Vlad; The Spicy Fart 🇻🇪

“if few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others.” Dust and Horror my goats. He/him, 19 years old 😼🤙

[barksenji]

The devil is on the loose.

Human! Killer Sans (from my venezuelan AU).

Lately, I've heard many rumors

Of people talking about a strange being

No one really knows what it is, but

Rumor has it that...

Killer, or Krishinller, has become something of a legend on the streets. His strange way of dressing, his tattoos... To a certain extent, he seems to like to draw attention to himself. Every part of him seems like some kind of mockery, a joke, a parody of what people expect him to be. Late at night, with knives in hand, rumors have begun to spread.

I broke my tablet pen doing this. I had to Bluetooth the file to my phone because it's 20+ mb and I've been working on it for a week. I am beyond tired, but believe it was worth it. I've taken a liking to lineless rendering.

Here's some close-ups an alternate versions:

Unshaded:

close-up (Shaded):

Close-up (unshaded):

Background (I made this almost entirely with a broken pen lmao):

[killz-sanz]

“I thought you’d come because of the gunshot”

free my girl Lux she did nothing wrong 🥹

Lux from Bonezuela au by @barksenji

[barksenji]

ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS OH MY GOD?????_(3939$9_

[paintedeycel]

Hay que luchar 🤺🏳️‍🌈

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!!

(Para quienes conocen el meme original; sí, tuve que cambiar el diálogo, no quiero que nadie se ofenda, lmao)

[barksenji]

Bonezuela! MTT/La regla de Tres: A murder time trio AU.

Chapter 9.

All previous chapters under the tag. VERY IMPORTANT. This chapter is closely connected to Chapter 6, so be sure to check it out before reading this one.

Bonezuela! MTT, or La Regla de Tres, is an Undertale AU set in my home country, Venezuela. In this alternate universe the sanses from the Murder Time Trio are not only humanized, but reimagined as part of a criminal gang operating in the barrios of Caracas. Names may change for realism, but I try to keep them recognizable (Lux=lust, Diego=Dust, Krishinller=Killer). You can read it here on AO3, which I would greatly appreciate.

April 1st, 201X. Sabana Grande, Caracas. 

 The sting of judgment had never grown sharp enough to pierce his skin, not in eighteen years. An oddity that had earned him the nickname “apathetic.” 

He thought about how, If he sat down to list them, his “oddities” would be near endless. 

For each one, an equally long word:

Humiliating.

Disconcerting

Mortifying. 

Awkward, unsettling, and disturbing.

A gruesome combination, too many letters, too little meaning. Humiliation, Apathetic, or Embarrassing—they were empty, no matter how insistently people drummed them into him. When he tripped and fell on his way to school, sending one of his oversized shoes flying across the sidewalk. When the word “mom” slipped from his lips, staring straight into his teacher’s eyes. When Teresa, one of those pretty, popular girls who now seemed like a distant memory, stole a kiss from him, guffaws echoing from behind her in a feeble attempt to hide their mockery. It bothered him as much as most things did. Curled up in the warmth of an old cardboard sheet he’d stolen from some stray, he felt like a dog himself—and the word “humiliation” bothered him, this time not for its unsightly combination of letters, but, for once, for the meaning behind it. 

“Humiliated? Why?” Was there something new to be embarrassed about? He didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he found comfort in the only sheets that had the virtue of covering him, before those rays of light gave way to the frigid night, and he had only the stars to look at. They seemed to be all he’d ever known. 

The sky spotlighted him that day, as the crowd scurried away from him like prey. Perhaps it was this exposure that rendered him shy. Amid the clamor of the streets, columns of smog rising into the air, fading into the lingering scent of rain—on this small block. On this patch of sidewalk he had marked as his territory. He alone was worthy of attention.

“Are you ignoring me?” The voice rang out, way too close.

He sighed.

Diego struggled to sit up, his arms faltering in silent protest. There was a single, stubborn moment of hesitation. Shame, even. And then his eyes wandered to the woman walking past him, muttering accusations into the ancient flip phone she cradled to her ear. He dawdled for a while, studying her, before the weight of Him became too much to bear. His gaze dropped to the stained cardboard beneath his fingers, and, drawing in a breath of courage, it finally settled on the long metal tube—a tangle of pipes that captured a crude imitation of his reflection.

“I was thinking,” Diego said.

“Are they still bothering you?” 

“Who?” 

The metal twisted, but only in his mind. It remained fixed in place with the same grace as an antique statue, that old piece of junk, yet he sensed a grin. It was warm. Warmer than the sun shining down on him.

“Who?” Diego asked again, a smile quivering at his lips.

There was no answer. 

“W-Who?”

Silence met Diego, and his shoulders shook with a growing urgency, an unrestrained burst of laughter he couldn't contain. He dug his fingers deep into the bridge of his nose, searching for a sharp, stinging way to silence himself. When that didn't work, he acted on instinct; his free hand slid down the side of his sweater to one of his pockets, pulling out a plastic bottle. 

Paulo didn't utter a word as a pair of trembling fingers struggled with the cap, a stream of curses pouring from Diego's mouth, the sweat clinging to his skin sliding over its ridges. It burst off the bottle with a loud “Pop!”, flying far from his hands and tumbling onto the ground, far enough that if he didn’t pick it up, a passerby would surely kick it into the road. He didn’t care. Diego shoved two fingers inside the bottle, the plastic edges biting into his skin, as he managed to retrieve two pills.

Paulo hardly dared to breathe a sigh when those same two pills scraped against his brother's throat; the tight lump in his chest a small price to pay for a wave of manufactured relief.

There was nothing beyond the idea of having a pill in his mouth—something to chew on and escape that dreadful state, the mere thought of being too sober. A homeopath could sidle up to him, thinking he was dumb, offer him some sugar with water, shaped into little white pills and packed in neat small bottles. 

And Diego was dumb. 

He could drag himself to the nearest drugstore and, with what little money he had, prove his theory. He would, if it weren’t for this strange craving. The way these pills had filled him with a longing.

The cap glowed, a tiny speck of light striking against the sidewalk, barely dodging the stampede of people rushing past it. It was just a step away; he only had to stand up. He only had to stand up. He crawled, using his arms to push against the concrete floor. Just as he was about to reach for it, the sharp tip of a heel grazed the side of his hand. 

“Ah!” Diego jerked back.

“Oh my god!” A voice rang out just above him—a sweet, lilting accent that barely stood out from the crowd. “I’m so sorry!”

Diego did not look up. 

He trembled feverishly, the heel of his hand scraping sharply against the pavement in sheer terror. Only then did he try to push himself up, planting a heel against the ground just to trip backwards. His nails clawed at the filthy floor, and the scene could only resemble a mouse fleeing from a cat, drawing harsh glances from their unwilling witnesses. The woman gasped, Diego was certain she had realized what she was talking to, bracing himself to be struck by a heel—or worse, a punch. Instead, she crouched down, catching one of his arms before he could slip away. 

There were no words. Not at first. She examined him before he could grasp what her gaze said, a meaning he couldn’t decipher beneath the veil of her beauty. Her hair was a long, almond brown. What a pretentious way to put it. Her two intense magenta eyes pierced through him, and in the furrow of her brows he saw the unspoken words: “Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“I’m okay,” Diego said, as if her words had only just sunk in. 

“Is this yours?” She produced the tarnished white cap.

“Please don’t call the cops.” 

She smiled, and it was knowing, “Why would I call the cops?”

“Why would I have a cap?”

“I’m not going to rob a sick man of his meds.”

The cap landed in his palm, as he stifled a sob. Her hands were delicate, with long nails polished in wine red; her skin was unblemished, yet seemed like it could tear as paper. His own nails were black with dirt and dried blood, and his hands were torn. Like paper. A flicker of suspicion crossed his mind: Why would a normal woman speak to him as if he were a real man? 

“Oh, honey, you look so ill. When was the last time you had a drink?” Her voice cut through his thoughts, as if she could read them. 

«I don't know. A while ago,» Diego thought about the words, ensuring they were loud and clear. He wanted to test his hypothesis. The woman froze for a moment, and a sigh of disappointment escaped him. 

It couldn't be. 

Then, from her purse, she drew a small bottle of water.

Maybe it was?

Diego swallowed whatever saliva was left in his mouth. 

