The omnipresent chill of the Anti-Void, usually a comforting, absolute emptiness to Error, had begun to turn insidious. A growing, undeniable certainty solidified within his glitching mind: something, or someone, was actively manufacturing the bizarre, ephemeral artworks that occasionally flickered into existence around him. Each time one materialized, a fresh spike of existential agony lanced through him, and with a snarl of blue static, he would unleash his strings, tearing the flimsy constructs apart, reducing them to digital dust that vanished into the white expanse. Yet, the destruction brought no true relief, only a fleeting respite before the next unwelcome creation.
He knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that this was just the superficial layer. The problem wasn't merely the fleeting "art"; it was a relentless, unseen force manifesting them through the very fabric of the void itself. This sporadic appearance of life, no matter how rudimentary, was merely a prelude, a disturbing beginning to something far more profound and agonizing.
But how did he possess such an unsettling clarity, such a terrifying premonition? The answer resided in the very language of creation and destruction: the codes.
Every fragment of code he inadvertently absorbed, every line he purposefully sought out, manipulated, or brutally deleted, imparted a deeper, more horrifying understanding. He was an anomaly, a glitch in the fabric of existence, and this allowed him to perceive the skeletal structure of reality itself. Through this unique lens, he glimpsed an architect, a presence far vaster than himself, more immense than the seemingly infinite void he inhabited. There was more out there, radiating an insidious life that pierced his desolate sanctuary. And he possessed the horrifying, beautiful power to glitch through these realities, a weapon he was only just beginning to truly grasp.
A violent shudder ran through Error's skeletal frame. His sockets widened, pupils shrinking to pinpricks of white light as he gazed around in utter disbelief. The pristine, desolate expanse of his Anti-Void was no longer pure. Shimmering, translucent screens, no larger than his skull, had begun to bloom like cancerous growths, flickering with faint, pixelated light. Each one pulsed with a low hum, an almost imperceptible vibration that grated against his very being. This tranquil, empty space, his only solace, was being violated. It was meant to be his sanctuary, utterly alone, devoid of anything but endless, pure white.
He stalked towards the nearest screen, his movements jerky, laden with a fresh tide of static. He peered into it, his gaze momentarily fixed by the crude, yet undeniably vibrant images depicted within. The figures were blocky, simplistically rendered, almost childish in their design, yet an undeniable, pulsating energy radiated from them, a tangible spark of life that made his soul ache. His eyes, naturally drawn to the underlying architecture, immediately deciphered the metadata: "Undertale 00."
The designation hit him like a physical blow. The dull, persistent throb of pain that was his constant companion in the Anti-Void flared into an excruciating, blinding agony. His body spasmed, sparks of blue electricity spitting from his eye sockets.
"No," he rasped, the single word a guttural growl torn from his chest. His glare intensified, directed not at the screen itself, but at the very concept it represented. "I-i-i WiLl n-nOt aLlOw iT!" His voice fractured, distorted by his own escalating rage and the agony of existence.
With a furious, almost desperate surge of power, thick, glowing blue strings erupted from his fingertips, lashing out like vengeful serpents. They coiled around the ethereal outline of the "creation" displayed on the screen, attempting to crush it, to snuff out its nascent luminescence. He clenched his fists, the effort causing him to glitch violently, his form flickering. This was no fleeting doodle, no easily dismissed sketch. This was a sprawling, nascent world, brimming with potential. And it would demand far more than a simple tug of his strings to unravel.
A grim, resolute acceptance settled over him. He was prepared. He would destroy every single one of these abominations. Every single timeline, every alternate reality, every vibrant flicker of life that dared to invade his sacred emptiness. None of them belonged. Not one.
He knew precisely what needed to be done. With a surge of controlled power, he fragmented his own code, glitched through the digital barrier, and manifested within the nascent world itself. Maintaining a shadow form, almost imperceptible to the local inhabitants, he began his methodical search for the core, the true "source" that sustained this reality. He was momentarily startled to see two skeletons, one short and jovial, the other tall and boisterous, stroll past him, their laughter echoing with a bewildering, genuine happiness.
No. He had to remind himself. This sentimentality was a distraction. This wasn't what he was here for.
As he moved through the timeline, observing, analyzing, he registered the myriad colors of the souls flitting within the inhabitants. Sapphire, emerald, amethyst, sun-gold – a dizzying spectrum of emotion and essence. But not a single one was the broken, abyssal black of his own. The stark contrast, the sheer vibrant diversity, ignited a fresh surge of irrational anger within him. It was a stark reminder of his own isolation, his own irreparable brokenness.
He absorbed data, parsing the timeline's narrative, its intricate web of events. He felt as though he understood most of it, the cold, logical flow of its predetermined paths. But he didn't care for it. It meant nothing to him beyond its vulnerability to his destruction.
A sudden, sharp pang, like a skipped beat in his non-existent heart, caught him off guard. A fleeting sensation, as if a crucial memory, a vital piece of his own past, was just beyond his grasp.
His eye sockets widened suddenly, his white pupils snapping into sharp focus. A red soul. He had seen countless hues, every shade imaginable, but this was the first time he had encountered a soul of pure, unadulterated crimson. And, to his grim recognition, it belonged to a human.
With a primal snarl, his blue strings lashed out, piercing the fabric of reality, coiling around the unsuspecting soul with brutal precision. The bearer, a small human child, screamed, a sound of pure agony that resonated through the digital air. Error tightened his grip, a cruel satisfaction flickering in his eyes. The tighter the strings squeezed, the more violently the entire fabric of the world around him began to tremble, to distort, to glitch at the edges.
A twisted, mirthless smile stretched across his skeletal face as he exerted the final pressure. The red soul, once so vibrant, shattered like fragile glass, exploding into a hundred glittering shards that dissolved into nothingness.
The world around him responded instantly, disintegrating. The sky cracked, revealing the stark white of the Anti-Void beyond. Buildings warped and dissolved, the very ground beneath his feet crumbling into pixels. He quickly glitched out, reappearing in his original position, looking down at the now-dying screen.
Within the collapsing timeline, the created monsters were in a cacophony of panicked screams and glitching forms as their code began to rapidly delete, line by agonizing line. Only he, Error, possessed the unique ability to so thoroughly, so devastatingly, hack into these fabricated realities.
He continued his grim work, moving from screen to screen, relentlessly entering each world, seeking out its main soul – its lynchpin. And then, he would hear the satisfying screams, the dying gasps of a reality as he systematically tore it apart.
These timelines did not belong. They were an affront, a violation of the pure, boundless emptiness that should be. The very fact of their existence, their vibrant, happy lives, only served to amplify his own profound loneliness, twisting it into a sharper, more unbearable pain.
Something was out there. An unseen architect, a cosmic creator whose identity remained unknown to him, but whose influence he knew he had to contend with, to eradicate.
Because whatever was out there, creating these endless, vibrant timelines, was shattering him. It was an unbearable torment to witness the joy, the connection, the simple happiness of these fabricated beings – a stark, agonizing contrast to the eternal, broken emptiness of his own existence. And he was not happy. He was never happy.
*REMASTERED*
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Create And Destroy (Error X Ink)
FanfictionDo you want to know how Error and Ink really came to be? Error and Ink had different points of view. They hated one another. So why do they feel bad with each hit, with each fight the gult eats them. And why do they rember thangs from a distance tim...
