Chapter Text
Chapter 1: We Are All on the Brink of the End
Black sockets—polished ebony mirroring the absolute blackness of a singularity—swirled slowly within the skull. The deep voids seemed to suck in what little light remained, swallowing even the faint glow of the surrounding bone. He was, literally, at the edge of the bridge, the last living piece of the multiverse. A white, silent abyss staring into a black, starless void. If he could sing now, the song would be about the mourning of what his home had become.
If he could still feel, he bet a glacial wave of rage, sadness, loneliness, and above all, crushing guilt would have swept over him. He could almost hear Umbra roaring and rebuking him for blocking his feelings—for allowing that corrosive negativity to accumulate; Gloul offering something sweet in consolation; Murder standing silently by his side, ready to listen; Silt offering a fight to clear his head; Green calling him an idiot... and Corvo, with a relaxed smile, talking nonsense that would eventually make him feel better.
But it wasn't as if he needed to feel anything again. Unfortunately for the physical incarnation of destruction, it was the end. The irony was that he had tried to prevent this exact outcome for millennia.
He tried friendship; he tried dialogue. He strove, he fought, but there were burdens that not even a God of Balance could bear. Losing everyone and everything he loved was one; losing the worlds he swore to protect was another; and enduring the incessant torture of the psychosis of a unrequited love was, undoubtedly, the worst. Knowing that his hands and wings were used to destroy what he did not choose was the final straw. He didn't need sensations to have that cold certainty.
The void before him looked like a warped mirror. He knew his sockets were darker, deeper than the primordial essence of Death or Negativity in their worst moments of pain or fury. They were different from the twinkling stars his family loved so much in his eyes. He knew his wings, once imposing, were far from the ethereal and vibrant glow he once cherished; now they were just opaque, tattered fragments weighing on his back.
Everything was empty, hollow—an exact replica of the day he was born, before he had a purpose.
And, of course, the culprit for all this annihilation had survived by his side.
Like him, The Protector was a skeleton, but instead of ebony, he was a milky white, and he possessed no wings. He did, however, have extra limbs of a strange color that he had learned to hate with a passion. He had made sure those limbs were broken, crushed, and painfully immobilized. He made sure he lived through every death of someone he loved, in the same way he killed people before he could even know them.
After everything, it seemed all his effort had been in vain. He couldn't save his family, nor the worlds. He felt as each of them retreated into his core, returning to essence, taking their stories and souls with them. It was the final pain, the cosmic mourning engraved in his being.
His empty eyes fixed on the white, stretched, and pierced figure before him.
"Are you happy now? There is absolutely nothing left. Was this the perfection you sought?"
In the end, the torture wasn't for him, but for those he loved. He knew that his family—with a few exceptions—would have preferred to imprison the Creator rather than kill him; to show mercy, to be better than the monster. But that wasn't why he let the abomination live.
His voice came out robotic, harsh, devoid of melody, like binary code being recited. He noticed the Creator staring at him with an expression of emptiness and ignorance.
Who would have thought he finally broke?
All that time together, all the manipulation, torture, lies, and deaths... and the Creator seemed genuinely lost at his state. It only proved how pathetic the emotions and goals of his counterpart were.
"No," the word was an ethereal whisper. Startled? Afraid? Sad? Pipeline didn't really care about the note that escaped the other skeleton's metaphorical throat.
"You know all I wanted was for you to—"
"Love you?" He cut off the skeleton's words with a lifeless sound, sharp as glass.
He turned his head to face the white skull, observing the music-note pupils that reflected the catastrophe. "After everything you did? After forcing me to endure this pain, do you really think I care about any shred of your feelings?"
He imagined his enemy would deign to kneel, begging, if he weren't immobilized, impaled like a voodoo doll.
The Creator's response was an oppressive silence.
He returned his gaze to the void. The void stared back, but he knew it was different from the first time. As desolate as the situation was, Pipeline would never be that empty. He would not be a hollow being or a simple devourer of souls. It took him millennia to build himself, to become more than destruction. But now, there was nothing left to fight for; no friends, children, family, or worlds.
