#Just to clarify: the false character has never existed in any form in this story

[comikadraws]

Frisk vs Chara vs The Player

Okay so bear with me- I'm really not that much into Undertale anymore, but my brain just had a realization (which is also rather speculative)... Approximately 7 years after the game's release.

So in DELTARUNE, The Player (you) and Kris (the protagonist) are two separate entities, seemingly battling for control over the latter's life. And the same phenomenon is occurring in UNDERTALE. But what may be even more interesting, is how in DELTARUNE characters are slowly coming to recognize that something is wrong with Kris and (to some extent) the involvement of an unknown entity - while in UNDERTALE, the characters are unable to perceive The Player's presence and will come to false conclusions, in turn confusing The Player as to who is in control.

The reason why The Player's possession of Kris is much more noticeable than with Frisk (for both the characters and the players themselves) is because of three main reasons: 1. The "connection" with Kris' SOUL during the character creation screen and "disconnect" during the epilogue/nighttime scenes, clarifying the existence of a puppeteer 2. Kris' shared backstory with other characters, making them suspicious of Kris' change in demeanor and fleshing out Kris as an individual person, separate from the puppeteer 3. The lack of alternatives to The Player as Kris' puppeteer, leaving us with mostly just one reasonable conclusion.

And I find the last reason particularly interesting. While in Undertale, the fandom is very much aware that Frisk is getting possessed in some shape or form, due to in-game accusations, players would rather consider Chara the puppeteer, rather than themselves (The Player).

Flowey is the most obviously confused and accuses Chara of being the controlling puppeteer, the owner of the SAVE file. This is because 1. The SAVE file is named after Chara. Frisk could not have possibly known Chara's name and even if they did, why would Frisk have named the file after somebody else? 2. Flowey has had a SAVE file before. He could create it himself and did not require the input of another entity. He has no reason to consider the possibility of a third entity besides Frisk and Chara managing the SAVE file. So the only reasonable conclusion Flowey can make is that if there is a puppeteer, it is definitely Chara. When asking The Player not to RESET for Frisk's sake after a pacifist run, he believes he is talking to Chara. Which, in turn, causes The Player to believe that they are Chara.

This notion is both supported and contradicted by the genocide ending. In support stands Chara's line "Since when were you the one in control?", which outright states that The Player never had any control over the story, to begin with. But on the contrary, Chara will still condemn The Player's actions. Furthermore, it was The Player's actions, The Player's control that triggered the genocide ending in the first place. To make sense of Chara's evaluation of the situation, one might argue that Chara is aware of the existence of a third entity. They are condemning The Player's actions. But when The Player makes a choice that does not fall in line with their character (not erasing the world), Chara assumes that it must be Frisk who rejected Chara's suggestion. Why or who else could it be, after all? And Chara would be right to ask "Since when were you (Frisk) the one in control?" even though they were wrong to assume that they were talking to Frisk just now.

But this does not necessarily align with the post-genocide pacifist run. Because it is not The Player who gets to pay but Frisk. The Player could care less about their punishment in the post-credit scene because it will never affect the actual gameplay. Perhaps completing the pacifist run gave Chara the impression that the player does care about Frisk and the other characters, punishing them in The Player's stead. Or maybe Chara does not realize that The Player's control over Frisk has faded away after leaving the Underground. Which makes Chara appear even more confused as to who is in control. Further evidence that Chara is frequently confusing Frisk and The Player is found in their narrations. Both Frisk and The Player are addressed as "You" by Chara. When Frisk deems the toys at Toriel's home uninteresting, it is "You" but it is also "You" when Chara is commenting on actions that were completely outside of Frisk's control ("You are superfast at being wrong").

A further possibility I would like to entertain is that Chara is unaware of The Player's influence. Which makes sense, considering they have only ever seen Frisk interacting with the Underground - not some unknown third entity. From Chara's perspective, Frisk may seem to be in control, but at the end of the day, the SAVE file still bears Chara's name. By that logic, Chara must be the one who is ultimately in control, the god or demon of this world, possibly chosen by fate itself. And they do not even consider the possibility that somebody else created the SAVE file for them, or that the SAVE file belongs to somebody else entirely, who just so happens to share Chara's name, or that somebody not only named the SAVE file but also Chara themselves. And honestly, why should they? The only other two people they know of, who could possibly, ever have the power to manipulate a SAVE file in that manner, are Frisk and Flowey. Frisk, who could not possibly know Chara's name, and Flowey, who would rather claim the SAVE file for himself.

[That's it. This was my essay.]

[vex-bittys]

In Your Dreams: A Horrortale Story

Raffle prize for @purplesangel. When your life is a living nightmare, is it any surprise that your dreams are just as bad? Thankfully a dream-walking human has arrived to help, but will she still want to help Axe when she finds out what he’s done to stay alive?

WARNING: character death mention, language, blood mention, some disturbing imagery including cannibalism (no details)

READ ON AO3

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Life in the Underground was an endless nightmare for Axe. During his waking hours, he checked his traps and hunted in the forest, often returning home empty-handed only to see the disappointment and desperation in his brother’s sockets. Supply trains became frantic riots as too many monsters competed for their share of too little food, and the sharp pain of hunger lingered even after the skeleton brothers’ meager meals.

Madness seeped in through the hole in his skull, distorting reality. He clawed at his skull, trying to release the pressure of the frenetic energy that consumed him. He could feel the darkness lurking, waiting for him to make a misstep, some seemingly trivial mistake; that’s when it would strike, shredding his thoughts and shattering his focus. There was no escaping it, and Axe knew that one day it would swallow him up.

Sleep provided no reprieve. In his dreams, Axe continued to suffer. He watched his brother fade away to nothing from starvation. He felt the gnawing emptiness of his own unsatisfied hunger. Feasts appeared before his single working eyelight only to transform into grains of sand that slipped through his fingers when he reached for it. He ran through the shadowed forest outside of Snowdin, fleeing an unknown terror in the night while thorny tendrils of a deeper darkness caught him, slowing his progress, dragging him down, and allowing his madness to suffocate him.

Days dragged on into months, and months melted together into years. Waking life remained bleak with monsters still struggling (and at times failing) to survive. Food sources dwindled, and the gathering of other resources fell by the wayside as every creature in the Underground focused on filling their stomachs as best they could. Everything stagnated in its state of destitution and decay… everything except Axe’s dreams.

Axe’s nightmares repeated themselves night after night until slowly, they began to change. It started with the appearance of a new character- a human that Axe didn’t recognize, though he thought it might be a female. At first the human only observed the horrors that lurked in the sleeping world of Axe’s mind. Gradually, though, she began to interact.

It all started during one of Axe’s nightmares about his brother. Crooks would turn a pleading gaze to his brother, mouthing a soundless plea for food. Axe would fall to his knees, sobbing and pounding his fists into the ground. Crooks slowly collapsed, and the gradual dissolution of his body sent his dust drifting towards his brother, filling Axe’s mouth and nasal cavity until he choked himself awake… usually. This time things turned out differently.

“I’M SO HUNGRY, BROTHER,” Crooks’ voice came from the air around them and not his mouth, the teeth there long since broken or knocked askew from gnawing away at non-edible items simply to assuage the need to chew.

The human appeared, but instead of observing the unfolding scene, this time she glanced around until her eyes fell upon Axe.

-

Since the very first time you’d stumbled across this heart-breaking nightmare scenario, you’d worked hard to return to it. Dream-walking involved focus, practice, and a bit of luck, and in this venture, the fates were on your side. You’d walked this collection of now-familiar nightmare images many times, slowly working out which participant it belonged to and why the skeleton with the broken skull kept replaying these torturous situations in his sleep.

Now, you were ready to interact and hopefully restore some peace to the sleeping world of the monster in front of you. You extended a tentative hand towards him, unsure if he would welcome your touch as a form of physical comfort. He just stared at your outstretched hand as if it would bring some new and unfathomable horror to his disturbingly familiar nightmare. You let your hand drop. Words would have to suffice then.

“It’s not real,” you told the stocky skeleton firmly.

His sockets narrowed suspiciously. “what do ya mean, ‘not real’?”

“This-” you gestured to the vague, nondescript surroundings and very crisp, well-defined figure of the tall, starving skeleton behind you, never breaking eye contact “- is not real.”

The skeleton with the broken skull laughed, a harsh and humorless sound that grated against your ear drums. You sighed, frustrated but determined. It rarely improved a situation to reveal yourself while dream-walking; most dreamers forgot their nightly travels when they returned to the waking world anyway. Those who didn’t merely discarded your presence, along with any advice you might give, as part of a nonexistent scenario that could not influence their waking lives and should thus be ignored.

Normally, you resigned yourself to this and walked through dreams as a silent observer, but this skeleton’s torment tore at your heart and brought forth a tenacity within you to help him in the only way you could: by walking through his nightmares and defeating them, one by one, until nothing remained but peaceful slumber.

The skeleton with the broken skull scoffed. “you don’t know nothin’,” he growled obstinately.

“I know that your most frequent nightmares involve food, madness, and losing this other skeleton-”

“my bro,” the skeptical skeleton clarified.

“Losing your brother,” you amended with an edge to your voice, “to starvation.”

“it’s not like you’re some expert investigator piecin’ together the clues, pal. we’re all starvin’ and dustin’ down here,” he said, dismissing your observations. You frowned. Was there some truth to these nightmares? Often dreams represented thoughts and fears in a metaphoric manner, but maybe this skeleton didn’t have room in his troubled mind for subtlety.

Regardless, you would do what you could for him in the only place that you could reach him.

“I don’t know what your life is like in the waking world,” you conceded softly, “but this? Everything around us now? It isn’t real.” You continued in a rush before the skeleton could interrupt you again. “You’re asleep, and your mind is processing your fears… and your reality… into nightmares.”

The skeleton inhaled, obviously ready to argue again, but you stopped him by making a sweeping gesture towards his brother. Had this nightmare been reality, the taller skeleton would be dust by now. Instead, the image was frozen in place thanks to the stocky skeleton’s change of focus. “Look,” you ordered boldly.

-

Axe begrudgingly allowed his single eyelight to stray from you to his brother. While it was true that nothing had changed in the scene since he had turned his attention to his unexpected visitor, the moment he looked back, the scenario resumed. Flakes of dust drifted loose from his brother’s body, floating away on an unfelt breeze to disappear as they dispersed until nothing remained except the unbearable weight of guilt and his brother’s ghost of a voice whispering “Why?” over and over again in his head.

Why didn’t you save me?

“It’s not real,” you whispered solemnly behind him, but honestly, that didn’t matter. Watching his brother die of starvation that he should have prevented sent jagged pains through his SOUL whether it existed solely inside of his mind or not. Your next words, however, carried a much greater impact: “I can teach you how to change it.”

-

The most frustrating part of dream-walking was the inability to change the contents of people’s dreams or nightmares yourself. While you could view the unfolding events, you possessed no real power over them. Only the dreamer could affect their dreams. Thankfully, unlike dream-walking, lucid dreaming is a skill that can be taught.

As with every teaching experience, some students learn more quickly than others. Axe, as he eventually introduced himself to you, was not one of those students. The most difficult aspect of lucid dreaming for him happened to be the very first step to lucid dreaming at all: accepting that what he experienced while he slept was a dream instead of a warped reality that lived inside of his cracked skull and broken mind.

“These images all come from your thoughts,” you explained again. “You can control them, but first you have to accept that you can control them.” 

You knew that the dreams involving his brother were far too emotionally charged to make good fodder for lucid dreaming practice, and you preferred to steer clear of the choking darkness since you had no idea what effects such a powerful and overwhelming negative force could potentially have on you, even as an observer within someone else’s troubled subconscious. This only left the dreams of an untouchable feast to practice on… and practice was not going well.

As with your many previous attempts to gently guide the stocky skeleton towards seizing control of his nightmares, the lesson had quickly devolved into a squabble. You insisted that Axe could learn to control his subconscious surroundings; Axe stubbornly insisted that he could not. You would point out that this was his dream, and his mind; he would attempt to discredit your existence as just another piece of the complicated web of nightmares that plagued him: a human offering him false hope in a bleak and hopeless world.

It did bother you a little bit that Axe considered you- a (mostly) patient and helpful human- to be nightmare fuel. Only monsters lived in the Underground since the long-forgotten war, so why would Axe’s guilt-riddled dreamscapes include humans?

You decided to save the questions for another time.

“Try again,” you told Axe, who only answered with a weary, frustrated sigh.

-

Irritation swirled through Axe’s excessive magic, though it was aimed more at himself than at you. Every night you tried to help him take control of his dreaming mind, and every night, despite your calm instructions, he failed. You made it sound so easy, so why couldn’t he just grab a stupid spider donut off of the stupid table and shove the stupid thing into his big, stupid mouth?

“Try again,” you told him patiently as he brushed the gritty sand from his finger joints. He uttered a weary, frustrated sigh.

“i am trying,” he grumbled, biting back a deluge of unhelpful comments and curses. He touched another piece of food, a french fry, still steaming though it had been sitting on a pile of its doppelgangers since the nightmare began. The entire fry stack crumbled to sand before he’d even lifted one free; Axe’s patience dissolved along with it.

“if this was as easy as you claim,” he shouted, letting his anger overflow into sharp words, “then i’d be able to pick up these plates and smash them on the floor like i want to!” Without any conscious thought, Axe lifted one of the plates in question and hurled it at the ground. It shattered, leaving silence in its wake as Axe and the dream-walking human stared down at the shards on the ground in awe.

Axe gave an entire stack of plates an experimental shove, sending them cascading over the edge of the table and onto the ground where they created an inharmonious symphony of destruction. You applauded the spontaneous mess and squealed with glee, and Axe swept you up into a quick celebratory hug, spinning you around once before setting you back on your feet. As soon as he set you down, he grabbed a donut and crammed it into his mouth. Chewing, his sockets narrowed in utter bliss, he picked up a second donut and offered it to you. 

Nothing tasted as sweet as victory… except for maybe a spider donut.

-

You didn’t want to dampen the skeleton’s joy by telling him that you wouldn’t be able to taste a donut in his dreams, so you took a bite, your head still spinning from his sudden show of physical affection. With a promise to see him the following night, you stepped out of his nightmares. You felt content that you’d taken the first big step on a journey to giving Axe the power to sleep peacefully without constant, horrific nightmares plaguing him.

The next lesson would be more difficult; you intended to guide Axe through banishing nightmares of his brother’s death. Out of consideration for Axe’s privacy, you had never asked him why he had such specific nightmares about his brother, but nightmares involving a sibling death as vivid as Axe’s hinted at some very dark and complex situations existing in the skeletons’ waking world. Those hints aside, Axe had outright stated that things were terrible in the Underground where he lived. Maybe working through his dream would give him some insight into fixing his real-life situation, at least the one he faced with his brother.

You hoped so. During the nights you’d spent helping Axe learn how to lucid dream, you had come to consider him a friend. You hated the thought of him suffering. You especially hated that you could only reach him during his nightmares. You wished you could do more, but how? Those were thoughts for your own waking world.

Tonight you wanted to focus on Axe’s progress, and once he’d gotten some practice at lucid dreaming, you’d work on changing the heart-breaking nightmare of his brother.

-

Sweat beaded on Axe’s skull as he waited for you to appear. He could feel himself slipping towards darker dreamscapes, and he fought to stay in the safe in-between place like you’d shown him. He told himself that the tremors in his bones were caused by his unstable magic and not by fear. What if his previous successes were a fluke? What if he failed when it mattered the most? 

Thoughts of failure sent him spiraling into the guilty nightmare of his starving brother. After all, his failures in reality led to this, and the dire consequences that he saw unfolding in his subconscious lurked only a step behind him in the waking world. Soon his real life would become this very same nightmare, and he would be left as powerless to stop it there as he felt to stop it here.

Thankfully, you appeared within seconds to chase away the grim meanderings of his mind and help him focus on the task at hand- Crooks.

Axe’s brother loomed in front of him, eyes pleading, begging for something that Axe could not give him. He watched the image of his brother twist and reshape itself, growing alarmingly large, the bones stretching from an influx of magic that still somehow managed to provide almost no nutrition. He whispered his brother’s name, frozen in place and unable to remember what he was supposed to do to stop the scene unfolding in front of him.

A small hand slipped into his; he had forgotten about you as his familiar fears swamped him. You looked up at him with a calm expression and nodded, encouraging him.

“You can do this.” Your words bolstered his courage. He dragged his panic back under control and turned to face Papyrus… or what had become of Papyrus under his inadequate care: the monster now known as Crooks. 

“You know what you need to do,” you whispered.

Axe stepped towards his brother, focusing on Crooks as he had seen him last: tucked into his bed, the blanket no longer quite long enough to cover his lanky frame, wishing Axe a good night and sweet dreams and promising to see him in the morning. Keeping that image locked in his mind, Axe let his lone eyelight travel over his brother’s altered frame. Sure enough, not a single mote of dust rose from the other skeleton. Crooks simply stood there, watching him through sunken sockets.

Though he’d brought his brother’s recurring death to a halt, the words that swirled and echoed around him continued, too faint at first to make out individual words or phrases. His brother’s voice whispered accusations like poisoned arrows that pierced his SOUL. A chorus of questions, all beginning with “Why…?” slowed, sharpened, and gained clarity. Crooks spoke, though his mouth never moved and the words seemed to thrum within his very bones, tangible beyond mere sound.

Normally Crooks’ omnipresent voice asked him why he would allow his brother to starve, but this time the question differed, though it still sent chills to the very marrow of Axe’s bones.

“WHY DID YOU MAKE ME EAT-”

Axe quickly hushed his brother, stealing a glance at you to gauge your reaction. You simply made an encouraging gesture as if to say “Go on, you’re doing great.” He wondered if you’d feel the same way if you knew what Crooks’ next words would have been.

“i couldn’t let ya starve,” Axe spoke softly, tilting his head to maintain eye contact with his much taller brother. “i’d do anything to keep you alive.”

“EVEN-”

Axe nodded, nearly choking on guilt. “yeah. even that.”

“BUT I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T EVER WANT-”

Remorse softened Axe’s expression, and his gravelly voice hitched. “i couldn’t let ya dust. i had no choice. i’m so sorry.”

-

Without warning, Crooks slumped, but he wasn’t collapsing into dust. Instead, he crushed his brother against his ribcage in a tight hug. You sensed a loosening of the guilt and remorse that gripped this particular nightmare so tightly. Things weren’t resolved yet. Nightmares could rarely be banished in a single lucid dreaming session, but you’d given Axe the tools he needed to seize control of his sleeping world. 

Only one challenge awaited you now: fighting the suffocating darkness of the final nightmare. You made plans to tackle that monumental task once Axe felt satisfied that he could manage this current nightmare on his own. Working through the tangle of emotions that his brother’s death awakened would take quite a bit longer than satisfying himself that he could eat his fill of dream donuts, but you were willing to go the distance to help Axe.

You actually wanted to do this, no matter how much the slithering darkness terrified you. Axe just meant that much to you.

-

“I think we’re ready for the final nightmare,” you declared after a dream session in which Axe showed off by summoning various items for his brother to eat.

In the lucid dreams about Crooks, his dream-brother mostly stood or sat nearby providing companionship and support as Axe practiced controlling his consciousness. Axe enjoyed the time with his brother, despite the knowledge that this version of Crooks existed only inside of his mind. It gave him a tentative sensation of hope that perhaps someday he could experience this type of peace with his brother in the waking world, free of the constant mad scramble for survival.

Your words shattered fragile, fleeting calm. Sweat beaded on Axe’s skull. The final nightmare contained his deep, dark fears, his madness, his guilt. Tendrils that reeked of his unspeakable crimes dragged him down into the cesspool that used to be his SOUL. He didn’t want you to see that part of him. He didn’t want you to know what he was truly capable of.

You’d never come back, and he’d be left alone with the echoing, blossoming psychosis that suffocated him. It would be worse now though. You’d shined a light into his life, and now he risked that glimmer of goodness being torn away… torn away because of what he’d done.

The punishment would fit the crime of his continuing survival.

-

You stepped into Axe’s dream world, excited and nervous at the prospect of facing the unknown horrors of this last nightmare that plagued him. The endless grey limbo that surrounded you came as quite a surprise when you expected inky vines of darkness encased in the thorns of Axe’s painful emotions and memories. Axe refused to meet your eyes when you approached him. Something was off about the whole situation.

“Is everything ok?” Maybe Axe wasn’t ready to face the darkness of the upcoming nightmare. You didn’t mind; you weren’t going to push him towards something that he didn’t want to do. You weren’t exactly eager to face it either, and besides, you thought you might enjoy just spending some time with Axe.

When he raised his head to meet your eyes, you couldn’t suppress a gasp of fright. Goosebumps erupted along your arms, and you shivered.

Axe’s single red eyelight… it glowed with an eerie flickering light, seeming to swell until the socket could barely contain the vortex of its power. Axe tilted his head at an unnatural angle and laughed at your reaction. You forced yourself to stand your ground despite your fear. This was not the monster you knew. Axe now embodied the darkness of his own inner turmoil, and it froze the blood in your veins.

“nothing is ok!” Axe’s snarl dissolved into sinister chuckles that made his broad shoulders shake. He lifted a hand, phalanges curved like claws to scrape at the hole in his skull. You lunged forward to pull his hand away before he caused more damage to himself, and he shoved you roughly away.

-

The hurt and confusion in your eyes filled Axe with dark satisfaction. You needed to know just what kind of monster he was. You needed to fear him, to run away and never come back. Instead, you offered him your compassion yet again.

“Let me help you.” Tears filled your eyes. His madness must be breaking your sweet, loving heart, but he drove home his depravity because if he let himself care, you’d find out the truth eventually anyway. Losing you would hurt more if he actually had you first.

This time when you reached out for him, he dodged, letting your momentum carry you to your hands and knees on the floor. He loomed over you, oozing menace like a thick fog.

