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howlsofbloodhounds · 4 months

Text

TW:

A Genocide run.

Abandonment.

Killer dehumanizing and objectifying himself.

Self harm, self mutilatation, stabbing.

Breakdown.

Mentioned suicide.

Mentioned character death.

Mentioned starvation and forced cannibalism.

Psychological torture

Chara & Killer are codependent asf

I’ve mentioned this briefly before but I kinda HC that there’s basically a Bad Ending to Killer’s story where Chara/the Player loses interest in him, and just stops appearing. Stops Resetting completely.

And Killer thinks he can still feel Chara’s presence, can still sense them through their shared DT and fused souls. But he can’t communicate to or with them, no matter how hard he tries.

And at first Killer didn’t think anything of it. Chara wasn’t at their usual meeting spot when he woke back up from the last Reset, and he just figured that maybe they’re busy and will meet him there soon.

Time draws on and they still aren’t there. Killer tries to stop himself from asking any questions about it, it’s not his place to question his partner.

But eventually he can’t stop the questions. He’s being doing that a lot more lately.

Questions. Question. Questioning. Questions.

Doubt. Disobedience. Useless. Malfunctioning.

Chara isn’t there yet, the creatures are still alive. Which means that his partner hasn’t started the game without him.

But what if they did?

Have we displeased them recently? Surely not..we did everything right.

Except for the time we hesitated. Again.

He was just a child..

He was weak.

…A Reset hasn’t happened. What if Chara somehow slipped up? What if they were injured?

Would they be mad at him if he left the spot, or would they be mad at him if he doesn’t immediately go looking for them?

For a while he’s stuck. Just standing there and debating in his head.

A part of him urges that he should go check on Chara. Another suggests he stay where he is. A stray thought considers starting the route without his partner.

His thoughts leave him in a moment of confusion. He doesn’t know what to do, there were no leftover directives. He doesn’t have any tasks to complete. He keeps thinking about all the ways he could’ve upset them, and what that could mean for him.

And right when he senses something closing in on him, tightening around his throat like a noose and weighing him down, something inside — he doesn’t know what — orders him to find Chara. Now.

The body moves on its own, before his mind can even catch up, heading out of Snowden and towards the doors of the Ruins.

They’ll be waiting for us there. They will give us our tasks for the day.

And if they aren’t?

Killer tries to ignore how the lack of an answer throws him off, although the body doesn’t falter, despite the way the soul wavers slightly.

Too much emotion.

We do not need to be Stage 1 right now.

Objective: Find Them. They will fix us.

Killer’s mind turns off, as soon as the new task is registered. The soul stops trembling for a moment, but the leaky eyed skeleton is far too focused to notice, and too blank to care.

The new voice, the orders coming from within, are a new experience. Stage 2 would almost be..”thrilled” by having something new, if it weren’t currently trudging through the snow with a single minded focus.

Stay hidden. Do not let yourself be seen. We cannot afford distractions, nor starting the route without Them.

The body doesn’t question, quietly slipping behind and between the nearest buildings as quickly as possible. Which wasn’t as fast as Killer would’ve hoped.

We are growing weak. When did we last rest?

Who cares. Keep going.

We can’t. We’ll crash—

Shortcut. Destination: the doors of the Ruins.

Magic tugs at Killer’s core before it can even began to consider the ramifications of magic usage from an already drained body, as if the body was just moving with blind faith and purpose.

Something tells Killer that the ramifications were already considered before hand, and dismissed as not important: judging from the sense of satisfaction that came from within the soul, as soon the body completed its assigned task.

Even stumbling and falling face first into the hard ground wasn’t enough to stop the skeletal frame from shuddering with what Killer could only assume was glee; the phantom feeling of a small, skinned hand lightly grazing his cheek. A reward, for a successful completion.

As he forced the body back on to its knees, ignoring how even that seemed like a Herculean effort, something vicious stirred within him.

Weak. Pathetic.

It’s trying its best!

We try everything to feel. And this waste of space gets to take it all?!

Please don’t do this…

But the decision was already made, as Killer summoned a knife into his hands and plunged it into the body’s arm; brutally twisting at the handle. The blood splattered over the face Killer was forced to wear, red liquid gushing down the thin, spider cracked, white bone.