The Creator managed to stop the noise, and it cost everything.
The Anti-Void was only deafening silence. He would even accept the booming voice of the original Creators now, but they were long gone. The only thing left was the Destroyer and the "Protector," alone.
Or perhaps not...
He watched the Protector from the corner of his eye. Hurting him for everything he had done brought no satisfaction. He wanted to do more than hurt; he wanted to destroy.
He knew that self-destructing would provide the perfect result to end the cycle, but he was also the last spark of memory for the people who lived and died in this multiverse. If he destroyed himself, he would erase their final records. And he was too selfish to do that to their memory.
But there was a middle ground...
"I hate you."
The confession was spoken without looking back, a cold and indisputable truth.
"With every fiber of my being, in every line of my code, it is recorded how much I hate you. You are a selfish being; you took absolutely everything from me and you still cry as if you were the victim."
He heard muffled sobs from behind him, the sound cutting through the silence.
"I accepted you. I reasoned. I fought for you. I gave you thousands of chances while we repeated this tragedy over and over again. Honestly, if we were just an AU, I would have destroyed it a long time ago," he spat the word 'AU' like poison.
"But you know..." he said, dragging the words out slowly, with effort. "You cannot completely destroy our world without destroying me or being destroyed in the process. As long as one of us exists, this place, this bridge of desolation, will exist," he whispered. "That made me think: what is the worst thing I could put you through? Imprisoning you and rebuilding everything? That wouldn't work. I can only do half the process; after all, my soul is made of them. I am 'me' literally because they existed; they exist because they made me exist. Before that, I was nothing," he admitted, an old ache in his voice. "So, if I destroyed myself to hurt you, I would only hurt the rest of them and everything I promised to protect. And for what? To restart? To begin all over again? Repeating the cycle won't change anything; it would just generate a repetitive cycle of pain..."
He took a step toward the precipice.
"There is only one middle ground."
He looked into the deep abyss, the devouring void. He remembered being nothing; he remembered the day he woke up. Was this how he used to be?
Before falling, he looked directly into Pipeline's music-note pupils, stuck in his sockets like the stars that should have floated in his own.
"I need to exist so they don't disappear. But I refuse to exist in the same space as you. I want you to suffer, and I know there is nothing more desolate than absolute loneliness."
The Protector seemed to freeze for a second before trying to break free, cracking his bones even further in the process. "No, wait, Pipeline! I’ll fix it! I’ll fix it! We can do better! No, look at me! No! No! Don't abandon me! Let's start over!"
The Protector couldn't move, trapped in agony, as he watched the Destroyer walk away.
"You will stay here, in your 'perfect' world, completely alone, until one of us finally dies. Then, perhaps, this hell will end."
With one last resolute step, the Destroyer tumbled forward. He was swallowed by the abyss, and the VOID accepted him into its arms.
THE VOID. It wasn't the 'end of the world' metaphorically speaking. The Void was everywhere; it existed before anything began to form, and it allowed that 'something' to form. The Void was not a person, but an Essence: sentient, primary, the first and the last. Trying to explain it wouldn't make sense; it was a cosmic Schrödinger effect—an older, unique, and interconnected being, an omnipresent consciousness. It had many 'little brothers' and 'little sisters' too, though consciousnesses had no gender.
Não era o 'fim do mundo' em sentido metafórico. O Vazio estava em toda parte; existia antes de qualquer coisa começar a se formar e permitiu que esse 'algo' se formasse. O Vazio não era uma pessoa, mas uma Essência: senciente, primordial, a primeira e a última. Tentar explicá-lo não faria sentido; era um efeito Schrödinger cósmico — um ser mais antigo, único e interconectado, uma consciência onipresente. Tinha muitos 'irmãos e irmãs menores' também, embora as consciências não tivessem gênero.
