Just as it says above, a blog full of stories and more of the Sickfic Speedrun fanfic i'm writing.
You can check it out here
The background i made in canvas ;)
Hi! I'm MarCoral, but you can call me Coral or just Mar, and this blog is where i post my art and small side-stories of my fanfic over at ao3! my main is @mar-coral
-You can ask me anything about the story and characters! i might answer with a drawing, text post, or a extra scene just for you!
Tags!
Asks will be under #ask 🐸
My art will be under #Speedrun art and #Doodles
Stories will be under #main's side-story
Chapters will be under #main story
You might also see the tag #chapter [number] for easy archiving and placing side stories into the main one (ei. #chapter1 for things related to chap 1, headcanons, scenes off-screen, etc)
You'll also find the tag #Mar's yapping for my yapping
Warnings: Threats of violence, mentions of injuries
The moment that ugly wet splashy sound echoes roughly in his part of the Anti-void, he knows somethings off.
The protector wastes no time as he starts ranting about this and that the second he drops his dingy brush besides his precious, although torn from wear, bean bag. When he turns to glare at the other for some stupid joke they’ve attempted to make, Error can’t help but notice how their scarf has been moved in a way that imitates his own. While Ink’s scarf normally stretches out behind their back, this time, for some inexplicable reason, one of the ends is now dangled in front. Like Error’s.
Strike one.
The next thing is not something he himself notices, but something the voices call out for him. The protector seems too lively today, too fidgety, constantly changing positions behind him. Fretting over nothing at all as he leaves and returns to the bean bag. Which brings Error to ask himself, on the pass, and not because he cares about this guy at all, anyways- why aren’t they drawing or sketching or whatever? Keeping their hands busy is a trait they’ve both seem to share. Every time Ink visits the Anti-void they’re always drawing as they bother him.
That becomes strike two.
He’s two episodes deep on his Undernovela re-watch when he finally grows tired of Ink’s constant lousy voice muffling the characters dialogue.
"Don't you have anyone else to go bother?”
Blissfully silence follows as Ink finally comes to a stop, his senseless rant left unfinished. Error cannot tell you what it was even about, only that it probably was something of no consequence. They look at him in that stupid way of theirs, eyelights a rapid flash of colours and shapes. And that too, for some reason unbeknownst to him, makes alarms ring in his head, but why...
"Pff," They snort, after a weirdly long pause, mocking the other with a sharp smile. "Ohh~ what’s wrong? I'm I too much for you already?" They ask, although they are not waiting nor expecting an answer from the other. Letting themselves fall back on the bean bag, trying to get Error's attention back when he turns his head away in annoyance.
"Fuck y-"
Ink blows air on the back of his skull.
"HEY!" Error's voice breaks awkwardly as he gets away, their laughter combined with the voices’ echoing in the emptiness of the Anti-void. How immature of them. How childish. He knows well his face is already heating up in his characteristic blue hues. The strings above coming alive. They prepare to strike, coiling in on themselves.
"Unfortunately for you," Ink begins as the laughter comes to a stop, deterring Error from strangling them right there and then. The voices still snicker about, but it’s whatever. "U're stuck with me now," they say with a smile. Eyes closed.
And yet, their words are too off this time for him to ignore it any longer. He sighs, what a headache. The voices rise in volume, eager to know more. Although they are quieter than when he's on his own, it's still annoying.
Error sits back down, almost knocking the other out of the worn-down bean bag. Grunting, he picks back up the unfinished doll. Looking over the strings, making none are off place. Once satisfied, he continues on knitting. The Tv still play on, but this time, he lowers its volume. Ink owes him a big one for this.
"You three always fight," Time is a tricky concept for them both, but between them, Error has always been better at keeping track of it than Ink ever could. Or is physically able to. (or wants to)
"We do now," Ink corrects, smug, as if it was knowledge worth praising. Still smiling and keeping their eyes away from his glance.
"And you guys always make up," He answers, cautious. Suspicious.
"Not this time, but it’s whatever! really!" They hurry along, waving Error's grilling stare away. "We all got stuff to do anyways! Now everyone can go and focus on their jobs."
"Ugh," Error feels inclined to agree with the voices’ ramble, unwillingly. He just wants to knit in peace, he tells himself. That’s the only reason why he’s doing this… "What...was it this time?"
"The same stuff as always," Ink still won’t look at him, and his infuriatingly vague answer doesn’t help his rising frustration.
"Remind me then," he snaps back, grunting again as he lays down on his back. Closer to the other than he intended.
"Just," Ink pauses, struggling with their words. He doesn’t like these new weird sensations. Error rigids behind them, as if he’s just remembered something. Heh... "The same thing we always fight about; my work and their inability to let me do it, I guess," They cowardly hide in their scarf, confused at the words that escape their mouth next, "All of us said things we shouldn't have, we all hurt each other in ways we might not like looking back to, I don't know why they all refuse to talk to me now," they pause, voice numb. "Or each other..."
