direction. And then, he turns back to Gradient. He smiles a… slightly deranged smile, as he repeats, “...I keep my mouth shut.”

Gradient believes him.

“Anyway,” Sci says, opening various drawers with a skilled efficiency. “I would like to take a look at that soulmark of yours— take a few samples. Is that going to cause some kind of catastrophe, or are we good?”

A glitch twitches Gradient’s neck once more, he allows it to progress into a shake of his head.

He can’t count the amount of samples taken: the tests. It all settles in his memory like the familiar blanket of staticy, white noise.

Sci is readying his syringe when he pauses. He looks around the room, before looking towards Gradient.

“...I could sedate you for this, if you want. I usually keep people awake, but that’s because they’re adults who know better than to bother me when I really shouldn’t be bothered.”

Gradient stares at the syringe. He stares down at his ink-stained chest. He glitches.

“I’m used to it,” he mumbles. Sci gives him an unreadable look. And then, he’s gesturing towards Gradient’s ribcage.

The sign is understood.

Gradient imagines that Dream and Ink have averted their gazes. He doesn’t know, though, as he’s keeping his sockets focused on the pure white of the ceiling. He breathes, deep. It’s silly, but he can’t help but believe that looking is a bad sign. It’s not like he’s squeamish— he’s taken enough samples himself to have stomped that instinct. But, he’s always felt that souls get… nervous. They know when you’re watching. It’s best to be polite.

The needle burns; The needle always burns.

“Well damn,” Sci says. Gradient knows when it’s over, and he’s quick to pull his soul back where it belongs. “I hope you know that I’ve had grown adults who’ve needed to be held down, for that. I think that was the easiest soul draw I’ve ever had.” He sounds almost… wistful. He blinks.

Gradient takes a breath. He’s a little light headed— which is to be expected. He watches as Sci rolls back over to his desk: quick to import the sample into one of the many machines. He begins to type away at his computer.

It’s almost a little odd, how Gradient doesn’t flinch, or glitch, when Dream reaches out a hand to gently pat him on his shoulder. All he gets is warmth. Warmth and… something.

“You did good,” Dream says, soft. Again, he’s quick to remove his hand as Gradient looks up at him. It feels… weird. He did what was needed of him. It’s not like he deserves a metal, or anything. The Sun… he’s likely used to giving out praise. Inciting joy in others. It’s his job. Nothing more.

Eventually, Ink walks over and settles himself on Gradient’s other side. He shifts— almost as if he’s trying to glance at what exactly Sci is looking at. But, soon enough, he settles himself against the chair that Gradient is sitting in.

“Are you currently being treated for any error side effects?” Sci finally breaks the air of silence. He continues to tap away at his keyboard.

“Uh… No?”

Sci pauses. He briefly turns towards Gradient, brow raised. “…There’s a decent protocol for treating the mental side effects, now. Would you like to be?”

“I don’t have any mental error symptoms.”

Sci stares.

“…That’s not possible.”

“It is. I don’t hear voices.”

Sci continues to stare. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He continues typing.

“Are you on anything for the Tourette’s?”

Gradient blinks.

Again, Sci pauses. Here, in this bright light, Gradient can see the bags hanging at the edges of his sockets. He looks… worse than Gradient after a two day all nighter.

“Oh,” Sci shakes his head. “Sorry. The tic disorder— the tics. Whatever you have. Are you medicated?” He waves a hand.

Again, Gradient blinks. He looks at Dream. Dream gives him a gentle smile. He looks back to Sci. He glitches.

“…I, uh, don’t… have tics?”

Sci stares at him. Again, he opens his mouth. He closes it. It seems like it’s going to stay closed, but he seems to make the decision to get over his indecision to say, “...I’ve counted at least four different tics since you came in,” he looks down at his watch, “not even ten minutes ago. You have tics. Would you like to be medicated for them?”

Gradient blinks.

“...The neck jerk. The head jerk. The shudder. The face twitch. Four,” Sci holds up four fingers.

As if on cue, Gradient feels his neck jerk.

“...Those are glitches.”

A beat.

“...Glitches are physical distortions. They’ll always be accompanied by a shift or increase in visual static. Which, hasn’t been present beyond your apparent baseline.”

That doesn’t sound right. That… isn’t what he was told. That can’t be right— The Doctor—

Oh.

Huh.

“Sorry, kid,” Ink murmurs. Gradient looks up at him, and finds that he’s smiling a lopsided smile. He itches at the back of his neck. “You probably got that from me.”

“...I’ll write you something up to take when the tics get bad. It could also be used for a bad crash day— speaking of, I want you to start tracking your crashes. Length, intensity, inciting factors, etcetera. Adults,” Sci clearly addresses Dream and Ink, “it is your job to make sure he actually does that. I’ve refilled all your meds. Actually pick them up this time. Please.”

One of the machines buzzes. Sci rolls over to check it. He rolls back to his keyboard.

“I’m going to need a bit to study that soulmark. It’s…” Sci rubs at his face, glasses pushed askew. He takes a breath. “I’ll appreciate any information you can get. About anything. Including the tech.”

“We will be updating you as the mission progresses,” Dream says. He sounds, and looks, like a leader.

Sci nods. He types some more. He pauses.

“...I also ran a quick ME test. The kid isn’t lying. Congrats, Ink. You have…” Sci waves his hand, “...a teenager.”

“Is it terminal?” Ink asks, quick and sly. He flashes Gradient a quick wink. Gradient looks over to Dream, and finds that his face is in his hand.

“Thank you, Sci,” Dream says, dragging his palm down his face. He pats Gradient on the shoulder, and begins to walk towards the door. Gradient takes it as their cue to leave. “We appreciate your work, as always.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Or do. Oh—”

They’re just about to walk through the door, when Sci waves them down. Or, more accurately, he waves at Gradient.

“...Kid. I’ve been, uh…” Sci rubs at his glasses again. Gradient almost feels as if he’s looking into a mirror. “I’ve been thinking about taking an intern, or two. When you’re done with… this current shitshow,” he gestures, “I’d be happy to take you on. Keep it in mind. You’re smart.”

Sci, again, smiles a slightly deranged smile. Gradient doesn’t know what to think of it, as Dream gently guides him out the door.

The trip to Nightmare’s office doesn’t take long.

Once more, June fills the air with idle small talk and questions. Palette tries to answer when he can. But, he can feel the heaviness that’s infected his soul. The rot. How long had it been since he felt alive? It feels like an eternity; The aches have returned, belonging.

There is no place where Palette is safe.

All he has is himself. And, even then, he’s not entirely sure.

“...Don’t worry, kid,” June says, having parked himself in front of a nondescript room on one of the castle’s higher floors. “...Night isn’t so much a dog, as he is a lion. Keep your wits about you, your morals intact, and you’ll be just fine.”

June gives a few quick raps to the door, and then he’s walking off into the distance.

Palette shall do what is commanded of him.

And, so, he opens the door and walks inside.

At this point, Palette feels like he should suspect the overwhelming amount of books. The office is almost… cozy. Books in bookcases, as mentioned, line the walls. Palette steps forward and finds that his feet make contact with a rug— short-bristled and blue. He blinks.

There’s a couple of plants on the far off window sill: basking in the low light of the outdoors. Palette finally allows his gaze to travel to the main centerpiece— the desk— and finds it what he expected. Old and worn; Large and wood. What Palette didn’t expect, was the… decoration? There’s a lamp and cup of writing supplies— which makes sense. But, beyond that, there’s a couple of photographs (all turned away from the door), a vase with fresh flowers (orchids, he thinks), and a jar full of paper stars (origami?).

The King of Negativity sits behind his desk. In front of him rests a book, and upon that book rests his hands.

Palette clears his throat.

Nightmare is staring at him. Actually, correction: he’s been staring at him this whole time. Clearly, Palette was expected. Nightmare had been waiting for him.

It feels shameful, how Palette feels frozen. That gaze is simply too cold. Icy. The heat within him has been simmered down to the embers on a Winter’s night.

Nightmare looks a little to Palette’s left, and then he’s closing the large book in front of him.

“Come in,” Nightmare says.

There’s a chair in front of Nightmare’s desk. Palette hesitates only for a moment, before he’s settling himself down. It creaks beneath his weight. The sound feels like a raindrop within a pure silent sea.

Silence. Ice cold silence.

“I assume that June has helped your familiarization with the premises?”

Palette nods.

More silence. Briefly, Palette thinks he sees a twitch at Nightmare’s socket. But, he may be wrong. He’s seen anger where it wasn’t, before; Pointing it out usually incited anger.

And then… more silence.

“Um. Yes— Yeah. He did,” Palette finally succumbs. Nightmare is quick to nod himself, trailing a finger against the spine of his book. Even when squinting, Palette can’t make out the title. He frowns.

“Good,” Nightmare says. He reaches for a mug— previously hidden behind one of the framed photos— and takes a sip. “June is… another associate of mine. A partner, you could say. If he gives an order, I expect it to be followed. And, if you have any questions, I know he would be more than willing to supply answers.” He takes another sip. “However, since I am here, I can and will answer any possible queries."

“What’s that book? And, uh, why were you touching it like that?”

It’s only after the words leave Palette’s mouth, that he realizes that might have not been the kinds of questions that Nightmare was looking for.

Silence permeates the room once more, and Palette thinks that he is rightfully being ignored. He’s toying with what to say— how to fix this, as Nightmare steals another sip from his mug. “It is a book about rhetoric and logic. I find it… a little more than subpar, but I am giving it time,” he finally says, tapping the cover as he speaks. “...I was touching it ‘like that’ because it is written in braille.”

Palette blinks.

Braille?

…Braille.

Braille.

“You’re blind,” Palette says, dumbly.

Curbing the instant embarrassment is routine at this point. Palette simply recalls his many mistakes and failures in battle; He might not be able to kick himself in the teeth, but he can vividly recall when he’d been picked up, shaken like a canister of pepper, and thrown face first into the Ring’s wall.

“...Yes,” Nightmare responds. Palette waits for him to say more. But, all that Palette is left with is silence. Silence, and Palette’s poor mouth to mind connection.

“That’s why you stopped attacking. How— Uh…” In that moment, Palette remembers himself. He clears his throat, and tries not to stare at Nightmare’s painfully neutral expression. “...How?” he mumbles, struggling to find any correction towards his line of speech.

Nightmare raises a hand: a signal. He takes another sip. And then, he speaks. “Your deduction is correct. I… stepped away, following my injury. There is no shame in acknowledging your capabilities.” He sets down his mug, and runs a phalange across one of the photo frames. “Do not busy yourself with the logistics. You will know, when something is required of you. As for the… story…” Nightmare’s gaze travels back to Palette; Palette feels as if he is being looked through— through his bones, through his marrow, through his soul.

“Family quarrels. Sibling against sibling, Cladius and King Hamlet— You must be familiar.”

Nightmare’s smile is slight and sickly sweet. He pauses, before nodding; Palette takes it as the clear cue that they are moving on.

The Moon flew too close to the Sun, it seems. Or, the Sun burned supernova bright in its everlasting, gluttonous glory: The Moon was no match.

“I do not have much knowledge to impart to you, at this time. I… wished to see how you were acclimating, and that is all. For the agenda— we will be heading out in a few days time to acquire you new weaponry. Before you say anything—,” Palette closes his mouth, as Nightmare continues, “your current blade is fine. However, it could be better. Why settle for a blade that fits like a glove, when you could have one that fits like skin? June is, admittedly, a more accomplished weapons expert than I. We will both work to get you something beyond adequate.”

Nightmare pulls open and reaches into one of his desk drawers as he speaks. “Expect more instruction, come reopening of the Underground. Until then, you are free to do as you please. Train. Rest. Explore.” Palette blinks, as a phone is placed in front of him; Palette carefully picks it up. “That is yours. If you are lost, or unable to locate somebody within the grounds, make use of that device. The numbers are already there— please ignore the contact names, June… enjoys a bit of mischief, here and there.”

Palette flips open the phone and navigates towards the contacts. He’s almost thankful that Nightmare is blind, as he couldn’t stop his reaction if he had the will of the ocean itself.

‘CEO of EVIL™’ is likely Nightmare, ‘June ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ’ is evidently June, ‘Dustpan (needs sweeping)’ is probably Dust, and ‘Sushi Delivery Important’ is… a local takeout place?

“I don’t care what you do with it or who you contact. I don’t want to know, actually. You are an adult. Your choices are yours, and yours alone. I will not interfere, as long as the mission integrity is maintained.”

Could… Could he contact Gradient? He hadn’t tried before— he knew he wasn’t allowed, and so he had refrained. But… Right. Gradient had destroyed his phone before he left. Palette recalls the broken shards between his fingers. The anger.

Flip. He could contact Flip. But… he doesn’t want to endanger him. He doesn’t deserve it. He sighs.

As such, Palette carefully deposits the phone into his pocket.

The adult comment does get a brow raise from him when he finally processes it, if only for the momentary confusion it brings.

And then, Palette realizes.

Nightmare is blind. Nightmare can’t see his youth. It’s not like ages are typically announced in battle— it’s been years since Palette’s age had been a point of topic. He had proved himself, in the eyes of the Underground; That was that.

His voice had always read a little older. It… It makes sense, actually. Palette doesn’t know what to make of it. And so, he doesn’t.

“Um. Thank you,” Palette mumbles. “I…” he trails off. He remembers gold-trimmed cards and the library: June’s warm voice. “Uh. What should I, um, call you? Y-Your name?”

There’s a tangible pause. And then, Nightmare is sitting back in his chair. He tilts his head as if he’s in thought— making a consideration. He hums to himself, lightly. He sits forward, hands sturdy against his desk.

"...Was I any less of a gentleman, I'd ask of you to call me by a title. Lucky for us both, I consider myself a practical man. A name will suffice. You may call me ‘Nightmare’."

Palette nods, before remembering himself. “Uh. Cool— Good. Okay.” He’s thankful that Nightmare can’t see his awkward grimace. It sends a chill of relief down his spine.

It smells like herbs, in here. Same as the rest of the castle. Cold and crisp.

“On the topic of names…” Nightmare gains a sense of… formality— even more than before. It’s as if he is donning a cape: the cloak of night. "Have you ever felt the need to reinvent all that you are, Daybreak?"

Palette feels the drop in temperature. Nightmare stares. And then, he clears his throat.

“There is… a tradition, where I’m from. We… Hm. I always forget how much, the Multiverse lacks. Let me consider how to phrase this.” Nightmare takes a moment, and then stands up. Palette watches as Nightmare walks over to the open window. He reaches out, and trails a hand across a wide leafed plant. “Do you understand the belief that knowledge wields power?”

Clearly. You can fight all you want; Knowing how to fight, made all the difference.

“I do.”

“Following that logic… knowing something— that would give you power, correct?”

The logic follows. Palette nods. Waits. And then murmurs an embarrassed, “In a way, yeah.”

Nightmare snaps a leaf from the plant. Palette is concerned, until he realizes that the leaf was diseased. Crumbling.

“If you were to know something— understand it to its very core, to perceive its inner workings— that would give you power. And, with this power, the ability to… protect. You train an animal, you understand an animal. In this understanding, you know how they shall react. You know when to pull the leash— when to give it slack. Does this make sense?”

Palette doesn’t know how to reach, when the leaf is placed into his hands. Nightmare behaves as if he is unaware of his own actions, walking with purpose, as he navigates back to his desk.

“Um,” Palette says. “It does?”

He isn’t really sure. But, he doesn’t think it will go well if he objects. It never does.

Nightmare hums.

“A name… it is symbolic of who a person is. To know a name, in some small way, gives someone power. But, names are just shadows of who someone— something— truly is. They are very, nearly useless. Unless…”

Something in the air… shifts. Palette looks down and finds that the leaf has escaped his hands. He looks up, and finds that within Nightmare’s hands, is the same leaf.

“Unless, you know their true name. Their exact nature. The light, and darkness, that burns within them.”

Palette can’t help but stare. He looks down, again. He looks up.

“True names— they differ, from our day to day names. But, still, they share some commonalities. Where I hail, we make a show of calling awareness to these true names. Protecting them. We give them the honor they deserve. The care.” Nightmare finally sits down. He clasps his hands out in front of him. “I have named all my men. It is… an affirmation, of sorts. A promise to protect.”

“Um.”

“You may think on it. It would grant me power over you. But…” Nightmare smiles a wicked smile. It burns like frostbite. “Do I not possess that power, already? It would be a formality. A safeguard. I would protect your name as my own, and I do not lie.”

Palette stares down at his empty hands. He gulps.

“I ask that you begin to think of a name. It would be something few know, so don’t linger on its sound or function. If something calls to you, allow yourself to answer. And, if you are unable to think of anything, don’t fret. I will find something appropriate.”

“It’s like…” Palette mumbles. He bites at the inside of his cheek: a faint memory floats within his skull, but he finds himself unable to catch it. All he can do is grasp. “It’s like. Uh. Those fae stories? With the names, and those names having power.”

He remembers stories told in bed. Comfort. A good night’s sleep. It had been… an older sibling— Flip? Blueprint? No… that doesn’t feel right. Gradient, maybe? He’s young, in this memory. Gradient hadn’t started speaking full sentences until they were older. Trebuchet… had always listened with rapt attention: he had refused to be the storyteller. That’s right. They had all shared a room— they’d listen to stories together: bunched up in a cocoon of blankets. Safe.

…Who was telling them stories?

“Hm… I suppose.” Nightmare’s dark voice snaps Palette from his thoughts. He smiles. Palette, under the safe cover of obscurity, tries to copy the expression. It feels like a sweater too loose; Perhaps, eventually, he will grow into it.

Nightmare raises a hand, almost sudden. “You are excused. As a reminder, you are free to spend your time as you see fit.” He pauses and then he opens up his book: hands settled over page.

Palette stands. It’s clear, that Nightmare is done with him. But, something within Palette calls him to stay. To watch the Moon as it orbits. He hesitates, for a moment. He lingers. And then, he snaps back to reality.

“T-Thank you,” Palette says, fighting to keep his voice audible. He watches as Nightmare nods— now distracted. He pauses. And then, he walks to the door.

“Daybreak,” Nightmare calls, just as Palette is about to leave.

Palette pauses.

“You have not disappointed me yet.”

A moment. And then, his breath returns.

He hasn’t, yet.

But, as always: time will tell.

Ink settles into the warmth of Dream’s shoulder.

It’s been an interesting past few days. First— the surprise fankid had appeared; Stumbling into Dream’s apartment with a whole new, urgent storyline. That was all fine and good. Or, well, it wasn’t: technically. But, at the very least it was interesting. Ink had been indulging in domestic bliss and easy comfort for a while now. He guesses it was time to fight for the ratings, as they say.

“What’s the non canon compliant child been up to?”

“Hm?” Dream hums, looking up from his book. Ink knows that he’d been lost in thought for awhile, now. He’s been staring at the same page for a good ten minutes; It had been years since Dream’s reading skills were anything but exceptional— Ink had made sure of that.

