Tumblr's being weird and wouldn't let me answer this submission, but I'm going to tentatively say that these are NOT Rock-Afire retrofits. The characters just don't have the same positioning as the Rock-Afire bots. However, I'm willing to be proven wrong, just like you guys proved me wrong on the Alien Encounter bot being repurposed xD
Waking up this time wasn’t as confusing. He could tell he was no longer dreaming only because of the glitches that occasionally jumped into his vision, as well as the quiet sound of a computer startup that always accompanied him when he woke up.
Yet, the warnings in his dreams were still vague.
Sometimes you’re going to have to let go? Don’t let go of hope? Why had Lust or Hearts, whatever his name is kept referring to a mistake? Why had Gaster told him not to regret? Why did Gaster also talk about a mistake?
That warning Core gave him a few days ago at Ccino’s was ominous too.
Don’t avoid sleep? Your dreams will help? You need to go through them otherwise the multiverse is destined for peril?
What plot is so important that it seems to stretch over centuries? That Lust/ Hearts is a part of it? That Gaster was a part of before… before he died. Is that why Core let Gaster know about their plan?
And what in the stars was that moment of darkness after the blast of light from the CORE? That space looked terribly familiar in a bad way, yet, he also feels like it’s familiar in a good way.
Once again, too many questions.
-----
“Error! Give up! You need to stop hurting innocent AUs!” His opponent's voice boomed over the wreckage.
“FUCK OFF, INK-STAIN!”
The goody-two-shoes, the self-proclaimed protector, and creator of the multiverse, Ink, had interrupted his destruction of yet another AU. Too bad that shitty artist wouldn’t let him get close enough to tighten that stupid brown scarf of his around his neck.
The protector is opposite of him in nearly everything, he would say everything, but sadly they shared a talent for creation. Although he makes sure the creator will never find out that he can create, he doesn’t want to think about how much more Ink will annoy him if he does.
Ink’s bones were mostly white, tattooed in black and a few of his bones grey, opposite to Error’s black and occasionally redbones. Ink had no tears streaming from his eyes and instead had an ink stain on his cheek. His clothes were mostly brown, pants and overcoat deeper duller shades while his scarf was more tan, although he did wear a white, long-sleeved shirt with black gloves over his hands.
The little idiot has no shoes, wearing what looks like open-toed and heeled socks, although he never really paid much attention, too busy running away from Ink’s large paintbrush. A weapon as tall and a half or a third the width of the creator’s body that deals as more or even more damage than a baseball bat. Too bad he’s also soulless and has no real sense of pain, otherwise, he would just keep a jar of nails on him for whenever the asshole shows up.
As Error ran, he looked back behind him, Ink was grabbing a vial from his sash, a long dark green cloth that stretched from his shoulder to past his waist. The sash held the closest things that Ink could get to emotions, colored paints that for whatever reason his body could digest and change into emotion. There was a widespread argument on what each color means, but there are a few everyone can agree on.
White cleared him of all emotions, yellow gives him happiness, pink gives him love, red gives him anger, and pray to the gods of Life, Health, and War if he drinks dark red.
For a moment, the creator's fingers danced over dark red, but instead pulled out red and yellow, arguably a more terrible combination.
Bouncing over in playful anger, Ink begins the fight anew, messing with Error constantly throughout it.
Hitting him with a brush, cartwheeling away from his attacks, knocking him over the head with his brush-leaving Error temporarily blind. Sadly, not the first time he’s fought unfairly. He pulled strings from his eyes, and spread them everywhere, following the echo of Ink’s steps and predicting where he’d be from there.
“Aww, come on Glitchy, can’t we stop with the fighting already?” Ink whined
The brief memory of Ink saying the same thing, hundreds of years ago, flashed in his inner eye. He continued to fight, trying to focus, ignoring the memory of Ink and him stopping fighting and making up.
He couldn’t hear the quips that Ink was making, only seeing and remembering Ink and him sitting under a tree next to another guardian, the three of them cuddling together contently.
The memory faded, and his vision returned to Ink standing still, looking concerned as he could be.
He left before he could be asked any questions, brushing off the slight pain in his soul and not noticing the tears running down his face.
-----
Weeks had passed since his little hiccup, and he simply waited it out until Ink would forget the incident, but of course, Nightmare needed his help terrorizing an AU, and before he knew it the Star Sans’ and some of the Star Council had shown up to interrupt them.
