Create And Destroy (Error X Ink)

Inks challenges

The vibrant spectrum of Ink's soul often felt dulled when confronted with Error. He had found it agonizingly difficult to truly hurt the destroyer, a paradoxical ache in his very core. Each clash, each swing of his colossal brush, was tempered by an inexplicable reluctance. Yet, the logical part of his being, the part that bore the weight of creation, screamed that Error utterly deserved it. Deserved every painful consequence for the endless suffering he wrought across the Multiverse.

Sometimes, the desperation to mend the broken realities became too overwhelming, and Ink would take on the relentless hunt himself. He would chase the glitching anomaly across countless AUs, driven by the singular, burning desire to retrieve the precious souls Error had stolen, each one a vital spark plucked from existence.

The vast expanse of the Multiverse, once a quiet symphony of nascent worlds, was now alight with the chaotic opera of Ink and Error. Their eternal dance of creation and destruction had become legendary, whispered in hushed tones from Snowdin to Hotland. Error's signature trail of mischief – corrupted files, collapsing timelines, weeping voids – was invariably followed by Ink's desperate, colorful pursuit. To the denizens of these worlds, Ink, with his boundless creativity and protective fury, was a God.

And in some profound, terrifying way, Ink could see the truth in that perception. The title weighed heavily, a crown of endless responsibility. He was their creator, the very essence from which they sprang, and in this capacity, he felt an almost primal urge to protect them from the oblivion Error promised. His quest to reclaim the stolen souls wasn't just a duty; it was a deeply personal mission to restore the fractured pieces of his own magnificent tapestry.

Ink's pursuit of Error was an endless loop of frustration. While he yearned for a genuine connection, for answers that might explain the destroyer's nihilistic rage, most of their encounters devolved into savage battles. Explosions of paint and magic, the shattering of code, the air thick with the dust of collapsing realities – these were the hallmarks of their meetings. Yet, beneath the fury and the chaos, all Ink truly wanted was a chance to talk to Error. To breach the walls of hostility and understand the enigma that defined his counterpart.

He couldn't articulate why this desire was so potent, or what his gut told him about Error's behavior. It was an instinct, a whisper in the back of his mind, suggesting a deeper, more profound reason for his destructive antics.

Ink was convinced that the sheer, overwhelming abundance of his creations made Error feel profoundly alone. Surrounded by an endless array of life and narrative, Error, the ultimate outlier, felt alienated, adrift in a sea of what he perceived as meaningless existence. This conviction, this strange empathy, persisted even as their fierce fists flew, even as they wounded each other with both magic and stinging insults, even as their desperate yells echoed through the Multiverse. Through it all, a quiet plea resonated within Ink: he wanted to talk to him. He had glimpsed Error many times in the desolate, static expanse of the Anti-Void, a monochrome realm of infinite nullity. For a long time, Ink had harbored the secret belief that he was the only one privy to that primordial, empty space. Error's presence there, just existing in the quiet, unnerving void, was another layer to the mystery.

He might despise the havoc Error wreaked, the wanton destruction that tore at the very fabric of his beloved creations, but deep down, a disquieting sensation nagged at him. It felt like he was missing something, a crucial piece of a cosmic puzzle. It was as if he knew Error in a way, a connection that transcended their warring roles, a deeper way that stirred the very depths of his creative soul.

The air in Underfell was thick with the scent of sulfur and despair, its crimson-tinged landscape a stark contrast to Ink's vibrant palette. This grim AU, with its oppressive atmosphere and perpetually scowling inhabitants, was Error's current bolthole. Ink surveyed the treacherous terrain, the jagged rocks and gnarled trees, before letting out a profound sigh, a sound heavy with weariness and frustration. His patience, a reservoir often tested by Error, was running thin.