“help me?” Axe’s scornful laughter echoed around the empty landscape. “and why,” he asked cruelly, “would you help a murderer?”

“Murderer?” You repeated the word as a question, as if you weren’t completely sure you knew what it meant. Your eyes widened in shock as tendrils of darkness climbed Axe’s arm, sliding over his bones like living tattoos until they pooled in his hand, taking on the shape of a huge meat cleaver.

“how do you think i’ve survived so long, little human? i hunt, and i kill.” He grinned, his mouth stretching into a disturbing parody of joy. “humans mostly. honestly, did you think the blood on my hoodie was mine?”

-

You admittedly hadn’t thought much about the blood stains on the hoodie. Maybe they were his. Maybe they were ketchup. Maybe in his dreams he wore the stains of his brother’s imagined death. Dreams and nightmares created their own reality with its own details pulled more from a dreamer’s mindset than accurate memories. It shocked you to think that Axe truly wore a hoodie that had once been soaked with fresh blood.

Human blood.

You trembled. Axe began to circle you like a hungry wolf, casually swinging his gigantic cleaver.

“Do you regret it?” you finally asked in a tiny voice.

-

Those four words penetrated the armor of madness that Axe was using to push you away, and they struck him like a well-timed attack. He reeled, reaching for some lie to keep you from seeing the truth and pitying him.

He found nothing.

The meat cleaver fell from his shaking hand. Axe sank to his haunches, covering his face with his hands, trying to hide from you and your perceptiveness. He wanted to scare you away before you could judge him and abandon him, but you shot your question straight to his SOUL, refusing to believe the worst of him.

“every fucking minute of my life.”

This time, when you tentatively reached for him, undaunted by his previous rejection, he leaned into your touch. He hated himself for his weakness, but every second that you stayed, even if you left eventually, was a second he would cherish until time wore away even the memory of his dust.

With his first admission, however poorly he’d delivered it, out of the way, Axe couldn’t stop himself from confessing even more of his transgressions and regrets. “i lied and told my brother it was meat from an animal in the forest. he didn’t want to eat humans, but i tricked him. i couldn’t let him starve” The words poured out of him; he feared that as soon as things went quiet, you would realize what an irredeemable abomination he was and flee. “i shouldn’t have done it, but i didn’t know what else to do. we were so hungry… and it messed up our magic. there’s no way to hide what we did. no way to undo it.” 

-

Axe’s words stumbled to a halt, and you sat for a moment in the heavy silence of the grey dreamscape, contemplating them. You hated what he had done, but you also understood that his only other option would be watching his brother starve to death. The circumstances didn’t allow for any winners, and Axe suffered with the knowledge of the things he’d done. 

“You were trying to survive.” Your voice nearly cracked on the final word. You could not fathom the desperation that drove Axe to his decision.

You remembered all of the heart-breaking stories that Axe told you about the Underground: the human who’d stolen the SOULs that the monsters had gathered and fled, taking the monsters’ hope with them, the death of their monarchs at the human’s hands, the Royal Guard Captain’s ascension to a throne that she didn’t possess the skills to manage, and the unbearable suffering of monsters starving to death or falling down because of an unshakable despair.

You raised your eyes to meet Axe’s eyelight, expecting to see softness there once more, but instead his horrified expression stared back at you. You didn’t need to puzzle out the cause because a moment later, barbed shadow vines lashed you, wrapping around your legs and dragging you towards a puddle of oozing darkness near your feet. You struggled against the thorny tendrils, and they tightened, driving each wickedly sharp thorn-tip into your flesh.

Pain seared your legs, real physical pain… in someone else’s dream. Panic washed over you, and you fought harder to escape, causing the barbs to rip deeper into you.

You screamed.

-

Shaking off his shock at the sound of your scream, Axe lunged forward. He wrapped both of his arms tightly around you and wrenched you away from the grasping vines. A writhing mass of them rose up behind him, swarming over him like living things. Staggering a few steps forward, Axe set you on an empty bit of space, but the vines quickly pulled him off of his feet and into a kneeling position. More tendrils rose to wrap around him, and the inky darkness of the puddle rose up to meet them, slithering up his body and swallowing him up in the darkness.

“i can’t protect you here… i can’t keep you safe from me, from my mind.” Axe choked out the words through the darkness consuming him. He couldn’t let you come back. He wouldn’t allow you to be in danger because of him.

This had to be good-bye.

He focused his mind.

“don’t come back.”

-

You jolted awake, that one last glimpse of Axe’s red eyelight, brimming with pain and regret burning in your mind. He had kicked you out of his dreams and told you not to come back. You couldn’t dream-walk in a mind that wasn’t open to your presence. Your throat constricted, and you felt tears sting your eyes. What if you never saw Axe again?

When you tossed back your blankets, you half expected to see scratches on your legs where Axe’s negative thoughts and emotions had touched you, but your skin was unbroken. You’d never experienced a nightmare so vivid and intense, but you breathed a sigh of relief that it couldn’t reach you in the waking world. If only Axe would let you come back, you could tell him that despite your panicked reactions, his dreams had no power to harm you.

Instead, he would continue to face the torment of his past mistakes all alone… for now.

Because while you had been helping Axe deal with his nightmares, you hadn’t neglected the appalling circumstances of his reality. If you could make your waking project work, you would be able to truly save the skeleton that you cared for so deeply.

I won’t let you push me away, you vowed.

-

Axe settled himself on the bench of his sentry station, taking a break from prowling the forest for potential meals. The barren snowscape left him all alone with his thoughts, and he hated it. In one bout of unhinged boredom, he’d created a sign for the outpost: “Head dogs, 5G.” It made as much sense as anything else in the Underground. Besides, there was no such thing as a hot dog in this frigid wasteland.

The narrow lines of dead tree trunks shifted if he stared at them too long, and the wind that howled through them carried voices whose words he could not quite arrange into coherency. The windblown whispers rose in volume until the roaring of innumerable voices filled his skull. The blazing white of the snow surrounding him only added to the sensory overload. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. 

“shut up, shut up!” Axe chanted, clawing at the hole in his skull. Reality warped, the passage of time quickened and slowed, and nothing made sense anymore…

… and you were standing in front of him.

Axe recoiled in disbelief. How could this be happening? He hadn’t fallen asleep… or had he? Maybe you were a cruel hallucination conjured by his loneliness. He refused to accept the vision of you even when you reached out in that oh-so-familiar way to calm the scrabbling of his phalanges against the jagged edges of the hole in his skull.

Axe’s hand shot out as quickly as a striking snake and grabbed your wrist. He yanked you forward until you were partially bent over the sill of the sentry station. He raised his massive knife high above his head; his eyes held no recognition, no clarity, no sanity.

You held completely still, unflinching. The meat cleaver hovered threateningly above you, but it did not fall. You and Axe were frozen in the moment, but despite the madness that absolutely radiated from him, you trusted him not to hurt you.

“you’re not real,” Axe accused you in a gravelly whisper. You weren’t even sure if he meant to speak aloud at all.

“Are you going to kill me?” Your voice didn’t waver, and you kept your eyes locked with his single eyelight, calm yet firm.

Axe lowered the knife. Real or imagined, starving or not, he would never hurt you. You knew him too well. He released your wrist, hoping he hadn’t hurt you by grabbing you like that. He wanted to ask how you’d gotten here, but other matters demanded a higher priority.

“you aren’t safe here,” the skeleton scolded gruffly. “didn’t you listen? monsters here kill and eat humans!”

“Good thing I found you first then.” You tried to diffuse the tension with bravado, but you had to admit that your choice to come to the Underground was a risky one. Axe’s eyelight travelled over your body, searching for injuries while surreptitiously taking in the sight of you. His obvious concern for your safety filled you with warmth and determination.

“there’s nothing good about this,” Axe growled though he had to admit that seeing you again definitely felt like a good thing to him. That little bit of goodness could be snuffed out in a hurry though if another monster saw you and attacked. “i’ve got to get you out of here.”

Axe lumbered out of his sentry station, glancing furtively around the barren landscape, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether he expected to spot an enemy or an escape route. The skeleton stopped right next to you, attempting to block you from prying eyes. You found his protective stance rather charming, but you weren’t here to be charmed. You were on a mission.

You slipped your backpack from your shoulders, swinging it around into Axe’s line of sight and opening it. Seven clear canisters sat inside, each with a brightly-colored heart shape inside of it. Axe’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“are those…?” Axe sounded almost reverent, and with good reason.

“Human SOULs? Yes. I gathered these from willing donors who wanted to help set the monsters free.” It had taken dedication and time, but you’d meticulously interviewed potential donors until you tracked down all seven SOUL types that you needed. Now, only the path to the Barrier stood in your way.

Without warning, Axe swept you into a crushing hug, then proceeded to spin you around. Your feet actually left the ground, and you laughed softly at the thrill of it.

“you’ve got to meet my brother, then we’ll smuggle you into the Capitol.” For once you heard excitement and hope in Axe’s voice. His eyelight gleamed with resolution as he reached for your hand. You placed your hand in his without hesitation. Axe’s declaration that he knew a shortcut still rang in your ears as the world spun beneath you and everything went dark.

Disoriented, you tried to take in the scene around you. You’d been outside, standing in a forest choked with dead trees and carpeted in snow, but suddenly you found yourself in a house. The loud colors of the bowling alley style carpeting had long since faded, and the couch had obviously seen better days. Everything in the house was touched with the same look of elegant decay: faded colors, worn fabrics, the yellowing of book pages, and the subtle musk of disuse. 

A fine film of the dust of time spoke volumes about the life of two monsters who devoted so much of their lives to simply surviving that they were forced to neglect the basic upkeep of their home. The house looked so long abandoned that the presence of life within it seemed almost surreal. You couldn’t find words to break the silence that permeated the house, soundless echoes of what it had once been.

Movement caught your eye; a lanky figure detached itself from the shadows and stepped in the dust-mote-filled light. Your eyes travelled up and up, an impossible height despite the figure’s hunched posture, until you found facial features that you recognized from Axe’s dream. The vivid colors of Axe’s subconscious bore the same washed-out appearance here that characterized their home, but you knew this must be Papyrus, now known as Crooks due to the effects of his recent tragic diet.

Crooks wrung his hands shyly, awaiting your reaction to his somewhat terrifying appearance. His teeth were crooked and broken, caked with something red that you tried not to think about too much. His nervous actions tugged at your heart, and you offered him a gentle smile which he responded to with a smile of his own.

“I’D OFFER YOU SOME OF MY SIGNATURE SPAGHETTI AND EYEBALLS, BUT WE’RE ALL OUT OF PASTA.” His apologetic tone did little to distract you from the fact that the skeleton brothers were short of pasta but not eyeballs. 

“That’s alright. Really.” You didn’t hold out much hope that Crooks had misspoken considering Axe’s earlier admission. The sooner you got these monsters out of their Underground prison, the sooner they could return to normal healthy eating habits.

“my friend here wants to help us get to the Surface. they’ve got plenty of pasta up there. we just need to talk to ol’ Queen Undyne first,” Axe interjected, using a light tone to dispel the awkwardness of his brother’s offer. 

Crooks perked up at the mention of Undyne. “UNDYNE WILL BE SO RELIEVED. I DON’T THINK SHE LIKES BEING QUEEN VERY MUCH…” You clutched your backpack and its precious cargo of SOULs, unzipping it slightly to show the mingled glow of seven vibrant colors. Crooks peered at them with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

Axe shifted uncomfortably. “yeah, relieved,” he mumbled, refusing to meet your eyes. You didn’t have much time to wonder about the skeletons’ very different reactions to Undyne because Axe extended a hand to you and Crooks. As soon as your fingertips brushed his smooth, warm bones, everything went dark again.

In the few seconds it took your eyes to communicate the view of a once-opulent throne room to your poor confused brain, a glowing blue spear appeared and slammed into the ground so close to you that you felt the force of the impact thrumming up the shaft of the weapon. If Axe hadn’t yanked you backwards, you would’ve been impaled. Where had it even come from?

“UNDYNE WAIT! THIS HUMAN IS A FRIEND!” You followed the direction of Crooks’ voice to see an armor-clad monster with a wild mane of crimson hair. She held another glowing blue spear, and her single yellow eye focused on you with murderous malice. You staggered backwards from the force of her glare. 

“No human is a friend to monsters,” Queen Undyne roared, launching a volley of her spears at you. You resigned yourself to your doom, regretting that your rescue attempt had been such a short-lived failure.

A wall of bones erupted from the tiles of the floor, blocking the attack. Crooks and Axe both stood next to you, arms outstretched to summon the defensive maneuver. More spears struck the bones, causing them to shudder, but they remained standing. You turned wide, panicked eyes to Axe, searching for some explanation or reassurance.

“can you hold her off?” Axe asked Crooks, who nodded somberly. The stocky skeleton grabbed your arm and dragged you down a hallway of soaring pillars coated thickly in cobwebs and floor to ceiling windows of cloudy, cracked glass. Away from the immediate danger, you began to tremble. Tears welled up in your eyes.

Axe pulled you close, wrapping you in the safety of his arms and gently rubbing your back. He made soft shushing sounds, and you realized that your tears had turned into terrified sobs. Your body shook, and you hiccuped, trying to catch your breath. Axe held you until the overwhelming wave of emotion subsided.

“i’m so sorry. i thought maybe we could talk some sense into Undyne. she and my brother used to be really close, but the last human who came through here… well, that human killed a lot of monsters and stole the SOULs that we had collected towards breaking the barrier. they left us with nothing but despair and dust, and Undyne blamed herself for not stopping them. it… affected her.” Once again, Axe looked guilty.

“How can we convince her that I’m trying to help?” You gripped your backpack with determined hands. You didn’t gather these SOULs for nothing, and you didn’t plan to leave the starving monsters in the Underground without at least making an effort to save them.

“you aren’t going to convince her of anything.” You opened your mouth to protest, but Axe laid a phalange against your lips to silence you. “i want you to get out of here. it’s not safe, and i would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“What about breaking the Barrier?”

Loud crashes sounded from the Throne Room. Axe shot a quick glance over his shoulder before pushing you further down the hallway. “i need to go help my brother. if we can convince Undyne to trust you, i’ll meet you at the Barrier to break it and free the monsters.”

“What if you can’t?” More sounds of destruction threatened to drown out your whispered words, but Axe was close enough to hear you over the cacophony. Sorrow filled his single eyelight.

“i won’t put you in danger.”

“That doesn’t answer my question!” Actually, it did answer your question, and the implications left you frantic with worry for him. You wanted to explain how you felt about him, why his plan tore your heart to pieces, that you couldn’t just leave him behind, but the sounds of battle were approaching quickly. 

Crooks slid backwards into the pillar-lined hallway, kicking up dirt. He held bone attacks in his gloved hands, and he used them to deflect wave after wave of spear attacks. The barrage of attacks drove him backwards again, closer to you and his brother. Axe stepped between you and the sound of Undyne’s war cries.

Turning, he cupped your cheek in one large, bony hand. His eyelight drank you in as if to memorize every feature of your tear-streaked face. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “go,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours.

Then he was gone, teleporting to the entrance of the hallway to join Crooks with bone attacks flying. 

If you stayed, it would only distract him. He wanted you to go, to be safe. It took every bit of willpower in your body to walk away, to step through the Barrier without him, knowing that he never would’ve fought Undyne if it wasn’t for your meddling.

You waited.

And waited.

The seconds stretched out, each one lasting a thousand excruciating years.

You waited.

-

Axe curled up on the couch, full to bursting from a delicious dinner prepared by his brother. Yawning, he rested his skull in your lap, and you gently stroked his scapulae, smiling as he began to doze. He no longer feared nightmares. In fact, he rarely dreamed at all anymore. After all, what would be the point in dreaming?

Life on the Surface far surpassed anything that his subconscious could fabricate, and he already lived that dream every single day, with you.

INDEX

[draco-omega]

10 months ago, I decided to make a game.

10 months later, I have a bunch of art and a bunch of interface code and a whole pile of design notes, and not much game.

This is my story.

(Now in bullet point form so that I can stop redrafting it >.>)

I have a treatment-resistant anxiety disorder which significantly interferes with my ability to work - both on my own projects and other things that might be called 'gainful employment'. (I still feel some shame at admitting this so bluntly, even though I feel ideologically that there should be no more shame in this than any physical impairment that resulted in the same. Fuck mental health stigma, defining self-worth by employment is toxic capitalist dogma, etc, etc.)

In part because of this, I had been effectively unemployed and living with my mother for a number of years. (I still did my best to hammer out projects, but nothing, y'know, actually PAID anything... >.>)

Then in late 2017, my mother died (somewhat unexpectedly) of cancer, which left me with no home (we'd been sharing an apartment that she had been covering most of the rent on) and literally zero income. Obviously grief and upheaval did not help with any of my prior difficulties managing employment, either.

After some debate, I decided to combine the savings I had left over from my last stint as a network administrator with a (modest) inheritance from my mother and try to actually make a living at making games. This is something I had always theoretically wanted to do, but never put actual money on the line for. (Okay, in a perfect world, I'd happily give all my work away for free and live on some minimum guaranteed income, but we do not yet live in such a world).

One of my historically biggest gamedev weaknesses was a lack of artistic ability, so this seemed a perfect thing to put money towards. I could hire an artist, which would not only allow me to make a more commercially appealing product, but would also free me up to focus on the mechanical and writing aspects of gamedev, which are the areas I most wanted to be working on and also consider myself best at. (Any followers that remember my work on ToK may recall me complaining there about how it seemed I spent my time on nothing but graphics? >.>

This was shortly after Touhou fangames had been given the official blessing to be sold on Steam, and some had already achieved great success there, so this seemed like a good way to create some instant appeal and interest in my game, while working with a franchise that I already loved to death and had written hundreds of thousands of words of fanfiction for (eg: This or that or this other thing)

And so Chronicle of False History was born!

...and yet I somehow still spent most of my time working on art. You see, having never worked with an actual artist before, I underestimated a number of things:

1) I underestimated how much work it would be to find a suitable artist in the first place (though at least this part is done)

2) I gravely underestimated how much of my time would be spent on 'art direction' or 'project management' or whatever you want to call it.

Every sprite that is created, even for canonical character designs, requires making a large number of decisions regarding:

What attack and spell poses it will have (and how to cover the broadest range of signature abilities with just two 'frames', for budget reasons)

Which of enumerable (and sometimes mutually-exclusive) costume details from canon (and fanon) should be selected (and do you have any idea just how many variations there are on things as straightforward as 'the hilt of Miko's sword'?)

Gathering a pile of reference images that clearly detail every element of the character (and action poses) to be drawn (which is also harder than you might think; a lot of art is sufficiently suggestive of details to view without actually being a good reference to reproduce and anything that isn't exactly what I'm looking for risks my artist misunderstanding my request entirely)

Designing alternate-history variants of this character in a way that can be clearly conveyed with minimal costume and color changes alone (as any significant redrawing would cost far more and the cast of the game is so large already) and doing so before the part of the game they would appear in is even written.

Gathering reference images for all of those things

Writing up a detailed description of all the decisions listed above (and often drawing actual diagrams of action poses and projectile overlays that are ambiguous to express with just words) and handing it over to my artist

Waiting a while, then getting sketches back and finding out that there is inevitably a whole pile of things that need changing (either because the artist misunderstood my request entirely - despite all that previous effort - or because an idea of mine looked far better in my own head than it does, or just the usual 'incremental improvements' to something that is on the right track but not quite there - like a sort of collaborative redrafting.)

Spending hours poking at these sketches in an image editor, testing how well individual details resolve at in-game size, how well the action frames snap together, and how I feel about each questionable element. This often extends to (crudely) adjusting and readjusting the position and angle of individual limbs and eyebrows and projectiles that feel 'off' so that I can figure out what I would like her to do with them (and whether it's even worth making her take the effort to do anything with them at all)

Finally, summarizing that feedback into a detailed list of change requests (often with new diagrams to clarify my words) and repeating the last two steps over and over and over again.

Like, she does great work - don't get me wrong. I'm very pleased with the end results and this is just an inevitable part of the process of making something professional. But it does also mean that my original idea that paying an artist would free me up to work on things other than art has been... laughable in retrospect, to say the very least. In fact, it's very possible that a greater percentage of my dev time is spent on art-related tasks than on previous projects where I was doing all the art myself - I just get better art for my trouble (and money....)

This is especially true given that:

3) I underestimated just how much art work I would still need to do completely independently of her

Raven is doing character sprites. These are arguably the most individually important art content in the game, and certainly the ones that give it the most screenshot appeal, but that has left me to do everything else. Which has included:

Figuring out how to make battle backgrounds that passably match the art style of the game (since commissioning enough of these to fill all the locations needed would absolutely blow my budget)

Designing the entire look and feel of the combat screen to mesh well with Raven's sprites while also being something I am personally capable of making (using only cheap/free resources)

Creating all tweened animations and particle effects

Designing every single little UI element that exists in the game:

Elemental symbols

Dialogue boxes

Spellcard icons (and the entire menu design that requires them in the first place)

Combat action menus

Icons to indicate spellcard usability

Spellcard tooltips

Targeting overlays

A turn order bar

Spellcard availability reminders

Font choice for damage/healing numbers, spellcard names,

More cursors that you can shake a stick at

Lots more stuff, I'm sure

And even the completed sprites I get from Raven still need multiple hours of processing each to split them into component parts with sufficient information to re-composite and animate in-game. (If you've ever wondered why my screenshots seem to only involve Nazrin while I've already shown sprites for multiple other characters, this is why)

It never ends!!

...which is a fact that has been extremely draining. Like, it is probably difficult to overstate just how demoralizing it has been to pay this much money and work this hard and long and still somehow be mostly doing art (or visual-related coding) when I naively thought this project would offer some freedom from this after the endless, endless hours I spent doing this for ToK.

