Corrupted Love (ErrorFresh)

Chapter 15: Not So Different After All

Ink leaned against the golden wall, staring off into the distance with a grimace on his face as he held his paintbrush close to his chest. He could feel the warm sunlight shining down on him from the large windows, hear the sounds of birds singing softly in the distance, and smell the heavy scent of golden flowers in the air. It was a beautiful day today, in a beautiful world, but despite that...something just felt...wrong here.

He knew this world well. He had spent a lot of time creating it, making sure that every detail was as perfect as ever. It was a pretty simple world, one based on the main timeline, but focused on music instead of magic, where every character had a special musical instrument that represented themselves, and used it's songs to bring joy to others. It seemed ridiculous, but this was one of Ink's favorite world's so far. He'd always loved universes like this, where people used their artistic gifts to make the world a happier place. It brought him joy, made him feel happy about what he was doing, but...now he just felt...empty.

Why? Why wasn't he satisfied? He loved to visit this universe. It was perfect. It was everything he wanted! All the people in it were happy, so...he should be happy too, right?

But for some reason, the happiness in this world right now just filled him with annoyance, even a slight anger. The joy in the faces of his creations and the distant sound of music in the air made him feel sick. Thanks to that awful parasite, he had been through hell just a short while ago. How could this world he created be so happy while he still felt completely miserable?

It was unfair, and it made him mad.

They all deserved to suffer too.

Ink's eyes widened in horror at the thought, his grip around his paintbrush faltering as he stepped back. The tool fell to the ground with a clatter, landing about a foot away, while Ink fell to his knees and stared at his hands, shocked. What the hell was wrong with him right now? Those weren't his thoughts. He loved his creations. He wanted this world to be happy.

Right?

But Fresh's words from before echoed in his head, calling him out on his lies and speaking against his denial. He really didn't care about this world's happiness, did he? The parasite had been right. They were just characters in a greater story to him. He made this universe to make himself happy, not them.

So why wasn't he happy?

He got back to his feet with a sigh, bringing up a wall of code and looking tiredly through the seemingly random strings of numbers that made up the fabric of this world. Everything was the same as before. The world was complete, and it was perfect.

As he searched through the boring code, so similar to every other universe he had created before, he wondered why he was even doing this. It was the same characters, the same story, over and over again, with only a few changes here and there. What was the point?

Something snapped inside of him then, and suddenly, he clenched his hand into a fist and struck the wall of code as hard as he could. It shattered into pieces, chunks of data falling to the floor like glass. Ink stared down at the broken shards, his expression dark, but then his eyes widened in horror as he realized the destruction he had caused.

"O-oh no..." The artist stammered, pressing himself up against the wall as he trembled. All at once, the world around him began to fall apart. The golden light coming from the windows was flickering on and off like a broken light, making the peaceful and beautiful hallway now seem like something from a horror film. Ink could still hear the bird's song, but it was off tune, and sounded more like the screeching of a dying crow.

The entire world had begun to glitch, huge chucks of data disappearing and reappearing, but suddenly, it all stopped. The hallway was dark. The birds were silent. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The quiet was even worse than the chaos.

Ink stood there for a long time, filled with disbelief at what he had done, before he grabbed his paintbrush off the tile floor and ran to the throne room as fast as he could. He had to try and fix things. He couldn't let this world be destroyed. He...he had to-

The skeleton stopped, frozen in place as he stared at the horrific sight in front of him. He felt tears coming to his eyes as he stood there, feeling sick to his non existent stomach.

"O-oh my god..." Ink said in a horrified whisper. But there was no god to help him. After all, he was the god of this world. And he was the one that had done this.

On the ground, barely even recognizable, was that universe's Asgore. A purple cloak was draped over him, deeply soaked with a dark substance that was most definitely blood. His eyes were just empty sockets, the horns on his head were twisted and misshapen, and his white fur was tangled and covered in dirt. Upon noticing Ink, the gruesome amalgamation that was once Asgore lifted his head and let out a low growl, trying to crawl over from its place on the floor. A trail of blood and tufts of white fur trailed after it as it clawed across the floor, but ever time it moved, it's body seemed to glitch, becoming even more distorted and malformed until it could barely even move. Eventually, it just collapsed in front of Ink, letting out a low whimper as it looked up at him with sightless eyes.

Ink just kept staring, tears running down his cheekbones. He covered his mouth in an attempt to stop himself from breaking into sobs as he stepped back from the creature. "I-I'm sorry..." He said weakly, not knowing what else to say. What else could he say?

The thing just whimpered again, its broken voice filled with pain as it laid its head down at Ink's feet.

It was hurting. That's all that it was. It wasn't an Asgore, it wasn't even a person anymore, it's entire existence was nothing but pain.

It was hurting, badly, and Ink was the one who had caused it.

Despite that though, the thing didn't seem to want to hurt him in return. It just laid there on the floor, it's chest heaving with shallow breaths as it let out more soft growls and whimpers, it's eyes looking up at Ink pleadingly.

Ink knew what it wanted him to do.

The artist wiped his tears away, closing his eyes tightly as he raised his paintbrush. "I'm sorry!" He cried out yet again before bringing it down as hard as he could. He could feel the warm splatter of blood, and he could feel the body collapse into dust under his strike, but he didn't seem to care, hitting the empty cloak with his paintbrush again and again, the blood and dust flying up with every attack as he sobbed.

Eventually, he just collapsed to the floor, still holding his brush tightly. He sat there, tears running down his bloody face as he cried.

When his sobs started to quiet down into sniffles, he opened his eyes, looking down at the pile of dust in front of him.

The artist got to his feet, wiping his tears away as he stared. He couldn't believe what he had just done. He had corrupted an entire world and killed one of his own creations. Desperately, he tried to think of an excuse, an explanation for his actions, but there wasn't one. Fresh wasn't possessing him this time, it was him in control.

And the part that scared him the most, was that it had felt so good. The dust in the air, the blood now splattering his clothes like red paint, the memory of every strike of his brush.

It was almost intoxicating.

Ink looked down at his paintbrush curiously. He wondered if this was what Error felt like on a daily basis. This intense thrill, this power...

He wanted more.

Before he knew it, Ink lifted the paintbrush in his shaky hands and began to paint, not even bothering to get out any of his colors. The scarlet blood still on the bristles worked better than any paint he had ever used before.

Within moments, the misshapen abomination of an Asgore was back on the ground. It looked even worse than it did before, bones and muscle exposed, already turning to dust, barely even managing to stay together.

Ink stared down at it, his tears long gone and his expression cold. He lifted his brush again, but this time, it was not to create.

Fresh had been right.

He and Error weren't that different after all.