Seraphyllic-⭑-Prohibited Wish - DrakianDH - Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake (Cartoon 2023) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Azure

Chapter Text

The pain from the cracks in Scarab’s carapace persisted, despite the repeated application of various healing salves. Nearby, Orbo chatted with someone on the other end of the phone line. Scarab remained uncertain about the impending punishment, only aware that Orbo seemed to be going easy on him. As they waited in silence for Orbo to conclude his call, Scarab used the time to reflect on his actions and brace himself for what was to come.

“Alright then, mate. I’ll send him your way. Catch you later!” With a slight startle, Scarab stood up straight, arms crossed respectfully behind his back. It was frustrating not to have his cane with him. Orbo turned toward him with a casual smile. “You know you’re catching a break here, right, mate?”

Scarab’s mandibles clenched, but he managed to conceal his anger, keeping a composed exterior. Instead, he nodded and replied, “Yes, sir.” Orbo’s smile widened, clearly pleased with Scarab’s response.

“Good,” Orbo said before rolling himself closer to Scarab. “I hear you injure Prismo, you better be prepared to say goodbye to your arms – both of them.” Scarab suppressed a squeak but couldn’t help but flinch. He felt a wave of embarrassment, but he quickly set it aside to focus on the involvement of Prismo. Why was the Wishmaster part of this situation, anyway?

“See you around, mate!” Scarab barely had a moment to process the situation before his vision swirled and faded to black. Panic momentarily gripped him as he sensed himself falling, but the ground never came. Instead, he snapped back to reality inside the Time Room – why was he in here?

Once again, Scarab found himself with little time to adjust to his new surroundings before the unmistakable Wishmaster appeared. The pink silhouette of Prismo lit up with recognition when he spotted Scarab. “Scrabby! Hey, good to see you.”

Scarab's gaze lingered on the shadow, his eyes subtly scanning for any sign of Orbo or another assigned watcher. His "violent" classification had earned him constant supervision, a fact he was all too aware of. "Why am I here?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity, realizing it was only him and the enigmatic Wishmaster.

Prismo's smile shifted into a more nervous expression, his hand rising to scratch at an invisible itch on his spectral neck. "Well, I put in a good word for you. So, you're going to be my assistant or something. I believe your main role will be something along the lines of a makeshift janitor in here." Scarab couldn't suppress a glare, channeling all his anger and loathing into it, hoping to make the Wishmaster squirm. He crossed his arms and straightened up, trying to appear taller, but he felt a peculiar sensation. The pain lingered, a distant throb in the back of his mind, though the discomfort in his leg had vanished. Ignoring the strange feeling, he poured as much vexation into his voice as he could.

"A janitor?" Scarab mused. It was a role he could tolerate. Orbo had been right; he was getting off easy. But then came the second most obvious question, and he interrupted Prismo before he could elaborate on the punishment. "Why would you put in a good word?" The shadow paused, his grin wavering into a more nervous expression.

"Well, I couldn't just let them do what they were planning. Besides," Prismo attempted to correct his smile into a grin, "I needed some extra help, and it seemed like you weren't going to be busy for a while." Scarab clenched his hand into a fist, half-expecting pain to follow, but all he felt was a faint sensation, as though something hard was being crushed beneath his fingers.

Scarab chose to dismiss the strange sensation, opting instead to raise a limb to his face, mimicking a mortal gesture he had picked up. However, what he encountered was not the hard exoskeleton of his mask, but something entirely unexpected – a distinct fuzz, akin to the sound of TV static. Startled, he attempted to raise his hand in front of his face, but found himself unable to do so. In his surprise, he glanced downward.

His exclamation of outrage filled the room, causing Prismo to flinch as Scarab began patting himself down. "Wha- What?!"

"They didn't tell you...? Oh, man, your new form is a dream," Prismo explained, prompting Scarab's head to snap towards the pink shadow with a hiss.

"A dream?! New form?!" Scarab bit back any further questions, instead biting down on nothing (nothing!) as his blue (Blue! His hands were blue!) hands dug into themselves. Somehow, he could still feel that distant crush beneath his fingertips, and the realization that he was now a dream led him to speculate that he was crushing something while asleep.

Alright, he thought, he could adapt to this. Being a shadow was entirely new to him, and it promised to broaden his horizons. Once he regained his job, he might be able to acquire a few new skills. He could immerse himself in the inner workings of the Time Room, keep a watchful eye on Prismo (cursing Prismo all the while), and maybe even learn some of the tricks of the Wishmaster trade. The plan was set: master the art of being a Wishmaster, reclaim his old position, somehow tarnish Prismo's perfect reputation, report him to the boss, prove his competence as a Wishmaster, and, at long last, attain what he had desired for so long.

Suppressing his objections and grievances, he reluctantly acknowledged that he now answered to Prismo, a fact further reinforced by his new blue form. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, eagerly awaiting Prismo's instructions. He hoped to receive some kind of task soon; he needed a distraction.

Prismo observed Scarab, his eye wide. Finally, Scarab's frustration reached its limit, prompting him to snap, "Well?" Prismo blinked, emitted a nervous chuckle, scratched his phantom neck, and nonchalantly shrugged.

"I don't know, uh," Prismo hesitated, sweeping his gaze across the room. Scarab followed suit, and to his astonishment, he realized that the room was in a deplorable state. Cobwebs clung to the corners, although the absence of spiders left him perplexed. Beer bottles and cans littered the floor, a puddle had formed next to the hot tub (a blatant display of unprofessionalism), trash was scattered in the tub, and the remote and a laptop were strewn across the floor. "They suggested that you start by cleaning, so... would you like to do that?"

He was on the verge of adding "desperately," but he opted to withhold the word, merely responding with a curt "Yes." Prismo emitted a thoughtful hum, magically producing a broom from somewhere, and glided over to where Scarab stood. The smaller of the two glared at the pink shadow and yanked the broom from his grasp. Prismo raised both hands in a sign of surrender and smoothly slid to the opposite wall.

With an angry vigor, he walked over to the nearest cobweb and attempted to sweep at it. Of course, being in a 2D dimension form didn't help with removing 3D objects, so he stood there sweeping, trying to touch the web. Prismo watched him for a little while, watching as Scarab got more and more annoyed and angry. He opened his mouth to say something, but the blue shadow snapped his head towards Prismo with a very harsh glare and his mouth slammed shut.

The room filled with a tense silence as Scarab persisted in his futile efforts to interact with the stubborn cobweb. He was determined not to let his anger and frustration get the best of him. It was already a trying situation, but he refused to give Prismo the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure.

Hours passed in silence as Scarab persistently, yet unsuccessfully, battled the stubborn cobweb, with neither of them uttering a single word.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
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　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
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-----------------✩⋆--------⭑✧⭑--------⋆✩---------------
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Nearly two weeks had passed since Scarab's arrival in the Time Room as part of his punishment, and Prismo observed the smaller shadow's growing frustration with each passing hour. Despite offering a few comments, mainly in an attempt to assist, Scarab remained stubborn, determined to tackle the task on his own. He eventually managed to figure out how to sweep away cobwebs, although it consumed several hours for each web. Prismo couldn't quite fathom how Scarab could spend so much time on a single cobweb, but on the bright side, at least the web was eradicated in the end.

Prismo couldn't help but chuckle at his own joke, his fingers dancing across the keyboard as words flowed onto the screen. He noticed the sound of Scarab tackling another web, the soft hum of the tub in the background, and the unusual lack of depth in the keys, given his 2D form. The atmosphere was soothing and conducive to the flow of inspiration onto the page.

As Prismo worked on his writing, he couldn't help but notice the intensifying sound of Scarab's sweeping, a clear indicator of the growing annoyance. He cast a glance toward the former god auditor, confirming his expectations. Scarab, now adorned in a blue exoskeleton, had grown so irate that he abandoned one cobweb to tackle another on the opposite side of the room, closer to Prismo. A smile spread across Prismo's face, and he opened his mouth to speak.

"You know, I think Orbo let you off easy," he commented, sliding over to the edge of the wall. He had hoped to start up a conversation, making something work-related would work, but all he got was silence. With a friendly gesture, he continued, "It probably helped that I put in a good word for you." Prismo summoned his laptop once more, ignoring the small grumble that escaped Scarab's lips.

"Maybe you can even grant a wish in a couple hundred years," Prismo suggested. "But you gotta pay your dues first."

"Only people who never pay their dues say that," Scarab mumbled, directing a glare at the web he was working on. Prismo pretended not to hear it, instead bringing up the character creator.

"Hey, Scarab," Prismo called out, causing the blue shadow to turn in his direction. "Why don't you take five? I'll show you how to use my character creation program." Scarab paused his sweeping, took a moment to think, and then leaned the broom against the corner before walking over. He appeared hesitant but managed to slide to the corner of the wall with ease.

Prismo's grin widened. "So, I like to start with an overall theme. How 'bout," he pondered for a moment, "True heroes?"

"No," Scarab interjected, leaning in to get a better look at the screen. Prismo glanced up at the smaller shadow, slightly surprised by the interruption. "Put in... dark medieval mystery drama."

"Wow, okay," Prismo replied, amused by the unexpected input.

With a playful grin, Prismo adjusted the settings on his character creator to match Scarab's unique choice. "Dark medieval mystery drama it is," he said, nodding in agreement. "Let's see... we'll start with character appearance. Now, Scarab, you can get creative here. What kind of character do you want to create?"

Scarab contemplated the question for a moment, his blue features creased in thought. "I want a character who exudes an air of power and mystique," he finally responded, his attention completely fixed on the screen as Prismo made a base of what Scarab wanted. "A figure cloaked in armor, a master of fighting."

Prismo chuckled, his fingers dancing across the controls as he brought Scarab's vision to life on the screen. "I like where you're going with this," he said. "Let's add a hooded cloak and some mysterious, glowing eyes. What color should the eyes be?"

"Electric red," Scarab answered promptly, his focus fixed on the developing character. It didn't take long before the tables had turned, with Scarab now instructing Prismo on how to operate the character creation program. Scarab crafted a meticulously designed and well-balanced character, with minimal weaknesses. Prismo found himself pleasantly surprised; it had taken him weeks to create a character as proficient as Scarab's, albeit not as inclined toward violence.

"Alright, that seems about it," Prismo commented, clicking the tab to save the character. "What do you want to name him? I suggest something related to his appearance or personality."

Scarab gazed at the character on the screen for a prolonged moment, his expression completely inscrutable as he contemplated. Finally, he spoke, "Vermillion Knight." Prismo promptly typed in the name, and Scarab's character came to life. "Wait, this won't lead to any unauthorized universes, will it?" Scarab inquired suddenly, his wide and angry eyes fixed on Prismo. It made Prismo wonder if Scarab was capable of feeling anything other than anger and annoyance.

"What? No, VK will remain confined to this laptop and this laptop only. I promise VK won't exist in any universes other than the one we're writing." Prismo lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. He had discovered that Scarab tended to ease up a bit when he did that, so he employed the gesture as often as possible whenever Scarab was vexed (which was primarily when dealing with Prismo).

"Don't call him that," Scarab instructed, and Prismo noticed a subtle relaxation in the blue shadow's form. At Prismo's quizzical expression, Scarab elaborated. "Don't call Vermillion Knight VK."

"Got it," Prismo acknowledged, bringing up another of his own characters (one that bore a resemblance to himself) to showcase.