“Uh… The kid—” Ink knows he had a name written down somewhere. He’s fiddling with his scarf when Dream blinks himself into recognition.

“Oh. Gradient,” Dream says. He takes a breath, and then tucks a bookmark in between the yellowing pages of his book. He carefully sets it down on his nightstand. He seems… greener, than usual. Foresty. If Ink reached out, he swears he could feel the sun-basked leaves: the crisp Autumn foliage. But, all he gets when his palm cradles Dream’s cheek is golden-honey warmth. He furrows his brows. “He’s… fine? He’s, ah, mostly kept to himself. I believe he’s been keeping in contact with Messenger.”

“Hiding away all day so he can text his friend— sounds like normal teenager behavior to me,” Ink smiles, seeing the gentle upwards twitch at the corner of Dream’s mouth.

It had been a few full days of creation. Ink had stayed around when he could. But, when his purpose called, he answered. He’d kept his skull full of art and storytelling; It battled away the creeping Winter palette that chilled his marrow and burned his curiosity.

Ink fights back a yawn, and Dream is quick to throw open the covers as invitation.

“Dreamy. I literally, functionally, cannot be tired.”

“Okay,” Dream says, the spot by his side still nice and tantalizing.

Ink indulges. Dream wraps Ink in a loving, familiar embrace.

He breathes into the warmth. The care. Dream trails his fingers down Ink’s spine in the way that he knows Ink likes. Ink shoves his freezing hands under Dream’s shirt in the way he knows Dream loves-to-hate.

They lay together. It feels like a second in an eternity.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Dream murmurs. Ink can feel the vibrations from where his head rests against Dream’s ribcage. He hums back. “It’s… It’s been happening so blatantly this entire time. The pain— the suffering. How?”

Ink swallows.

He doesn’t know. Scripts had been altered: ‘contraband’ smuggled into unsuspecting stories. Entire universes were at risk— all for the enjoyment of some cocky angst-obsessed Omega Timeline residents. How had he missed it? There had been hints of wrongness, before. But… he’d found nothing. The trails ran out. He’d chalked it up to corruption— annoying. And yet, a fact of the Multiverse. He fixed what he could, and painfully ignored the rest.

Oh, how he had been wrong.

His red calls for him, churning. He ignores it; For now, at least.

All the same, he’ll admit that he’s excited to see just what’s in store for them.

A fight club. A black market.

He almost feels giddy. Almost. As, most of his gold and orange is busy making his face warm, when Dream rests a gentle hand against the back of his skull.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ink finally responds. He traces one of Dream’s faint freckles: low opacity gold. “...Are you sure you’re good with the plan? We could figure something else out. You know, you don’t have to blow up your reputation.”

He doesn’t have to play the part of villain.

Dream smiles, and Ink fights the sunset palette that has blanketed his mind. “It’ll… be a welcome change, I think. Interesting,” Dream murmurs.

Ink huffs. He knows when Dream is obliging to Ink’s worldview. He knows it, and, still. It works. Ink sighs.

Like a pindrop within his mind, Ink can feel the summoning.

He blinks.

Again, the chill resounds.

“Error,” Ink calls out as he rolls off the bed, grabbing Broomie and his vials in one fluid motion. He doesn’t get to see Dream’s equally concerned and bemused expression. But, Ink knows it’s there. He’ll return when he can; Dream, as always, will be there patiently waiting.

Outertale is pleasant, at this time of night.

Well, it’s always pleasant. Ink is simply running off the highs of a shimmering, bright palette. It tinges his gaze content. It even makes Error’s disgruntled expression read kinder than the pure annoyance that Ink knows it is.

“This feels… familiar, don’tcha think?” Ink says, staring out into the endless galaxy.

“Why aren’t you wearing pants,” Error responds, straight to the point.

Ink looks down. He didn’t forget—? No. He didn’t. He rolls his eye-lights, as he pulls up his oversized shirt: revealing that he is clearly decent. Maybe not pants; But shorts still count. Allowing Dream to wrangle him into something ‘more comfortable’ always has its risks when it comes to always being on call. The pajamas… they’re nice, though. Comfortable. They smell of sunflowers and smoke.

Error instantly recoils at the display, and Ink can’t help but bark out a sharp laugh.

When Error finally recovers, he shoves a hot container of ramen into Ink’s hands.

“You’ve been ignoring me. Undernovela is on. If you don’t watch it with me now, I’m going to kill everybody here and then you.”

Sure, Ink thinks. Why not?

It’s easy, settling into the silence. They’ve made it through the entire first segment without any acknowledgment of the other— it’s only when the first commercial break starts, when Ink is overcome by his own curiosity.

“So,” he starts, staring into the abyss of his ramen. He picks up a noodle with his chopsticks, before plopping it back down. He’s going by value, here. He searches for something darker. “...Do you think I’d be a good parent?”

Ink doesn’t need to look up to know that Error is staring at him like he has two heads. When he does look, he finds exactly what he was expecting.

“If this is your way of announcing—"

“No,” Ink says, throwing a noodle with skilled precision. It lands directly on Error’s cheek. Error, in a way that sparks a flash of lemon-yellow, sputters and glitches. “Hypothetically.”

Error… does look a lot, like the kid. He sees it in the way he takes a breath: clearly muttering mantras of ‘being the better person’. He sees it in how he adjusts his glasses— worn and red— as he turns his focus towards his own cup of ramen. They’re similar. Not the same, though. Similar.

“Hypothetically,” Error mutters, stirring aimlessly with his own chopsticks, having thrown the stray noodle back at Ink— quickly dodged. “You’d be obsessed with it for a good few minutes, before you forget it exists and scamper off to ‘the next grand adventure’. It would die, alone and afraid. You would feel nothing but indifference if you would even feel anything at all.”

Ink stares down into his own ramen. He picks up a carrot. He puts it back down.

“...Yeah,” he mumbles.

Silence returns. It wriggles into the marrow of his bones.

The commercials continue. Something itches, within Ink.

“Hypothetically…” Ink starts again. “How would you react, if you found out we had a kid?”

Error grimaces, mouth open. Ink points a finger at him before he can get a word in edgewise. “Hypothetically…” he reminds. “Imagine that the kid was created through, like… Science. Or a weird magic accident. Not naturally.”

A moment passes. Error seems… weirdly contemplative.

“Hypothetically,” Error returns. “I would destroy it like any other filthy glitch.”

Another moment passes. Ink thinks Error is done, when he suddenly continues. “...It would take after me, though. Y’know, cool and handsome,” Error smiles a wicked smile. Ink blinks at him. “...Maybe I’d teach it to destroy. Have it as a little helper, for a bit. It’s getting destroyed, anyway. We all are.”

That’s certainly a thought.

Ink finally finds the noodle he was looking for. He eats it, and then continues searching for the pattern.

Undernovela continues; They fall back into their own, natural pattern.

Teaching; Knowledge.

Ink thinks of ink. He thinks of art: he thinks of creation. He thinks of what it means, to be known.

Ink stares out into the endless galaxy.

Nightmare basks within the familiarity of his courtyard.

It’s a pleasant day. Most days had been pleasant, as of late. His power thrums throughout the marrow of his bones: stars fallen across the empty pit of night. The negativity calls to him; He does not feel a need to play his hand in its presence.

He may lack sight, but he doesn’t need it to know that Juniper is there— just a few steps ahead.

“Is there truly a reason for your company, if the loneliness shall continue to persist?”

“I’m right here, Night,” Juniper snorts.

Sure, he’s there— just a few steps ahead; A few steps out of his reach. He could be closer. He should be closer. Nightmare imagines it— the embrace. The darkness of the touch. The comfort. Juniper always fits in his arms like the sky's hold of a star, he doesn’t know why he would deny him such affection. How cruel, he thinks. He can’t help but smile.

They’ve just passed by the hyacinths: the smell is fragrant, here on an early Spring day. He would know where he was even in the absence of another sense, however. This is his land; It is his to know.

Nightmare hears Juniper’s confident steps. He’s walking backwards, nearly skipping upon the cobblestone. Nightmare would like to imagine he’s smiling— that it’s only for him.

“And yet, you could be closer,” Nightmare finally responds.

With a learned ease, Nightmare hones into Juniper’s aura. It’s dark and shining. The rushing of a river bathed in moonlight. With the help of the faint, light shapes that haunt his vision, Nightmare is able to pinpoint Juniper’s exact location.

He quickens his pace; Juniper quickens his.

“And I could be farther. You gotta try harder than that, loverboy.”

Nightmare, briefly, thinks about his life choices.

It’s… frustrating, how his body betrays him. His mind. This area— he knows it like he knows his own soul. The aura never lies. And yet, he finds himself hesitant. His movements lackluster. If he struggles here, he downright labors in that… wretched, underground land. It suffocated him; It surrounded him in a constant barrage of smells and noises, and yet it kept its emotions tucked within an unknown underbelly. He needed to continue his practice. He could not make a fool of himself under the curious gaze of his new associate.

“Are you looking forward to Oat’s?” Juniper asks. His aura sparks light— genuine curiosity. He’s looking forward to it himself, it seems. As such, Nightmare is willing to indulge. That particular market always did have an interesting variety of wares. It’s… been awhile, since he went. He hopes they still have those hand carved masks.

Nightmare sighs. They’re coming upon a turn, now. Nightmare takes it with a slow ease.

“I look forward to the opportunities it shall present.”

Nightmare doesn’t lie. It shall present a world of opportunities: opportunities to observe. He was bringing Juniper along for a reason, after all. Again, he spoke no falsehood, before. Juniper is a better weapons expert than he is. A master. But, he is also observant. He often sees more than Nightmare… barring obvious limitations.

Soon, they’ll be upon the juniper. It had always been his favorite part of his garden. But, Nightmare will admit, it had gotten special attention and care ever since Juniper— the man— had graced his presence.

He allows himself to indulge in the crisp, herby scent. He formalizes his plan.

The surprised spark of June’s aura, when Nightmare tackles him— well. Nightmare will admit, it’s downright delectable.

“Midnight!” Juniper yelps, voice light and amused. He’s quick to settle them both on their feet: chastisements gentle, as he brushes Nightmare off. And yet, most importantly, he doesn’t push Nightmare from his grasp.

To catch a star; This is their game.

“Got you,” Nightmare growls.

It’s enjoyable, how Juniper laughs: bright and unashamed. He pulls Nightmare tight against his chest; Nightmare allows the warmth of this affection. And, he allows Juniper’s cool hands against his face.

He knows that Juniper is looking at him, his aura soft and shining. The adoration is as clear as an empty sky. He traces a shape with the pad of his thumb, touch welcome against the hollow of his broken socket.

“Perhaps,” Juniper says, playful. He places a chaste kiss to the cusp of Nightmare’s cheek. “But… It appears I’ve caught the moon.”

Nightmare really should expect it, when Juniper bites his cheek.

The next minute is a haze: routine. Nightmare attempts revenge; Juniper blocks him at every opportunity. Almost. He’s about to embrace Juniper’s cheekbone with his own incisors, when Juniper, almost abruptly, pulls away.

Nightmare is left baffled, until he senses the golden bright aura.

“Hey, Palette! You lost?” Juniper calls out.

There’s a shuffling. And then, the aura becomes sunlight-clear.

Palette was a good fighter. That is one of the many reasons as to why Nightmare chose him for this mission. He was a good fighter, a respected fighter, and his former patron was— to put it mildly— a buffoon of which anyone would be happy to escape from.

And… well. Most practically: Palette’s aura was bright and easy to track.

There were always natural variations, in a population. Palette simply veered towards one end. The bright end.

“Oh— Um. A little? I was just, uh, exploring. Sorry.”

Nightmare squints.

He sighs. All he can make out is the faint shape of a person. A blob. A bright blob, maybe. But, still. Nothing useful. There is a part of him that wonders what his new associate looks like. Dust hadn’t exactly been helpful in that area— he already knew he was a skeleton, his curiosity reached beyond that. But, alas. It doesn’t matter. He would serve his purpose. That was that.

“Oh! No worries. An entrance back inside should be…” Juniper hesitates for a moment, before seemingly pointing in a direction. “That way. Just call if you have any troubles, okay?”

Palette, presumably, accepts the direction. There’s more shuffling. The sound of boots against cobblestone. And then, once more, they’re alone.

Juniper releases a breath. His hand is welcome once more, against the small of Nightmare’s back.

“...You should go easy on him. Give him the choice to leave, when the time comes.”

Nightmare hums. He doesn’t want to darken the mood, and as such, focuses his attention towards finally getting the revenge he deserves.

Juniper giggles, as Nightmare finally attacks his cheek. It sounds like morning rain: cold and welcome.

Nightmare, as always, will do what is necessary.

He… shall see.

Time will tell, after all.

Chapter Text

“How does that feel?”

A moment passes. The bustling life of the market surrounds them.

It been awhile since Nightmare had found himself entrenched by the bright, blistering light of the public. He had mostly spent his time at Juniper’s home, his own castle, or within the depths of the True Underground. The fresh air— the life: it settled into the marrow of his bones. Dancing hand in hand, joy and misery swirled together like a meeting confluence.

Nightmare feels when a stranger brushes past him. His instinct is to react; To punish. He’s half turned when he feels Juniper’s hand settle against his shoulder.

“Is the weight okay? How about the grip?” Juniper adds, voice directed at Palette.

The air yields to Palette’s swing.

“It’s…” Palette trails off. He sweeps the blade through the air once more. His skill is clear as day, even if unrefined; The weapon extends through his aura as a branch grown from trunk. “...Fine? I think?”

There is music off in the distance: honest and lively. Nightmare allows himself to indulge in the faraway trill of flute and the dark rhythm of drum.

Nightmare reaches out a hand. Wordlessly, the hilt is placed into his grasp.

“Hazard,” he calls out. Both Juniper and Palette step back, boots scraping against well trodden dirt. Nightmare fights the urge to let out a sigh of relief. It had been… some time, since he found himself in company of sufficiently intelligent individuals. Juniper remained a steadfast equal: quick as a whip with his wit; Palette has slowly proved himself, at the very least, adequately rational— he understands basic commands, and remains curious. Recalling the memories of previous trainings with previous associates settled an uncomfortable feeling of dread in his bones. Nightmare had been quick to learn that power was not equal to intellect.

The sword is in fact… fine. It accepts the movements with grace. Nightmare is not a master swordsman, but he is trained. There had been many chilly Autumn mornings spent sparring with his brother. Even up to the end, they had laughed together: playing as children. His brother wielded his blade; Nightmare wielded his crescent-moon sickle.

Nightmare hums as he guides the sword through a few more motions. It is light and fluid. Strong. Still, it lacks… another element. Nightmare fails to put a name to it.

“We shall set this aside, for now,” Nightmare says, allowing Juniper to take the blade.

Juniper’s free hand is warm against his shoulder once more. “It’s one of the best we’ve seen so far… Still, we could do better. I’ll go on up ahead— scout what’s left?”

Nightmare nods. He waits a moment: slightly bowed with head tilted. Another moment passes. What is expected, does not come to fruition; Juniper is already walking off, humming a light tune.

Ah, right. They are in public.

“Heel,” Nightmare calls out, clearing his throat. Palette scurries to his side— keeping up with grace as Nightmare sets off through the cramped streets of the market. It’s a busier day, it seems; The warm Spring air bends to the even warmer bodies swarming the walkways. He marches past hearty smells and kaleidoscope colors. Space is made for him, his title a shield as much as a burden. Palette keeps close and bright: the training appears ingrained.

There was a vendor that sold exceptional stationery around here. He could use another batch of decent quality ink— some paper, while he was at it. Beyond that, it wouldn’t be unwise to stop by that one produce stand. A nice kiwi should be in order…

“Have you always held an affinity for the blade?” Nightmare interrupts his own train of thought. “...Are you trained in any other discipline?”

It wouldn’t be unwise to observe other weapons, if so. Palette had kept to his blade throughout all his battles; However, it wasn’t like they were shying away from a change in performance and presentation. But, Nightmare had made a promise. They were to find a blade that fit like a second soul.

Palette’s aura sparks in what Nightmare has come to known as thought. He keeps close, but remains careful as to refrain from breaking the barrier of physical contact. “Uh… I think so?” He finally answers. “It was the first weapon I tried. I, um… kinda just stuck with it?”

Passing chatter infests the air, as they walk past a particularly crowded stall. Something to do with baked goods? That is, if the smell has any information to offer.

“...It came naturally. It was easy to channel my magic through? I tried out axes and lances— anything close combat. Nothing was as… clean? As a sword. I learned archery for a bit but I kinda sucked at it. My brother was good at it though— It was fun to watch,” Palette continues, almost unexpectedly.

The mindless background chatter continues. Nightmare pools all his effort into not tripping and making a complete fool of himself, as he hones into Palette’s tenor voice.

Archery… the solid thump of an arrow meeting its target. A heavy book laid in his lap. The cool shade of a towering tree; Time passing like a distant breeze.

“...Your brother?”

“Oh— yeah. Um, my brother. My younger brother. Uh—” Palette clears his throat.

The pathway changes: the cue for a turn. Was it a left or a right, here? Left, he thinks.

“He got really good at it. But…” Palette trails off. Nightmare narrows his sockets, as he senses the clear fulgid spike of embarrassment. “…He accidentally hit me in the shoulder— with the arrow, um. To be clear. He kinda never picked it up again, after that.”

Nightmare had done his best to research Palette’s past. The fighter’s (and all members, for that matter) history was annoyingly well protected; Nightmare hopes that this is something that Palette himself could later help amend.

One of the few things that Nightmare knew about Palette was his previous patron. He had hung around shadowed areas, attuned to the telltale rasp of gossip. Palette was Omega Timeline born. Palette had at least one sibling. This sibling hadn’t been seen for some time— a topic of… contention? Beyond that, there had been nothing of note. Palette was feared. Palette was respected. Palette was exactly what Nightmare needed for his work.

“Where are we going?” Palette asks. It seems like an honest, curious question.

Nightmare pauses, and turns to look where Palette’s blazing aura burns.

Palette coughs. “This is, uh, a dead end. Or,” Palette seems to look around, “A smoking area, actually?”

Nightmare blinks. Palette’s light shrinks into itself.

“Oh. Ah— did you catch a glimpse of a vendor selling writing equipment? I fear I have… disoriented myself.”

A moment; A pause of thought.

“...I think? It was by the… guy selling those wooden masks. Yeah. Okay,” Palette murmurs to himself. He waits: hesitant. Nightmare gives a solid nod. And then, Palette begins to lead them both back down the well walked path.

“Your brother should have been more careful.”

It feels like a nearly… childish, thing to say. But, it is true. A truly skilled archer should never aim where they do not wish to strike; To draw the string is to accept the consequence.

Palette weaves through the market crowd like it is second nature. The energy is easy to follow— vivid and luminous. When they meet a turn, Palette scrapes his boot in the agreed upon cue.

