This was for a Creative Vigilance uni class about breaking the fourth wall. This is actually the thing that eventually got me into Undertale, even though the story has nothing to do with it. But some of the people in the workshop said I should play Undertale as this story was apparently "Just like it"

…..

Director's Cut

"Why do you always have to get me to carry out your little pissing contests with Jack?" The young adult folded his green, tumoured, arms over his chest. The two infected 'zombies' peered down over the ledge. Danny, the younger one, stood a little further back from the ledge while his companion spied through the branches of a tree just below them, which was growing up and outward from the little cliff. A slimy tongue slapped him. He rubbed the back of his head and coughed at the extra smoke the smack forced out of his boils, glaring at the other smoker.

"It's not a pissing contest, I just can't stand him." The older smoker paused, leaning back against the tree branches and peering through the leaves. He grinned around his cigarette, the smoke from it mingling with his own green clouds. He hissed quietly over his shoulder. "Alright, Danny, when I say 'now' you lasso him."

"You just don't want your tongue clawed off this time." Danny grumbled under his breath; however he still flicked his longest tongue out.

"Steady …steady-NOW!"

Fast as a whip, Danny shot his tongue down through the branches lassoing the hunter-type infected around the middle. He made sure to catch Jack's arms. If he was going to be dragged into this, he'd rather not have his tongue clawed short again.

Once constricted Jack let out a loud feral snarl from deep in his throat, similar to a wolf giving a warning. Although he couldn't move much, he still squirmed and wiggled in an attempt to free himself. His claws were useless.

"Great! Now just keep holding him." Smokes climbed down the ledge, using his own tongue to keep from slipping.

Danny rolled his single yellow eye, in the half of his face not covered with gas-filled tumours.

"Smokes! Get your fuckin' slimy-ass tongue offa me!" Jack snarled in his Bronx, New York accent.

"Ain't mine."

"Quit usin' da kid! Tech-a-nickally, he's in my pack, ya chooch!"

"So what-"

BANG!

The tongue wrapped around Jack went limp, and an ominously large amount of green smoke was emitted from behind the tree.

Before he even hit the ground Jack started to climb up. "Kid – hey Kid! Uh, Dan, you 'ight?" At the top, Jack found Danny lying motionless by the tree. His smoke had already begun to dissipate. Though they were hidden in the shadow of his hoodie, Jack's eyes widened as his mouth dropped. "Aw fuck, Kid..."

"Jack, what happened? You're too quiet!" Smokes called from below.

Jack took a moment before calling back down "It's da game. Someone's playin' again." Jack's growly voice caught a little. "I guess a playa saw Danny boy, and dey got scared…" That was all he needed to say.

Smokes didn't respond at first, then he kicked the tree in frustration and swore under his breath.

It was then that Jack's internal game programming started kicking in. As if a year of independent existence didn't even count, he was just a mindless game antagonist again. He growled. "Before yours kicks in, go warn da others!" Keeping low to the ground, Jack crept on all fours in the direction his programming told him the survivors took.

Smokes could already feel it: a deep internal pull, nagging to go after the four playable survivors. He shook as he tried to pry himself away from the tree and to not simply climb it and follow Jack after the survivors.

With effort and mental strain, Smokes managed to wrench himself away from the tree. The survivors had moved far enough away.

Not waiting for the mental tug to return, Smokes turned and jogged down paths, the tap of stones and snap of cracking branches following his thudding feet as he made his way to the rest of Jack's pack. Occasionally he stopped and wheezed, heavily regretting his life choice in becoming a 'double' smoker. Maybe he should at least quit the cigarettes.

Gasping for air, he powerwalked the rest of the way.

It felt like years before he finally made it to the small pool the other hunters stayed near.

The hunters were all doing different activities. Some were curled up sleeping in the grass like dogs and others were either drinking from the pool or trying to catch fish. Hank, the hunter Smokes was looking for, in his awful bright orange hoodie, was slashing at a tree, using it as a housecat uses a scratching post.

Smokes cringed. He didn't want to have this talk. But he had to. Running a hand through his hair, Smokes approached the hunter. "Hank, we need to talk. There's been an … accident."

The blond hunter turned his attention up to the taller infected. He'd been grinning, probably about to make some joke about Smokes having an accident. However, his amusement faded due to Smokes's grim and apologetic expression.