And it has also revealed a very tangible (and extremely stressful and troubling) fact about this game's development:

I am going to run out of money before I am remotely close to having a saleable product

When I first laid out plans for this project, I ballparked a modest but realistic budget for the artwork. I chose an art style that could provide pleasing visuals for a very large cast of characters at a cost-effective rate (for a game, at least). I deliberately limited my cast size based upon the agreed-upon cost per character with my artist (and have repeatedly held myself back from various fun ideas because I felt I simply could not afford to make a habit of such things). I studied sales figures for comparable games to aim for a target that had a reasonable probability of sufficient return (or at least breaking even). Game development is always a gamble, of course, but I felt (and still feel) that I made a sensible budget call and it was an amount I was fully able to pay.

But in all this, I neglected to factor in what has been, by far, my most costly development expense: remaining alive.

You see, at the rate my artist is able to produce work, the cost of retaining her is utterly dwarfed by such banal things as food and rent and not freezing to death in the winter. I live about as modest a lifestyle as possible - a one-room apartment, no car, no eating out, nothing in the way of luxuries (I don't even own a cell phone) - but that is still awfully expensive when you have no income and no prospect of it in the immediate future either.

It's a vicious cycle. The less work I get done, the more I feel future financial pressures breathing down my neck, the less work I'm able to get done (due to stress and general demoralization), the more I feel future financial pressures, etc, etc, etc.

And there's a logistical problem even outside of my own stress and anxiety and being damnably human in my need for actual rest: I've spent nearly 10 months working together with my artist and thus have a pretty good sense of how fast she's able to get character art done. And unless something changes dramatically, the time required for her to finish the art assets for the game will be several years longer than I will have any savings left to pay for them - because, as it turns out, hiring an artist is actually a tiny expense compared to merely continuing to exist.

I... don't really have a good answer for this problem and I've spent a lot of time consumed by it at this point. I have faith that Chronicle of False History can be a great game... eventually. But that does no one any good if I can't stay afloat long enough to make it. I've considered pivoting to another smaller-scope game project in the meantime, in the hopes of generating some modest influx of cash that could be used to fund the rest of CoFH's development, but there are a whole slew of reasons this is dicey (not least of which is that small-scope projects have a tendency to not be nearly as small as one anticipates...)

I've also thought about exploring Patreon, but like... I'm fully aware that I don't currently produce nearly enough interesting content for people to just want to throw money at. Tantalizing glimpses of it, perhaps. The promise that in the future I might. But what do I really have to show for this at the moment?

And so, here I am, exhausted by a marathon of work I did not properly anticipate and without the tangible reward I'd expected to have by this point (not a finished game, by any means, but like... much more of one than I actually have). And every month that passes by in which I get less done on my game than anticipated is yet more cash bleeding out of my bank account, like I'm trapped on a badly leaking boat with no shore in sight. I need a rest from all these stressors (and some more personal ones not described here), but when time spent not working has itself become a stressor these days, where can I even find it?

...wow, this sure sounded upbeat, huh?

In any case, I still care a lot about CoFH and have no intention of stopping work on it. I just... need to figure out some way to allow myself to continue to do so without this enormous capitalist behemoth crushing me beneath it.

(I had originally intended to provide more of an overview of the useful work accomplished over these past 10 months here, with mockups showing the evolution of the game's visual design, but clearly that goes into a future post at this point).

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Hikaeme na Hajime (Humble Beginnings)

Happy birthday Yandereplier! Yan is easily my favorite ego so of course I had to write something for his birthday. Said thing wasn’t supposed to be 17.5k words, but I’m apparently not capable of writing anything short :p This is pretty much Yandere’s origin story, or how I imagine it to be, at least. Tagging @spookyscarydarky since I know you love Yan just as much as I do, if not more <3

Read below or on AO3!

It doesn’t take long for Yandereplier to form. His character has already been perfectly established through Mark’s previous videos; the skit simply puts a face to a name, a body to a personality. Once the video goes live, it’s only a matter of time before the fans roll with the concept, drawing and writing and editing. Within hours, Yandereplier is fully formed.

But he isn’t quite where he’s supposed to be.

He’s not in Ego Inc., or near it, or even in Los Angeles at all. He’s close to the city, but too far away from Ego Inc. to feel its magical pull, the thing that attracts every new figment of Mark’s there. Yandereplier knows who he is, what he is, and who is original is, and almost nothing else. He doesn’t know if there’s any others like him, or where they might be. He isn’t sure where to go.

So, for a month, he wanders.

He traverses the area with nothing but his schoolgirl uniform and katana. He knows how to use it, which is fortunate, because before long, he has to. It doesn’t take him long to find Los Angeles, and the city is dangerous. He knows his appearance differs slightly from his original, feminine outfit aside: His body is slightly shorter, form a little slighter, pretty like a boy from a shoujo anime. He’s seen as an easy target, a spoiled schoolkid who might be carrying something worth stealing, a weakling that an angry or unstable person can take their frustration out on, or a pretty piece of meat that can be dragged behind an alley for an hour of awful pleasure. Of course, no one who tries to hurt him ever gets far; Yandere’s stronger than most humans, he knows how to kill and he enjoys doing it. He doesn’t lose a single fight someone else picks, but there are many, many fights. He gets bruised, scraped, cut. His uniform gets scuffed up, dirty, torn. He gets weaker. The constant fights take their toll, and Yandere isn’t nearly as good as stealing food as he is at killing. He takes whatever cash he can get off those he kills, but it’s barely enough to keep from starving. He sleeps where he can, but it’s never restful. His mind never completely quiets, constantly afraid of ambush, of one more person coming to do Yandere harm.

Three weeks into the month, Yandere wakes up one morning and realizes he can see the ground through the tips of his fingers.

He knows enough about what he is to know what it means, and it terrifies him. Could this really be his destined existence? Doomed to wander around for a while before being forgotten, never finding a place he belongs or people who care? For god’s sake, never finding his senpai?? Somewhere deep down he knows he’s getting closer. Closer to what, he doesn’t know, but he finally begins to enter Ego Inc.’s magical radius, even if he doesn’t realize it. Something in his gut tells him where he has to go, but he doesn’t know if he has enough time. He deteriorates quickly, going from transparent fingertips to full-body flickering in a week. Symptoms set in, fever and shivers and fatigue, but Yandere presses on. Except now, he has to take the quiet routes, the roads least traveled, lest a human see him and wonder why he’s flashing in and out of reality like a malfunctioning hologram. People still find him, though, dangerous people. He still kills them, but it’s harder now that he’s sick, now that he’s fading, and he starts getting hurt more. Tired though he is, he stops being able to sleep; too worried about being spotted, too worried about how people are forgetting him, too worried about never waking up again.

Of course, the whole month he’s walking around Los Angeles, the other egos are trying to find him, but they hardly know where or how to look. There’s only so far they can search, only so much their magic and reality-bending can do. But still they search, and eventually, the paths cross.

It happens as Yandere wanders across a park one night. The place is, amazingly, deserted, and though there’s activity out in the nearby street, Yandere’s far enough away that he’s confident no one will spot him walking between streetlamps, following his internal compass. He aches from a fight earlier in the day on top of everything else, and the flickering is worse than ever. He’s ever alert, but the night is peaceful, and Yandere can see the moon and stars above it. Maybe it’s a leftover trait from his original, but he can’t help but find a kind of joy in the night sky, in its grandness, its hugeness. He finds himself looking up instead of straight ahead as he walks, and he’s beginning to feel something like security when he hears footsteps up ahead.

He stiffens momentarily, resisting the urge to take out his katana. After all, whoever it is might not want to hurt him, they might just be passing through. Maybe if Yandere ignores them, they’ll ignore him back. He keeps walking, no longer staring at the sky but straight ahead, listening. He begins to hear the person talking, muttering to themself, voice deep and smooth and flowing in a way that seems to leave little room for breath. Once the person gets closer, Yandere sees a man a head taller than himself, with a golden streak peeking through slicked-back dark hair. His form is concealed by a tan trench coat, his eyes are concealed by a worn-out bandage. Yandere can tell just by the sight of him that he’s a figment, too, the same way he can tell that the other people he’s seen are humans. The figment stops walking as he nears Yandere, and even though his eyes are covered, Yandere feels like he’s looking at him. He finds himself halting as well, despite his nerves. Then the figment speaks, with the same strange voice, eloquent and practiced and flowing like a river.

“You’re a new figment, aren’t you?” he asks.

Yandere startles. He’s never met another figment before, but he has no hope for this going any better than his encounters with people. Humans are easy to fight. As a figment, even a brand-new, near-faded one, he’s much stronger than most of them. But up against another figment? In the state he’s in, he’s doomed to lose. If this figment wants to fight, Yandere has no doubt he’ll be slaughtered. Even if the figment doesn’t wish to kill him permanently, who knows if his fading form will survive long enough to come back to life?

So Yandere starts walking again, quicker this time, too keyed up to even give a response. As he speeds past the other figment, the man speaks again. But his voice is different this time, still smooth and fluid but now edged with power, a quiet rumbling tone.

“Yandereplier slows down and stops walking. He turns around and walks back to the Host, and this time stays put.”

Yandere’s heart jumps up into his throat as his body obeys the figment—the Host’s—commands against his will.

“What was that? And how do you know my name??” he can’t help but ask as his feet plant themselves in front of the Host.

“The Host apologizes for using his power on you, but he didn’t want you to leave,” the Host says, “He and many others have been looking for you. We’ve been expecting a new figment for a month now, and the Host noticed that you look like the one we’re searching for.” He smiles a little. “It seems the Host was right, since your name is in fact Yandereplier.”

“Others…?” Yandere asks, wary. A part of him lurches with emotion, thinks these might be the people he belongs with, but a much bigger part of him is skeptical, paranoid, nervous from all his time on the streets. He was never sane to begin with, but between the constant danger he’s faced and the sickness fading has brought on, Yandere’s near to the point of breaking.

“The rest of Mark’s figments,” the Host clarifies, “We call ourselves his egos. Mark Fischbach is your original too, correct?”

“I…yeah…” Yandere says, but then shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be admitting that, I shouldn’t be telling you anything!” he cries, “How do I know you aren’t tricking me??” Yandere can’t see any similarity between his appearance and the Host’s, and for all Yandere knows, the Host is only trying to lull him into a false sense of security so he can strike. The Host, for his part, seems surprised by Yandere’s question, and it takes him a moment to answer.

“You must be feeling a pull towards somewhere,” he begins, “A sense of where you’re supposed to go, of where you need to be. The place where the Host and the other egos live, Ego Inc., isn’t far from here. The Host can feel it pulling at him now. Can you?”

“You…” Yandere starts, “How do you know so much about me??” It’s unnerving to him, having this other, clearly more powerful figment telling everything Yandere knows about himself back to him. If he was right in the head he’d recognize by now what he’s found, but he’s too far gone to expect kindness from anyone now, having gotten nothing but hurt from every person he’s met.

“Because we have the same original,” the Host says, a little confused by Yandere’s behavior, “The Host saw the video you appeared in, and so did the rest of Mark’s egos. We knew to expect you, and we’ve been looking for you, so you could come to Ego Inc.” He clearly hadn’t expected getting Yandere to come with him to be so difficult.

“I’m not going anywhere with you!!” Yandere yells, eyes shifting from their normal brown into violent red, “I can’t trust you! I can’t trust anyone!!”

“Yandere—” the Host starts, taking a step towards him.

“No!” Yandere cries, unsheathing his katana and holding it out in front of him as warning, “Don’t come near me!”

“Yandere, please,” the Host says, making his voice gentle, “The Host is trying to help you.”

“How do I know??” Yandere practically screams, “No one’s ever tried to help me! Everyone I’ve met in this stupid city wants to hurt me!” Tears start running down his face, and he has to keep a white-knuckled grip on his katana to keep it from slipping through his flickering fingers. “You’re lying! You have to be! Leave me alone!!”

“The Host is not going anywhere,” the Host says, frowning, “And he does not intend to offend, but he does not believe that you are in any condition to reject his help.”

And the Host is right. Yandere’s grip on his katana is starting to tire already, and if he loosens it even a little he knows the sword will fall right through his fingers. In his agitated state, his heart is beating too fast, and every injury on him begins to ache. He feels light-heated, both from not having properly eaten in a while and from the fever coursing through him. It’s not a terribly cold night, but Yandere begins to shiver. Yet he still holds his katana out in front of him, and the Host seems to know that the younger figment will use it if he comes any closer. He seems unwilling to agitate him further or use his power against him again.

“Just go away,” Yandere growls, but his voice is weaker now, “Go away, or…or I’ll kill…”

“Yandere,” the Host says, worry clouding his features.

“I’ll kill you,” Yandere mutters, barely audible, “Go…”

It’s then that everything he’s experienced pushes his body to the breaking point, when the pain and stress and fear finally pull him under. His katana slips out of his grasp and the world, all at once, goes dark.

~~~

He half-wakes up in someone’s arms, and his heart stutters with fear. He struggles, kicking and beating the chest of whoever’s holding him, but it’s a token effort, and he can hardly move at all with fatigue like lead in his limbs.

“Let me go,” he tries to yell, but it comes out wavering and quiet.

“Hush,” says a familiar voice, “The Host is not going to hurt you.”

Yandere still doesn’t quite believe him; his mind is too cloudy to think the situation through. But he can recognize well enough that the Host’s arms carrying him are, at least, not hurting him currently. He realizes he’s experiencing the only kind touch he’s received since he was first created.

It’s…nice.

Before a minute’s passed, Yandere has slipped back under.

~~~

“…and I carried him back here. I’m sure he would’ve found us sooner or later, considering how close he was.”

“Probably, but it’s good you found him when you did, he’s in pretty bad shape. Not only is he fading, but just giving him a cursory glance I can tell he’s covered in injuries, mostly old ones, and I’d hazard a guess that he hasn’t properly eaten since he was made.”

Yandere wakes up much more slowly the second time, unable to move or open his eyes at first, barely comprehending the voices talking around him.

“He said…he said something about how no one’s ever wanted to help him before.”

“Poor thing. No wonder he freaked out so bad when you approached him.”

“I admit I could’ve handled it better. I think I overwhelmed him a bit.”

“It’s not like you meant to scare him. Either way, he’s here now, and that’s what counts.”

Yandere begins to realize he’s on a couch, covered by a blanket. Whatever room he’s in is pleasantly warm.

“I just can’t believe he’s being forgotten so soon. Only a month and they’re already moving on. Those fans of Mark’s are so fickle.”

“Of course they are. They don’t know there’s real, living beings at stake here. I know it’s hard, but you can’t get too mad at them, Host.”

“What about you, Doctor? You’re the one who has to watch them all die.”

“I’m not watching Yandere die if I can help it. Can you go get the others, let them know you found him? I’ll stay with him, keep an eye on him for when he wakes up.”

“Sure, I’ll be back soon. And try to resist the urge to use your catchphrase on him.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you, Host.”

Yandere hears footsteps walking away, the sound slightly echoing, leaving him alone with whoever the second voice belongs to. He may be awake, but he’s still so tired, still can’t open his eyes or move. He’s still afraid, still paranoid, but he’s too achy and exhausted and feverish to act on it.

At least, until he feels a hand on his forehead, brushing away sweaty bangs. His eyes fly open and he jolts up, so fast his vision blurs and dizziness rises in his head. He can’t struggle when gentle but firm hands push down his shoulders, keeping him from sitting up. A pathetic sound comes out of his throat, betraying his anxiety to the person before him.

“Hey, shh,” murmurs the person, voice low and soothing, “It’s okay, you’re safe, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Yandere’s vision clears enough to see who’s talking to him. He looks a lot like the Host, but his hair is different, messier and fluffier, with a chunk nearly hanging over his face. He’s wearing a head mirror and an unbuttoned white lab coat, showing pale blue scrubs beneath. His expression is calm, with concern simmering below the surface.

“Who are you?” Yandere gasps, “Where am I?”

“My name is Dr. Iplier, and you’re in Ego Inc.,” the person—Dr. Iplier— says, voice still soft and quiet, “Specifically in the library. The Host brought you here after you passed out. How are you feeling?”

“I feel…” Yandere speaks slowly as realization dawns, and a strange sensation takes hold of his heart. “I feel like…like I’m home.”

“You are,” Dr. Iplier says, smiling, “Everything the Host told you before is true. He didn’t mean to scare you, but we’ve been running ourselves ragged trying to find you. He didn’t want you running off.” His smile drops. “And with good reason. To put it nicely, you aren’t exactly in the best condition.”

Yandere nods. He’s still trying to process what’s going on, trying to process that he’s finally where he belongs, trying to process that he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore—afraid of the people around him, or the place he’s in, at least. He’s still very much afraid of the way his body shifts in and out of focus.

“They’re forgetting about me,” he whispers, suddenly upset, “I only just got here, I don’t want to—”

“Shh, shhhh, it’s okay,” Dr. Iplier soothes, “We’re going to do whatever it takes to stop you from fading, alright?”

“How do you stop people from forgetting?” Yandere asks, a whimper breaking into his words.

“We have our methods,” Dr. Iplier says with a wink, “But you don’t need to worry about that. All you have to worry about right now is getting some rest; it’s late, and you look like you’re about to pass out again. Later we’ll get some food into you, but for now, try to relax.”

Yandere is definitely tired, so tired, but a small part of him is still paranoid, convinced that this is all some elaborate trap to get him to let his guard down. Objectively he knows that if the Host or Dr. Iplier wanted to hurt him they could have done so many times over already, but he’s still wound tight, on the edge of a flight-or-fight response. Dr. Iplier seems to notice, and he sighs.

“I know this must be a lot,” he begins, “And I know things are moving pretty fast for you right now. I’m sure you’re still confused and afraid, and who wouldn’t be, after what you’ve been through.” He smiles sympathetically. “But Yandere, I promise you that no one here wants to hurt you. We’ve been waiting for you for a while, and now that you’re here, all we want is for you to stay. I promise you’re safe here. For what it’s worth,” he adds, “I’ll be right here with you while you’re asleep. Hell, I’m a doctor, it’s my job to keep you safe. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” He lays a comforting hand on Yandere’s shoulder. “You’re home, now.”

Just like that, the last wall Yandere has up finally breaks away, and he can’t help the tears of joy and relief that come in its wake. He remembers how it felt when the Host held him, how nice it was to be touched in a way that wasn’t a punch or a kick, and realizes how much he wants to feel that again. He throws his arms around Dr. Iplier’s neck, almost knocking him over, weak as he is. He starts to sob in earnest as Dr. Iplier wraps his arms around him in turn.

“Shh, shhhh,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, rubbing a hand up and down Yandere’s back, “You’re okay, Yan, you’re okay.”