The Star Sans’ are the main people who oppose Error and Nightmare and are also the leaders of the Star Council. The Star Sans’ has only three people, Blue-a swap sans, Dream-Nightmare’s opposite, and lastly, Ink. The Star Council is a lower group, representatives of the many AUs that are also against Nightmare and Error collected into a group that acts as back up for the Star Sans’ and as helpers of the multiverse against smaller “evils”.
Error refused to fight against Ink and traded off with Nightmare as soon as he could, ignoring the questions the creator kept bombarding him with.
He was quick to adapt to Dream’s fighting style, mainly long-range using his bow, and when forced into close range, using his magic to change his bow into a staff.
Dream was an odd character, an orangish scarf with ribbons and a hood out the back held around his neck with a pink and white star pin, and a golden crown sat on his head. Most of his outfit consisted of his cloak, a very dull pale yellow shredded and torn fabric that was only held together by a belt around his waist. The only other things he wore were his black shirt and pants, or black one piece, it was hard to tell, and long black gloves covered by another pair of orange gloves and finally orange boots.
Dream’s eyes were pale yellow, a little brighter than his cloak, and his bones white and young-looking despite his old age.
Error didn’t mind sticking to the long-range, pulling up gaster blaster after gaster blaster and throwing waves upon waves of redbones. In contrast to Ink, Dream is silent in battle, focusing on all and any noise or movement. Error didn’t mind this either.
For the first time Error’s ever seen, Dream approaches him, switching his bow to a staff, hitting against the redbone Error was temporarily using as a weapon.
“Why switch with Nightmare?”
It’s a basic question, but for a moment, it halts him. Dream doesn’t use the small opening. “Ink’s your sworn enemy, to the point you get mad at anyone else fighting him. Why switch?”
His logic is sound.
“None of your business.” Error’s logic is not.
“I’ll make it my business.”
Suddenly the flash of a much younger, more innocent Dream is seen in his eyes, saying the same sentence. He’s holding another skeleton in his arms, an unknown figure dressed in purple and badly bruised and hurt. The moon beamed down on the pair, showing their very young bones, looking to be in their teens.
His vision thunders back to the battle scene, and Dream’s hesitantly confused expression greets him.
He throws an attack, staggering the other, and jumps away. They continue their long-range fighting, not noticing that Nightmare and Ink had seen the odd pause.
Her head rests on the glass of the window, the green and blue blend together in a mishmash clashing blur and the radio drones in the background. From one voice to the next, language becomes a foreign idea and she closes her eyes.
In her hand, she clutches something small, smooth but hard. Her thumb goes over the edge of the bottom and follows the curves up and down. There’s a bump over the top.
Every time her eyes droop close, she still hears her voice -- it is like windchimes in a gentle breeze. and it jolts her awake. Her heart pounds in her chest at the ghost of the girl disappears with her subconscious. Still, her face is clear as day with that smile and those large honey hued eyes, and freckle dotted face. Her lips move to form a word but the music and alertness drowns it out.
Her mom sings softly to the tune playing on the radio and she sinks down further in the passenger's seat, staring at the small heart made of clay.
Summers are not long enough to fall in love with someone -- but she’s certain that she’s come close.
39. this and the moon
Luna lays flat on her back as she stares up at the cloudless, night sky. The stars only glimmer faintly but the two moons are much brighter tonight -- and Iara lays next to her, their fingers are intertwined. Her heart pounds in her chest as the young aristocratic woman turns her head to look at her, golden eyes glowing so oddly.
Her thumb rubs the top of her hand before her fingers squeeze tightly.
Iara tells her that she loves her and Luna feels every little piece of her heart flutter ever so slightly at those words. This is almost like a dream come true -- there is nothing more she could ask for --
The breeze causes the flowers to tickle her face and she closes her eyes.
Iara and the moon -- they are her guide in this world that is everlasting.
“So you’re passes aren’t much help,” the tall sanitized octoling huffed.
“Fraid not. Not with my name on them. The system doesn’t recognize them,” the girl in the hat replies.
“So what now?” the octoling asks. The girl shrugs.
Pulling on their sleeves, the sharkling points out to someone. “Hey. Is that?” he asks. “Oh! It is! Ah! He still has the chip in his ear so it’s still Mr. T. Perhaps he can help,” the girl replies, spotting Mr. T down at the other end of the cart.
Getting up, the girl walks over to him; face still covered by the cap she was wearing. “Excuse me. You look like you work with the system. Do you think you can help me out? My pass to the concert hall isn’t working for some reason and I was trying to show my cousin around. That’s him with my older sister,” the girl explains as she hold the pass out, pointing at the other two who were wave at him.
On the pass it reads the name “Penelope S. Arrowana”
