The blackness was engulfing them with feelings they had been repressing for far too long. The memories of someone that wasn't them, the memories of their true selves, only a shadow of everyone else, haunted them until all they could see were splashes of red on black canvas, and tunnel vision toward unhealthy obsessions. Like hatred.
They felt entirely justified in their cruelness, their crocodile tears a facade of their true selves. Which was that of an embarrassed, empty hollow shell, tasting the sweet tears of everyone's pain, only recoiling from raised haunches and bared teeth, just to come back in with their own claws when all was safe.
But would this be the time they couldn't bounce back? Had they gotten too brave, too eager, for a taste of the anguish? The wound was deep, deeper than normal.
It wasn't the first time falling into the pit of seductive sadism, with the blood on their hands from another time that they had ventured too far into the territory of another's. Knives glinted strangely in the pitch darkness, and a pale finger dragged itself up and down the tip lazily. Perhaps the only way to survive this was to resort to old measures.
Fuck them all. Fuck them for their validation seeking, broken souls. Fuck them for their lack of reciprocation. Fuck the ones for feeling too much, fuck the ones for not feeling enough. And most of all, fuck the empty shell of another who still felt more than they ever could. How could the powers transfer to each other in this way? Why were they stuck with the empty soul, and the other was left with the guilt like they also had one?
This wasn't the thoughts of just one but multiple. The screams of tortured, black spirits could feel the growing anger in their hearts as the moon slowly moved closer toward the blood eclipse.
They could only consider this a betrayal, and it had to be dealt with.
~~~
"You fool," a smug, delighted voice whispered in Murderface's head, causing him to flinch, though he tried his best to ignore the sound. "How could you let this happen? Your own friend jumped in front of you..."
"Schut up!" Murderface growled as the vision replayed vividly in his head, and he shook it to try and shut the scene out. The voice laughed quietly.
"Don't pretend like you didn't feel a surge of power when you looked down at his lifeless body," The voice cooed sweetly in his ear, which caused the hair on the back of his neck and arms to stand up straight. The demon-thing wasn't wrong, Murderface did feel a certain rush when seeing Pickles fly through the air before landing on his head. But it was gone within a second, replaced only by horror.
He had never wanted this before in his life. He never wanted his friends, coworkers, whatever- to die. How many times had he put his life on the line against strange happenings around them, to help them out? Even doing just the bare minimum of not getting in the way? He wasn't himself anymore. He was cold, hateful, mean, but he wasn't to this level. He was vindictive and cunning and loved to mess with people, he was very high and mighty, and he felt powerful in his abilities to give someone a good shake, but death? The wounded, broken look on Pickles's face haunted him, it was the look of giving up. A look he knew all too well. A look that choked his throat.
Damnit, why couldn't Pickles just fight back? Why couldn't he get pissed off, throw something, scream, punch people into his place? Why did things just have to go so wrong? Why did it take this long for Murderface to feel the full effects of his guilt? Was it even guilt, or just shame? Was the demon inside of him not only making him do these cruel things behind their back, but also making him feel more than he's probably ever felt- not just for himself, but for everyone else too? And then purposely setting him up to take the fall after the fact? Or was he being forced to feel that little bit of satisfaction that was causing bile to rise in his throat?
"You probably made me feel that," Murderface mumbled. The demon most likely made him feel a lot of things he'd rather not.
Where he used to manage to just squash his guilt and regrets down and go back to being the way he was the next day because everyone else was just as forgiving, now this new situation between him and this... freak, just made him feel small and pathetic even with that rush that filled his empty chest, because he knew every step he took was probably something this creature wanted, and he was starting to feel suspicious that maybe it really did have plans to hurt them all. Especially what with Charles's sudden, suspicious murder, Pickles's suicide attempt, Salem's slow but sure mental breakdowns, and everyone else being on edge for some unknown reason.
He was just the useless puppet in this game of the demon's, feeding it information like having the party, or which Klokateers were around for that day. He was still baffled by how the alcohol he had gotten for Salem had been tampered with in any way, but with the idea of a Klokateer spy and with this voice in his head that was beginning to know what was going on inside of Mordhaus even when Murderface didn't (because the demon still paid attention to his surroundings, Murderface just needed to be the vessel that took him to the places with the juiciest gossip, whether or not he was aware didn't matter)... It all seemed a bit much.
After all, it was the voice that pointed him in the directions that would lead him into situations that made him look suspicious. Especially the other day, when Pickles had gone to the roof and he hadn't even known until the demon mentioned something...
The voice laughed in his head. "Stop trying to be smart about this. You're not. You didn't even care about any of this just a few days ago, or even really at all. Why now? I've done nothing to give you this fake concern. I'm here to give you power, and you're the one going soft on me."
Murderface looked down at the book that Charles 'gave' him after his death. The voice knew that it was the reason for his increased clarity. Just the thought made Murderface's head hurt. He could feel the rage building up inside from the monster that he had allowed to go inside him. Just for some fullness. Just for some happiness.
He hated this.
Standing without a word and with only the laughs of the demon in his head to keep him company, Murderface headed to the bathroom and locked the door behind him, staring at the face of a man he had grown to hate for years. These were the days that he craved so badly to just be someone else. Someone that wasn't so disappointing.
The bath squeaked on and began to spill out hot water. Pills of unknown origin fell into his mouth and he chewed them, swallowing the bitter taste. It would help him relax for the time being. His clothes were pulled off, the light was shut off so he didn't have to look at himself, and he settled into steaming hot water. He felt like he was about to be boiled.
The tip of the knife played in teasing twirls and patterns, hard enough for it to make the skin tingle but not enough to even leave a mark. But the craving was there, stronger than it ever had been. It felt like everything around him was whispering encouragement to do something, anything.
"What are you trying to accomplish? If you died, nobody would come looking for you," The voice snarled in his head. It almost sounded worried. No, frantic and panicky, because without Murderface the voice had nothing. No body to inhabit, and it was possible that the demon wasn't strong enough to just take full control of a dead body, if it ever could.