Chapter 2: Boundless Heavens

Chapter Text

“Soo, Scrabby,” Scarab felt anger simmering beneath his exoskeleton, but he chose to overlook it, instead tilting his head vaguely in Prismo’s direction. The pink shadow sported a smile when he noticed Scarab’s attention focused on him. “You need any help?”

Scarab’s grip on the broom’s handle tightened as he shook his head, returning to the task of presently attempting (and failing) to nudge a beer can toward the trash bags in the corner. He could almost sense Prismo’s frown, and a faint sense of satisfaction washed over him for having succeeded in unsettling the other. He also felt a twinge of apprehension about displeasing Prismo, who was technically his new boss, but Scarab knew him well enough to realize it was futile to fret over it.

“You sure, dude?” Prismo inquired, moving closer to Scarab along the wall. “You’ve been trying to reach that can for hours. I could give you a few-”

“I am perfectly fine with doing my job if you will stop trying to take it,” Scarab retorted, swatting Prismo’s hand away when it attempted to touch the can. The Wishmaster frowned, and this time Scarab could see it, accompanied by a soft hum, a little habit he had noticed Prismo did when he was contemplating.

“What about…” Prismo started, prompting Scarab to glance over and see what the pink shadow was up to. However, Scarab chose to ignore him and resumed his efforts on the can. “I help you?” The sound of beer cans rolling caught Scarab’s attention, causing him to lift his head to see what Prismo was doing this time. He glared at the Wishmaster as Prismo pushed some beer cans in the general direction.

“Do you enjoy taking my job?” Scarab sarcastically asked, paying no mind to the now-closer cans.

“What? No, I don’t want to take your job. I’m not even trying to take your job; I’m just… helping it along,” Prismo explained before sliding a bit farther away. Scarab maintained his glare as he once more attempted to nudge the original can. After a moment, Prismo sighed and opened a door, leaving Scarab alone in the Time Room.

He contemplated the idea of seizing the laptop while Prismo was absent, or perhaps grabbing the remote to check in on the universes. The urge to chase down a target, to experience the sweet taste of victory after a successful capture, had been gnawing at him. He longed for the thrill of the hunt or simply the gratification of taking something down. But he knew it would be futile. Orbo would catch on immediately, as would Prismo, and he’d be subjected to an even more severe punishment, one far worse, while Prismo likely laughed at his misfortune.

Scarab had to begrudgingly acknowledge that Prismo’s plan was deviously clever, not at all what he would have expected from the Wishmaster. Even Prismo’s seemingly “friendly” gestures of trying to steal his job were a form of cruelty, coming from the pink shadow. Scarab let out a sigh, shifting his broom to strike at a new can. Unfortunately, the broom passed right over it, accomplishing nothing.

So, after what felt like an eternity (minutes? hours?), Prismo finally returned. Scarab had given up about halfway through his time alone, but he quickly sprang back into action, clutching the broom and pretending to be busy as soon as Prismo reappeared. The Wishmaster frowned once more, observing him for a moment before heading over to the laptop to start a new chapter. The soft, almost inaudible clicking of the keys brought a strange sense of tranquility over Scarab, shifting his focus from the troublesome can to Prismo’s work.

Despite scolding himself for descending to the point of yielding to non-work-related impulses, Scarab gradually began to edge closer to Prismo. Silently, stealthily, Prismo remained oblivious to his gradual approach. He was a remarkably easy target. Scarab could hear Prismo’s muttered thoughts once he reached the same wall, deciding that was near enough to the Wishmaster.

“Hey, Scarab?” Scarab subtly flinched (fortunately, going unnoticed by the Wishmaster), and offered a questioning hum. “I’m having a bit of trouble with this action scene. Since you’ve been out in the multiverse before, could I have your help?”

Scarab turned toward Prismo, whose focus remained fixed on the screen, and cautiously began to edge closer. If he had his cane, he would have been considerably quicker, and it would have been easier to not get Prismo’s full attention. Nevertheless, the broom sufficed, and Prismo’s gaze swiftly redirected to the words on the screen when Scarab stood close enough to see as well.

Scarab quickly read through what Prismo had deemed a “pretty good fight scene but boring,” only to find it was the most inaccurate depiction of a fight he had ever encountered. He couldn’t help but feel the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the words. Was this supposed to be the climactic final battle or something?

“It’s really supposed to be the final fight, but I don’t have the heart to kill off one of the characters,” Prismo explained nervously, rubbing his spectral neck. Well, that certainly explained why it was lacking.

“Real mortals don’t immediately bleed after getting punched. The blood gets trapped under their skin and leaves a bruise. If the punch is hard enough, it could break the mortal’s arm,” Scarab pointed out, using the broom’s handle to indicate the words on the screen. It felt strange to see the broom’s handle traverse the floor and reach the computer, but it served the purpose. Prismo emitted an “ooh” and quickly made the necessary revisions. “No, it takes a lot more than that to break an arm,” Scarab added, and Prismo responded with a hum before offering the laptop to him.

“Could you rewrite it then? I suppose you’re the expert,” Prismo offered. “Expert” was an understatement; Scarab had learned those facts through personal experience. But why was Prismo offering his most prized possession to him? Scarab knew enough about the program (mainly through snooping) to understand how to delete the story. The satisfaction he could derive from hurting Prismo would be brief, but maybe, if he made the book Prismo’s absolute pride, then he could delete it and inflict even more damage.

With a slight nod, Scarab sat down and took the laptop, their forms barely brushing, another faint sensation of TV static. He brushed it off and started scrolling up. “Hey, wait-”

“I’m just trying to understand what led up to the fight,” Scarab interrupted, casting a small glare at the Wishmaster. “Your writing is too ‘fluffy’ for me, anyway.”

Scarab swiftly skimmed through the beginning of the fight and the events that led up to it, his mouth left with a bitter taste at the overwhelming lack of substance. It was devoid of what? Hurt, perhaps? Regardless, Scarab dived into the task at hand. The initial portion featured a clichéd villain speech, a classic element of stories that, in Scarab’s opinion, was more tedious than the fight Prismo had initially written. Instead, he decided to place the speech within the context of the fight.

“I never thought of that,” Prismo murmured, his eyes widening with curiosity as the words reconfigured before him. Scarab’s fingers glided across the keys with the experience gained over countless years of vividly reporting target fights. He incorporated the knowledge acquired over the years into the fight, rendering it detailed and somewhat graphic. He maintained Prismo’s style but introduced a level of gritty realism that had been noticeably absent before. A small sense of pride welled within him as he continually heard Prismo’s comments expressing how the fight was progressively improving. He was outshining Prismo in an area that held deep personal significance for the pink shadow.

Finally, he reached the end of the fight, and Prismo interrupted him. “I know you’ve done a lot already,” Scarab couldn’t help but feel that this was barely scratching the surface compared to the detailed reports he used to compile. However, he kept silent and listened to Prismo. “But could you include the death of Quirklepuff?” Scarab couldn’t help but find the name rather ridiculous for a character, but he bit his tongue and nodded. Describing the death of Prismo’s character was actually the easiest part. He kept it brief, straightforward, and in Prismo’s style. The pink shadow swiftly took over once he had finished describing the death, subsequently adding emotional turmoil to Quirklepuff’s sidekick. Scarab didn’t mind; it had been a while since he had prepared a report, after all. If Prismo continued to approach him for fight scenes, he would undoubtedly hone his reporting skills further. Yes, that was precisely why Scarab hoped to write more.

˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

:*¨ ★ ¨*:·. . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　.

. . ✦⠀ , *

⠀˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . .　✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.˚

:*¨ ★ *:·.

————————-✩⋆————⭑✧⭑————⋆✩———————-

*⠀ ⠀ ⠀✦⠀
* .

˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚　✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. ࿔ ˚

:*¨ ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. *

:*¨ ★ ¨*:·.

. . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚

Prismo had to give credit where it was due: Scarab was quite the capable writer. He had an uncanny ability to vividly illustrate scenes with colors Prismo had never encountered before, infusing the narrative with a unique vibrancy when compared to Prismo’s usual comfort-centered stories. The inclusion of a touch of hurt/comfort added an extra layer of depth and intrigue to the words. But every time Prismo hoped to witness Scarab’s skillful word painting again, the blue shadow was engrossed in cleaning. Though he had improved in his 2D form, it still took him hours to complete the task. And an irate or annoyed Scarab was the last thing Prismo wanted to place his laptop in front of.

Currently, Prismo found himself waiting for Scarab to deal with the final cobweb. It now took him about 30 minutes, a significant improvement from the initial two hours when he started, but it was still a considerable wait in Prismo’s view. He could overhear Scarab’s faint muttering, a minor quirk that Prismo doubted even the blue shadow was aware of, but he found it oddly cute on Scarab. The imposing Scarab, the God Auditor himself, mumbling a bit when annoyed. The thought brought a smile to Prismo’s face as Scarab finally removed the last web.

“Hey, good job, Scarab,” Prismo offered, hoping for at least a small positive response. However, Scarab merely emitted the same quiet hum he always uses and moved on to another task. “Hey, why don’t you take a break? I could use your help with a new fic.” That caught Scarab’s attention, causing his blue form to shift and give Prismo a annoyed look. Prismo didn’t mind; an annoyed Scarab was far preferable to an angry one. He gestured with his hand, and reluctantly, the blue shadow walked over. He still hesitated briefly at the corners, but it was only a momentary pause before Scarab passed them.

When Scarab drew near, he offered the laptop for Scarab to see. “I really liked what you did with that fight scene, so I was hoping maybe you could collaborate with me on VK, uh, Vermilion Knight, and my OC Prism.” Scarab gazed at him silently for a long moment before speaking.

“A collaboration?”

“Yeah! You have a real talent with words, dude. I think we could create something really cool together.” Prismo refrained from mentioning his own desperation for a writing partner. The story alone couldn’t alleviate his loneliness. Scarab’s expression remained challenging to decipher even in his 2D form, but after a prolonged moment, he nodded.

“Very well,” Prismo beamed, shifting the laptop slightly to accommodate Scarab’s presence.

“I was thinking maybe we could do something like VK, um, Vermilion Knight, is a royal knight of utmost importance to the king, and Prism is a healer who has a child with him, a child who is actually a secret god or something. Vermilion Knight is tasked with killing the child, but the child escapes, so Prism and Vermilion Knight unwittingly join forces to find her, unaware of each other’s true intentions,” Prismo explained, his eye gleaming with enthusiasm as he pondered the possibilities of what they could create with Scarab’s skills at his side. Since this was meant to be a fantasy-type story, he could let Scarab describe many of the social interactions, making it all the more enjoyable. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Prismo was met with a moment of silence as Scarab regarded him. “O-or we could do something you prefer,” Prismo suggested instead, his smile gradually fading as his enthusiasm waned.

“I didn’t expect you to come up with such a complex plot,” Scarab remarked, surprising Prismo. That was probably the closest thing to a compliment Prismo could expect from Scarab. “We’ll go with that one.” Prismo practically lit up with exceptional excitement.

“Great! Let’s begin with Prism and the child, and what should we name her? We can start with character introductions before turning our attention to VK and providing an introduction for him,”

Chapter 3: Rose-Hued

Chapter Text

"Hey VK! Over here!" The red knight turned toward his makeshift companion, who was energetically waving him over beneath the shade of a massive tree in the field. VK, or Vermillion Knight as he liked to be called, made his way toward Prism.