“If I drink from your bottle,” Diego said, trying to stumble to his feet, “you won't be able to drink from it anymore.”

“What? Sweetheart, it doesn’t matter.” She gently tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear. “You can keep the bottle. You need it much more.”

“I have to get to my cardboard or they’re going to steal it.” He stood up for the first time that week, the world rocking around him. “I need help.” 

“Hm.” 

He had met such sophisticated women before. 

Walking down the street with a purposeful haste, heading to places he could only hope to visit. One would assume that such a distinguished woman, dressed in those heavy jeans—undoubtedly designer—with heart-shaped glasses perched on her head like a crown, would recoil at his filth. They all did, when they gave him a sidelong glance in those fleeting moments of attention. Instead, she lifted him up, letting Diego’s arm rest heavily across her neck as he took painful, slow sips from his new bottle. She didn’t drop her act of pity when she laid him down on his cardboard bed; she took off her expensive fur jacket and draped it over his trembling shoulders. She felt his fever with the back of her hand, and pulled out a packet of wet wipes to clean the dirt stubbornly clinging to his face. It was strange. But everything was. He accepted what was offered to him.

Lux, as he came to know her, left only to return with a bag full of groceries. She sat next to him on the dirty floor and carefully studied his features as she watched him eat—the same way you look at the monkeys at the zoo. She offered the occasional remark. 

“Don’t eat so quickly, you’ll make yourself sick,” and, “I can go buy more, if you want.” 

Even as he finished his meal, and the squall struck the three of them. She stayed. The sky darkened with the promise of rain, showering him for the second time that day—the first being the morning shower that had awakened him with a shiver—and, still, she stayed. Hesitating. Opening her mouth to say things he never got to hear.

Maybe she thought he was a mind reader too? Well, that was dumb.

Lux didn’t leave until sunset, when the shadows lurking around the corners whispered threats to one another, and when women like her had no place in the night. 

But she came back the next day.

And the next, and the next, and the one after that. 

For a week, then a month. 

It was humiliating that a woman he barely knew—whom he’d met only because her heel had scratched his skin—was his sole source of sustenance for half a year. It was embarrassing because she was pretty, and he wasn’t. Because he felt like a stain ruining a work of art.

“—And guess what happened?” Lux said, her tone far less cloying and much more honest, “She started dating this guy she’d had a crush on for years. Literally years! She hooked up with him and… Am I bothering you?”

“Not at all. Go on.” 

Lux cleared her throat, brushing her hair off her shoulder with graceful ease. “Well. She started to feel… uncomfortable. You know. Burning, itching. She went to the doctor, guess what they said?”

A wet wipe left dark smudges on a steel frame. Diego's muscles whined at his obstinate efforts—infuriatingly gentle and even stubborn—in the way he let Paulo nick his skin, but never his own fingers scratch against the rusted metal. Was such a conversation appropriate for a little boy? He didn’t have the heart to stop Lux’s tirade, much less the words to explain that the old chunk of metal he’d only introduced as his “most prized possession” was the body of his younger brother. He wondered where the ears would be on a rifle, covering the end of the barrel and pointing the scope away from Lux. Paulo would be curious enough to read her lips.

“What did they say?” He avoided Lux’s gaze, trying to hide a shade of embarrassment. 

“You’d think: a yeast infection, or, I don’t know, a UTI? No!” Lux seized Diego by the shoulders, in the overly dramatic gestures that sometimes slipped out of her usual composure. “She had herpes!” 

“Girl, bye.” Diego's face betrayed no emotion.

“I know! And I told her I’d seen her scruffy boyfriend hooking up with anyone who could breathe! I was pissed, but I couldn’t just leave her there crying,” one of her hands still rested languidly on Diego’s shoulder, her eyes drifting to the long nails on the other. “I called a cab. Took her to the nearest pharmacy and paid for all her medication out of my own pocket. I’m not letting one of my girls feel like her life is over just because some unhygienic slob decided to touch her.” 

“They’re going to take advantage of you.” 

Before he could ask himself what that might mean to someone else, he spoke. Lux’s movements suddenly stopped—even the natural shifting of people as they sit. Only then did Diego think about what he had said. 

“...Pardon?” 

The opportunity to explain himself came. He didn't take it.

They sat in silence. 

Staying in this patch of ground, in the home outlined by the cracks in the asphalt, meant being swept up in the urban pulse of the boulevard. The nostalgic scent of roasted coffee, sweets, and ice cream mingled with the incessant cries of street vendors, as a sea of people flowed past them and poured into the shops. The historic buildings. The open-air street art. 

“You could be anywhere but here,” Diego said. “You’re talking to me until late. I’m sure there are people waiting for you at home.” 

“Can I paint your nails?”

“What?” Diego turned sharply towards her, just as she took a small, black bottle out of her purse. 

“Oh,” he said, “...okay?”

He felt like a bride-to-be as he held out his hand, scoffing at what seemed like an impromptu marriage proposal. 

She took it. 

She wiped away a thick layer of grime with a cloth, and then a dark veil of black concealed the dust beneath his nails.

“You didn’t answer what I—”

“Diego,” she said, in a tone that was now intimate, “how long have you been an addict?” 

Words—or sounds—rarely found their way out of Diego’s mouth. It was harder to force them out than to keep them in; his body a mere extension of his thoughts, something he usually had to force into action. A gasp tore from his throat, and he swore it was alien; he immediately bit down on his tongue at his surprise’s act of rebellion. 

Through some sort of shared empathy, perhaps pity, Lux and he always avoided the object of their unusual friendship: the white cap of a bottle. Diego knew, logically, that Lux knew, yet hearing it spoken aloud was different from sharing that knowledge in silence.

“I'm not an addict.” 

Lux raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips tugging into a smile. Surely Diego didn't believe her naive enough to miss that clear, orange bottle—the frayed edges of a barely legible label parasitizing his side. Diego's composure did not waver, and somewhere in the silence, she realized he was serious.

Diego stared, certain he was owed an answer for such a ridiculous statement. 

Lux obliged. 

“I remember the first time I got high.”

She braced Diego's thumb against her knuckle, a tear of color dripping from the applicator and blooming over his finger. 

“It was at a party—I was around 21, maybe 22. One of the girls showed up with a bottle of morphine her dad had for, like, some serious lung cancer.”

Diego sat mesmerized as the ebony oozed along the sides of his nail, threatening to stain his skin, before Lux scraped it away with the edge of her finger, smearing her immaculate manicure.

“He never took ‘em.” Her eyes shifted between the nail polish and Diego’s gaze. “I knew what addiction was from, like, the movies? ‘N I knew what getting high was… But you don’t know anythin’ until you try it. Right, sweetheart?” 

A faint flush of pink crossed his cheeks. 

“I didn’t really understand what I was doing; I just knew it felt amazing.” She went on to say, “So I started takin’, and takin’, and takin’... It started with the morphine, then heroin. And then anything I could get my hands on at the club.” 

The words rose, a lump in her throat: “I felt I always knew I was going to be an addict. Call it a hunch—perhaps there’s something about one’s very nature that can’t be denied. I don’t know. Maybe I foresaw some kind of downfall,” she said, “Now I’m hooked on meth. And fent. The fent because the meth was laced with it. As you can probably guess, figuring that out was not fun.”

Lux, like him, was dumb. 

“I know these stories aren’t exactly something to be proud of,” Lux pulled away, her fingers still loosely clasped around the heel of Diego’s hand, “But don’t you think stories are meant to be shared?”

The nail polish only served to highlight the rawness of his flesh. His skin was striking in its stubborn, ghastly pallor. Lux swallowed.

“I—” A nervous laugh slipped from her lips, “I don’t want to pester you with questions, but— How did you end here? On the streets.” 

For the past six months, Lux had slighted the natural, instinctive urge to pull away from Diego. 

She clung to the uneasy habit of conversation, and it was nice. However, with it came questions that simply outran the answers. She patiently waited for the missing piece of the puzzle, enduring both the scorching heat and the cold. There was nothing. One day, Diego opened his eyes. He knew his name. He knew the name of the street he was on—Avenida Casanova—and could barely stop himself from crying out in alarm. For he knew everything, except why he was there. 

He naturally came to accept that kind of turnaround. But, what words could even begin to describe it? 

“You’ll think I’m crazy,” he said.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

Diego smiled, just barely, at the answer he was about to give.