“It was my fault,” he says. The statement lacks regret or falsehood.

Nightmare allows his silence to morph into an implied question.

“I... did a surprise cartwheel in front of the target right as he released the arrow. We were both kids.” Palette’s aura shifts, and Nightmare assumes he gestured in some way. A shrug, most likely. “...It’s not like I would have blamed him if it were on purpose. I… uh. Kinda deserved it.”

Again, Nightmare fills the air with curiosity. Palette seems to understand the implication.

“...We were like, four? Five, maybe? I was trying to teach him how to dodge but, um… For some reason I thought the best way to do that was to randomly attack him without warning. He did dodge— but it was at the right height where I ended up kicking the back of his head. He was concussed, and then got aphasia from that concussion— couldn’t speak in full sentences for a couple of years. Also had his socket messed up from it,” Palette pauses in his speech, and Nightmare assumes he’s gesturing. “...But, glasses suit him. So, I think we’re even?” The last statement is clearly meant in jest. However, Nightmare can sense the undercurrent of remorse: cold and dense. Palette fumbles verbally for a moment, searching for fleeting words. And then, he trails off. Silent. Contemplative.

The joys of brotherhood. Nightmare fights back a sigh.

“My brother used to capture me in a burlap potato sack and then roll me, still trapped within the makeshift prison, down a very large hill.”

“...What?”

Palette sounds very nearly incredulous at Nightmare’s admission. Nightmare fights back the rising heat in his face. A momentary lapse in filter, he shall blame. The younger years still haunt him— taunt him, despite his best efforts. An infestation.

“Excuse m—”

“Why?” Palette asks. And there— the shrinking of his aura. A stutter. And then, he continues. He clears his throat, turning his head such that Nightmare has to strain to hear him. “I mean, uh. Why? Was it like…” he goes quiet for a moment, aura nearly anxious, “...because he hated you?”

Nightmare blinks. Their walking pace has slowed. Life continues to part around them.

He shakes his head, slow. “...It was a game. I often asked for it.”

Nightmare remembers his own small hands shaking his equally small brother awake. He remembers quiet nights: fireflies dancing across the sky. He remembers giggling— shrieking with laughter at the sudden weightlessness. For a moment, he was nothing but an innocent child. For a moment, he felt no shame in calling back, voice unabashed and loud, as he demanded to play the game again. And again. And again, after that. Once more: for good measure.

“It was a decent method of transportation in its simplicity. The hill was a bother to traverse— especially without decent footwear. Speaking of, how are your boots treating you?”

“Uh… They’re fine?”

Another turn. Nightmare simply follows the guiding light in front of him.

“I will remind you, there is no need to grow complicit with adequacy,” he says. “We shall be stopping by the vendor I had in mind, regardless. You will be fitted for a custom pair. And, you will be supplied with any other gaps in your wardrobe. One’s image and presentation are of utmost importance, when in the public eye. You understand the need to look… ‘sharp’, yes?”

Palette hums. It is nice, to have someone understand you.

They come to a stop. Nightmare can smell the fresh paper; He allows himself to indulge.

“Thank you, Daybreak.”

Dream isn’t completely sure how he feels about Gradient.

The internal honesty feels… mean spirited. Gradient is nothing more than a juvenile: a teenager— a child. He has clearly been through unimaginable horrors, subject to witness what would, once upon a time, have made his own marrow churn. It’s not that Dream isn’t upset or perturbed by the recent revelations of what the Omega Timeline held. The suffering that infested; The community it harbored. Dream is a leader, however. He must keep himself together— he must keep himself observant. He shall not grieve prematurely; He does not yet know who to pay respect.

Still, Dream hadn't slept well these past few days: laid awake with only the knowledge of his own failures to keep him company. Ink… had been keeping himself busy. It was expected. He had a lot to think about, after all; They hadn’t discussed in-depth just yet, but Dream would be there when Ink was ready. Dream would always be there, for Ink: he had vowed to never make the same mistake again. Dream does his best, to keep his promises.

And, he had promised to keep this child safe.

Gradient stumbles where he’s keeping up by Dream’s side. As soon as Dream reaches out in assistance, Gradient is already righting himself, mumbling quiet apologies with gaze averted.

Dream hesitates. He reaches out his hand once more, and settles a gentle pat against Gradient’s back.

He feels nothing but quiet, radio static.

Ink walks a few paces ahead of him. He’s whistling a wandering tune, steps confident as he leads them through the bustling life of Oat’s on this busy weekday— Spring air warm on a sunny afternoon. Dream does his best to let the auras pass him by: to let his own simmer into unobservance. Still, he feels when a passing family burns with joy as they indulge in a fresh meal. He feels when a seller itches with disappointment at a lost sale. He knows when a couple argues, tones hushed into nothingness but light aflame with acrid envy. Dream pushes down the urge to take Ink’s hand in his. It would be so easy— he would simply have to tap Ink on the shoulder, hold out his hand, and bask in the pure respite as their fingers entwined. The feeling of cold nothingness would wash over him. The feeling of rest. The feeling of safety.

But, alas, Dream must keep his desires at bay. He distracts his hands, focusing on readjusting the satchel hung across his chest; He hones his senses onto the low, static hum of the aura beside him. He takes a breath.

They’d been here long enough to begin a collection of wares and treasures. Ink alone could keep the entirety of the Omega Timeline art community alive: within minutes of arriving he’d already picked up a few new prints, a batch of plant cuttings (admittedly, Dream had been eyeing this particular vendor since their last visit), and a handful of jewelry beads. Beyond that, they’d grabbed a few necessities and some dubiously labeled necessities. Right now, they were making their last rounds before they set their plan into motion.

The plan. He sighs, again.

To help was his purpose; This shall, hopefully, be a part of the greater good.

And, perhaps, just for a little while, the general populace will find it within themselves to leave Dream alone. Perhaps he will be allowed to help from the sidelines. Perhaps, he will have the chance to rest.

…Perhaps.

Ink has been rubbing off on him, it seems: constant reminders of relaxation and temptations towards selfishness. It was to be expected, though. Ink would always be his indulgence; Dream would always allow himself to indulge.

“Your magic— remind me again, what are you proficient in?”

Dream feels the spark in Gradient’s aura as he realizes that he’s being spoken to. Gradient steals a glance back and forth.

“Uh… Gravity magic. A little— but, um. Enough.”

Dream frowns. That is… clearly a lie of some sort. Not enough to void the entire statement. But, the subtle edge in his aura says all that he needs to know. It doesn’t matter, in the end. They’ll be witnessing his magic first hand when they train.

“If you no longer wish to help, that would be alright. We would figure it out.”

A pause. Gradient’s aura spasms like an overworked muscle. He fiddles with the end of his hoodie string, mouth pulled into a familiar grimace.

“I-I need to help,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I’ll get you in, and then I’ll get you to—”

Dream throws out an arm just in time. Ink has halted in his tracks: stone still as he stares at… something, in the distance. Gradient is collecting himself, breath audibly hard in his chest, as Dream pulls him out of the way: some less than amused monsters pass them by, and Dream can only mutter quick apologies.

“Ink—”

“I need it.”

Ink is staring at him with wide, pleading sockets. One hand has attached itself to Dream’s arm, while the other points to a faraway stall in the distance. It takes a moment— and some squinting— but Dream is finally able to make out the outline of a… telescope?

“I know I already have one… or five. But, it would fit perfectly out on the deck and its tripod is painted.”

Dream takes another look. The legs upon which the telescope rests are, indeed, painted. He envisions what it would look like, out on the balcony: Ink curled around the eyepiece, painted divine by the dark midnight backdrop, rambling about the stars and constellations in the tone of voice only meant for those he trusts; The tone of voice only meant for Dream.

“You should get it,” Dream says, incapable of being anything but honest.

Ink continues to stare at him. Dream is considering the possibility that he’s had a lapse in memory, when Ink is leaning in close: voice hushed.

“The plan, Dreamy,” Ink whispers. “Stay in character.”

Oh, right.

“Uh,” he starts off. Strong. “You…” he trails off. Ink is still staring at him, waiting patiently. They went over this— Dream knows what is expected of him. The mask should be easy to wear: the expectation. It’s not like roleplay is foreign to him; Ink had made sure of that. But… Dream spares a glance over to Gradient, as if that will help him at all. Gradient blinks at him. Dream takes another breath. He looks back at Ink. “You… Can’t?”

Ink raises a perfect, carefully judgemental brow.

Before Dream knows it, he’s hissing, “What do you think?” through clenched teeth.

The statement sounds more intimidating, spoken in a tongue most do not understand. Dream is careful to lace his words with an edge as sharp as his own blade. He sets his bones rigid, as if prepared for a fight. A twitch threatens at the edge of his mouth, and he allows it to follow through.

This seems to satisfy Ink if the spark of auburn pride in his sockets is anything to go by. He frowns, sockets narrowed. Sharp. But, still, deceptively sunset warm. Ink spins on his heel, sulking off into the distance.

Dream watches as Ink strikes up a conversation with the telescope vendor. He’s back to being as lively and animated as ever. He can’t help but smile: he hopes that Ink is able to talk his way into whatever deal he desires.

“So—”

“Um—”

Gradient startles, as if surprised by his own words. He’s quick to shake his head— battling away a jerk of his neck— as he buries his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Sorry,” he mumbles, staring down at his feet. “Uh— Sorry.”

Dream follows his gaze. All he finds is the packed, dirt road.

“Go ahead,” Dream says, allowing his words to be tinged with gentle warmth. He smiles— and he hopes his honesty is making itself clear.

Gradient looks at him. He glances toward the sky. And then, he looks back down.

“Um,” he tries, hands once again busy at the strings of his hoodie. “What you said earlier… About Nightmare being here? Is that really, uh, going to be fine?”

Oh.

Dream can feel his smile soften. He steps forward, guiding Gradient to the side of one the stalls as a horse is led through the narrow walkway. They’re on the outskirts of the market— slowly working their way to the center: the more people to witness, the better. Gradient’s gaze is still lingering on the passing horse (Dream doesn’t blame him, the creature is quite the beauty with that chestnut coat) when Dream gives his honest reply.

“It is going to be fine,” Dream says. He can still see Ink off in the distance. He’s waving his hands about at the seller, expressive in his attempts at bartering. Dream sends him silent luck. “He’s… well behaved, when in public spaces. He wouldn’t be allowed, otherwise.”

Gradient blinks at him, mouth pulled into a hesitant frown. His aura skitters: a broken record. He looks… worn, shadowed by the edge of his hood. Anxious. Prey, poised to flee.

Dream nods towards the walkway. Perhaps some movement would help?

“I promise. He would have nothing to gain from an attack on this location. And…” Dream allows himself to reach for his magic: to dive into the endless sea of feeling. It feels like wading through an endless ocean— surrounded by desperate waves, reaching for what it lacks. Until, he grasps the static; The noise that begs to be silence. “June is here, as well. We have nothing to worry about.”

Gradient nods, from where he’s now walking beside him. “...Who’s June?”

There was something that caught his attention, earlier. Perhaps it could be a surprise for Ink. He begins to follow his memory of the path. Gradient keeps close to his side.

“A friend,” Dream finally says. He ponders for a moment. “Nightmare’s partner.”

“...Partner? Like, uh… business partner?”

Dream ignores the pointed chatter from the group of monsters that pass them.

“...Romantic partner.”

“Nightmare fucks?”

It takes maybe every ounce of willpower that he possesses, but Dream manages to stifle his snort. Well, a little. A meager wheeze still manages to escape: a fading breath of air, beholden to nothing but the wind: a fading balloon lost to time and inevitably.

“That…” Dream trails off, as he processes Gradient’s downright horrified expression. Slips of the tongue are inevitable. Especially at such an age; Especially, when you happen to be related to Ink. He shakes his head, careful that his soft smile remains. “...Is not a question I am equipped to answer. Or, is it a question I particularly wish to have the capability of answering. But, what I can say is that he is, currently, romantically involved.”

Just how Nightmare had found himself partnered— to June, of all people, no less— has haunted Dream. Nightmare, the King of Negativity? The one who has wrought endless suffering upon the Multiverse, with a feigned smile and carefully practiced handshake? But, more importantly: Nightmare, his brother. His brother, who, once upon a time, would chew on rocks because ‘the taste is elegant and beyond your feeble, amateur palate’.

Dream hopes that June is being honest. Dream hopes that Nightmare has opened up and learned to let himself be loved. Dream hopes, because the alternate reality sours his mouth and aches his very soul.

Gradient whistles and Dream recognizes it as the tic it is. He waits, focusing on his own steps.

“It is… a complicated situation, if you were wondering.” Dream fills the already noisy market air. “I could explain it, if you wish. But, in any case, know that June can be trusted.”

Dream takes the spark in Gradient’s aura as a sign of comprehension. He fights the urge to spare a glance at him once again— he doesn’t want to make him feel pressured to engage.

“...Did you know that, he’s, uh. Nightmare… did you know that he’s colorblind?”

Dream blinks.

Huh.

That…

That makes quite a bit of sense, now that he thinks about it.

“I did not,” Dream answers, clear and honest. “That shines light, as to why we used to spend hours arguing over the sky’s color. He was convinced it was green…” Dream trails off. He looks up at the cloudless sky: shining blue.

Another horse passes through the walkway— trailing a wagon of fruit behind it. The human, sat atop the majestic creature, calls out invitations to indulge.

Gradient stares, as the animal passes. Dream waits, and then, Gradient appears to remember himself and begin to walk. “It, uh, confused me at first,” Gradient admits. “I-It’s not usually an acquired trait. Um, colorblindness. And you’re identical, so… But I did some research— and it turns out that it is something that can still happen? Rare, but still possible. I just. Um, thought it was interesting.”

“It is interesting,” Dream responds. It’s nice, feeling the confidence in Gradient’s aura. “What kind of colorblindness does he have?”

A moment passes, as Gradient appears to think. “...Tritanopia? I think? He can only really see what we perceive as blue and pink.”

Briefly, Dream wonders, does he see any difference between the two of them? Gold and purple; Gold and cyan. Are they the same, to him?

“Did you know that we are mirror twins?”

Gradient tilts his head in curiosity, and Dream takes that as a cue to continue. “Our physical characteristics are mirrored— as if we are both looking at our own reflection. For example,” Dream raises his hand, “I am right-handed, while he is left-handed. When I smile, I tend to favor my right side. He favors his left. So on, and so forth. If we were human, it is likely that our organs would rest on opposing sides, as well.”

“That’s cool,” Gradient mumbles. Dream feels an odd sense of accomplishment.

They’re getting closer to the center courtyard, now: he can hear the music floating through the air. That vendor should be around here somewhere… And, there. Dream spots the carved wood out of the corner of his socket. But, right before he can orient their path, he hears Gradient mutter.

“...It’s uh… Weird, having someone look just like you. Isn’t it?”

Dream pauses. He isn’t quite sure if that statement was meant to be heard. But, still. Dream takes the time to consider it. Gradient stares up at the empty sky: his mouth twitches, as if testing out how it would feel to frown.

Ah, right.

Error.

“I never found myself particularly bothered by it. In all honesty it was… nice, having someone that I could see myself in. Despite our physical similarities, anybody who knew us could tell us apart.”

“You’re not bothered by it even, uh… Now that he’s evil?”

Dream stands, weight shifted to his right hip. “…I don’t know. It has been a long time, since we have looked identical.”

Perhaps he should have lied, if Gradient’s sputtering aura is anything to go by. He sighs.

Dream walks towards the stall he had in mind, nodding at the seller sitting behind the table. He waves Gradient over.

The kitsune mask feels nearly weightless in his hands, as he picks it up. He traces the grooves of the wood: the imperfections. It is one of a kind— all of these masks are. Created, by skilled hands. Imbued with experience. He sets it aside, nodding as the seller smiles. He gestures to the rest of the collection.

“Do you have any knowledge on masked theatre?”

Gradient watches as Dream trails a hand over the carefully whittled fur of the lion mask’s mane. He is confident, in his initial choice. However, he knows that Ink would appreciate the accuracy…

“...It’s, uh… Theatre that uses masks?”

Dream can’t help but smile, as Gradient picks up a mask of his own: a dog, from the looks of it. With a careful phalange, he traces the edge of the ear. He shifts air between his cheeks in a way that can only remind Dream of Ink. Gradient’s gaze locks onto Dream, as Dream reaches over to take the mask into his own hands. He raises it to Gradient’s face.

“There is a belief, that a mask can change your behavior,” Dream can feel the uneasy curiosity, as he slips the mask over Gradient’s head. Gradient’s eye-lights, blazing against his already burning sockets, continue to track his movement. “There have been many theaters throughout many cultures that have centered this belief at the forefront of their art. Certain masks would often indicate certain archetypes, or certain plot elements. My village, for example—” Dream picks up one of the owl masks. He ignores how his marrow runs cold. “—Would use this kind of mask to hint at the presence of fae, within a performance.”

The Autumn festival; The yearly show. They never had to memorize lines— they were simply allowed to run free. To be wild. To indulge in their nature, likenesses hidden by thin wood. Fireflies danced across the sky, as two brothers danced hand in hand.

Gradient nods. He’s careful, as he pulls the mask free from his face. He looks down at it with brows carefully knit together. “T-This mask,” he taps the face of the dog: a pointed ear doberman, if Dream is correct. “Does it have any kind of meaning? Back in your village?”

“Protection,” he smiles. “Fierceness, courage, a battle that will be won.” He carefully takes the mask from Gradient’s hands. He retrieves the appropriate amount of gold, and slides it over to the seller, who smiles an old, knowing smile.

Both the kitsune and dog now rest safely within his satchel.

“Let’s see where Ink has run off to, shall we?”

Oat’s, as it turns out, is not some sort of oat specializing grocery store. Palette had been a little confused at first. But, as he had done with most recent events, he had accepted it without complaint.

Oat’s is a market. Or well, OT’s market. OT’s, said quickly, typically comes out as sounding like ‘Oat’s’. Hence, the nickname. At least— that’s how June had explained it. Palette had heard of OT’s market before; Oat’s, meanwhile, was a whole new world.

The Market was different as much as it was the same. Both events shared what may be considered an overabundance of stalls and vendors: choices nearly endless. There was food, weapons, art, clothing, trinkets and tchotchkes, and more. The walkways were very nearly crowded. Humans, monsters, and animals alike all seemed to gather for the simplicity of indulgence. Palette may be overwhelmed if he weren’t used to writhing crowds. And, Nightmare’s presence seems to help; Room was made where room needed to be made.

While The Market held its operations within the depths of the True Underground: Oat’s felt nearly unreserved with its open sky and fresh smelling air.

Palette keeps on looking up, expecting to be met with the cavernous ceiling of the Underground. And yet, despite his continued confusion, he keeps on seeing a clear, beautiful Spring sky.

