Posting this here as well as on my dA because I am an unsatisfied attention whore.
Based on glitchstuck.
Forgot to include Eridan. idgaf
They are Doomed.
There is a moment when candy seems to be pouring from his eyes, rather than his forehead. It's on his fingers, before they disappear. Where there used to be yelling, there is only silence. Where there used to be breath, there is now nothing.
He still has eyes. Not like the rusted robot, who can't move or speak. Only watch the passage of her element. She, somehow, can still cry. Only oil comes out. It's still a better color than she could've made on her own.
The one who built the robot can't see her anymore. It was a clean cut. His body stays erect for the moment before it realizes that there is no longer a brain to hold it up. An arrow shows where they came from, and where they belong. It, too, is broken.
The one who was once dignified is now only shadow. For a moment she looks like she once did, if only in silhouette. That's before one can see one, two, three hooks crawling from her head, and arches of blood sobbing down her front. Gold mush seeps from one socket, and the other eye opens into a tongued maw. The lashes bite down.
One doesn't bother pretending to be real anymore. The featureless expanse of make-up gives him away for what he isn't. Swirls of greasepaint stare blankly, and a sealed smile struggles to open. There's nothing going on behind the skin. The body is staying up, even though he left a long time ago. Instead of a bowstring, he has been smothered by his own face.
It was once vision eightfold. Now there are fifty-six holes letting light into the cavern behind her glasses. When the color started draining, her lips stretched back into what could be mistaken for a smile. The same happens to the place over her heart, cracking into eight even pieces along faults as thin as web. By the time they reach her edges, there will be no more color to spill.
Also being torn apart is the one who stole the color to decorate her hands. Many jaws open, the only clue that the figure is no longer real flesh. Red slits turn into eyes everywhere the jaws can't reach, giving sight to the blind in time for the top of her head to be sawn from her body by gravity.
An armless body watches with apparent glee. Chutes of orange force their way from his skin, creating a crown which can't be removed as easily as his limbs were. A tongue of brown reaches the floor. He can't watch it. His pupils are frozen on the pain before him, though ended, maybe only a fraction of his own.
A shell stops in mid-fall, tendrils of black mire flicking out like tiny tongues. This host is fine, says the gloom churning within her. What a fitting royal body. The eyes behind the goggles, seeing only darkness, try to scream.
Tears cannot come from cement. A scream cannot tear from where there is no mouth. In this case, her eyes cannot blink either. The rock which used to be her hand tilts backward, as slowly as the shaping of a mountain. Eventually, the wrist will break. Eventually, blood will pour from the stone. Eventually, she will bleed out. She prays for that moment more with every inch her fist comes closer to falling. Until then, she will understand that cement can feel pain.
The only one left can see. He can feel. He can scream. He can talk. But he doesn't do any of those things. He only cries.