“No.” 

Lux mirrored the gesture. 

“If you don’t think I’m crazy, then I don’t think you’re crazy. ‘S a promise.” 

Diego shook his head, exhaling a short, breathy huff. A giggle. It would have been nothing, had it not been the first time he’d laughed since he’d become familiar with the boulevard. He cradled himself into a false sense of security, knowing he was a fool, and spoke. 

“I've been blessed with an existential truth that can only be accessed through drugs.” 

Silence.

“Oh!’ 

A mop of messy, dark waves fluttered in the wind, obscuring his features in a tangled veil. He shifted from side to side, cautious not to ruin his freshly painted nails. 

What words, what words? The question echoed in his mind. Finally, it occurred to him: there used to be a journal. 

Buried deep at the bottom of his backpack, beneath the weight of books, breadcrumbs and empty candy wrappers. The bell would ring. Then recess began. He would wrap his lunch in toilet paper, toss it into the trash can, hurry to the bathroom away from the other kids, and sit on the toilet seat. Then he would write. He wrote more often during those later days, back when he got sick. He sifted through the memories of his countless writings until he stumbled upon a specific one, and it quickly recited itself to him.

Perception is a near-inescapable plane, a prison I managed to break from. 

And maybe the revelations and visions it gave me—it was overwhelming. 

I thought of it as an infection. 

But I learned I was just afraid to accept my role as an anchor for my own reality.

Things in the landscape that you can perceive, can never die. 

As in, they exist within the same plane where thoughts die.

And they don't.

We think they do.

We cannot access this plane through normal thought.

Not completely.

I can.

Because I decided to root everything within myself.

But it frightens me.

Fear acts as a veil over this clarity.

I have to overcome it.

The 启示.

Fent.

It allows me to accept my status.

The passages poured out of him like vomit, and he wondered if Lux had a natural talent for coaxing things out of him—laughs, noises, confessions—or if he'd just grown too anxious with his silence. 

“Oh. Uhm.” Blood rushed to Lux’s ears, perhaps because, after months of being met with empty «I don’t knows,» she was taken aback by this answer. 

The silence hung heavy—like punishment. Diego, immediately regretting his self-indulgent monologue, hesitated before speaking. 

“You,” he said. “You think I’m crazy.”

Once again, he felt trapped in a game of cat and mouse. That same primal fear taking hold of him, that quiet anticipation. A punch. A kick. The violence that naturally followed when he was noticed.

But instead of a strike, instead of a hurtful string of words—or, worse, nothing at all—Lux said:

“No.” 

And then she added, “I think that's beautiful." 

────────────

December 28th, 202X.

Petare, Caracas.  

Pride did not lie with those taking part in this occupation, the practiced art of slaughter. Pride rooted in the ability to give, in what one nurtures the world with, and not in what one takes away. Not with a gun, or with a knife. Not a video making rounds on the web.

 “#Gore”, “A group of drug traffickers brutally skins a man” 

So then, was it wrong to be proud? 

Of the eighteen-year-old boy she’d stolen from the streets and dragged into hell. What was he now? She wondered, counting with the fingers of a trembling hand. One, two... Twenty-three? She chuckled at the implications for her own age. Diego had blossomed into a man, a man who’d carved the gorgeous petals—still gleaming in gray silver—that lay on the chipped surface of the dresser. Flowers carved into a gun. She’d heard about it: the way he’d terrorize the nation with that same silver, from pistols to flamethrowers, bombs, and grenades. 

“Arsonist arrested after turning a batch of fireworks into explosives; six dead in attack at gas station.” 

“Venezuelan drug trafficker sets 53-year-old accountant, Duglas Duván, on fire in a brutal crime.” 

There was a certain kind of sin born of raising evil, the wickedness of extending one’s own darkness into the soul of another.

Still, understanding this, her heart fluttered with joy at the sight of that single letter: "D." Just as a mother delights in her son’s success, what pride was there in raising a killer?

Her mind reeled, a rush of vertigo tightening the knot of nausea that had settled in her stomach. 

It crept slowly up to her chest, rising to her throat. It lingered there, choking even the gasps out of her.

She forced herself to forget about Diego.

Caracas melted into a wave of heat, drenching her in a sweat that, paradoxically, left her feeling cold. Colder with every passing second, as she conceived the idea—the cathartic image—with perfect clarity in her mind. Hesitantly, her eyes darted from the gun to the oval mirror standing atop her dresser. Her distorted, cracked reflection stared back at her. 

Once, she would have winced at the sight of her image for a range of reasons. The texture of her hair. The sharpness of her jaw. The irrevocable, parasitic nature of sex. Yet now, all those reasons paled in the face of her newfound sin, one nobody could ease her into.

Lux reveled in that fantasy; each image was so vividly steeped in dread that she could have sworn it was happening right before her eyes. A month before his 64th birthday, she would call the front desk of the fanciest hotel in Los Roques and ask for a reservation. She would spend every last penny on the finest liquor, the finest food, and—most importantly—the finest cake. That day, he would wake up to a kiss as she would gently guide him to a steaming, hot shower. They would get dressed up, and from then on, the entire day would revolve entirely around him. Scantily clad women dancing on tables, bottles popping as liquor spills onto the floor, serving as a prelude to the spectacle of drunks fighting with one another. He would relish in the chaos for a week or two, during which he would live life to the fullest.

Then, they would return home to Caracas, happy and drunk. She would crush some sleeping pills into his tea and urge him to bed when he complained of feeling dizzy. And as the pills lulled him into a daze, she would wrestle with the table in the center of the living room, dragging it right in front of their bed. Self-indulgent, impractical, and unnecessary—yet it set the scene. There was a drawer filled with silk, crimson ribbons he liked to use to sodomize her. He hated it when she used her hands. She’d set up a state-of-the-art camera, a small tripod clinging to the table as she angled for the perfect shot.

She’d press record.

And with a careful, torturous kind of patience, she would tie the ribbons into perfect bows. For his hands. For his feet. She’d take her gun, making sure the camera got a nice shot of all the beautiful details embroidered on it—and she would shoot so many times you could only guess what used to be of his face.

What would they say, then? Once the video starts spreading into the WhatsApp groups, slipping into the forums. The pages. What title would they give it? 

"Girlfriend of famous gang leader commits shocking crime and shoots him to death."

But that was too insipid for the audience.

“Prostitute transvestite blows the skull off nationally recognized pran, Narciso Ruiz, in brutal video that’s quickly going viral.”

As she tried to pick it up, the pistol seemed impossible to lift.

Her fingers curled, for the second time, around the smooth, textured wood. 

Petals shimmering in grayish silver, leaves curling and overlapping in mesmerizing swirls, framed in such a way that you could forget this weapon would claim lives. 

There was a vague memory of a gun barrel pointed at what she could only describe a “helpless animal”. So helpless, in fact, it didn't even bother flinching—begging instead to be put down. There was no plan beyond an empty threat, testing the waters, getting used to the feeling of pointing a gun at a person. Her decision to pull the trigger was born entirely out of pity.

This dehumanization—the fact that she couldn’t see Krish beyond the dog Narciso had made him into—defeated the whole purpose of her test. It’s not the same. Putting down a dog that begs for it, and shooting a man, tied down and drugged. 

Last night, as she lay lifeless on their bed, a twisted thought had suddenly shot through her mind. 

The mirror on the dresser was already cracking at the edges, hanging loosely from the frame, stained with veins of mold. She thought that if she could deliver the coup de grâce to the woman in the glass, then she might find the courage to shoot a man.

The muzzle gently kissed the image of her forehead, the cold, metallic steel throbbing against the smooth glass. At one point, she regretted this decision. The mindless stupor she’d been pulled into robbed her of her peace, leaving her unable to pull away; the sterile silence of the room broken, ever so slightly, by the sound of cracking glass. She pressed so hard against the mirror, it was starting to shatter before she even fired.

She closed her eyes and lost herself to the serenity of the room. The sound of her ragged breath joined the birds singing outside. The cold. The heat. The strands of hair clinging to her face. 

Things in the landscape that you can perceive can never die. Diego crept back into her head, and it was the crippling guilt of ruining a man that gave her the courage to pull the trigger. Out of “pride”. 

It split the air.

It pierced through her skull so sharply that, for a fleeting moment, she was certain the bullet had actually struck her. 

