And now to continue with reviewer replies:

Oh no (guest) ~ I do pride myself with my paragraph transitions and descriptive language...because I've had to write countless essays in ELA about how various authors' descriptions of things evoke a particular response from someone. For example, the sophisticated word choice (or diction) in the above paragraph was chosen to convey that I'm competant in my writing skills and am a smart person. You're welcome.

And now, back to some Kirby, though I should note that the tone in this chapter is much different to that of the others. Well, tbh, every chapter's tone is unique thus far, so whatever.

Enjoy.

Marx had been wandering around the (for lack of a better term) mutation of Kirby's household since the puffball had straight up lost it. The more he looked around though, the less sense could be made about everything. If their mysterious captor was trying to mimic the familiar sights that Kirby had been to, then they should at least be trying to get each chamber to resemble what it should and what it represented down to the finest detail. Yet, despite the two styles of room downstairs being straight on eerie and creepy, up here things weren't quite right.

Marx had obviously lived with Kirby a lot, but he had only been to his house once in recent memory. It was like a child's room, cluttered, somewhat disorganized, yet order was somehow found within the chaos. Things of similar stature were found in the same general location, not limited to a stash of candies underneath a cabinet that Marx had kept to himself before the Sun and Moon incident. He had been delighted to find that it was still there after years of absence without Kirby having even taken a single thing out of it. But this house seemed orderly...everything in its location without the disarray. Needless to say, it was odd.

There were two bedrooms, which, compared to Kirby's normal house essentially being a bedroom with a roof and chimney, was easily the most remarkable difference. One of them was clearly a guest room, whilst the other, the master, had a bed just large enough to fit two or three people. The large window gave him ample view of the surreal, never ending darkness that surrounded them. Beside it was a closet, containing various things from the most innocent, such as some of Kirby's old playthings, to the awkward, such as plenty of replacement garments for Marx, from hat to shoes. Why these things were in the same closet, Marx hadn't a clue.

He continued searching every nook cranny he could think of for an exit or anything that could allow them to escape, but none was ever found, leaving the armless jester frantically searching everywhere by himself. This left time for him to think with himself.

"You know..." he heard someone whisper. "with Kirby in his sterile state, it wouldn't be so hard to...kill him, would it?"

Marx bashed his head on one of the walls. "Wha-? No! We aren't gonna kill Kirby! Never!" He turned around, continuing his search.

A short moment later, the voice returned, much more sinister in its tone attitude. "I know you miss the feeling, Marx." it said.

Marx raised an eyebrow. "What're you getting on about?"

"You miss the thrill of killing, Marx. The thrill of watching one beg as they slowly die at your hand. You miss the power...the excitement." Marx began to sweat a little. "Ah...so I was right—"

"No!" Marx yelled out. "I'm done being a murderer! I'm done hating Kirby! I'm done wanting to control Popstar! Things have changed! I've changed!"

"You haven't! You lie!" the voice claimed. "Kirby is still the paperweight to your ticket to power beyond compare as you are to me. To us! The true us, Marx!!"

Marx felt a strange slithering coming from his rear. He turned in horror to find that there were multiple tails, each colored gold and tipped with a sharp point, struggling to break free from...something. From him.

When he fell back down to Popstar following his fight with Kirby, much of the superpowers he had gained, although significantly weakened, were still there. It was there, after waking up aching with pain, feeling as though he was on the verge of death, he realized just how much of a monster he had become. This is why he hid. This is why he didn't return to Kirby right away; he needed to tame the monster — the demon beast — that he had become. He had done so well to contain himself that he had nearly forgotten that he had these things to begin with. He had—

A chill ran down his spine as someone grabbed him. It was the kidnapper! He shrieked, leaping away from where he was struggling before turning to face his—

There was no one there. Then who...?

The voice cackled in an insane fit of laughter. "Pathetic! Have you forgotten the greatest gift we've received?"

Marx pondered for a minute, resting his head on the palm of his hand to think. What could...wait a minute. He looked down and he wanted to scream, yet couldn't. It was, indeed, a hand. But not a hand like he would've imagined himself having. He pictured himself having stubs like Kirby did, but these were claws, though it seemed as though he had trimmed them in the past. Still, it didn't help that he was terrified beyond relief.

The jester layed on the floor, curled up into a little ball, shaking. "Wh...what do you want from me?"