"That'sch the idea," Murderface muttered. He touched his face softly like he couldn't even believe he was there, existing. All the while listening to cruel words from something that wasn't even human. Then again, maybe it was just all in his head... maybe he was just crazy.
It didn't matter to him anymore. He really, really hated this.
---
Darkness floated around Him. He wasn't used to this. He was used to fires blazing, and the heat melting His face, or burning off the flesh from His feet. Instead, He felt like He was floating in a dark space of nothingness. No cold, no warmth. No indication that hot and cold ever even existed to Him. No air flow, no need to breathe. Nothing to see, so for all He knew, He simply had no eyes. Perhaps He was a bodiless speck of dust floating around space. Or, perhaps He was just the dust bunny sucked up by a vacuum. That would better suit someone like Him.
But as He became more aware of His surroundings and the smothering blackness that He seemed to choke on and drown in, the more His senses started coming back to Him, oddly enough. If He concentrated hard enough, He could suddenly swallow again, and His throat felt dry and rough. He could twitch an arm, which stung sorely and throbbed. His neck had the worst pain of all though; it felt like something was licking at Him with poison, and He felt a trickle of something wet run down his chest. For some reason, he could picture the color red- a very dark red.
He struggled to let go of His senses again, pausing His concentration so as to not become any more aware of what was actually going on. He liked the darkness in comparison, He would drown in the emptiness all day. The pain was a different story and not something he wanted to reside in for any longer. If He just remained suspended in this bubble forever with an empty hole in His head and heart, He would be happy for once.
Something hot touched His skin, enveloped around His hand. A strange feeling, yet at the same time, giving off an odd familiarity. This brought fear to Him, who could only think of the phantom grip of that demon who had a hold of His brain and perhaps even His body at this point. He struggled to pull out of the grip.
However, this was not the same type of hold. It was gentle and almost comforting. It squeezed without digging their obviously long nails into flesh, and pulled Him along, leading Him into pain and suffering but not without a comforting hand to support him.
"It's not your time yet," An alluring, yet gravelly voice spoke to Him. "You need to suffer before it gets better."
"You're asking a lot from me," He growled in response, finding his voice again in that single moment but was silenced with a soft laugh, then everything slowly faded from His mind, being replaced by a much more peaceful darkness that didn't make Him feel like He was drowning in death, even when the soreness lingered...
---
Jealousy was an ugly, ugly thing. Consumption was the cure. Taking was the vaccine. They held the power of almost everyone in their hands, and what they couldn't grasp, would just take the life out of the rest. The pain of it gnawed at their chest, pain they once falsely equated to sadness, guilt, or some type of pitiful emotion. This pain was the pain of anger, and audacity, and envy, and discomfort, and self-awareness, and humiliation.
Apparently those were very different things from guilt, but how could they know that? They only learned to copy emotions, not feel them. Going through the motions as a reflex was an attempt to be relatable, to be admired, to have the attention on them.
Everyone grew with these wonderful, wonderful things, with emotions that weren't constantly tearing apart their minds. Why couldn't they have a little taste of the same things? Why couldn't they just take? They had nothing nice or kind, or if they did, it wasn't anything they wanted. They wanted what everyone else enjoyed. Maybe that would make them enjoy it as well.
But it didn't. It made them hate, it made them consume further, it made them embarrassed, it made them murderous.
~~~
This damned place again. Murderface could feel the sweat rolling down his face as he sat at the base of his stupid volcano, glaring up at it with as much salt as all the oceans in the world combined. How much he hated this place. Why couldn't he just be swimming in darkness like before? Why did he have to be here as he was most likely dying-
"Nice place ya got here."
This brand new voice that he had never heard before (except in his near-dead state, though he couldn't currently remember that), shocked Murderface into such a stupor that all he could do was ogle at the volcano that he was glaring at before. Did... did it talk?
A presence close to his ear made him jerk into the direction of the actual voice, which was a few feet away from him. He wasn't sure what exactly it was, but staring for too long at the perpetrator seemed to make Murderface's brain spiral into a panic and feeling of doom, so he resorted to darting his eyes this way and that. Ah, so this must be hell, because he swore that what was in front of him was a very amused demon, leaning against a rock on his stomach with his face in his hands as he watched the bassist.
"Don't mind me, I'm just here to enjoy the view," The scary demon thing commented with a light purr. His hair was spiked, mostly in the back similar to Salem's but had a few on the top as well. Two sets of horns, four altogether, were sticking out of his head on the side, and another was directly in the middle. One pair curled like a ram's while the other pair stood up straight, short and sharp, like the middle one. Speaking of sharp- there wasn't a single body part of this creature that wasn't covered in spike-like appendages, several even growing out of his back and- oh-gods he was shirtless.
Murderface remembered one of the books that Charles had given him and his face went bright red as he forced himself to look away again. Damn him and his confusing story books, he had no business giving such a dumb thing to Murderface. He was definitely not into that type of thing, let alone with a monster.
The demon thing was very lanky and his arms were longer than a normal person's, and very muscular. Stop lookingggggg fuckface, Murderface scolded himself as he attempted to control his breathing. Why was he starting to act this way? Why was this creature even here? Here to finish the job of murdering him? Or maybe Murderface had really died and was actually in Hell now. Or maybe... was this the demon who had possessed him?!
No... The voice wasn't the same, and the pulsating aura Murderface could feel wasn't as negatively hollow and empty as the demon he had let inside his head. There was definitely an issue with this one though, and it wasn't just because of the almost desperately erratic vibe. Staring into the demon's face for just a second was near-paralyzing and it hurt to breathe. There was something wicked in those amused eyes, the pupils were way too small for such giant eyeballs that seemed to stare with intensity at Murderface. He looked quite possibly the epitome of unhinged, perhaps even chaotic, and that was the exact atmosphere he was giving off.
Murderface realized that the creature was patiently waiting for a reply of some sort, but all the man could do was stutter. "I- um, uh, yeah, I- y- yeah it's... mountain, is nice." Smooth, Murderface. Why couldn't he talk like normal? Oh right, he was terrified, that had to be it.
"Oh I wasn't talking about the place." So fluid and quick to tease, much different from Murderface's painfully slow, rambling stutters.
