Fascinating. One had to respect the skeleton for his extensive research on various timelines. He was adept at discerning minute shifts in expression, infuriatingly laidback. Brandishing Papyrus' naiveté as a weapon, while effective in pinching his nerve, did not trigger the intended rage. No, he is as broken a creature as they come, crumbling beneath that crusty coat and greasy shirt. He may adore his brother, but casual taunting was about as effective as a pebble tossed against a mountain with the expectation the latter would crumble. The dead cannot hear the fatalism that has been corroding his hope since the decades preceding this determined human's fall.
The star winks, and the oaken box next to it is filled with dust mites. No need for more food than what is on hand: a psychologically damaged spinach-egg pie. Heh.
The approach, admittedly, is more exhilarating than the battle. The dagger is steady. Red-gold light glints off the blade's purity. Each footstep clacks and reverberates off the walls to the self-improvised beat of a war drum. Shadows from the support pillars catch the dust that drifts by. The hall appears empty, but soon a bone cavalry will chew through the tile, and hovering generals will scream plasma jets, and heat will rise from the molten tile in a wave as a serpentine formation whips past.
His determination is as pitiful as his Karmic Retribution.
Consuming the pie will not warrant comment, but there will be a shift. Smile tighter, posture rigid, orbits darker. His struggle is futile, and he will know. Then, he will offer his duplicitous mercy, but in this time forgiveness yields betrayal. Experience recalls the piercing wall. Blood painting the white to red would have been picaresque. Death could have been beautiful. … But souls do not bleed.
Therefore, it is best to avoid his mercy and press the onslaught until his guard drops. He can't keep dodging forever.
A silhouette warps into existence at the third pillar in the closed row. No bell tolls.
*that expression that you're wearing…
He pauses, considers. Three kills, ten kills, it matters not. The verdict remains constant regardless the hollowness in his eye sockets.
*you're really kind of a freak, huh?
When dust covers the dagger, it ceases to reflect light.
A/N A short blurb to help clear my mind for the longer project I'm working on. I may edit. I may not. I mainly wanted to practice crawling inside Genocide Chara's head. Undertale belongs to Toby, of course.
I am currently seeking a beta for my multi-chapter Undertale fic. If you are interested, please send me a note. However, I am in need of a strong idea bouncer and someone who knows extensively about the secrets found inside and outside the Game.