Work Text:
1
The tips of your fingers are sensitive, bones rough, every small touch feeling like fire shooting through your marrow. They look wrong, stretched out and unnatural, phalanges curved slightly in the beginnings of claws. The sight isn’t as alien as you’d liked, your brief experience as Papyrus already familiarizing you with the sensation, but the throbbing pain is new. You move them, hear them click against each other, against the wall, as you drag a sharp bone down, carving a small line into the cement. You repeat the action, watch the groove grow larger, deeper. It’s a neat, clean line. You mutter under your breath, rub your arm where the injection left a mark.
One day. You’re here again, but it’s only been one day. It feels longer.
2
Another day. Your claws feel larger, nothing else seems to have changed. Mister McDickfingers complimented you again today, already he seems so proud, eye lights eager as he watches the changes with disgusting delight. You feel sick in his stead, since of the bastard’s inability to do so himself. You’re going to be a success, he tells you, repeatedly, unlike the others. For sure, he could tell from the start. Judging from how the other Sanses hover around him, looking as unimpressed as ever, you doubt there’s much weight to the statement.
However you’re still sweating and your chest feels tight. You think it’s anxiety, but the doctor says it’s natural as currently your body's still struggling to adjust to the injections, fighting them every step of the way. You go body, you cheer yourself on silently, smiling at the knowledge you’re not gonna go down as easy as you’d previously thought.
But as you keep sweating, you can’t help but be reminded of how your fingers had stuck together back then, with the time-machine, the feeling of bones melting and dripping through your sockets, gliding down the inside of your skull. The sensation had been short-lived, soon followed by unconsciousness, but none the less haunting, still flashing back the moment you close your eyes.
The time-machine, Alphys, Dad. It’s quiet and you think.
You wonder how Papyrus’ doing. You’re glad you've at least got to say goodbye, it’s more than the other Sanses’d got.
4
The first thing you do after waking up is puke. The acid tang of magic residue clings to the roof of your mouth as you heave, spitting up gall after your stomach turns up empty. Convulsions keep whacking your body as time continues, gag reflex stuck in overdrive in a last attempt to rid yourself of the toxic concoction infecting your marrow and poisoning your soul.
After god knows how long, your body finally manages to calm down enough for you to lay back down again, coughing, and you wheeze as you try to catch up to some of the breath you'd lost while puking up yesterday’s breakfast, sick already laying forgotten at your bedside. The smell's very potent.
It’s hot and you’re shivering. You pull the blankets up further, tuck them tightly underneath your chin and moan miserably. Your whole body’s flushed blue with magic, feeling restless and strained, buzzing aggressively between your joints as jolts of energy make your limbs spasm involuntarily, even hitting yourself in the face once. Your bones have a soft sheen to them as you’re sweating, matrass soaking up the moisture, leaving damp patches as you move. Every bone in your body’s hurting, like it’s one open wound, scrapped clean with a potato peeler, and someone’s been rubbing Iodine on them. You soon discover it’s not a good idea to try to sit up, as your whole world flips, and you feel sick all over again.
You release another moan, rub a hand across your throbbing skull, tears welling up and brimming on the edges of your sockets, threatening to spill. However, Veteran, somehow sensing you drowning yourself in self-pity, latches on with hatred, and hatred for you.
“You think you have it bad now?” He chuckles, stump of an arm swinging beside him uselessly, eyes void, smile dead, “Buddy, pal,” Another laugh “welcome to hell.”
6
The injections leave little dents in your arm. You trace a finger across them in a neat line, glance over at the wall and count the six little lines you’d already carved in yourself over the past few days. Six, almost a week has passed since then. Wow, that– that sucks.
Ichabod is sitting beside you, rubbing a hand across your curved spine with an intangible care, looking sad and Bob's at your feet, staring and being awkward. You sigh, pull on your socks that’ve gotten too small since your feet – if they can still be called that – started to get long and deformed very much the same way as your fucked up hands did, toes curling into themselves and pushing your heels off the ground. You wiggle them a bit, hear the sharp sound of nails scraping against carpet, and sigh.