Yandere nods into Dr. Iplier’s shoulder, crying too hard to speak. Dr. Iplier continues whispering gentle words to Yandere and rubbing his back until the younger ego runs out of tears, crying himself to sleep.

~~~

Dr. Iplier waits until Yandere is completely asleep, snoring softly into the crook of his neck, before laying him back down on the couch and pulling the blanket over him. Yandere settles into a comfortable position without waking up, and Dr. Iplier allows himself a sigh.

He knows the state Yandere’s in isn’t his fault, isn’t anyone’s fault. He knows it’s not his fault it’d taken so long for Yandere to get to Ego Inc., it’s not his fault that Yandere’s first month of life was a horror show. Yet he can’t help but feel responsible, feel like there’s something he could’ve done to prevent Yandere from getting to this point. He’s a doctor, for god’s sake, he’s supposed to help people, not clean up the mess they leave behind when they die. He’s already had to do that countless times; had to hold the hands of dozens of egos as they disappeared into the ether, had to keep them warm and comfortable as they slipped away like grains of sand in an hourglass. Looking at Yandere, shivering with fever even as he sleeps, form flickering in and out, Dr. Iplier can’t help but be reminded of the ones who didn’t survive, can’t help but deeply hope that Yandere won’t follow them. He’s barely known the young ego ten minutes and already can’t help but feel protective of him.

He’s glad, at least, that he didn’t tell Yandere he was dying. Yandere isn’t dying, after all; not right now, anyway. The counter above his head is still sky blue, not the ugly red that lets him know that the time will not change, no matter what anyone does. But even knowing that Yandere’s time isn’t set in stone, it’s still not exactly promising. Dr. Iplier can’t help but feel a bit like a liar for telling Yandere that he was okay.

That’s all the time he has to think about it, however, for it’s then that he hears a whoosh of air from a few feet away. He looks up from Yandere to see the Host, Googleplier and Darkiplier standing there. Google and Dark say nothing at first as they look at Yandere, take in his pulsing form.

“He still hasn’t woken up?” the Host asks, concerned.

“No, he woke up while you were gone,” Dr. Iplier explains, “He’s asleep now, god knows he needs it.”

“It fi-i-i-gures after all the searching we did, th-the Host just finds him by accid-d-d-dent,” mutters Google. The android’s been glitchy practically since he was made, getting stuck on words and jerking as he moves like an animation with skipping frames. Dr. Iplier feels bad for him, but he’s a doctor, not a mechanic, so there’s little he can do about it. Not that Google wants his pity, anyway.

“The Host was lucky, he supposes,” the Host replies to Google, shrugging his shoulders.

“Here I thought we’d be getting another Wilford,” Dark scoffs, staring down at Yandere, “He hardly looks like the ego we saw in the video in this state.”

Dark is…untrustworthy, most days. Dr. Iplier’s known him long enough not to take what he says at face value. Every word that comes out of Dark’s mouth is predetermined, calculated, formed like a code that isn’t meant to be broken. The abilities of his aura are getting stronger by the day, as is his control of it. Perhaps the only thing detracting from Dark’s power is his appearance. Between his loose ties and band tees, black nails and lined eyes, all topped with flame-red hair, Dark doesn’t look very intimidating. At least, he shouldn’t. Truly, Dark is arrogant; self-assured enough to dress this way and knowledgeable enough in his own strength to make sure everyone else knows his power, too. He’s too powerful to care what the others think of his style, and the getup provides a decent distraction from whatever manipulation he pulls. Dr. Iplier knows better than to underestimate him. Yet, he also knows better than to get offended at Dark’s seemingly flippant attitude towards Yandere’s plight. It’s hard to see from the outside, but Dr. Iplier knows Dark too well not to: Dark is the only one who takes every loss of a new ego harder than he does. And why wouldn’t he? Dark’s the leader, after all; and as much as he acts like the other egos are the bane of his existence (and in fairness to him, they often are), he feels just as obligated to protect them as Dr. Iplier does. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

“He’s been through a lot,” Dr. Iplier says in response to Dark, “We’ll see his normal personality when he gets better.”

A sound like a firecracker suddenly pierces the air, and everyone startles as a puff of pink smoke accompanies it. It’s Wilford Warfstache, appearing as though he knew his name had been mentioned.

“Wilford, what are you doing here?” growls Dark.

“I couldn’t just let you guys see the newbie without me!” Wilford laughs, casually walking to the couch where Yandere lies.

“How d-d-did you even know h-he was here?” Google asks, annoyed. He and Dark both turn accusatory glances on the Host, who seems to sense them even without eyes.

“The Host did not tell Wilford anything,” the Host says, clearly miffed at being blamed, “He is as confused as the rest of you.”

By now, Wilford is right in front of Yandere, peering down at him, face mere inches from Yandere’s. It’s exactly why no one invited him; Wilford is tactless at the best of times and his bedside manner is horrendous.

“I expected him to be more…” Wilford turns a hand over as he tries to come up with the right word. “…stabby.”

“He’s fading, Wilford,” Dr. Iplier mutters, “He won’t be “stabby” until he’s better. Give him some space.”

“Aw, come on, Doc,” Wilford whines, turning a laughably unconvincing puppy-eyed look at Dr. Iplier, “I just wanted to see him! You guys are no fun.”

Yandere frowns in his sleep and starts to stir, and a sudden surge of protectiveness runs up Dr. Iplier’s chest.

“Wilford, he’s sleeping,” Dr. Iplier hisses, “If you can’t be quiet, you’re going to have to leave.”

“Hey,” Wilford begins, disgruntled by the venom in Dr. Iplier’s voice, “Wilford Warfstache don’t take no shit from nobody!”

“And Dr. Iplier don’t take no shit from you,” Dr. Iplier snarls, sardonic, “Especially not when he has a patient to look after. You’re going to get out of Yandere’s face and control your volume or you’re going to leave. Which is it?”

The two glare at each other for a long moment before Wilford sighs dramatically, the sound making Yandere stir again.

“Fine,” he sniffs, “I’ll come back when you aren’t being a party pooper, which probably means I won’t come back at all.”

Dr. Iplier doesn’t dignify Wilford with a response. He knows he’ll get over himself before long; the pink ego has the attention span of a goldfish on his best day. Wilford poofs away with another firecracker pop, and Yandere mutters something unintelligible, close to waking. Dr. Iplier kneels down to him, gently ruffles his hair.

“Shhhhh, it’s alright,” he murmurs, “Go back to sleep, shh.”

For a moment it looks like Yandere might wake up, but instead he sighs and settles back into deeper sleep. Then it’s Dr. Iplier’s turn to sigh as he stands back up.

“I don’t hate Wilford,” Dr. Iplier mutters, “But damn, he can be a nuisance.”

“At least he left,” Dark says.

“No thanks to you,” Dr. Iplier bites back.

“You seemed to be handling him fine on your own,” Dark replies, smirking.

Maybe Dr. Iplier spoke too soon. Maybe Dark is the nuisance.

“Is th-there a reason Yandere i-i-is here and not in your clinic?” Google asks Dr. Iplier, pointedly ignoring the awkward tension in the room. Dr. Iplier looks to the Host, knowing he has the answer to Google’s question.

“The Host brought him here,” the Host says, “Yandere had passed out, but he woke up for a moment as the Host was taking him back to Ego Inc. He was clearly frightened to be waking up in someone’s grasp, so the Host thought that the sooner he could but Yandere down, the better he’d feel. Since the library is on the first floor, the Host thought it was the best place.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea, either,” Dr. Iplier adds, “It didn’t take that long for Yandere to wake up again after he brought him here. Even waking up on this couch freaked him out, I can’t imagine how he would’ve reacted waking up to someone holding him.”

“Now that he’s asleep,” Dark says, “Might we take him to your clinic? I can teleport him there.”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” Dr. Iplier says, shaking his head, “Yandere’s been through a lot; he needs stability, consistency. He won’t get that if he falls asleep here and wakes up somewhere else. Besides, going through your void might wake him up anyway. I think it’d be best to keep him here for now. I’m a doctor, I know what’s best.” Dr. Iplier looks at the Host. “I hope you don’t mind?” The Host shrugs.

“It’s not like Yandere will be disruptive,” he says, “And having him close by might help the Host write about him.”

That’s what the plan to save Yandere is, that’s what the plan always is when an ego is fading: The Host writes stories, and Google makes edits and circulates content, everything that’s new and popular. They churn out content for the fading ego and make sure the fans see it. That’s all the fans have to do: See it and interact with it, remember and care.

“Speaking of,” Dark says, addressing Google and the Host, “Now that you’ve each seen Yandere, perhaps you both should get started.”

“D-a-a-ark,” Google says, frowning, “Is that really o-our best option? We’ve l-lost so many egos that way. Shouldn’t we t-try something that could actually work-k-k?”

There’s a long, tense pause. Google’s always been unapologetically sarcastic and unwilling to take orders from others. It’s no surprise, considering his origins, but it constantly puts him at odds with Dark, and Dr. Iplier’s worried that, someday, Dark won’t stand for it anymore. In response to Google, Dark gets a dangerous look to his eyes, and his aura starts to shake around him.

“If you have any better ideas,” Dark says slowly, flashing a false smile, “Then I would very much like to hear them.”

Google frowns, and seems to want to retort, but ultimately doesn’t.

“In that case,” Dark continues, “Then why don’t you stop wasting time starting pointless arguments and start working to save Yandere, if you’re so concerned about him?”

“F-i-i-i-ine,” Google mutters, put out and frustrated but not willing to push Dark further. He turns and exits the library, and the Host retreats to deeper into the library to work. Dark, though, doesn’t teleport away, and instead stays looking at Yandere as his aura quiets.

“Dark?” Dr. Iplier eventually asks.

“Google…had a point,” Dark admits, “We do this every time, and it hardly ever seems to work.”

“You’re right, though,” Dr. Iplier sighs, “There’s not really anything else we can do about fading. It’s just…hard.”

Dark nods, a pensive, unhappy look on his face. Dr. Iplier can imagine what he’s thinking, and he’s proven right when Dark speaks next.

“How long does he have?” he asks. Dr. Iplier braces himself.

“…Two days,” he says quietly, only just managing to meet Dark’s eyes.

“Two days?” Dark seethes, eyes blazing, aura rearing up once again. Dr. Iplier winces.

“One day and twenty hours and three minutes, to be more exact,” Dr. Iplier explains quietly, reading Yandere’s counter, “It’s not set, though.”

“You didn’t think to tell the others?” Dark asks, voice dangerously low.

“What good would that have done?” Dr. Iplier asks in return, “If anything, it only would’ve put more pressure on them. They already have Yandere’s life on their shoulders, they don’t need anything more.”

Dark remains angry for another long moment, then visibly deflates, aura calming itself down.

“I suppose,” he concedes, voice grudging.

This is Dark at his most emotional, when an ego’s life is at stake. For how little he trusts him, Dr. Iplier can’t help but feel sympathetic. The burden Dark carries is a heavy one, and being the group doctor, Dr. Iplier has an idea of how it feels.

Dark steps closer to the couch, staring at Yandere with some amount of pity. The only sound is Yandere’s soft breathing as he sleeps, completely oblivious to Dark’s eyes on him. When Dark speaks next, it’s quiet enough for Yandere not to sense.

“Two days,” Dark repeats.

“He has a chance,” Dr. Iplier insists, “Bim was worse when we found him, and he got better, remember?”

“Certainly,” Dark mutters, “But I’m not counting on lightning to strike twice.”

Dr. Iplier doesn’t answer. There’s nothing he can really say to that. For several moments, no one says anything. Yandere continues to sleep, shivering a little even under the blanket. Dr. Iplier finds himself stroking Yandere’s hair, as if he can soothe him out of his feverish trembling. Yandere hums at the feeling of fingers in his hair, a soft, contented sound. Dr. Iplier’s heart flips over in his chest, and he hears Dark suck in a breath.

If there exists an ego who deserves what Yandere’s been through, it certainly isn’t Yandere.

“How long as it been since we got an ego who survived?” Dark asks, near-sadness in his voice, “A year and a half?”

“A bit longer, even,” Dr. Iplier answers. Between then and now, so many false starts.

“I hope,” Dark says, stepping back, “That we get to keep this one.”

“You and me both,” Dr. Iplier sighs.

Dark teleports then, disappearing with a burst of black smoke and a rush of air. Yandere doesn’t react, and simply continues to sleep as Dr. Iplier watches over him.

~~~

Yandere sleeps through the remainder of the night and into the morning. His sleep is dreamless for a while, but eventually his mind conjures images of dirty Los Angeles streets, of rough and cruel humans. There’s the sensation of having lost something he’s only just found, the sensation of his body dissipating into the air like smoke. He wakes with a cry, startling both himself and Dr. Iplier, who’s sitting in a chair nearby.

“Hey, Yan, it’s okay,” he murmurs, leaning over to Yandere, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Did you have a bad dream?”

Yandere nods, still shaking off the emotions the nightmare created. He lifts his hands to scrub at his eyes, trying to stop the tears there from falling.

“There, there,” Dr. Iplier whispers, pulling Yandere into a hug, “It’s alright; whatever you dreamed, it’s over now. You’re safe.”

Yandere curls into Dr. Iplier’s chest, still trying not to cry as the doctor smooths his hair. He watches his own hands flicker in front of him, and remembers that Dr. Iplier’s words aren’t entirely true.

He’s still got his new home, but he may not live long enough to enjoy it.

“I don’t wanna die,” he whimpers. He feels Dr. Iplier tense up before hugging Yandere tighter.

“We’re doing everything in our power to keep that from happening,” Dr. Iplier tells him.

“What exactly are you doing?” Yandere asks, “I know you told me not to worry about it, but…”

“Well, it’s not exactly me,” Dr. Iplier admits, “It’s the Host, and another one of us called Google. The Host writes stories, and Google makes edits, and they both try to get as many fans to see them as possible.”

“Host-san writes?” asks Yandere, a little confused.

“Yep,” replies Dr. Iplier, “He’s a storyteller. It’s what he was made for.”

“Oh,” says Yandere, “But how does, um…” He pulls away from Dr. Iplier’s hug to look at him. “If he’s…?” He gestures to his eyes. Dr. Iplier can’t help but chuckle.

“He has a braille typewriter back there,” Dr. Iplier explains, pointing over his shoulder towards the library’s interior, “His narration helps him see, too, though by now he doesn’t always need it to get around.”

“Oh, okay,” Yandere says, remembering the Host talking to himself when Yandere first saw him, “I’m sorry if that was rude.”

“It’s alright, you can’t help being curious,” Dr. Iplier assures him, “And it’s probably better that you asked me about it instead of the Host. He’s a little sore about it.”

“That makes sense,” Yandere says. He pauses. “Who was the other person you mentioned?” he asks.

“Oh, Google?” Dr. Iplier asks, “His full name’s Googleplier, he’s an android. He’s pretty gruff, but he’s nice enough. And he’s really sarcastic, it’s sort of what he’s known for.”

“Is it…just the three of you here?” Yandere asks.

“God no,” Dr. Iplier says quickly, “There’s Darkiplier, Wilford Warfstache, King of the Squirrels, Bim Trimmer, Silver Shepherd, and Ed Edgar.” He can’t help but grin at the surprise on Yandere’s face at how many there are. “They’re all a bit eccentric—well, Wilford’s a lot eccentric—but they’re pretty nice. Except Dark; he’s evil, but he doesn’t actively try to hurt us.” He frowns. “Usually. He won’t hurt you, is my point.”

There’s a long moment of silence as Yandere takes the information in. He tilts his head.

“Just going by everyone’s names,” Yandere begins, “It sort of sounds like you’re the only normal one here, Ishi-san.” Dr. Iplier laughs, loud and mirthful. Yandere can’t help but smile a little.

“That might be true, Yandere, that might be true,” he chuckles as his laughter subsides. He raises an eyebrow, but his smile is still good-natured. “‘Ishi-san’?” he asks. Yandere blushes, red spreading like fire across his cheeks.

“It’s Japanese for ‘doctor’,” Yandere explains, awkward, “Is that…okay?”

“Of course,” Dr. Iplier reassures him, “It simply wasn’t a word I’d heard before.” He grins. “I guess it’s the first of many words I’ll learn from you, huh?”

(Yandere can’t tell the words are somewhat forced, can’t tell that he currently has less than two days to live.)

“Yeah,” Yandere says, grinning in turn as his blush starts to fade.

“Now, before I forget,” Dr. Iplier says, pointing to the end table beside the couch and behind Yandere’s head, “I told you I’d have you eat something when you woke up.”

Yandere turns to look, and there on the table are a few pieces of toast on a plate, a glass of orange juice, and a napkin.

“It’s not a lot, but you shouldn’t eat too much right away,” Dr. Iplier continues, “You don’t want to upset your stomach. And don’t eat too fast, either, that’ll make you sick.” He grins a little sheepishly. “We figure you probably prefer Japanese food, but none of know how to make it.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” Yandere is quick to assure as he twists around to grab the plate, “This is…perfect. Arigatou.” Yandere remembers trying and failing to steal food, and getting disdainful looks whenever he had enough money to go into a store and buy some. This is much, much better.

Dr. Iplier smiles. He’s never heard the word “arigatou” before, but he’s pretty sure he can tell what it means.

“No problem, Yandere,” he says, “After you eat, you can find a book or two to read if you want, as long as you’re careful with them.”

“Okay!” Yandere says, perking up with happiness, “When do you think I can, you know, go out and see the rest of Ego Inc?”

Dr. Iplier almost winces, looking at Yandere’s time, still steadily ticking down. At his form, still shifting in and out. Yandere, quietly saying “Itadakimasu” and biting into a piece of toast, doesn’t notice his glance.

“Not until your health improves,” Dr. Iplier tells him, “I’m sure you feel pretty good now that you’ve slept, but your symptoms haven’t gotten any better.” He smiles reassuringly, hiding his doubt. “We’ll see how you feel later today.” Yandere nods, unable to speak with food in his mouth. “Well,” Dr. Iplier continues, standing up, “I’m sure you don’t want me just sitting here watching you now that you’re awake, and your condition’s pretty stable, so I’m gonna go find a book for myself. I won’t go too far, so don’t hesitate to find me if something happens or you don’t feel good.” Yandere swallows the bite of toast in his mouth to respond.

“Okay,” he says, smiling, “Thanks for everything, Ishi-san.”

“Of course,” Dr. Iplier replies, smiling back, “I’m a doctor, it’s what I’m here for.”

“Still,” Yandere insists before taking another bite of his toast.

Dr. Iplier chuckles before walking from the couch and into the forest of bookshelves around him. He waits until he’s a decent distance from Yandere to sigh.