Murderface blinked as his brain wracked with worry, trying to understand what he was trying to imply, then realized with horror that the demon hadn't looked away from him since he had been spotted. It took him a few seconds longer to get it, then his face felt like it had exploded and began melting. And anybody who knew Murderface knew that if he was embarrassed or showed off any type of vulnerable emotion, anger would be soon to follow.
"Cut the shit, I know I'm ugly," Murderface growled, but his voice was too shaky, causing him to wince. He closed his eyes to try and calm his breathing but when he reopened them, he nearly fainted to see the demon's face only a few inches from his, those wild eyes staring practically through his soul. So fast, so quiet... And he was so tall, so painfully tall that he was bent over so he could be level with the bassist.
Murderface nearly choked on his tongue, feeling himself collapse under the pressure of the creature's stare. Those long arms moved basically with the speed of light, catching Murderface before he fully hit the ground. He instead lowered Murderface gently to the sand, moving backward afterward, humming to himself softly.
"Perhaps a more 'human' form would be less terrifying... here."
Murderface was scared to look, but was compelled to, so after a moment's hesitation he lifted his dizzy head slightly to see what had happened. The creature was still taller but not as tall, more or less the human equivalent of 'tall'. His hair and horns were the same, but his eyes had also gotten smaller in proportion to his face size, and the amount of spikes on his arms, legs, and back had shortened tremendously. His arms were also in proportion to his body now, if anything just a little bit longer but nothing too terrifying and gangly and... abnormal.
Still, it was hard to stare straight at the demon without falling into a fit of panic, so he chose to stare down at the demon's feet, which were vulnerable to the hot ground but he didn't seem to mind.
"This is better, yes?" The demon looked proud of himself.
"Wh- what... are, you?" Murderface asked unsurely, and the creature tapped his chin in thought with a pointed finger.
"Don't humans call them demons? I'm one of those." Murderface hated being right for once.
"Y- what's your name?" Murderface whispered in a meek voice, unsure of what to do in the presence of a demon since the last one had basically used him for sport and to try and destroy him and the life of his friends. Speaking of... where was that demon?
"I don't have one," Demon-thing admitted, kicking at the dirt under his feet. Like he was just a freakishly tall child. "I had one years ago, but that was, what... a thousand or so? So it's escaped my mind." His smile showed off a row of pointed teeth that made Murderface swallow heavily. "Well there is one person who named me more recently, after he dismantled my corpse and took my skull for some weird puppetry, buuuut..." He shrugged.
Murderface blinked, not knowing how much more he could take from this weird conversation. "Corpse? Uhhhh..."
"Yeaaah I used to have a body on Earth, before it was taken apart, but I don't hold grudges, no I don't, good sir." He waved his hand dismissively. "What's your name?"
"I, uh, I- Murderface. William Murderface," Murderface managed to speak.
"That's a bit of a long name, Murderface William Murderface," The demon spoke, and Murderface couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. "Can I call you Murr?"
"M- Murr? I-"
"I shall call you Murr now."
"O- uh... okay."
The creature leapt lightly backwards like he was filled with helium, gracefully landing on the rock he had been laying on earlier so he could sit with his feet kicking up the sand around him. He had both an intimidating and psychotic, yet playful, and childlike aura around him, though Murderface couldn't tell exactly why those attributes seemed to fit him so well. "So, Murr, how's... what's his name, Charles? The mean, grumpy man who took my skull."
Oh...?
"You knew Charles?" 'Murr' narrowed his eyes in suspicion, though the effects of the initial scare was still lingering because he tried not to seem malicious or aggressive. "How?"
"Long story, can't tell ya," the creature said in such a cheerful voice that Murderface was once again taken aback by the strange attitude. "You know him because you're one of his playthings, yes?"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Murderface demanded, actually offended now, dropping his guard for a moment. The demon didn't seem to mind at all, giving the other a lazy smile as he rolled his head around his neck in boredom.
"I don't know you humans' silly titles. Aren't you some instrument person that he takes care of and feeds like a pet? I don't think I would be allowed here if not."
Murderface shook his head gruffly. "Alright now I'm pissed. You better start talking right now, because you obviously know several things I don't and-" He interrupted himself with a yip as he stopped shaking his head to look at the other and saw the demon close to him again, staring down at him. Dread filled the pit of his stomach and he swallowed heavily. He never felt this panic-stricken with the other demon, not even with the way it spoke such evil things to him. Then again, he never saw a physical manifestation of the demon at it's fullest potential.
The demon tilted his head slightly. "You don't trust me." It was a statement, not a question. "Sweet thing, what have you gone through to have such a hostile reaction to me?"
Murderface wasn't a fan of the pet name, but he couldn't seem to catch his voice properly. "I- I- you- just..." He breathed heavily through his nose to try and calm down. "Just- I'd rather you just call me Murr."
"You got it, Murr." The demon's eyes glinted, and 'Murr' felt faint.
"Uh secondly... you're literally a demon."
"Yep."
"I don't have to go through shit just to react the way I do?"
A long, slightly sharp finger poked Murr's face almost playfully, causing him to jump a little. "You're terrified but you're trying to be brave. There's no one around for you to feel the need to act brave."
"Excuse me if I don't want to shit my pants," Murderface growled, his eyes casting to the ground.
"Anyway," The demon continued like he hadn't heard the shorter man speak. "What I can tell you, is that you've probably seen my skull before, that he used with his voice to make a mockery of me." he sniffed a little like he was wounded. "I think he called it Facebones? So you can call me Bones."
Murderface stared in shock. The placement of the horns had been so eerily familiar and now he knew why. It was the same as their stupid logo skull.
"But... that's just an animation, not real," Murr squeaked in bewilderment to the idea of Charles using some demon's skull for their stupid tutorial things. "He used computer shit for that."
"Where do you think he got the inspiration for it? I don't think any of you know how to draw that great," Bones grinned with a mouth that was still too wide for his face. "And if Charles is the same Charles, he's not got a creative bone in his body that involves cute little animations. Sure someone else could've decided to make him something, but no, he just saw someone's skull and said 'cool'."