"Whut hayappened?"

"It's Danny. He – I was having him help me mess with Jack. It was going great at first – Ow!"

Hank had managed to snag the smoker's tongue and had given it a tug before releasing it so the smoker could talk. "Ya'll're ramblin'! Spit it out, boy! Whut t' hell hayappened ta Danny?"

"He's dead."

Hank fell silent before he shoved Smokes against the tree. "Whut did you dew!"

"I didn't. Someone's playing. Survivors returned."

Hank's hard stare lowered as he released Smokes. He backed away until he half sat-half fell, looking dazed at nothing in particular. "It's beeyen so long. Ah thought they wasn't gonna come bayack 'til Valve learnt how ta count ta three."

Smokes hesitated. It was his grudge that did it. His rivalry with Jack had put Danny in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he didn't have the right to console Danny's partner. Eventually he moved forward to pat the hunter on the shoulder.

"How long?"

"Hm?" Smokes bent down to hear the usually loud hunter's quiet question.

"How long ago did this hayappen?" Hank's normally cheerful southern voice sounded hollow as he turned to look up at the smoker.

"Uh." Smokes cast his gaze to the side while he thought. "It felt like ages, but it probably wasn't that long ago. Why?"

Hank ignored the question. "Where wuz it?"

"Before the safe house. Halfway through the level."

"So, the servahvers might jess' still be in this here campaign, am ah right?"

"…Yeah," Smokes replied slowly while eyeing Hank. "What are you planning?"

Hank pushed himself up. "So there's a chance he's still 'round here, too, am ah right?"

Understanding washed over Smokes's face. "Hank, no. Not the Director! You know what he's like. He even punishes the damn players when they don't follow his little rules! He can spawn – and de-spawn – infected whenever he feels like it!"

"It's steel worth a shot!"

Leaping away before Smokes was able to catch him, Hank disappeared into the trees.

Hank sprinted through the level, splashing through puddles, narrowly dodging around trees and the occasional wandering infected. He ran on all fours, using his mutated elongated claws to dig into the earth to propel himself further, faster with every leap added to the sprint.

It wasn't long until the blond hunter started tripping over bodies of fallen infected as well as survivors. "Guess they had to respawn a few times themselves," he muttered. "Gotta be close."

One body was familiar. It was Jack. "Aw Boss... shit...I know Tim wanted t' leadership, but not like this..."

All too soon he began to feel that tug to attack the survivors. Though, after what they did to Danny, it was only partly because of his programming.

"I need some help here! I can't get out of here by myself!"

"Yeah, yeah Nick. Hold yer horses. Tarnation! Ahma comin'. Jeez Louise!"

Flinging himself under a bush and out of sight, Hank surveyed the area through the leaves, trying to spot the survivors. There they were, the same four asshole personas the game always used as survivors.

The one in a cap, with a southern drawl similar to his own, swung open an outhouse door to release the grumpy one in what probably had been a once white suit. The large guy and angry, tough-looking girl were close by, surveying the area.

Hank stayed low, digging his claws into dirt to keep from springing at them.

The tug grew stronger and stronger. Hank finally shut the eye that hadn't been clawed out, silently hoping the survivors would hurry up and walk away.

As the need to attack only continued to grow, through the foggy haze of programming, it started to dawn on Hank that he was probably watching.

Hank clenched his fangs. 'No, no. C'mon, fight it…' He wasn't focusing on the survivors and just concentrated on not running after them, when before he realized it, the desire to chase them passed. The four survivors were finally sashaying their way forward. After another moment, he finally peered around. As he did, the outhouse door shut on its own, only to reopen to full darkness.

Prying his claws from the earth, Hank cautiously snuck to the outhouse. On the way he paused a couple times to search around, making sure the survivors weren't coming back. His head was only just starting to clear.

As Hank approached the empty blackness, he peered inside. He could see nothing but he sensed the space was huge. After a few careful steps, the door slammed shut, forcing him to tumble the rest of the way in.

Hank shook his head, disorientated from the fall, when lights filled the room blinding him. He held a hand up to shield his eye and squinted ahead.

"You're quite the persistent one," droned an uninterested voice, the speaker hidden in the bright light. He sounded like a bored businessman with way too much power.