Meanwhile, Yandere continues eating, oblivious to his counter projecting one day, eleven hours, twenty-seven minutes, and seven seconds, six seconds, five seconds, so on.

~~~

It doesn’t take Yandere long to finish eating, and it takes him even less time to find the library’s manga section. He takes a stack back to the couch to read, setting them on the table behind his head. Also in the area is a second couch where Dr. Iplier sits reading a novel, keeping half an eye and half an ear on Yandere as he reads. Though Yandere feels much safer and happier than he did last night, he’s still very much ill. Merely walking around the library and carrying books seems to tire him out, and he continuously wraps himself up in and kicks off the blanket as his fever throws off his body’s temperature. But most tellingly, his form continues shifting in and out of visibility, and his time continues going down.

But for a couple hours, things are peaceful. The peace ends when an explosion of sound and color like a pink firework resounds in the library in the exact middle of the space between the two couches. Dr. Iplier and Yandere both startle.

“Hey, Wilford,” says Dr. Iplier, a resigned sort of note to his voice.

“Is that any way to greet the Wilford Warfstache?” drawls Wilford, playfully wagging a finger at the doctor. “Just wanted to see if the newbie was awake yet.” He turns and looks at Yandere, who’s looking at Wilford with amused confusion. “The name, as mentioned, is Wilford Warfstache. The pleasure is all yours!” He holds out a hand for Yandere to shake, and he does, matching Wilford’s grip. Wilford seems to grin harder. “A strong handshake, I like that. It’s a good sign. I have a good feeling about you, Yandy.”

Even hardly knowing Wilford, Yandere can already sense the madness in him, being so familiar with it himself. He recognizes his own endless positivity, with a tinge of ridiculousness thrown in. Dr. Iplier is kind and all, but here, Yandere thinks, is someone he can relate to, someone he can connect with.

“I have a good feeling about you, too, Wilford-san,” Yandere replies, flashing a grin of his own.

There’s a pause. Wilford blinks.

“Yeah, no, that doesn’t work,” he says, “Just Wilford.”

“Are you sure?” asks Yandere, tilting his head. “Honorifics are important.”

“I’m sure,” Wilford replies easily, “Just Wilford, maybe Wil when we’re friends, but for now just Wilford.” He winks. “Don’t wear it out.”

“Wil,” Dr. Iplier pipes up, “Don’t be insensitive.”

“What? I don’t need an honorific,” Wilford protests, “It’d be like calling me “Mr. Wilford.” It’s just silly.”

“You know how Japanese honorifics work?” Yandere asks, tilting his head to the other side, not unlike a puppy trying to listen to a new sound.

“Sure,” Wilford says, “Figured I’d do a little Googling before you showed up.” He pauses. “Not actually with Google, though.”

“Since when are you this considerate?” Dr. Iplier asks, but there’s a teasing note to his voice.

“I just can’t do anything right today, can I, Doc?” Wilford asks, dramatic but with a with a smile on his face. He turns back to Yandere. “So, what do you do?”

“Nani?” asks Yandere, caught off guard by the question.

“Hey, I know that word!” Wilford exclaims, “But seriously, what do you do? What’s your schtick, aside from the mindless homicide we saw in your video?” There’s not a drop of venom or sarcasm in his words. Yandere is glad for it, because he truly does want to share what his goal is, now that he’s thinking about it. Every figment has one, and Yandere, of course, has his.

“Well,” Yandere begins, “I really want to find my senpai.” He sighs dreamily. “I don’t know who they are yet, but I’m sure they’re perfect. After I find them, I’ll become their kohai, and eventually their husband!” He giggles. “And, of course, I’ll cut down anyone who gets in my way.” His grin lengthens, becoming just a touch too wide.

“Nice,” says Wilford, nodding, “A bit mushy for my taste, but nice.”

Dr. Iplier sighs, exasperated. After spending the night comforting Yandere and making sure he slept well, he’d sort of forgotten the young ego’s origins.

“It might be easier to kill people,” Wilford is saying, “If you looked a little more intimidating. Not that you don’t pull off the uniform,” he explains, “But it’s not exactly frightening.”

“Maybe not,” Yandere admits, “But this is!” He pulls out his katana, holding the blade up, showing it off with pride. Wilford whistles.

“That’s a helluva sword,” he says, looking at the weapon with admiration, “I’m more of a “guns and smaller knives” kinda guy myself.”

“Hold on a minute, Yan,” interjects Dr. Iplier, looking at the younger ego sternly, “I could’ve sworn the Host carried that on him while he was taking you here, and I don’t remember him ever giving it back, considering you were unconscious both times he saw you. How did you get that back?”

“I dunno,” Yandere answers, shrugging, “I just have it. Doesn’t really matter what happens to my katana,” he goes on, looking fondly at the weapon, “It always ends up back in my hands.”

“Looks like we have another reality-bender here,” says Wilford, grinning like a madman as the realization sinks in, “If I do say so myself. What else can you do?”

“I don’t really know,” Yandere admits, “I can’t really make anything happen, it just sort of goes by itself. Like, I can carry pretty much anything, including my sword, without it actually being on me. It’s just there when I take it out.”

“So, you operate on anime logic?” Wilford asks, laughing a little. “That’s brilliant. Maybe eventually you’ll figure out how to manipulate it.”

“You think so?” Yandere asks brightly.

“Of course!” Wilford replies, “After all, I figured out my powers pretty fast.”

“That’s because you’re one of the most powerful figments here, Wil,” puts in Dr. Iplier.

“Really?” Yandere asks, eyes shining. “Sugoi!”

“I don’t know what that second word means, but yep!” Wilford answers, puffing up proudly.

Wilford and Yandere end up talking for a while, passing the morning into the afternoon. Both are ecstatic to have made a new friend, especially Yandere. He finds that the longer he spends in Ego Inc., the more the place truly feels like home. Dr. Iplier ends up leaving to get some lunch for Yandere, asking Wilford to stay with him while he’s gone, and it’s practically domestic to the young ego. Even though his form keeps flickering, right now, he’s so happy he can almost ignore it.

While Dr. Iplier is gone, another visitor comes into the library, arriving in a cloud of inky smoke.

“Heya, Darky,” says Wilford, unperturbed by Dark’s sudden appearance.

Yandere is a little startled by Dark, but it quickly changes into fascination as he looks at him. It’s not just Dark’s clothes, his black nails, or even his hair as red as Yandere’s that the young ego notices the most, but the black, snakelike aura wafting around him. The thing is hardly attached to him at all, spreading around him in all directions.

“Wilford,” Dark greets curtly. He then looks at Yandere. “You’re finally awake, hm?”

“Y-yes,” Yandere stammers. A figment can always tell when another figment is stronger than they are, and some figments make their strength more apparent than others. Wilford is powerful, yes, but he has a lackadaisical demeanor and boisterous personality to mask it. Dark, though, clearly revels in his power. Yandere can’t help but be intimidated.

Dark, meanwhile, glances around.

“Where is the doctor?” he asks. “Don’t tell me he just left you to your own devices.”

“He went to get lunch for Yandere,” says Wilford, letting a knife appear in his hand for him to toss into the air and catch, “I should’ve made a request myself.”

“So the doctor left Yandere with you,” Dark says, disdainful, “I may need to have a word with him.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Darkipoo!” Wilford whines, going to Dark and dramatically throwing an arm over across his shoulders. Dark bristles but doesn’t interrupt. “Yan and I have been getting along great!” Wilford continues, hand not across Dark’s shoulders still messing with his knife. “Haven’t we, Yandy?”

“Yeah!” Yandere says quickly, coming to Wilford’s defense despite his nerves, “We’re doing fine by ourselves, just talking.”

“See?” Wilford drawls, continuing to throw his knife up and catch it as it falls, “You don’t have to worry about us!”

“Do I?” asks Dark dryly. “In either case, I suppose an introduction is in order.” He turns back towards Yandere, shaking off Wilford’s arm as he approaches him. Yandere, still sitting on the couch, struggles to meet Dark’s eyes. He wonders if he should stand, but he can’t make himself move.

“My name is Darkiplier,” Dark says, voice silky smooth, “You may call me Dark, if you’d like.”

“Or Darky,” interrupts Wilford from behind him, “Or Darkipoo, or edgelord, or—”

“You may call me none of those things,” Dark snarls, not looking at Wilford. His aura contracts, betraying his annoyance, and Yandere almost shrinks back. But Dark quickly composes himself, putting a calm expression back on his face and forcing his aura to relax. “I’m the oldest,” Dark continues, “And the leader of this group here.” He gestures a hand around himself. “I made this building, and most of the rooms in it. I keep everyone here out of trouble, and in turn, they do well not to cause trouble.” He leans down closer to Yandere, speaks nearly in a whisper, a dangerous gleam to his eye. “Will I have to worry about you getting in my way?”

“N-no,” Yandere mumbles, awestruck but not quite afraid. There’s something about Dark, something that makes Yandere’s heart pound, but it isn’t fear. Yandere isn’t scared. He’s intimidated and nervous, but he’s not scared of Dark, even though it’s clear that Dark is trying to scare him. Whether Dark can tell this or not, Yandere doesn’t know, but the smirk on his face suggests that he’s satisfied regardless.

“C’mon, Dark, he just got here,” huffs Wilford, knife going up and down through the air, “It wouldn’t kill you to be welcoming every once in a while.”

“You say that as if Yandere isn’t the only new ego you haven’t managed to scare immediately,” Dark retorts smoothly, straightening up.

“That’s totally diff—Oops.”

Wilford cuts himself off as the knife he’d been tossing goes a little too far away as he throws it up. Even in a mistaken throw Wilford’s aim is impeccable, for the knife reaches the tip of its arc before dipping down, heading right for Dark’s shoulder. Yandere gasps, expecting the knife to cut right through. But he needn’t have worried: Without so much as flinching, Dark uses his aura to catch the weapon the moment before it reaches his skin. The knife stays there, suspended in the air by wisps of black, and all three people in the room are silent. Dark, without letting the aura drop the knife, slowly turns his head over his shoulder to look at Wilford. The venom in his stare gives even Wilford pause, and he throws up his hands in surrender.

“It was an accident, I swear,” he says, voice somewhat quieter and characteristic drawl less pronounced.

“I’m sure.” Dark speaks with icy calm barely covering poisonous anger.

Yandere hold his breath. Wilford seems to do the same. But moments pass, and no one moves, and the knife continues to stay stuck in Dark’s aura. Wilford relaxes, and is about to speak when Dark’s aura expertly flings the knife back at him, aiming for the throat. Wilford yelps in surprise and only barely dodges, still getting a cut on the side of his neck.

“Hey!” he yells, more offended than hurt, “I told you it was an accident!”

“One of us has to set an example here, Wilford,” Dark responds cooly. “On that note,” he continues, looking back at Yandere, “I think I’m done here.” His grin is arrogant. “Be seeing you, Yandere.” Then he vanishes in a cloud of smoke.

It takes Yandere a moment to process what happened, to process that show of self-assurance, that show of control, that show of power. The low, rumbling way he spoke to Yandere, even as he spoke of his own strength. The calculation in every move, how he dodged Wilford’s attempts to undermine him, how he expertly caught the knife in smoky tendrils without so much as blinking, how he waited until Wilford’s guard was down before tossing it back with cold ferocity. Not in all the people and other figments Yandere has met so far as he seen anyone like Dark. No other person or figment has made his heart pound the way it is now, has filled him with such deep fascination, has given him this feeling he can’t name. Dark is…something. Dark is everything. Dark is as cold and cruel as ice, as fierce and imposing as a panther, as powerful and dangerous as the ocean, as deep and grand and beautiful as the night sky, as perfect—

Perfect.

Oh.

Oh.

Yandere had wondered what this moment would feel like. And it feels like every moment before it was meant to carry him here, like the stars were waiting for the perfect time to give this moment to him, like the last piece of his existence has fallen into place, like he’s discovered his purpose, discovered what he was made for.

Pink petals of cherry blossoms start to rain down, floating over themselves on their way to the ground, but Yandere, red-cheeked and starry-eyed, barely notices.

“Ugh, that asshole,” Wilford is muttering, poofing away his knife and holding a hand to the cut on his neck, “Don’t mind him, he’s just being extra ‘cause there’s a new—” Wilford pauses. “What’s with that face? And what’s with the flowers?”

Yandere blinks, resurfacing from his thoughts, and flashes the brightest smile he’s ever made.

“I found my senpai,” he sighs dreamily.

Wilford’s jaw drops.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he says, gaping, “Dark? Out of everyone in the whole world, Dark’s the one you choose??”

“I didn’t choose him,” Yandere murmurs, still smiling, “It was love at first sight.” He holds out a palm and watches a flower petal drift into it. “It was fate.”

“Gag me,” Wilford mutters, “Look, Yan, not to rain on your parade, but Dark’s probably the worst person to be your senpai on the planet.” He gives a small shrug. “I wouldn’t even bet on him being capable of love, to be honest.”

“I’m sure he is,” Yandere says, running a finger over the flower petal in his palm, not looking at Wilford, “And even if he isn’t, I know I can make him love me if I’m patient and I try hard enough.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” sighs Wilford. He waves petals out of his face. “Enough with the flower petals already, this is already too mushy for me.” At that, Yandere finally looks up at Wilford to pout in annoyance.

“I can’t just turn them off, Wilford,” he says, “Besides, I think they’re pretty.” He grins as a thought occurs to him. “And they’re pink, you like pink, right?”

“You raise a good point,” Wilford says, as though deeply considering, “Alright, I’ll tolerate the petals for now.” He looks down. “You know they’re disappearing when they hit the ground?”

“Oh,” Yandere says, looking for himself, “I guess they are.” He grins again. “That’s convenient!”

By the time Dr. Iplier returns a few minutes later, the petals have subsided, and Wilford’s neck has stopped bleeding, though the hand he kept pressed over it is bloody. Dr. Iplier notices immediately as he sets Yandere’s lunch on the end table.

“What did you do this time?” He asks, approaching Wilford and taking out a pack of wet wipes to clean up the blood.

“Dark threw a knife at me,” Wilford whines, like a child telling a tattletale.

“I don’t doubt it,” Dr. Iplier replies easily, all too used to Dark and Wilford’s spats. As he’s taking care of Wilford’s neck he notices the overly-happy look on Yandere’s face. “Was it that much fun to watch Wilford get stabbed?” he teases Yandere.

“Oh, no,” Yandere giggles, “I found out that Dark-san is my senpai!”

“…Oh,” Dr. Iplier says, not sure how else to respond.

“Exactly,” Wilford mutters.

Luckily, the rest of the day is much less eventful. Wilford ends up leaving to work on his show, and Yandere goes back to reading. Dr. Iplier stays close by, but Yandere never complains of feeling bad. His time, however, continues going down, showing no signs of rising. By the time Yandere goes to sleep for the night, blanket tucked around him and pillow under his head, his clock has just passed twenty-four hours. The numbers are still blue, though, and Dr. Iplier, sitting in a chair beside the couch, has no choice but to hope. But it’s difficult to do.

At one point, he’s approached by the Host.

“You’re not sleeping,” the Host says.

“Neither are you,” Dr. Iplier replies, giving a wry smile.

“I’m writing,” Host says, stretching his arms, “I needed a break, I was starting to cramp up.”

“I’m looking after Yan,” Dr. Iplier says, “And by the looks of him, neither of us can do much sleeping tonight.”

“Mm,” Host replies. He doesn’t need to see Yandere to know how his form must be flickering, but he quietly narrates it to himself anyway, unconsciously noting that it’s gotten worse since the previous night. The flickers are longer, more frequent than they were before.

When his narration fades, there’s silence for a few moments.

“No matter how many times this happens,” Dr. Iplier sighs, “I always get attached. I’m a doctor, I’m not supposed to get emotionally invested in every patient that I see.” He shakes his head. “Every time a new ego starts to fade, I tell myself to stay distant, to just take care of them and not get so caught up. But I always, always do.” He reaches out a hand and strokes Yandere’s hair. “And I have again.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad doctor,” Host says gently, walking up to Dr. Iplier, “It makes you compassionate.” He comes up behind the doctor’s chair, loosely wrapping his arms around Dr. Iplier’s shoulders. “Yandere’s sleeping well tonight, thanks to you.”

“It might be the last night he gets to sleep,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, “He only has a day left.”

“Is it still blue?” Host asks, leaning down so his head is next to Dr. Iplier’s.

“Yes,” Dr. Iplier answers, turning to look at the Host, putting them nose to nose.

“Then we’ll keep going,” Host says, lightly kissing Dr. Iplier, “I’ll keep writing and you keep watching. Alright?”

“Alright,” Dr. Iplier replies, kissing the Host in turn, “I’ll let you get back to work then.” He pauses as the Host pulls away to go. “Thank you, Host.”

“Of course, Doctor,” the Host responds, smiling gently before he walks away, soon disappearing into the darkness of the library.

Dr. Iplier looks back at Yandere, at his time still shrinking, and sighs, trying to take the Host’s words to heart.

~~~

It’s when Yandere’s counter hits twelve hours that things begin to fall apart. He’s standing at a shelf, flipping through a book and trying to decide if he wants to read it, when a pang of dizziness hits him so hard he has to put the book down and lean against the shelf.

“Ishi-san,” he calls, voice already weak, “I feel really dizzy all of a sudden.”

Luckily, Dr. Iplier is only two aisles over, and is by Yandere in a flash.

“Alright, let’s go back to couch,” Dr. Iplier says, keeping his voice professional and calm despite catching sight of Yandere’s counter. He loops one of Yandere’s arms around his shoulders and helps the younger ego walk back to the couch. By the time they reach it, Yandere’s dizzy spell has passed, but it’s sapped much of his energy.

“How about I go grab some books from the shelf you were at,” Dr. Iplier suggests, “And you see if you want to read them?”

“Okay,” Yandere answers, tired, “Thanks.”

When Yandere’s counter hits ten hours, his head hurts too much to read, and he’s forced to put down the book in his hands and lay down. He waits for the headache to pass so he can go back to his book, but it doesn’t, only getting worse. He groans and tucks himself under the blanket, letting the book flop onto the floor.

“Yan, what’s wrong?” asks Dr. Iplier, noticing the slight outburst.

“Headache,” Yandere mutters.

“You want a tylenol?” Dr. Iplier asks him. It’s at least fortunate that most of the symptoms of fading are easily treatable.

“Yeah,” Yandere answers.

Dr. Iplier gives him one, and after half an hour of Yandere trying to doze through the pain as Dr. Iplier rubs circles into his hair, it takes effect and lets Yandere go back to reading, though there’s still a light throbbing that doesn’t go away. But by now Yandere has caught on that his condition is worsening. He hopes the fans remember soon.

When Yandere’s counter hits eight hours, Wilford shows up to hang out with Yandere again. He notices right away that Yandere has gotten worse.

“Sheesh, kid, you look like hell,” Wilford says.

“That’s an interesting way to greet someone,” Dr. Iplier quips from his couch, not looking up from his book.

“Well, I’ve been feeling pretty bad today,” Yandere admits, looking at his hands, watching them flicker, “It’s getting worse.” His brows knit in worry. “I hope I get better soon.”

“You will, I’m sure of it!” Wilford insists with a wink, “My assistant Bim—you haven’t met him yet—showed up here looking about like you do now. But Host and Google jogged the fans’ memory in no time!” Wilford grins. “Maybe it’s taking a while this time, but that just means there’ll be a ton more stuff for fans to remember you with!”

“Really?” Yandere asks, feeling a little better.

“Oh, sure,” Wilford says. He turns to Dr. Iplier. “Bim had what, sixteen hours left to live when he showed up?” Dr. Iplier bristles and looks up from his book.

“Um, yeah,” he mutters quickly. He begins to keep talking, trying to change the subject, but—

“What does that mean?” Yandere asks, “How did you know how much time he had left to live?”

“Oh, oh,” Wilford says, “Doc, you didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Wil,” hisses Dr. Iplier, but the damage is already done.

“Tell me what?” Yandere asks. He stares at Dr. Iplier. “Ishi-san, can you…tell when someone is going to die?”

“…Yes,” Dr. Iplier sighs, knowing there’s no point in lying now, “I can see a timer above everyone’s head, telling me when they’re going to die down to the second. But it’s usually not set in stone; it fluctuates depending on what happens to someone. I can tell that, too, if it’s able to change still, by its color: Blue for when it might change, red for when it won’t.”

“And you didn’t want me to know,” Yandere murmurs, putting it together. “So that means…” There’s a pause as his expression subdues. “Ishi-san, how long do I have?”

“Your time is still blue,” Dr. Iplier says, trying to dodge the question.

“Yandere, forget it,” Wilford says, a note of pleading in his voice, “Forget I said anything.” He may not know Yandere’s time, but he knows by Dr. Iplier’s behavior that it can’t be good.

“How long?” Yandere repeats, lip starting to tremble.

“You don’t need to know,” Dr. Iplier insists, getting up from his chair to approach Yandere, “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do!” Yandere exclaims, “Tell me how long I have left!”

“Yandere, it doesn’t matter, it could still change—” Dr. Iplier starts.

“Tell me!” Yandere yells. He’s angry now, desperate to know.

“Yandere, please,” Dr. Iplier almost begs, right in front of Yandere now, “No one who thinks they want to know ever wants to know.”

“I don’t care, just tell me already!!” Yandere almost screams.

Dr. Iplier takes a deep breath and sighs it back out.

“Eight hours,” he says, voice like stone.

“Eight…” Yandere gasps, “…hours?”

“It’s not red,” Dr. Iplier continues, “It can still change, you aren’t doomed.”

There’s a long moment of silence as Dr. Iplier and Wilford watch Yandere’s expression change, eyes widening and hands moving to cover his mouth in shock as he processes what Dr. Iplier’s told him.

The silence is cut when Yandere lets out a wail, long and loud, that eventually cracks and dissolves into harsh sobs.

“Oh, Yan,” murmurs Dr. Iplier, heart dropping into his stomach.

“You knew this whole time!” Yandere bawls, “You knew th-this whole time and you didn’t even say a-anything!!”

“This is exactly why I didn’t say anything,” Dr. Iplier sighs, fighting to keep his voice steady, “I knew you’d react like this.”

“I th-thought I was gonna get better!” Yandere sobs, “I thought everyone was g-gonna remember and I’d b-be okay, and you knew that wasn’t true!” He curls up, pulling in his legs to make himself into an unhappy ball. “You t-told me I was gonna be okay and you lied!!”

“Yan, listen to me,” Dr. Iplier says, trying to be calm, “Your counter isn’t red, it’s not set.”

“So??” Yandere yells, “Any second n-now it probably will be!” He lifts his head to glare at Dr. Iplier, and he and Wilford both see that Yandere’s eyes have gone from sweet brown to angry red. “Host and Google have been working since I g-got here and I’ve only gotten worse!!” Yandere goes on, “I bet y-you agree with me and you just w-won’t admit it!”

“Don’t just give up, Yan!” Dr. Iplier practically pleads, reaching for Yandere to comfort him, “Please, I know you’re upset—”

“No!” Yandere screams, shrinking away from Dr. Iplier’s hands, “Don’t touch me! G-Get away from me! Usotsuki! Ketsumedo yarou!” He curls tighter into himself, tucking his head back down. He continues to sob, body shaking with sadness and rage. “Just l-leave me alone!!”

Dr. Iplier pulls his hands away, at a loss. He so desperately wants to comfort Yandere, and his knowledge about the young ego and his experience as a doctor tell him that Yandere needs it. But Dr. Iplier doesn’t want to upset him further, and he knows Yandere won’t listen to a thing he says in the state he’s in.

Dr. Iplier’s surprised when Wilford suddenly brushes past him, sitting on the couch with Yandere and pulling him into a tight hug.

“Don’t cry, kiddo,” Wilford says, speaking more softly than Dr. Iplier’s ever heard him speak before, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” Yandere sobs, but he doesn’t pull away, instead clinging onto Wilford’s shirt and leaning into the embrace. There’s a pause as Wilford considers Yandere’s words.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he concedes, “But I still believe what I said before. I know it’s gotten bad, but I’m sure they’re gonna remember you.”

“It’s just not fair,” Yandere whimpers, “I s-spent a month out there by myself, and then I just…I had it. I found my home, and I f-found my senpai, and I made friends, I had it. I had it and now…it’s not fair.”

“Life hardly is, Yan,” Wilford sighs.

“I don’t wanna die,” Yandere sniffles.

“Yan, listen to me,” Wilford says, moving one hand to take Yandere’s chin, making him look up, “I said when we me that I had a good feeling about you, and I still do. Now, Doc said your time’s still blue, so there’s still time for the fans to remember.” Wilford leans forward to gently bump his forehead against Yandere’s. “It looks bleak now, but I’m certain you’ll be okay. And even if me and Doc are both wrong, you shouldn’t spend your last day miserable.” He swipes his thumb under Yandere’s eye, wiping away tears, and gives the young ego a classic Warfstache grin.

“I’m scared,” Yandere whispers. His eyes are back to their normal brown, but they’re wide and wet and still dripping tears.

“I know, kid,” Wilford murmurs, “I know.”

He stays for a while, holding Yandere close, until the younger ego dozes off in his arms. When that happens, he lays Yandere on the couch, pulling the blanket back over him.

“I’m…gonna go,” he says, now awkward, “I’ll be back but I don’t—” He stops for a moment as Yandere flickers, so severe he’s invisible for nearly a second before shifting back into reality. “I just…can’t.”

“I get it, Wil,” Dr. Iplier says, and he does, “Thanks for comforting Yan back there.”

“Wilford Warfstache does give the best hugs,” Wilford says, managing a small smile. He stands. “Tell me if…if I have to come back.”

Dr. Iplier nods, and Wilford teleports away with a poof.

When Yandere’s counter hits six hours, Yandere has woken back up to lay morosely on the couch, trying to read again. But his thoughts are still running, still everywhere at once, and the shivery fever is his blood flairs back up. The day has melted through a golden sunset into night, and Yandere can’t help but think that he’ll never see the sun again.

He’s silent until Dr. Iplier brings him food.

“Not hungry,” he grumbles.

“You have to eat something,” Dr. Iplier says, “You’ll feel better if you do.”

“I’m not hungry,” Yandere repeats, “And I’m gonna be dead in a few hours anyway, so what’s the point?”

“Yan, you can’t think like that,” Dr. Iplier sighs, “Your time is still blue, you aren’t a lost cause.”

“It’s easy for you to say,” Yandere mutters, “You aren’t fading, you don’t know how it feels.” He flickers, another long one, and winces when he’s visible again. “It’s like I’m melting into nothing. It really feels like I’m dying.”

“I know it does,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, “I haven’t experienced it, but I’ve taken care of egos who have, like Bim. I know it hurts, but trust that I wouldn’t be keep saying you aren’t dying if I didn’t believe it.”

Yandere is silent and pensive.

“Look, you don’t have to eat all of it,” Dr. Iplier says, “But try to at least eat a little. It’ll help you feel a little better.”

When Yandere’s counter hits four hours, the food is still untouched. Not so much because Yandere doesn’t want it, but because he’s becoming too sick to eat it. His fever spikes, and his body trembles ever harder. When Dr. Iplier moves his chair to sit at Yandere’s side, Yandere is too weakened to protest. The doctor puts a cool compress on Yandere’s forehead, but it doesn’t help much, and he can see Yandere beginning to slip away. He remembers Wilford’s resolution to come back, and calls him.

“Wilford, Yandere’s getting worse. He’s still got time left, but he won’t be awake for most of it. You ought to come now.”

It’s mystifying, truly, the fact that Yandere’s time is still painted blue. Dr. Iplier’s never seen an ego get this bad and not have their time switch to deadly red. There’s still a shred of hope in him, but it’s getting smaller and smaller with each passing second, as each passing moment he expects the counter to turn red. For all he told Yandere about how he still had a chance, the chance is getting ever slimmer.

Wilford poofs into the room before Dr. Iplier even has a chance to hang up the phone, and the pop it makes in the air is loud and close enough to break into Yandere’s awareness. He turns toward the sound, eyes half-open and cloudy.

“Wil,” he croaks.