Murderface could hardly believe it, but decided not to question it. The topic of Charles was still sore and he felt sick to his stomach. On top of talking to some terrifying demon, and having just tried to end his own life out of raw guilt, plus already being haunted by one demon, the emotions were wearing him down quickly, and that made him more antsy.
"Why are you here?" He asked wearily. "Here for my soul too? Because it's already taken."
This time Bones seemed surprised. "Soul? I don't want to consume your soul. If I did, trust me, your entire body would be digesting right now." This did not make Murderface feel any better. "And what about your soul already being taken?"
"Already have a contract with another stupid demon, so if you're not here for it, what DO you want?" Murr explained as patiently as he could.
Bones started stepping closer and Murderface tensed, pushing his hand out in an attempt to stop the other. "Wait, stay back-"
The other dipped his hand toward Murr's chest and planted it there. The heat from the hand felt so relaxing, and also simultaneously triggered a faint memory. Of darkness and smothering and pain, then-
"It's tainted, but it's there," Bones said in a strangely somber tone, even with the wickedly chaotic look on his face. "And it is yours, flaws and all."
Murderface winced. "Trust me, I know those flaws are mine," he said bitterly, mind still reeling from the darkness of early creeping in from the back of his head.
"Yes, yours." The demon acknowledged firmly with a nod. "That means they're yours to fix if you don't like them."
"You think I don't know that?" Murr blurted. "Hell, I tried to kill myself just to fix it all!"
"That isn't fixing it," Bones spoke matter-of-factly. "That's running away."
Murderface felt rooted to the ground from the shocking call-out, and his face heated up. "How do you know?!"
"Because you're not sitting in the pain, you're not trying to fix the pain, and you're trying to deny the pain of letting it run its course to teach you its lesson and make you stew in the pain until you no longer wish to do the thing that caused the pain," the other stated. "Which, no judgment here. Running away is a lot of what your kind does. I would be tempted to ditch it, myself. But running away doesn't actually do any of the fixing you're talking about. Does it hurt, Murr? Does hurting others hurt, now?"
"What do you mean now?" Murderface was glaring angrily at the ground, and received no reply, so he spat in continuation, "Yeah it fucking does, so what?"
"Then let it hurt. Why does avoiding the pain make you think it fixes anything?" Murr blinked and looked slowly up at the other. Those damn eyes were twinkling in such an odd, mischevious way, even as he spoke in a serious tone. "Some of them think you should feel the pain until it runs its course, some of them think you should learn to cope with it but never let it go as a reminder, to keep you in line. Some of them want you dead anyway, but they aren't looking for a fix for your actions, they're looking for a consequence, which is probably also fair in the world of mortals. And well... some of them want you to learn to just put it down, already, because they think that'll make you learn to fix things faster."
"Put it down? How the fuck do I put down pain?"
"I wouldn't know, I've never felt that bad about being me." Back to the cheerful stance, and Murderface narrowed his eyes.
"Sounds a bit conceited."
"Well, I never said I don't feel bad about anything at all," Bones pointed out. That was fair. "This affects everyone, not just you. It seems like the worse you feel about yourself, the worse you're going to treat others."
"But how can I like myself after hurting them?" Murderface snapped. "Doesn't make sense, does it?"
"Then learn how to separate how you feel about yourself with how you treat others?" Bones offered. "A lot of people learn to love even without love for themselves. And a lot of people can't love others because they hate themselves and that makes them hate others, because they want something else to look far more pitiful than them. You're with the second group right now."
"Okay but why is a fucking demon even giving me advice to be a better person?" Murr groaned. "Have I fallen this far off the deep end that a literal monster has to tell me how to be good because I can't fucking do it on my own?"
"Hurtful," Bones commented, then laughed. It sounded shrill and glasslike, and it made Murderface's skin crawl. "To tell you the truth, I couldn't tell you any of this before I met Charles. He stole my skull, but gave me a heart." He placed his hand dreamily to his chest; Murr had no idea what he meant by that and how literal or figurative it was. "And gave me a bit of a list of things to tell you, should you ever fall this far deep."
"Wait, how'd he..? I'm so confused." Murr rubbed his temples in frustration. "Charles is fucking dead, so did you meet him in the afterlife or something?"
"WHAT?" The booming voice shook Murr to his core and he fell back, scrambling with his feet in pure panic to try and slide away from the suddenly explosive creature in front of him.
Bones looked flabbergasted. "He's not supposed to be dead! It wasn't his time!"
"I'm... sorry?" Murderface managed out.
The demon sighed softly and knelt down to clasp his hand around Murderface's, pulling him up. "Didn't mean to do that, nope. But ahhhhh, mhmm, this complicates things. No wonder why this had to happen the way it did."
"I'm still confused..."
"Oh yes, the meeting. It'll start soon." With that, Bones lifted an arm to gesture to the distance, and surprisingly, Murderface could see a body shuffling closer to him, wrapped in familiar garments. He turned back to Bones but he had disappeared into thin air, further stumping him, which caused him to be slightly irritated.
However, the feeling went away when he turned back and could see the flaming red hair getting closer, and could start seeing the facial features of Pickles, looking completely healthy compared to the last time Murderface had seen him.
His gut was twisting uncomfortably and something in his throat was tightening to the point that he could barely swallow. He stood in complete dread as Pickles stopped just a few feet away, face unreadable as he stared at the bassist in front of him.
Then, Pickles' eyes softened. Murderface noticed that his hair was covering his forehead, but a light breeze kept making it shift, showing a third eye underneath, mostly closed in a sleepy way. Murderface's skin tingled from seeing it.
"Pickles," Murderface managed to croak.
Pickles tilted his head. "Still think this is a dream?"
Murderface didn't know when it happened, he just knew that he found himself on his knees in the dusty sand, eyes watering uncomfortably from the specks that flew into them. And he was shuddering with every blow from the hot wind whipping at his face. He wasn't sure what he was saying, but he faintly saw Pickles kneeling in front of him.
When finally he could focus again, he saw the other's hand out, palm up. He stared at it dumbly, not really sure what to do.