"Yes, Prism?" He inquired, peering at his companion through the visor of his helmet. There was no time to waste on their mission, they both knew that. Vermillion needed to locate the so-called 'kid' before the king decided to call for his head.

"I've found something," Prism replied simply, crouching down to inspect the area beneath the gnarled roots of the tree. This particular tree, once a mighty oak, had been cleaved in two by a colossal lightning bolt in the distant past. No other trees were in sight, giving Vermillion the impression that the gods had not intended for this tree to stand here.

Vermillion, with a resigned sigh, bent down to join Prism in examining the unusual discovery. To his astonishment, they encountered a ritual circle etched onto the ground. It clearly resembled a star, with small, burnt-out candles placed at each point. What made it even stranger was that the circle appeared incomplete, with its lines appearing smudged and irregular, as if whatever had been summoned had managed to escape.

"And that's all I've got," Prismo declared, passing the laptop over to Scarab. "I thought about putting the summoned into a fight with them, but I wasn't sure if that's too abrupt or something." Scarab promptly reviewed what Prismo had written, making minor adjustments and correcting grammar errors as he progressed.

"A fight could serve to enhance the narrative. The characters, unaware of the villain, would likely assume the summoned individual is present to help conceal the villain's actions," Scarab explained, providing the basic framework for Prismo to further develop. Scarab had no difficulty writing scenes of gore, violence, and chaos, but he (unfortunately) had to rely on Prismo for the more tender aspects of the story, which was most of it. However, Scarab was the one shaping the plot, so he didn't mind much.

"You believe so?" Prismo asked, accepting the laptop once Scarab had established the foundation. After only a brief scan, Prismo commenced writing based on the framework provided by Scarab, who observed him throughout the process.

Silence hung between them as Prismo composed his part. Scarab found himself growing slightly tense during the wait, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his arm. Prismo was taking longer than Scarab preferred. A cursory glance in Prismo's direction revealed the pink shadow's deep concentration on the story, his tongue (Scarab didn't know shadows could have tongues; it was an odd notion) sticking out slightly.

"Op," Prismo muttered, prompting Scarab to turn his attention to the screen. The pink shadow hesitated, his fingers barely hovering over the keys. "Hah... writer's block."

"Writer's block?" Scarab repeated, tilting his head to look up at Prismo. "What is writer's block?"

"Uh, writer's block is when you can't write," Prismo explained, his hand rising to scratch his neck. He was nervous. "I can't think of any good ideas or get any inspiration."

"Why not? You just have to write up to the fight," Scarab suggested. Prismo winced a little.

"I did, it's just that I was also writing the aftermath."

"So you wrote the end of the fight without describing the fight itself?" Why would he follow such a procedure? Scarab was convinced that writing a story was a step-by-step process similar to writing a report.

"Yeah," They sat in silence for a while before Prismo closed the laptop. "I'm going to my pickle room if that's okay. My pickles help." Prismo waited only until Scarab nodded before he opened a door and exited. Scarab remained in silence, deep in thought. How could pickles assist in writing a story? Prismo was even stranger than Scarab initially believed.

His gaze shifted to the laptop still resting on the floor. Prismo had written both the beginning and the end, leaving Scarab with the task of filling in the middle. It offered an escape from the oppressive silence, and Scarab could do Prismo a favor by completing it, allowing the pink shadow to regain his 'inspiration.'

After a brief wait for the laptop to vanish, which it didn't, Scarab seized it and opened it up. Prismo was careless not to have set a password on the device. However, Prismo was also a powerful individual, so Scarab couldn't formulate a proper complaint quickly enough.

He promptly accessed the section where Prismo had left off, waiting for the moment when the Wishmaster would reappear and snatch the device from his grasp. Scarab briefly reviewed the beginning and the end, conjuring an idea to bridge the gap between the two sections. This was going to be enjoyable.

"VK, watch out!" Vermillion's swift reflexes kicked in, propelling him to roll to the side just in the nick of time. The massive blade crashed into the tree where he had stood moments before. Vermillion sprang back to his feet, drawing his sword and raising his shield, his steely gaze fixed on the looming threat. Before him, a hulking, almost orcish creature snarled menacingly. Prism, who had hurried over to examine Vermillion for any injuries, was pushed behind the tree by Vermillion.

With a swift motion, the beast roared and swung the massive blade toward Vermillion. In a deft maneuver, Vermillion ducked beneath the incoming strike, the impact vibrating through the ground as the blade whizzed over him. Seizing the opportunity, Vermillion lunged at the creature and thrust his sword deep into its arm. The creature bellowed in agony as blue blood began to gush from the wound. In response, it switched the blade to its other hand and swung again, catching Vermillion off guard.

"VK!" Prism yelled with a note of panic in his voice. Vermillion hastily raised his shield, but the brute force of the blow sent the shield spinning away with ease. The flat side of the blade struck Vermillion in the jaw, producing a thunderous crack, and sent him tumbling through the air. He landed near the tree, the ground trembling under the force of the impact, and he could hear approaching footsteps. Fortunately, the sounds were much lighter than those of the beast, and Vermillion propped himself up as Prism rushed over to tend to his injuries.

"Gods, are you alright? Oh, who am I kidding? Of course you're not," Prism fretted, channeling his healing magic into Vermillion's wounded face. Even with Prism's mending abilities, Vermillion could feel the damage under his armor. A substantial portion of his jaw had been crushed from the blow, and despite the healing, he knew he'd get one hell of a bruise.

"All good," Vermillion mumbled, brushing aside Prism's protests as he rose and prepared his blade. His shield was nowhere to be found, so Prism took it upon himself to go in search of it while Vermillion readied himself for the next clash. Small fragments of his armor clattered to the ground from his damaged jaw, reaffirming his appreciation for having kept Prism alive. Vermillion launched himself into the fray once more, anticipating the beast's reaction. He expected the creature to attempt a repeat of its earlier tactic, trying to strike him mid-air. Thankfully, the creature was foolish enough to assume Vermillion would fall for the same trick twice. This hesitation provided Vermillion with an opening. He used the creature's weapon as an improvised step, bounding off the metal with all his might. He soared through the air, blade poised and aimed squarely at the beast's head.

"VK!" Prism's cry reached his ears again, and he glimpsed his shield hurtling toward him from the corner of his eye. His trusty shield interposed itself between him and the creature's impending attack, affording Vermillion the crucial moments needed to conclude the battle. His sword cleaved through tough and tender flesh alike, and as his feet met the ground, the beast's colossal body crashed to the earth. His breaths were ragged, so he willed himself to calm and regain his composure. After a quick swipe of his sword to rid it of the clinging gore, he sheathed it just as Prism came rushing toward him.

"Gods, VK! Are you alright?" Prism persistently asked the same questions, his eyes scanning Vermillion for injuries. Thankfully, Vermillion's experience translated to only getting struck once, a testament to why he held the title of the king's personal knight. He knew how to minimize the damage and end battles quickly, granting no small victory to the enemy.

That was also why he always insisted on the finest armor. "Gods, VK, you're insane, you know that?" Prism exclaimed, running his hand down his red, sweaty face. Vermillion offered a faint smile at the sight before turning to retrieve his shield. With a shout, Prism followed closely behind.

"Wow," Scarab quickly snapped the laptop shut, his face rapidly growing warm as he shoved the device aside. He hadn't even noticed Prismo's return, too absorbed in the story to realize. "Hey, sorry for startling you, man," Prismo added quickly.

"When did you arrive?" Scarab mumbled, concealing his flushed face with his hand. His other hand dug into his arm, causing a distant cracking under the palm of his hand.

"About when VK got hit," Prismo responded, taking the laptop and returning to his usual spot beside the blue shadow. "I meant it when I said your writing is stunning. I can vividly picture the creature and the battle, and I have no idea how you do it."

Instead of lingering with Prismo, Scarab stood up, retrieved the broom from the corner, and began sweeping. Prismo chuckled, which only made Scarab grip the broom tighter and his flushed face gradually cool down. Good, he wasn't going to let Prismo's damn words get to him. The clinking sound of the cans as they piled up offered a welcome distraction.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*
　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　
　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
-----------------✩⋆--------⭑✧⭑--------⋆✩---------------
　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.
　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀
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　.⠀　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀,
　　　*　　⠀.
　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦
　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　*⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.
.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*
　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　

Prismo hummed a softly remembered tune under his breath, his head moving gently to an imperceptible rhythm. Strangely, the sound of Scarab's cleaning actions blended perfectly with the melody, creating an even more inviting atmosphere for inspiration to flow into his hands. When he realized that his pickles weren't providing their usual assistance, he returned to the Time Room, expecting to find Scarab immersed in cleaning.

However, what he discovered was the blue shadow busily crafting another captivating piece on the laptop. He had edged closer as silently as possible, hoping not to disrupt Scarab's progress. Being in such close proximity allowed him to catch the soft mutterings of Scarab's work, captivating him even further. He was quickly developing a liking for having Scarab as a roommate. Prismo only wished that Scarab felt the same way about being in the Time Room. Yet, considering how much Scarab frequently threatened to usurp his job, he believed Scarab was adapting quite well.

"Stop with that muttering," Scarab abruptly interjected, causing Prismo to halt and shift his attention to the blue shadow. Scarab was grasping a trash bag, which he was more or less dragging as he moved it toward the trash room. Prismo complied, letting his humming cease, and recommenced his writing. When Scarab left once more, Prismo resumed his humming with a renewed energy, albeit at a significantly quieter volume. Scarab appeared to either not notice, or perhaps he simply didn't care this time, when he returned for another trash bag.

Scarab's grumpiness doesn't bother me too much, Prismo thought, his fingers automatically writing as he contemplated his roomie. I mean, he is kind of mean, but it's probably understandable since he's a workaholic. Doing things by the book and all that jazz. He noticed Scarab kick at a bag that refused to move, causing the bag to fall over. Scarab put his head in his hands for a moment before attempting to grab the bag once more, this time successfully. The little things he does are a bit cute.

He thought about the multitude of small habits he'd observed in Scarab. Like the random mutters when he's deep in thought or feeling angry or annoyed. The little things he does when he's emotional, like hurting things. He's noticed that Scarab mainly digs his hands into his arms, and if Scarab wasn't a shadow, Prismo would be prompted to think he'd break his shell (what is it called again? Exoskeleton?) A few times Scarab crushes a can, or mainly the broom. He almost did it to the laptop once, but luckily stopped quickly.

Was Scarab's slightly violent personality the reason behind the severity of his original punishment? Well, the punishment for trying to destroy an authorized universe was very serious, but the one chosen for Scarab was way too serious for him just trying to do his job. Prismo felt himself frown at the thought. What other punishments had Scarab gone through if they were so casual about hurting him?

"Prismo," Scarab called out. "You're staring at me." Prismo blinked, his hand coming up to rub at his neck when he diverted his gaze.

"Sorry, just thinking," Prismo said as an explanation, since Scarab tended to appreciate when he provided an explanation for his actions, no matter how minor.

"Thinking about what that would cause you to stare at me?" Scarab asked. Prismo couldn't discern if he was being sarcastic or not, so he decided to opt for the truth. If Scarab got mad, then Prismo could leave until he relaxed. And he'd have crossed another line.