“Hey, it’s going to be alright.” Ichabod says, trying to console you. You bury you face deeper into your hands and grind the palms hard against your closed sockets, bone scraping painfully across bone. “You’ll get used to it.”. You laugh humourlessly.
“I hope not. God, I hope not.”
You’re not sitting comfortably and you really don’t want to think about it.
9
You wake up and the world is a blur. Captain Asshat’s looking down on you from the side of the operating table, studying you, eyes gleaming in cold fascination and mouth curved up slightly in the beginning of a smile. The soulless bastard doesn’t even give you the time to blink before he pulls you up and throws you back down a stool to take another picture for his pretty little scrapbook. The hospital gowns are back and you don’t have your socks on anymore.
Don't look.
The doctor’s already busy typing when your eyes finally focus back onto the room. The others are hovering near, but Bitey seems particularly interested, practically shoving himself in your face and making Gaster huff in annoyance in the process. Luckily for the doctor tho, none of the ghosts' appearance can be captured, as the light’s unable to bounce off their see-through bodies, the pictures stay clear. It passes through them harmlessly, they could as well have never been there.
You wince at the flash, suddenly feeling your whole head pound from the sensory overload as your mouth instinctively moves further down a into grimace. Metal, iron, the taste of marrow. Wha–?
Your hand is shaking, still you bring it up and ghost them across your teeth, hiss sharply when you feel the left side of your face, your mouth, the second molar to be precise. A massive fang has sprouted from its place and it’s huge, pushing painfully against your other teeth which you have noticed have already started to loosen themself. To empathise the horror of what’s happening to you, you spit out another molar, more marrow leaking for extra effect, and feel a brief relieve wash over you as the pressure eases. There’s a gap now between your smile.
“Ow.” You mutter lamely, staring at the tooth in your hand. It’s your tooth, and it just fell out. You follow limply as Asster ushers you off the stool to take you upstairs again, Bitey floating not far behind. He’s blushing slightly, hovering just a little too close and it’s uncomfortable. The weirdo. At least you could be glad you hadn’t died yet. Small victories, you think, while ignoring the glare from Starman burning in your back.
11
Apparently you’ve been compliant enough to get your television privileges back, which you hadn’t realized you'd lost in the first place. However, considering, you wish you’d been more of a lil’ shit, since now you’re forced to sit beside the asshat, watching whatever monstrosity of creepy children’s cartoons the creep got laying around.
You sigh, drag it out just a little longer than necessary, and stare. The spikes growing out of your elbows hurt, your head killing you as well, and you rather be anywhere but near the blasted asshole that’s been torturing you for the past week and a half. But he’d seemed excited at the prospect of spending more time with you, the personal kind and such, and you really feel like having a nice warm meal tonight, maybe even something extra, so you’re determined not to fuck up whatever good mood he suddenly got going on.
However, that doesn’t mean you have to be anywhere near the bastard if you got any say in it.
You fiddle a bit from your corner of the couch, legs neatly tugged up against your chest, rub a hand across your arms and wince when you catch onto another spike. You glace up to the doctor, but his eyes remain glued to the television, seemingly engrossed but you know he’s still watching you, observing. Those eyes, sockets large and expressive, dark circles underlining them in a deep purple and seeming tired, he looks like your father.
Your stomach turns. No, screw this, screw dinner, you’re not doing this. You need to be as far away from this creep as possible.
15
Your eyes hurt, sockets feeling hot and swollen in a way bone's never been supposed to. Light stabs at your oversensitive eye lights, nearly blowing them out, and you can’t keep yourself from tearing up, tears rolling down your cheeks in a consistent stream.
You stumble as the doctor pushes you inside the bedroom, closing the door again before you even got so much as the chance to look behind you. You’re off balance, you’ve been for a while now, but since your eyesight’s been compromised you’ve fully come to realise how unfamiliar your whole body actually feels to you, standing uncertain on your tippy-toes. Everywhere you look's a purple mess, and there’s nothing you can do but squint to see.