June and Nightmare walk a few steps ahead. They’re talking— quiet enough as to where Palette couldn’t hear even if he strained. But, he can see June’s boisterous gestures: glitches starry bright. Nightmare nods along, arm linked with June’s as to keep him steady.

They’ve hadn't had much luck, so far. Palette can’t help but feel he’s failed.

Finding a good sword couldn’t be that hard, could it? It’s not like Palette was picky about his own blade. It had been found while scavenging in a dump— or passed down? Maybe it was bought at a market. But… Palette doesn’t actually know. It worked well. Or, so he thought. Apparently there were other kinds of grips; Apparently the length of the blade did, in fact, make a difference. Palette had been shown the possibilities: he can’t help but feel its made him greedy.

And yet, they hadn’t found anything perfect. Anything ‘worthy’.

Palette had tried to accept one of their most recent trial swords. It had felt decent enough— it had passed June’s initial inspection and Nightmare’s own test. But, as soon as the words ‘I think this is the one’ were leaving Palette’s mouth, June was already swiping the blade away and handing him another.

Why was Palette making this so difficult? Why couldn’t he just… appear more genuine?

“Palette, c’mere. There’s some people I want you to meet,” June turns back to address Palette, smile wide and easygoing. Palette nods, and meets June by his available side.

They’re walking towards a stall filled with… racks of clothing? Fabric? Palette isn’t sure, but soon enough June is rushing forward to greet the two vendors.

“Junie, where’d you find this little pup?”

The dog monster— now stepped out in order to accept June’s embrace, clearly addresses Palette through June. While Palette is busy pondering if he should say something, another dog monster with… an error infected arm?

A dog monster with an error infected arm steps out as well, giving Palette a little wave.

“June’s allies,” Nightmare informs, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Palette.

“Allies— they practically took me in!”

June’s exaggerated exasperation comes off as the jest it was meant to be. He smiles, bright as a star, as he waves Palette and Nightmare over.

“We heard you were looking for some clothing,” The first dog says. Palette nods, and is only momentarily surprised by the outstretched furry white hand. Palette takes a single breath, and then gives his best handshake. “I’m Lilly— my companion over there is my wife, Ophelia. We’ll be happy to find you whatever you need.”

The next half an hour is a blur. Palette feels a bit like a dress up doll— different items held up to him, approved or disapproved with a shake of June’s head. It’s not all bad, honestly. They end up with enough to fill the discrepancies in what little Palette had brought initially, and maybe a little more.

Palette thinks they’re probably close to done, when Ophelia is handing him a silky, satin white bundle of fabric.

When Palette unfolds it, he’s met with a bomber jacket. It’s white with electric blue streaks lining the sleeves— soft, as he had initially noticed. But, upon further inspection, it seems to be leather? He brings his face close and does indeed pick up the signature scent— a trick that Gray had once taught him.

“You look very handsome,” Lilly says, as Palette slips the jacket over his shoulders. Even atop his current coat, it gives him enough room to move his arms. To not feel trapped.

Ophelia hums, joining her wife’s side as she takes in the jacket’s fit. “...Almost reminds me of our pup back home.”

Palette is quick to shrug the fabric off, holding it over while he fights the heat in his face. It would be… useless. He already has a decent jacket. Another— it would be excessive. It’s not like he can use the excuse of it being for his new costume. Leather was a bitch to get dust out of, as Gradient would say.

“We’ll be getting this,” June says with a smile, as he takes the fabric out of Palette’s hands. “Oh, these overalls would look cute to match—”

“Has he been fit, yet?”

Palette spares a glance over to where Nightmare has sat himself on one of the available chairs. He looks… admittedly, a little bored. It’s not like he has much to do. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t exactly be able to give his opinions on the game of dressup. Palette can empathize. He remembers hours spent as Gradient took measurement after measurement: held up fabric, after fabric. Sure, it was another medium of art. But… it wasn’t Palette’s medium. Gradient could toil over stitches and thread counts and designs all he wanted. Palette was happy to see the pretty results and reap the benefits.

“Oh, let’s get that done.”

Lilly gestures to the other available chair. Palette takes a seat.

Before he knows it, Palette is being handed various boots to try on. Palette is starting to get a little bit worried about a repeat failure, when the fifth pair fits… good. Great, even.

“Those are the ones,” Ophelia says, as Palette walks back and forth in front of the stall. They’ve got a little heel to them— maybe an inch or two, but they shouldn’t interfere in movement. The body of the boot is stark white; The heel itself is fiery electric blue, same as the bomber jacket. “Night, do you want the same as usual?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Palette tilts his head in curiosity, as he sits back down to don his other boots.

“It’s nothing scary,” June winks, as he settles a hand on Palette’s shoulder. Palette looks up at June’s wide smile: glitches dancing across his face. In the little time that Palette has come to know June, he has learned that unique phrasings and midnight dark jokes should be expected. “Night just has a thing for proper footwear. And ‘proper footwear’ to him means ‘coated with iron’.”

“...It is a cultural practice.”

“Iron dusted on the soles, sure. But, three inch iron heels? I think you just want an excuse to be fashionable,” June is quick as a whip with his reply.

Palette feels nothing but ice within his marrow, as he watches Nightmare’s brows furrow. But, then, he catches a sliver of a smile.

Huh.

“And yet, it remains practical. Unlike those… sneakers of yours. If only you would let me—“

“—Practical? These are the epitome of practical! They survived the Anti Void of all places. They’ve been around for years. Years, that I shall remind you, you weren’t even around for.”

“They are converse, Jun—”

“Are you dating?”

Palette honestly shouldn’t be surprised at this point. His mouth always has a habit of moving on its own. He is simply beholden to its whims, the permanent scapegoat.

…It’s a valid question, though. One that Palette decides to stand by.

Almost instantaneously, June erupts into laughter. Palette blinks, already plotting ways to wriggle out of his too-fast too-curious mouth, when June walks over and plants a kiss atop Nightmare’s skull.

Palette never imagined that the King of Negativity could turn that shade of cyan. Palette never imagined he would be in the presence of the King of Negativity. But, here he is, awkwardly blinking as Nightmare clears his throat.

“We are…” Nightmare trails off. Both Lilly and Ophelia stifle their laughter, from where they stand off to the side. Nightmare takes a breath, attempting to ignore how June wraps himself around his shoulders. “...Parterned. Romantically bonded—“

“We’re dating,” June kisses Nightmare's skull again. “Boyfriends, even.”

Nightmare sighs. Palette watches the twitch of his mouth: a hidden crescent moon grin.

“Moving on,” Nightmare says, standing up as he brushes himself off. June reaches out his arm, and Nightmare takes it. “We shall make another round— see if there was anything that was missed. If we are unable to locate anything suitable…” Nightmare hesitates, for a moment. Palette feels like nothing more than a statue: stuck in the stagnation of this silence. “...I believe there may be some options within my armory. Nonetheless, we shall double check our work.”

Another round; More testing.

“Um,” Palette mumbles. He’s about to disregard the thought— play off the noise as a slip of the tongue, when June tilts his head: a clear sign to continue. Palette takes a breath. He’s already tempted fate enough, what’s one more to add to the list?

“Uh,” he continues. “Would it be okay if I took a break?”

It appears as if Nightmare is about to say something, but before he can June is replying with an energetic, “Sure! We’ll go grab some food for all of us— Night, are you interested in a fresh kiwi, perchance?”

Nightmare hesitates. And then, he nods. June manages to smile even wider.

“Great! Just meet us back at the courtyard when you’re ready, okay?”

Palette gives a spur of the moment thumbs up, a nod to Nightmare before he remembers, and a small wave towards Lilly and Ophelia.

And then, Palette finds himself alone within the streets of the Market.

It’s a nice day, all things considered. Palette doesn’t want to say he’s a shut in but the fact of the matter is he did spend a lot of time indoors. His home; The Market. It’s not like there were a ton of outdoor opportunities. The most he got was quiet moments on the patio with Flip, an occasional scavenging mission, and the time spent traveling to and from the OT.

The fresh air is… pleasant. Unlike the Market, the pathways provide little difficulty with navigation. People seem to want to make way for him. It’s odd, how he isn’t stared at, questioned, or stopped to chat about the latest battle.

In a way, it feels freeing.

It doesn’t take long for Palette to locate what he’s looking for. The smell of old smoke and his memory leads the way, Palette simply follows.

The area is small— still pleasant, though. It’s clear (likely to avoid any fire mishaps) besides a collection of trees as a backdrop, an old bench, and ash tray.

Palette settles himself to the side of the bench, back facing one of the larger trees.

He’s… He’s not doing anything wrong. While it is generally illegal— throughout most parts of the Multiverse— for someone underage to purchase cigarettes. That doesn’t mean it was illegal to smoke them. They were a gift, after all. It would be rude to let them go to waste.

Still, Palette finds himself staring back out into the walkway.

He takes a breath, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out the tucked away cigarette. His flames come when called, as they always do: the stick blazes with flame.

Seventeen left. Twenty in a pack.

The smoke runs through his marrow. For the first time this day, Palette feels himself able to fully relax.

“Hey, mind if I bum one off of ya?”

Palette jumps about ten feet in the air.

Or… okay. In all honesty Palette only kind of jumps, spinning around to meet the newfound intruder who is… hanging upside down by a tree branch? The thing is that it feels as if he’s jumped about ten feet: if the absolute chill in the marrow and whip lash through his neck is anything to go by.

Palette can’t even get out a meager ‘uh’ or ‘um’ as he finds himself in the company of… another skeleton? He’s jumped from out of the tree— making it look like the easiest thing in the Multiverse, now standing aloof with an easy smile. He seems to be about the same age as Palette, but it’s not like Palette would be the best guess.

In this moment Palette yearns for Gradient’s analysis.

The stranger— still smiling like he was born to smile— waits patiently. His white trenchcoat is stark in the afternoon sun, his bright red scarf somehow even more eye-catching. Looking at his face, Palette finds that the stranger is missing an eye-light. An aesthetic? An old injury? It would be a gamble, in a battle.

Still, the stranger smiles. The pause is stretched thin to breaking, but Palette continues to be humored. Palette trails the stranger’s figure until he’s met with quite the discovery.

Wings. The stranger has wings. Bright, large, and soft.

“So,” the stranger drawls, “watcha say?”

Palette fumbles for his words. He opens his mouth. Closes it. And then, as if to distract himself, takes a drag from his stick.

The smoke plumes out to the side— he’d turned his head to release it, the stranger was a stranger but Palette knew all too well what a face full of smoke was like. “Um,” he finally says, intelligently. “S-Sorry, this is. Uh. My only one. Right now.”

It’s the truth. The rest of the pack rests safely atop the nightstand within Nightmare’s castle.

The stranger nods. He doesn’t look upset, even if he’s crossed his arms. His smile is easy: nearly smug, but Palette knows better.

And then, Palette’s mouth ruins it all. Again.

“Uh,” he continues, despite his own desires. “It’s also um. Bad for you.”

The stranger stares, unblinking. Palette clears his throat. He takes another drag before continuing.

“If you smoke you should stop that. I mean— I can’t tell you what to do but that’s my advice. That you… Um. Didn’t ask for.”

The stranger nods along as if Palette isn’t talking down to him. Once Palette is finished, he tilts his head from side to side, as if he’s actually considering Palette’s words. And then, he’s taking a step forward.

“So…” the stranger trails off once again, “why do you smoke, then?” The stranger pauses, smile widening and brows furrowing as he seems to come to some sort of internal realization, “Mister arbiter of public health.”

“Palette,” Palette corrects. It’s second nature, reaching out his hand. He has manners.

The stranger stares, almost… surprised? His angular features seem to fight their own expression, shifting from shock to acceptance. Soon enough, he takes another step forward.

He shakes Palette’s hand.

“Uh. Goth,” Goth informs, quickly turning his head to cough into his fist. He swallows— is the smoke bothering him? Palette takes another step back, careful to angle his next drag as far away as possible. “It’s… an old family name,” Goth smiles.

Palette nods. For a moment, there is nothing but silence. Palette stares off into the distance, watching the bustling life of Oat’s pass them by. There’s a slight breeze, now. Palette allows himself to indulge in the cold.

“So, Palette… why do you smoke? If you’re so passionate about health.”

The sentence is tinged with the slightest bit of sarcasm. Still, for some reason, Palette feels it isn’t meant in animosity.

He stares down at his cigarette. He shifts it between his fingers. He brings it to his mouth, and allows the ash to settle deep within his marrow: the blazing sun, calmed for a single moment. The release; The quiet.

“It’s…” he trails off. He pushes air between his cheeks, considering the weightlessness of what he’s holding.

Because it’s second nature? Because the flame burns within him, eternal? Because it washes him in relief: relief that he didn’t even know he needed?

“It’s cathartic.”

The cigarette is done. Palette disposes it into the ash tray.

“...Do you go to school? I haven’t seen you around,” Goth breaks the silence. He’s looking at his feet, when Palette spares him a glance.

“I, uh. Go to… the other school. Sorry.”

Palette doesn’t know why he finds it so easy to lie. It’s not exactly uncommon for kids to be schooled alternatively, especially in the OT. At least… that’s what he’s been told. He should have been honest. And, yet.

Goth narrows his sockets. “There’s only two high schools in this subsection,” Okay. Good. Palette was correct, for once. “One of them I go to, the other is a private school. And…” Goth takes a step forward in front of Palette, brows furrowed, “...you don’t exactly strike me as ‘private school prep’.”

“I’m homeschooled,” Palette blurts out.

This seems to quell whatever inner turmoil Goth was struggling with. Almost immediately, he nods his head: crossing his arms once more.

“Oh, yeah. I guess that is another kind of school,” he says, clearing his throat. “...I was homeschooled up until this year, myself. It uh… took awhile to convince my old man to unleash me upon the general public. Hellish, isn’t it?”

His grin doesn’t falter. And yet, Palette can sense that the feelings are still raw. Bloody and raw.

“...Anyway. I’ve got to scurry on out before said old man finds out that I’ve been skipping said classes at said high school. You’re cool, though. Mind throwing me your number?”

Palette blinks. What exactly is he supposed to throw? He looks down. He looks back up at Goth.

And then, just in time, he’s catching the phone.

Oh, phone number.

Without thinking, Palette inputs his new phone number into the already open contact page. He throws the phone back. Goth smiles.

“I hope to see you around, Pal.”

“Oh, wait.”

It feels like he’s trying to get a bingo of ‘speak before he thinks, today’. Goth turns on his heel and gives Palette a curious raised brow. Palette takes a deep breath. He got himself into this situation, he should stick to this situation.

“Your um. Wings,” he points. He immediately feels bad for pointing, and tries to pass it off as a stop on the destination to grabbing his own shoulder. “They’re uh… really cool. I just wanted to say that they’re really cool.”

Goth blinks. Palette thinks he’s offended him— ruined this little interaction. When, Goth reaches behind him and plucks out a perfectly shaped feather.

He walks forward, drops it into Palette’s hands, and then walks away.

Huh.

Palette stares down at the feather.

The feather does not stare back at him.

He sighs. The taste of smoke coats his mouth: it feels like solemn comfort.

Catharsis.

Gradient is making his way towards the market’s (uncapitalized ‘m’, to be clear. Oat’s market was about as different from The Market as viridian green and vermillion red) main courtyard— music drifting by like a cool breeze— when his phone rings.

Ink, of all people, is the first to turn around to raise a carefully emotive brow at him. Gradient finds himself rendered nearly completely useless, until Dream gives him the Multiverse’s gentlest nudge to the shoulder.

“Oh, Um. I’m gonna. T-Take this?”

Both Dream and Ink continue to stare at him; Gradient wonders if they’re attempting to communicate in that weird silent language of theirs. After what feels like an eternal moment, Gradient finally pulls out his phone and takes a peak at the incoming call.

“It’s… from Mess.”

“Go on,” Dream smiles. “We’ll wait here.”

Gradient hesitates for a moment, stares down at his still ringing phone, and walks off.

“Uhh, y’ello?”

“...Oh, hi! I’m sorry for calling— I’m a little hands tied at the moment,” Mess’ voice comes through, slightly crackly from the phone audio. It’s a decent piece of technology, despite. Gradient still feels in debt for the drawing tablet that Ink had shoved into his hands the other day, claiming it was ‘absolutely necessary’— He’s trying to keep the sheer cost out of his mind.

“Are you flying right now? Isn’t that like— texting and driving?”

“Well… I think it would be more like calling and driving. Which, if the court will read the transcript… Is not illegal, and also something I am not doing.”

Gradient snorts at Mess’ reply; Mess snorts back. He can hear the wind whipping past their mic. It sounds… not half bad, actually. He thinks about what it would be like to fly, right now: free upon the air; He carefully stuffs down the urge to ask Mess if they’d take him along for a flight sometime.

They’d texted the past few days. It had been… something to get used to— daily interaction that wasn’t his family or True Underground members. He’d had a few online friendships, before: mostly over forums and multiplayer game chats. But, nothing so… regular. Typical. Normal.

“—Anyway,” Mess continues, “I was just calling to see if you, uh, maybe wanted to hang out in a bit? I know you’re busy with the whole ‘secret mission’ thing. But, if you’re free and want some distraction—”

“Yeah. Yeah that would. Um. Be cool,” Gradient is quick to reply, almost startling himself at the ease. Someone passing by spares him a look at the mini outburst, and Gradient carefully pulls his hood tighter. He focuses on his feet. Walking and talking: he’s just… walking and talking. Normal. Normal people do that.

“Oh, cool! I’ll be free in uh… a little bit? We could go to my place, yours, or maybe even Ccino’s… whatever you want.”

His place. That’s… he never thought that would be an option… is it an option? Before Gradient can ponder this further, Mess is answering his question with, “I could ask Dream about it, if you want. You’ve seen a lot these past few days— maybe something you’re more used to would be less stressful…?”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah that, uh, works. Works good.”

Normal. He’s so normal.

“Cool! Cool— oh, I think I’m hitting some interference," almost as if the Multiverse has the power of cosmic timing, Mess’ mic begins to crackle. “I’ll text you when I can. Bye!”

At least, that’s what Gradient thinks they say. It’s hard to be exactly sure when the call sounds like it’s been put straight through the garbage disposal. He stares at his phone. He blinks. He looks up.

Gradient has no clue where he is.

Well, okay. He knows he’s at Oat’s. The market. Outdoors, on a pleasantly bright day. But, importantly, Gradient doesn’t know where in Oat’s he’s at. He spares a glance and finds that Dream and Ink are nowhere to be found.

He was walking. He walked away.

This makes sense. And yet, this knowledge does not help his current situation.

Okay. Okay, this is an easy fix. He walked away and therefore, unless he’s forgetting, he likely just has to… turn around. Walk back. Cool. Good. Great, even. Gradient turns around, and begins to walk. Walking is good. Walking is nice. Flying is objectively cooler and better in every functional way. But, Gradient doesn’t happen to be cool enough to have wings.