"Just about your original punishment," that caught Scarab's attention, causing the blue shadow to cease what he was doing and cross his arms, another one of those little habits. "Just, well, I know you've been told you got off easy, but seriously, man, what they were gonna do to you was seriously wrong."

"Oh? And what were they going to do?" Scarab replied. Prismo hesitated, unsure if he should feel confused or horrified.

"You weren't told?" He asked.

"Told what?"

"Your punishment," Prismo replied a tad bit quickly, a hint of horror mingling with his confusion. He must've displayed some of it on his face, judging by the way Scarab straightened from his relaxed position.

"Dude, what Orbo and the boss were planning is horrifying! I can't believe they would do that to anyone! You seriously didn't deserve to have your limbs ripped off." Scarab's arms fell to his sides, letting the broom lean on the wall. Prismo quickly clamped his mouth shut, studying Scarab for any signs that he was going to destroy something. A beat of silence passed between the two, Prismo growing increasingly anxious over Scarab's silence. "Scrabby?"

"Typical," he heard Scarab mutter before the blue shadow turned to walk away. Prismo allowed him to leave, still regretting that he'd let his mouth run. He genuinely hoped that Scarab wouldn't harbor resentment towards him in the morning. Because that's just what Scarab does. Prismo's eye widened at the thought, and he curled to the floor in shame. That's what everyone thinks Scarab does. Everyone, including himself, thinks Scarab will hold a grudge for one negative comment that goes against the rule book or is directed at him.

Prismo hated the fact that he had reduced Scarab to a mere hateful, arrogant, and rigid rule-follower in his own mind.

Chapter 4: Radiant Sun

Chapter Text

Scarab hadn't spoken to Prismo in almost three weeks, and it was beginning to worry the pink shadow. Besides the occasional nod in response to his questions, Scarab remained eerily silent, keeping Prismo constantly on edge. Even his writing had come to a halt, leaving Prismo with just a few chapters in the book before running into a plot issue that required Scarab's assistance. However, every time he sought help, Scarab merely brushed him off and continued sweeping.

Prismo slid over, wearing a wide grin in hopes of vexing the blue shadow. His intention was to elicit a reaction from Scarab, and he was counting on Scarab's annoyance to lead to a scolding or some form of protest. In Prismo's mind, such a response would indicate that Scarab was well enough to not need his help. While Prismo genuinely wanted to assist, he understood that Scarab had a penchant for taking offense and had a stubborn determination to manage on his own.

"Scrabby, my dude," Prismo began, his words tapering off as he struggled to think of a suitable annoyance. Scarab spared him a brief sideways glance while continuing his sweeping, effectively ignoring Prismo. Feeling somewhat hesitant, Prismo positioned himself in front of Scarab's broom, blocking his path. With a weak smile, Prismo was met with a severe glare. However, instead of scolding or telling him to move, Scarab simply turned around and began sweeping in the opposite direction.

"C'mon, Scarab, just take a short break," Prismo practically begged, noticing that over the weeks, Scarab's limbs were trembling, his posture was slightly hunched, and for some inexplicable reason, he knew Scarab was dealing with extreme exhaustion but refused to talk about it or even rest. "Please? Take five?" Prismo asked again, shadowing Scarab as they moved through the Time Cube's corridors. Strangely, Scarab allowed him to tag along, which was a rare occurrence and that left Prismo seriously concerned.

He started recognizing the walls they passed and the hallways they traversed. As they moved closer, the sound of the Time Core's loud gong grew stronger. "Hey, uh, Scarb, why are we heading to the Time Core?" Prismo asked, cautiously hopeful for a response from Scarab. Unsurprisingly, the blue shadow remained silent, focused on leading the way.

"Scarab?" Prismo let out a small groan as the colors spread across his form, and a growing migraine began to throb. Scarab stopped and stood by the Time Core, still ignoring Prismo, who found this rather irksome. "Scrabby?"

"Shut up," Scarab commanded, just before another impact from the Time Core. Finally, Prismo got a response after enduring weeks of silence. Although he had been about to express his worry, he remembered Scarab's command for silence. So, Prismo stayed by Scarab's side, enduring the Time Core to be there with him.

Prismo couldn't determine how much time had passed before the colors began to overwhelm him, forcing him to leave. He chastised himself all the way out for leaving Scarab behind. "Hey, man, uh, I've got to go. This migraine is really getting to me," he explained, somewhat foolishly expecting a response. However, Scarab remained as silent as a statue. Prismo sighed. "I'll be in my pickle room if you need me." With one last glance toward his roomie, Prismo departed to sit among his pickles.

˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

:*¨ ★ ¨*:·. . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　.

. . ✦⠀ , *

⠀˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . .　✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.˚

:*¨ ★ *:·.

————————-✩⋆————⭑✧⭑————⋆✩———————-

*⠀ ⠀ ⠀✦

* .

˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚　✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. ࿔ ˚

:*¨ ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. *

:*¨ ★ ¨*:·.

. . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚

Scarab always possessed heightened senses – heightened sight, smell, taste, everything. These enhanced senses often proved invaluable during his hunts. However, the price of having heightened senses was that those who possessed them could easily become overwhelmed. Yet not Scarab. No, he had grown accustomed to his senses, harnessed them to their fullest potential, and reveled in them all the while. One added bonus that occasionally overwhelmed him was the ability to taste and smell light.

Very few gods could discern which star was closer to them or understand what kind of star emitted what kind of light. That's why he loved the Time Core so much. It radiated every possible kind of light with thunderous booms, enveloping him in its exquisite radiance. It had been his favorite part of checking for mistakes on Prismo during his time as a 3D being. But now, as a 2D shadow, he could barely taste the colors. They were muffled, muted, and didn't provide the same solace as before.

Muted pangs of pain sparked in his arms and face, but he ignored them, striving to capture even a single color. He couldn't taste them or feel them anymore; they had become mere colors. Scarab was left with nothing more than seeing their beauty, never truly experiencing it as he once could. When he was first assigned to be Prismo's butler, he had believed that the Time Core would be the best part of his punishment. He had imagined himself relaxing amid the colors in the Time Room. But, as a 2D being, that dream had been shattered, and he had endured a painful realization.

A muted pain flared on his arm, and Scarab hissed as it intensified. He clutched the limb, futilely rubbing it to alleviate the discomfort. Deep down, he was aware that the only real solution was to locate his 3D body and awaken it. Scanning his surroundings for any sign of Prismo, he found luckily none. With a small sigh, he selected a random doorway and walked through it.

He wandered for what seemed like hours, traversing wall after wall in search of his 3D body. Now and then, he caught the sound of Prismo calling out his name, and Scarab wondered why the pink shadow didn't just shift the cube to bring him to his location. Perhaps Prismo was either kinder or simply more foolish than he had initially thought.

"Scrabby!" Scarab swiftly scurried across the wall and concealed himself behind a corner, barely evading Prismo's sight. The Wishmaster glided over, his lone eye darting around with concern. "Where did he go?" Prismo muttered to himself, entirely unaware of Scarab's presence, as the former god auditor skillfully eluded him, even despite the rust that had accumulated during months without hunting or pursuing targets. It appeared that Prismo's penchant for obliviousness still worked in Scarab's favor.

"Scarab!" The pink shadow called out once more, gliding over to a freshly opened doorway. Scarab bided his time, waiting for Prismo's voice to fade into the distance before making his move. He had taken cover in a shadowy area that led to a dimly lit hallway, which he now decided to follow. Despite his shadowy nature, the soft sounds of his steps resonated loudly within the corridor, echoing rather annoyingly. Before long, he detected the sound of snoring.

Hope surged through his blood as he hastened his pace, slowed only by the barely noticeable limp in his leg. The snoring grew louder as he ventured deeper into the darkness, and Scarab could almost feel a smile forming on his face. Then, he spotted a room. Scarab came to a halt, waiting for Prismo to appear and take him back. However, when the Wishmaster failed to make an appearance, he cautiously slipped into the room.

The first thing that caught Scarab's attention was the large, plush bed upon which Prismo's body lay. It was quite peculiar, to be honest. Prismo's host was an elderly man, with his body draped in a blanket of white hair. Scarab found it all rather strange but was quickly distracted when he laid eyes on his own body. A startled yelp escaped him as he hurried over to examine his own form.

For starters, instead of a comfortable bed, he was situated on a barely raised slab of stone. And, more significantly, there were fractures marring his carapace, riddling his arms and his head. His own arm appeared to be involuntarily digging into the other one, causing more damage to his shell. He had finally identified the source of his pain.

Despite being incredibly uncomfortable with stretching his dream form, he endured it to lay a hand on his body's shoulder. With great effort, he gave a single large push that nearly shoved his body off the slab. He knew he had succeeded when his vision turned black.

Chapter 5: Ascent

Chapter Text

Scarab awoke to a sharp surge of pain coursing through his senses. While he could hardly be bothered by it, considering he had faced far worse in the past, he did take note of the fact that he was now back in his 3D form. His own body. He lay there, adjusting to the abrupt influx of sensations that washed over him. The snores emanating from Prismo's host were particularly loud, and the room around him appeared significantly brighter. Moreover, he could distinctly sense the damage he had inflicted on the stone slab before the injuries transferred to his own carapace.

He continued to lay still for an extended period, simply basking in the feeling of being himself, being Scarab. Yet, as is often the case, one can't remain in peace indefinitely. With a quiet, pained groan, Scarab gradually raised himself into a sitting position on the stone slab. His feet, encased in his familiar boots, made soft thudding sounds as they met the floor. When he rested his head upon his arms, the throbbing pain in his limbs was acutely apparent. It made him wonder if he had always felt so... heavy?

Scarab had experienced soreness, pain, and exhaustion before, times when he longed to remain in bed and succumb to the peace of rest. However, this was different – the damage was self-inflicted, and it caused a level of agony that surpassed any typical wound he had ever endured. He let out a sigh, noticing fragments of his mask crumbling away as he pushed it aside. As the cold air met his true face, he heaved another sigh, feeling a sense of relief. Scarab shut his eyes and buried his head in his hands once more.

He sat in silence, struggling to ignore the disruptive snoring emanating from Prismo's host and the blinding brightness that still pierced through his closed eyelids. Restlessness crept over him, and anxiety started to gnaw at his mind. The possibility that Prismo could appear at any moment to report him, sending him back to his original punishment, loomed heavily in his thoughts. Yet, a selfish part of him didn't care about that punishment – all it cared about was the fact that he was back in his true form, as Scarab, the God Auditor.

With a slightly louder groan, Scarab pushed himself up on unsteady legs and leaned against the wall. He slid his mask back into place, which muted the overwhelming environment somewhat and shielded his identity in case Prismo suddenly appeared. Slowly and carefully, he examined the damage on his carapace. The cracks were concerning but not too deep, and he could manage without immediate medical attention. They would heal over time. Turning his attention to his face, he realized that, while he couldn't see his mask, he could certainly feel it. Running a hand down the painful area, he dislodged a few loose bits of his shell. It was frustrating; it would take a good two weeks to regrow what he had lost.

As he continued to remove fragments, his hand inadvertently tugged on a nerve, causing him to hiss in pain. Before he could fully register what he was doing, his frustration turned into a burst of energy. His hand collided with the wall, causing a loud bang and shattering part of it. Scarab's gaze snapped toward the damage with a small yelp, and he quickly stepped back, thankful that he hadn't lost his balance. It was a stark reminder that he was still getting used to having a physical form once more, and the evidence on the wall would undoubtedly tip Prismo off to his awakening. He dreaded the consequences, which likely included having his limbs torn off again right after getting them back.

Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he needed to return to his 2D form. Carefully, he stumbled back to the slab where he had initially awakened, only tripping over his injured leg once. He sat down with a heavy sigh, burying his head in his hands once more. His untrimmed nails dug slightly into his flesh as he thought. Scarab's original intent had been to relish in the splendor of the Time Core. Perhaps, if he was clever and if Prismo was (hopefully) naive enough, he could make a brief visit to the Core and find some momentary relaxation. Being cooped up in the dimly lit room had made him feel weaker and more anxious. A short interlude in the Core's radiant embrace wouldn't hurt, and if he were caught... well, he'd rely on his words, ready to surrender should he fail to convince Prismo.

So, Scarab decided to perform a few of his former daily rituals to reacquaint himself with having a physical body before cautiously checking the hallway for Prismo. Not detecting any signs of the Wishmaster, he began retracing his steps while leaning on the wall for support. His leg was particularly bothersome that day, and without his cane, it wouldn't take much for someone to trip him up, sending him crashing to the floor. He recalled his encounter with Golb and was glad that no one had been there to witnessed him faceplant into the floor.

He walked for a while, intermittently pausing to listen for Prismo's presence or any sounds of shifting doors. Eventually, the distinct gong of the Time Core reached his ears, causing him to perk up and quickly switch walls to follow the sound. After that, the search became straightforward, and finding what he was looking for, even if it was the time room, brought him a familiar sense of satisfaction that made him feel more like his old self.

Before long, a cascade of colors rained down upon him, creating a symphony of pure bliss. He was swiftly overwhelmed, but in a positive way, causing his body to momentarily freeze as the radiant light enveloped him. Already, he felt reinvigorated, as if he were regaining the energy he had only possessed when he was still the God Auditor.

He sighed, allowing himself to sink into a seated position as he took a moment to rest. Already, his shell was beginning to brighten, and the cracks in his arms showed signs of healing. The pain that once dominated every fiber of his being gradually faded into a faint, distant hum, barely noticeable in the recesses of his mind. The light emanating from the Time Core was the purest form of illumination imaginable, crafted from the very essence of time and energy. Scarab cherished it with the same passion he had for his hunts. While being a Wishmaster meant never truly desiring anything, all he yearned for was within the confines of the Time Cube.

He remained in that spot for quite some time, drawing upon the revitalizing energy of the Time Core. Eventually, he mustered the strength to return to the room where he had first regained consciousness. Fatigued, he made his way past the newly fixed wall and plopped onto the stone slab, completely unaware of the small blue eye that had been silently watching his every move.

Prismo knew that Scarab despised his 2D form, even if the beetle tried to mask it. It was evident in his demeanor, the way he carried himself, all stiff and irritable. Scarab only seemed to truly unwind when he was writing, crafting splendid stories that put Prismo's work to shame. Therefore, when Prismo decided to leave his pickle room in search of Scarab, he half-expected to find the blue shadow engrossed in cleaning or, perhaps, lost in his writing.

Initially, Prismo assumed Scarab was still within the Time Core when he didn't spot him in the Time Room. However, as minutes passed without any sign of Scarab, Prismo's worry began to grow. He scoured the Time Cube, aware that he could easily summon Scarab back with a simple wave of his hand. But he didn't want to flaunt his authority and, in a strange way, desired for Scarab to discover the power when he eventually became a Wishmaster.

After failing to locate Scarab on the outside of the cube, Prismo decided to investigate the area where he usually slept. The dim, shadowy region was where he thought Scarab might be, and he felt a sense of relief when he caught a fleeting glimpse of him. Realizing that Scarab sought solitude, as evidenced by his attempt to hide from Prismo, he chose to respect the blue shadow's need for space. Therefore, he left through one passage and reemerged from another, sending a small portion of himself to discreetly monitor Scarab.

To Prismo's horror, Scarab managed to navigate the mini-maze that Prismo had cleverly constructed to shield his host. It was evident to him that Scarab had planned to make his way to the area where both he and Scarab's 3D body slept with how easily the blue shadow found his way. Panic surged within Prismo, fearing that Scarab might awaken the old man. He was on the verge of manifesting himself to intervene when Scarab unexpectedly averted his path, heading toward his own 3D body instead.

Prismo had never visited the old man; that was an indisputable fact. So, he shared Scarab's shock when he saw the extent of the injuries on Scarab's 3D form. Prismo was well aware that Scarab was about to rouse himself from his 3D slumber, but he simply couldn't find it in him to interfere with the beetle's awakening. After watching Scarab endure months of confinement within a 2D shadow form, he was eager to discover how Scarab would react when he finally regained his true form. So, he let Scarab wake up.

The red beetle woke with a sudden jolt, briefly causing Prismo to suspect that Scarab had detected his presence. However, it soon became evident that Scarab was merely lying there, uncharacteristically quiet, easily leading Prismo to believe he was still in the midst of slumber if he didn't just see Scarab's 2D form disappear.

Prismo had expected that Scarab might remain still for a while, though he started to grow somewhat restless while waiting. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Scarab stirred with a quiet, painful groan. The sound of his body shifting and cracking, as if breaking from stone, made Prismo wince, deepening his regret for not checking on him earlier and putting him in a bed instead of on a slab.

He watched as Scarab carefully removed his faceplate, revealing the visage beneath that Prismo had only glimpsed briefly before it was once again concealed by red claws. Prismo continued to watch as Scarab stood and assessed his injuries after tucking his face away. His eyes were fixed on Scarab as the beetle gingerly picked at the cracks in his mask. Then he witnessed Scarab's hand shattering the wall. Scarab let out a startled yelp, and Prismo agreed that his shattering of the wall was surprising.

He watched Scarab as the red bug settled back onto the slab, only to rise again and engage in some peculiar exercise that seemed to make Scarab's everything crack. Prismo decided to shadow Scarab as he exited the room, retraced his previous steps, and eventually found his way back to the Time Core. Prismo expected that Scarab would gaze up at the Core, savor the precious moments in his 3D form, and then proceed with whatever scheme he had in mind.

To his surprise, Scarab suddenly stilled and let out a contented sigh. The sound held a profound sense of relief, akin to the feeling of sinking into a comfortable bed after a grueling day of labor. Prismo noticed the brightening of Scarab's dull red hue, transforming into the radiant ruby that Prismo had grown accustomed to seeing. He saw as the cracks in Scarab's shell gradually started to mend, evolving into subtle, golden lines that were scarcely visible. For the first time, Prismo saw Scarab truly relax. The colors that often gave him a headache now made Scarab magnificent, made him beautiful. He was immersed in an endless spectrum of hues, and was simply resting within their embrace.

Prismo trailed Scarab back to the room where his host slept, and he chose to stay behind in thought as Scarab's 2D form reappeared in the Time Room.

Chapter 6: Perfection

Chapter Text

Scarab had felt considerably better after his brief break in his 3D form, and the minor wounds on his body were healing nicely despite the lack of light in the dark room. He felt re-energized, and the time right after healing was always the best for his hunts. But unfortunately, Prismo was now his boss, and Prismo had absolutely nothing in common with his previous role. Currently, Scarab found himself pacing around the room in an attempt to rid himself of some of the pent-up energy, all the while grumbling about the situation. He sensed Prismo’s gaze following him, but Scarab simply ignored it, trying to craft a plan to rid himself of this surging excess energy. It was a problem he hadn’t encountered before, and it was beginning to wear on his well-being.

“You doing okay, buddy?” Prismo’s question came as Scarab passed the stack of trash bags for the tenth time. “You’ve been pacing a lot, and usually, you don’t go beyond three laps.” Prismo was spot on – Scarab rarely went beyond three laps. But usually, in those laps, he’d figure out a plan. He considered complaining about Prismo’s work habits, searching the Time Cube for more trash, or heading to the Time Core. Yet, none of these options seemed particularly appealing. In fact, nothing seemed appealing at all, adding to the already overwhelming surge of energy he was dealing with.

Prismo observed Scarab complete two more laps before deciding to speak again. “Alright, you workaholic bug,” Scarab’s head snapped toward Prismo, an intense glare directed at the mention of “bug.” Prismo quickly raised his hands in his customary surrender gesture, signaling that he meant no harm. “Listen, I’ve got Cosmic coming over later, and I was planning on having you relax in the Time Core, but it seems like you’re quite… twitchy.” Scarab’s eye twitched. “So, I was thinking, maybe you’d like to hang out and play some card games with us?”

The suggestion was just as uninviting as the other alternatives, but it was likely the most he could expect with Prismo now being his boss. “Fine,” Scarab grumbled, resuming his pacing. He had no plans to develop this time, so he brooded alternative ways for dealing with this situation. Scarab knew he’d find himself dealing with this situation again in the future, that much was certain.

Prismo continued to watch Scarab’s restless pacing for a while before his concern deepened, prompting a frown. “Seriously, dude, what’s got you all riled up?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Scarab replied automatically, suppressing the smidgen of what was definitely pride he felt from seeing Prismo frown even more.

Prismo wasn’t ready to let the matter go. “Well, it kinda is my concern. I mean, I’m your boss,” he said, provoking a growling sensation within Scarab that he quickly pushed down to maintain his composure. “And I’m also your roomie, maybe even a friend. I want to help.” Though Prismo claimed a level of friendship, Scarab certainly didn’t see him that way.

Scarab remained silent for a moment, letting Prismo believe he might open up, only to promptly crush those nascent hopes. “You are not my friend, and there is no need for you to concern yourself, boss,” he hissed out the last word with heavy emphasis before turning on his heel and making his exit through one of the room’s many doors.

He wandered through a series of aimless hallways until he found himself inside the Time Core. While the Core lacked some of its former grandeur and beauty when Scarab was in his 2D shadow form, he still felt a sense of comfort within its presence. He positioned himself close to the corners near the Core and waited for Prismo to eventually come looking for him.

After approximately three hours, Prismo finally arrived, and Scarab felt a slight drop in his mood upon seeing the pink shadow. “Hey, Scarab!” Prismo greeted, his words pausing before the booming of the Core. “Cosmic’s here. Wanna join us for a game?”

Initially, Scarab considered the option of ignoring Prismo and remaining in the Time Core. However, as he tapped his foot and shifted ever so slightly, he decided that he had little to lose besides his dignity and image. Well, maybe he did have something to lose, but he couldn’t deny he had an image to uphold.

So, Scarab reluctantly followed Prismo into the Time Room, where he disregarded Cosmic Owl’s surprised squawk. “When you said y-hoot were bringing someone here, I didn’t expect the Scarab!”

“Yep! He’s my roomie,” Prismo proudly chimed in, which prompted Scarab to cross his arms.

Cosmic Owl responded with a mutter, “Well, as long as he plays fair.” Prismo moved closer to grab some cards, gesturing for Scarab to follow. The blue shadow let out a sigh and came over, taking a seat next to Prismo.

“Ooh! Charades!” Prismo exclaimed, his smile brightening. Scarab glanced at it for a moment too long before turning his attention back to Cosmic Owl, who asked, “Y-hoot know how to play Charades, right, Scarab?”

Scarab paused briefly before admitting, “I am… unfamiliar with mortal games.”

“That’s okay, been a while since I played myself,” Prismo said, causing the owl to give the pink shadow a incredulous look before sighing.