You trip, fall to all four, pull yourself up on your bedpost before you’ve even got the chance to process how sickeningly natural it feels. Don't think about it. The covers are a comfortable cold against your inflamed bones as you crawl under their protection, away from the light. Mr Bear Bear lays lonesome on the edge of the bed and you pull him under with you, curling up tightly around the little taxidermy doll, and burry your face into its stuffing. When you breathe in very deeply, even after all these years, you can still smell him.
18
More of your teeth start falling out, the timespan between the loose of each tooth growing shorter and shorter, replacing themselves with wicked incisors where there's actually no place in your mouth. You wish you had something to gnaw on to ease off some of the pressure building.
It’s become a real task to eat.
Taking one of your fallen teeth between your thumb and index finger, you hold them up to the light to inspect them, turn them around and study the roots that'd got no time to dissolve before being forced their way out. You laugh, dry and humourless, crack a small joke, and let your arm fall back to your side.
Ichabod lets out a sympathetic wince, but doesn’t say any more. You’re grateful.
20
The cracks running down the crown of your head are growing larger. It feels like your skull's splitting apart and if you’re quiet, you even think you’re able to hear it happen. It hurts, head pounding in thick waves that crash against the inside of your skull, salt water biting at the wounds. You rub a hand along the bandages, feel the cracks lick at your sockets. You’re a bit scared to frown.
You move your hand down, start picking at the injection marks without really thinking about it and accidently chip away some of the bone with one of your wicked claws. You hiss.
“Don’t whine.”
He pulls away your hand and holds it firmly, dragging it away from yourself, touch feeling like pins and needles against your sweltering bones. You resist as he tugs at you to follow, but after a threatening glare and a painful squeeze, let the doctor lead you down the basement without much further protest.
24
You’re in the large room, the bedroom, wearing a shirt again. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to feel the comfort of clothes again and you hug the fabric close to you, carefully running a claw down the front and pat you stomach for good measure. You catch a movement in the back of your pants, but ignore it to instead cherish the feeling a little longer, contented.
The shirt hangs loosely from your bones, leaving enough room for any wandering growths. There’s probably a pun printed across the front, like the asshole is known to do, since somehow the only fact he has seemed to have remembered about his son is that he'd liked puns. It’s shallow and a hard slap to your own love for word play, but a shirt's a shirt and you’re not planning on complaining.
You actually don’t know what it says, still drowsy and in a slight daze because of the narcotics, but as Bob crawls by and snorts, you know it’s a good one. Maybe you’ll like this shirt a little better than the others.
27
For once you wake up on the table to feel relief, some of the pressure in your mouth finally being released. You snap your mouth shut a few times –chomp chomp– feel the fangs fit down awkwardly and crooked, pushing your jaw apart slightly as you're left unable to stop your drooling, but not as bad as the day previous. Bless the gods.
You heave a sigh, click your claws against the table, and prepare yourself to look, to see the doctor’s reaction. One, two, here you go–
His eye lights are wide, shimmering, smile broad and manic-looking, gleeful and– and there’s pride, glimmering somewhere on that dead face, there's pride. Relief turns to ice cold dread in less than a heartbeat.
You wait for him to say something, to start praising you in that awful twisted way like he always does when you’ve once again lost another piece of yourself, celebrating its death, but he doesn’t. You’re shaking, bones rattling loudly against the unforgiving metal of the table, afraid to know, but also needing to simultaneously. It takes a while before you gather the courage to take a hand to feel your face, moving in a quiet detachment that’s almost frightening on itself, as you probe the bone of your cheeks softly, tracing the fangs that continue to throb with a dull hurt. It’s almost– almost as if, your face’s been pushed forward slightly. Like with the– with the start of a muzzle.
“No.” You whisper hoarsely, choking on the syllable as it leaves your throat before a broken sob breaks loose. The doctor’s smile stretches apart further, lighting casting deep shadows across his face, surely getting some kind of sick pleasure from your misery.
You desperately try to hide your face as the doctor takes your picture, while the downstairs crew watches in meek resignment.