…Gradient feels like he should have found Dream and Ink by now. Minutes have passed him by like the instant ramen that had dwindled in his backpack. He’s passed more stalls than he can count— his feet have begun to ache.

They… said they’d wait for him, right? Is he misremembering— was there another place he was supposed to go?

Or, alternatively… are they gone? Did they leave him: a dog dumped on the side of the road. Abandoned. It’s a stupid though. Silly. But, still, Gradient can feel his soul thump quicker inside his chest.

Okay. Fine. This is fine. He probably got himself turned around, and he just needs to go the other direction. And so, this is what he does. He walks by food stands— smells wafting through the air, fresh and hot. He walks by weaponry stands and armor stands: art and trinkets and anything you can think of. And yet, still, despite the endless options, he does not find what he is looking for.

It’s when he nearly runs straight into a horse (still majestic; still absolutely way too huge for its own good), fumbling and stuttering out apologizes to both the animal and its handler, when he decides he needs to take a moment.

He’s leaned himself against the side of an empty stall, staring at his feet, when he comes to the conclusion that he needs directions. He’ll find his way to the courtyard— that’s where they said to meet, right? Yeah. Yeah, he remembers it now. The square. He just needs to find the square.

With careful gaze, Gradient eyes the passing crowd.

There’s a mother and child. He thinks he remembers reading that you should ask a mother for help, if you’re a lost kid. The issue is that, well, Gradient thinks he’s probably well past the ‘kid’ in appearance. And… young children never really reacted well to him.

A group of teens pass… maybe them? No, he immediately swipes the thought aside. That would be embarrassing. Just… no.

And then, Gradient sees a flash of white and gold.

A hat.

…Could it be? No— no, he’s not that lucky. It’s impractical: unlikely.

But, not impossible.

And, so, Gradient jogs out into the walkway— chasing after that flash of color. That hat. He feels nothing but adrenaline. He feels nothing but burning amber through his marrow and churning violet through his soul. It doesn’t matter— nothing matters, right now. Not until he finds out. Not until he finally stops running. The only thing on his mind is that simple, blazing spark of color.

…Until he’s stopped by a firm hand on the shoulder.

Gradient is about to inquire what this person needs, but soon enough he’s answered with the solid certainty of a fist.

Oh.

Right.

The pain burns like a whip against his cheek. It’s not like he isn’t used to it, though. He knows to breathe; He knows that closing his sockets only leaves him more defenseless.

Still, Gradient finds himself sprawled against the hard dirt ground, breath wheezing with sockets squeezed shut.

“Error.”

Really? Is he ever going to get different material?

The kick to his ribs answers that question. He groans, futile in how he reaches to put pressure on the pain. It never helps. He doesn’t know why that hasn’t gotten through his thick, glitched skull.

Despite his blurred vision— glasses knocked askew— he can see the gathering crowd. The audience for the show: the horror.

As always, nobody steps in. Nobody cares. Nobody sees him.

He probably was abandoned, now that he thinks about it. Left to the wolves; Doomed to always run.

“You. I don’t know how—”

“—I-I’m not—”

“Shut up, Destroyer.”

Another kick to the ribs. Another punishment.

The man above him— Gradient is finally brave enough to process him— sneers an ugly sneer. He’s a skeleton, now that he can get a good look at him. A… ‘Papyrus’, maybe? The red and black speaks to Underfell, but there were always variations. Stereotypes were only stereotypes, after all.

Actually, scratch that. Definitely Underfell, if the steeltoed boots are anything to go by.

“If this land won’t seek retribution, I’ll take it into my own hands—”

“—Woah there, friend! Is that how you treat every kid you see? I'm surprised you're not on some sort of list!”

Gradient blinks. The final blow never comes.

There’s… another monster standing above him? Yes. That’s right. Another monster— blurry, but clearly above him. Standing, arms out, as if to…

Protect.

Huh.

“He’s—”

“A child. Need your sockets checked? I think you need your sockets checked. I know a guy, if you want. To check your eyesight. Was wonderful when my partner went blind— real great bedside manner. Maybe he should check mine as well… because I swear I just saw some poor sodden sack of bones attack, in broad daylight, what is clearly a kid.”

His savior announces, loud as the bright, blistering sun. Gradient blinks: world still a hazy blur.

The assailant sputters. It seems like he’s about to say something, and then. It appears he reconsiders. Or, perhaps, he decides to tuck tail and flee when Gradient’s savior jerks forward at him with a laugh.

“Hey, kid. Ready to see stars?”

Gradient’s glasses are being pushed back onto his face. For a moment, he’s concerned that maybe this savior isn’t actually his savior. Maybe he just wanted that sweet, sweet revenge for himself. Maybe he should prepare for another punch. It’s inevitable, after all. He readies himself.

That is, until his vision finally clears.

Stars. Gradient is seeing stars. Because, now kneeling in front of him, is another error.

Another error, with glitched stars dancing across his face.

“You can call me June,” June says, with hand already outreached.

June. June. This is June. June can be trusted, he recalls from what little memory he has access to. June is safe.

“G-Gradient,” Gradient responds, awkwardly giving June’s hand a mediocre shake. He has to fight the urge to recoil, when he feels the static in his palm— the innate reaction. The reminder of what he is. But, in a moment, it settles. June smiles at him, starry and bright.

The life returns, around him. The bustling; The noise. He’s sat face to face with this curious stranger, tucked away at the end of a pathway. He shuffles, pulling his knees towards his chest: a comfort.

“I haven't seen you around, Gradient,” June says. He tilts his head, as if pondering his next words. He looks… familiar, in a way. But, Gradient can’t exactly pin down the thought. His mind is still too blurred. Fuzzy. “...Are you new code? Or, have you been hiding from me… you do know that ‘errors shouldn’t interact with each other’ is a myth, right—?”

“Gradient? Gradient!”

Before he knows it Dream is falling to his knees by his side. A warm hand is placed on his shoulder; A worried expression nearly splits Dream’s face: it looks like the sun, obfuscated by the depths of a dark night.

Concern. True concern.

“Are you alright? I thought perhaps you needed some space... time alone to think. But… I felt—” Dream trails off, staring as June waves at him. “Oh. Hello, June.”

“Hiya, Dream” June winks: stars dancing across his cheeks. “The kids okay. Just… had a little run in. I think he might have a few broken ribs, though?”

Broken ribs… sounds about right, now that he thinks about it. Gradient winces as his senses return to him.

Dream’s mouth opens, and then closes. His brows knit together: processing. And, then, Gradient processes the warmth.

“I’m healing you,” Dream says, hand ablaze with magic upon his shoulder. He sounds… like a dreary day: rain thundering down. A cold, stormy night; No sleep. And yet, the healing magic flows. Burning like dawn. Remorse. “I’m sorry. I should have kept you within my sight—”

“Has the collab been found, yet? I was just about to start putting out spare disks of pirated Adobe Photoshop™— Oh. Hi.”

Ink is quick to settle himself by Gradient’s available side. He smiles, sharp as always. But, within a moment, Gradient catches the slight twitch of his mouth. The cyan.

“Yeesh, boy,” Ink says, looking Gradient up and down. His gaze lands on Dream’s hand— still healing. He looks back up to Gradient’s face, brow raised. “Did someone hate crime you?”

Gradient blinks. Dream’s sigh is very, very audible.

Well… no. But… Well. Actually. Huh. Yeah. Yeah, sure. Why not?

“Yeah,” Gradient mumbles, surprised at the shake in his voice. He reaches up to rub his socket. His hand comes back tear soaked.

Ink nods, solemn. “...That’s rough, buddy.”

Everything feels… warmer. Safer. It’s probably Dream’s aura: the healing. But, Gradient will let him believe that this is his reality. The comfort.

And then, there is nothing but cold.

“Brother.”

Dream is quick to stand up: hand removed from Gradient’s shoulder, posture ramrod straight. It feels as if a candlewick flame has been brought within the presence of a snowstorm. Will it survive? Gradient doesn’t know.

Before them, stands Nightmare.

He’s… Well, Gradient wasn’t really sure what he expected.

Nightmare is… Nightmare? He’s seen pictures— usually blurry. The descriptions make him sound like he’s something out of your nightmares: cosmic horror, cue Cthulhu. But, Nightmare seems to ride the line of ‘maybe a little intimidating, if you look at him just right’. He’s tall, angular, and smiles a wicked smile.

Well… the smile might have sent a chill of horror down his spine, if he hadn’t seen the exact same grin plastered across Trebuchet’s face every morning after he’d douse Gradient awake with cold water to the face. At least Trebuchet’s had some… charm, to it.

In all honesty, Gradient has found Dream to be more intimidating.

It is always those you least expect; It is always at the time you least expect. Palette, despite his general sunshine-attitude, could throw a punch like an incoming brick: he would dedicate himself to protection. Dream, Gradient thinks, is likely the same way, from what he’s seen so far. At least, if the pure burning heat is anything to go by. The calm before the storm; The spark before the fire.

Gradient watches as June stands up. He settles himself in front of Nightmare, smiling. It seems… too genuine to be anything but nervous. His eye-lights flicker between all the present parties. The way his gaze passes over Dream speaks volumes. Guilt, if Gradient would be asked to place the radiating emotion. Cyan guilt.

Ink reaches out a hand. Gradient blinks at it before he takes it. They stand together. He doesn’t really process how Ink gently brushes his hoodie off— he’s too busy watching the apparent silent standstill going on between the Multiverse’s most well known twins.

“Hmm… you believe I am undeserving of even the most basic pleasantries? After all we have been through? It is of no matter,” Nightmare rolls his shoulders, as if leaning into the image of unperturbed. “...It is quite… odd, to see you intervening upon this particular display. It is nice to see that you have experienced personal growth.” Even if Nightmare doesn’t look at him, Gradient knows when he is being implied. He opens his mouth— to what? Speak? Defend? But, before he can get far, Ink is tapping him on the shoulder. Ink smiles that sharp smile, as he winks and places a finger over his mouth in the universal sign for ‘quiet’.

“...Nonetheless. I would like to give my formal congratulations for your… engagement. I can only wish you the very best.”

“Stop.”

Dream takes a singular step forward. It feels like a declaration of war.

“Stop what, brother—?”

“Stop this… bullshit.”

Nightmare narrows his sockets, and a sneer threatens his expression. Dream simply stands, shoulders squared, heat blazing. For a moment, Gradient recognizes the itch at his hand— the instinct to reach for his blade.

“I despise the notion—”

“Truly? You would take a vow of honesty?” Dream takes another step forward. His gaze briefly flickers over to June, whose smile remains wide and painfully awkward, before settling back on Nightmare. Dream shifts his weight to one hip, crossing his arms. Gradient can only think of a disappointed parent— or Flip, after a pure thimble of milk had been left in the refrigerator. “Tell me, brother,” Dream spits the word out like its poison, “does ‘lover’s sorrow’ spark any—”

“—I do not know what you are speaking of,” Nightmare retaliates.

For a second, there is pure silence. It seems as if the market has dedicated itself to respect for this moment.

Nightmare clears his throat. “...Regardless, I stand by my initial statement. Please, if you have the chance, let your… betrothed, know that despite his…” Nightmare trails off, stretching the moment into darkness. “Please let your betrothed know that, despite his condition, I would be happy to accept him as family.”

“Awww, that’s so nice of you, Nighty!”

Gradient will admit, it is quite satisfying to watch Nightmare jump like a spooked cat— tentacles raised and everything.

Ink snorts at the display, Nightmare seems to only be able to take a step back: reaching out to June.

“I—“

“We were just leaving,” June interrupts Nightmare, voice sympathetic. “I’ll catch up with you another time,” June nods to Dream, before turning his focus to Gradient, “you too, I hope.”

For a moment, Gradient is concerned that this isn’t over. For a moment— a singular moment, Nightmare stares. Statue still.

And then, they are walking away.

Everything is fine: the market continues, bustling and alive. The sun shines bright; His ribs no longer ache, warm and whole. Gradient stands— for once, not alone. Yet, all he can do is fiddle with the ends of his hoodie strings. All he can think about is cold wind, lost breath, and missed opportunities.

Everything is not fine.

Gradient fights the urge to double over— he’s no longer hurt, healed by a single warm hand. What would be the point? Attention?

Dream’s hand finds its way to Gradient’s shoulder once more. Gradient’s marrow churns.

“Do you want to go home?”

His voice is quiet and gentle. For a moment, Gradient toys with the idea of genuinity: it walks the slackline, balancing between practiced and innate. Would it make a difference? Gradient’s gaze flickers around, eventually landing on an unreadable Ink. He decides he can better stomach the concern of Dream’s knit brows.

Home. The word tastes like honey: sickly sweet. Out of reach.

Home. The lab. The dust.

“No,” Gradient finally manages to mumble. It comes out a little too loud— a little too desperate. Shaky. When did he start to cry? Gradient raises a hand to his cheeks, it comes back tear-soaked once more.

“It would be alright.”

Would it? Truly?

Gradient fights for his words. It feels as if he’s choking on them, syllables stuck in his throat: noise muffled and destined to incomprehensibility. He knows what he wants to say. He knows what he needs to say. And yet, all that Gradient can get out is a meek, “T-The plan.”

He’s not a child. He’s no longer a four year old crying over lost words and damaged sight. He shouldn’t be, at least. So why does it seem like his body is doomed to betrayal?

As if on cue, Gradient is wracked by a glitch.

It shivers through his spine, splotching his sight numbers and code. All he can do is fist the fabric of his pants. All he can do is fight for control.

“Gradient,” Dream says, all too soft. It reminds Gradient of the fleeting moments of kindness, from the Doctor. He never knew how long it would last. He never knew how long he would have a father. “You have been through… a lot. If you need to rest, you need to rest.” Dream smiles. It nearly burns.

What Gradient needs to do is pull himself together.

It’s not like he hasn’t been through this all before. It’s not like it’s uncommon for him to be mistaken for what runs through his marrow. It’s not like he hasn’t been faced with horror and destruction and blood and dust.

And yet, he can’t.

He fumbles as another glitch wracks his system. His neck jerks— and in the brief panic of disorientation Gradient doesn’t think as he lashes out for something to hold on to. His hands tense, locked onto Dream’s shoulders. He wants to move. He should move. But, he is stuck. His sight blurred, his mind a slurry fog.

“Breathe,” Dream says, taking the imprisonment incredibly well. Gradient fights to move— to escape. His hands won’t listen, though. His sobs won’t stop.

Breathe.

He needs to breathe.

“I can’t,” Gradient is mortified to find himself admitting. When did his breath escape him? When did he lose the capability of something so… simple. He reaches for the air: he finds nothing but pain. He’s probably hurting Dream, now that he thinks about it; His hands are still locked tight, his suffering must be damaging. That’s all that Gradient can do. Damage and destroy. It is what created him. It is what guides him. “I-I,” he stutters. Helpless.

“What does this mean to you?”

Suddenly, Ink is standing within his view. In his hand dangles his… green vial? He holds it by its heart shaped top, swinging it back and forth: liquid very nearly hypnotizing.

Gradient blinks.

Ink taps the glass. Gradient follows the movement. “This color,” Ink clarifies, “what does it mean to you?”

Green. The color of grass. The color of Snowdin forests. The color of everlasting life.

The color of code; The color of nature.

A cycle. The inevitable.

“Flow,” Gradient finds himself mumbling. His hands have moved— when did that happen? They’re now bunched into the front of his hoodie: grasping. Still, Dream holds him steady. “E-Energy. Um… peace? Relaxation.”

Ink nods. Gradient catches the slight narrowing of his sockets, but before he can process it his attention is pulled to Ink’s hands. As if he’s done it a thousand times before, Ink screws the vial open and pours a few drops into the now turned cap.

Before he knows it, the cap is being pushed into his hands.

The liquid is green. Pure green. Forest, sage, and viridian.

Gradient’s gaze flickers to Dream, who’s staring almost, but not as intensely as Ink. He looks back down at the cap. He looks up. He looks down.

There seems to be only one option, here. And, so, Gradient drinks.

“...Night?”

“I am fine.”

Juniper doesn’t exactly know if he believes that. Well… no. Juniper doesn’t believe that.

Nightmare is not fine. Nightmare is clearly, very, truly and honestly, not fine. If fine were the bullseye mark of a target, Nightmare would be somewhere miles away lost in a barren field.

He’s rigid as a human corpse where he grasps at Juniper’s arm. And, when Juniper looks back at him, he can see the quiver of his mouth: the twitch of his socket.

Juniper can only sigh.

The reunion was inevitable. Still, that doesn’t make it any less like salt poured into an open wound. Dream… Juniper feels bad for Dream, in all honesty. Maybe he should be more upset. Maybe it makes him a bad partner. Maybe he’s wrong, for holding on to forgiveness like it’s his last tether to this Multiverse.

But… the arrow to the socket was deserved. It had, if Juniper is deciding to speak his honest mind, pushed the path towards change. Yes, seeing Nightmare broken and beaten had sent a cold chill through Juniper’s spine. And yes, Juniper can acknowledge that Dream was fully, squarely, bullseye in the socket, in his right.

Juniper feels bad for Dream. Juniper feels bad for Ink. And, Juniper feels bad for Nightmare.

Juniper also feels bad for the new code. He’d looked so scared; He’d looked like he had seen it all before. In some way, Juniper can only think of himself: grasping for the last scraps of who you were, feeling it escape like wind through your fingertips. He… can’t be thinking about that right now, though. He can call Dream later— scope out the exact situation.

“Hey, Palette! Over here,” Juniper calls out as soon as he sees that already signature shining white of Palette’s cap. Palette looks around for a moment until he catches Juniper’s waving hand. He jogs over. “We were just leaving, actually. Catch!”

Juniper pulls the nectarine from his bag and throws it. Palette catches it with one hand.

“Uh—”

“I’ll be coming back to pick up all our purchases later. Don’t worry, okay?”

Juniper watches as Palette’s mouth opens and closes. It is very clear that he is, indeed, worrying. So, Juniper gives him a quick wink: relaxed posture hopefully clear. Fake it till you make it. If you can trick those around you, maybe you can trick yourself.

The way that Palette’s brows furrow, corners of his mouth quivering— it’s… familiar. Juniper is doing his best to put it out of his mind. It’s the same as when Trebuchet smiles an all too familiar smile. Recognition sparks; Juniper doesn’t know what to do with it. So, all he can do is tuck it away.

He… really does need to call Dream. Maybe he could finally start to get the shape of some answers. Maybe.

“...I shall be showing you to the armory,” Nightmare adds. He seems… decently put together, despite the recent encounter. Juniper grabs the kiwi from his bag and holds it out for one of Nightmare’s tentacles. It’s cute, how he’s eager to grab it. He makes quick work of peeling, and even quicker work of eating.

Juniper motions to Palette, and they get walking. Nightmare might object— but when Juniper is in charge of the portal making, they will be using a dedicated portal area.

“What’s that you got there?”