Some known titles would be Love, Destiny, Faith, Hope, but it was just an infinite pyramid. This overwhelming quantity eventually created multiverses, as two beings called 'Love' could not exist in the same space. It had a massive family and loved each one, whether they were good or... bad. Sometimes, its siblings needed to be reminded of the reason for their existence: the greater the being, the more it must serve.
Sadly, it saw its brother Kismet (Destiny) begin to disappear. There was no longer a reason for his existence because that place no longer existed.
Kismet was a hopeful child; he always wanted people to release their own destinies. He authorized the entry of Creators so that his space would gain life, and, of course, Death and Destruction came with it. But Destruction, in particular, was very precious to Kismet because, to begin with, destruction shouldn't be conscious; it should just be there. It shouldn't have sense, opinion, or reason, but it managed to obtain them. It was the mistake Kismet loved most: a life with self-awareness simply because it wanted it. It was the closest and furthest thing from his own 'species,' and it was magnificent.
Kismet was completely in love.
He quickly let go of the reins and watched that being grow as a 'person,' learning at every step what it means to have a conscience. It was fascinating... until it wasn't.
Thousands of years later, the worlds broke, as did the Destroyer, and Kismet, who had already lost any control, simply wept Essence.
As he disappeared, Kismet implored the Void and Fate to help Pipeline, making a deal.
On the other side of the scale...
The situation with Fate (another Entity) wasn't much better. The whispers she sent to her protector were ignored. Though in a very different way, the fate of its inhabitants was going from bad to worse. There were even out-of-line Creators who made their Destroyers... self-destruct. Furthermore, there were so many released Creators and so many copies that her space was running out. She even had to drive her Destroyers insane so they would carry out an emergency carnage... many did not survive.
The last Destroyer she caught was the one who had lasted the longest, but he was also the youngest and the most damaged. By the stars, Fate didn't want to see this again, especially with a child in terms of a Destroyer. She was desperate.
She wanted to kick some of her children who caused so much destruction out of ignorance and wanted to kill the idiots who did it just because they could, using the excuse "he is evil" as an answer.
Someone needed to fix her multiverse.
The Destroyer, Pipeline, wrapped in the mist of the Void, felt the presence of the Essences. His mental voice reverberated, low and worn:
"So, you want me to save them?"
Fate did not speak with words. Her response was a wave of consent, a subtle warmth in the coldness of the Void, laden with tired urgency.
The Void gave its authorization with the deep silence that was its nature, an acceptance that swallowed doubt.
And Kismet begged with a vibration of pain and longing.
"...." Pipeline's pause was long.
Fate responded with a pulse of melancholy denial. No. Rather than let my beings die, I am tired. So tired. I just want my world to live. Fate conveyed that this would give Pipeline the chance to see the people he loved again, even if they were new versions of them.
"But it won't be them. All that’s left of them is in my heart. Aren't they just music and memories, codes of their stories?" Pipeline's voice was even more brittle.
Fate conveyed that she understood. But I beg you not to let another world die.
"I don't know if I can bear it. I might just shatter the moment I have feelings again."
Kismet whispered Essence about the beginning of Pipeline's life, of how he changed and remodeled himself to truly exist. Fate no longer had control over her inhabitants. And the creators love to play "what if?" Many versions of the people Pipeline knows suffered much more in this world because there was no Pipeline to help. Kismet begged Pipeline to live, to show and teach everything he learned. His family might not be here. That is no reason to isolate himself. Wouldn't that make their deaths even more in vain? More than just remembering the stories—singing them and teaching them—wouldn't that honor them?
It's not enough to be a memory bank. Someone has to listen to those memories for them to be precious. Someone besides Pipeline.
Kismet, Void, and Fate showed, in unison, a whirlwind of scenes—from the best to the worst memories of Pipeline's life. It cannot all be in vain. If not in your world, then perhaps somewhere else.
Fate conveyed a memory of Pipeline's spouse: "A soul will never yield until it accepts its end."
Pipeline sighed, a sound that wasn't air, but the agony of Essence: "You really saw 'everything,' didn't you? Even when all that was happening."
A heavy, uncomfortable silence answered yes.