The vivid clarity of her fantasy was abruptly replaced by the vision of the phantom impact. The image of her own lifeless body.

Her reflection, already buckling under the mere pressure of the gun, shattered into a myriad of jagged lines before exploding into a cascading shower of glass. The shards rained down without mercy, leaving only the tender, pale skin of her arms to shield her. Thrashing in her blindness, deafened by the blast, she cursed herself for what she knew was coming. Her hearing returned as a steady ringing, barely masking the rhythmic clatter of shards raining onto the ground—while those that didn’t fall stubbornly clung to her skin.

By some stroke of luck, the gun still clung to her hand with the tenacity of a leech. A finger pressed against the trigger with just enough restraint to keep it from firing, but twitching loosely in a rhythmic sequence of threats. She closed her eyes tight—part of her so rattled, she had forgotten what she was aiming at. Before rational thoughts came, memories did, and she feared looking at the empty eyes of the condemned. Again. Echoing the dozens of lifeless faces she’d witnessed in her line of work.

“Oh…” She said, with that same lilting accent, “Jesus.” 

All she found was an empty, wooden frame. A few sharp shards of glass were still embedded to the frayed edges. 

Her heart still booming in unbridled emotion, the stench of gunpowder defiling her senses, she broke free from the yoke of lethargy to meet the slender crimson rivulets trickling down her arms. The splintered horizon of broken glass adorning her skin.

“Er diablo,” The words came through the silence, and they weren’t hers. 

Swelling with newfound confidence, she shed her former shyness, wasting no time in snapping at her unexpected visitor. 

She pointed the gun squarely at him, at the bullseye clearly marked on his chest, unable to muster any of her usual pity. The gesture was even playful, just like Krish himself had once threatened her with blades. However, the smirk on her face vanished along with the usual excitement.

Krishinller braced himself against the doorframe, overcome by a frantic dread that, if Lux were to judge correctly, had not escaped his usual state of exhilaration. She wondered if the gruesome sight of her arms had unleashed the man’s cannibalistic instinct, but she quickly shook off the thought—his expression fought itself, torn between concern and deep amusement.

“Lux,” he said, out of breath as if he’d run a marathon, “shit.”

“Krish?”

“He’s dead.”

A moment of silence. “Who?”

She stood motionless, clinging to a faint glimmer of hope—the idea that she had somehow created a reality worth living in. This illusion, however, did not last. Krishinller crossed the room in two long strides, paying little attention to the shards of glass strewn across the floor. The words flickered in his hands like a mirage, emanating off the broken screen of a phone.

“Breaking News: Mario Fernández, 'La Bala,’ a dangerous criminal leader in the central region, has been killed following a fierce confrontation with joint task forces. Police sources link the deployment of the Special Operation to an alleged and controversial tactical alliance between sectors of the opposition and law enforcement to definitively dismantle the mega-gang.”

She swallowed. “I thought you’d come because of the gunshot.”

“That too,” he said, shoving his phone into one of the pockets on the belt around his hips, where it clanked right next to his knives. “But—”

A laugh scraped from the back of his throat like a dry cough, devoid of any genuine amusement. “Didn’t you say Dayana was dumb?”

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I've recently been reading Story of the Eye by Bataille and experimenting with my prose. It's nowhere near as good, but writing fanfiction is all about having fun. I switch writing styles more often than art styles 💔

I made a typography video (?) of myself voicing some of the dialogue between Dust and Lust. I have a habit of "sketching out" conversations by actually performing them. If you guys want it, I can post it. There are both Spanish and English versions, I can post the Spanish one if people are interested in that one too.

As a trans man, I feel incredibly dysphoric about my voice, but I thought it set the mood for this scene better than I could ever have written it. UTMV needs more of Lust Sans in general, I've always thought the concept could work in an interesting way within the bad sanses 😔.

[barksenji]

Wait, so if Dust works as a mechanic/ Car fixing job, and Horror as a doctor, What does Killer do for work?

Or is he the stay-at-home-Boyfriend? xD

He starts out as a tattoo artist and then gets interested in vet school! For a while, though, he is a stay-at-home boyfriend 🙂‍↕️

[barksenji]

Lust's (Lux's) gun from Chapter 9 of my Murder Time Trio Human! AU. (Technically from chapter 6 but shhh)

made the trigger a bit too short but we don't pay attention to that.

[barksenji]

Bonezuela! MTT/La regla de Tres: A murder time trio AU.

Chapter 9.

All previous chapters under the tag. VERY IMPORTANT. This chapter is closely connected to Chapter 6, so be sure to check it out before reading this one.

Bonezuela! MTT, or La Regla de Tres, is an Undertale AU set in my home country, Venezuela. In this alternate universe the sanses from the Murder Time Trio are not only humanized, but reimagined as part of a criminal gang operating in the barrios of Caracas. Names may change for realism, but I try to keep them recognizable (Lux=lust, Diego=Dust, Krishinller=Killer). You can read it here on AO3, which I would greatly appreciate.

April 1st, 201X. Sabana Grande, Caracas. 

 The sting of judgment had never grown sharp enough to pierce his skin, not in eighteen years. An oddity that had earned him the nickname “apathetic.” 

He thought about how, If he sat down to list them, his “oddities” would be near endless. 

For each one, an equally long word:

Humiliating.

Disconcerting

Mortifying. 

Awkward, unsettling, and disturbing.

A gruesome combination, too many letters, too little meaning. Humiliation, Apathetic, or Embarrassing—they were empty, no matter how insistently people drummed them into him. When he tripped and fell on his way to school, sending one of his oversized shoes flying across the sidewalk. When the word “mom” slipped from his lips, staring straight into his teacher’s eyes. When Teresa, one of those pretty, popular girls who now seemed like a distant memory, stole a kiss from him, guffaws echoing from behind her in a feeble attempt to hide their mockery. It bothered him as much as most things did. Curled up in the warmth of an old cardboard sheet he’d stolen from some stray, he felt like a dog himself—and the word “humiliation” bothered him, this time not for its unsightly combination of letters, but, for once, for the meaning behind it. 

“Humiliated? Why?” Was there something new to be embarrassed about? He didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he found comfort in the only sheets that had the virtue of covering him, before those rays of light gave way to the frigid night, and he had only the stars to look at. They seemed to be all he’d ever known. 

The sky spotlighted him that day, as the crowd scurried away from him like prey. Perhaps it was this exposure that rendered him shy. Amid the clamor of the streets, columns of smog rising into the air, fading into the lingering scent of rain—on this small block. On this patch of sidewalk he had marked as his territory. He alone was worthy of attention.

“Are you ignoring me?” The voice rang out, way too close.

He sighed.

Diego struggled to sit up, his arms faltering in silent protest. There was a single, stubborn moment of hesitation. Shame, even. And then his eyes wandered to the woman walking past him, muttering accusations into the ancient flip phone she cradled to her ear. He dawdled for a while, studying her, before the weight of Him became too much to bear. His gaze dropped to the stained cardboard beneath his fingers, and, drawing in a breath of courage, it finally settled on the long metal tube—a tangle of pipes that captured a crude imitation of his reflection.

“I was thinking,” Diego said.

“Are they still bothering you?” 

“Who?” 

The metal twisted, but only in his mind. It remained fixed in place with the same grace as an antique statue, that old piece of junk, yet he sensed a grin. It was warm. Warmer than the sun shining down on him.

“Who?” Diego asked again, a smile quivering at his lips.

There was no answer. 

“W-Who?”

Silence met Diego, and his shoulders shook with a growing urgency, an unrestrained burst of laughter he couldn't contain. He dug his fingers deep into the bridge of his nose, searching for a sharp, stinging way to silence himself. When that didn't work, he acted on instinct; his free hand slid down the side of his sweater to one of his pockets, pulling out a plastic bottle. 

Paulo didn't utter a word as a pair of trembling fingers struggled with the cap, a stream of curses pouring from Diego's mouth, the sweat clinging to his skin sliding over its ridges. It burst off the bottle with a loud “Pop!”, flying far from his hands and tumbling onto the ground, far enough that if he didn’t pick it up, a passerby would surely kick it into the road. He didn’t care. Diego shoved two fingers inside the bottle, the plastic edges biting into his skin, as he managed to retrieve two pills.

