Rising Storm [ Ink!Sans x Reader ]

1. Time and Time Again

They've found you and they are coming.

The words thundered in your head as air filled your lungs, desperately gasping for breath as if you might never take in oxygen again. That would be the case in a few seconds if you didn't make a run for it. It seemed insane, foolish to believe something that had been told to you in a dream. Besides, dreams were only dreams, right? It was impossible to think that something cooked up only in your head could be real, could be...

Memories flashed before you, the black tentacle reaching for your throat, wrapping around your neck and lifting into the air. You weren't supposed to feel anything in dreams, wasn't that how it worked? But there you had almost been certain that you would die right then and there, that you were going to die right before that demented monster as his sadistic smile beamed down upon you. What chance did you stand against something like that? What hope was there?

And if you did leave, where would you go? The second you stepped a foot from the compound, you would become public enemy number one. The Elite were everywhere, in the minds of the people and all living things. Perhaps they were inside your mind right now, watching in amusement as you struggled to make a decision.

Freedom is the ability to say that two plus two equals four. If that is true, then all else follows, you reflected. They could and would not take your freedom, no matter how many times the Elite tried to scorch that in the minds of you and their people. You were going to be free and in time you would come back and free all of them.

But that didn't solve the problem of where you would go the second the manhunt would begin once your superiors noticed your absence. It was quite humorous actually how one could be forgotten so easily once they died, like that man who had collapsed and been carried away in the mines, but if you were still breathing and disappeared, it was a whole different matter entirely.

Who had the painter, Ink you heard his name, been referring to? You recalled it now, right before the world had faded to black and carried you back to this hellhole of a reality. Who were you supposed to find? You had gotten the first part of the name, Fres. For a brief moment you wondered if the name could actually be Fresh, but what sort of person would go by that name? It had to be something else.

Where would you find this person? There were too many risk factors in leaving, mainly that you would be on the constant run with no where to go, chasing after a faceless and nameless ally that you've never met. But you were certain that someone, something was coming for you. Your suspicions were answered by the faint distinct sound of boots clacking against the concrete floor.

"Dammit, we'll never find them in the dark," a gruff voice growled. There were several startled exclamations as random workers were thrown from their beds in a vain attempt for your pursuers to find you.

"They don't pay us well enough for this kind of crap," another voice growled, turning over more beds looking for you. From the sound of the angered protests, they were at least several yards away. In the dark, you could gain a temporary head start. Your eyes flickered to the exit that was at the other end of the building, reinforced with bolt bars unlocked only with a key. But the glass window next to the door seemed able to shatter, so there was still hopes of escaping.

One...

You closed your eyes, wanting to remain as motionless as possible in order to gain their attention only when you made a run for it. Blood roared in your ears as the two thugs seemed to be getting even closer, the shouts and cries of monsters and humans alike sweeping across the factory floor.

Two...

"[Y/N] we know you're here!" One of the voices taunted. There was no doubt about it, staying and running were both suicide missions. But if you remained here, it was absolutely certain that you would be captured and perhaps even worse. Running would not be easy, but there was still hope, still the chance that you could do something.