They conveyed that they could do nothing. We can speak. We can guide. But we are not Creators or real people to stop it. We simply are Existence. We want to serve our purpose. They asked for forgiveness.
"There is no reason to ask for forgiveness. You are above us, but still, below us. I cannot demand that you simply fix something you have no control over. It's like asking a tree not to drink the water that falls on it, or a shadow to block the sun. Isn't it?"
The Essences conveyed that they would 'blink' in surprise if they could.
Void and Fate asked Kismet how a being like that was born in his space. Kismet replied that, like them, Pipeline simply resolved to exist.
Pipeline interrupted the entities' murmurs with a growing focus in his mind: "Will I still have my powers there? Won't having another Destroyer upset the balance of your multiverse?"
Fate conveyed a feeling of deflection and shame.
"...That bad?"
Kismet and Void defended Fate. It wouldn't be that bad, but the 'goody-two-shoes' side of the balance is very ignorant. Negativity and positivity are unbalanced, just like destruction and creation. They aren't truly malicious like the Protector Pipeline knows, but simply blind to seeing that something isn't right. The version of Green in that place wasn't so bad but wasn't allowed to grow. Fate reminded him that this "Sans" was a good friend of Pipeline and did much for the multiverse even being mortal. The central problem, however, was her son, the Protector, who is deaf and thinks destruction and negativity are malicious interferences. It’s a miracle Death escaped these issues with a little help from Fate.
"Let me guess: it won't be as simple as destroying the interferences, will it? Or will I have to help all of them, even the ignorant version of Creation?" His voice was resigned but firm.
They conveyed that they agreed in Essence, but said that as a last, last resort, if they were beyond salvation...
"I see. So I just have to do what I've always done. And it's good to know you don't want some kind of ruler... although by your 'expression,' I'll have to be a tougher type, am I right?"
The entities looked away again, and something like 'if the shell fits' came from them.
Pipeline closed his sockets and 'breathed' deeply in the Void. When he opened them again, two bright dots appeared in the black depths, and the Essences seemed to ripple around as if relieved.
"This is the most I can give, at least without damaging myself until I find someone who can help..." His voice now had a bit of emotion: tired, shaken, and a bit sad. But then he 'observed' Kismet: "But you are the link to my old world, aren't you? If you die, Melody will have the death she would probably be begging for now." He spoke in a venomous tone, with the two dots in his eyes turning reddish-green and narrow like a serpent's. "I do not accept that."
Kismet let out something like profound sadness before conveying that his 'death' would take a few thousand years to complete. He promised that the Protector would suffer.
Pipeline had a moment of silence before reluctantly accepting the answer. "Thank you," he whispered.
It is we who thank you.
The Void watched the being closest to its essence emerge, with a dejected, resigned, exhausted, lost countenance, but still carrying a spark of hope. Metaphorically, the Void swallowed hard, hoping that Pipeline, as a god of destruction, would judge that multiverse worthy of redemption. That his emptiness could repair the mistakes made by gods and mortals. For if even he cannot save them, may existence itself sustain them... because the rest of it will be irretrievably lost.
Multiverse FG00D-01000101 01110010 01110010 01100001 01110100 01110101 01101101
"What do you mean he’s gone?" Horror spoke with a guttural tone of clear disappointment. Nightmare could feel his expectations slowly drop, giving way to sadness. The red-eyed skeleton looked upset at the plate of food he was holding.
Nightmare's tentacles writhed behind the chair, as annoyed as Horror himself. The cracked-skull skeleton was obsessed with feeding Error (The Destroyer). Three months after Error’s confession that he didn't eat, Horror was still trying to kidnap him to feed him. Three days ago, he finally thought he’d succeed, but his smile fell when he saw Error completely broken and unconscious.
Horror quickly threw the bloody Bone Axe at Cross, who avoided it methodically, used to Horror’s panic attacks. Killer, too, wore one of his "I'd love to see your blood" smiles, and unfortunately hadn't seen anything but his own dripping from his wounded arm. Killer ignored Horror’s irritated grumble, passing him and Cross, with Dust following behind.