29
You don’t like Little Bug, it’s as if he’s teasing you, mocking your misery, as he continuously calls you out for being a puppy, seemingly looking forward to the changes as much as the doctor does. It’s obvious he’s been raised by the bastard, considering how self-absorbed he is, complaining about his death while quickly growing disinterested when it’s someone else’s time to grief. Growing up an only child also probably didn’t help the little turd nugget grow much of a personality outside of himself either.
“I’ve always wanted a puppy!” He beams up at you, trying to look cute with that ridiculous bow plastered on top of his skull. You snarl, baring your already exposed teeth, and his smile drops slightly. You’re fine with being called Buster – it being an homage to your little brother – having accepted your fate, and recently turned reality, quite a while ago. But being called a puppy is where you draw the line, one which you are still unwilling to cross.
“Careful,” You growl lowly, feeling a need to swipe out at him, shutting him up from ever calling you puppy again “I might bite.”
You’re not there yet, even if some of the boarders have started crumbling recently.
31
It’s been a month. You ask Phineas to double-check for you since counting has started to get a little difficult for you. But no, you’re right, 31 tally marks, it’s already been 31 days since you’ve been stuck here. You heave a sigh, take a claw and trace the marks again. 31. That’s– that’s a lot.
You count the marks again, as if you’re suddenly expecting another line to magically appear into the cement. Might as well, you think to yourself as you absentmindedly bring a finger up to you mouth to bite down on, chewing slowly. You feel numb.
34
The doctor is taking your measurements, tape going up and down your arms and legs, noting every growth, sizing every spike, dotting bone with red marker and leaving elaborate patterns across the surface. You trace a finger ‘cross a line, accidently smudging some of the ink and the doctor slaps your hand away. You mutter a quick apology, but the doctor doesn’t respond.
“Beautiful.” He laughs breathlessly.
When he’s finished measuring you, he pets your skull, and you’re horrified to feel yourself lean into the touch when you’re not noticing, practically throwing yourself away from him when you do.
Your whole body’s flushed after.
37
You can’t sleep, however you’ve been trying to lay hasn’t been comfortable with your body being bend and forced into new proportions and locked positions, while keeping continuous strain on delicate joints which haven’t stopped aching since day three (day three, right?), simply lying back waiting for sleep to take you doesn’t seem to be working anymore. It’s frustrating. Curling up into yourself is as good an option as any other, but it’s missing something and the knowledge alone is making your whole body itch.
Nicholas and Phineas look bemused from a distance as you push your blankets around, growing frustrated as they become a mess, taking along a couple of your shirt collection in the process. It’s starting to form a cluster, fabric tangled in an ever growing ball and even taking a sock or two.
You push the ball back to the centre of the bed, cushions laying disregarded at your feet. You pick up the cushions as well and neatly place them on top. Papyrus’ld be impressed if he ever were to see this mess of a nest, you’re sure, the thought making the mission of sleeping on the unstable ball of fabric all the more appealing.
‘What are you doing?’
It takes you a while to decipher what Nicholas just said, but when you do, you simply state you're gonna go sleep, before climbing your way up the ball and nestling down at the top, stump of a tail carefully warped around yourself.
It’s as comfortable as it looks.
39
There’s a dog bowl in your room, you glare at it, willing it to go away with pure hatred alone. A low growl rumbles through your chest, but you don’t even notice the sound leaving your throat until Bob scoots a bit further away from you.
You grab a hold of it, the bowl, twisted hand digging into the metal, leaving small dents into the surface, before chucking it all the way across the room. The bowl goes flying, throwing water all across the room and creating a huge wet mess across the cold tiles. There’s an immense satisfaction in seeing the bend metal lie pathetically before you. You’re not going to clean up any of it, you decided, so you know dickhead will be forced to instead.
You’re wheezing from the effort, shaking with barely contained rage, and cough. Marrow drips down your chin.
40
You have a nosebleed, again, short episodes of marrow pouring down your messed up snout growing to be a little too frequent for your liking, even the doctor is starting to get worried. You press a hand to your nose to still some of the bleeding, but it pours uselessly through your finger bones and down your arm, leaving bright red smears across your clothes and ruining them. It’s a shame, ‘t was your last shirt, but now the doctor’ll take away this one too, you’re certain, to burn as useless fuel in the furnace like he did with all your other old belongings.