"Murderface, I can't stand you sometimes," Pickles admitted. "But ya sat with me while my parents patronized me. You tried helping against the fire. You've picked me up when I was drugged and dying and not just from this year. You're not a bad guy, you just do really bad things a little too often, compared to those good things."
Murderface's throat felt slick with saliva and phlegm. From the dust.
"I held a grudge for so long but I couldn't even smell my own shit," Pickles continued gently. "All the times I told ya to just die, or that you were fat and stupid and useless to the band, or how much I made fun of you. You broke a certain, specific part of me that may never heal. But I did the same to you years before. So I'm sorry, friend."
A sob escaped Murderface's throat. Wait, sob? He wasn't crying, was he?
"I also know you didn't drug Salem." The hair shifted again, and the eye opened slightly wider. "I know your malicious intents are a lot lesser than what actually has been happening. But you're still a dick, and I still can't forgive you for a lot of it. Ya gotta prove to me that you're worth forgivin'. And I fully expect to be put at the same standards."
Murderface's voice was carried away by the rushing wind in his ears, but Pickles could hear him perfectly, it seemed.
"I'm glad you do forgive me, but that doesn't mean I can forgive back just as easily," Pickles admitted. "Even if you didn't mean to, you almost ruined my life. We almost fucked up the entire prophecy because of it. I almost died and left you all to perish at the hands of whatever danger we're about to face. And you wanted to double down and just make snarky comments because you were too afraid to just admit to my face that you fucked up because you were having an existential crisis. What's what Salem says all the time? Actions have consequences?"
"I'm glad you're still alive," Murderface could only whisper, and finally the wind had died down. He was breathing heavily, and his face felt wet. "Wait, does that mean... I'm still alive, too?"
Pickles nodded soberly, but didn't comment on it, still resuming what he needed to say. "Worst of all, even though you didn't mean to hurt Salem, you scared them and scarred them internally because you wanted to pull another gender nonconforming person into your confusing sexuality mess."
Murderface shook his head, but didn't disagree out loud. He didn't know how to tell Pickles about the overwhelming magnetic pull toward Salem that he felt when they first met and that it had nothing to do with their gender or what he felt sexually. Well, maybe it played a tiny part.
Pickles flashed him a look of sympathy. "But most of all, I wanted to say thank you."
Murderface stared blankly back at him, feeling the teardrops fall off his nose.
"You had no reason to, but you came up there to save me. I think your little bit of pushing kinda helped me decide to keep fighting even after I hit the ground. As crazy as it sounds." Pickles' outstretched hand clasped around the other's wrist. "You simultaneously almost ruined the prophecy, and then helped save it. That's how I know you aren't a bad person at heart. You aren't the type to suck the life outta shit and walk away. You suck the life out then spit it right back at us with some kind of angry, violent, aggressive determination."
Murderface shook his head slowly. He was the fucker who walked into a room and drained the life out of everyone. He was the guy who cast a black shadow on everyone the second he existed in someone else's space. "No, I'm... That's my fucking role, that's-"
"Then how can anyone enjoy being around you?" Pickles spoke softly. Murderface could only sigh and remove his wrist to place his head in his hands. His temples were throbbing.
"Those goofy moments together, man. The smoke sessions. The way Toki and Nathan loved to mess with you, dude... If you were a fun sucker, they would avoid you altogether, not try to play games with you, right?" Pickles laughed when Murderface blinked in puzzlement and lifted his head from his hands to stare. "The way Skwis helps you when you're being bullied by their shenanigans, or when you'd come in my room for back rubs for years, or when you'd be eating ice cream and watching scary movies until late in the night and then needed to sleep it off in my bed. And you enjoyed yourself too, it wasn't just at your expense."
"But that's like..." Murderface tried to protest, his throat once again constricting him, and he swallowed heavily. "I... I mean..."
"Well anyway, I learned pretty quickly that an asshole is an asshole even when there's good times, too," PIckles told the other. "An asshole would have an entirely great day, then turn around after and complain that it wasn't good enough. That someone did somethin' wrong, to hurt 'em and bring 'em down even further than before. Sometimes, assholes just pretend like they're good people, so they can use it against someone later. It's supposed ta disarm us. And sometimes they not only can't just enjoy things, but refuse to let other people enjoy things. Are you any of those types? Don't answer that," Pickles interrupted when he saw Murderface open his mouth.
"You're used to being considered the asshole that ruins everythin' because that's what we placed on ya. That was our bad, that wasn't anythin' you really did. We had fun, you had fun, we just had more fun makin' fun of ya after. We were the assholes." Pickles frowned softly as he spoke. "Not really sure about the whole prophecy thing though. With how they officially labeled you... Shoulda asked Nate when I saw him that day."
Murderface was too tired to question for context, and Pickles wanted to keep rambling anyway, more to himself.
"I don't really get it actually... I mean you do ruin good things sometimes-" Murderface flinched at that, "-and you're pretty mean, but I dunno, man. Maybe we were meant to make you like this, but I think there's still some missing pieces."
"You're not missing as much as I probably am, apparently," Murderface grumbled. "Because I don't have a single flying tomato fuck of an idea on what you're talking about."
Pickles smiled, which faded quickly. He looked troubled. "My eye told me there would be a third joining us, but I felt no presence. I hope... nothin' happened." Murderface cocked his head, not really sure what to say, but luckily he didn't need to say anything at all. Pickles gave a soft gasp, and pointed toward the direction he was looking, so Murderface's eyes darted toward where he was looking.
In the distance, storm clouds were rushing in, light brightening up the darkness every so often. Murderface hadn't noticed it before, but faintly could hear the rumbling of the angry weather. He hadn't seen that before, or at least not to that severity, and as close as it was.
"There they are!" The voice spooked them, both snapping their necks around to notice Bones sitting on that one rock again, kicking his long legs almost childishly.
"The fuck is that?!" Pickles gasped, eyes wide like saucepans.
"A... friend?" Murderface offered hesitantly.
"Looks like a feckin' demon!"