Paulo hardly dared to breathe a sigh when those same two pills scraped against his brother's throat; the tight lump in his chest a small price to pay for a wave of manufactured relief.

There was nothing beyond the idea of having a pill in his mouth—something to chew on and escape that dreadful state, the mere thought of being too sober. A homeopath could sidle up to him, thinking he was dumb, offer him some sugar with water, shaped into little white pills and packed in neat small bottles. 

And Diego was dumb. 

He could drag himself to the nearest drugstore and, with what little money he had, prove his theory. He would, if it weren’t for this strange craving. The way these pills had filled him with a longing.

The cap glowed, a tiny speck of light striking against the sidewalk, barely dodging the stampede of people rushing past it. It was just a step away; he only had to stand up. He only had to stand up. He crawled, using his arms to push against the concrete floor. Just as he was about to reach for it, the sharp tip of a heel grazed the side of his hand. 

“Ah!” Diego jerked back.

“Oh my god!” A voice rang out just above him—a sweet, lilting accent that barely stood out from the crowd. “I’m so sorry!”

Diego did not look up. 

He trembled feverishly, the heel of his hand scraping sharply against the pavement in sheer terror. Only then did he try to push himself up, planting a heel against the ground just to trip backwards. His nails clawed at the filthy floor, and the scene could only resemble a mouse fleeing from a cat, drawing harsh glances from their unwilling witnesses. The woman gasped, Diego was certain she had realized what she was talking to, bracing himself to be struck by a heel—or worse, a punch. Instead, she crouched down, catching one of his arms before he could slip away. 

There were no words. Not at first. She examined him before he could grasp what her gaze said, a meaning he couldn’t decipher beneath the veil of her beauty. Her hair was a long, almond brown. What a pretentious way to put it. Her two intense magenta eyes pierced through him, and in the furrow of her brows he saw the unspoken words: “Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“I’m okay,” Diego said, as if her words had only just sunk in. 

“Is this yours?” She produced the tarnished white cap.

“Please don’t call the cops.” 

She smiled, and it was knowing, “Why would I call the cops?”

“Why would I have a cap?”

“I’m not going to rob a sick man of his meds.”

The cap landed in his palm, as he stifled a sob. Her hands were delicate, with long nails polished in wine red; her skin was unblemished, yet seemed like it could tear as paper. His own nails were black with dirt and dried blood, and his hands were torn. Like paper. A flicker of suspicion crossed his mind: Why would a normal woman speak to him as if he were a real man? 

“Oh, honey, you look so ill. When was the last time you had a drink?” Her voice cut through his thoughts, as if she could read them. 

«I don't know. A while ago,» Diego thought about the words, ensuring they were loud and clear. He wanted to test his hypothesis. The woman froze for a moment, and a sigh of disappointment escaped him. 

It couldn't be. 

Then, from her purse, she drew a small bottle of water.

Maybe it was?

Diego swallowed whatever saliva was left in his mouth. 

“If I drink from your bottle,” Diego said, trying to stumble to his feet, “you won't be able to drink from it anymore.”

“What? Sweetheart, it doesn’t matter.” She gently tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear. “You can keep the bottle. You need it much more.”

“I have to get to my cardboard or they’re going to steal it.” He stood up for the first time that week, the world rocking around him. “I need help.” 

“Hm.” 

He had met such sophisticated women before. 

Walking down the street with a purposeful haste, heading to places he could only hope to visit. One would assume that such a distinguished woman, dressed in those heavy jeans—undoubtedly designer—with heart-shaped glasses perched on her head like a crown, would recoil at his filth. They all did, when they gave him a sidelong glance in those fleeting moments of attention. Instead, she lifted him up, letting Diego’s arm rest heavily across her neck as he took painful, slow sips from his new bottle. She didn’t drop her act of pity when she laid him down on his cardboard bed; she took off her expensive fur jacket and draped it over his trembling shoulders. She felt his fever with the back of her hand, and pulled out a packet of wet wipes to clean the dirt stubbornly clinging to his face. It was strange. But everything was. He accepted what was offered to him.

Lux, as he came to know her, left only to return with a bag full of groceries. She sat next to him on the dirty floor and carefully studied his features as she watched him eat—the same way you look at the monkeys at the zoo. She offered the occasional remark. 

“Don’t eat so quickly, you’ll make yourself sick,” and, “I can go buy more, if you want.” 

Even as he finished his meal, and the squall struck the three of them. She stayed. The sky darkened with the promise of rain, showering him for the second time that day—the first being the morning shower that had awakened him with a shiver—and, still, she stayed. Hesitating. Opening her mouth to say things he never got to hear.

Maybe she thought he was a mind reader too? Well, that was dumb.

Lux didn’t leave until sunset, when the shadows lurking around the corners whispered threats to one another, and when women like her had no place in the night. 

But she came back the next day.

And the next, and the next, and the one after that. 

For a week, then a month. 

It was humiliating that a woman he barely knew—whom he’d met only because her heel had scratched his skin—was his sole source of sustenance for half a year. It was embarrassing because she was pretty, and he wasn’t. Because he felt like a stain ruining a work of art.

“—And guess what happened?” Lux said, her tone far less cloying and much more honest, “She started dating this guy she’d had a crush on for years. Literally years! She hooked up with him and… Am I bothering you?”

“Not at all. Go on.” 

Lux cleared her throat, brushing her hair off her shoulder with graceful ease. “Well. She started to feel… uncomfortable. You know. Burning, itching. She went to the doctor, guess what they said?”

A wet wipe left dark smudges on a steel frame. Diego's muscles whined at his obstinate efforts—infuriatingly gentle and even stubborn—in the way he let Paulo nick his skin, but never his own fingers scratch against the rusted metal. Was such a conversation appropriate for a little boy? He didn’t have the heart to stop Lux’s tirade, much less the words to explain that the old chunk of metal he’d only introduced as his “most prized possession” was the body of his younger brother. He wondered where the ears would be on a rifle, covering the end of the barrel and pointing the scope away from Lux. Paulo would be curious enough to read her lips.

“What did they say?” He avoided Lux’s gaze, trying to hide a shade of embarrassment. 

“You’d think: a yeast infection, or, I don’t know, a UTI? No!” Lux seized Diego by the shoulders, in the overly dramatic gestures that sometimes slipped out of her usual composure. “She had herpes!” 

“Girl, bye.” Diego's face betrayed no emotion.

“I know! And I told her I’d seen her scruffy boyfriend hooking up with anyone who could breathe! I was pissed, but I couldn’t just leave her there crying,” one of her hands still rested languidly on Diego’s shoulder, her eyes drifting to the long nails on the other. “I called a cab. Took her to the nearest pharmacy and paid for all her medication out of my own pocket. I’m not letting one of my girls feel like her life is over just because some unhygienic slob decided to touch her.” 

“They’re going to take advantage of you.” 

Before he could ask himself what that might mean to someone else, he spoke. Lux’s movements suddenly stopped—even the natural shifting of people as they sit. Only then did Diego think about what he had said. 

“...Pardon?” 

The opportunity to explain himself came. He didn't take it.

They sat in silence. 

Staying in this patch of ground, in the home outlined by the cracks in the asphalt, meant being swept up in the urban pulse of the boulevard. The nostalgic scent of roasted coffee, sweets, and ice cream mingled with the incessant cries of street vendors, as a sea of people flowed past them and poured into the shops. The historic buildings. The open-air street art. 

“You could be anywhere but here,” Diego said. “You’re talking to me until late. I’m sure there are people waiting for you at home.” 

“Can I paint your nails?”

“What?” Diego turned sharply towards her, just as she took a small, black bottle out of her purse. 

“Oh,” he said, “...okay?”

He felt like a bride-to-be as he held out his hand, scoffing at what seemed like an impromptu marriage proposal. 

She took it. 

She wiped away a thick layer of grime with a cloth, and then a dark veil of black concealed the dust beneath his nails.

“You didn’t answer what I—”

“Diego,” she said, in a tone that was now intimate, “how long have you been an addict?” 

Words—or sounds—rarely found their way out of Diego’s mouth. It was harder to force them out than to keep them in; his body a mere extension of his thoughts, something he usually had to force into action. A gasp tore from his throat, and he swore it was alien; he immediately bit down on his tongue at his surprise’s act of rebellion. 