“Hey, Yan,” Wilford says, kneeling down to face him. He tries to grin. “You still look terrible.”

“Yeah,” Yandere replies, smiling weakly, “I feel terrible.” He huffs out a sound that would be a giggle were he stronger. “I’ll miss you.”

Wilford’s expression drops, and he doesn’t speak. Instead, he lifts a hand and begins to stroke Yandere’s hair. Yandere makes an indecipherable but happy-sounding mumble in response, and lets his eyes slip closed. He stays half-awake, but too far into his fever’s grip to notice when Wilford pulls his hand away and walks to the other couch, unable to continue watching Yandere deteriorate up close. He sits down, chin in his hands and leaning forward, and continues to say nothing. His expression is strange, with furrowed brows and downturned lips, vaguely angry and somewhat sad.

“Is it always like this?” Wilford finally asks. “Is it always like this when they…go?”

“Not always,” Dr. Iplier answers, unable to keep the weariness out of his voice, “Sometimes it’s quicker.”

Wilford frowns deeper, like he’d wanted a different answer, and lapses into silence again.

When Yandere’s counter hits three hours, he stirs and fully wakes, though his symptoms haven’t lessened any. His eyes open to see Dr. Iplier watching over him, quickly joined by Wilford, who approaches upon seeing Yandere rouse himself. But Yandere only seems able to focus on Dr. Iplier as fading blurs his vision.

“Hey, Yan,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, voice soft.

“I’m sorry,” Yandere says, voice barely a breath, “I’m sorry about before.”

“It’s alright,” Dr. Iplier replies, and he means it, “You were upset and afraid, and you lashed out. I don’t blame you.”

“I’m still scared,” Yandere rasps, “I’m so scared.”

“I know,” Dr. Iplier whispers, “And I can’t promise you it’ll be okay. But I can promise you that no matter what happens, Wil and I will be right here with you.” He takes one of Yandere’s hands in both his own, having to clench tight to keep Yandere’s transparent fingers from slipping through his grasp. “However this ends, you won’t be alone.”

Yandere manages a smile.

“Arigatou,” he breathes, voice filled with emotion. Moments later, his face relaxes and his eyes drift close.

Dr. Iplier doubts he’ll see them open again.

When Yandere’s counter hits two hours, Wilford is sitting on the other couch again with the same strange expression as before, and Yandere’s form is so withered that Dr. Iplier can’t hold onto his hand anymore. It’s not too long after that the cold compress sinks through Yandere’s forehead into the couch, and Dr. Iplier removes it quickly. He tries ruffling Yandere’s hair, but his fingers barely move the strands. Yandere’s breathing becomes labored as his body is put under more and more stress. Yet, despite it all, his counter is still maddeningly blue. It’s horrible to think and Dr. Iplier knows it, but a part of him wishes Yandere’s time would just turn red already, so he could finally say he’s dying and be done with it. But he can’t say it, can’t think it until that timer goes red, and even as it ticks steadily downward, it stays perfectly, infuriatingly blue.

He’s not surprised when Darkiplier shows up. No doubt he’s been keeping track of Google and the Host’s progress, or lack thereof. At first, he doesn’t speak, only stares at Yandere with pity and some amount of sadness.

“It’s happening, then,” Dark says. It isn’t a question.

“His time still isn’t red,” says Dr. Iplier, “But he’s so far gone, I…I don’t know how he could possibly recover.”

“How long?” Dark asks.

“Two hours,” Dr. Iplier answers, and Dark sighs heavily.

“Here I thought—” Dark shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

There’s a long pause of silence.

“Hey, Dark,” Wilford half-laughs, “After that power trip you had in front of Yan yesterday, he decided you were his senpai.” The look in his eyes is unnerving, a little mocking. “I bet he’d be happy you’re here, if he still knew what was going on.”

“Wil,” Dark warns, but there isn’t much bite to it.

Another pause, shorter this time.

“I really had a good feeling about him,” Wilford insists, a frantic note beginning to enter his voice, “I really thought he’d make it. I really…I really wanted him to make it.” He flashes a sad grin. “Dark, everything…everything is lost in the end, isn’t it? Everything’s a sick joke, isn’t it?”

“Will, enough,” Dark mutters.

Dr. Iplier senses something else aside from Yandere’s condition going through their minds, but he doesn’t know what and he doesn’t ask.

When Yandere’s counter hits one hour, the young figment is hardly breathing at all. He’s horribly pale and so transparent he’s hard to see. He’s not feverish anymore; rather, there’s hardly any warmth left in his skin at all, leaving him as cold as a corpse. There’s no way to keep him warm anymore, though, not when the blanket simply rests on the couch under him, Yandere’s body no longer tangible enough to hold it up. It’s only thanks to the magic imbued in Ego Inc. that Yandere doesn’t sink through the couch as well.

Dr. Iplier remains in the chair by his side, Wilford remains seated on the other couch, and Dark remains standing with his hands clasped behind his back. They’re all thinking the same thing, more or less. They’re all thinking about how Yandere’s barely had two days with them, barely had two days with some semblance of happiness. How he started out alone and spent his first month of existence in an unforgiving city. Were he not Yandere, were he not a figment built on bloodshed and made to kill, no doubt he would’ve died countless times over (or maybe just two or three times, and faded away while his body tried to recover). Even as capable as defending himself as he was, he was still surrounded by people who either didn’t care or hated him outright. For so much of his life, he was alone.

Yandere was right. It isn’t fair.

No one speaks. The silence is so thick that it exerts a force all its own, weighing down on their chests like gravity. It’s as if talking might be physically harder now, like getting the words out will take more strength. And what is there to say, anyhow? Nothing that Yandere can hear. All Dark, Wilford, and Dr. Iplier can do is watch as Yandere begins to stop existing.

Dr. Iplier is still waiting for Yandere’s counter to turn red. It’s as if it’s taunting him now, as if it won’t go red until the very last second just to spite him. And that’s the infuriating thing; the fact that Dr. Iplier’s seen as much happen with patients before. He’s seen time stay blue up until minutes before death, whether that death was illness or accident or old age. But he’s never seen it happen to a figment before. He knows Google and the Host are no doubt still working furiously. Host at least must be conscious of how little time is left, whether Google is or not Dr. Iplier doesn’t know. Either way, he’s sure they’re both still working, still editing and posting and writing and publishing, still trying to make the fans see. Dr. Iplier suddenly wonders if the fans might react to the edits and stories too late, if the belated attention might create Yandere anew. Would he be the same? Would he remember his previous life? Dr. Iplier, though, is sure it’s wishful thinking. The figments that go stay gone, and that’s true of every ego he’s watched disappear. Every ego he’s gotten to know. Every ego he has, at least partly, befriended.

He looks at Yandere, and it hurts.

Forty-two minutes and twenty-nine seconds, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, and so on.

With Yandere laying so still he might as well be dead, looking for all the world like a corpse, there’s no movement to draw Dr. Iplier’s eye but Yandere’s time, still steadily ticking down.

Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four seconds.

Dr. Iplier doesn’t turn his head, but his eyes glance towards Wilford. The pink ego’s eyes might be shining with unshed tears, but it’s hard for Dr. Iplier to tell, only looking through his peripherals. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Wilford cry, but he could understand it if he did. It’s laughable how often Dr. Iplier gets attached to dying egos; it was practically inevitable that Yandere’s sorry situation and sweet personality would draw him to care. But not since Bim had Wilford found a friend in another ego so fast, and not since Bim had he stayed with an ego as they faded. But with Yandere’s time ever-shrinking, Dr. Iplier doesn’t expect this to end the same way. His eyes go back to Yandere’s counter.

Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty seconds.

Now, Dr. Iplier spares a glance towards Dark, eyes going up and to the left to see the shadowy figment standing close by. His expression is unreadable and quiet, but there’s the tightness in him that Dr. Iplier sees every time an ego starts to go. Were Wilford not here, Dark would occasionally close his eyes or look away, would maybe sit instead of stand, might be closer. But Dark is stubborn and ever-acting like there’s something he has to prove, even in front of his oldest friend. Or maybe it’s not that, Dr. Iplier thinks. Maybe Dark is trying to be the stronger one here. He’ll call Dr. Iplier a bleeding-heart as he storms out of a room that once had three egos instead of two, but Dr. Iplier has long ago learned that it’s Dark’s way of keeping away the hurt. Perhaps now he’s trying to keep the hurt away from Wilford, as well. No doubt the only thing that could make Wilford feel worse than he does is seeing Dark react to Yandere’s passing. So Dark holds it down, keeps it in, if only for Wilford’s sake. Dr. Iplier doesn’t want to assume anything, so he lets the whole thing go from his mind as he looks back to Yandere.

Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen seconds.

Dr. Iplier closes his eyes for a long moment, trying to sort out how he feels. He supposes he’s not unlike Dark right now; hiding deep sorrow under calm professionalism. But he’s a doctor, for god’s sake, what else is he to do? It’s his job to stay cool in a crisis, to tune out his thoughts to focus on solving a problem, to ignore personal affects and see the patient as a body to be fixed, but to not be so cold that he stops seeing the patient as a person and stops caring about the outcome. It’s a hard balance to strike even for an experienced doctor, even for a figment that was made to be a doctor. Hell, he was made to give bad news, too. It may make it easier to look someone in the eyes and tell them they’re going to die, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fallout, to watch his bluntness hurt people. Even the ones who don’t get the news are so hard to watch as whatever’s afflicted them takes them over. It’s not easy. It could never be easy. Dr. Iplier would never want to do anything else, never could do anything else, but that doesn’t make it easy. He opens his eyes again.

Forty-six, forty-five, forty-four.

Wait.

Dr. Iplier didn’t have his eyes closed that long. He double-checks the time.

Fifty-three minutes, forty-three seconds and counting.

Dr. Iplier could’ve sworn Yandere had less time than that. He watches closely.

Fifty-three minutes and forty-two seconds, fifty-three minutes and forty-one seconds, fifty-three minutes and forty-seconds.

It’s not unheard of for times to fluctuate. It happens fairly often to both humans and figments alike. But it’s usually more drastic, in bigger spurts.

Fifty-three minutes and thirty-nine seconds, fifty-three minutes and thirty-eight seconds, fifty-three minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

Had he imagined it? But how could he have?

Fifty-three minutes and thirty-six seconds, fifty-nine minutes and—

Wait.

One hour and three minutes. One hour and fifteen minutes. One hour and thirty-two minutes.

Dr. Iplier’s jaw drops.

“What?” Dark asks, noticing right away. Wilford looks away from Yandere to Dr. Iplier’s shocked expression at Dark’s words.

One hour and fifty-six minutes. Two hours and ten minutes. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes.

“I don’t believe it,” Dr. Iplier gasps.

“What’s going on?” Wilford asks.

Two hours and forty-one minutes. Three hours and seven minutes. Three hours and twenty-two minutes.

“His counter is going up,” murmurs Dr. Iplier, awestruck, “He’s…recovering.”

Dark can’t stop his eyes from widening, and Wilford leaves his seat and strides to join him and the doctor.

“Doctor,” Dark says, voice like steel, “If you’re pulling some sort of trick—”

“Do you really think I’d lie about this??” Dr. Iplier snaps. “His timer was around forty minutes a minute ago, now it’s at three and a half hours and it’s still going.”

Three hours and forty minutes. Four hours and six minutes. Four hours and nineteen minutes.

“Yandere’s…not dying?” Wilford asks, quiet but hopeful.

“He’s not dying,” Dr. Iplier repeats, unable to keep a smile off his face.

And just like that, Yandere’s counter explodes with time. Five hours. Seventeen hours. Three days. Weeks. Months. Too fast for Dr. Iplier’s eyes to keep up. And with it, Yandere’s body begins to change. He becomes more solid as the seconds pass, the flickering slows and stops, his body becomes tangible again. His breathing strengthens and evens out, color flows back into his skin, his temperature returns to normal. He stirs, and the other figments around him can’t help but lean in to look at him closely. His eyes flutter back open, and there’s confusion in them for the briefest of moments before they widen with shock. He grabs at his own arms, looks at his own hands, before looking up and meeting Dr. Iplier’s eyes.

“Ishi-san,” Yandere gasps, “Am I…?”

“You’re okay,” Dr. Iplier says, smiling hard, “You’re not going to die.”

“How long do I have now?” he asks, still in disbelief.

“Years, just like the rest of us.” Dr. Iplier answers. “You’ve made it, Yandere, they remembered you.” He reaches out and squeezes Yandere’s shoulder. “You’re still here, and you’re going to be for a while.”

Yandere’s eyes fill with tears, and his face breaks into a joyful smile as he launches himself into Dr. Iplier’s arms, almost knocking him out of his chair. Dr. Iplier hugs him back anyway, squeezing him tight, remembering how his hand went right through Yandere’s hair earlier today and thinking of how solid and true and alive Yandere is now, and it’s enough to put tears of his own into his eyes.

“I can’t b-believe it,” Yandere half-sobs and half-laughs, “I’m alive, I g-get to stay.”

“I can’t believe it either,” Dr. Iplier chuckles, “I don’t believe in miracles, but this is as close to one as you can get.”

“That’s got to be record!” Wilford chimes in, voice as boisterous and bright as it ever was. “I’ll have to get you in for an interview sometime, this’d make one hell of a story!” He reaches out a hand and ruffles up Yandere’s hair, making the younger ego laugh.

“Looks like you’ll be needing your own room, now that we know you’re here for good,” Dark muses from the side. His expression is as impassive as ever, but his face is relaxed, body loose, shoulders imperceptibly sagging with relief. Upon hearing his voice, Yandere startles and pulls away from Dr. Iplier, fidgeting with his skirt as he looks up at Dark.

“Um, hai, I guess so,” he says, cheeks slightly reddening.

“I’ll be taking care of that, and I’ll let Google and the Host know that they’ve succeeded in keeping you around,” Dark continues, “Welcome back to the world of the living, Yandere.” He gives Yandere a smooth grin. He figures he’s earned it.

Yandere’s blush deepens and spreads across his cheeks, and he nods, unable to reply as Dark teleports away.

“Dramatic, much?” Wilford scoffs. “‘Welcome to the world of the living,’ psh.”

“You’re one to talk, Wilford,” Dr. Iplier says wryly.

“Who, me? Dramatic?” Wilford gasps, affronted. “I am not nearly as dramatic as that edgelord is.”

“But you admit you’re dramatic,” Dr. Iplier points out, grinning.

“I see you twisting my words,” Wilford mutters, eyes narrowing, “And I don’t much care for it.”

“You mean you “hear me” twisting them?”

“Now listen here—”

The two continue their bickering, and Yandere giggles as he listens. He has a feeling he’ll be seeing a lot more of that. He realizes he’ll be seeing a lot more of everything. There’s so much of Ego Inc. he hasn’t seen, so many egos he hasn’t met, so much he has yet to do, so much he has yet to learn. The world, this world, his world is finally open to him after a month of struggle, and he’s got the rest of his life to enjoy it.

