Techno is perhaps the oldest of them, with teeth too sharp, and eyes that follow blood far too well, but he is far from the only one.
Wilbur’s fingers are slender and pale, and so, so cold. He feels more like a corpse than he did when he was one, and his laughter puffs out clouds of chilling frost.
Opposite of him, Jack runs hot. Too hot. There is lava in his veins, and his skin flashes metallic in the light, molten and frozen all at once-he will never burn again, as he did in his final breathe.
Niki is neither. Niki is warm, and thin, and her eyes-have they always been so dark? Have they always been so green? The flowers curl and tangle through her fingers and ribs alike, and she giggles at the sensation.
Quackity’s feathers burn gold in the light, and more than once, have drawn blood when pricked. He smiles, and his eyes are plastic, his words are honey, nobody can hear them anyways. His absence is as empty as his presence, is he even real?
Punz quirks blue lips and tilts his head, his blood doesn’t follow the movement. Nothing does. His blood, his breath, his body is still, even as he runs and fights, and trades. Still, still, still, it will never move again.
Purpled blinks moss from his lash, and bats at the frost climbing his arms. He is where he is, and that is survival for him. Where is the sound, he steps on twigs, he stumbles through water. There is no snap, there is no splash. There is no noise.
Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. He curls his lips, the world shudders. He smiles, it eases. Does he love it? Does it love him? Maps upon his skin, treasure in his veins, perhaps he is to be loved, but it’s a dangerous thing to do, worse things than him can attest to this.
Tubbo holds the bee in his hand, it whispers it’s secrets to the honey on his lips. Pop, pop, pop, the taste of candy rocks are red, blue, white all on his tongue. Bang, bang, bang, rings the bell, it is he who rings it, he who decides the final toll, and they who will deliver if he only ask it of them.
Ranboo hums, a two-toned voice equally empty as it is melodic. Partially of void, partially of monsters, he always comes it twos. Twos, twos, twos, his loyalty may seem the same, but is it split if they are all on the same side? His friends laugh at the notion, and he shakes his head. How silly, how silly, to think him bound by such a thing.
Do you think the world will tremble, when her children learn to play?
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