"Your brother is a jerk, Boss," Killer let out a dry, irritated laugh.
Dust finally stood beside Nightmare. His hood was up, covering his face in darkness, but the blue and red lights in his sockets revealed his obvious anger.
"They're using dirty tricks again," Dust whispered, his voice as coarse as sand. "They know Error won't just kill Blueberry. He literally asked us not to kill Blue, or at least, not to hurt him too much. And your brother used that."
Nightmare sighed. Of course he did. Dream knew that Error had, at the very least, contradictory feelings for Blueberry. Dream couldn't feel Error's feelings, nor could Nightmare, but it became painfully obvious a year ago when Error saw that small skeleton on the field, right beside Dream and Ink, and was paralyzed. His strings glitched terribly when he canceled them to avoid touching that skeleton. Ink and Dream made sure they would use that.
"While Blue was trying to convince Error to stop, again, that walking smudge attacked from behind," Killer said, his irritation almost a growl.
Hours passed before the skeletons finally calmed down, with Error receiving medical treatment.
Nightmare turned his attention back to Horror, recapping: "Cross informed me that Error had already vanished when he went to change his bandages."
It was frustrating. Everyone in that castle was, at the very least, concerned about Error. There was something about that skeleton that made them want to get close. Nightmare still didn't fully understand everyone's reason. Horror's reason was obvious: the mere mention of Error saying he didn't know how to eat sent the monstrous skeleton into a crisis. Cross's reasons were contextual: Error was his ticket out even before the mess of the X-event. Nightmare would bet Dust was almost recognizing Error as a younger brother, especially after that scene with Blueberry. And Killer? Nightmare still hadn't figured out his motives, but even the genocidal skeleton got irritated by Error’s lack of concern for his own life. On the day Killer drove a knife into Error’s chest, and the skeleton simply asked what he was doing with the look of someone being interrupted, Killer spent the rest of that day without a smile on his face. After that, he never again tried to cut or directly attack Error’s bones and avoided looking him in the eyes when he was too hurt.
What mattered, after all, was that Nightmare’s Gang might be a bunch of heartless, soulless killers, but they weren't scum enough to abandon one of their own. If they didn't help each other, who would? People like them weren't known for being widely accepted, no matter the reasons for their killing.
But contact with Error was simply difficult.
Nightmare let out a murmur, thinking of all the plans and contracts, before looking at Horror and sketching a gentle and unnatural smile for a god of negativity.
"Don't worry. I will go visit him in the Antivoid. I’ll take something for him to eat."
Horror reluctantly accepted, leaving soon after to prepare lunch.
Nightmare crossed his tentacles in thought. Error was far from trusting them. He accepted the skeleton's paranoia as natural. Who would think of a world destroyer as a friend? He supposed that in Error’s mind, he was waiting for the gang to betray him sooner or later. Although Nightmare was a logical and manipulative being, he was still a Guardian (no matter what Dream said). Error’s feelings might be crazed and blocked by all those glitches, but he didn't perfect himself only by sensing others through the soul. Nightmare was superior to the mere use of power. After all, he had set aside a large part of that 'self' when he finally admitted he didn't see his subordinates merely as chess pieces—when he moved from contracts and agreements to family dinners and game nights. A family he would never have gained if he hadn't evolved.
When he finally told the little purple-eyed skeleton from his past that he deserved a family, no matter what the multiverse said, no matter what Dream thought. That skeleton would live the rest of his life thinking his 'brother' had been taken over by 'evil' and that he could bring him back, when that skeleton had never left. Broken, patched, and different, yes, but he never left. He just changed, unlike the brother who continued to make the same mistakes, now even using manipulation—the exact thing he accused Nightmare of. It was deep hypocrisy.
Nightmare finally opened his desk drawer, picking up a soft object. The black doll with a single gypsy button stared back at him. Error even made the tentacles. Nightmare affectionately tucked away the puppet he had casually stolen from Error, without the skeleton knowing, the last time he was at his house.