“Oh, uh,” Palette mumbles, mouth clearly still half full of fruit. He looks down at his non nectarine holding hand, twirling the object of Juniper’s curiosity. “...A feather?”

And then, almost as if embarrassed by the attention, Palette pockets the feather. He shrugs his shoulders.

“...Have you ever tried kiwi before, Daybreak?”

Juniper spares Nightmare a glance. He seems… less tense. Half of the fruit is gone already— which is to be expected. But, unexpectedly, he holds the other half in his tentacle. He appears to be pondering it.

Palette considers the question. He shakes his head, coughs, and then murmurs an, “...I don’t think so?”

It feels as if Juniper should be watching with bated breath, as Nightmare reaches across the gap with his tentacle to hand Palette the rest of his kiwi. Palette takes it; It doesn’t seem like he realizes the implications.

“It’s good,” Palette says, taking a bite. “...The, uh, spiciness is nice.”

“Oh, yes. I find it is my favorite attribute.”

Juniper can only fight back his sigh. With a smile, he gently pats Palette’s shoulder and gestures. Palette hands over the kiwi and nectarine.

File that one under ‘allergies’. Nightmare may personally object, but while Juniper was here, he is listening to the objective data: even if it might be hard to hear. Or taste. Or… not taste.

It is quiet, for a few good minutes. They walk the worn path— noise fading into the distance as Oat’s disappears behind them. Juniper gives a squeeze to Nightmare’s arm. It takes a moment, but he does squeeze back. They’ll talk about it later. At least, he hopes.

Palette has pulled the feather back out of his pocket. He’s looking at not so much like it has the answer to a question. But, like it’s already answered that question, and Palette isn’t quite so sure what to make of it. Again, he furrows his brows— the spark of recognition ignites. Juniper can only tuck the thought away where it belongs in the back of his mind.

“I…” Palette trails off. He seems to swallow his words. He turns the feather again. He takes a breath. “The, uh… name thing…?”

The words hang in the air. Juniper feels when Nightmare tenses— hand tight around Juniper’s humerus.

A moment passes. Palette runs a finger across the feather.

“I think I have one. A name.”

Is this what it was like for Nightmare, when Juniper had discovered his? It feels like the Multiverse has stopped for this moment. It feels as if it is giving its respect. Juniper can only stare at Palette: still staring down at his hands, brows still furrowed in thought.

“Do not speak it,” Nightmare instructs, body and voice taking on its typical air of power. His tone isn’t unkind: simply intense and professional. Kind, in a way. “The naming will take place in… three days time. After we tour the armory, I shall give you more instructions.”

Three days. It’s cutting it a little close, but it’ll be just in time for the proper start of their mission.

The mission. Juniper is doing his best to put it out of his mind. Into the box it goes, locked away with everything else. Maybe one day, he’ll open that box. Maybe one day he’ll face the regrets and concerns and worries. But, today is not that day.

Palette nods. Nightmare appears to relax.

“You have done well, Daybreak. There is nothing to worry about.”

Juniper knows that Nightmare doesn’t lie. Still, he can only hope it’s true.

Ink doesn’t know what he was thinking.

Okay, that is typically a lie. Ink appreciates the gift of being able to hide behind his poor memory: being able to correct a mistake, to the extent that one can, is a skill that is most often taken for granted. Even when he does forget, he’s usually able to analyze his own actions. It’s rare that Ink is left totally and completely out of the loop from his own behavior.

And yet, here he is.

The kid— Gradient, Ink reminds himself with a quick peek at his scarf— is currently clutching onto the end of Dream’s cape. He seems… fine. He’d been a wreck when they’d found him, pure violet fear: an overgrown garden of foxglove and allium. Now he’s nothing but sage and boxwood as he blinks away the afternoon sun, smile lopsided and, for once, at ease.

“Ink… Are you certain— that he is alright?”

Dream looks at Ink with pure, clear cut baby blue concern. The sun makes him look like an angel, here in this light; Ink can envision the paint strokes, the gentle hand that would have carved the slight quiver of his mouth: the trust invading his sockets.

“I’m fine,” Gradient mumbles. He seems almost surprised when he speaks. But, soon enough, he blinks the confusion away. He looks back up at Dream like a foal to its mare.

Ink is careful, as he reaches over to straighten the kid’s hoodie strings. “Probably,” he hums, mouth pulled into a thin line of concentration. He’d given Gradient a little less than a single drop: usually that was enough to allow for the inkling of a feeling. Just enough to get the mind moving. Free. At least, it was for him. A drop was a taster. A sip was a choice. A gulp was acceptance.

Dream hesitates for a moment. And then, he sighs. He nods his head, voice quiet and nearly contemplative as he says, “Shall we get going?”

Ink will never get over how easily he trusts; How easily he trusts Ink.

The walk to the main courtyard isn’t going to be far. Ink trails a step ahead Dream and Gradient as they navigate the still busy streets of Oat’s. It’s a nice day, all things considered. The nearby foliage is painted a vivid emerald in the shining sun; Ink can’t help but rest a hand against the cool glass of his green vial.

It tastes like peace, upon his tongue. The drops settle into his system like a child returning home.

Gradient… despite the nearly constant undercurrent of rusted tanzanite: anxious like a dog and on guard like hound, remained a steady palette of moss and mint. Gradient knew what he was doing; Even if he himself, was not aware of this fact. The color was stable as much as it was chaotic. It was… familiar, in a way. Safe.

It was the same as how Dream, despite the magnolia pink of his love, the campfire red of his passion, and the viridian green of his safety, always remained a shining, sunrise golden at his core.

Golden.

“Kid. You good with witnessing the upcoming discourse?”

The plan. The main event. The ‘have Dream fake a breakdown in order to make becoming Evil™ more believable’.

Ink turns around to face Gradient, walking backwards with ease. Gradient blinks. And then, he nods.

“...Don’t be afraid to cry. People usually side with whoever appears more vulnerable. You don’t even have to be in the right,” Gradient says, voice unnervingly even despite the slurring of his syllables. Still loose. Still a little too forest green.

Before Ink can speak, Dream is settling a hand on Gradient’s shoulder and responding with a genuine, “We have it all planned. Please, do not worry.”

With just a few more steps, they’re at one of the entrances to the courtyard. It’s busy— stalls and their customers lining the edges. The center is filled with a spattering of tables, some people eating and some people relaxing. It smells like life. It’s perfect, for what they need.

“You may wait over there,” Dream instructs Gradient, nodding towards the opposing exit. “I’ll keep you in my line of sight. When I leave, you shall follow.”

A moment passes. And then, Gradient is off. Ink narrows his sockets as he watches Gradient disappear into the sidelines— form untracklable. It’s almost uneasy. Almost. But, soon enough, Gradient pops back up at the exit: visible once more. He gives a shaky thumbs up.

That’s their cue.

Scene start.

Yes, they’d gone through the basic structure. What they needed; What they didn’t. It was roleplay— plain and simple. And Dream, as he had proven many times before, was an excellent partner. It was almost unnerving how well he and Ink seemed to flow together: in battle, in play, and in love.

It was… indescribable, to have someone so well matched. The differences may be stark. But, what is interesting, about two people wholly the same? Their colors blended together: a mixture with its own life. It was creativity. Plain and simple.

Ink walks side by side with Dream. It’s when they’re nearly in the exact middle of the courtyard when Ink reaches for Dream’s hand.

It is when they’re nearly in the exact middle of the courtyard when Dream flinches.

Ink reaches again. And yet, the warmth escapes him once more. He can only look down at Dream’s elegant phalanges— a musician’s hands, Ink had once said— with confusion.

“I—”

“Stop.”

Dream’s voice is gentle, as it always is. Still, it has a careful edge of sternness. A power that commands. Dream knows the importance of tone and voice; He is a leader, after all. He is well aware of how to bring attention.

And, when Ink looks up, he can already see a few curious gazes sprinkling the dispersed crowd. It’s likely because they’re nearly in center stage— two public figures. This attention will only grow.

Well, they’re hoping it will.

Dream takes another step forward, and Ink grabs on to the edge of his cape. “Dream—” he mumbles, careful to keep his voice hesitant. He envisions the archetype of the innocent lover; He shapes his posture into that of prey that believes it may one day achieve the role of predator.

“Stop,” Dream hisses, putting a little bit of shake into his voice. He brushes Ink off as one brushes off a speck of dirt— poorly concealed disgust tempting his expression. Ink had been meaning to ask how Dream can feign certain emotions so well. It was quite the skill— and had come in handy, in both public and private matters. Still, Ink can nearly always pick up on the fake colors. The counterfeit material. Dream’s false joy always seemed a little too dull, teasing at the edges of his mouth. Dream’s true comfort danced around the corners of his sockets, and warmed his touch to flame.

Ink stares down at his own rejected hand. He looks up again, carefully nervous in how his eye-lights flicker about. They’re stopped in the dead center, now. The attention is already creeping in.

“Dreamy…” Ink mumbles, forcing the image of cerulean blue through his mind. “Is something wrong?” He blinks. If he had eyelashes, he would be batting them.

The exaggerated twitch of his nose seems to be Ink’s answer.

Dream shifts his weight, as if he’s considering just how close he wants to be. He looks around, shakes his head, and then takes a step forward.

His breath is warm against Ink’s skull as he whispers a harsh, “What do you think?”

“Um?” Ink tries. He takes a step forward, chasing after the distance as Dream himself steps back. “I don’t know— did I do something wrong? Am I forgetting something?” Ink is careful to let his voice carry, even at what should be a normal volume. He can already see more curious gazes. More witnesses. “...Oh! Don’t tell me I forgot our anniversary. I’m, uh, sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise—”

Their anniversary… Ink had not forgotten. He shall keep that memory to himself, for now. Still, the golden warmth heats his marrow. He stifles a cough.

“You know perfectly well what is ‘wrong’, Ink.”

Dream nearly spits out his name: gone is the typical reverence. The respect. Well… almost. It sounds as if Dream is struggling to give the emotion it needs; However, this gives the impression of hesitancy. Perfect. He’s squared his shoulders and set his arms behind his back. A careful mask. It’s as if he is clinging to what power that role would give him.

“I—”

“Your… escapades, Ink. Do you think I was unaware? Do you think that I would want to…” Dream vaguely gestures towards Ink, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s struggling to even acknowledge his own words, “...indulge, you? I have no clue where you have been, for Star’s sake. What you’ve touched.”

Dream knows perfectly well. Ink uses all his willpower to maintain his careful, nervous expression.

“Sunshine, really. I don’t—”

“—Really?” Dream snarls. His fist clenches— a more typical sign of anger: not one that Ink is used to seeing, from him. But, one must augment for the stage. Dream looks up, and narrows his sockets as he finds the curious onlookers. “There is nothing to see here!” he calls out, voice pinched.

Oh, that’s good.

Ink is almost too busy reveling in the pure craft that is Dream’s acting to notice when Gradient gives a quick wave where he’s settled in the distance: the cue. Ink looks around and, does in fact, find at least one recording phone in the now gathering crowd. Ink gives a subtle flick of his wrist; Dream blinks twice to confirm.

“I’m tired, Ink,” Dream finally mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He pauses. Ink takes the chance to curl in on himself. “I… I would appreciate it if you simply tried. And yet, here you are,” Dream gestures towards Ink, “starting arguments in public.”

“I-I am trying,” Ink stutters, fighting back a cringe. He takes a breath. A moment. For the plan. It is for the plan. The story. And then, he’s continuing with, “I’m sorry I— I’ll do better. I promise. I know I’m not the best—”

Crying. Someone said earlier that he should cry. So, Ink allows himself to sniffle. He’s not getting actual tears, but at least it’s something.

“I’m done.”

Dream says it with a tone of finality. Ink, in the space of a second, recognizes it as the voice he uses to chastise the birds that make every attempt to attack his plants. Ink can only think of Dream, still half asleep, decked out in an all too stereotypical pajama set and robe, gently shooing away the great, feathery beasts from his beloved garden.

A second passes. Silence. It seems as if all eyes are on them; All eyes are, indeed, on them.

“I’m done!” Dream nearly yells, breaking the pregnant pause. For a moment, he buries his head into his hands. And then, he’s shaking himself off: as if he can’t stand the itching of upset that has clouded his marrow. “I’m done,” he repeats, quieter. “I cannot keep putting in my best and getting nothing in return. I cannot keep expecting your best when all I receive is more work. All of it— I am done with all of it. Every person, every AU, every,” Dream spits out a word that Ink can’t parse— another language? “I’m done. Fuck it all to hell.”

Ink blinks. And then, with what feels like a fraction of his strength, Dream shoves Ink away as he storms off. It’s… Ink is trying his best, here. Maybe he should have taken some more red. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken as much yellow. Either way, Ink has to tuck his face into his hand as he prays to the Creators that his laughs won’t be heard.

But…

Fuck it all to hell?

Really?

Fuck it all to hell?

Ink doubles over, fighting the pure mirthful apricot-amber that has infested his mind. His fangs sink into his metacarpals— desperate for any distraction. Anything that will stop the laughter choking his very being. Dream really, really knows how to make an exit. That’s for sure. He was a good actor. But, well… he’d always be Dream. Awkward and sensitive; Gentle and funnier than he could ever imagine.

After staring down at the cobblestound ground for what feels like an eternity, Ink finally pulls himself together.

The crowd has mostly dispersed— as if to give him some sense of privacy. The life snaps back: the bustling continues. Ink spares a glance and finds that Gradient is not in his view— it seems as if Dream had taken his leave.

Okay. Good. Ink simply had to double back and meet them up ahead.

Well… after a small little pitstop.

Ink stumbles back over to where they had all entered the courtyard. He keeps his gaze lowered— forcing thoughts of seafoam cyan and rainstorm blue. He even goes so far to mutter a stuttered apology, as he nearly bumps into an unsuspecting monster. The details were always important, after all.

And then, Ink is back into the market proper.

Ink dances through the open streets and pathways— it’s all neatly organized, all filled to the brim with art and artistry. He likes it, here. The creativity seemed imbued in the air. It was a fantastic place to peoplewatch; It was a fantastic place to pick up the current gossip and ongoings.

There would definitely be gossip after today. Ink looks forward to that.

It’s not long until Ink finds what he’s looking for. The vendor is nowhere to be seen— perfect. Ink glances around. He isn’t being watched, and so he allows himself to creep forward.

He checks the price tag on the item, he fumbles through his pocket, throws down the allotted gold, takes his beloved prize, and jogs away.

That seller was not having it with him earlier. No matter how much Ink offered, it seemed to be no dice. After what felt like an hour of idiotic senseless excuses, Ink had come to the conclusion that this vendor was simply an asshole. It was a character flaw: nothing to be ashamed of. We can’t all be perfect, after all.

Ink whistles, as he navigates around the outskirts. The trees tower, shade painting the forest floor comfortable. It’s a nice scene; It’s a nice setting. With a quick look at his scarf, Ink reminds himself as to where the meeting spot is.

It's on a worn, out of the way path that Ink spots Dream and Gradient.

Ink is about to call out a witty, well thought out greeting when Dream is interrupting him with a positively delighted, “You got your telescope!”

Oh, indeed he did. Ink sets his newly prized telescope down so he can run directly into Dream’s arms. Dream catches him, as he always does. And, he seems to be ready and waiting for the hands on his cheeks and the kiss that Ink is planting directly on his mouth.

“Get a room,” Gradient slurs. He seems… as green as the surrounding forest. The nervous flora is beginning to creep in. But, for now, he appears safe. Content.

Ink settles himself back on his heels, hands now resting atop Dream’s shoulders. He raises a brow, voice carefully even as he says, “And, how do you think you were made?”

“Evil science.”

“Evil science,” Ink says, in unison.

Ink snorts. And, Ink has to battle away the marigold surprise as Gradient snorts, too.

A moment passes. A bird chirps, up above.

“Ink… are you alright?” Dream asks. He’s looking at Ink with that signature, sunset expression: shaded contemplative by the surrounding life. He reaches out and brushes Ink’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. Ink accepts the clear affection.

Ink nods. He clicks his tongue, and signs a quick ‘okay’. “Sure am, Dreamland. Let’s get going, I want to put this where it belongs,” Ink gestures over to the telescope.

It will fit perfectly, out on that balcony. He doesn’t need to hope that Dream will appreciate it; As, he knows he will.

…Maybe the kid will get some use out of it, as well. If he was anything like Ink— or Error, he guesses— he should have an affinity for the stars. He should have an affinity for the endless, boundless creation.

Dream smiles.

And, then, they’re off on their journey back home.

Nightmare’s armory is… well, Palette doesn’t exactly know what else he expected.

He knew that there would be armor— as the title suggests. Weaponry, too. It was likely well filled and well cherished, if the way it was spoken about was any hint. It was revered. Cherished.

It looks more like a museum Palette thinks, as Nightmare guides him through the hall.

“Please, refrain from touching anything. I do not believe you need this reminder, but I shall also encourage you to keep yourself respectful,” Nightmare says, beelining through the absolutely gigantic room. It appears as if he knows exactly where he’s going. How this is the case, taking into the account the sheer size of the area, will likely remain unanswered. Palette can only numbly nod. “I have a blade in mind. If that holds no results, we shall seek out other options.”

“Is that a bazooka?” Palette can’t help but ask, words tumbling out of him as they pass, well, what appears to be a bazooka. It’s white with a cyan design on its body. Long distance weapons weren’t exactly suitable for the mostly close range battles of the Ring. But, Palette could still daydream.

Nightmare pauses. For a moment, Palette’s marrow runs cold. And then, Nightmare is responding with a simple, “Yes,” before moving on.

…So cool.

It’s at the end of the hall that Nightmare stops. There’s… well, more swords than Palette could ever hope of counting. He didn’t even know that there were that many types of swords: some of them small, some of them hopelessly large, some of them guardless and some of them with what seems to be a little too much guard.

With a tentacle, Nightmare reaches in the vague middle of the display. He pulls back a sword— obfuscated by the light pouring through the stained glass windows.

Nightmare nods to the nearby exit. Palette dutifully follows.

The outdoors training area should be expected. It’s large— about a field in length. In the distance, Palette can spot a few spare training dummies. Besides that, the main area remains open and free: nothing but cold packed dirt and the warm sun shining down upon them.

Nightmare shields his sockets, as he steps out into the light. Once properly adjusted, he steps forward. He seems to hesitate, for a moment. And then, finally, Palette watches as Nightmare reaches out the sword.

The sword fits perfectly in his hands.

Palette blinks.

Huh.

The sword fits perfectly in his hands.

It’s… well, it looks like a sword. It’s a little longer than Palette’s typical blade— as such, it would offer more reach. It’s sharp and solid. The material doesn’t shine: nearly… dull, in the blazing sun. The hilt is wrapped with well aged leather; The guard is carved with unreadable markings, invisible to the eye but clear beneath his touch.

Palette flips the sword. It answers as if it could have listened.