"Ah that would be because, good sir, that I am a demon," Bones spoke cheerfully.
"A very gentlemanly demon," Pickles muttered, more to himself. He straightened up and then reached for Murderface's hand, who grabbed it without thinking, pulling up the other to his feet.
"C'mon, I have a feeling that storm is calling for us," Pickles told him, dragging him along, nervously looking back when he noticed that Bones nonchalantly invited himself along for the jog.
"Funny, most people think storms are warnings to stay away," Murderface rolled his eyes, but didn't refuse Pickles pulling him forward.
"I love storms!" Bones chirped, only having to walk fast to keep up with the other two. "You don't like storms, Murr?"
Pickles halted so fast that Murderface crashed into him with a heavy grunt, and nearly toppled the both of them over. "Fuckin' 'Murr'?" Pickles echoed, looking bewildered and amused at the same time. "That your nickname now, eh? I kinda like it."
Murderface spluttered but mostly just spewed nonsensical words until Pickles laughed and shushed him with his hand over the other's mouth.
"Relax dude, that's just between me 'n' you, and uh... Sir Demon," Pickles chuckled. "Won't remember outside of this realm, anyway."
"Didn't want anyone to know at all either way," Murderface mumbled, feeling his face heat up almost painfully. "You're not allowed to call me it, either."
"Aww, fine, demon-exclusive 'pparently," Pickles sighed, grasping Murderface's shoulder and hurrying them along again, Bones bounding between them like a damned dog, looking pleased with himself for whatever reason. Murderface was annoyed but still intimidated enough not to yell at the stupid thing for embarrassing him, but made sure at least not to touch Bones whenever he seemed to get closer.
The desert sand began to feel more soft and sticky under his feet, something Murderface had never previously felt, and he raised an eyebrow to this. "Where are we?"
"Going through a couple other realms," Pickles said matter-of-factly, like it somehow just made sense to say. Murderface decided not to question it, and kept going, until the sounds of an ocean began to beat against his eardrums.
Bones stopped so abruptly that the other two paused in questioning, and Murderface narrowed his eyes to see Bones looking somewhat uncomfortable and guilty. "What?" He said impatiently.
"Can't go any further, no I can't my friend," Bones said cheerily, though his eyes didn't hold the same look. "You all behave and I'll be here next time!"
Pickles shook his head. "We might not have time for this, so let's just go." The two band members took back off through the wet sand, and when Murderface had looked behind him one last time, Bones was nowhere to be found.
His head was swimming with so much information, that he didn't know how to process, and hardly understood as to why he was even given it in the first place. Through the sandy beach and a little to the right, were some jagged rocks that Pickles nimbly jumped onto and over, and watched carefully as Murderface less than gracefully clambered up the route. Stupid redhead, showing off and taking the weird route.
It did seem to be a decent shortcut into some grassy plains, and Murderface could smell a mix of different flowers and aromas circling him, so much so that it gave him a headache. He tried to understand who could possibly be joining them, and why they needed to meet like this of all ways. Maybe Toki, because he was so impossibly accident-prone, but...
Murderface's breath hitched in his throat, when he felt that sudden magnetic pull he always seemed to feel, like his brain was being tugged to one person and one person only on purpose. His legs began to shake and he slowed slightly, but didn't stop for the simple fact that Pickles was going to potentially abandon him and leave him stranded if he didn't keep up, and he had no idea what could be out here, aside from a brewing storm that was traveling quickly through the skies.
Up ahead were what looked to be an infinite circle of trees, that eventually they began to squeeze through. Murderface flinched as twigs and roots snagged at him, but he forced his way through, feeling the occasional huge drop of water land on his head, until he tripped into some sort of clearing.
Pickles kept staring up at the sky as he debated on where to go next, with the trees surrounding them on all sides obvious worry on his face. The rain was beginning to pelt them, trying to seemingly drown them and prevent them from going any further.
"I can't see Skwisgaar," He commented with an eye squint, his voice raising slightly as cold, wet wind began to whip and sting their cheeks. "This is normally his domain, I think?" It felt so similar to the weather when Pickles tried to kill himself. Murderface flinched, but the other didn't notice.
"It's not Skwisgaar," Murderface growled in response, his voice nearly carried away as another gust blew at them.
Pickles didn't say anything, but had to stop for a second to pull an old wrapping out of one of his sleeves, wrapping it around his forehead quickly since the wind seemed to be blowing his hair back too much for his liking. He seemed unphased by the jog/run, but even though Murderface was also much more fit in this world than in the real world, he felt winded and took this time to take a breather. He leaned his hands against his knees and inhaled deeply, the scent of soil and damp foliage filling his nose.
Murderface snapped his head up when he thought he could hear a soft sob being carried by the wind. Pickles heard this too, and he began to head into the circle of trees opposite of them, with Murderface slowly following after.
The grass seemed to start wilting the further they went, and this seemed to concern Pickles, who started going slightly faster. Long scraps of dead grass was slumped over, tangling in Murderface's feet and tripping him along the path. A much smaller path seemed to clear out, and with that, the both of them noticed a line of blackened grass and flowers was heading away from them.
"Should we even follow that? Looks like a trap," Murderface spoke nervously, but Pickles shook his head in response, gingerly walking around the crunchy, dead grass but continuing to follow the path. Murderface sighed heavily and copied Pickles, like he would also shrivel and die if he were to touch the grass.
The sobs were louder now when the wind blew in their direction, and the storm was practically over their head now. Murderface glimpsed something white and small ahead, making his heart skip a beat and he stopped in his tracks, suddenly feeling very out of place and unnecessary. Pickles ran to the other's side almost immediately, and dropped to his knees to place his hands on their shoulders.
"Salem?" Pickles spoke softly with concern. Murderface couldn't resist for very long, he timidly stepped forward a little until he could see things more clearly. Salem's face was bright red as they seemed to hold something with tenderness. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a white flower of some kind, almost the same size as Salem. the edges were slowly shriveling up and one of the petals seemed to peel off and float away in the raging wind.
"What happened?" Pickles asked gently, and Salem shook their head, sniffling.