“Charades is an acting game in which you act out what’s on your card without speaking,” Cosmic explained as he took back Prismo’s cards and shuffled them. It sounded unappealing to Scarab.

“Don’t worry, Scarab, you can just guess,” Prismo reassured him and volunteered to take the first turn. When the owl was satisfied, Prismo drew a card, giggled, and began gesturing wildly.

“Grass!” the owl yelled out, only to sigh when Prismo shook his head. “Uuh, tree!” They repeated the charades, and Scarab quickly grew annoyed.

“Water?” he suggested, surprised when Prismo nodded in agreement. Next, the pink shadow made a half-moon shape with his arm, continuing the water-related pantomime.

“Upside-down island! No? Uh, upside-down whale! Aw, man,” the owl kept shouting out answers that were obviously wrong.

“Boat,” Scarab stated, pushing down a small amount of pride he felt when Prismo clapped.

“Yep! Boat! C’mon, Cosmic, get your game up or you’ll lose,” Both of them shifted their attention to the owl when he picked up a card, and he hooted (Scarab couldn’t tell if it was a happy or disappointed hoot) before standing up.

First, the owl began waving his wings around, feigning panic on his birdy face. “Uh, drowning?” Prismo suggested, furrowing his brow when the owl continued the panicked gesture. “Running from something?” The owl quickly made a circle with his wing before returning to the original impression.

“Space,” Scarab suggested, earning himself a happy sound from Prismo and a groan from Cosmic. This little game was incredibly easy; how did Prismo not see it was a black hole?

“Okay, um, asteroid!” The owl shook his head and made the circular gesture again. Prismo groaned and turned to Scarab. “You got any idea?” He whispered as Cosmic took a small break.

Scarab saw no point in whispering, but indulged in it this one time. “It’s a black hole,” Scarab whispered back, earning himself an ‘ooh’ from Prismo just as Cosmic returned to his acting.

“Black hole!” Prismo yelled, earning a hoot from Cosmic as the owl sat down.

“Good job, dude,” the owl said, returning his card to the stack and grabbing the entire thing. “How ‘bout we play something else? You’re horrible at guessing, and I can’t wave my wings around all day.” Prismo agreed, and Cosmic ignored Scarab, even though Scarab wasn’t going to complain. Scarab still felt insulted that he was overlooked, again.

“Hey, how about Risk!” the owl suggested, bringing up a very worn box. Prismo gasped and gave a little clap in agreement, while Scarab just nodded.

˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

:*¨ ★ ¨*:·. . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　.

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:*¨ ★ *:·.

————————-✩⋆————⭑✧⭑————⋆✩———————-

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:*¨ ★ ¨*:·.

. . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚

Scarab was doing much better, Prismo noticed. The blue shadow was much more talkative, and he looked a lot less exhausted. And he was absolutely dominating the game.

“I thought you said you didn’t play games!” Owl cried out when Scarab took another of his territories.

“I don’t,” Scarab responded simply. Prismo hummed in thought, scanning over the board and making his move. Owl took his turn silently, but Prismo had no time to think up a plan before Scarab responded quickly and took the territory he had left unprotected.

“Dude! How are you so good at this?” Prismo asked, silently mourning the land he had lost. Scarab occupied well over three-quarters of the board. It went unsaid that Scarab was going to win. Scarab shrugged in response and gestured for him to make his move.

“Fine fine, I give up, you’re going to win anyway,” Prismo said, lifting his hands in a surrendering gesture. Owl hooted in agreement.

“Yeah, man, I’m done. I’m not bringing this game back,” he mumbled the last part, gathering up the strewn-out games. He bid his goodbyes and left swiftly.

With the owl gone, tense silence quickly took the place of the former carefree air. An idea popped into Prismo’s head, and a smile grew on his face. Scarab stood, most likely going to tend to the random trash Owl had left, but Prismo stopped him.

“Hey, it’s been a minute since we wrote together, hasn’t it?” He asked, leaning down into Scarab’s space. He expected the blue shadow to quickly step away, but was pleasantly surprised when Scarab instead turned to look the pink shadow in the eye.

“Do not try to avoid this mess,” Scarab gestured to the new beer cans on the ground. “You’re helping me this time,” he commanded, then grabbed the broom in the corner, beginning to sweep the chip bags into a pile. Prismo watched him for a moment before stretching and grabbing the beer cans. He felt a smile grow on his face when Scarab hummed in approval.

The two of them worked in silence, surprisingly in harmony as well. Prismo was swift in collecting the trash swept in the middle, and Scarab was quick in removing the clutter. With their work combined, it barely took 10 minutes. When they finished, Prismo laughed.

“That was kinda fun actually,” Prismo said, bagging the trash and zapping it away. Scarab hummed and gave him a nod in thanks. Prismo raised an eyebrow, surprised by the nod. It was moments like these that reminded Prismo that, underneath the stoic exterior, Scarab was more complex than he appeared.

With the room now clean and the tension in the air somewhat alleviated, Prismo decided to bring up another idea. “So, about that writing together thing…”

Scarab considered it for a moment before giving a slight nod. “Fine, but only if we can keep it short and focused. No nonsense.”

Prismo chuckled and gave a mock salute. “Agreed. Let’s make it a quick one.” He summoned his laptop and grinned at his roomie.

It was silent when Scarab came over to peer at the laptop screen.

Chapter 7: Form

Chapter Text

The TV’s hiss echoed throughout the entire cube, even into the Time Core where Scarab was trying to avoid it. Prismo was doing a horrible job trying to fix the TV wall, and the evidence was the headache in Scarab’s skull. He waited for Prismo to finally fix the issue, but the sound only grew louder and more chaotic.

With an audible groan of frustration, Scarab rose from his seat near the Time Core and set off toward the Time Room. The path was short, and he only had to deal with stairs once. When he arrived at the Time Room, he was met with a disheveled mess. Small pink blobs, which he recognized as the TV’s internals, floated around the room, and sparks flew from some of them. Prismo was wrestling with the screen block that Scarab had removed, trying to push it back into place. The TV emitted a relentless cacophony of screeches, hisses, and static.

“Prismo!” Scarab had to shout to make himself heard over the noise, successfully capturing the Wishmaster’s attention. Prismo flashed a nervous grin and raised a hand in greeting, only to lower it abruptly when the TV threatened to explode outward. “Why aren’t you finished yet?!”

“Uh,” the TV briefly flickered, displaying a glimpse of a random universe before returning to static. “I can’t get all the pieces in! Can you grab those pink blobs and bring them over?!” Prismo shouted, yelping when the screen block nearly burst out, causing more pink internals to float into the air. Scarab groaned and rubbed his temples, his patience wearing thin.

Scarab made his way over to the nearest floating pink blob, which was luckily positioned close to the wall. Jumping up, he swiftly snatched the blob, then tossed it over to Prismo, who eagerly grabbed it and shoved it back into the TV. The screen flickered again, briefly revealing another universe before returning to static.

They continued this process, with Prismo holding the block in place and Scarab leaping to capture the floating blobs that gathered near the wall. Though it took some time, the TV was gradually becoming quieter. It was now producing only minimal noise, displaying nothing but static on the screen. Scarab let a relieved sigh escape him at the lack of noise before he and Prismo turned their attention to the largest blob, which rested on the ceiling in the center.

“I’m not sure I can grab that one,” Prismo said, still holding the block in place. “I mean, this thing really wants to get away.” Scarab sighed and made his way over to the wall opposite the TV. He gazed up at the blob, which was positioned right in the center of the ceiling. Leaping across the ceiling might be possible, as he’d managed to slide over the floors before. However, sliding over the floor had been an uncomfortable experience, and the first time had been a complete accident. Sliding across the ceiling, especially without any wall support, seemed even more uncomfortable, but he had to give it a try.

He hesitated, of course, and he clicked his tongue as he thought. Watching Prismo mumble to himself as he struggled with the cube, Scarab sighed and made up his mind. Without warning, he leaped toward the troublesome blob. Floating in the air was unusual for him, once being a physical entity bound by the laws of gravity for his entire existence. It felt incredibly odd not to be pulled downward, but he fought off the instinct to panic.

Scarab latched onto the ceiling, his arms and legs extending like a skittish cat, clinging to the structure to keep from floating away. It was a strange sensation, and he tried and failed not to flail his limbs for a moment as he reached for the elusive blob. However, he quickly realized that it didn’t quite touch the ceiling. Gritting his teeth, his solution was to crawl forward, leaving faint scratches on the yellow physical world. He reached out, feeling the dizziness take hold, and extended his hand once more.

Then, unexpectedly, his arm detached from the wall. He almost let out a screech in surprise, but he managed to contain it. The underside of his arm (rather, the back of his arm) revealed a dazzling red nebula, painted with rich hues of scarlet and obsidion and adorned with twinkling stars. He even spotted a passing comet. However, the beauty quickly turned into discomfort, and he snatched the blob and released his grip.

He executed a graceful somersault in the air (he didn’t know how he could do that as a shadow), despite his dizziness, before landing on his feet next to Prismo, the large blob in his hand. Scarab placed a hand on his hip and offered the blob to Prismo with a huff. “Here. Now, fix the TV.” Prismo blinked, his mouth slightly agape before snapping it shut and nodding. He took the blob and quickly shoved it back into the TV. Scarab noticed the red tint creeping up on the area where Prismo’s cheeks would be.

The TV hissed and screeched, flickering heavily as the device’s block reattached itself to it. Scarab instinctively covered his ears (though he didn’t have them), and Prismo yelped and stumbled back, nearly getting sucked into the TV in the process. The TV’s screeching only lasted for a moment before it flickered to black. Scarab sighed with relief, ignoring the ringing in his nonexistent ears as he glanced at the Wishmaster. Prismo groaned and rubbed the side of his face.

“Well,” Prismo began, taking a moment to summon the remote. Scarab stepped back slightly. “Moment of truth.” They both watched warily as Prismo pressed the power button. The TV turned on, displaying a random universe without a sound. Scarab examined the quality of the image, relieved to see that it wasn’t lagging or glitching.

“Awesome! TV’s fixed,” Prismo announced with a grin on his face. Scarab nodded in agreement, still watching the screen. But before he could say anything, the screen suddenly turned off, and Prismo slid into his field of vision, grinning. “Now, I gotta show you something cool.”

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀. . ﾟ . . ✦ , .

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* .

. . ✦⠀ , *

⠀ ⠀

Prismo was pretty confident that picking “Jaws” as the movie was the right choice for Scarab, who was intently focused on the screen. Prismo had positioned himself as close to Scarab as he dared, trying not to be too intrusive and risk getting snapped at. He could feel (feel!) a slight buzz on his skin near the blue shadow, but Scarab hadn’t reacted aggressively yet. Prismo took a quick, cautious glance towards his companion, relieved that he seemed more engrossed in the movie than irritated.

“This movie is stupid,” Scarab suddenly remarked, catching Prismo’s attention as his eyes snapped back to the screen. “For one, that harpoon is far too small for the size of the shark, two, that shark is far too unrealistic to even come close to the real deal, and three, the characters are blank slates that are only there for entertainment.” He paused for a moment. “How can people enjoy this movie?” Prismo remained silent, uncertain if the question was rhetorical or not. When Scarab turned to him, he realized it wasn’t.

“Uh, well, it’s, you know, fun to watch?” Prismo replied, offering a sheepish grin. Scarab simply hummed and redirected his attention to the screen. “Well, you choose the next movie then,” he added.