Sometimes you think about throwing yourself after them.
44
“I miss them.”
You’re crying, moaning miserably into your arms. Small hiccups whack your body, shaking your ribs still tender from today’s trip down the basement, and croak out another pitiful whine as it shocks your chest. You’ve dreamt again, in a happy fog as you’d been put under, of bright colours and gentle touches, and waking up the aching longing for your father’s warm embrace had never felt stronger. You wanted to wail out as the doctor left you alone again after, clawing at his coat as the door shut behind him. You’re so desperate for attention, it’s disgusting.
“I want my dad, I want pah– Papyrus.”
You see him standing there, dad, body warm and round, inviting and familiar. But his face– his face is his, and you can’t look him in the eyes without feeling nervous, feeling scared. Papyrus is standing there as well, behind him, smile broad, and your brother, your brother, your brother’s tall and, and nice, and, and, and– and it’s all just slipping…
You’re falling.
Everything feels so horribly, horribly wrong.
“I know,” Ichabod says, cooing slightly, pretending to warp himself around you in a resemblance of a hug “I know, you’ll–” But you cut him off.
“Don’t.” You warn, eye flashing dangerously, and spit at him. “Don’t patronize me.”
He lets go.
46
When you wake up, it takes you a while to notice the weight pressing down around your neck, where after it takes you another while to recognise its source. A collar. It’s a collar. Immediately your hands shoot up at your throat, pulling at the band choking you with a growing panic as the air grows heavy, digging itself deep into you vertebra, scraping against bone. It hurts, your throat is bleeding as you claw at yourself in your struggle, even bringing up your legs to kick at it, hitting yourself in the face and you snap back at them. Finally the little plastic clasp breaks loose, and it falls down you neck so harmlessly it’s almost laughable. You throw it away from yourself as if the leather itself is burning you.
You press yourself against the wall, wheezing, gulping down one large breath after the other as the world spins around you. Everything hurts. You push your face between your kneecaps, grind a hand against your temple and sniff loudly. Mucus runs messily down your face.
“Hey, hey Buster, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Bob tries to comfort you, reaching to pat you on the back, phrasing through the curved spines on your back as he’s not looking. The other Sanses watch anxiously from the side-lines. There’s an uncomfortable curiosity in Phineas’ eyes, and you curl up further into yourself to shield yourself from his gaze.
Buster, it’s your name, you don’t need to read the blasted tag to know so yourself, for once in your life happy for your illiteracy. But somehow, just now, hearing the name spoken so reassuringly, you never felt more like a dog in your entire life.
48
There’s a new monster in the basement. It takes you a moment to realize it’s a Sans, like how everybody here’s a Sans, and you want to whack yourself across the head for how long the thought took itself to solidify. It’s obvious. You bite your knuckles in a nervous habit to calm yourself.
They remind you a lot of Betsy, with curved spikes sprouting from their spine and hunched posture, but smaller, neater, face stretched with a maw filled with large teeth that seem way too big to fit, but somehow still do. Their sockets are wide and shaped like standing ovals, eye lights flickering in a constant buzz of intensity, yet still somehow dull-looking, pupils blown wide and unfocused. The sight of their flashing eyes hurts and you’re forced to blink as your eyes start to dampen. Their jaw is pointed, covered in small ridges, and split at the centre. The bone looks inflamed and painful, and you whine sympathetically as it reminds you of your own throbbing skull. Strange, gangly limbs bend in front of them awkwardly, their hands and feet clawed and dangerous-looking, hugged closely to their chest. They look a bit like a mummy, all wrapped up in bandage like that, but otherwise appear friendly. Their tail wags behind them in cautious curiosity. They’re watching. You smile
You move forward, take a sniff, ready to introduce yourself, and–
Oh.
It’s you.
50
There’re symbols everywhere. The doctor keeps telling you to describe what you’re seeing, but you don’t know, and when you try to focus they only turn to distort further, dancing across your vision, and you’re growing so incredibly confused, the headaches start acting up again, not understanding anything of what’s happening.
