Quackity: There's something that I've seen on Twitter–
Technoblade: Oh god, Twitter... 😑
Quackity: And I'm gonna– and I'm gonna pull it up on– No no no, it's nothing bad! I'm gonna pull it on my screen–
Technoblade: Oh, there's nothing good on Twitter...
Quackity: It's your bio, it's your bio. And I've always overthought this, I always overthink this, right? And it says "The second thing- the second worst thing to ever happen to these orphans." What does that mean, Technoblade?
Technoblade: It means that... I was the second worst thing to ever happen to those orphans.
Quackity: And what– [Laughs] What's the first worst thing to- to happen to those orph- orphans?
[Techno stares at him in silence]
Technoblade: Quackity, they– They weren't always orphans.
Quackity: [Smile falls as he realizes what that means] 😀 → 😦
This drabble was written as an exploration for Nightmare's motives for Ch. 25, so it will have some hints as to how he will act.
it also hints at more multiversal mechanics going on in the background of everything
This is a glimpse at his interpretation and first impressions of Classic, courtesy of an evil overlord who thinks he knows everything :)
this also became a lot longer than i was expecting, so enjoy 1000 words of nightmare being nightmare
The multiverse was nothing if not predictable.
Regardless of its infinite multitudes, it followed specific patterns. Universes fed off nearby ones to fuel their creativity, forming clusters whose links became jumbled in a heated mess of wired connections. The universes' influences on each other were palpable.
Ultimately, universes could dissolve into basic templates through which each spread its roots into the larger multiverse to cement a place for itself. Thus, despite the multiverse's infinitude, it lacked any carbon copies.
It seemed everyone had a different idea as to why.
So, Nightmare relied on the patterns in each universe- how, regardless of their separation from other universes or how out-of-place they seemed, they acted in predictable manners. It made most missions comically easy once Nightmare conducted a little research. The current state of affairs between monsterkind and humanity, the existence and status of the Underground, and the presence of resets told him all he needed to know.
Even Dream's responses had become expected, although that was more due to his inherent benevolence than anything else.
So, yes- the multiverse was predictable to a reliable degree.
- Until a week ago.
Nightmare planned his missions meticulously. They did not fail. Perhaps delayed, and he occasionally needed to iron out minor kinks, but outright failure was never a factor.
The fact that Dream happened to be in the universe Nightmare chose that day was unfortunate, but it was an easy fix. He sent his men to the Capital with a single order, causing enough panic to draw Dream's attention away, and his plan was back on track.
It worked flawlessly for all of about ten minutes.
Nightmare's goal had been simple. Investigate one of the negativity spikes that plagued the multiverse as of late- the same that had Dream floundering like a fish out of water. For all his supposed wisdom, Dream had failed to realize that the emotional spikes were not the result of any 'affliction' or 'sickness' as he seemed to believe.
So when the spike Nightmare was tracking vanished completely, he had nearly gone into a frenzy, and Dream, unfortunately, sensed his sudden anger. His brother came like a moth to a flame, and Nightmare was happy to turn his frustration to his pathetic brother.
The battle had been going as he expected. The arrival of a Sans was slightly unexpected but hadn't even made a blip on his radar. He begrudingly gave the monster a bit of respect at how they managed to get Dream away from his for a few seconds, but it was child's play to find them and send the Sans off to the pits of whatever hell awaited him.
Oh, the way Dream's face had fallen felt heavenly. His face crumpled like Nightmare had not witnessed in decades, and- yes, he wanted to take a picture to make the moment last forever. The way Dream shook, his frown, the tears brimming at the corners of his sockets, the way his face twisted with the hopelessness Nightmare had always dreamed of-
And then the Sans, whose soul Nightmare had just shattered, threw a bone at his skull.
Nightmare was not ignorant of resets, but the situation screamed foul play. It had been nowhere near enough time for a reset or load to occur, especially since the Sans was from a different universe entirely.
Nightmare could not deny his interest as the Sans reentered the battle and somehow dodged him at every turn. Yes, skeletons tended to have a high tenacity for dodging, but few could bear to stand so close to his aura without collapsing.
Nightmare's memories toward the end of the battle were fuzzy. He remembered his brother finally releasing his fragile hold on his aura, enveloping the forest in its sickly sweet tones. Nightmare responded in kind- flooding the air with negativity to choke Dream out.