It feels nearly weightless.

It feels as if it belongs.

Palette takes a few strides forward. He walks the sword through a few swings and slices: it cuts through the air like it was all it had ever known. Is this what a good sword feels like? Palette doesn’t know if he’d ever want to go back. Palette doesn’t know if he can go back. It would be… it would be like severing a limb. It would be like losing his family.

It would be like losing a brother.

Palette’s magic calls to him, and he can only listen.

His flame reaches for as far as the eye can see. Palette is left doubled over and breathless, more powerful than he could ever imagine.

“I should have known,” Nightmare drawls, standing with arms tucked behind his back. Palette is quick to return himself to the conversation. He looks down at the sword: now bright and burning. He looks back up at Nightmare: chilled to frost.

“It’s…” Palette trails off. He traces the grooves of the unknown message. He can only ponder what it might be saying. “It’s good. I, uh. Like it.”

Nightmare raises a brow. A… smile? Appears to threaten the corners of his mouth.

He gestures to the sword. Palette can only hand it over.

“Daybreak,” Nightmare starts. He traces the vastness of the blade. He hums. “...Meet Daybreak.”

Palette can only stare. He looks down at the sword— Daybreak— and finds himself free of breath.

“I… shall admit. Your title— your name— was one of few reasons as to why I was drawn to your battles. Of course, you proved yourself adept and willing. But, as they often are, first impressions remain important.”

Daybreak seems at ease, in Nightmare’s grasp. Nightmare appears to know this. “It was foolish of me, to imagine that there would be any other blade for you. Still… I found myself… sentimental. Unwilling to part.”

Nightmare reaches the blade out once more. It takes everything that Palette has to not snatch it back up. Instead, he takes it. Normally. So, so normally. Daybreak lays in his hands. It feels like a reunion.

“Daybreak. Repeat to me that you are listening. It is imperative that you listen— not hear— what I am about to say.”

Palette stares down at Daybreak. He nods. And then, following directions as he is meant to do, he replies a clear, “I’m listening.”

The temperature noticeably drops, as Nightmare’s gaze hardens. “That blade,” he gestures, “is being lent to you. You do not own it. It is not your blade.”

Nightmare takes a step forward. Palette feels that he is nothing but prey, cornered by unnatural predator: he is trapped, despite the vastness of this area. There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide. His words are dripping with venom. Power. Pure, unbridled power.

“However—” Nightmare raises a tentacle. Palette finds himself statue still. “—You shall care for it as if it is your blade. You shall care for it as if it is a part of you. No intentional harm shall come to this blade. Understand?”

Palette nods. He coughs.

Before he can answer, Nightmare is continuing.

“That blade shall one day return to me. It does not matter how, or when. It is inevitable.”

Palette believes him.

Nightmare clears his throat. In a single, unremarkable moment, all returns to normal.

“It is a good blade. I imagine you shall get along just fine,” Nightmare waves to Palette, and Palette takes it as his cue to follow. “Now… let me inform you about the process of naming. There is much to cover, and little time. Come.”

Palette hums.

Daybreak feels as if it belongs, settled easy by his side. It feels like it fits. It feels like sand between his toes while looking out into an open ocean. It feels like good art and better company. It feels like a plush penguin tucked into his arms with sweet, idyllic dreams on the horizon.

Here, with Daybreak by his side, Palette is safe.

Palette is where he needs to be.

Chapter Text

Flip is alone.

This is how it’s been for the past few years; This, in all honesty, was likely how it had always been.

Sure, there was family; There was always family and there would always be family. Or, maybe not. Maybe he was destined to lose all that he had. Maybe there was no other possibility than ruin, travesty, death, and abandonment.

No. No. That isn’t the case— he’s suffered but that doesn’t mean he’ll always suffer. But, maybe he’s wrong? Or right? The evidence paints a clear picture. As, it’s the only thing he’s ever known. Verity had died alone and afraid. Blueprint had died afraid and alone. PJ had run, and Gradient had dutifully followed in her footsteps. Some had failed their test; Some had given their lives in the name of false justice. And, Palette…

Palette… Flip doesn’t know what happened to Palette.

Caladium— Flip refuses to call him anything but. ‘The Doctor’ was too… childish. Fond. No— yeah. Fond is the right word. It had been born out of the art club’s curious, creative minds: gifted to a man who didn’t deserve it. It had always put a smile on Caladium’s face. The art club kids had always been his favorites, after all. ‘Dad’ and ‘Father’ didn’t fit, either, even if Vee had clung to those titles like she had clung to her lab coat in the chill of sleepless nights. They were just that: titles. They held no power; They were no saving grace. Caladium was his name. And, so, Caladium would have to do.

Caladium wouldn’t give any details about Palette’s disappearance.

Palette had left for the True Underground, as per usual. He had waved Flip goodbye and kissed little Cadet on the forehead. And then, trailing like a puppy behind Caladium’s leash of a demeanor, they had left. Sure, Palette had been spacey. But, he was always spacey before fight day. It was… normal.

Day turned into night. Night turned into an even darker, deeper night. That darker, deeper night turned into an even darker deeper night. That night had continued. And then, that night had turned into dawn. Soon enough, dawn was day. Caladium returned. Palette was nowhere to be found.

“Flip!”

Even with years of practice, Flip can’t stop how he flinches at the muffled yell. He tries his best— for Cadet is still settled peaceful in his arms. But, the following bang from the lab wall still makes him cringe.

“Sorry, sorry,” Flip mumbles under his breath, rocking Cadet— now anxiously clinging to the fabric of Flip’s shirt— in his arms. He knows where he’s needed; He’s walked the halls of the compound a thousand times before.

Enter the room with urgency. Do not enter the room angrily or perturbed. Keep his face even: keep himself concerned. Be willing. And, be happy about it.

“Heya,” Flip says as he walks into the lab. He smiles. He ignores how the sharp edges of his teeth dig into bone.

Caladium, after what feels like an eternity, turns around in his chair.

He looks… bad. Or maybe not? No— those eyebags are imprinted into his skin like a brand. He looks bad. Tired, and bad. This isn’t new, though. He was sick, after all; He had always been sick.

Flip shifts his weight to his other foot. He ignores how his femur aches in his prosthetic. Instead, he focuses on how Cadet grabs at the ends of his bandanna. Curious; Cute.

Do not ask why he was called; That would make it seem like he was eager to leave. He must wait.

Caladium blinks. He sighs— not angry, from what Flip can tell. Or… maybe he’s wrong? His eyebrows are furrowed; His lips are trembling. But— no. Not angry. Tired. He’s simply tired, right now. Sick, and tired. He leans forward, resting one frail hand on the desk in front of him. The stark sheen of his blonde hair shines in the fluorescent light: the few strands of grey seem nothing more than a memory.

Finally, Caladium speaks.

“How are you?”

Respond immediately. Do not ignore what is said to you. Have an answer at the ready— one that proves you understand.

“I’m, uh… Good. Or— uh. Not so good. I’m fine,” Flip answers. Cadet coos at the sound of his voice, and Flip reaches out a finger for him to grab at: it is readily accepted.

Again, Caladium stares. His dark eyes narrow; Flip prepares himself. And then, it's as if the expression had never existed at all. Caladium sighs, and turns back towards his computer. Cadet coos once more, and Flip tries to busy himself in the warm smell of stars and innocence. But, as is it inevitable, he is snapped back into reality.

“That bitch destroyed all the family records,” Caladium sneers, voice low. His attention is still turned to the computer: his eyes remain dark despite the soft glow of the screen. He buries his face into his hand, and then allows that hand to travel to his hairline. He breathes. And, then, he continues. “Data, assets, ME— all of it. I have to start from square one if I want to expand. Fucking— monkey wrench.”

Do not object. Agree. Agree. Agree.

“I—”

“Don’t ask me who. I know what you were going to say,” Caladium snaps. He breathes like a bull: heavy and horrible. Flip swallows his reaction. Eventually, the normalcy returns.

Flip sends a silent apology to Gradient. He was a good brother— or, well… He did leave Flip and Palette. But… no. He was good. He was a good kid. That’s a fact.

Flip nods; The action is accepted.

"...And the rest?"

"The rest is fine."

“...Have you submitted a missing report for Palette?”

Caladium was convinced that Palette was taken. Flip… isn’t so sure about that. The possibility that Palette had met his end isn’t that farfetched. Caladium had denied reality before. Days after, once the storm had passed, Flip had checked Palette’s room. It seemed… the same. Art decorated the walls like a memorial; There was no space to doubt yourself. Quiet. But, otherwise, the same.

Palette’s penguin had been missing. But… Caladium, despite everything, remained sentimental. It wasn’t hard to imagine that he’d taken it as a comfort. Palette had been his little sun, after all. His star.

A breath. Flip lets the memory float past him. He will not engage. No— no. No, he won’t.

“I have” Caladium finally answers. He’s typing, now. The keys clack as a well known symphony. “They’re investigating— they’ve been painfully coy about the information they do have. In any case, I’ll be following up. I will find him.”

Flip gulps. He believes him.

Palette was their money maker, after all.

“I—”

“Have you thought about returning to the Ring?”

Flip blinks. He knows his mouth is hanging open— he’s quick to alter it into an expression of shock. Not disbelief— not a disagreement. He forces a silent, painful breath.

“Um…” he trails off, staring at Caladium’s waiting expression. Cadet pulls at his bandana with more force, and Flip gently redirects his grasp to the collar of his shirt. “I… uh. Haven’t. I can um— think about it? Someone would have to watch Cadet and, um. Yeah. I can think about it.”

Never say ‘no’. Always consider. Always allow yourself to be swayed.

“I could watch him. He is my child, after all,” Caladium says, voice edging on stern. His eyes have darkened beyond dark, and Flip knows he’s in the danger zone.

He doesn’t want to leave Cadet with Caladium. He doesn’t. But, maybe he has to. Maybe there’s nothing he can do. Maybe he’s wrong.

Flip looks at Cadet. All he finds is a baby. A baby who doesn’t know any better. A baby who deserves the stars.

“Okay,” Flip says, fighting against every cell in his body. Do not run. Do not hide. Do not show your thoughts.

Convince yourself you’re wrong. Convince yourself that it’s okay.

Convince yourself that he would be safe.

Caladium nods. And, with the shift in the air, Flip knows he’s been dismissed. He stares at the man who calls himself his father; He quietly shuffles every memory and fact into the cold, vastness of his mind. He breathes. And, then, he steps back out into the hallway.

The sound of Caladium’s voice, echoing like an afterimage from the lab, nearly stops Flip’s soul.

“I trust you will think about it. We all must do our part, after all.”

Flip must do his part.

Will he?

Won’t he?

Palette doesn’t feel any different.

The corridors of Nightmare’s castle seem to shine in the low moonlight. In a way it seems… brighter than when basked in the heat of day. Safer. The hallways stretch down into the depths of darkness; The stained glass illuminates the endless underpainting of grey in gentle waves of color.

Palette doesn’t know what he was expecting.

The ritual of naming still seemed… fantastical, to Palette. After three days of isolation, Palette had been called to the courtyard; There, he was met with a low to the ground wooden table, quill and ink, sheets of paper, and Nightmare: dressed in rich, heavy fabrics. Once more, Nightmare had explained the basics of naming and the power of knowledge. Once more, Palette had thought of nothing but old stories told in the comfort of dawning dusk.

In all honesty, Palette doesn’t feel as if there was anything that deserved special comment. He had shared his chosen name. Nightmare had listened. It had been written. And, then, it had been consumed.

That hadn’t been the first time that Palette had eaten paper. It likely would not be the last.

And then… it was over. The whole ceremony had lasted less than ten minutes. Nightmare had given him a reminder of their upcoming mission, and dismissed him with a single nod. Palette had walked through the courtyard, surrounded by forget-me-nots and juniper, feeling like… himself. Unchanged. Still the same, old Palette. Still the villain in this story.

Palette isn’t really thinking as he traverses the halls of the castle. With a hand settled on Daybreak’s hilt, Palette can only feel safe.

The isolation hadn’t been unwelcome. Palette had used the time to catch up on his art— his watercolor set carefully pulled from dufflebag— paints settled atop paper he’d awkwardly requested from June days prior. He was a bit rusty, but there wasn’t any better feeling than creation after a drought. The colors flowed through him: his magic and soul were fed.

Beyond that, Palette had taken the time to get himself acquainted with Daybreak.

Daybreak was… an interesting sword, Palette had come to learn. It was kind and thoughtful— peculiar traits for a blade. It warmed Palette’s hands once they began to ache; It was a guiding light in the dark of night. And, yet, it remained picky of all things. It demanded respect— fortitude. It would not be ignored and it would keep Palette at attention.

Daybreak is relatively quiet right now. It seems content, held loosely in scabbard. It warms Palette’s hand as he steps through these endless halls. The warmer, the closer; The colder, the farther. And, Daybreak is campfire hot. Palette should be at his quarters sometime soon.

That is, if Palette can manage to keep his footing.

“Woah there, kid! Is your new name ‘clumsy’?” June laughs, settling Palette back on his feet. He nods, when Palette finally regains his breath and bearings.

June smiles his eternal wide, starry grin. Palette feels a wave of relief.

It might not be the glitched smile that he knows so well. But, it is a glitched smile nonetheless. A glitched smile from someone who, at the very least, presents themselves as someone that can be trusted.

Perhaps Palette is a little quieter than usual, going by the concerned twitch of June’s brow: how the stars bloom across his cheeks.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, there,” June says, as he brushes off Palette’s shoulder. Palette simply trails the movement. He notices when the corner of June’s mouth furrows, but doesn’t process it. “...Well, hm. That’s a lie. I did want to startle you a bit,” he continues, voice still light. Palette blinks. “...Are you feeling okay? The naming treat you alright?” June asks. And then, before Palette can answer, June is taking him by the arm and guiding him down the hall.

“I’m okay,” Palette mumbles, feeling the weight of every step. He’s… tired. That’s all. The end of the week always carries fatigue; The Ring would revitalize his energy. The pattern would continue.

It doesn’t take long until June is stopping at an unremarkable door. As June opens it, Palette recognizes it as his own.

Palette walks inside and June follows.

The door remains open.

“Hold on,” June says as he circles around the bed to the nightstand. Still feeling as if his marrow has become lead, Palette allows himself to collapse into the mattress. June turns to face him with a smile, holding out the pair of boots that Palette had picked out at Oat’s.

The shoes are as cool as they were three days prior. Palette turns them around in his hands.

“Careful now,” June says, standing with one hand on his hip, “the bottom is coated with iron— all to Night’s weird specifications.”

June is correct: the soles don’t look much different from what Palette remembers, but when he looks closer he finds that there are indeed little pockets of grey embedded into the leather. And, when Palette looks even closer, he finds that there’s a little crescent moon carved into the body of the sole.

Huh.

Palettes hands the shoes back over the June. June sets them down by the foot of the bed.

The bed is soft and warm; Palette can feel the heavy ache of sleep tug at the edges of his sockets. It… had been a long week. A new week. An unforeseen, incomprehensible week. Tomorrow will carry along the new mission. Tomorrow, Palette will find himself alive once more. Tomorrow… there’s something he’s forgetting about tomorrow. Something… frightening. Something that sets his teeth on edge: a mistake? A responsibility? Something that is currently being muted by the ocean wave of sleepiness that is threatening to pull Palette down under.

Palette’s sockets flutter back open as he feels the mattress dip. June has sat himself on the edge of the bed, glitched stars dancing across the softened edges of his expression.

“What’s their name?” June asks. Palette, still fighting to keep himself aware, traces June’s gesture.

His gaze lands on his penguin.

Oh.

Palette fumbles for his words— feeling as the heat of fire ravages his cheeks. He’d tucked it away in his bag each morning, since he’d gotten here. But, he’d been alone these past few days. There had been no reason.

“I—”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” June laughs, gently patting the top of his penguin's head. “Hell, I think I know more people— adults —who sleep with a stuffed animal than those who don’t.”

Cool air drifts in through the open window; It quiets the raging heat that has infested Palette’s mind.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret…” June trails off. His nose crinkles, as he stage whispers, “Night sleeps with a stuffed bear… Well. Okay. Technically it’s our bear. He got it for me when we first started seeing each other, and then we’d switch off custody every so often. But… still.”

“...Why did you start dating him?”

There’s more to that question, but those words are all Palette can manage. Sure, Nightmare had been nicer than Palette expected. But… he was still Nightmare. And, June was June.

Once more, June pats the penguin's head. He’s gentle with the action: kind. “I mean…” he hums, brows furrowed in thought. “...He was cute.”

June snorts, as he glances back to Palette: glitches showing his mirth. He shakes his head as if to settle his thoughts. He fidgets with his hands, but Palette doesn’t pick up on any true anxiety. Perhaps… perhaps its fondness. It seems like fondness.

“...And, he was observant. And smart. And funny. I knew he wasn’t the best person. I… I know he still isn’t the best person. But, he respected me. He makes me feel safe to be, well… me. Y’know, a freak,” June winks.

Oh, yeah. That’s fondness.

Palette, briefly, wonders what that’s like: feeling safe to be yourself. Feeling like yourself. Feeling anything but tired.

Feeling like anything at all.

“I have a lot to thank him for. I mean, he’s doing me a pretty big favor right now,” June continues, voice losing steam. “...You’re doing me a big favor too, actually.”

Palette blinks.

“I hope things go alright with the mission. Night knows that he’ll be sleeping on the couch if anything happens to you. And Dust… you can trust Dust. I think? Yeah. You can. Maybe. Hm.”

Nightmare. Dust. The mission.

Oh.

The mission.

June… was supportive of the mission? It makes sense, now that Palette thinks about it. It truly seems that if June had any objections, Nightmare would listen. Of course, June would be appraised on the ongoings— perhaps even part of the initial planning.

Palette doesn’t really know, what Nightmare was planning. Of course, he knows what he’s been told: Nightmare wanted change in the Underground. Palette would be his knowledgeable guide— Palette would earn him notoriety and trust. He was chosen; He shall do what he’s told. He shall fulfill his role. It doesn’t matter for what reason and it doesn’t matter to what end.

But… why does June care?

With a sigh and huff that Palette knows only comes with age, June stands up. He hesitates, for a moment: stars still dancing across his glitched bone. And then, he smiles. It seems… almost sad.

Melancholic.

…Did June know someone in the Underground?

Someone who wanted change?

It wasn’t that far-fetched. June had connections to Multiversal sellers— Palette had done his best to ignore those he recognized at Oat’s. The possibility that June had a friend who was, in some way, affiliated… Palette could see it.

“Oh— before I let you go…”

June picks something up from the nightstand. Palette sits back up to his full height— reaching out his hands as June hands the object over.

It’s a mask.

An owl mask.

“It’s a gift, for the naming— I picked it up when I went back for everything. Uh… just thought you might like it. Maybe you could wear it as part of your costume—? You know, hide that babyface of yours.”

