Horror.
He was big, taller than Nightmare, and was all brute force and strength. Despite his size and strength, however, his bones were fragile from years of starvation. It was the promise of food that made him set foot out of his universe.
Killer.
A jerk, really. He played with his victims, was famous for his silver tongue, and was Nightmare's first recruit. He'd known Nightmare the longest and was loyal for the hundreds of years he served him. Killer had joined for reasons he kept to himself.
Dust.
He was insane. His power was beyond what most could achieve, and it was all he'd ever get. He was the third strongest. A quiet monster, he was. He always had his hood up, was always muttering to his ghostly brother, was always trying to stay alone. He joined the gang for his own benefit. He'd been promised LV and he'd gotten it until he could get no more.
Cross.
He hadn't wanted to join. In the original multiverse, he didn't join. But in this one, he did, but not out of his own will. Thirst for revenge had roped him in, and it was his main reason to stay. Of course, his priorities changed after time. He often bickered with Killer, and served Nightmare like a servant would a king. He was kind to Horror and did his best to keep a lid on Dust's erratic behavior. He wasn't the strongest. He was fast, disciplined, and was the only one who'd gotten actual training. Nightmare used him for spying, for the secret missions.
Nightmare.
His story, everyone knew. Everyone knew what he was like. They'd witnessed his missions, his power, everything that he did, the countless deaths. They knew his work face, and they knew it well. Besides Error, he was the strongest. He recruited the others for his malevolent purposes, he used them as tools to reach a victory.
Error.
He wasn't an official member. He came and went as he pleased, did what he wanted. As the destroyer, he spent most of his time cleaning up the multiverse. When he wasn't busy with that, he was alone in his Void. And when the Void came to be too much, he was with the gang. It was for his own amusement, he'd claimed when Nightmare asked why he was hanging around. He was the most powerful out of them all. It was him who'd found it.
The entire multiverse knew them, feared them, hated them. A select few knew what they were really doing, and an even smaller amount loved them for it.
Error's memories were bypassed. Sci, the multiversal doctor and scientist, was the one who'd proposed the idea. He was the one who'd gathered the equipment to do such a thing. He'd created machines that would project the destroyer's memories to the entire multiverse, and had given Ink the proper instructions that would give them the chance to act on their plans.
The first memories were the most recent. The more that were seen, the further into the past they went. And they saw everything. All the things Error remembered, even the things he didn't know he remembered.
All the bad.
All the neutral.
And all the good. And there was so much of it. So many moments of peace, joy, and contentment.
The memory of Error's creation had begun when Sci noticed that they'd missed a few memories. He opened them, noting with fascination that they'd been packed away like a series. It had even been labeled like a file. Downfall, it was called. In the packet, each memory was a collection of moments from a long period of time. Files within files.
He said aloud that perhaps it was some repressed memories. He was right, in a sense.
He played them.
Horror.
He was the first to fall. An injury, from a harsh fight, was infected. He was sick, vomiting every last bit of his magic until he was hacking out bits of his own bones. The others were panicking. They fed him, tried feeding him magic, tried healing his soul directly. It didn't work. Nightmare announced one day, with a soft voice riddled with pain and fear, "He won't make it." The last scenes were awful. Crying, mourning, screaming like they'd never heard. Horror's dust was stored in a vase and placed on a shelf.
Killer.
The second one. An accident with training. A hit with a blaster reduced him to dust in an instant. Shouting, fighting. His dust went on the shelf beside Horror's.
Dust.
The third. It was grief and guilt that took him. It was his blaster that had killed Killer. It was his fault. His death was a suicide. Cross fell to his knees with shaking eyelights, staring at the pile of dust with horror. His scream shook the castle. Another vase on the shelf.
Cross.
Fourth. A monster's soul is its essence. The body they have is a projection. A soul's state determines the monster's health. It's possible to die from too many negative feelings. Some have died from heartbreak, others from grief, and the rare death from insanity. The most common is grief or heartbreak. Four vases on the shelf.
Nightmare.
Corruption finally won. Without a soul to sustain it, however, it perished. The last vase.
Error.
He couldn't die. But something in his soul did. A part of himself, something precious and beautiful. It died as soon as he found Nightmare's dust. He was the one who gathered it, the one who put the last vase on the shelf. His vision glitched once. Twice. On the third time, it came back colorless. He didn't die. He wishes he did. The worst part was that he forgot sometimes. The vases always provided a shock to his system. He'd call out for them, beg for them to come back, to live again. He cried for them.
No one ever came.