Although this chapter should probably contain graphic scenes, I've spared myself the trouble of looking up graphic references and adding a trigger warning (TW) here by omitting any extreme descriptions of torture, blood, etc.
HOWEVER there ARE descriptions of that stuff, so TW: mild torture, cursing, injuries.
AND PLEASE. DO NOT USE NIGHTMARE AS A ROLE MODEL.
Enjoy!
P.S.: if anyone knows the artist who drew Mafiatale!Gaster, please let me know.
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He got careless.
Nightmare would never truly admit the overwhelming arrogance compressed into one small Monster SOUL, but he knew it was there, an omnipresent weight hanging over him and infused with each disastrous mistake he made over the years.
Some mistakes were more dangerous than others; some were slip-ups or small blunders that never should've happened. Ever.
He was a leader, the glorious King of Negativity. One mistake could cost him a lot, (It cost him Error- if only he had run and thought faster, perhaps he would be with him right now, wreaking havoc on the Star Sanses.) and to be beaten by a bunch of low-lives because of one was incredibly demeaning.
His defeat allowed them to manhandle him halfway across the city and into a stale-smelling room, where they trapped him for twenty-four hours.
And then, being strapped onto a frigid iron chair left him a lot, maybe too much time to contemplate and think.
Contemplating was fine; contemplation, to him, was a one-way street. The topic stayed the same for the contemplative period, and faded away slowly to leave him with a blaring silence, only to be refilled quietly with another sloppily-stringed reasoning.
Thinking, however, was unpredictable, and anything unpredictable was dangerous.
Thinking led him along a wonderful, marigold-lined path, only to shift imperceptibly to a slippery, rocky road, covered in poison ivy and marsh plants and masses of brambles. Thinking could tense and hunch his shoulders while his gaze bore into a cold, white wall, wondering, pondering, blaming, why.
Nightmare had started with a thirst for dust and a desire to kill. Somewhere along the line, he had transitioned to his losses, then his fucking subtle SOUL traits. He didn't choose them, although they were the reason why he seemed to fail so little, yet fall so hard when he did.
For example, 'fun' could be the reason as to 'how' and 'why' he failed to guard his blind spot. He hated to admit 'arrogance' as the one of the central factors, but this time, he caved in to the stupendous failure of his and stuck that on the metaphorical exemplary billboard too.
He held his 'persistence' accountable for his old place in the social hierarchy. Without it, he might've never founded the gang or continued living with his head held high, despite his standing as the scum of the Multiverse.
And what good persistence has done him. If only that trait had presented itself earlier, he might've been happier, met the Dark Sanses another, more peaceful way because their SOULs were linked, in a way.
Thinking is too much, Nightmare decides, and grudgingly falls asleep for the first time in forty eight hours.
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It had been a few days since his capture. Any attempts at pressing sensitive information out of him were fruitless the following hours, so, on the fourth day, two Monster grunts had blindfolded him with a thick black cloth (the little shits. Once he escaped the anti-magic handcuffs, he would decimate them) and roughly dragged him halfway across the musty establishment, taking random turns and often going in circles to try to confuse his sense of direction.
It didn't exactly work, but they did not have to know that, now did they?
Sadly, once he was cuffed, his corrupted form faded away and left this bare skeleton construct, fragile and easy to manipulate, so chucking him from their cold arms to the uneven concrete cell floor took little to no effort, even jostling painfully his bruised ribs.
The gravel dug into his porcelain cheek. He could hear the loud puffs of breath on either side of his limp body, daring him to attempt escape. The trick was quite tempting, but he wasn't as stupid as to make a run for it. He'd never make it in his condition; this body had not been subjected to intense battles in a long, long time, especially without magic.
Once one of the brutes assured his compliance by toeing his spine, much to his annoyance, then they shut the steel door with a loud clang. And Nightmare's world, already obscured by the rugged cloth and his frustration, became even darker.
Ironically, he thought less in the dark.
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In all fairness, perhaps he did deserve the fresh lacerations and cracked ribs to an extent; after all, Monsters tended to care too much about their close ones, and he had shot the second-in-command.
He wouldn't have let it slide so easily, either. Plus, he was also the supreme boss back in his world, so he could definitely comprehend the Gaster's actions. This mafia and his own band of lackeys weren't complete polar opposites.
The Gang might not display their feelings as openly as a wilting daffodil amongst ashes, but they cared too deeply about one another, and they knew it, no matter how cold they acted towards one another, or how long Nightmare locked them up in the cells.
But that didn't mean shit to his pride and temper. All he could do was endure for now, since caving in to the pain and talking about anything, agreeing to their invitations, would mean actually admitting defeat. He took the daily sessions with biting grace. Granted, he occasionally wheezed small, tormented noises, or sharp shouts of agony at the sensation of metal slicing through bone to the marrow, but that was expected of him, of almost any living being capable of expression.
Most, almost all, of the few actions he effected had an underlay of simmering fury, and Nightmare knew that his captors could feel it. Sure, he wasn't fully conscious at times, and sure, he didn't always know who exactly was in charge of stringing him up from the ceiling or who healed him at night- or what he considered to be night- but he knew that his inability to unleash that fury swelled their ego into bulbous balloons of hot air.
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Haha this chapter is lovely, isn't it :D
yis
Also, I love how we literally have at least 6 different conversations with this one document (including Go.ogle Hangouts) XD
Indeed.
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Just making this clear: this Gaster cannot beat Nightmare in a fair fight, although it might be tight, considering circumstances. Many. Circumstances.
Sorry for the huge delay; I had no idea how to go about this chapter, and it still seems too abstract and disorganized for my taste, but whatever. Potential plot markers, eh?
Stay safe!!
(Dec. 19, 2020)
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