Create And Destroy (Error X Ink)

Errors games

Error harbored a profound indifference towards the vast majority of souls he harvested. To him, they were mere ciphers, echoes destined for oblivion, their individual stories and suffering utterly irrelevant. He gathered them not out of malice directed at the victims themselves, but as a calculated act of provocation. His true quarry, his twisted obsession, was Ink. He took the souls because he knew, with an unsettling certainty, that Ink would inevitably chase him.

This ritualistic pursuit, this cosmic cat-and-mouse game, always stirred a strange, unsettling familiarity within Error. The chase felt less like a novelty and more like a preordained dance, a sequence of events he had experienced countless times before. A phantom sense of déjà vu, unsettling and persistent, would prick at the edges of his consciousness, hinting at knowledge long lost.

Occasionally, Ink, in his desperation or frustration, would execute a maneuver or utter a phrase that transcended the usual playful antagonism. These moments would strike a discordant chord within Error, sending his form into a violent, uncontrollable glitching fit. His entire being would flicker and distort, pixels fracturing, his very essence threatening to unravel.

During these uncontrolled spasms, his mind would involuntarily drift to the fundamental "fault" embedded deep within his code. It wasn't a malfunction in the traditional sense, but more akin to a gaping void, a core component missing. He felt it not as an error, but as an absence—a memory, perhaps, meticulously excised, deleted from his foundational files, leaving behind only the faintest, most tantalizing echo of what should have been there. A deep, gnawing incompleteness.

With a sharp, almost violent flick of his skull, he would attempt to dislodge these unwelcome, existential thoughts. The mental static, however, often lingered.

He forced his attention back to the multiverse, his gaze settling once more upon the desolate landscape of Swaptale. Below, the tall, orange-clad skeleton, Papyrus, was a whirlwind of frantic, restless energy. Even after months, his relentless search for his brother, Sans, showed no signs of abating. Every corner of his universe had been scoured, every desperate avenue pursued, all in a futile bid to bring his sweet little Sans back. Error watched, a cruel, detached amusement flickering in his perpetually glitching eyes.

He found a perverse satisfaction in observing their unique forms of torment. The hollow ache of loss, the gnawing anxiety, the slow, corrosive despair—these were the exquisite spectacles he truly relished.

Error's head tilted back, and a dry, rasping laugh, riddled with static, tore from his throat. The sound echoed eerily through the Anti-Void. He was profoundly, agonizingly bored. The predictable motions of the AUs, the endless cycles of hope and despair, had grown stale. He yearned for a fresh game, a new distraction.

Knowing Ink was currently preoccupied in Reapertale, diligently ferrying a soul back to its rightful place in the grim, somber realm, Error saw his window. Why not inject a little chaos into the orderly fabric Ink so painstakingly maintained?

He manifested, not within an AU, but along the ethereal pathways of the multiverse, a conceptual highway connecting creation. His form glided silently, his eyes scanning the nascent and established AUs, each a fleeting thought, a vibrant concept sprung from Ink's boundless imagination.

He would sometimes prune the "practice" AUs—the unfinished, flawed sketches of worlds left abandoned. A few others, for reasons only known to Error's arbitrary whims, "just had to go." The finished, stable ones, however, those he consciously left intact, reserving them for his true purpose: to vex and infuriate Ink. He held no genuine affection or desire for anything he destroyed or stole; his solitary objective was to trigger Ink's inevitable appearance.

He couldn't articulate the why, not truly, but there was an inexplicable thrill in seeing Ink. An almost magnetic pull. He reveled in the way Ink's frustration would mount, the visible tremor in his brush, the exasperated splatters of paint that accompanied his protests.