After being alive for a month, his life is finally beginning.

~~~

~~~

~~~

“Aka-kun, where are we going?”

“I can’t tell you, Yandere. That’s the entire point.”

“Can I open my eyes at least?”

“No. We have to get there first.”

“Don’t sound so annoyed, Aka-kun!”

“I am annoyed. Hence why I sound like it. You slow down every time you start talking; we’d be there already if you were quiet.”

“So mean! You’re always so tsundere.”

“Quit calling me that!”

“But you are!”

Despite the good-natured bickering, Yandere thinks he already has an idea of where Chrome is taking him. It’s November 13th, after all; the day he came into existence, and it’s already afternoon and he hasn’t yet gotten any birthday well-wishes. But Yandere isn’t stupid; he has no doubt that Chrome is taking him to his birthday celebration. He plays along, though, because he truly has no idea what the celebration will entail.

As it turns out, the celebration entails red and black streamers and balloons strewn about Wilford’s studio, a big cake, and every single ego gathered to shout “Happy birthday!” as Chrome tells Yandere to open his eyes.

Yandere bounces around for a while, flitting from person to person to talk. There generally aren’t a lot of party games at ego birthday parties; it’s more or less an opportunity for everyone to gather, to have an excuse to talk to people they haven’t in a while. Not that Yandere minds; though he has people he’s particularly close to, it’s nice to catch up with everyone else.

“Happy birthday, you,” says Dr. Iplier with a smile and a hug, “Maybe try to stay out of trouble this year? It feels like I see you every other day with all the fights you get into.”

Even if Dr. Iplier and Yandere don’t exactly hang out with each other, Yandere still considers him a friend, and he knows Dr. Iplier feels the same about him. He sees him often enough, after all; one of Yandere’s chief sources of entertainment is wandering into seedy parts of Los Angeles and repaying the pain the city gave him as a new figment tenfold. He ends up in Dr. Iplier’s clinic fairly often as a result.

“I can’t make any promises, Ishi-san!” Yandere giggles as he hugs back. Dr. Iplier shakes his head with fond exasperation as he pulls away.

“Well, in that case,” Dr. Iplier says, “There might be a strawberry lollipop waiting for you next time you come in.” He winks. “I recall you really liking strawberry.”

“I do, thanks!” Yandere replies. He spends a moment wondering if it’s worth getting injured in a fight to get a lollipop afterwards before the Host walks up to stand alongside Dr. Iplier.

Those two days in the Host’s library at the beginning of Yandere’s life not only turned the young ego into a bookworm, but made him fall in love with the library completely. Whenever things go wrong it’s the place he feels the safest, and whenever there’s something he feels he can’t tell anyone, he can tell it to the Host. Yandere is fairly certain that he likes Host more than Host likes him, but Host still likes him well enough, as evidenced by him taking a moment to greet Yandere.

“Happy birthday, Yandere,” he says, “The Host suggests that you take a look in the manga section of his library sometime soon.”

“Really?” Yandere asks, excitement in his voice.

“You never know,” Host says, “There might be something new.” He gives a tiny, teasing smile.

“Thank you, Katarite-san!” Yandere says. He refrains from hugging Host, but hopes his smile is enough to show his thanks.

If Yandere is being honest, he hadn’t expected anything from Dr. Iplier or the Host at all for his birthday. There’s so many egos in the building (and so few with money) that egos only get birthday gifts for the people they’re closest to. Yandere already knows this from experiencing the birthdays of other egos (hell, Wilford’s birthday was just a few days ago, now that had been a party), and he has to admit that he’s been looking forward to the presents more than anything else. He is a teenager, after all.

So he’s excited when Chrome approaches him with an object, something small and rectangular and red. He holds it out to Yandere while looking away, embarrassed to be giving it. Chrome’s bad at emotions that aren’t anger and frustration, but Yandere knows this well enough by now. He befriended Chrome almost by force not long after he appeared, and even if Chrome is bad at showing it, Yandere knows that the android considers him a friend.

“This is for you,” Chrome says, awkward.

Yandere takes the object from him, and quickly realizes by the familiar logo on the front that it’s a Pokédex, shiny and brand new.

“Woah!” he says, turning it over in his hands, “I’ve always wanted one of these!”

“Open it,” Chrome says, finally able to look at Yandere.

Yandere flips it open, and the screen flickers to life. It beeps a musical tone before a menu displays, showing different ways to organize the Pokémon inside it, whether by number, region, type, or more.

“It’s got every Pokémon on it, including the new Alola ones,” Chrome says, “Go ahead and select one.”

Yandere taps the button to organize the Pokémon by number, and taps the entry for Bulbasaur. He startles when a holographic display pops up, and before him in the air sits a Bulbasaur. Fully three-dimensional and about the size of Yandere’s head, the creature slowly rotates around, occasionally blinking and opening its mouth in a goofy smile. Yandere gapes at it, completely awestruck.

“There’s a display like that for all of them,” Chrome explains, “They’re all about that size, so it’s not to scale, but—”

“Aka-kun,” Yandere breathes, eyes wide, “Did you make this?”

“Y-Yeah,” Chrome mutters, looking away again, “Don’t look at me like that, it’s not a big deal. It wasn’t even that much work.”

Plus, who happens to be walking by at that moment, frowns at Chrome’s words.

“That’s objectively incorrect,” he says without stopping his stride, “You spent a month making that thing.”

“Plus,” Chrome hisses, but Plus has already walked away. Yandere stifles a giggle.

“It’s amazing, Aka-kun!” he exclaims, marveling at the Bulbasaur a second more before shutting the Pokedex, making the creature disappear. He jumps forward and hugs Chrome, who stiffens but lets it happen. “Thank you,” Yandere says, smiling up at Chrome. Chrome’s cheeks go slightly red, and he relaxes just a little. He pats Yandere’s back, as awkward as ever, but he manages a lopsided smile.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he replies, fondness warm in his tone.

After parting with Chrome, Yandere walks around the room, looking for two people in particular and expecting to find them together. Sure enough, at one end of the studio near the costume racks are Dark and Wilford, having a conversation. Yandere is happy to see that they look the way they do when they’re getting along; Dark quietly amused and Wilford energetic and loud. They both notice Yandere as he approaches, and Wilford grins at him so hard his moustache wiggles. Dark’s expression might seem unchanged to most, but Yandere knows him well enough to see the warmth in his gaze and the slight upturn in his lips, and Yandere’s heart flutters.

“Enjoying your birthday, love?” Dark asks.

“Yeah!” Yandere says, holding out his Pokédex, “Check out what Chrome made me!” He opens it and the machine throws up the Bulbasaur again for Dark and Wilford to look at.

“Woah,” Wilford whistles, clearly impressed, “I’ll have to see if I can get him to make me one, too!”

“It is…interesting,” Dark says, disinterested tone hiding genuine surprise. Yandere almost giggles.

“Sure puts my gift to shame,” Wilford chuckles.

“Aw, Wil, I’m sure it doesn’t!” Yandere exclaims, shutting the Pokédex and tucking it away to nowhere the way only an anime character can, “At least let me see it before you make that judgement!”

“Fine, I guess,” Wilford sighs, dramatic and teasing, “I suppose I can give you your birthday present. I didn’t wrap it though, because, well…” Wilford holds out a hand to the side, and there’s a puff of pink smoke as something appears there. “…It’d probably be a bit more trouble than it’s worth.”

The object in Wilford’s hand is a sword, and just from the look of it Yandere can tell it’s ancient, hand guard worn and metal lackluster from centuries of enduring the elements. Not only that, it’s huge, nearly as long as Yandere is tall. How Wilford can hold it in one hand is a mystery, but Yandere doesn’t much care about that, too busy gaping at the weapon to really notice. Dark is staring at it, too, though he’s decidedly less impressed.

“Wilford, exactly how did you get that?” Dark asks.

“Stole it from a museum,” Wilford answers proudly, “Took a lot of magic to get the police off my back afterwards, but it was worth it.” He wiggles his moustache at Yandere as Dark sighs. “You like it?” He holds it out for Yandere to take.

“It’s so cool!” Yandere exclaims, hefting up the sword in both hands. Its size and age make it completely impractical for combat, but Yandere knows it’ll look amazing on the wall of his dojo. “Thank you, onii-san!!” He throws his arms around Wilford’s neck, somehow managing not to cut off his arm in the process. Wilford laughs and hugs back, unperturbed by the giant sword swinging around in Yandere’s careless grasp.

“No problem, kiddo!” Wilford chuckles, giving Yandere a squeeze before pulling away.

“I’d say it’s somewhat of a problem,” Dark points out, derisive, “Considering what you had to do to get that thing.”

“C’mon, Darky, quit being a party pooper!” Wilford sighs, “It’s not like I led the cops back here or anything. Besides,” he adds, pointing at Yandere, who continues to admire his gift, “Would you rather me take it from Yan and put it back where I found it?”

Dark looks like he’s almost tempted to say yes, but Yandere looks toward him with the saddest eyes and biggest pout he can muster. After a long moment, Dark gives in.

“No,” he mutters, and Yandere stifles a giggle. Not even Dark’s coldness and power can stop him from being affected by Yandere’s puppy-dog eyes.

“Well, in that case,” Wilford says, satisfied at having won the argument, “I’m gonna go make sure no one breaks anything in here.” He frowns. “I caught Bing trying to skateboard on the end of the stage earlier.”

“You break things all the time, Wil,” Dark points out, not unkindly, as Wilford walks away.

“That’s different!” he insists without looking back.

Yandere laughs, but he thinks Wilford likely has another reason for leaving as well: To let Yandere and Dark be alone. Or maybe three reasons: Wilford has no tolerance for romance and PDA. Really, he probably left more to save himself from witnessing it than to give Yandere and Dark some privacy. Still, Yandere appreciates it all the same.

“Yami,” Yandere begins as he puts his sword away the same way he did the Pokédex, “You weren’t really gonna make Wilford put the sword back, were you?”

“No,” Dark admits, “I simply don’t wish for him to be stealing things from humans whenever he pleases.”

“Threats don’t really work on him,” Yandere points out.

“Don’t I know it,” Dark sighs, shaking his head. Yandere laughs and walks up to Dark, stopping just in front of him.

“Yami,” Yandere says, cutely rocking back and forth on his heels, “Did you get me anything for birthday?”

“Greedy, aren’t we?” Dark replies, but he smiles, fond and teasing, as he pulls out a small package from behind his back. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Yandere,” he adds.

Yandere blushes at the compliment even as he takes the box. It’s rectangular, small and nearly flat, pure white and wrapped with a deep black ribbon tied in an elegant bow. It’s so pretty as it is that Yandere almost doesn’t want to open it. Almost. He unties the ribbon and pulls the lid off the box, and nearly falls over at what’s inside.

It’s a necklace, the prettiest one Yandere’s ever seen. The chain is silver, delicate and so shiny it nearly looks platinum, tiny links leading down and meeting at a heart-shaped topaz jewel, blindingly orange against its silver setting. Yandere spends a long moment just staring at it, amazed.

“Yami, it’s incredible,” Yandere gasps, “How did you even get this?”

“A kind soul…” Dark chooses his next word carefully. “…offered to pay for it.”

Yandere can imagine what that means. He lets out a breathy giggle, too astonished for a true laugh.

“I have to try it on!” he exclaims suddenly, “There’s a mirror here somewhere…”

Dark chuckles and follows Yandere as he darts away in search of a mirror. It’s fortunate that Yandere and Dark are already near the costume racks, for within sight of them is a full-length, trifold mirror. Yandere finds it quickly and pulls the necklace out of its box, and he’s just undone the clasp when Dark comes up behind him.

“Allow me,” he says, breath ruffling Yandere’s hair, and Yandere can hardly refuse.

His cheeks are pink as he hands off the ends of the necklace to Dark, who gently pulls them around Yandere’s neck and fastens the clasp. Yandere stares at himself at the mirror, stares at the way the silver chain slopes down, stares at the topaz heart resting just below his throat. He finds himself bringing up a finger to touch the chain, as if making sure the necklace isn’t simply part of his imagination. Tears spring to his eyes as Dark loops his arms around Yandere’s waist, looking at Yandere’s expression in the mirror.

“Do you like it, love?” he asks, unable to keep a smile off his face.

“I love it,” Yandere whispers, “It’s beautiful.” He turns around in Dark’s arms to face him. “Thank you.”

Dark lifts a hand to Yandere’s cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that sneaks out from Yandere’s wet eyes.

“Anything for you, darling,” he murmurs, pulling Yandere close to kiss him. Yandere kisses back, wrapping his arms around Dark’s neck, fingers curling into his jacket.

As they kiss, Yandere can’t help but think back to where he was a year ago. How he’d been alone in the middle of a city that didn’t care, without a clue where he belonged. He never would’ve imagined that he’d be where he is now, that’d he’d have a place to call a home, surrounded by friends and wrapped up in his senpai’s arms.

And to think, this is only Yandere’s first birthday. He can only imagine where he’ll be in another year’s time, but if it’s anything like where he is now, he’ll be perfectly content.

Dark pulls away from the kiss to rest his forehead against Yandere’s, still holding him close, looking down at him with loving, gentle eyes. Yandere smiles at him, cheeks dusted pink, and Dark can’t help but smile in return.

“I’m glad you’re here, my dearest one,” he murmurs, voice impossibly soft.

Yandere beams, eyes glimmering like two stars.

“Arigatou,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss Dark again, “Me too.”

[whatdoyouthinkmyjobis]

Hunters on the Hellmouth

masterlist

first chapter

previous chapter

AN: Inspired by events in BTVS 7.11 “Showtime.” Links to character sheets at the bottom of the story.

Warnings: Torture. Gore. FEELS!

Chapter 32: The Demon Inside

The body landed in the alley with a sickening crunch. Dani, Grace, and Wook heaved their blanketed package into Giles’ trunk. From Dean’s broken bedroom window, Buffy watched them pull away with the last Bringer corpse.

“I’m going to need you to repeat what you just said,” Xander requested. He and the rest of the Scoobies had spent the better part of an hour listening to Buffy tell Dean’s story while the Potentials helped unbloody the Winchesters’ apartment.

“About how Sam and Dean don’t know of anything that can kill Lucifer?” Buffy asked.

“About all of it.”

“For the record,” said Anya as she scrubbed the splatter off the wall, “this whole angel thing scares the crap out me. It’s not natural!”

“I’m more stuck on the Satan part,” said Xander.

“Angel. Devil. It’s all the same apparently!” Anya had been practically green since Buffy shared the news.

“And Giles has nothing?” asked Willow, hope still in her eyes.

“I think Giles has a splitting headache.” By the time he’d left Dean’s hospital room, Giles had taken on the glassy gaze of a wandering Alzheimer’s patient.

“At least that explains why they’re so strong and manly and ridiculously good looking.”

Xander’s relief brought a smile to Buffy’s lips. “Strong yes, but I think the rest is just genetics. I’ve seen the family photos.”

“Damn it!”

“Imagine keeping a secret like that,” Willow wondered aloud.

Xander shrugged. “‘Hello, I’m an angel in disguise,’ sounds like a great pickup line.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Anya argued. “And that’s not what they are.”

“I meant Sam,” Willow clarified. “Having something like that done to you as a child, an infant. Being terrified of latent evil inside of you.”

“You get used to it,” said Dawn.

A cough from the doorway alerted them to Cloé with her arms full of books. “I don’t know how to get the blood out,” she said meekly.

Willow relived the girl of her burden. “I'll handle these, and you go get yourself a snack in the kitchen, okay?”

“Terrifying Lucifer part aside, this is a good thing, right?”

“How could you even think that, Xander?” Anya whined.

“Hear me out,” he continued. “The angels want Dean, and they don't want the bad guys to have Sam. Let's just tell them Sam was abducted. They saved Dean’s life, after all. What's the worst that could happen?”

According to Dean, a lot of bad could happen when angels were involved, but Castiel was his friend. “We could try--”

Anya tossed her bloody rag in the bucket of water and stormed out of the room.

“For once, I'm with Anya,” said Willow. “Angels sound kind of cosmically selfish. They helped Dean, but who’s to say helping Sam wouldn't take the form of killing him? Or, hey, now that they’re here and noticing things, how about they burn the witch?”

“I get where you’re coming from. I do,” Buffy said. “Dean told me the angels are bad news, but Castiel is on their side. He’s the only angel on their side, and it’s cost him. If we pray to him, maybe we can at least get some guidance.”

“You pray. I’ll be hiding. Dawn, you staying?”

The girl shrugged and settled onto the bed. “Pretty sure angels can smite me no matter what room I’m in. I’ll stay for the fireworks.”

“Do we need to hold hands or confess our sins or something?” Xander asked after Willow left.

“I don’t really know.” Buffy felt heat in her cheeks. The prayer thing still felt weirder than angels existing. “But we have to address Castiel specifically or the other angels will hear.”

She sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands upturned on her knees, and began. “Castiel, it’s Buffy Summers again. We need your help. It sounds like Lucifer followed the Winchesters here, and now he has Sam --”

The unbroken window exploded as the squealing roar of a freight train filled the room. Xander and Dawn huddled into balls screaming, their voices unable to overpower the sound. “Castiel, make it stop!” Buffy cried.

Silence.

“What was that?” someone shouted above the crying in the other room.

“He could have just told us he was washing his hair,” Xander said, shaking his head as he checked on Dawn.

Buffy stood and gently shook the glass from her hair. “Plan B. Gather the girls. We needed an army yesterday.”

 It had either been hours or days since the Turok-Han bit off his fingers. Though the slightest movement made him want to scream, Spike held up his hand to look at the tattered stubs. They’d stopped oozing blood, but they weren’t any longer. Hours then.

Vampires were semi-immortal. As long as they avoided sunlight, few humans were strong or fast enough to stake or decapitate them. But, as Spike had discovered years before under the torturous knife of Glory, they don’t pass out from pain either. His entire body felt like a lit wick being eaten up by burn and sizzle.

Laying on the floor a few feet below him, Sam looked worse for wear. The bandage over his stomach was brown with dried blood; infection would set in soon. He was pale with sunken eyes and a confused gaze. Wearing only pajama pants in the drafty old church in December, his shivering had unnervingly diminished. No one had fed Sam or given him water since he’d arrived. If the goal was to see who could endure torture the longest, Spike would be the grim winner.

“Sam, you like poetry?” Spike asked.

Wearily, Sam lifted his head from the cold stone floor. “Poetry? Uh, kinda. It-it’s okay.”

“Fftt! Americans! No sense of romance.”

“I dunno. B-Bobby’s really into poetry,” Sam mumbled.

“Who’s Bobby?”

“Kinda like our, um, adopt-a-dad when Dad w-wasn’t around.”

“Oh, what’d ‘e like?” Spike asked.

“Uh, Fr-Frost and the Scottish guy. Auld Lang Syne.”

“Burns! Not bad. I like the romantics myself. You ever read any Keats?”

Sam shook his head.

A new twinge of pain shot through Spike’s hand, but he bit his tongue. They were going to talk about poetry until one of them died. “Most of ‘em are love poems. Now, don’t start thinking I fancy you. Like my hair a little longer and my heads a bit more fucked up. One of ‘is most famous goes:

        O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,   

        Alone and palely loitering?

        The sedge has wither’d from the lake,   

        And no birds sing.”

 There was a dark splatter and smear at the sewer entrance to the caves. Sam’s blood. Buffy hoped that would be all for blood. How much damage could The First -- could Lucifer -- have done to his chosen one in less than twelve hours? She knew she didn’t want an answer, that the Devil’s desire for a body was Sam’s only hope.

The footsteps behind her provided no comfort.

She had no idea if her theory was correct, but the clock was ticking on Sam, and she couldn’t waste time hoping a clue would land in her lap. The Turok-Han had acted like guard dogs. They knew Spike was being kept in a church, but Willow didn’t recognize any of the windows the Winchesters had snapped. Because the church wasn’t above ground. Buffy was all in that Spike and hopefully Sam were in the church where she’d faced The Master.

As Buffy arrived at the spot of her last battle, a blood-curdling scream echoed off the ruins. She’d never been so happy to hear someone in pain.

One of the Potentials whimpered.

“You’re okay. Remember, The First doesn’t have a body. It can’t hurt you.”

“Now, Buffy,” said a soft voice that made Buffy’s heart skip a beat, “it’s not fair to give the girls a false sense of hope.” Standing where she’d last seen It as Angel, last seen It as The Master, was her mother in a long white dress. If she had to watch this near immortal dress up as her mother, she was going to give it more than hell. “After all, what I may lack in vessel, I more than make up for in followers. It was considerate of you to bring the girls. Saves me the trip.” It snapped its fingers, and a dozen Bringers stepped out of the dark, blades ready.

As they’d practiced, the girls formed an outward facing ring. “Bring it!” Dani yelled. As the Bringers rushed forward, Molly fired on them with a water pistol.

“I have to admit, I didn’t see that coming,” said The First.

Lys, Wook and Kate stepped forward with blowtorches raised, engulfing the gas-soaked Bringers in flame. The girls stepped aside, letting the monster-torches run past screaming.

“Next?” taunted Buffy. The Turok-Han, dark blood up to its elbows, slunk out from a crumbled doorway and snarled at them. Giles’ research had confirmed her experience, they couldn’t be staked. Gripping the handle of her machete, Buffy smiled recalling Dean’s philosophy: everything can be beheaded, which provides distraction if nothing else. “Hey there, short, grey and ugly. Ready for round two?”

They circled each other, Buffy acutely aware of the barely trained girls watching behind her. If it killed her, they’d be next. They’d done well against the Bringers. It was her turn to make them proud.

The vampire swiped, nicking her skin. She kicked it in the chest. It barely moved. They grappled and rolled, Buffy’s machete falling in the tumble. She bashed its head against the stone floor. The vampire started to push her off, so she jammed her thumb in its eye. It howled and released her arms. She rushed to her machete as it lunged at her. Using its speed and weight to throw it off balance, she swung her blade and lopped off its head. It sputtered and hissed before turning to dust a moment later.

The visage of her mother offered a tight-lipped smile. “Don’t get comfortable, sweetheart. I’ll be back, and you’ll be so grounded.” In a flash of blue light, Lucifer disappeared.

Buffy and the Potentials entered the torch-lit corridor the Turok-Han had come from. Most of the windows had been shattered from earthquakes, but the shape implied this was part of the buried church where Buffy had faced The Master. At the end of the corridor, they found a mostly collapsed chapel, one window still intact behind the bloody, meat-covered altar. Sam was chained in a kneeling position at the base of the altar steps. With one firm kick, she was able to release him from the floor. He was pale, his eyes hollow. Collapsing onto Grace and Keisha, he wheezed, “Get Spike.”

“Where is he?”

“Don’t recognize me, love?” Spike’s voice came from the bloody altar.

Ascending the stairs, Buffy started to see a human form in the meat. Spike’s skin was taut on his ribs, his cheeks more gaunt than usual. He was missing his legs and fingers. His naked body was covered in hundreds of puncture marks. The blood oozing from his wounds was nearly black and thick. “Not my best look, but my heart’s still intact. Head’s still on. Do a bloke a favor, and kill me, eh?”

 Buffy didn’t kill him. She wrapped him in her coat and carried Spike out of his hell. The voices of dozens of girls asked what he was, but she didn’t answer. He rested his head on her chest and, despite his pain, fell asleep to the thumping of her heart.

He awoke when someone removed the coat, exposing his naked, maimed body. It was quiet where he was, but many feet were moving above him. He opened his eyes just enough to see that he was back in Buffy’s basement, and she stood over him examining his body. “Enjoying the view?”

“No,” said Buffy. “Even when I wanted you dead, I never wanted this.”    

“Funny thing, all-encompassing evils don’t take kindly when you tell ‘em to sod off.”

Her small hand, gentle and warm, rested on his arm before she began to clean the punctures  from the Turok-Han’s claws on his torso.

“How’s the giant?”

“Sam’s not great, but he’s doing a hell of a lot better than you.” Her voice was distant. No doubt, she’d rather be attending to her friend, but with a full house, Spike couldn’t imagine why she’d deigned to care for him.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to play anymore.”

“So It had a tantrum? What did It want from you?”

The night Spike returned to Sunnydale after his soul trials, he ran into a light. It was terrifying and comforting at the same time. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It went through him like his pockets were being rifled by supernovas. Then the light turned into Buffy, but more the Buffy of his dreams than the real thing.

“Are you a demon?” It had asked.

Spike said he was a vampire, but It was excited about the demon in him. Spike was certain It was a siren, but any port in a storm.

“It wanted a friend at first,” Spike confessed. Unflinchingly, Buffy started to clean the tattered remains of his fingers; he wanted to recoil from her touch. She didn’t deserve this gruesome sight. “No bandages, alright? Gotta leave room for me to grow back.”

“You’re going to grow back?” There was a hint of happiness behind her surprise, a softening of her mouth, and Spike wondered if caring for him had perhaps been her choice.

“Short story, this isn’t the first time those primordial vampires snacked on me.”

“That’s good news, I guess. Although, I’m not into this whole chapter on your best buddy The First Evil.”

“Pfft! That’s what It calls itself? Weak. And do I look like we’re on good terms?” He wouldn’t admit it, but It had kept him from climbing the walls when his soul was driving him mad, asking him questions about Sunnydale, the Hellmouth, demons, Buffy. “It was a distraction ‘til It started asking me to do things.”

“Things like kill people?”