"I don't kn- know," They managed to gasp out, cradling the dead flower to their chest. "I always wake up with him on my chest, but he was laying here d-dead..."
"You didn't do this?" Pickles pressed as softly as he could, but they still flinched from the accusation.
"I don't know... I don't know what happened to it," Salem murmured miserably. "It looks like Death himself walked through this place." That's when Murderface noticed that the path was continuing onward, and hadn't stopped where Salem was. "I've been growing him since... since..." Salem choked on their own words and tears flooded their eyes again, fingers clutching at what was left of their precious plant.
Pickles pet their sopping wet hair back gently. "It looks like someone took a lighter to some of this," he murmured in observation, and Murderface looked around to confirm that it wasn't just the grass or the plant, but some of the trees looked black as well. He realized with a start that it wasn't all just dead and shriveled; it looked black and burnt.
"I'll kill whoever did this," Salem whispered. "Mark my words, I will look into their eyes as they die."
"I know," Pickles soothed.
Salem sighed and lifted their head, immediately adopting a guarded and wary look on their face to see Murderface there. Their eyes burning holes into the other's brain made his heart beat faster. "What're you two doing here anyway?"
"Unfinished business, I reckon," Pickles said thoughtfully. "Some good old communication, maybe?"
"Oh of course, my least favorite thing to deal with apparently," Salem said dryly, their voice still filled with deep sadness. "What exactly do we need to talk about to move on from this?"
"Wish we didn't have to do this in the goddamn rain," Murderface grumbled, and Salem shot them a look.
"Should we start with your attitude?"
"I didn't even say anything bad!" Murderface protested in anger and Salem sighed.
"Sorry, yeah. I think Nathalia's getting to me with her attitude."
Murderface flinched to the sound of her name, not unnoticed by the other two.
"Did you guys really fuck?" Salem's voice sounded about as dead as their plant.
"I..." Murderface didn't feel compelled to lie, but didn't really want to explain what officially happened. "She tried," he mumbled, curly hair falling over his face as he lowered his head. "Couldn't... get into it." His face burned with shame and seething rage.
"I feel like I would once be offended for her," Salem deadpanned, "-and say some stupid joking shit about how dare you not manage to perform for my 'amazing friend' and something about her attractiveness or whatever. But right now, I'm just mad she would even try after all her big talk about not liking you and trying to act like she gave a shit about what I went through."
"How do you know I didn't force it on her?" Murderface blurted with curiosity, then his face flushed when he realized how bad that sounded. "Uhh, well... I mean-"
"My dude, you'd have to have a humiliation kink," Salem told him, and Murderface couldn't argue with that. "She would've blasted your ass so bad, everyone would've known the truth the same day it happened." They took a shaky breath. "Plus I can now understand why she was so obsessed with being extra mean to you. Trying to cover her tracks... Being performative."
"She's got some demons to figure out, but this isn't about that, I don't think," Pickles pressed gently.
Salem's nostrils flared slightly, but didn't say anything except, "Then what exactly is this about?"
"I don' know," the drummer admitted in a soft voice. "I wish I did."
"Thought you were the guy who knew everything." Salem still looked heavily peeved but their voice had changed to a more passive, teasing level, albeit a bit wary still.
"'Pparently that's still not enough," Pickles laughed a little.
"What if... it's just this?" Salem suddenly realized, gesturing softly to the little bit of destruction in their sanctuary. "I mean yeah I guess talking is chill too, but maybe we were meant to see this together, too?"
"Think we gotta put our brains together to see who or what did this?" Pickles questioned with a brow raise.
Salem's own eyes narrowed in extreme seriousness. "I think this is a warning from whatever is bringing us together." When the other two looked at them questioningly, they continued in explanation, "I could've been the only one to see this but I wasn't. You guys could've had your lil gay club in wherever the hell you guys came from, but you somehow knew I would be here, too. I didn't get a pull, or a sign to leave and go find anyone, but you guys did. We all ended up here, in this spot. One could call it a coincidence, but one could also call it a message."
"What exactly is this a warning of?" Murderface demanded. "You don't know this but my entire uh, 'realm', is heat and flames. I don't really have to worry about my shit getting burnt down."
Salem stared evenly at him without saying anything for a while, an unreadable expression on their face. Murderface shifted uncomfortable at the silent scrutiny, and was about to ask what their problem was, when they finally spoke. "It's just us here that can roam these areas, yeah? What's left of the band? Don't think any stranger could've come along to do this. I think it's trying to tell us there's a traitor in the midst. Not just a Klokateer, but one of us."
Murderface's mind reeled with several thought processes all at once. Him, what he's been doing, the demon in his head trying to make him go behind everyone else's backs, Bones...
The way Bones seemed very disinterested in joining them suddenly made a lot of suspicious sense. But Murderface didn't know if he should blame the demon yet or not. The fact that he even felt hesitant to just point the finger to a literal demon that he didn't even really know, made him feel a little weird.
"Oh!" Pickles exclaimed like he had just remembered something. "I had a weird dream the other day... Didn't remember til now, but this voice said somethin' about... the 'death of a chosen one' a long time ago, and now somethin' is mimickin' 'em. Maybe..." Pickles' eyes suddenly fell into a deep depressive sadness. "Maybe someone we know, isn't the real them? Maybe it's the traitor..."
Salem's eyes widened for a moment, and Murderface swore he could see a slight quiver in their lips. "Anything else?"
"Somethin'... about not trusting death seeking eyes, stained hands, or bloody lips, and maybe we'll... survive. And then they apologized for failing us."
Salem blinked and tilted their head. "That's not comforting at all, but I guess I didn't really ask for comfort." Then they heaved a sigh, their eyes still betraying a troubled, distrusting look. "Someone is dead, and apparently craves chaos." Again, Bones swam into Murderface's brain and he fought not to flinch outwardly. "They're going to fucking get chaos." Then they eyed Pickles. "Assuming that had nothing to do with the original prophecy?"
"Nope."
"So someone did genuinely fuck up somewhere?"
"Guess so."
"Lovely."