He was tired. So, so tired.
He barely had time to recover before hearing the universe literally scream in his ear canals.
Ink was creating more universes and more copies (again): seven Underwaps, four Storyshifts, three copies of Dusttale, one Epictale, and two copies of some that Error hated most—The Tale of Buttons and one of the dangerous Underlusts, the ones that made him shiver just by looking at them. Error didn't hate all universes; he liked Underwap, Outertale, UnderNovela, and Chocotale. But why so many? He hated Ink for that, for all the pain it caused. The multiverse didn't need 3,842 versions of Underwap. He hated killing alternative versions of Blueberry, but it didn't really matter, because they weren't Blueberry; they were just code copies with minimally different dialogue or a slight touch of new colors. It was perfectly acceptable to destroy these space-occupiers for the sake of balance.
Error just wanted to do his job. He had the memories of the other Destroyers who had the same purpose. As much as it made him feel bad, he was also a copy. The only difference was that he had lived in the Antivoid forever? He knew some other Destroyers were forced; he was too. He didn't ask to be hated. He didn't like being called a murderer for doing his job, but he only knew how to do it that way. That was how other Destroyers did it. He felt sad for them. Some weren't born Destroyers; they were thrown into the Void to become Errors and then went insane.
Nobody knew that, only him.
Everyone thought Error was a bipolar lunatic. He wasn't, but he had the same physical form as the other Errors and clothes too. Error didn't have time to change clothes; he had to work. He always had to work because Ink never stopped playing.
Ink was thousands of years older than Error but acted like a child, while Error never had a chance to be a child. So there he was, fighting Ink again in the new copy of The Tale of Buttons. He wouldn't let this world form. If he ended this world before the souls were linked, he wouldn't have to actually kill anyone. They would vanish without feeling a thing. The story wouldn't start, and he wouldn't have to kill a tiny, hurt version of Blue.
But Error was failing. Ink used paint. He drank the red and black ink as soon as he saw Error enter, and the two began to fight.
"What's the matter, Error? Not going to try your evil speeches today? I bet you're in a bad mood after the last fight," Ink said in an excited and irritatingly light voice.
Error didn't answer. He already knew from his memories that Ink never listened. And the Destroyer who gave evil speeches died seven predecessors ago. He... destroyed himself. Had Ink really not noticed the changes? Ink had a terrible memory, Error knew that, but didn't he notice how he no longer spat insults like "Squid-head," "artistic trash," and "rainbow freak"? Error threw ink against the house in The Tale of Buttons, destroying it. Ink turned into black liquid ink and wasn't hurt. In Ink's next attack, he aimed for Error's head. He missed, but seeing the chance, he touched him. This sent Error into a crisis. He hated being touched, just like all the Destroyers before him.
With Error fallen on the ground, Ink laughed satisfied, striking that annoying hero pose. He knew Ink wouldn't spare him; he would only hurt him more or kill him again. When he saw Ink raise his brush toward Error's head, he wasn't surprised. Error closed his sockets, waiting for the blow.
> The evil you've done, the pain you've caused~
> I won't regret it one bit~
Instead, he heard someone singing. He heard the sound of bone and wood cracking and snapping, and finally, the sound of Ink screaming.
He waited... and nothing happened.
Slowly opening his sockets, he saw someone with their back to him. A skeleton with black bones like him, but without the flashing "Error" signs. On the contrary, everything seemed methodically organized. The skeleton had no injuries like Error. He wore something that looked like a cloak or a veil over his shoulders and body, half-transparent and worn, with holes and tears, as if it had been camouflaged and dragged through time. You could see the clothes underneath: a long, asymmetrical, high-collared military coat, black in color. The gloves on the arms, from the humerus to the body, were of unequal and bluish colors, as was a part of the pants that appeared. Did it look like the Aurora Borealis? It all ended in black boots, also with a military touch.