“That was later. At first, it just wanted to know about you, and I painted a warts-and-all picture. Then it wanted me to follow you, spy on you. I did a little, but seeing you with Dean was torture.” Spike paused to mourn again what could have been if he’d ever gained full control of the demon inside. “Then It wanted me to kill you.”

Buffy turned away. He thought she left, disgusted by the sight of him, disturbed by what he’d done, but he heard her rummaging through some boxes. She returned with oven mitts -- one with pink and white flowers stained brown, the other red and printed with a festive black buckle and white trim.

“But you started killing other people, building it an army,” she said as she gently wrapped Spike’s maimed hands in gauze and slipped the oven mitts over them.

“Wot can I say? The Devil made me do it.”

Buffy’s cool, interrogator’s mask melted in surprise.

“Yeah, I know,” Spike said. Between torture sessions, Sam had filled him in on the true nature of The First.

Quietly, Buffy moved on to cleaning the stumps of his legs. She tore a sheet in two, gently folding each half around a leg before covering him with a downy blanket. “How does that feel?”

“Better,” he said with a small smile.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I--I haven’t been a good friend to you.”

What could he say? Ever since he’d regained his soul, he’d needed someone to talk to; but unfortunately, he and Buffy had been better friends when he was evil. Buffy had been so caught up in her new boyfriend, Spike’s only option for friendship had been the Devil himself.

But what choice did she have? Besouled vampires hadn’t exactly gone well for her in the past. And she had spent months flinching when he got near, the memory of what he -- what his demon -- had tried to do still clawing at her.

“I wish I could change things between us,” he said. “Rearranging the timing and all. We could ‘ave been great together under the right circumstances.”

She smiled as the tears fell.

“But I’m ‘appy for you,” he continued. “You found someone who understands you. I’m not jealous you didn’t pick me, but the loneliness stings. Love-sick vampire with a soul doesn’t ‘ave a lot of places he can go. No singles mixers or one-nine-hundred hotlines.”

“So when Lucifer appeared to you as me…”

“I took comfort in it, though I knew it wasn’t you. All that time, It was working me out, figuring out how to operate me. It kept complaining about how my soul and the demon were getting in the way. I think it figured out how to talk to each separately. So when I was killing--”

“The demon was in charge.”

“Gold star for the lady. So you see, Buffy, you have to kill me. Otherwise, It’s going to come back, going to make the demon in me do things again.”

 The fight had gone smoother than they’d expected, bringing some cheer to the girls’ faces. But the confused aftermath -- watching Buffy expertly fight the Turok-han, finding Sam hurt and half naked in the chapel, Buffy’s mysterious package -- had driven a group of them to the backyard to talk in private.

“Did you see what she was carrying?” asked Vi while biting her nails.

“I think it was a body,” said Keisha more calmly than the statement justified.

“Like a dead one?” asked Cloé in breathless horror.

“No, it moved,” whispered Naomi, checking over her shoulder to see if anyone in the house was watching.

“No way! I was in the chapel when we got Sam. Whatever it was couldn’t have been alive,” said Gabi.

“It spoke,” insisted Naomi, who had been no closer to Buffy post-fight than the rest of them.

“No!”

“Guys, you’re ignoring the obvious,” said Kate, brushing her heavy black bangs from her eyes. “We ‘ad to remove the anti-demon symbol to get it through the door.”

Gabi shook her head and looked directly at Cloé to calm her. “It can’t be a demon! Buffy wouldn’t bring a demon in the house. She wouldn’t put us in danger like that.”

“Maybe it’s a vampire?” asked Lys, clearly delighted by the idea.

“Like the Slayer would be friends with a vampire,” said Keisha, her eyebrows raised in speculation.

“But she is!” Lys insisted. She pulled a cigarette from her pack and handed it to an expectant looking Kate before pinching another between her lips. “My Watcher said she was friends with a notorious vampire named Angel. I guess he turned his back on his kind or something.”

“I’ve heard them whispering about Angel!” added Naomi.

“My Watcher said she had a fling with Angel,” Vi added. “It was, like, this huge scandal, a Slayer and a vampire. Also, total ew.”

“I dunno,” Lys shrugged. “Sex with a vampire could be hot.”

Keisha curled her lip in disgust. “You are broken and gross.”

 Sam remembered being rescued, but the next twenty-four hours was a blur of sleep, hospital noise, and gorging himself on chicken broth. The cold stone floor of the chapel had made his already damaged body ache, and he’d missed several rounds of meds. The exhaustion forced his reeling mind to rest. The nurses came in and out making sure he wasn’t lacking for anything, but mostly he wanted to hide.

Three words. Three words said in Xander’s casual, joking style as he helped him into his car after the rescue: “So Satan, huh?”

They knew. Maybe Dean had told them. Maybe they figured it out. Either way, his secret was out.

When Willow had said she saw darkness in him -- something evil like what was in the vampires -- he wanted to hide, but Willow knew what it was like to wrestle with her inner demons, to quell her dark powers. Even so, there was a difference between one’s own dark side and an evil planted inside.

I am the vessel of Lucifer. Sam couldn’t say the words.

The pain woke him. He’d slept long enough that the sun was dim through the blinds. Blinds? He barely remembered being discharged, yet he’d been returned to Buffy’s house and was laying in Willow’s bed. Reaching for his meds on the night stand, he saw Dawn curled on a trunk at the end of the bed staring at him like a he was an exhibit at a traveling freak show.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

“I know,” she said brightly.

She dashed out of the room only to return with a glass of water for him. She perched on the edge of the bed. “Buffy always tells me that my choices are what define me. Screw fate and prophecy.”

He offered her a faint smile. “Sounds like Dean.”

“Maybe that’s why they like each other. They’re just a couple of narcissists.”

Sam laughed, which hurt, but the unexpected joy made his whole body tingle.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” Dawn said. “I’m sorry you’re being chased. It was smart of your angel friend to bring you here. If anyone can stop Lucifer, it’s Buffy.”

Her innocent faith broke his heart. He nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he was hoping.”

Dawn squeezed his hand. “Get some rest. Running for your life is super exhausting.”

Sam woke in the morning to find Dean on a cot beside him, his hand stretched out toward him as it always was when they shared a motel room.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch,” his brother replied without opening his eyes.

“Your girlfriend saved my ass.”

“She’s fucking awesome.”

 After a few days, Sam felt he would go crazy if he had to lie in bed a moment longer. Willow’s soft mattress spawned knots in his back, and he felt bad that she was sleeping on the floor. In the still hours before dawn, he tiptoed around Dean sleeping on a cot and slipped downstairs for some space.

Only there wasn’t any space. Two dozen or so girls, double what he’d remembered before going to the hospital, filled the living room with cots, blankets, and bags.

A mousy redhead by the stairs stirred. She squinted at him with sleepy concern and poked him in the ankle. “Real,” she muttered, before laying down and adjusting her blankets.

A dark-skinned girl wearing what looked liked a dingy hand-me-down Catholic school uniform, complete with small wooden cross, stood at the kitchen counter peeling an orange.

“Good morning,” Sam whispered.

She nodded with a shy smile.

“Just an orange for breakfast?” he asked. She was thin, not sickly, but she would need to add some muscle for training.

The girl nodded, taking a bite of fruit.

“English?”

She pointed at herself. “Jabulela.”

It took a moment before Sam realized that must be her name, not a language he hadn’t heard of. “Sam.”

“Sam,” she repeated, holding the a in the back of her throat.

“Jabulela, parlez-vous français?” he asked, pulling up the six weeks of French he’d taken Freshman year.

Her face lit up. “Je remercie le Seigneur! Quelqu'un à qui parler.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t understand. Ne comprends. Enchanté.”

Jabulela’s shoulders slumped, but she smiled again before returning to her orange.

No doubt, in a few weeks, Buffy would have him and Dean training Potentials. They’d find a translator soon.

Sam slipped two oranges into his sweatshirt pocket and headed for the basement -- the only place they could have possibly tucked Spike in this packed house. The basement was so dark, Sam gripped the rail and felt the steps out with this eyes closed. One step. Two steps. Though Spike didn’t need to sleep, Sam didn’t want to wake him with a light if he’d opted to.

“What are you doing ‘ere, Samuel?” Spike’s voice, though soft, carried a hint of threat.

“It’s just Sam. I brought you an orange.”

“Worried about my vitamin C?” Spike was laying on a cot underneath the manacles they’d locked him in weeks before. A blanket covered his lap, but it was too dark to tell if his legs had regrown to fill the space.

Sam approached him, but as he crossed the demon trap surrounding him, Spike jolted upright and raised a mitted hand in warning. “You should stay back! My pet demon is rearing up you just being ‘ere. Wants me to take you back.”

“Did you recently grow some sporty peglegs I need to worry about?” Sam sat on the end of Spike’s cot. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“I thought you were supposed to be smart,” Spike said earnestly as he watched Sam peel the orange.

“Sometimes I think it’s better to trust people. Want a slice?”

Spike pinned one mitt between his arm and chest, pulling out a bare hand with gnarled, small fingers that clasped around the orange slice. “I don’t need to eat, you know.”

“I know, but it’s nice isn’t it?”

Spike nodded. “Going to need ‘elp getting that mitt back on.”

“What’s up with those?” Sam asked.

“Growing back itches,” Spike paused to suck on his orange. “I don’t want to look at ‘em either.”

They ate a few more slices in silence as the house above them began to buzz with activity. When the first orange was gone, Sam said, “You didn’t have to save me.”

“But who’d peel my oranges?”

Sam chuckled quietly. Spike, or at least the man inside him, couldn’t help but be a hero though he wouldn’t take credit. Had Spike not kept Sam awake, kept the Turok-Han’s attention, stoked Lucifer’s hatred, Sam would have died or been in pieces or both. “I’m sure one of the Potentials would have helped you.”

“Potentials?” said Spike with surprise. “Is that all the ruckus upstairs? Slayer niblets?”

It was Sam’s turn to be surprised. “Have none of them been down to see you?”

Spike shook his head. “Mostly Buffy brings me blood. Willow a few times. Giles popped down once to ask me a bunch of questions. Didn’t even know ‘e was back in town.”

Sam’s experience had been completely different since the rescue. He could only get a moment alone in the bathroom. Dean, Willow, Dawn and Xander were constantly by his side anticipating his every need. It was nice to know they were still his friends even though he was a freak, but the way they treated Spike felt unjust. “What have you been doing down here?”

“Daydreaming. Sleeping. Buffy brought me some books, but--” Spike held up his twisted hand.

Turning on a light and grabbing the book on the top of the pile, Sam began to read, “Chapter one: The Boy Who Lived…”

The sun was up by the time Buffy came down with a happy-faced mug full of warm blood. If she was surprised to find Sam reading Harry Potter to an enthralled vampire, she didn’t show it.

“We’re all crammed in my room,” she said as she absent-mindedly watched Spike drink his blood. “It would be great if you could join us, Sam.”

“‘It would be great if you could join us?’ Way to make a sentencing sound like a birthday party,” Spike grumbled.

Deeply confused, Sam asked, “Why? What’s going on.”

Coldy, Spike said, “They’re sorting out what to do with me, more specifically, who gets to kill me.”

“No one is killing you, Spike,” Buffy said, taking back the blood-stained mug. “I won’t let that happen.”

“Appreciated, but I’m not sure you have a choice.”

“You’re in my house, under my protection. I won’t let anything happen to you,” she promised.

“I’m not sure you have a choice,” Spike repeated slowly.

“Why doesn’t everyone come down here?” Sam asked, as memories of being locked in Bobby’s panic room flooded back. “Spike should get a say.”

Spike shook his head and smiled sadly, “Thanks, mate, but I don’t need to ‘ear exactly ‘ow much some of ‘em want me dead.”

“You’re not dying.” Sam hoped his determination combined with Buffy’s would be enough.

“When you can...” Buffy slipped up the stairs, leaving them in the basement’s uncomfortable quiet.

In the name of the greater good, Sam had killed many people, and he couldn’t blame demon possession for most of them. If Spike was guilty and out of control, then so was he.

By the time he caught up to her, Buffy was by the bathroom arguing with Lys. “I don’t care if you like her or not, French is the only common language Jabulela speaks. Show her around. Explain things.”

“But she’s some sort of religious nut!” Lys exclaimed, waving her hands as if that could hammer the point home.

“She’s a nun and less likely to bite than other people in this house, including me. Go. Do intros.”

Lys squinted at Buffy. “Fine, but you owe me!”

“I’ll get on that,” Buffy muttered as the girl stomped downstairs. “Like I’m not doing enough already.”

“Hey, can we talk?” Sam asked, leaning against the wall for support. “About Spike?”

Buffy raised her eyebrows and sighed. “He is the theme of the day.”

“Spike saved my life down there.”

“He probably did,” she said.

“So would it kill anyone in this house to spend a little time with him?”

Buffy leaned against the wall beside Sam, her head resting on his shoulder. She whispered, “I’m glad you care. Spike’s been through so much and tried so hard to better himself, but I know Dawn and Xander and the others just see the monster who--” He could almost hear her biting her tongue.

“I’ve tried, you know,” she continued. “I went down there the first day and cleaned him up; we talked for hours. But the First tripped something in him. I can see it in his eyes. The demon in him wants to hurt me even if the man doesn’t. I want him to live. Hell, I want him to win, but how can that happen with a time bomb in his chest?”

“So what we need is a way to separate the demon and the man?”

She sighed, the weight of her task pressing the air from her lungs. “We’ve been hitting the books for days, but I can’t find a spell that would help.”

“I know one,” Sam said.

Spike wiggled his toes in his newly tied boots. It had taken nearly two weeks to regrow his body. He stood by his cot and stretched before walking slow laps around his circular cage. He pressed on the air, but nothing he did could get him past the line painted on the floor.

The basement door opened and new footsteps, one of which was thunkingly uneven, descended the stairs. Spike sniffed the air. Engine grease.

“Winchesters!” He turned to see Sam, Dean in a cast, Buffy and Giles standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Come to gloat? Maybe poke the bear a bit?”

“No, we’re here to save your sorry ass,” said Dean.”

Spike pressed his tongue against his teeth and chuckled. “‘Course you are. Gotta fulfill that hero complex.”

“Spike.” How did Buffy fit so much exasperation into one syllable? “Dean and Sam have a plan to help you, maybe.”

Unable to suppress the smirk, he crossed his arms. “Maybe? Maybe if I’m a good boy or maybe it won’t work? Neither sound appealing.”

Leaning against the railing, Giles said, “You yourself said The First has been able to activate the demon within you, use you as a puppet. Do you feel any of its influence now?”

The smirk faded from his face. The demon’s voice was strong and pushy; usually when it was ravenous, Spike felt due for a good slaughter. “It’s like a dog, barking away in my ‘ead.”

“What’s it barking?” Dean asked.

“To kill you. Then turn ‘er,” Spike said, pointing at Buffy. “I - I don’t want to do either.”

“And what’s your plan to deal?” Buffy asked. “Yoga?”

Spike rubbed his tongue on the inside of his teeth, waiting.

Dean began, “So here’s the deal--”

“Not you,” Spike said, locking his eyes on Sam. “Can barely tolerate you. Sam, ‘e’s on my Christmas card list. You wouldn’t lie to a poor devil, would you, Sam?”

With a little color back in his cheeks but his eyes still darkly circled, Sam gazed at the floor as he thought. “It’s a theory, really. If it doesn’t work...you die.”

Spike shrugged.

Sam eased himself to the floor to sit cross-legged just outside of the painted trap. “Vampires are different where we’re from; it’s more like a genetic mutation, but here it’s a form of demon possession. Where we’re from, we would say you, William Pratt, are a vessel, and all we need to do to empty you is an exorcism.”

“Exorcism? Wot with the spinning ‘ead and pea soup?”

Dean and Giles busied themselves looking anywhere but at Spike, yet Buffy stared at him with tears rimming her eyes.

“Kinda? Demons don’t go quietly,” Sam said. “But the bigger problem is that to become a vessel at all, you had to be killed by a vampire. We’ve exorcised a few people who were already dead; they didn’t come to life once the demon was gone.”

Spike nodded. Was there a man inside him able to be saved? He wanted to think so. With the demon gone, would he return to his Victorian self? Sniveling, timid, desperate to please. Spike had never liked William Pratt, which is why he never fought to save him.

But the demon’s voice was getting so loud, filling his head with a thousand horrible things to do to Buffy, to Dean, to everyone in the house. Lucifer’s hooks were in him, and he wanted to be free.

“Do it,” Spike said.

Sam began, “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--”

Spike’s body slammed to the ground and pushed back to the other side of the circle, sending his cot flying across the room.

“--et omnis legio diabolica--”

Buffy and Giles rushed to the edge of his cage.

“--Cessa decipere humanas creaturas--”

The demon, furious Buffy didn’t have the balls to kill him, lashed out, “You fucking bitch!”

“--hostis humanae salutis--”

Spike clutched his throat. It felt like his heart was trying to claw its way out.

“--contremisce et effuge--”

Buffy held back tears.

The younger Winchester’s spell was replaced with a deafening roar, like drowning in a tidal wave. Blackness crept into Spike’s vision. He stared at Buffy until the darkness won out.

“--Benedictus deus. Gloria patri.”

Spike coughed and opened his eyes. Cold air rushed into his lungs as his entire body began to tingle. A strange pressure filled his chest as he bounded up the stairs in twos. Rushing past the startled girls in the kitchen, he burst into the backyard where, for the first time in over one hundred and twenty years, the sun glowed warm on his skin.

Read Giles’ dossiers on:  Dani    Vi    Cloé      Molly     Lys     Grace    Wook    Keisha    Leticia     Naomi    Kate    Gabi    Jabulela

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[maplebayneighborhoodcrimewatch]

Daddy Theory #2

Crish Christiansen doesn’t exist/is not human.

Mary and Joseph have 4 kids: Chris (Christopher), Christian, Christie (Christina), and Crish. The kids all have names that mean follower of Christ. Except Crish.

In doing some research, Crish is actually another form of the Hindu name Krishna, god of compassion, tenderness, and love. 

Crish is also the only Christiansen child that you never meet. He never appears, Mary simply alludes to him in a short conversation-

Joseph: “Then, of course, there’s our youngest, Crish...Wait, where is Crish? Maybe Mary put him in his crib. Oh! And how could I forget my lovely wife, Mary. Ah, Mary, sweetheart, did you put Crish to bed?”

Mary: “I’ll have to go look for him.”

Joseph: “What-? You’ll have to-? Mary, this is our new neighbor ...”

That’s a pretty fast transition for a father whose wife just lost their baby. But Joseph doesn’t run off to find the child, instead he stays and continues to host the barbecue. He simply continues to introduce Mary to the player, without again acknowledging his missing son.

Even Mary’s response, a very flat reaction, seems out of the ordinary. Despite the fact that we know she frequently nurses wine glasses, she doesn’t even seem concerned that she has not known his whereabouts for an extended period of time. “I’ll have to go look for him,” implies that it is neither A) a surprise that he is missing and B) the acknowledgment of the lack of knowledge about her infant son’s whereabouts means that this probably isn’t the first time, and she frequently neither knows nor cares where he is. She later remarks that 

Being the only child in the entire game that the player never sees, combined with Joseph and Mary’s apparent lack of concern for the wellbeing of the child and the fact that his name is the odd one out of 4, makes me think that perhaps Crish is an allusion to something else and that he doesn’t exist.

Now, from what I read, the myth of Krishna’s birth and subsequent life are very similar to Moses’ story, providing a somewhat adequate coverup/connection to the Christiansen family. (SHOULD ANY OF THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION BE FALSE OR INCORRECT, PLEASE REACH OUT TO CLARIFY OR CORRECT - I WANT ACCURACY.) Krishna was being sought out to be killed at the time of his birth because his mother’s (Devaki’s) brother (Kamsa) was told by fortune tellers that a child of Devaki would kill him, much like the fear held by the pharaoh that a Hebrew boy would rise in Egypt and kill him. In both circumstances, Krishna and Moses were saved through their parents, who smuggled them out via a river so that they may escape the fate of death. They want on to live humble farm lives before coming into their true selves. 

Perhaps Crish Christiansen is an allusion to the Supreme God of the Christiansen cult, or perhaps Crish is a supernatural entity who is being appeased and worshipped as a god, growing strong off the cult’s human sacrifices to him (the other spouses). We never see him, even in the cult ending, so there really is no closure with his character whatsoever, leaving his realm of possibility wide open.

Either way, Crish Christiansen does not exist as the human baby we are made to think he is. 

[apprenticemages]

I rarely pick an Episode of the Week (maybe I should?)… But if I did, this week’s episode of The Promised Neverland would be far-and-away the only possible choice.

Hit the jump and let’s take a look at that episode and everything else that happened this week!

The shows that I am watching are in bold, shows my wife and I are watching together are in bold italics, strikethrough marks dropped shows and (*) marks shows that are watched but not regularly reviewed.

(*) A Certain Magical Index III Episode 21

Misaka herself is finally on scene – hopefully time for some Electromaster butt-kicking!  (Please, please, please!!!)

Endro~! Episode 8

This ep continues the themes of the last ep – Rona (Princess) learning to appreciate the girls as people rather than as abstract roles in a story.  It was touching as hell to see her reaction to Yuuria proclaiming that she didn’t ride to the rescue because she was a Hero…  But because Rona was her friend.

It’s an interesting and different way of looking at heroism – using it as an ex post facto description of events rather than as a role or type.

But nobody seems to have remarked on Mao’s transition to and from her Demon Lord form.  Did they just think it was an act, something powered by Cartado?

Magical Girl Spec-Ops Asuka / Mahou Shoujo Tokushusen Asuka Episode 8

This episode was…  very freaking annoying.

The first annoyance was that the existence of a series of gaping plot holes was really driven home.

The bad guys can create Magical Girls.  The good guys can’t or won’t. The bad guys have access to sorcerers.  The good guys don’t. The bad guys have access to items and item users.  The good guys don’t.

Now some of this can probably be chalked up to the penury of Japan’s magical defense organization…  But, at least so far, none of the other good guy nations seem to be any different.

The second, and far greater, annoyance is that level of torture and gore has reached a level best described as purely gratuitous.  None of that was really need to drive plot or establish character.  The sexual content of the torture scene was basically there for titillation and nothing else.

I’m about this close to dropping Asuka and walking away.

(*) My Roommate is a Cat / Doukyonin wa Hiza, Tokidoki, Atama no Ue Episode 8

Run with the Wind / Kaze ga Tsuyoku Fuiteiru Episode 20

And this episode is where Wind‘s bad habit of cliffhangers with no consequences came home to roost.  They were really trying to deliver the feels as Takahasi struggled against his illness to complete one of the toughest segments of the Hakone Ekiden…  But I couldn’t feel as much as they wanted me to because the team has never suffered even the most minor setback or slowdown.

Wind is excellent as a character drama, but it’s increasingly breaking down as a sports drama.  It’s just so weird that the two halves are so poorly integrated.

Sword Art Online: Alicization Episode 20

Lots of talking, not a great deal of action…   They teased the hell out of us getting to see Kirito dual wield again, only to have it (literally) snatched away at the last moment.

(*) That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime Episode 22

Seriously Rimuru?  After the number of times you’ve swatted aside dire threats without breaking a sweat…  Lines like this carry absolutely no weight.

The Price of Smiles / Egao no Daika Episode 9

Over on the Soleil side of things, Smiles has never really hesitated to moralize…  In fact, one could argue that the whole reason for Yuki’s existence.  But this episode, yuck.  They laid it on about as thick as possible without actually becoming a non-fiction documentary.

Mind you, I’m not objecting to the moralizing per se!  Allegory is a time-honored way of addressing real world issues and getting the viewer to think of things in ways they might not otherwise have done.  Even straight up morality tales can provide a strong dose of thinking wrapped up as entertainment.  I’m objecting to the particularly heavy-handed and clumsy way Smiles chose to clarify and deliver its message.

THE PROMISED NEVERLAND / Yakusoku no Neverland Episode 8

Just when I didn’t think Neverland could up it’s game any further…  Everything got punched up to 11.  Didn’t even ask me to hold its beer.  Didn’t spill a drop either.

I think these two images neatly sum up the episode…

One of my odder hobbies is a fascination with true crime books.  Isabella/Mom reminds me of several of serial killers and murderers I’ve read about – convinced that’s she’s saving her victims from something much more horrible.  Her delusion is so all-encompassing that she even interpreted Emma’s attack as an act of love.

The Quintessential Quintuplets / 5 Toubun no Hanayome Episode 8

Yay!  Finally, Yotsuba (undoubted Best Girl) gets her character episode and she really shines.  They really got me with her false confession, especially since just moments before they’d shown us just how bad she is at lying.  It was especially telling how she turned down the invitations from the basketball club.

The other half of the plot…  meh.  Childhood friends as so overdone.

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And…  that’s my week all neatly summed up.  A bit short and a bit late because class on Tuesday (and a club photoshoot on Wednesday) really ate up my time this week.

How did your week go?  Your thoughts on these episodes?  Drop a comment and let’s chat!

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Winter 2019 – Week 8 I rarely pick an Episode of the Week (maybe I should?)... But if I did, this week's episode of…