Then the Sans, somehow still standing despite the clash in auras, dared to grab him, and then-
Nothing.
Nightmare had not slept in a millennia.
He would have thought the same nightmares he inflicted on others on an hourly basis would fill his dreams, but his sleep was oddly peaceful. No demons nor haunting visages visited him, and he idled in the darkness of his mind for what felt like days.
The multiverse was meant to be predictable. It moved in expected and flawed ways, but ways that could be measured and recorded for future reference.
This Sans was an oddity—an anomaly. A strange mystery in a multiverse Nightmare had already scavenged for everything of interest to him.
There was no record of this Sans, Classic, anywhere until a month prior. It seemed he had fallen into the multiverse out of, quite literally, nowhere. While a universe suddenly gaining access to the rest of the multiverse was expected, what was not was the extent Classic had spread his influence in such a short time.
With Ccino's report, Nightmare wasted little time reaching out to the destroyer and protector. Error had appeared particularly peeved when Nightmare reached out to him, dismissing him until Nightmare uttered Classic's name. The destroyer had gone quite still, seeming to hover threateningly near a crash at the name alone, and a wave of nostalgia flowed over him.
It was a plethora of information Nightmare had not been expecting, and he happily bid Error farewell when he recovered enough to threaten to decapitate him.
Ink, on the other hand, was a dead-end. Getting him to talk was easy enough, but he hardly reacted to Nightmare's probing about Classic, stuck with that annoying blank look on his face. Ink only muttered something about a metal chair, blinked at him, and then greeted him with a child's enthusiasm.
And, of course, there was his brother. From his and Classic's interactions on that day alone, it was not difficult for Nightmare to glean the burgeoning friendship between the two, and the expression that crossed Dream's face at Classic's fake death began to make more sense.
It seemed Classic had undergone a rather unconventional introduction into the multiverse. The more Nightmare heard, the higher Classic raised on his list of utter buffoons.
It was strange. Unexpected. Exciting.
Nightmare had not faced a new mystery in centuries. His studies were his first venture into the multiverse outside of spreading negativity, and it had successfully occupied him for most of his existence. But then things got predictable. Nightmare found that, with enough time, any question at all got boring quickly.
Classic presented a new project with novel results.
Not something bad, obviously, all hands on deck would be needed for it.
But it was enough for Prowl to ask him to stay,
"Just sit there, make sure she doesn't climb on or into anything." It was easy enough, the little femme couldn't even walk properly let alone climb!
"Do not take your optics off of her."
... They didn't like that tone all too much, if Jazz was being honest.
"Looks like it's just you and me now little lady, Sari baby, what do you like to do for fun around here?" Cautiously, he places a servo into the little playpen, holding it up so she couldn't climb his servo and possibly hurt herself, instead opting to hold it closer to her so she could grab it, or something.
"I've heard stories of your little run offs, givin' all these big guys a scare kid. It's not healthy for them." He chuckles, as the organic infant places both hands on his digit, circular toy held between her "gums"(such a weird name to call it. There's already candy of that, why a body part?) as she grunts, taking a stand.
"oh, are you gonna walk? Should I record this?" as a precaution, he proceeded with recording. " Are you gonna do a trick? Prowl says you like to dance, maybe some tunes would help get you movin'."
Jazz spoke softly, and calmly, playing a low energy, but still bumpy beat. Something easy to move too. He would have put on some of those baby songs from the human internet, but, well, he didn't really like em. Got stuck in the processor is all.
The speakers where kept at a low volume, something else he read in the books and files prowl provided. Organic infants had sensitive ears, and spooked easy.
He moved himself closer to Sari, smiling all the way. Organics weren't half as bad as sentinel made them out to be at all,
Infact, they where kinda cu-
"UH-CHOO!"
Jazz practically bent over backwards. He did it so fast it was a miracle he didn't move his servo, patiently, (impatiently, but he wasn't going to rush her, it would never be worth it.) he waiting for her hands to disappear from his sensory net.
"eeeuh...!"
She plopped herself down with a grunt and jazz decided to finally let his freakout, out. Groaning and convulsing, he wipes his visor repeatedly, then his olfactory sensors, and then his dermas.
It was beyond nasty.
Organics did spew slime! Sentinel was right! He grabbed one of the nearby blankets, sure that it wasn't going to be used later as it was thick and it wasn't really cold, he started to clean it all off hurriedly.