"Well, if that really is the case, we need to keep an eye out," Pickles said grimly. He didn't betray a glance to Murderface or act like he was suspecting Murderface, unlike Salem, who seemed to be staring at him with a purpose. "At this point, I'm not really sure who it could be."
Salem gently placed their dead flower onto the ground and stepped lightly over it, walking toward Murderface, who tensed at the movement. Salem only stopped when they were right in front of him, staring up at him and letting the rain pelt their face as they did so. The tattoo on their chest seemed to be the only colorful thing on them, and even that seemed dull by the storm and ambiance surrounding them.
"Prove to me it wasn't you," Salem whispered.
Murderface swallowed heavily. How could he? How could he prove that anything he did was well intentioned? How could he prove that it couldn't have possibly been either of the demons plaguing him, which seemed to be a direct correlation to his existence? How could he prove when he metaphorically had stained hands and once sought death? Was that what the prophecy was talking about and if so, was he bound to ruin the prophecy, regardless of what Pickles said or thought of him?
Murderface inhaled deeply. "I can't."
Salem studied him a moment longer, then their features softened, surprisingly. "Then you should understand that I ask you to leave, just in case."
Murderface's first response was to be offended and say something snarky or start yelling, but he bit his tongue and instead dropped his head. Arguing wouldn't help his case, and he felt really faint and tired. He didn't know if the exhaustion of his continuing existence was getting to him finally, or if too much was going on and his brain couldn't handle it.
"Could I stay here for just a bit longer?" Pickles offered, and Salem nodded quietly. So Murderface would have to go back, by himself.
As Murderface turned in disgruntlement, and began stumbling back out of the grassy fields, Salem's voice once again stopped him.
"Just remember, I'll be watching everything. Like I watched you on the roof with Pickles."
This didn't sound like a threat, and when Murderface turned back around, their eyes remained soft, just somewhat guarded.
Did they mean they wouldn't just be watching out for the bad things he did, but the good things, too? Could Murderface even consider that situation a 'good thing'? His thoughts were filled with bitterness but also hesitant hopefulness. His emotions were shot and he felt numb throughout, the mix of frustration, confusion, fear, embarrassment, shame... guilt, all disappearing under the veil of his weariness.
He could only make it to the rocky edge toward the beach before his mind gave out and he felt himself floating away from the realms. Something dark and familiar shaped seemed to be among the shadows, like they had been watching, and he felt a phantom chill going from his scalp to his throat.
Even if he was the traitor currently, it didn't mean he couldn't change his mind and salvage the situation... right?
~~~
Bitterness... betrayal... why were they becoming so unhinged? They could feel something clutching their cold, dead heart, steering them toward this path of destruction, and oh boy they loved it. Suppressing the urges for this long made them slowly start feeling more and more feral, beastly. They craved the blood on their lips, they craved their hands wrapped around throats. The tears they shed were not all for naught, because soon they would make everyone else start crying, begging for forgiveness...
Putrid. Horrendous. Lips fought to curl into a snarl like a wild animal.
All of these conflicting emotions meant nothing to them anymore. They just had to take heavier measures to make sure all of this fell onto the other's shoulders.
...
As the black creature seemed to melt into the shadows and then disappear altogether, another shadow shifted in the night, and large, golden-colored eyes stared with intensity at the spot the other creature just was. Murderface needed to be warned... but that would have to wait.
...
Salem had already faded from most likely awakening in the real world, so Pickles was all alone, but he knew not for long. He took a soft sigh, looking up at the clearing sky with troubled eyes. He didn't know what he could do to protect his friends, and was worried that one of his friends wasn't even his friend; no, he wasn't worried, he was terrified. Because it had been practically confirmed by some strange ethereal being watching over them all.
For a horrid moment, he thought back to Salem's raging, manic fits, the blood dripping from their lips as they attacked his brother. Their hands weren't very clean when he thought about it, but Pickles could only sigh a little. None of theirs were, so it wasn't very helpful. And half of them were dead-brained or had dead stares from the lack of hope and happiness. No, it had to be during a time where things were looking up. When the traitor would be the most angry.
One last thing to do before he left. Pickles reached down and scooped up the dead flower gently, feeling some of the leaf peeling and snapping off. Pickles winced as he felt the roughness of the charred body. He carried it through the trees, somehow knowing exactly where he was going; maybe it was just one of those 'he just knew' things.
Standing in a separate clearing, where the bunnies and deer started to creep out quietly with curious looks in their eyes, Pickles called out in hope that maybe Skwisgaar was asleep and dreaming. When he received no answer, he reached into his belt and pulled out a few spare berries he kept with him to snack on from his personal realm.
Squishing them between his fingers, he used the juices to write onto the nearest tree what was hardly legible: H e lP i t. Then placed the flower under the tree, hoping that maybe Skwisgaar could save this somehow. He wasn't sure what it meant to be able to kill things with actual maliciousness in this realm, but he had to do something.
"Don' lick the juice," Pickles ordered the animals. They seemed equally interested in the fruit, and also terrified of the burnt flower in front of him. Hopefully its 'dead body' would be enough to keep them at bay.
With that, seemingly on cue, Pickles could feel himself slowly being pulled upward, away from the realm, and closed his eyes as blackness washed over him for only a moment.
~~~
Consciousness flooded Pickles' being, and he felt himself laying sorely on a scratchy bed that was not his. His body felt stiff and he was in pain, yet he also felt invigorated. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the bright, hospital lights above him, and stiffly moved his head back and forth to look around.
"Pickles?"
Pickles was surprised that the first voice he heard wasn't Abigail, Nathan, Toki, or even Salem, but rather Tobias, the one he had probably the least amount of contact with. He turned slowly so he could look at the other, seeing Tobias sitting there with fidgety nervousness, his fingers folded together and his hands resting on his lap while his foot tapped.
"You're awake!" He looked relieved, but still anxious looking. "I'm glad."
"Erh, ye," Pickles mumbled, his throat parched like the desert. "Don'... really remember." His mind was blank on what had happened and why he was here.
"We'll explain later," Tobias assured him. Pickles could practically feel the neuroticism radiating off of the other. "There's something I have to tell you..."