Through some sort of shared empathy, perhaps pity, Lux and he always avoided the object of their unusual friendship: the white cap of a bottle. Diego knew, logically, that Lux knew, yet hearing it spoken aloud was different from sharing that knowledge in silence.

“I'm not an addict.” 

Lux raised an eyebrow, the corners of her lips tugging into a smile. Surely Diego didn't believe her naive enough to miss that clear, orange bottle—the frayed edges of a barely legible label parasitizing his side. Diego's composure did not waver, and somewhere in the silence, she realized he was serious.

Diego stared, certain he was owed an answer for such a ridiculous statement. 

Lux obliged. 

“I remember the first time I got high.”

She braced Diego's thumb against her knuckle, a tear of color dripping from the applicator and blooming over his finger. 

“It was at a party—I was around 21, maybe 22. One of the girls showed up with a bottle of morphine her dad had for, like, some serious lung cancer.”

Diego sat mesmerized as the ebony oozed along the sides of his nail, threatening to stain his skin, before Lux scraped it away with the edge of her finger, smearing her immaculate manicure.

“He never took ‘em.” Her eyes shifted between the nail polish and Diego’s gaze. “I knew what addiction was from, like, the movies? ‘N I knew what getting high was… But you don’t know anythin’ until you try it. Right, sweetheart?” 

A faint flush of pink crossed his cheeks. 

“I didn’t really understand what I was doing; I just knew it felt amazing.” She went on to say, “So I started takin’, and takin’, and takin’... It started with the morphine, then heroin. And then anything I could get my hands on at the club.” 

The words rose, a lump in her throat: “I felt I always knew I was going to be an addict. Call it a hunch—perhaps there’s something about one’s very nature that can’t be denied. I don’t know. Maybe I foresaw some kind of downfall,” she said, “Now I’m hooked on meth. And fent. The fent because the meth was laced with it. As you can probably guess, figuring that out was not fun.”

Lux, like him, was dumb. 

“I know these stories aren’t exactly something to be proud of,” Lux pulled away, her fingers still loosely clasped around the heel of Diego’s hand, “But don’t you think stories are meant to be shared?”

The nail polish only served to highlight the rawness of his flesh. His skin was striking in its stubborn, ghastly pallor. Lux swallowed.

“I—” A nervous laugh slipped from her lips, “I don’t want to pester you with questions, but— How did you end here? On the streets.” 

For the past six months, Lux had slighted the natural, instinctive urge to pull away from Diego. 

She clung to the uneasy habit of conversation, and it was nice. However, with it came questions that simply outran the answers. She patiently waited for the missing piece of the puzzle, enduring both the scorching heat and the cold. There was nothing. One day, Diego opened his eyes. He knew his name. He knew the name of the street he was on—Avenida Casanova—and could barely stop himself from crying out in alarm. For he knew everything, except why he was there. 

He naturally came to accept that kind of turnaround. But, what words could even begin to describe it? 

“You’ll think I’m crazy,” he said.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

Diego smiled, just barely, at the answer he was about to give.

“No.” 

Lux mirrored the gesture. 

“If you don’t think I’m crazy, then I don’t think you’re crazy. ‘S a promise.” 

Diego shook his head, exhaling a short, breathy huff. A giggle. It would have been nothing, had it not been the first time he’d laughed since he’d become familiar with the boulevard. He cradled himself into a false sense of security, knowing he was a fool, and spoke. 

“I've been blessed with an existential truth that can only be accessed through drugs.” 

Silence.

“Oh!’ 

A mop of messy, dark waves fluttered in the wind, obscuring his features in a tangled veil. He shifted from side to side, cautious not to ruin his freshly painted nails. 

What words, what words? The question echoed in his mind. Finally, it occurred to him: there used to be a journal. 

Buried deep at the bottom of his backpack, beneath the weight of books, breadcrumbs and empty candy wrappers. The bell would ring. Then recess began. He would wrap his lunch in toilet paper, toss it into the trash can, hurry to the bathroom away from the other kids, and sit on the toilet seat. Then he would write. He wrote more often during those later days, back when he got sick. He sifted through the memories of his countless writings until he stumbled upon a specific one, and it quickly recited itself to him.

Perception is a near-inescapable plane, a prison I managed to break from. 

And maybe the revelations and visions it gave me—it was overwhelming. 

I thought of it as an infection. 

But I learned I was just afraid to accept my role as an anchor for my own reality.

Things in the landscape that you can perceive, can never die. 

As in, they exist within the same plane where thoughts die.

And they don't.

We think they do.

We cannot access this plane through normal thought.

Not completely.

I can.

Because I decided to root everything within myself.

But it frightens me.

Fear acts as a veil over this clarity.

I have to overcome it.

The 启示.

Fent.

It allows me to accept my status.

The passages poured out of him like vomit, and he wondered if Lux had a natural talent for coaxing things out of him—laughs, noises, confessions—or if he'd just grown too anxious with his silence. 

“Oh. Uhm.” Blood rushed to Lux’s ears, perhaps because, after months of being met with empty «I don’t knows,» she was taken aback by this answer. 

The silence hung heavy—like punishment. Diego, immediately regretting his self-indulgent monologue, hesitated before speaking. 

“You,” he said. “You think I’m crazy.”

Once again, he felt trapped in a game of cat and mouse. That same primal fear taking hold of him, that quiet anticipation. A punch. A kick. The violence that naturally followed when he was noticed.

But instead of a strike, instead of a hurtful string of words—or, worse, nothing at all—Lux said:

“No.” 

And then she added, “I think that's beautiful." 

────────────

December 28th, 202X.

Petare, Caracas.  

Pride did not lie with those taking part in this occupation, the practiced art of slaughter. Pride rooted in the ability to give, in what one nurtures the world with, and not in what one takes away. Not with a gun, or with a knife. Not a video making rounds on the web.

 “#Gore”, “A group of drug traffickers brutally skins a man” 

So then, was it wrong to be proud? 

Of the eighteen-year-old boy she’d stolen from the streets and dragged into hell. What was he now? She wondered, counting with the fingers of a trembling hand. One, two... Twenty-three? She chuckled at the implications for her own age. Diego had blossomed into a man, a man who’d carved the gorgeous petals—still gleaming in gray silver—that lay on the chipped surface of the dresser. Flowers carved into a gun. She’d heard about it: the way he’d terrorize the nation with that same silver, from pistols to flamethrowers, bombs, and grenades. 

“Arsonist arrested after turning a batch of fireworks into explosives; six dead in attack at gas station.” 

“Venezuelan drug trafficker sets 53-year-old accountant, Duglas Duván, on fire in a brutal crime.” 

There was a certain kind of sin born of raising evil, the wickedness of extending one’s own darkness into the soul of another.

Still, understanding this, her heart fluttered with joy at the sight of that single letter: "D." Just as a mother delights in her son’s success, what pride was there in raising a killer?

Her mind reeled, a rush of vertigo tightening the knot of nausea that had settled in her stomach. 

It crept slowly up to her chest, rising to her throat. It lingered there, choking even the gasps out of her.

She forced herself to forget about Diego.

Caracas melted into a wave of heat, drenching her in a sweat that, paradoxically, left her feeling cold. Colder with every passing second, as she conceived the idea—the cathartic image—with perfect clarity in her mind. Hesitantly, her eyes darted from the gun to the oval mirror standing atop her dresser. Her distorted, cracked reflection stared back at her. 

Once, she would have winced at the sight of her image for a range of reasons. The texture of her hair. The sharpness of her jaw. The irrevocable, parasitic nature of sex. Yet now, all those reasons paled in the face of her newfound sin, one nobody could ease her into.

Lux reveled in that fantasy; each image was so vividly steeped in dread that she could have sworn it was happening right before her eyes. A month before his 64th birthday, she would call the front desk of the fanciest hotel in Los Roques and ask for a reservation. She would spend every last penny on the finest liquor, the finest food, and—most importantly—the finest cake. That day, he would wake up to a kiss as she would gently guide him to a steaming, hot shower. They would get dressed up, and from then on, the entire day would revolve entirely around him. Scantily clad women dancing on tables, bottles popping as liquor spills onto the floor, serving as a prelude to the spectacle of drunks fighting with one another. He would relish in the chaos for a week or two, during which he would live life to the fullest.