Dream and Swap, two peas in a pod, and all that, haven’t talked to each other in about half a year now. Even before Ink’s and Dream’s argument, the times they were seen out in public they almost outright refused to interact with one another. From what Ink knows that did not go so well over with the council people, nor Frisk Core. They’ve known each other for decades; the duo had been running from Nightmare even before Ink joined the Omega Timelines search for them, so why the sudden animosity?
They turn on their stomach with newfound energy, determined to ask Error about it, see if he knows or has seen something shift on Dream and Swap character traits.
"Ink..." But he's not in the bean bag anymore. In fact, he's standing right behind them, the glitch towering above as the blue strings shoot to the ground. They are like snakes, slithering, somehow, in the air.
They are too fast for the sitting duck that Ink has become. Their black paint magic painting the floor as they're suspended in the air. Well above and some feet away from the bean bag and square TV. Before they can get a word out, they are shaken side to side.
"Where's you goddamn blue vial?!" Error won't let them answer, not that Ink plans to tell him anything. “You know you’re not supposed to do THAT, fucker! you can’t just stop taking them- or take a few and not the others, you know that’s not how it works! You know that you dickhead!” If something stops them from doing their job, then it has to go. Simple as that, but they know that won’t be enough for the other. It has never been. The shaking accelerates as they screech from side to side. "Well?!" What does he expect?
Oh, he stopped.
Ink gulps, vision still shaking, "do you mean ´your´?" They joke, but quickly regret it when the blue strings start tightening, threatening to cut through his clothes and snap some bones for his mockery. "Wait! Just wait, I can-! Wait!" They plead, "I-I, I put it awaY WHOA-" The world is put upside down, he braces for more movement, but nothing else comes.
"Away..." Error is much closer than he usually is, the white glitches gathering around faster than Ink would like them to be, "WHERE?" Oh, no. Ink is about to have such a not good time, aren't they?
"I..." They look around, trying to remember, even if they know there’s not a chance in the multiverse. At least pretend, they tell themselves, look busy. "Well, I, kind of, accidentally-" Error's glitches intensify, "for...got? Where?" Their attempt at looking apologetic does nothing for them.
~
It didn’t need to be said that if Sci wasn’t careful, the Great and fearsome King of Negativity & Despair, might, just might, not be quick enough to stop his latest acquirement from shopping his hand off. That sword of his, the one he didn’t shy away from flashing back when they first met, wouldn’t struggle to reach him in the distance they keep from each other. If looks could KILL…
Thankfully, the other wasn’t looming over his shoulders as he expected him to do, but, unfortunately, instead lurked close by, laser focusing on his movements and his movements alone. Sci doesn’t believe is for any sense of compassion or sympathy for the injured Guardian. For what he knows so far, this guy is obsessed with work. Less of in a ‘classic’ workaholic way, and in a more fanatical, extreme and insane way. The way that’ll make you say, “fucks wrong with this guy?”. It wouldn’t be over him to only see the being as a task he’s been trusted on. Just another reason to carefully (and skilfully might he add) avoid the monarch’s disapproving look.
Both had their hands hidden, Sci noticed suddenly.
Cross had them behind him, with his feet apart and firmly planted to the tiled floor. Like a toy soldier. Stone-still, back straight and head held high, anything but calm, the total embodiment of what you would expect a royal guard to be.
Complete opposite to his ruler, who has his own hidden in front of him, in the pockets of his hoodie. Back hunched, tentacles snapping at the air in irritation, his fake attempt at serenity and grace classic of him. But Sci knew better than to point either of this out.
He took off his dirtied plastic gloves, throwing away the blue protection that no longer served the purpose it had been created for, “I’m going to check his lower region before taking a look at the state of his soul.” He changes the machine he’d strapped to Dream’s thumb with another around the unbandaged wrist.
“That’s gonna take longer…” He mumbles to himself under his breath, as he throws the thin blanket off the otherworldly being. He puts on another, clean, set of gloves before starting to remove the bandages and prove at the fissures on his legs.
“Don’t whisper, if you have something to say, be a man and say it already.” Cross demands, LV glowing under his joints. The fissile at his right hand. The king narrows his eye at this, but doesn’t immediately reprimand him, taking notice as well of the sickly magic the other doesn’t seem to try and hide.
Nightmare opens his mouth to question the unusual attitude, but is interrupted by the sudden appearance of one hooded individual. The lights of the place helped gather darker shadows on Dust’s face as he hunched over himself for that sole purpose.
“What is it now?” He asked, exasperated, making a mental note to question Killer later on about it.
“I want to change places with Horror on his mission.” Dust was one of the only ones that never once dared lie to his face, if he didn’t want to disclose any information the other might want, he would just refuse to speak at all.
“Why so?” Nightmare already knows the answer, he’s not as oblivious as they’ve been led to believe.
“I’m better equipped to handle Killer right now.” Dust stands just in between him and Cross, his face turned to look at his ruler but body facing forwards, towards Sci. “Chances are he’ll strike Horror the moment he turns his back on him.”
“Horror has been with us long enough to learn how to deal with Killer’s bullshit without you babyproofing everything.” Dust, like all his coworkers, has his aura somewhat compressed, closer to his body, unlike the normal monster. And that peculiarity correlates directly to his equally mudded feelings.