Letting his vision adjust, Hank kept a hand up. "You're The Dee-rector, right?"

"Indeed. Not many disobey the rules enough for me to call them in here." The game's primary program folded his arms over his chest, leaning on a desk in front of many monitors that Hank only just realized were in the room. He'd never actually met The Director in 'person' before.

Hank finally dropped his hand from blocking the light and puffed up his chest in an attempt to look braver than he felt now that he was here. "Wayell gud. Ah wuz lookin' fer yew."

The Director blinked, slowly, indifferently. "Go on, Hank. I'm listening."

Hank took a breath first. "Um. Earlier mah, mah …freyend Danny wuz shot 'n' keeld. Ah wants yew ta, well yes, respawn him – but not reset him."

"No."

Hank stared at The Director in stunned horror, unable to move. "No! No, yew haff ta-"

The Director put a hand up, causing Hank to interrupt himself. "I don't have to do anything. I run a little world here and I run it how I see fit."

Hank swallowed the lump in his throat and refused to walk away. He clenched his fists. "No. Ah'm not leavin' until yew restore Danny's personality. Ah, Ah mean, after ya bring 'im bayack." He spoke firmly, though there was clearly a tremble in his voice.

The Director raised an eyebrow. "Well I'll give you this – you certainly don't back down from something you want. But there's actually a reason retaining memories is dangerous. Eventually this will spread and before long every infected will want to keep their memories. Then what? Nothing would happen when the players show up as survivors. The infected would have their own lives to live rather than keeping to the program. Eventually this world will go inactive. If it goes inactive for too long, I go inactive. If that happens, you and all the others cease to exist. That's not a threat. That's just how things would happen. It would be out of even my control."

Hank's eye widened and his mouth went dry. He couldn't respond. All he could think was that if Danny was there 'he'd be smart enough to think of just the right words, just the right tone. He'd know how to counter that.'

"Ah, but – what ee-if-"

The Director glided forward and began ushering Hank out. "You'll move on. If it helps I'll erase your memories of Danny so you won't have to miss him."

Hank scraped his claws along the tiled floor as the Director shoved him to the door. "Wait!" Once he was outside, Hank bent back and caught the door with his claws. He dug them in, trying to keep it from closing while looking back, upside-down, at a very unimpressed Director. "Wait. Whut-whut about a … deal?"

Rubbing his temple, the Director reached down, grabbing Hank by the hood of his hoodie. He ripped Hank loose from the door, but rather than tossing him outside, he dropped him on the floor instead. "I'm not agreeing – but I do like a good deal."

"Ohhkay. Okay, th' deal: yew bring Danny bayack, his mem'ries and all, but do ee-it just fer our li'l group a guys, and only fer, like, a week or so, ta see if it works. Like, we'd have no goldurn problem 'bout attacking them there servahvers, if ain't none of us could die! Now then, ah see yer point, iffen we start jess keepin' away frum them goldurn servahvers, then, wayell, yer right, we'd haff ta go back ta th' way eeit's always beeyen. BUT, iffen we kin stick to yer program, and fight th' li'l basturds frum time ta time, then maybe jess chaynge eeit ta lettin' us keep our mem'ries?" Hank spoke loud and fast, having to catch his breath after.

The Director didn't reply right away, rubbing his chin with a finger, eyeing Hank up and down while he thought. Without warning he grabbed Hank's hand, tight. "Fine. You have yourself a deal. But let me add something: If it doesn't work out, you will be the only one to live with your memories. Alone." His lips curled upwards. "That's our deal."

Hank swallowed hard.

With that The Director released Hank and glided back to his desk. He tapped a few keys on the keyboard before turning back to Hank. "You better get going. You have one week to change my mind about wiping memories with each respawn."

Hank all but flew from the room.

He soon collided with a familiar smoker, the force knocking them both down.

"Ouch… Hank?"

"DANNY!" Pushing himself up, Hank launched at the smoker, holding him close. "Are ya ok?"

Danny propped himself up on an arm. "Head kind of hurts but otherwise I'm ok. Something happen?"

Hank huffed, climbing to his feet and pulling Danny up too. "Layet's head back. Ah'll fill ya eein on th' way."