"not cool, Sari baby, not cool...!" He whined.
Something seemed off, just a little bit, but the slime was nearly off his visor, and scans where screaming about the bacteria and germs and micro organisms in the liquids and eugh!
"okay, maybe I'll keep my distance 'till tall dark and handsome comes back okay?" Focusing back into her little play pad, he ceased all functioning. Tac-net working either in overdrive or not at all, he didn't know, there was simply the matter that the little gate they used to keep her from wandering too far, was pushed open.
She's loose.
She's loose.
Gone, where's the baby? Not here. Nada, nuh-uh.
"Sari?" Foregoing Dignity, he crawls on his servos and knee-struts, over the play pen and following the area of interest in case there was any sort of clue to where she could have gone too so spark-damned quickly.
"come on, little lady, where'd you go huh? If I can't find you, your babysitter is gonna have my helm haha!"
Swiping at leaves and picking up sticks, he starts to grow frantic, scurrying faster and faster, picking up speed while scouring everywhere in the room. He checks under the berth, under the table even risking the tree roots listening and watching, poking in any little hole he could find with great precision and care, lest he crush the object of his panic.
"come on, please little lady, I know prowl doesn't let you have any before nap time but I promise you, I'll get you one of those little candy sticks you like so much, maybe even one of the big ones! Just please, please come on out," he sits on his heels, "or even just a sign!"
His movements cease when he turns, trying to retrace his steps, just to see black and gold striped pedes. Trailing up and up, his visual network shows him just what he didn't want to see.
"ahem. Have you, perhaps, checked behind the beanbag chair?" Prowl offers helpfully.
"how long have you uh... Been here?" He chuckles, rising, "and b-behind the what?"
"the beanbag chair." He turns to walk the three steps to the playpen area, and sits in his haunches.
Making the autobot servo sign for quiet, prowl beckons to Jazz, who followed that order.
"she usually puts herself to sleep in my room," prowl whispers, "the bean bag being her favorite bed." The yellow of the chair, had mixed with a curled up Sari. Teething toy still in her mouth, which was open and making little snoring sounds, Sari slept still in the play pen, not under the berth, or under the table. Or in the tree roots.
"... Oh..." Heat travelled up Jazz's faceplate, derma pointed down in embarrassment while he grasped the tip of his hat and brought it forward to hide it all, "she's quite a troublemaker huh?" He mumbles.
A fool is what he has been. His tac-net was searching simply just for the human infant, in his urgency and panic, he forgot to just... Look.
She was alright.
"I did see... A lot." Prowl chuckles.
His dignity however, was not.
"Don't worry. Everyone, Bot or not, has a spark attack, courtesy of her, one way or another." He sits, legs crossed, and simply watches her as she breathes.
Jazz realizes he's still recording. And stops it, while grabbing one of the thin blankets, looking to prowl for approval, and draping it gently over Sari, the infant.
"by the way, you still have some stuff in your face."
Jazz let out a whiny groan, as prowl made a move to wipe it off.
a queer weird western with a werewolf deputy and an bounty hunting angel (some old characters I'd always been meaning to write)! also trying out a new POV // no clue what the plot will be only vibes
all related posts
SWEET IRON ANGEL
briefly. pt. 1
You thought the desert would take you. Running into her bosom as far as she deigned. Collapsing to your knees, teeth gritting sand until it was all you could breathe in.
You wept til sundown as the air above your bloodied head shimmered and your last wish was to die. You knew your mangled bones would not sustain you. You, the shadow on the horizon.
But the desert is not kind. The desert is not merciful. The desert has no God.
Instead it is he who kneels in front of you. He, the avenging angel. His soft chuckle whispers with the wind, curls in your ear. Cold fingers that squeeze your brittle cheeks. Chin tilted upwards into the moonlight.
When he speaks you hardly rouse, hardly see him. He chastises like he sings. Smooth and rolling.
Look and see.
The king of iron,
crucified in the sand.
Tears may wash the blood from your face, but your hands will never be clean.
Up now.
To your feet.
You scarcely feel your legs as he sits you up. Falling forward against him. Strong arms and a hard body. The kind that never relents.
He stands. You rise. Towering over him. A flick from his hat would topple you. As he binds your hands the Grinning Demon leers.