Making him harder, not impossible, to read.
“If-”
“If Horror fucks up, then that’ll be his lesson to learn. I will not allow any type of weakness to pass through. If he’s stupid enough to get himself dusted. Then that will be that.” He cuts in sharply. Dust can go ahead and throw a tantrum for all he cares it won’t get Nightmare to change his decision.
“Then by that logic, why would you allow him to document and draw all the conclusions he wants about Dream’s soul?” He points directly to the scientist, just as he begun to untie the strands holding the robe firm.
Cross stands closer to the stretcher now, just on the other side of it, opposite to the other. They’ve both made a point to be as quiet as they could possibly be. Neither keen to join in the little argument the other two were having.
Sci freezes like a deer on headlights. Or however the saying goes. “It is something that should be thought over, Boss.” Cross agrees, siding with Dust in a once in a lifetime event.
“Everything he learns about it, is something he learns about guardians, plural. It can be used against you.” Dust adds on, not letting the king shut them down before they make their points. “You guys are not only twins, but also set example for any and all guardians that come next.”
“We are nothing alike.” That voice, again. Who does it belong to?
“Even so, it still won’t take too long before he figures out how they work, and you lose the wild card of enigmaticality. He could even figure out how to weaken or even destroy your very own soul.” This is not going well for Sci. It truly isn’t.
“He’s a paid hand,” Cross is feeling so helpful today, isn’t he? Asshole, he’s gonna get him killed. “he’s not part of our group, he has no loyalties to it, and as far as we know he also does jobs for other groups.” Oh yeah, he forgot this guy actually wants him dead. Well, that’s on Sci for forgetting. Why does he have to say it like that tho? They are not in middle school. He should plead his case, shouldn’t he?
“I-”
“Quiet. All of you, be quiet.” Rude, but fair. They do as told, staying put while they wait for the Monarch’s final judgment. Sci retreats his hands after a moments pause. Which, as does every other person in the room notices too, makes the monochrome skeleton smirk in victory.
“What’s your diagnosis?” The King asked, after a while of impatient waiting.
“I can’t-”
“I assure you, scientist, I will not be repeating myself.” He warns, a sick smile stretching across his face. Sci is too tired to argue with him now.
“As far as I know,” He begins bluntly, Unwrapping the machine around the being’s wrist., “These injuries happened because of prolonged previous abuse, which left the bones unstable,” And yet he knows there must be an underlying cause as of to why they where not healed beforehand. “His magic is currently focusing solely on his spine and head, which is why there hasn’t been much visible improvement.”
“Course of treatment?” The soldier boy asks when Sci steps away from the stretcher, taking the machines with him as he begins packing up his things.
He has enough information already to begin his research.
“Healing potions will hurry the process along,” so will the healing of the magical kind, but he knows already that no one here (maybe except Dream himself, and he’s currently comatose, so not much help there) has any to speak of, “For now just keep the wounds clean, change the dressings daily, and keep him sedated so he doesn’t damage them when he wakes up.” If you were to give an anaesthetic to a someone whose unconscious in this situation their survival couldn’t be guaranteed. He believes. Sci’s not a doctor, but Dream is not a mortal either way, so it shouldn’t have too grave consequences.
“Which will be when?” Nightmare asks, pinching himself above his nasal crevice as if that would stop the incoming headache.
“Depends on how badly the injuries were before, soo...” He trails off, “He’ll be up and about in a day, or two, max.” He cannot underestimate this being’s healing abilities he has displayed so many times before, but it is not assured that he’s getting much of his ‘element’ in here to aid him in such healing.
“Great. So we’ll just keep doing what we’ve been doing so far.” Nightmare can’t believe how useless this guy is.
“In a sense, yeah.” A tentacle is already launching him straight into his messy desk before he even has a chance of processing it all.
Luckly, his gaster blaster manages to grab him by the scruff just in time. Even more fortunately, he did not let go of his bag in the other’s haste of getting him out of there as fast and effortlessly as possible.
The portal behind him snaps close as he safely lowers himself to the ground. Once he has two feet on land, he dissipates the magic holding the gaster blaster together. Adjusting his glasses with the hand not holding the messenger briefcase. He wastes no time on walking to another desk on the far-right corner. This one isn’t as dirty or paper full, given that one complicated machine takes up most of the space already. He moves glasses and tubes around to make more free space.
He carefully, much more gently than he would normally be, places the bag on the table. Rummaging through it for a while before pulling out a single yellow vial. “What’s that for?” The other whispered. “I have to test it and send back a report. Like I did with you guys.”
Sci has about a week before Nightmare comes barging in, again, demanding that report. And he’ll then be forced to return the vial. But during that 5-day grace period, he can do as many tests as he desires on this blood. Furthering his knowledge on the cryptic evasive beings that guardians are. And figure out, as well, what has happened to the positive guardian, of course, why and much more importantly how did this sickness even came to bring him down like that.
A parasite? Or maybe a fungus entering through the exposed wounds…or maybe a rare bacteria has developed inside of it, it could be magic sickness as well, as it is common to his personality type and could be presenting so severely because of his guardian nature, or...