Scarab hummed again, his fingers tapping onto the floor, and even though he was 2D, it made a pleasant clicking sound.” Something with the epic fantasy theme,” he said after a moment, turning his head to watch Prismo summon the TV remote. “And something that looks appealing as well.” Prismo nodded, scanning over the many movies he had in his library. When he landed on a title, Scarab either shook his head or hummed in displeasure.

Finally, Scarab gave off a hum that wasn’t disapproving of a title Prismo landed on. “Spirited Away?” Prismo asked, clicking on the movie to bring up more information. Scarab scanned the screen before nodding. “Okay, I think you might like this one.” One thing Prismo had learned during his time living with Scarab was that the blue shadow had a habit of fidgeting when he grew bored. Small, subtle actions like tapping his fingers or tapping his foot. So, Prismo realized Scarab had grown bored with the movie so far by the sound of his fingers tapping against the floor.

The room was quiet except for the rhythmic clinking sound accompanying the movie’s intro, right up until the car skidded to a stop in front of the statue. Prismo perked up when he noticed the absence of that clinking sound and glanced at his companion. Scarab had his arms crossed, almost invisible in the dark shadows since Prismo had turned off the lights. But the absence of the sound showed Prismo that he had chosen a movie that had caught his roomie’s attention.

Now, it was Prismo who fidgeted. He was nervous, of course, not knowing how the blue shadow would react to one of his all-time favorite movies. As an entity of light, he didn’t distract Scarab, who sat still as a statue. Prismo wrung his hands and often glanced at the smaller figure, hoping for some sign of a reaction to the movie.

His anxiety grew when Scarab remained motionless. So, lost in his own unease, Prismo flinched when the main character, Chihiro, tumbled down the stairs. Scarab noticed the reaction and gave the pink shadow a questioning glance. Prismo waved him off and used one hand to scratch his neck, silently chastising himself for his jitteriness. He heard a small chuckle from Scarab when Chihiro slammed into the wall. Prismo heaved a soft sigh of relief and returned to watching the movie, resisting the urge to glance at Scarab.

As the film progressed and reached one of Prismo’s favorite scenes, he was surprised when Scarab suddenly spoke up. “What is that?” Scarab’s voice held an unusual tone of fascination, and it caught Prismo completely off guard.

“Uh, what is what?” Prismo asked, stealing a quick look at Scarab. To his amazement, he saw the blue shadow leaning forward, captivated by the screen. It seemed this movie was more interesting to Scarab than Jaws. Scarab pointed at the boiler man on the screen. “Oh! That’s Kamaji, the boiler man.” Almost immediately, Kamaji introduced himself to Chihiro.

“Fascinating,” Scarab mumbled, his words barely audible to Prismo. The Wishmaster felt himself swell with pride, and he eagerly turned his attention back to the screen. He hadn’t even realized he was grinning. The movie continued with Scarab occasionally asking questions or making small comments, and Prismo responding when necessary. It was evident that Scarab had taken a liking to Yubaba, as he became more talkative when she appeared on the screen.

When they reached the part where the annoying frog was eaten, Scarab let out a small chuckle. This time, it was Prismo’s turn to inquire. “Why’d you laugh at that frog getting eaten?”

Scarab didn’t respond for a moment as he watched the scene. “That thing is a No-Face, I bet,” Prismo paused, turning his full attention to the other.

“How’d you know?”

Scarab hummed. “I fought one once. It was a very… uncomfortable experience.” Prismo blinked, wondering what about a fight with a No-Face could be so uncomfortable. But then again, it was a No-Face.

“I didn’t know they existed outside of this movie,” Prismo commented, hoping for more information. Scarab was typically not one to share, so Prismo was surprised when the smaller figure spoke.

“They do, and they are interesting when they aren’t starving,” Scarab remarked before refocusing on the movie. Prismo made a connection, and they both turned their attention back to the screen.

The movie didn’t take too long to finish after that, and Prismo felt happy that Scarab had watched that movie fully, even though the smaller was complaining of the “sappy and pathetic” happy ending.

Chapter 8: A Toll

Chapter Text

The tavern gleamed brightly in the midst of the dark night, casting a warm, orange glow that bathed the streets in a joyful radiance. Vermilion released a quiet sigh, trailing along closely behind his companion. Prism’s enthusiastic chatter filled the air as he shared his excitement about this new and unexplored tavern. In all honesty, Vermilion had never expected a healing wizard to be such a fervent party-goer, but Prism had a knack for surprising him, and this occasion was no different.

The door burst open with such force that Prism didn’t even get the chance to touch the handle, prompting Vermilion’s hand to swiftly rest on the hilt of his blade, poised to unsheathe it if need be. However, his worry dissipated when a rowdy group of drunk villagers spilled out, their voices raised in song and laughter. Vermilion sighed in relief, his gaze shifting to Prism, who joined in the merriment, laughing and singing along.

He rolled his eyes in mild annoyance and strolled into the tavern, his gaze immediately searching for the barkeeper. It didn’t take long before he spotted a man and a woman efficiently managing the bustling main bar. Vermilion headed toward it and took a seat, patiently awaiting their attention. He observed them with an unusual sense of fascination, watching the two barkeepers moved gracefully around each other, their actions harmonizing seamlessly. Vermilion slightly wished for a companion who could work with him as smoothly while he embarked on quests for the king.

“Haha, Vermilion, why the sudden escape?” Prism chuckled at his side as the wizard settled into a seat and playfully tossed a few coins onto the counter. The barmaid noticed Vermilion and approached him with a sweet, saccharine smile.

“Hello, darling,” she greeted with a syrupy tone that grated on Vermilion’s nerves. “What can I get for you tonight?” Prism’s laughter bubbled again, and he grinned like a Cheshire cat as he draped his arm over Vermilion’s shoulder. Unable to restrain himself, Vermilion emitted a low growl as he felt the unwelcome touch. The barmaid blinked and cast a quick glance in Vermilion’s direction.

“I’ll have a sparkling Moscato, please! As for my companion,” Vermilion sighed and shook off Prism’s arm.

“Sazerac,” he stated, causing the barmaid to raise an eyebrow and chuckle.

“An interesting choice, dear. I’ll have those drinks to you gentlemen in no time.” Prism gave her a wave, which she reciprocated, before turning her attention to the knight. Vermilion let out a weary sigh and removed his helmet, the sound of it echoing in the quiet space. He could hear Prism’s breath catch, prompting him to turn and shoot a questioning glance at his companion.

“What’s the matter?” Vermilion inquired.

Prism quickly waved off Vermilion’s concern, assuring him, “Ah, nothing, really. Nothing at all.”

Then he changed the topic, causing Vermilion to shake his head slightly. “I never took you for a co*cktail guy, Vermilion. I always thought you preferred a good beer,” Prism commented, plucking a mint from a dish and popping it into his mouth.

Vermilion arched an eyebrow, his expression unamused. “Just because I usually prefer beer doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a well-crafted co*cktail when the mood strikes.”

Prism’s grin widened as he leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret. “Ah, I see. You’ve got a taste for the finer things tonight, I suppose.”

Before Vermilion could retort, the barmaid returned with their drinks, placing the sparkling Moscato in front of Prism and the Sazerac in front of Vermilion. She offered them a warm smile before moving on to serve another customer.

Prism raised his glass in a toast. “To finding Amerilla.”

Vermilion sighed again and raised his glass slightly. “Here’s to a peaceful night’s rest.” As he took a sip, Prism burst into laughter mid-drink, causing him to choke and pound his chest. Vermilion smirked, continuing to savor his own drink. The welcome burn of the alcohol was a familiar comfort and offered some relief from the oppressive atmosphere. Eventually, Prism regained his composure, the wizard finally catching his breath and reentering Vermilion’s focus.

“Didn’t think you’d be a lightweight,” Vermilion teased, prompting Prism to place his glass on the table.

“Come on, man, don’t make me choke again,” Prism chuckled, grabbing a handful of mints and stuffing them into his pockets. “I’m far from being a lightweight. I should take you out for a drink more often. You’re a lot less serious with a drink in hand. Sazerac, was it? I’ll have to give it a try next time.”

“Well, well, well, didn’t expect to see the Vermilion Knight gracing my bar with his presence,” Prism stopped mid-sentence, turning his attention to the bartender who had spoken. Vermilion set his glass down and shifted his focus to the man.

“It’s not every day you walk in here for a casual drink, or so I’ve heard,” the bartender remarked with a hint of skepticism. “What brings the king’s loyal dog to my humble establishment?” Prism frowned and began to respond, but Vermilion interrupted by straightening up from his previously hunched position.

“The information you’ve heard is accurate,” Vermilion replied as Prism settled back into his seat. “I seek information of my own. Provide it willingly, and we’ll all enjoy a pleasant evening.” The bartender harrumphed and leaned his weight on the counter, bending down to meet Vermilion’s gaze. From Prism’s vantage point, it appeared as though the bartender might attempt to rough up Vermilion, but Prism knew better. He had witnessed the Vermilion Knight in genuine combat.

“Very well, king’s pet, what is it you wish to ask about?” the bartender inquired. Vermilion offered a faint smile, but there was something off about it. Prism’s mood took a nosedive as he observed the exchange between the two.

“I’m in search of a young girl, brunette, approximately 12 years old, about the height of this counter. I’ve heard she was last seen in this establishment,” Vermilion explained. The bartender gazed at him for a moment before retreating behind the counter.

“I have no young girl for you to return to your king, loyal hound. Leave this place, immediately,” the burly man declared, his demeanor becoming increasingly confrontational. By this point, a few other patrons had taken notice of the bartender’s agitation and were falling silent. Vermilion chuckled, and Prism felt a flush creeping into his cheeks, though it was definitely more due to the alcohol in his hand than the sound.

“I’m certain you’re aware of my reputation,” Vermilion drawled, resting his chin on his hand. “So, I suggest it would be in your best interest not to stand in my way.”

“Leave,” the man reiterated, his nerves becoming more evident by the moment. Prism realized that he was hiding something.

“You’re clearly concealing something,” Vermilion smirked, “And I fully intend to uncover it.” Fists were hurled toward the red knight, but he effortlessly deflected and redirected the attacks. Prism barely had time to react before the bartender initiated a punch that set off a full-blown bar brawl.

“Get Amerilla out of here!” Prism overheard the man yelling to the woman, who promptly nodded and fled down the blocked-off corridors. Vermilion erupted in laughter, a broad smile gracing his face as he dashed after the woman. The bartender attempted to obstruct his path, but Prism intervened, landing a punch on the man’s face.

“Go!” Prism urged, receiving a nod of acknowledgment from the knight before Vermilion swiftly replaced his helmet. Vermilion shadowed the woman as they ventured deeper into a labyrinth of underground corridors, tracing a path through one tunnel after another. The endless expanse of tunnels left him glad that Prism was not here to witness Vermilion retrieve the child.

“Fall.” An otherworldly command echoed through his mind. In an instant, Vermilion’s entire body turned to jelly, and he plummeted to the ground, a wave of panic surging through him as he felt himself go limp. He struggled desperately to turn his head and glimpse the source of the command, but his gaze remained fixed straight ahead.