"I don't want something from you." Marx this time didn't just hear the voice. This time he felt it. He actually felt his lips moving, saying these words for the first time in a long time, though in truth it had been speaking throughout this entire conversation. "I...want something from us..."

He sniffled, his eyes starting to tear up from the terror he was experiencing. "...You want me to kill Kirby, right...?"

"Perhaps so...perhaps not. You haven't forgot our ambitions? Our intent when we took over this planet?" it — he — asked himself. "Or have you forgotten that, too?"

"I...haven't..." Marx groaned as he felt his muscles start to grow numb, his insanity starting to take control.

"Then you are mistaken!" he responded.

The claws now started to grasp his neck, as if to choke out whatever control Marx had left along with his life. "N...no... I...won't let you..."

"But you already have. You claim to be struggling, so then why did you allow me to stay with you all this time? Why did you allow me the means to take control of us on multiple occasions?"

"I know...what you are..." he choked, the tears leaking out of his eyes, tightly being kept shut. "You...you will destroy everything..."

"Then stop crying and stop me. But then again, you'd have to be crying to begin with. Open your eyes, fool!"

The jester slowly allowed his eyelids to open up. He wished he didn't. The demon beast had moved him to a mirror, to see what he had been turned into. His hat was torn, as was the shirt he was wearing. His face and bodied were nearly unrecognizable, especially his eyes, which more resembled black holes than they did eyes, poring blood down his face and features. He wore wore an evil, wicked smile on his face, with plenty of sharp teeth visible.

He tried to scream for Kirby. For help. But he couldn't scream anymore. He was no longer Marx. This thing had become Marx...and yet, taking a good look at himself, he couldn't stop himself from laughing like a maniac.

"Oh, this is going to be fun!!!" he spoke. He loved the demonic nature of his voice, the feeling of his hands, the scary feeling one is instilled with upon seeing him for the first time. Oh, he had been so stupid! How could he hate this thing? This...feeling? The insanity that coursed through his veins — his strength! And then he reminded himself who was to blame for his...irrational fear of this wonderous being that was himself — his TRUE self!!

"It's been...so long since I've played around with Kirby...hasn't it..." he told himself in the mirror, the reflection nodding in approval. "Surely we can't be the only one here having fun, can we? Kirby...he's the epitome of child-like fun! He'll love what we will do to him..."

With one last cackling, he headed back towards the central living room where Kirby had been when Marx had left in search of...what, exactly? Who knew? Who cares! Look at him, there! Just rocking back and forth, mumbling nonsense to himself! The puffball was in such a vulnerable state that he could just kill him then and there without his adversary even flinching!

But no. That wouldn't do. Kirby needed to die a more...satisfying death. A death that satisfied his killer. A long, painful death fitting for the one that had caused Marx such pain himself.

The puffball didn't even notice Marx approach him, who had opted to hide his more...obvious features behind himself. He wanted to draw this out for as long as possible.

"Ha ha!" he heard Kirby chuckle to himself. "M-Marx'll find the way out! He'll find the way out of here!"

For a second, Marx did allow a moment of pity for the Star Warrior. He had gone through so much...yet here he had fallen so far. And now he would die so painfully...

"Y-yes! Die! Die, Kirby, die! Ha! Poyo! Ha-ha-ha-ha!!"

Uh, okay. This was getting strange. How did he— it doesn't matter!

"No-no it doesn't, poyo!"

"SHUT UP!!" Marx yelled.

Kirby very suddenly and very quickly turned toward his friend, the latter swearing he had something break when he did so. "M-Marx!" he mumbled. "Have you found the way out??"

"...I believe so, Kirby."

"Lying, Marx! You lying to Kirby, poyo!"

"No, I'm not. C'mon, you should trust me by now..."

"Y-yes! Kirby should trust you, poyo!"

"Right...so come over here." Marx wooed, backing away towards the hall which led to the bedrooms.

Kirby, changing his directions almost on a whim, followed in pursuit, but Marx was nowhere to be found. "Marx! Kirby no find poyo! Ha!"

"I'm here!" he yelled. Kirby heard the voice coming from the second room down the hall on the left — the guest room. Upon entering the small room, the door was shut behind him, yet he didn't seem phased at all. "Wow! Is just like Kirby's house!"

There was no response. He looked around, turning his head quickly and with no discernible pattern, trying to find his friend. "Where did Marx go, poyo?"

"Oh...I'm right here..."