Then, they would return home to Caracas, happy and drunk. She would crush some sleeping pills into his tea and urge him to bed when he complained of feeling dizzy. And as the pills lulled him into a daze, she would wrestle with the table in the center of the living room, dragging it right in front of their bed. Self-indulgent, impractical, and unnecessary—yet it set the scene. There was a drawer filled with silk, crimson ribbons he liked to use to sodomize her. He hated it when she used her hands. She’d set up a state-of-the-art camera, a small tripod clinging to the table as she angled for the perfect shot.

She’d press record.

And with a careful, torturous kind of patience, she would tie the ribbons into perfect bows. For his hands. For his feet. She’d take her gun, making sure the camera got a nice shot of all the beautiful details embroidered on it—and she would shoot so many times you could only guess what used to be of his face.

What would they say, then? Once the video starts spreading into the WhatsApp groups, slipping into the forums. The pages. What title would they give it? 

"Girlfriend of famous gang leader commits shocking crime and shoots him to death."

But that was too insipid for the audience.

“Prostitute transvestite blows the skull off nationally recognized pran, Narciso Ruiz, in brutal video that’s quickly going viral.”

As she tried to pick it up, the pistol seemed impossible to lift.

Her fingers curled, for the second time, around the smooth, textured wood. 

Petals shimmering in grayish silver, leaves curling and overlapping in mesmerizing swirls, framed in such a way that you could forget this weapon would claim lives. 

There was a vague memory of a gun barrel pointed at what she could only describe a “helpless animal”. So helpless, in fact, it didn't even bother flinching—begging instead to be put down. There was no plan beyond an empty threat, testing the waters, getting used to the feeling of pointing a gun at a person. Her decision to pull the trigger was born entirely out of pity.

This dehumanization—the fact that she couldn’t see Krish beyond the dog Narciso had made him into—defeated the whole purpose of her test. It’s not the same. Putting down a dog that begs for it, and shooting a man, tied down and drugged. 

Last night, as she lay lifeless on their bed, a twisted thought had suddenly shot through her mind. 

The mirror on the dresser was already cracking at the edges, hanging loosely from the frame, stained with veins of mold. She thought that if she could deliver the coup de grâce to the woman in the glass, then she might find the courage to shoot a man.

The muzzle gently kissed the image of her forehead, the cold, metallic steel throbbing against the smooth glass. At one point, she regretted this decision. The mindless stupor she’d been pulled into robbed her of her peace, leaving her unable to pull away; the sterile silence of the room broken, ever so slightly, by the sound of cracking glass. She pressed so hard against the mirror, it was starting to shatter before she even fired.

She closed her eyes and lost herself to the serenity of the room. The sound of her ragged breath joined the birds singing outside. The cold. The heat. The strands of hair clinging to her face. 

Things in the landscape that you can perceive can never die. Diego crept back into her head, and it was the crippling guilt of ruining a man that gave her the courage to pull the trigger. Out of “pride”. 

It split the air.

It pierced through her skull so sharply that, for a fleeting moment, she was certain the bullet had actually struck her. 

The vivid clarity of her fantasy was abruptly replaced by the vision of the phantom impact. The image of her own lifeless body.

Her reflection, already buckling under the mere pressure of the gun, shattered into a myriad of jagged lines before exploding into a cascading shower of glass. The shards rained down without mercy, leaving only the tender, pale skin of her arms to shield her. Thrashing in her blindness, deafened by the blast, she cursed herself for what she knew was coming. Her hearing returned as a steady ringing, barely masking the rhythmic clatter of shards raining onto the ground—while those that didn’t fall stubbornly clung to her skin.

By some stroke of luck, the gun still clung to her hand with the tenacity of a leech. A finger pressed against the trigger with just enough restraint to keep it from firing, but twitching loosely in a rhythmic sequence of threats. She closed her eyes tight—part of her so rattled, she had forgotten what she was aiming at. Before rational thoughts came, memories did, and she feared looking at the empty eyes of the condemned. Again. Echoing the dozens of lifeless faces she’d witnessed in her line of work.

“Oh…” She said, with that same lilting accent, “Jesus.” 

All she found was an empty, wooden frame. A few sharp shards of glass were still embedded to the frayed edges. 

Her heart still booming in unbridled emotion, the stench of gunpowder defiling her senses, she broke free from the yoke of lethargy to meet the slender crimson rivulets trickling down her arms. The splintered horizon of broken glass adorning her skin.

“Er diablo,” The words came through the silence, and they weren’t hers. 

Swelling with newfound confidence, she shed her former shyness, wasting no time in snapping at her unexpected visitor. 

She pointed the gun squarely at him, at the bullseye clearly marked on his chest, unable to muster any of her usual pity. The gesture was even playful, just like Krish himself had once threatened her with blades. However, the smirk on her face vanished along with the usual excitement.

Krishinller braced himself against the doorframe, overcome by a frantic dread that, if Lux were to judge correctly, had not escaped his usual state of exhilaration. She wondered if the gruesome sight of her arms had unleashed the man’s cannibalistic instinct, but she quickly shook off the thought—his expression fought itself, torn between concern and deep amusement.

“Lux,” he said, out of breath as if he’d run a marathon, “shit.”

“Krish?”

“He’s dead.”

A moment of silence. “Who?”

She stood motionless, clinging to a faint glimmer of hope—the idea that she had somehow created a reality worth living in. This illusion, however, did not last. Krishinller crossed the room in two long strides, paying little attention to the shards of glass strewn across the floor. The words flickered in his hands like a mirage, emanating off the broken screen of a phone.

“Breaking News: Mario Fernández, 'La Bala,’ a dangerous criminal leader in the central region, has been killed following a fierce confrontation with joint task forces. Police sources link the deployment of the Special Operation to an alleged and controversial tactical alliance between sectors of the opposition and law enforcement to definitively dismantle the mega-gang.”

She swallowed. “I thought you’d come because of the gunshot.”

“That too,” he said, shoving his phone into one of the pockets on the belt around his hips, where it clanked right next to his knives. “But—”

A laugh scraped from the back of his throat like a dry cough, devoid of any genuine amusement. “Didn’t you say Dayana was dumb?”

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I've recently been reading Story of the Eye by Bataille and experimenting with my prose. It's nowhere near as good, but writing fanfiction is all about having fun. I switch writing styles more often than art styles 💔

I made a typography video (?) of myself voicing some of the dialogue between Dust and Lust. I have a habit of "sketching out" conversations by actually performing them. If you guys want it, I can post it. There are both Spanish and English versions, I can post the Spanish one if people are interested in that one too.

As a trans man, I feel incredibly dysphoric about my voice, but I thought it set the mood for this scene better than I could ever have written it. UTMV needs more of Lust Sans in general, I've always thought the concept could work in an interesting way within the bad sanses 😔.

[barksenji]

Héctor Rojas, M.D.

(Human! Horror sans. Bonezuela MTT) (open for full quality).

"While he was holding his brother's hair as he bent over the toilet bowl, nursing him back to health and stitching him up with whatever he could find. He couldn't imagine doing anything else for the rest of his life, when illness and misery had been such a prominent thing throughout all those years, leaving them behind felt like leaving behind a part of himself."

An incredibly skilled doctor who performs surprisingly well under pressure, quickly taking charge of the emergency room. He's not squeamish and won't hesitate to get his hands dirty. However, he may have terrible bedside manners and a terrible, terrible temper. Who cares? you're alive.

I noticed I drew everyone else's post-timeskip design except Horror's (Hector's). The glow up this guy has undergone is beyond belief, truly, all he needed was a haircut and a proper meal. Oh, and a proper cranioplasty so his life isn't hanging by a thread every second 🙂‍↕️

(pre-timeskip design for reference):

Yes, I know emergency room doctors aren't allowed nail polish. I just wanted to treat myself 🙂‍↕️.

[barksenji]

Can I eat Mtt poly this style?

You can, but should you? 🙂‍↕️

[kolorace]

I like Diego and his annoying piece of shit.

@barksenji

[barksenji]

*It’s taking me a while to post Chapter 9. So, here’s a little sneak peek at Héctor’s (Horror’s) Diary. He doesn’t consider himself much of a writer, there’s no time to waste on flowery prose when you’re struggling to survive. But he writes to remember. He writes to remember things he swears he wants to forget.

*There are also some hints about events that take place later on.

*It might be a little rough around the edges here and there. It's a bit old.