Numbers flash obnoxiously, STATS, ATK, DEF. You need to check something, and you stare back at the doctor confused, feeling so incredibly stupid as you know the answer is literally staring back at you right in front of your face. But you don't know.
He’s frustrated, mouth curved down in dissatisfaction, eyes looking down on you quietly, dark and hollow. Disappointed. He isn’t yelling, but you feel like you expect him to.
You curl away further into yourself as his hands come down for you, shrinking away from his touch instinctively. You whimper softly as he grabs a hold of your wrist, yanking you away from the room and back upstairs, twisting your arm painfully in its socket as he forces the limbs apart. The hatch slams shut with a loud noise, and you’re alone again.
Your father really scares you.
53
You tore up Mr Bear Bear. You feel incredibly bad. You were just playing with it, you really hadn’t meant for them to tear. Stuffing’s spread all across the tiles, small balls of wool bleeding from where the fabric tore. Its leg still dangles limply from their body with a small few threads, the stitches having snapped under their rough treatment.
“No, no, I’m sorry.” You try to patch him up, to push the stuffing back inside, but your claws only sink in further, destroying more of the toy’s soft underbelly and spilling more of its guts on the floor. You drop it before you manage to tear them up even further, take an unnecessary step back then watch as the slow realisation sinks in that you’re useless to help. You’re not ever getting that toy back together again and your trying will only ever make it worse.
Some of the stuffing still clings to your claws as you crawl your way into bed. It feels so much colder without your bro laying there beside you.
55
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
You want to agree so readily, it chills your soul when you actually hear how wrong it sounds, feeling nauseated. Vile bile burns at the back of your throat, old and chucky with congealed magical discharge, the taste bitter and sour with acid and half-digested pasta. The phrase repeats itself as a torturous echo in the hollow of your skull. A heavy blanket of dread settles ‘round you as your scrambled brain fights to think, feel anger and betrayal, hot and outraged, flood the broken sink that are your thoughts as you charge. You scream.
You want to snap at his fingers, tug at the awful collar strangling you, recognizing the feel of the warm red leather and the cheerful jingle of the tag, cursing your clumsy clawed fingers and warped dexterity as they slip and hurt instead. You’re growling, howling, flashing your long sharp teeth as you snarl. There’s a sound as your soul turns blue and you’re slammed into the ground, skull bouncing off the tiles as the forward motion pushes back with and equal amount of force. Pain blossoms from the impact, but not before you manage to catch onto his ankle and sink your teeth deep into the bone.
He’s screaming at you just as loudly as yourself, spasming figure, breathing loud and laboured, the last thing you see before your skull gets dunked in the soothing black waters of unconsciousness.
58
When Doctor gestures for you to approach, you crawl over carefully, chest pressed low to the ground and head bowed submissively. A hand trails absentmindedly across the top of you skull in a ghost of a caress and you keep still, gasping, but he doesn’t quite touch. He’s being careful, watchful of your movements, and you whine a soft sad tune in the hope to get his attention, to dismiss the rising fear of abandonment chilling your bones after spending so much time alone in the room.
He motions, STAY, and you do, daring to risk a look as you watch him reach into the pockets of his coat and pull out a small, round object. Your head peaks up at this, eyes curious, tail making a dull thump thump against the tiles without much need of input and you pull yourself off the floor further to get a better look.
“What’s that?” You ask, immediately shrinking back into yourself for speaking out of turn, soul racing anxiously in you chest as you watch for the doctor’s reaction.
He smiles, huffs a swallowed chuckle, and bends to run a caring thumb across your cheekbone, petting your head softly, minding the thick patch on your forehead. You’re almost vibrating from all the positive sensations, happy rumble escaping through your ribcage. Daring to be bold, you close in some of the distance, practically pressing yourself up his leg as you look up at him. Your eye lights follow the object as the doctor passes it from his left hand to his right, curving his long spine down further before presenting it to you.
“For you.” He says, voice smooth after so much practice, one letter after another rolling off his silver tongue with ease.