He finally stopped analyzing the clothes. Why was he doing that? He wasn't the type to notice. He lifted his head from the floor only to see that the black skeleton (like him) was looking at him over his shoulder. Error could see his face: it didn't have the Error marks. Instead of glitch tears, there was a fine mandala design below and on the side of the eyes. They looked like uneven dots, but to anyone who knew code, the nano-sized 0s and 1s would be recognized. He thought he had seen something similar, but he couldn't remember where.
The skeleton watched him for a second before looking forward and facing Ink once more. Error finally remembered the other skeleton fighting: Ink was impaled. Two white, glowing spears formed an 'X' in his body, one piercing his cheek and the other his shoulder. Above him, flying with polished white wings, was a Toriel of angelic appearance: curved horns, long white braided hair, large purple eyes, wearing a long white tunic with orange-red details and a stylized butterfly symbol on her chest.
"What the heck is this? Who are you?" Ink finally spoke again, his voice strangled by the spears, but with traces of red ink still in his pupils.
"....That," the unknown skeleton said slowly, tilting his head in thought. "We will discuss another time."
He walked over to Ink and pulled the paints hanging from his chest, holding them analytically. "It's not you I want to talk to right now. We'll discuss the mess you've made later."
Ink looked indignant, almost offended, even without large amounts of ink to feel.
"But what..."
The other skeleton didn't seem interested in what Ink was going to say. In fact, he seemed annoyed and resentful toward Ink, not Error. Above Ink's complaints, the song restarted. The Toriel began to glow intensely, and the song seemed to envelop the universe, as if each note were a code of strength and hope—and in his core, Error felt Integrity. How was that possible? It was as if the song were alive.
> Your dreams and hopes I carry with me~
> Like stars that shine even in the darkness~
> I cannot lose myself in the pain you spread~
> For there is still light, even in broken hearts~
He glanced back at Error, analyzing him. He didn't care at all about Ink. Instead, the song continued, seeming to communicate with him.
> Fear not, child~
> The Voice of Hope is here~
Error's soul thrummed.
> Not for glory, nor for revenge~
> But because someone needs to believe in you~
> This is the role entrusted to me~
> To be a shelter, to be a guide, to be a beacon~
> And if you've already forgotten how to dream~
> I’ll lend you mine, just for a while~
And with a sudden movement from the skeleton, the spears were pulled out. The Toriel fired a beam of cold white light at Ink, and he dissolved into dust and dry ink, destroyed. It would take days, maybe weeks, for Ink to reconstruct himself. When the Toriel descended to the ground, the other skeleton began to come toward him. Error pushed himself back, making him stop.
It seemed like a reflex—not out of fear or repulsion—for both of them. Error's chaotic lights stared into the two glowing dots in the other's black sockets.
Two dots that seemed to just float rather than exist within the skull. On the left, Blue (Integrity), and the other was violet. It was different from the purple of Perseverance. What color was that?
Error wanted to open his mouth. Did he want to apologize? Say thank you? Why would anyone help him, killing the Protector? He knew Nightmare wanted a favor, so he sometimes intervened, but in all the memories Error stored, nobody ever helped the Destroyer.
The data didn't make sense.
While Error seemed to be going crazy, the other skeleton sighed.
"Perhaps it's not the best moment."
He barely heard the murmur.
The voice was cold but gentle—very gentle—different from the harsh one that spoke to Ink.
When Error finally opened his mouth, the skeleton was already gone, along with that Toriel, who seemed like a projection controlled by him.
After a few minutes of complete confusion, Error stood up and finished the destruction of the world. His mind was still muddled by everything that had happened in less than five minutes. He... he would take advantage of Ink's absence to get ahead on the destruction. The stars knew that when the Protector returned, he would create worlds by the dozen.
In a completely different part of the multiverse, which wasn't as white as the Antivoid Error knew, but black, Pipeline began to observe the small and young Destroyer doing his job without anyone interfering, thinking about how he should approach him without scaring the child.
Then he looked at the rest of the multiverse and sighed at its total disorder.
Spoiler alert for the next chapter.
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