Kirby flinched as he felt something pierce his right stub. He looked straight at it, noticing that there now was a large hole, blood dripping from it, cut by a familiar golden line. The puffball's heart skipped a beat as his train of thought and sanity suddenly righted themselves. The pain...oh, it stung so much...

He yelped as another pierced his left stub and two more stabbed through his feet. He was left breathless, gasping for breath as the sharp pain made him whimper. He felt like gagging. But the sight in front of him nearly made him throw up.

"M...M-Marx..." he cried.

Kirby was then thrown up against the wall, still attached to these metallic chains by this monster. He groaned when he impacted the wall, pain shooting through his back to every part of his body.

Marx, sadistic grin and all, approached his victim with glee, eying him over as though he were a purchased slave. Kirby had very much become a slave, a torture slave to this maniac, in less than a second, and he couldn't help but cry as all the trust and love he had put in Marx was proven wrong in an instant.

"Oh, Kirby..." Marx taunted. "You want your buddy to come back? To come and save you? Well...here's a news flash: I never was your friend, and now...it is time that I teach you that lesson."

Marx reached behind him, grasping what appeared to be a small dagger. Before he did anything else, he starred at the puffball one last time, to enjoy his suffering. To watch the blood leak out of where his four leads were keeping his victim stuck against the wall of the room.

At last, he approached Kirby again. "You and I, Kirby...we have done so much together..." He pinched Kirby's cheek. "We lived together...we fought together...heh heh..." He chuckled as he remembered it. "We even loved together..."

"...so it wasn't a dream...?" Kirby whimpered.

"No, of course it wasn't a dream! It was real! All of it! And...we enjoyed every...single...second of it, didn't we...?"

Kirby closed his eyes in terror. No, no, no! This...this couldn't be—

"Every time I tried to break away or talk during our...passionate kiss, you just smacked our lips back together. You were..." He laughed. "desparate to tell me how much you loved me, weren't you?"

He wanted to say no. Kirby really wanted to say no. But he couldn't. There was no denying what had happened. Flinching slightly and shaking nervously, he slowly nodded, his eyes still kept shut.

"Oh...and you're still blushing." Both he and Kirby could feel the latter's cheeks start to grow warm. "After all that I have done here to you...after pulling out...this here knife...you still have this animalistic instinct within you that loves me. How cute."

Kirby started shaking his head frantically. No no no no—

"Then perhaps I should...satisfy some of your desires first, shall I?" Marx said before forcing his mouth upon Kirby's. The feeling this time wasn't that of a long-awaited dream coming true, but that of a nightmare come to life. A nightmare that Kirby hadn't ever even thought about. As Marx's tounge sloshed around in his victim's mouth, establishing exactly who was in the bargaining position of this ordeal, said victim was desperately trying to pull away, to escape this tyranny. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He was truly trapped, with no way out. Why did he have to regain his sense of thought then and there? If he was still delirious, these thoughts wouldn't be entering his mind. He probably wouldn't be giving a care in the world about however Marx intended to torture him. He'd be detached from reality, after all. But here he was, fully aware of what was being done to him. He choked in agony.

Once Marx pulled away after what felt like hours, he was left a panting mess of tears, sweat, and blood. Marx took a deep breath, he himself perhaps having acted a little too unrestrained. As much as he called Kirby's love toward him primitive and unworthy, he secretly couldn't deny his own passion toward the pink puffball, either. But Kirby didn't need to know of the irony. He was surely on the brink of being broken, if not already past that point. If anything, it only helped. He would both be inflicting terror upon his victim whilst, simultaneously, getting his own fair share of pleasure. It was so selfish...so much like him.

"Heh..." he breathed, his attachments pinning Kirby in place even wavering in satisfaction. "So this is what the great Hero of Dreamland has been reduced to?" Kirby couldn't even speak any words in response. He could only sob to himself. "Not that I can blame you. You were so eager...so desparate for closure, weren't you? But why?"

"M...Marx...please...no more..." Kirby moaned.

"But Kirby..." he leaned in closer. "You know deep in your mind that I'm not finished with you; that you have no chance of escaping my grasp. Not this time." He pulled out the dagger again, holding it up right next to Kirby's face. "Let's play, shall we? I heard you used to love playing games, but one day called them...I don't know...childish? Well, hopefully this game suits your tastes a bit more."

"Marx, stop..." Kirby begged and begged, but his requests would not be heeded. Marx hushed him with his finger.