It’s a ball, small and red, surface shiny and texture slick, fitting perfectly in the palm of your hand. It’s made of rubber, you think, and when you squeeze, it squeaks. You jump up a little at the unexpected sound and grip down harder reactively, making the ball cry out even louder as result. Wow. You squeeze the ball a few more times, drop it and watch it bounce and roll away from you. You walk after it with high feet and bend knees, pick it up carefully between two long claws, and bring it up your face to examine and slowly, slowly bite down. It doesn’t much taste like anything interesting.
“You really are one sick bastard, aren’t you?” Bob spits hatefully from your side, suddenly making you self-conscious as you spit the ball back out again. Saliva sticks to its surface, threads still connected to your deformed maw. You don’t think the doctor heard him.
60
The bowl is full and you’re hungry. Still, you don’t eat.
He’s given you permission to eat already, and claps his hands a second time for good measure, signing you the go ahead. You dip your head down lower and whine. You move forward slowly, claws clicking quietly against the tiles and take an experimental sniff. The food doesn’t smell like much of anything, texture hard and dry, sucking all the moisture from your mouth as you take a small bite and crunch the first kibble between your teeth.
This is wrong, your mind suddenly flashes in alarm, making you cough and spit the kibble back out, shaking your head in a clear no as you back away from the dish again. Your metaphorical stomach rumbles loudly, drool pooling in your mouth, spilling from between your teeth and splashes around you in thick slobber, but you feel sick and want to gag even louder despite the nagging hunger.
“Fine then, starve, see if I care.” He, Doctor, suddenly growls out angrily, already reaching for his waist. Panic seizes your soul, breath hitching, while your bones start rattling audibly. He’s mad. “But know that I will not tolerate you underperforming, or there will be consequences.”
He snaps the leash, pulls the leather taut, looming, stalks forward–
“Don’t do it, Aster.” Ness calm voice sounds from behind, as he steps to stand beside you, watching with blind eyes, almost pleading “He’s you’re son.”
–and stops.
You glance up at him nervously, throw your head back to the ground again in fear, not that you saw anything, whine, before carefully turning to take another look. His eyes are dark, sunken, and shaken, sucking in one shuddering breathe after another as his frame shakes, ripples running down his body like dripping water. Sweat trickles down his skull, looking ready to collapse in on himself, bones giving out like putty underneath the weight of his cloak. He's not moving, figure distorted and symbols keep flashing. His mouth’s pulled wide, but all you hear is static.
“please,” You croak out weakly, looking up at him with meek eyes, subconsciously trying to appeal to him as your tail pulls itself free from between your legs and begins to wag behind you pitifully. A sliver of hope blooms in your chest of the prospect of a warm touch instead of a cold table and terrifying fever dreams, but his face grows even darker, steels on resolve.
You feel yourself begin to cry as the leash attaches, and you’re being dragged away anyway.
62
There’s hurting and you don’t understand. All the other you hover around you like flies to dead meat, and you swipe at them but don’t hit. Your whole head's swimming, and when you move, you’re tumbling.
You don’t want to be here.
So why are you?
65
“I like you,” You say, trotting over towards Star while he is busy, walking a little circle around him while his eye lights trace you “you’re like… like Brother! I like you a lot.”
You’re happy at the statement, humming, knowing it’s true. Even if he has your face, which isn’t quite your face, he’s a lot like Brother with his starry eyed and bright smiling. He’s all happy feeling. You like being near him. However, Star doesn’t seem so happy, his eyes gone and mouth stretched thin.
“Don’t say that,” He says, voice shuddering. You hear the despair behind the plea, but don’t understand, “please.”
After, Star starts keeping away from you, just like Bitey.
67
You had to get out, out, out, out of here, but not the door, because dad was there. The bad dad. Real bad, bad, bad, bad. He was bad, he did bad. You too. And when bad he, h-he–
You had to get out. Scratches litter the walls, lines, what? how many? Tremors shake your body. The door slides open, a shadow approaching. Doctors, needles, hurt. no, no, nO, NO, NO, NO–
70
All the Sanses look sad, you don’t know why. You offer them some of your toys, show them how to play, in case they don’t know, but they don’t take them. You feel like you lost something very important.
.
Don’t think about it.
