To Kill A Killer

Chapter 13: (Not) The First Time

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The noise of the small, battered clock beside Killer's bed grated at him as he lay sprawled amongst his tangled bedsheets, one hand cushioning his head, staring dully at the dark ceiling. A small knife twirled in his other hand, an absent, practiced movement, the blade tracing an ouroboros around his fingers. His thoughts echoed the motion, filling his head with a frustratingly repetitive loop.

He was bored. He wanted company. Dust would have been interesting company if he hadn't run off after the mission. Why did he do that? Was it something Killer had done? Or something to do with his past, maybe? He could go ask Cross. But no, Cross was injured. Someone else, then? Nightmare was probably locked up in his office, and Horror wasn't going to tell him. Horror wouldn't even speak to him. He had nobody to ask. Nobody to talk to.

He was bored. He wanted company.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time crawled onwards, excruciatingly slow. Time that he'd never get back, now that he'd lost the ability to RESET. He couldn't redo, couldn't experiment, couldn't repeat a scenario until he'd perfected it. He couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. Couldn't go back and fix it so he'd be spending the night learning about his teammate, instead of lying alone in his dark, messy, uninteresting room.

He was bored...

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Oh, fuck off," he grumbled, glaring at the clock.

The clock continued to tick, uncaring of his growing irritation.

Scowling, he rolled over, raising his knife –

Footsteps thudded in the corridor outside, and he paused, blade hovering near his head.

A voice came through the door, loud and heavily slurred. "H... jus' lemme – jus' lemme – dammit, H, I can walk –"

"Dust, wait –"

"Geddoff, I can –"

There were a few stumbling steps, and something slammed into the wall.

Killer looked at the clock for a moment longer. Then he quickly shoved the knife into his pocket and scrambled off the bed, throwing open his door.

Horror looked up from where he was hunched beside Dust's limp form in the hallway, his single eye glowing a bloody red in the darkness.

Killer stared at his two teammates from his place in the doorway. "What's going on?"

"...Killer." Horror's voice was a deep rumble, quiet and serious.

"That's my name," Killer agreed wryly.

"Now's really... not the time."

He glanced between his two teammates. "Do I get an explanation, or are you just gonna ignore me like usual?"

"I just said –"

A muffled groan came from beneath Dust's hood, and his hands scrabbled ineffectually at the floorboards, a clumsy attempt to push himself up. Horror reached down to help, carefully pulling him into a sitting position against the wall. His scarf was halfway to falling off, his eyelights dull and flickering beneath his lidded sockets, his clothes still powdered with dust.

"Shuddup, Paps," he mumbled, waving a hand vaguely. "Don' touch me - just – just shuddup. H, can you – can you get me another one'a those – there's vo – voda – that stuff I like in the... in the kitchen..."

Killer blinked. "He's... drunk?" He gave Horror a questioning glance. "Cross said the boss made him stop drinking."

Horror sighed heavily, leaning in to adjust Dust's scarf. "He did," he answered reluctantly, keeping his gaze on the faded red fabric. "It's been..." His brow furrowed with the effort of remembering. "Well... it's been a while since I last saw him like this."