The body fell forward, a scream tearing out from clenched teeth. As the blood leaked from the deep wound, coating the snow, Killer couldn’t fight the cackle that escaped him in between the body’s sobs. Tears— actual tears!!— ran down the face, diluting the dark determination, and mixing with the red on the white beneath the knobby knees.

“At least you’re good for one thing,” Killer hissed at seemingly no one, the words echoing through the skull, but he and his other selves knew who he was talking to. So did it, as the star of the morbid painting on display, curling in on itself. Attempting to hide. From him. Good. “Blood always did look good on you.”

It doesn’t take long for that spite to pass, the familiar haze settling over his shoulders, and for a moment Killer can only numbly watch as the blood keeps gushing.

..nothing new.

You’d think that you would realize that after the first million times. Of course we wouldn’t feel it.

It deserved it.

No one deserves that.

We do.

Quiet. On your feet.

Immediately, the body attempts to stand. It falters, and Killer growls when his shoulder hits the side of the wall; jostling the knife. The body whimpers, as if sensing how the usually apathetic presence was growing increasingly displeased. But it kept going, an obedient little dog, as Chara always said.

Obedient little bitch.

You’re so mean..

Hush. Find Them. You are malfunctioning.

The voice said it multiple times already, but yet. That’s the one that finally seemed to sink in for Killer.

Malfunction. Malfunctioning. Malfunction.

An error. Error. Error. Error. Errorerrorerroreroor errorerrorerrorerror—

Objective: Find Them.

The blood kept dripping, and Killer couldn’t focus on anything except how he couldn’t feel the warmth of it on the bones, in contrast against what he could only guess was a biting chill.

Where are They?

Find Them.

Where’s Chara?

The world tilted, and the body drops sideways. Killer faintly heard a grunt leave the sack of bones he inhabited, the skull slumping against the door of the Ruins then down on the shoulder.

Get up.

He couldn’t. It wouldn’t listen, the head laid limp and weak like a marionette that had been cut loose from its strings.

“ Up. Get up.” The body (?) mumbled, though the words hardly reached Killer. And the bones weren’t budging this time, hardly even a twitch of the finger. He couldn’t shake the sudden drop in his core, the overwhelming empty. It felt like a lifeless carcass.

Discarded doll.

..Something told Killer he wasn’t going to be fixed this time.

—

And then from there, two things happen. Killer fails or succeeds at drawing Chara’s interest again.

He fails, he dies. He has no clue how long he lasts, how many days or even years pass. He doesn’t recall when he decided to do his own Genocide Route. He knows it was Stage 3; another one of its panic induced, feral meltdowns.

The details are fuzzy, and he can’t truly can’t muster much care about how Chara could potentially be pissed about it. He’s struggling to remember what a body requires to survive.

He doesn’t need food, or rest, or sleep. He never felt hunger or pain or exhaustion before in his life. He’s never felt anything before.

Remembering to eat and drink and sleep was..rather simple at first. Easy ways to quiet his mind, squash any and all questions and doubts for the moment.

Then the tasks became..boring. Routine, he could mindlessly do it all without requiring focus. And that only gave his thoughts time to wonder and ponder over things he never had before. Never needed to before.

The commanding voice inside never goes away. It gets strange when Stage 2 gets like that, starts dishing out new tasks and missions as if trying to redirect Killer’s focus. Keep him away from thinking.

Chara always did say they could never leave him alone with his thoughts. “Who knew what dangers would spawn from that?!” They’d laugh, squeezing on Killer’s wrist with that face splitting grin.

What dangers, indeed…

In this ending, it doesn’t matter what dangers it could’ve spawned. Killer dies, someway, somehow. Maybe he kills himself: either from guilt, a desperate need for something more, or a breakdown. Maybe even he kills himself believing that it won’t matter, because They will bring them back.

They always bring him back.

Or maybe he dies from starvation. The food runs out, the Core shuts down, and eating days (weeks? Years? Centuries?) old monster dust doesn’t sustain the body. Until it’s chugging along on nothing more than fading Determination and blind devotion. Until, finally, his will runs out; and he’s just more dust among the many.

But in the other ending, when Chara returns for them. That’s when the thoughts actually become a danger. When the second Killer finally realizes that a life without Chara is not only possible, but something he wants.

He can see all the possibilities now. New experiences, new places to explore, new people to meet and fight and kill. Maybe he could even find that ever elusive love he read about in the comics? So much new.

And isn’t that insane? He’s never wanted something before. But he wants this more than anything.

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