"You see, Kirby...the rules are simple. I ask a question, you answer it, and I'll act based on your response." he explained. Given the positioning of the knife, Kirby could easily understand what he meant by act based on your response. "Got it? Alright. First question: how long have you been having these...dreams about me?"

"..." Kirby tried to answer, but lacked the words or will to say anything. Why was he being so self-restraining? So resilient? This would not do.

"Hm. That's not an answer." Marx spoke coldly. However, against the captive's expectations, he didn't straight up stab him hard and deep. He instead sliced off a small bit into Kirby's skin, just deep enough for him to yelp in pain, but no deeper.

This didn't really provide any relief toward the situation at hand, and Kirby, breathing in and out in a panic from what he had built up to be a very painful wrong answer. Blood soon started spilling out of this new wound, down his round body.

"Provide me with an inadequate answer again, Kirby, and I won't give you any more mercy." Marx explained, grinning. "So I'll ask again; for how long have you been dreaming about me?"

Kirby slowed down his breathing in order to actually produce an audible response. Quietly, he said, "F...for a long time. Not long after we first met."

"Hm. Was I that great of a charmer that I wooed the almighty Kirby of the Stars?" Marx continued to exert his dominant position, but inexplicably his patience grew thin. "That was a question, Kirby, now answer it!"

In his blind rage, Marx's knife struck far deeper than his more calm, calculated cut from not too long ago. Kirby screeched once it struck before quickly answering, "Yes! Yes! You did! Pl-please don't strike me again!"

"Then why did you not resist?" Marx yelled, continuing to stab his victim with each question without even giving time for an answer. "Why did you just stand there when I first impaled you?? Are you not trained to fight back?? Do you love me that much??"

"Y-yes!" the puffball cried out.

"Then...th-th..." Marx suddenly started to struggle. Something started to feel wrong. Really wrong. There was a burning sensation in his forehead and an aching in his heart. Wait...he had one?? When?? Why?? What was—

Kirby heard the demon gasp when he suddenly started...crying? "Why...why didn't you let me know sooner, Kirby?" it said.

Out of nowhere, the spikes were gone, the maniacal look of the jester's eyes had disappeared, and he suddenly seemed...back to normal. All that remained were his hands, whose claws now more clearly resembled fingers, and the knife, no longer digging into the puffball's flesh. Kirby himself was suddenly standing, as though he were never mounted up on the wall, but all of the wounds were still present, still bleeding. His salty tears stung the blood that was leaking out, but that didn't really matter too much. He was starting to feel very...cold. And tired.

He sighed deeply and said, "I...I was scared, poyo... I didn't think you would...accept it...or me...if I said anything..."

Marx looked up at his friend, and what he had just done to his friend. He just looked at Kirby, a blank expression on his face, before turning to the knife still in his hand. "I...I'm sorry, Kirby..."

"Marx, what're you—"

"I-I can't live with what I am...what I've turned into..."

"M-Marx! Wait!"

"I-I've caused you so much pain...so much humiliation...so much sadness... It's tearing me apart. I can't afford to put you in danger..."

He raised the dagger, now pointed at himself rather than at Kirby, whose eyes now widened in realization of what he was going to do next.

"Poyo, no!" Kirby yelled. He leapt toward his friend, but it was too late. The blade had already pierced straight through him, with Kirby landing face-first into the ground. He had to knock the knife out of Marx's hand, but his sudden drowsiness had made him leap with the wrong angle, landing beside his friend.

Marx gasped and coughed out blood, saying nothing as he, too, found his way to the ground. With a thud, he didn't move again.

The shock and horror started to kick in again, Kirby's mind doing its best to convince itself to calm down.

This couldn't've just happened... This didn't happen...

This isn't real...

This was insanity, surely.

Maybe this was just a bad dream... A nightmare.

He'll wake up in his bed as though nothing had happened...

But had he fallen asleep in his bed? No. He hadn't. Where would he wake up then?

So many questions. So little time. The sensation of sweet relief kicked in, and Kirby embraced it fully. In reality, he had lost too much blood.

His eyes shut themselves.

Suddenly, a clock strikes 7. AM or PM? Who knew? And Kirby was suddenly awake. Ah, so it had been just a dream?

Or was it?

Confused? Me, too.

But that doesn't matter. The point is that this isn't the end of the story; it is the end of the beginning.

TBC next chapter