Palette isn’t able to truly process June’s light, joking tone. As, he’s busy turning the softly carved wood in his hands. The expression— it’s haunting. Intimidating. The beak is sharp; The feathers pointed. And, yet, there’s a sense of sadness to it. Acceptance.

It’s beautiful.

“Anyway— good luck again! If you need anything, you know where to find me. Uh, sorry for—”

“Thank you.”

June looks up from where he’s settled himself by the door, one foot already in the hallway. He blinks. And then, he snorts.

He winks, as he says, “Sleep well, don’t let the new name eat you in your sleep.”

“Goodnight,” is what Palette responds with, already halfway to dreaming, mask still resting in his hands while Daybreak blazes a comfortable warmth by his side.

Soon enough, sleep will steal him into darkness.

Soon enough, Palette will find himself back in the True Underground.

“I hope everything goes okay for you guys. Uh— tomorrow.”

Mess looks up from their drawing with an honest expression; Gradient can only stare at one particularly stubborn wayward lock of hair. They’re both sat on the soft carpet floor of Dream’s apartment: quiet light strewn through half open windows. It’s a nice space, truly. The smell of flowers and herbs coats each and every room in a sense of acceptance. Dream himself had made himself busy elsewhere, likely in an attempt to give the experience of privacy. Still, Gradient keeps his posture alert and words carefully chosen. False security is worse than open, clear cut danger. He stares down at his own drawing. He frowns at the ugly, scratched lines. He quickly begins the familiar act of erasure.

Dream has, for the most part, left Gradient to his own devices. He’s made a few attempts at conversations here and there— mostly checking on how Gradient was feeling, which felt like a trap since he should know how he’s feeling (if Gradient is understanding his magic correctly). Besides that, he’s kept Gradient fed and lingered awkwardly around doorways whenever Gradient decided to bite the bullet and explore.

It’s a curious idea, but Gradient wonders if Dream doesn’t like him. Ink, at least, seemed genuinely fascinated by Gradient’s existence. Ink wore his flaws like a badge of honor; He looked at Gradient like a sweater to be undone. To be understood.

Dream, on the other hand, just… looked at him. Unreadable. He’s been too kind. Pleasant. It’s uneasy: unnatural. He has to be hiding something; There has to be a breaking point.

Palette looked at him, too. But, Palette was his brother. Palette had a reason to care. Palette was… Palette.

If anything, tomorrow will likely deepen the hairline crack of Dream’s mask. Tomorrow will show what Gradient knows to be lurking beneath the surface. Tomorrow will give Gradient the information he needs to truly make their plan work: to right the wrongs. He needs to know Dream’s limits. He needs to know how to conduct himself.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was the first day of the mission. Tomorrow marked Gradient’s reentry back into the dark, hollow depths of the True Underground.

It was fine. He was fine. It was all perfectly, absolutely fine. He hadn’t even processed the fact that he’d be training later today, let alone the fact that the mission was starting. But, it was. That was the cold, hard truth.

“Thank you,” Gradient finally mumbles, staring at the now horrible, smudged mess of a drawing that sits in front of him. He digs the heel of his palm into his cheek. He forces himself to take a breath. “…Sorry I couldn’t hang out the other day. And, uh… sorry that I can’t tell you more,” he continues.

Oat’s had worn him out more than he had expected. It took about two days of doing nothing in Dream’s guest bedroom— staring at the swirling, pastel ceiling— for him to start to feel like a person again: to exist once more.

He can still taste the poignant crisp green upon his tongues. The peace; The balance. It had run its course through his body all too soon. And, yet, Gradient had found himself unable to ask Ink about it. The idea of asking for more seemed shy of sin itself.

Again, Mess looks up. Their pencil is held aloft in their hand as if they trust it on principle to remain. They smile, and the sun warms their already brown eyes to a deep, pure chocolate. They nod.

“There’s a school dance coming up. Um— soon,” Mess says, turning their attention back towards their drawing. They narrow their eyes at the growing field of flowers. Finally, they tuck the strand of hair behind their ear. “I mean— I know you have a lot going on, but… If you wanted to go and… Uh…”

Gradient blinks as Mess trails off.

In a singular moment every single story cliche sprints through Gradient’s mind.

“Are you—”

“—With my friends. We’d uh— all be going as a group. I think? I’d have to double check if he was being serious but he usually is serious. Except for when he isn’t. So… Yeah. I could get you in and show you around?”

Oh. That makes sense. Gradient stares down at his now disturbed, blurred mess of a drawing. It’s of an old character that he and… was it Vee? Flip? Definitely not Blueprint. The design seems… tamer than what any of them would have requested. Maybe it was Palette? Or even Trebuchet. But, in any case, it had been a character he’d created with a sibling, once upon a time. The muddled form stares back up at Gradient. Gradient tries to not stare back.

He chews at the inside of his cheek. He’d… never actually been inside an inhabited school. Abandoned— sure: they made good resting spots, after all. But… nothing lived in. Nothing actually used.

“Uh… sure,” he mumbles, frowning as the paper rips from another swipe of his eraser.

“You don’t have to,” Mess continues, expression taking on an air of concern. “I just thought I’d ask. You know uh… give you something else to think about besides—” they wave their free hand “—evil fight arena stuff. If you don’t want to, we could just keep on hanging out normally. Maybe… you could sleep over sometime? Something.”

Gradient snorts. He scrunches up his nose as a glitch— a tic, wracks his neck. “So, so evil,” he deadpans, as the corners of his mouth twitch up into a smile. “...I’ll think about it.”

A moment passes, and then Mess flashes him yet another signature smile. Here in the light, the awkward but weirdly fitting gap in their teeth shines clear.

Wait.

“Is that a gap, or are you missing a tooth?” Gradient points to his own teeth, before being hit with the crushing, overwhelming realization that you don’t just say that to someone.

But Before Gradient can busy himself with trying to manifest a sinkhole to whisk him away, Mess is leaning forward with their fingers hooked into the corners of their mouth.

“Missing tooth!” they slur, showing off the now obvious absence. They remove their hands, wiping them on the fabric of their shorts, as they smile once again. “It’s been like a year since I lost it? It was always a little small and weird. It was just a matter of time before it got knocked out. Error was actually the one to do it! Blue felt pretty bad when he finally realized what happened…”

Gradient blinks.

“E-Error?” he mumbles, finally setting down his own pencil. He tilts his head: curious. He… he knows that Mess had seen Error. But… still, it’s weird to hear the confirmation outloud.

Mess leans back, once more tucking back the same wayward strand of hair as they respond with, “Yeah! Turns out he is not a fan of heights. It wasn’t even on purpose but,” Mess shrugs, “still got knocked out mid flight.”

“You… flew with him?”

“Oh, yeah! To Nightmare’s castle—”

“You went to Nightmare’s castle?”

Gradient stares at Mess’ now abashed look, a coat of blush dusted across their freckled cheeks. They clear their throat. “I uh… actually deliver mail there normally! It’s not that scary, really. Nightmare is…”

“...Kinda just a guy?”

A guy with a glitched boyfriend. A fully glitched boyfriend. Gradient is doing his best to tuck the thought of June away; He can ponder and ask questions after tomorrow.

“Yes,” Mess accepts Gradient’s interjection with a yelp of laughter. “He’s like… well okay he’s evil but, like…”

Gradient ponders for a moment, pulling up the image of the King of Darkness’ in his mind. Again, he would still firmly stand by the claim that Dream was the intimidating one of the two. Nightmare… Nightmare was, well… a monster. Normal. Evil. But, normal. Anger was familiar; Anger was safe.

“...Anyway. I took Blue and Error over to Nightmare’s castle…” Mess continues with a wave of their hand before trailing off, apparently processing Gradient’s still solidly confused expression. “Actually, remember when the Multiverse got weird? It has to do with that. Here, lemme tell you the whole story—”

Mess flips over their paper, and motions to Gradient. Gradient moves to their side, brow still raised in curiosity. The sunlight feels nice, here. Warm.

“So,” Mess begins. “It all started when I met another friend of mine, Orion… ”

June’s shop is silent.

Trebuchet would say it is a silence of three parts, but the time for poorly known references had long since passed. As, night was falling upon this corner of the Omega Timeline, and Trebuchet found himself occupied with the painstaking act of counting gold.

Well, it was only painstaking insofar as it was supposed to be painstaking. Trebuchet, in all honesty, found it to be one of his favorite tasks here at the shop. It wasn’t even required of him— June had made that clear enough. But, Trebuchet enjoyed the simple, repetitive action. The movement of gold falling upon old, aged wood was hypnotizing; He found himself bound to this little known dance.

Trebuchet allows another handful of gold to tumble from its careful place within his palm. It clatters to the counter: water droplets coursing down a rushing river.

There’s a shuffling, somewhere in the backroom. June is no doubt reorganizing— one of his favorite activities. He wouldn’t be staying for much longer though, he had a boyfriend to get back home to, after all.

…The Boyfriend.

He wasn’t as bad as Trebuchet had first assumed. Trebuchet had been suspicious, of course; Younger nephews (or, siblings? June was family— the title simply morphed to whatever made a punchline hit best) were supposed to be suspicious of new partners. But… even without the guiding role of his role, Trebuchet would have found himself suspicious regardless.

The Boyfriend (while he had proven himself to be the bare minimum, had not yet earned the right to be addressed by name) was… Well, ignoring the stampeding hoard of elephants in the room, at least interesting. Trebuchet had spent a decent amount of time in his presence when he had appeared to make June’s shop his home. And then, he had spent even more time with him when he had made June’s shop his home during his little… recovery.

Trebuchet would likely see him more again, when the renovations of June’s apartment were finished. Trebuchet… doesn’t exactly know what to think of it. There isn’t exactly a TV trope or character archetype to inform him on how to feel, here. As such, Trebuchet turns his attention back to the piling gold. He tries to tune his mind quiet.

Boyfriend. His boyfriend.

Snowy.

Trebuchet suppresses a groan.

Snowy is… Well, he’s Snowy. His boyfriend. If he actually inhabited the role well, was another answer to another question. But, Trebuchet was sticking with it. They were going to make it to the dance— whether it killed him or not. They would wear matching outfits, take awkward photos, and dance with the appropriate six inches between them. June would be there as chaperone, if anything went amiss. Which, it wouldn’t. Because it would be fine. Because Trebuchet was sticking with it.

Even if it hurt him. Even if it made his soul ache.

…His soul, was in fact, currently aching.

In a moment— and it does only take a moment, the sudden, slithering sense of wrongness sets in.

It isn’t super obvious at first. It never is, for that matter. Trebuchet is still busy counting, hand poised over familiar coin, when he finds his breath no longer reaches where it should. He pauses— a second. He stares down at his hands: kept Vaganova as always. They are not trembling. He continues.

He tries to continue, at least.

Months. It had been months since Trebuchet had last had an… event. Maybe it’s stupid, but Trebuchet had hoped that it would never happen again. He had been promised, after all. He’d been told that, soon enough, he would have nothing to worry about. Trebuchet had trusted. Trebuchet had allowed himself to trust.

The pain starts in his fingertips.

He’s quick to ignore it— blame it on overuse of his hands. It was a long day of notes, worksheets, and tests. Sure, he had an image of careful indifference to uphold; But, at the end of the night, his desire to prove his worth would always triumph. The electric burn travels through his fingertips, scatters up his arm, flutters past his shoulders, dances across his ribs, and finally lands squarely into his chest.

Trebuchet shudders. He grasps onto the counter, his gaze laser focused towards the swirling grain.

He’s fine. It isn’t happening. Trebuchet is fine.

Rust. It smells like rust.

Iron and rust.

The floor is as welcoming as it can be, when he collapses: his knees finally giving out beneath the pressure. The dance is ingrained— Trebuchet knows exactly how to fall to escape serious injury. He also knows how to fall to gain the most sympathy, but, for now, there is no audience but himself. As such, he leans into the motion and lets his shins take the brunt.

Once again, he is met with wood. It feels like splinters beneath his palms, but that’s likely the last sputters of magic coursing through his marrow: dried and dusted to a point. He reaches for a breath; All he finds is absence.

He’s dying.

Trebuchet is dying.

It was inevitable, of course. He had evaded it for long enough; He had spurned the cycle of life with a carefully placed smile and well rehearsed lines. Luck had followed at heel: a loyal dog that had found its pack. And yet, he was marked. Branded. Trebuchet’s role, since the age of ten, had been burnt like a body at a stake into his very being.

It doesn’t matter, that he had escaped. It never mattered. He would always be. And, it would always follow.

Is this… Is this how Blueprint had felt?

He doesn’t know if it was painful. He doesn’t know how long he had held on for: if he had called out for help; If he had held any regret, any last thoughts. All they know— all Trebuchet knows— is that one day he was there, and the next he was nothing but dust.

Dust— would he dust?

Would there be anything to find?

Would… Would they know? Or, would they assume he’d left— once more, alone and on the run. Abandonment wasn’t exactly a foreign concept, when it came to him: he had a fair share of practice. Perhaps it would be the best. Perhaps it would be fitting, for his character.

He doesn’t want to be forgotten, though.

Not again.

With trembling hand, Trebuchet reaches up and brushes his palm against one of his tentacles: it comes back coated and running with ink. It burns like acid but everything is burning like acid, so really, even if but for these last few moments, it is his normal. It is fine. He is fine. He is dying. And, he is fine.

Perfect.

He’s about to reach back down— scrawl something down: something meaningful, something heartful, something sad, something funny, something. When, he feels his joints lock.

No.

No.

That’s— that’s just unfair. That’s stupid. That’s… anticlimactic. It burns and it hurts and it aches and it’s all going to be for nothing. Once more, he will have run. Once more, he will have left all that had made him. And, once more, he will be forgotten. He will have failed his family; He will have failed himself.

That isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

“C’mon, kiddo. Breathe— you need to breathe.”

In this moment, vision splotched ocean dark and senses dulled like a crowd for curtain call, Trebuchet is only able to focus on the sturdy arms that roll him over onto his side. Limbs still beholden to gravity and gravity alone— he thumps over into the position, head quickly cushioned on top of his humerus with a hiss of sympathy from the figure above him.

Is that—?

He knows that comfort.

He knows that touch.

“Blue?” Trebuchet wheezes, coughing up what feels to be pure, molten lava. His vision still hasn’t cleared, and his body remains weighed down by guilt and poor circumstances. He tries to look up: to confirm. All he’s met with is gentle touch guiding him back down.

It’s familiar; Something about this is familiar. But, still, it’s… off.

“Hmmm,” the figure above him hums. “Not exactly— do you remember who I am? Your, uh—”

“...Brother,” Trebuchet mumbles, tongue feeling like lead in his mouth. It doesn’t fit exactly. But, it is all he can find. It’ll work, for now. For this moment; For this scene.

Silence infests the air. Slowly, ever so slowly, his vision begins to return to its rightful existence.

Kneeling in front of him is… it’s still a little too blurry to truly process. Trebuchet is on the floor— wood, by feel. He’s behind a counter, shaded by its width. Which, likely, means he’s in some sort of shop. And, now wearing a concerned expression like a well knit sweater is… someone glitched? Someone… safe?

If it isn’t Blue… Then… no. No, it’s not her. It can’t be any of them.

And, so, one question remains:

Is he safe?

It doesn’t smell like sugar. The air doesn’t taste of bitter sweetness. He’s in pain but it doesn’t feel like guilt and remorse.

He breathes.

The air flows.

“I was, uh… actually going to ask if your memory was working but…”

“June?”

The memory snaps back into place. The puzzle has been righted.

June snorts, from where he’s rested by Trebuchet’s side. His hand is warm where its resting upon his shoulder— palms no doubt coated with the thick, oil like ink. It had been weird at first, how unafraid June was of handling him. He had cleaned up spilled ink with a smile to rival a madman; He had left the ugly, gross, and disturbing alone without any stray comment.

He could have run. He could have left.

But, June had stayed.

“...You scared me.”

June’s voice catches on a glitch, as he mutters that quiet admission. It… tastes solemn. Sullen; Sacred. Trebuchet blinks away the remaining darkness of his vision and is met with the peaceful dark, silence of the shop he knows so well. His limbs burn. Well, everything burns, actually. But, with a small twitch of his fingers, the feeling has begun to return. The reality sets in.

He’s fine. He isn’t dead. He has more time.

Trebuchet is alive.

And, still, his soul aches.

“It’s supposed to be over,” he mumbles.

That chapter was supposed to be done. That storybook was supposed to be closed. And, yet, here Trebuchet is: still marked. Still in pain. Still in a constant, eternal state of fear and paranoia. It doesn’t matter, how well he hides. He would suffer the consequences. The threat of death— unsatisfying endings— would always loom.

It was stupid. It was all so stupid.

If only he had stayed in character. If only he hadn’t lived in fear. If only he was brave enough to use his magic, after all was said and done.

They couldn’t even track him for Stars sake. This was his fault. His own stupid, idiotic fault. He’d refused to indulge in what made him and he found himself stunted for it. Stunted and permanently taunted with the ending around the corner. Maybe dying didn’t even hurt; Maybe the Golden Flower Protocol wasn’t even real. Maybe this was just punishment for his own selfish actions.

Maybe this is what he deserves.

Pain: a reminder.

“Kid— you’re working yourself up, I can tell. Take a breath with me.”

“You said it would be over,” Trebuchet hisses, having drawn himself up onto his forearms. He ignores how he shakes— all he can think about is a promise made in vulnerability, likely coated in lies and deceit.

June looks at him. And then, June sighs.

His voice is kind, when he speaks. Not pitiful. But, still, gentle. He steadies Trebuchet by the shoulders, and guides him up into a more comfortable sitting position. He frowns: slight. He brushes a stray clump of ink from Trebuchet’s mouth.

“I said it would be worked on. You’ll know when it’s over, because you’ll be showing your soul to a doctor. You know, like you promised.”

Trebuchet blinks. He tries his best to avoid June’s stern, painfully pointed gaze.

June is safe. June can be trusted. June does not smell like cotton candy and clementines. Trebuchet backs down.

“Now,” June continues, “you feeling okay enough to take a portal back to your moms? Or, do you need some more time to goop all over my floor?”

Trebuchet can’t help but snort at June’s teasing tone, a careful smile finally gracing his own face. With his regained power he tries to start the tedious task of standing, when, of course, his body gives out. June is there to catch him, though— diligent as always. It doesn’t take long before Trebuchet finds himself scooped up like a bag of potatoes as he’s thrown over June’s shoulder.

“...I’m taking that as you need some more goop time. How does Ponyo and popcorn sound?” June asks, likely already knowing the answer. Trebuchet knows when they enter June’s apartment— the warmth and comfort falling into place like a droplet in an ocean as the door clicks open and shut. June feels of static: an old, loved memory.

“...Thank you, Uncle Junie.”

June pauses. A silent, peaceful moment passes. He hums.

“Anything for you, kid.”