Human! Horrordust One-Shot. (Bonezuela! MTT)

H, Like Hunger.

It's that soft smile, barely peeking through the corners of your lips.

It's the dark locks of hair embracing one another, curling into each other, and spilling across your face.

The way you ask me for a light. And I say, "Sure, here you go." And then, you tell me to wait, as my finger rests just above the sparkwheel. And I ask you what you're doing. And you tell me you're watching the flames dance, along with the wind. And you make me stand. And I do. And you stare at it for a second too long. Then, without rushing, you let the tip of your cigarette kiss the flame, before kissing it with your own lips. And you make me wish that instead of a man, I were a cigarette.

The way you say my name, and repeat it over and over, as if I hadn't heard. The same way you do with your favorite movie scenes—the way you savor the lines and roll them around on your tongue, again and again and again. It's contagious, this infatuation. You can only look up at me so many times, asking with your eyes, "What do you think?" And I used to think nothing, until it was the repetition of your presence, the familiarity of it, that grew so intense.

And we lay together, not because I want to, but because I have no choice. And you ask me if I’ve ever dreamed of anything beyond this world. And I told you that, if death could count as something beyond this world, then I’ve dreamed of that. And you looked at me. You stared, and told me that there are things beyond death that I don’t know. And I felt hope—for something so foolish.

It's the way your clothes always hang a little crooked on your shoulders. The way your skin glows red at the slightest touch. The way you whisper your words, close enough so I can feel your breath, drawing out every vowel for me to hear. It's the way you always leave your closet door open. It's the way your throat moves when you gulp down a glass of water. It's the smell of oil that always coats your skin

The way you came to me, pleading that day. And distress painted a picture on your face I hesitated to call beautiful. And you placed a needle in my hands, and pretended it was a rosary. And you told me to find a place where I could soothe you, one I could inject with You. And you allowed me to touch your skin, to drive metal into your veins as you exhaled a sigh of relief, tainted with a panic I’ve never seen from you—a fear I had only witnessed within myself.

And you thanked me, and I realized we were both born to starve as you chased something you would never get.

And maybe in that chase, at least I wasn’t alone.

And that day you doomed me.

—H.

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The car came to rest on the shoulder of the highway, right at the end of Boyacá Avenue.

What do you mean, you didn't mean anything by it.

The entire ride, Héctor had remained a ghost—not a word, not a glance.

It's what friends do, right?

His eyes fixed on the road, turned inward, in anticipation of this very moment.

Shut the fuck up, you know that's not true

Diego sat tight, watching closely as Héctor got out of the car. For a second, he wondered if he was about to be abandoned like a stray.

You want to make fun of me, don't you?

The thought didn’t last; Héctor hurried to the other side and swung his door open.

Is it funny that I'm a faggot?

The wind hit him as if he’d been drenched in cold water.

That I want to drown in your skin

It brushed against the sweat stubbornly clinging to his skin, licking at the red rows streaking his neck.

Tell me, Diego

He shivered.

About how much you want to mock me

A million questions flashed through his mind.

Fuck, I like that. I even like that.

Why hadn’t he worn a shirt?

Why had the drive taken so long?

Why had he been brought here?

Even trying to annoy me, you please me

And then he saw it

Everything you do pleases me

A faint dot of light that pulsed, the rhythmic beating of a heart, barely noticeable in the distance.

I want to curl up and die. This is disgusting. Why do you do this to me

It grew larger.

Brighter.

Stronger.

I hate you

The red hues spilled across the green grass, swallowing its luster in a thick coat of black as it fed on its vigor.

And then, it wasn’t a dot.

It extended its tendrils toward the sky, curling around itself in a lonesome dance, inching toward them for a partner.

Inviting him in.

Diego stood, awestruck.

The flames raced fiercely toward the edge of the highway, so close, he could feel their heat brush against him, enveloping him in a tight, almost oppressive embrace.

So close, so close. It sent a chill down his spine.

Was it the flames?

I want you

Glancing sideways, Diego’s breath caught as he stood witness to the mirror of his fascination, reflected upon Héctor’s face. That same obsession he found in the rising flames, that same crushing heat. Héctor gazed at the fire through Diego, and wondered how close he could get before it burned.

let me swallow you, please

And there was a beat.

One that stretched too long, as Diego dissected the look in his gaze, tracing it back to the blaze that brought it to light.

And just as the fire raced down the mountain, feeding on the Capin Melao, Diego cupped his jaw,

and fed on Him.

I hate the way I don't hate you.

[triglycercule]

am i allowed to make this joke

[barksenji]

Would MTT travel after the timeskip? If yes, where would they have always wanna go??

(Btw, are asks okay? I'm just really curious about a lot of little things.. If anything from the asks are spoilers you can also just say that ^^ "")

Asks are totally fine! Don't worry 🙂‍↕️. And so far, I haven't gotten any questions that are spoilers, maybe the one about Aliza, but I decided to answer it anyway because I'm probably going to draw her post-timeskip design.

Regarding this question, they do travel in the canon. Not in a pleasant way, but they do

uh

"travel."

As for where they would actually want to go: Diego (Dust) would love to go back to his hometown, Enping. He used to travel back and forth with his family, spending most of his time in Venezuela but usually visiting China during holidays. He misses it, it reminds him of his brother Paulo. Aside from that, he would love to visit Mt. Yasur in Vanuatu just because he’d kill to see an active volcano lmao.

Héctor (Horror) doesn't really like traveling that much. It's not that he's particularly patriotic or nationalistic, but he's not a big fan of, uh, certain changes. If it came down to it, though, I feel like he’d like to visit Vienna, in Austria. 1. Because Krish (Killer) really wants to go, and 2. He’s a bit of a Billy Joel fan.

Krish is the one most eager to travel, even though, ironically, he’s the one who’s most upset about being away from Venezuela. He’d like to visit most places, though he does prefer more “extreme” activities rather than just soaking up the culture or scenery. He definitely wants to climb Mount Everest, and he’d definitely get his ass beat by at least one of his “coworkers” if he actually tried it.

As for traveling inside the country, Krish would love to go to La Montaña de Sorte, which I feel he has already been to since it’s in his home state, Yaracuy. It’s been about nine years since he’s known anything about Yaracuy, it would be nice to visit the spiritual epicenter of the religion he practices (Venezuelan espiritismo/palería). Diego would love to go to Mérida, to Pico Bolívar, 4,700 meters above sea level. He’s never seen real snow, Enping is the only other place he’s ever been to, and it’s usually quite warm there even in winter. He wants to know what all the fuss is about. Héctor would definitely love to go to Los Roques or Canaima National Park, he just wants to go somewhere to relax, and I don’t think he handles cold climates well given how thin he is, even after the time skip when he starts eating more.

long yap jrwkrkdk

[killz-sanz]

tw: nosebleed

Confused Diego from Bonezuela AU by @barksenji

[barksenji]

Find it kinda crazy how famous your art is in the community xD Like everytime I share my fanart of your au, people will go, Oh hey, yeah I know those designs! or Oh I saw that Au, thats from that senji guy on tumblr!

It happend like every single time lmao-

Honestly, it blows my mind that my little passion project is getting noticed. It’s not the kind of thing you usually see in UTMV fanfiction, and I thought people would just be annoyed by it. The UTMV community is wonderful, and I’m eternally grateful I decided to post my stuff. It’s actually been in the works for a little over a year, but thanks to my best friend, I finally found the courage to post something jtkdkffk.

I really need to lock in, write, and edit. I've been on a bit of a drawing spree lately.

[barksenji]

Btw, what happend to Aliza, given she isn't present in the timeskip? will she die? :(

She is present, just not during the few timeskip One-shots I made. Not everyone will be so lucky, though 🙂‍↕️.

[barksenji]

Does MTT in the timeskip use any spesific affectionat nicknames for eatchother? Like pet names?

Yes, they do 🙂‍↕️. Héctor is called "Tori" or "Tory", it's a nickname that comes from his brother calling him "Toriño" and his """"co-workers""" teasing him about it. Diego is nicknamed "Yego", it’s just a cute play on the pronunciation of his name and works well for shitty puns (e.g., "Miren quien Yego", "Yego y se fue"). Sometimes he’s also called Didi, but not as often. Krishinller is sometimes called "kri-kri", because it sounds like the name of a popular Venezuelan snack ndksjd