Then, small feet entered his line of sight, and a young girl knelt down beside him, her laughter ringing through the air. “Did you truly believe I would be so easy to capture? Oh, you foolish vermin, you cannot even fathom the power I—”

“Vermilion!” For the first time in his life, hope pierced through Vermilion’s dread as he heard Prism’s voice through the darkness. “Vermilion!”

Amerilla laughed, her green eyes shifting to the tunnel’s entrance. As she redirected her attention to Vermilion’s companion, his limbs slowly regained their mobility. Amerilla began to utter the same overpowering word, but her voice was abruptly silenced when Vermilion lunged at her. She let out a girlish scream and drove her hands, no, her claws, into Vermilion’s left arm. Vermilion screamed as agonizing pain, unlike anything he had ever experienced, coursed through his entire limb, rendering it instantly numb.

Vermilion clutched the injured arm as the girl laughed and fled.

Scarab nodded to himself, saving the document. He scanned over its contents, examining for anything that didn’t make sense or any grammatical errors. He wasn’t sure why Prismo had asked for Vermilion to be injured, but Scarab was glad that Prismo was finally venturing into the hurtful aspect of writing. Even if he was having Scarab write it.

“How’s it going?” Prismo asked, hovering by one of the doorways.

“Good,” Scarab responded, his attention on the screen. “Just a few more things, and then it’s done,” Scarab said, fully engrossed in his work. Prismo moved closer, peering over Scarab’s shoulder at the screen. He opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. Scarab paused his work and shifted his attention to Prismo, still keeping a close eye on the screen.

“Uh,” Prismo began, his cheeks taking on an odd red tint. Scarab found it curious, as it wasn’t a common sight for Prismo. Prismo withdrew slightly and brought up a hand to scratch at his neck. Recognizing the nervous tic, Scarab tilted the screen down and turned to face Prismo completely. The Wishmaster hesitated once more before taking a deep breath.

“This is going to sound cheesy, really cheesy, but, uh, I wanted to thank you again for writing this for me. I can’t really do ‘hurt’ well, so it really helps. So, thank you,” he forced out, stumbling over his words. Scarab chuckled softly, oddly finding it cute. The chapter he’d worked on only needed a quick review, and since Prismo wanted the hurt, Scarab doubted the pink shadow would change much.

He opened the laptop and offered it to Prismo, who blinked and took it after a moment’s pause. Scarab stood and nodded at Prismo. “That was a bit cheesy, but you're welcome. Since it’s your idea, I’ll let you review it. Don’t change anything!” A massive smile bloomed on Prismo’s face and he eagerly nodded.

Scarab paused for a moment, before opening a door to the Time Core and leaving, wondering about the unfamiliar warmth that had bloomed in his chest.

Chapter 9: Pink

Chapter Text

Scarab had been dreading the moment when Prismo would remember that he’d never been to a party and decide to throw one. He had let a small bud of hope grow, thinking Prismo might not take that step, only for it to violently wilt when Prismo announced his party plans.

“What?” Scarab asked, his voice steady and calm. He concealed his inner turmoil beneath his usual facade. Externally, he appeared bored and annoyed, but inside, he felt anything but.

“I’m going to throw a party!” Prismo repeated, a wide grin on his face. “You mentioned you’ve never been to one, so I wanted you to experience at least one.” Scarab nodded, arms crossed.

“I do not think that would be necessary, Prismo,” he replied, though his claws dug slightly into his arms. He needed to find a way to trim them without Prismo noticing. “I’ve never been to a party because I’ve never wanted to go to one. There’s a big difference.” The way Prismo spoke was beginning to bleed into his own speech, and he couldn’t let that happen.

Prismo hummed, leaning down to see Scarab better. “You also said you’ve never been invited either, so what if you did want to go, but you didn’t feel like you were wanted there?” Prismo’s words struck too close to home for comfort, and Scarab had to clamp down on his jaw to stop a hiss from escaping.

“I can assure you, I’ve never wanted to go to one of your parties,” Scarab lied. He had always wanted to attend at least one of Prismo’s ‘amazing’ parties before he solidified his reputation as The Scarab. Now, attempting to go would only bring disappointment and shame. He had no desire to feel shame at another party ever again.

“Aw, come on, man, at least one?” Prismo pleaded, his head tilting in a way that Scarab both hated and, in a secret corner of his heart, loved. “You can stay over with me. I’m sure Cosmo and a few others would be fine with you hanging out with us.” Scarab shook his head and gave Prismo a glare, a glare he’d been trying to perfect for years.

“I do not wish to attend your party. If you must have one, I will be in the Time Core,” he stated firmly, making it clear that there was no room for negotiation. Prismo opened his mouth to respond but closed it when Scarab issued a low growl as a warning. Scarab was growing more and more comfortable, and it bothered him that he was letting out small sounds around the other.

“Alright, dude,” Prismo finally sighed, a small frown replacing his earlier smile. “But if you ever want to, you’re always invited to my parties.” Scarab simply nodded and opened a door to the Time Core, leaving the argument in his favor.

The music from Prismo party echoed throughout the entire Cube, even reaching the room where their bodies slept. Scarab sighed and rubbed his head, trying to tune out the sound of the party and focus on the old man snoring behind him. It seemed that Prismo’s host was so accustomed to parties being in his home that he slept soundly through them, finding comfort in the noise. Scarab had no reason to relax; instead, he used his limited free time to check up on his 3D form.

Scarab was always a light sleeper, so he had barely registered that he was about to wake himself up before he was already awake. He didn’t know if it was the door sliding open for his steps or the music’s reverberations, but one moment he was a shadow, and the next, he was a very confused red beetle. Scarab sighed again, standing up in the dim room and starting to pace. He summoned his personal nail clippers, having memorized their code a long time ago, and meticulously trimmed away the hard carapace until it was as low as it would go.

As he examined his right hand, he hummed softly, pleased with his work. After a moment of getting used to having barely any nails again, Scarab switched to his left hand and began the same process. Out of habit, Scarab scented the air. He frowned when he detected a hint of blood amidst the background of alcohol and various entity forms. He scented the air once more to pinpoint the source, and it was a somewhat embarrassing sight: wandering around, sniffing for blood like a dog, only to realize that the source was his own form. Scarab raised his arm and noticed three new crack marks that were bleeding. He furrowed his brow, weighing whether to wrap the wounds with bandages or endure the pain.

After a moment’s hesitation, Scarab decided to forgo the bandages and returned to the slab he had been using earlier. Surprisingly, it now had a mattress on it. He sat silently, allowing his tired body to begin the process of healing the new wounds. Scarab barely flinched at the sudden waves of pain – it was the downside of having both a high pain tolerance and an efficient healing system. He curled into a tight ball, enduring the pain until it subsided into a dull throb at the back of his mind. Eventually, he let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, aiming to relax until the end of the party.

“Scaaaaaaraaaab!” Prismo’s voice resonated through the cube’s halls, causing Scarab to violently flinch. He hissed and clutched at his arm as he was abruptly knocked out of his ‘healing mode.’ Frantically, he searched for a plan. Maybe he could pretend to be asleep? Yes, that might work. Scarab had little time to act before the door slid open, and he froze like a deer in the headlights.

Prismo stared at him, his eyes wide, his expression the embodiment of shock. Scarab was certain his own face mirrored the shock. He remained perfectly still, watching Prismo, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He anticipated that Prismo would report him. For once, Scarab felt like the prey in one of his hunts, desperately attempting to devise a strategy to elude the Auditor and return to their way of life. In all of his past encounters, Scarab had never failed a hunt. However, this time, he was caught. Unless Prismo decided to show mercy and not immediately report him, Scarab had very little room to maneuver. Of all the times to be trimming his claws, it just had to be now.

The movement of the old man in the room startled Scarab out of his shock. He jumped backward into the corner, wielding his nail trimmers as a makeshift weapon. Scarab suppressed the urge to hiss, determined not to antagonize the other entity and jeopardize his chance at…

At what? A part of him asked, the voice dripping with familiar slime and venom and oh so horrible familiarity. But it was right. In his current form, Scarab had nothing to return to. He was still serving his punishment, and he knew that if Orbo caught him, he’d face a punishment far worse than both of his previous punishments combined. It would cost him his life.

So, Scarab lowered both the trimmers and his head, surrendering himself to Prismo’s judgment. Feelings of shame, embarrassment, and humiliation pooled into every crevice of his body as he suppressed the trembling in his arms. To better hide them, he crossed them behind his back.

“Dude…” He flinched at the tone of Prismo’s voice, a complex blend of confusion, horror, and pity. Prismo didn’t say anything else for a while, still watching the beetle as if Scarab might suddenly attempt to harm his host. A silent chuckle echoed in his mind at the thought. “Are you…” Prismo trailed off, and Scarab noticed the Prismo’s hand approaching. Scarab took a step back, pressing himself into the corner, and Prismo’s hand paused. Scarab despised how weak he felt, loathed the sense of vulnerability. The most primal part of him wanted to flee and find a place to hide, but he quashed that instinct, just as he did with his other emotions. Instead, he concentrated fully on Prismo’s actions.

“Are you okay…?” Scarab blinked at Prismo’s words, lifting his head slightly to understand why the pink shadow would ask such an absurd question. He felt himself freeze again (a feeling he detested with a passion rivaling his distaste for the Prismo) when he saw the expression on Prismo’s face.

It was filled with… worry. Worry for Scarab. No pity, no horror, no confusion. Just genuine concern. The red beetle felt something moist gathering around his eyes, so he bit his tongue to distract himself from the overpowering sense of being pathetic. The pain provided some solace, but it was insufficient. His next course of action was to dig into his wounded arm, creating enough discomfort to focus his thoughts and await Prismo’s decision.

“Are you okay?” Prismo asked again, his voice more confident. Scarab felt confused, unsure of Prismo’s intentions, but decided to cooperate with whatever plan the Prismo had in mind. Perhaps, just perhaps, the pink shadow would show some mercy.

It took Scarab a moment to find his voice. “…Yes,” he replied simply, his voice quiet and slightly hoarse from disuse. Prismo didn’t appear convinced, and the red beetle felt a sliver of panic creeping over him as Prismo’s hand inched closer. No, no, no, no, no…

“Please,” the word was uttered so softly that Scarab hardly registered it at first, too preoccupied with evading Prismo’s hand. The arm initially recoiled, but then returned to its owner, while Prismo now wore a horrified expression. And that concern, the annoyingly genuine concern.

“O-okay, um, the party ended so if you want to come back up…” Prismo spoke softly and slowly, as if addressing a skittish animal. Scarab felt like one, and he despised it. “Or you can stay here, or do whatever, I, uh, I don’t mind.” Scarab grew increasingly confused. Why hadn’t Prismo reported him? What caused the Prismo to cancel the party? And why did he seem to care about Scarab?

Taking a deep breath and then another, Scarab managed to gather his thoughts. “…Why aren’t you,” he started, but a small cough escaped him, and his face burned. Prismo looked concerned but didn’t make any sudden movements. Good. “Why aren’t you reporting me?”

Prismo seemed to flinch at that, raising a hand to scratch his neck. He laughed nervously, and somehow, that eased some of Scarab’s tension. “Well, uh, I kinda already knew that you would wake yourself up,” he chuckled and slowly edged away, watching Scarab closely. This piqued Scarab’s curiosity. What did Prismo mean? “And I, uh, kinda knew, like a couple of months back, you would, uh, you did, and, uh, I knew that you did wake yourself up.” He rapidly blurted out the last part and fixed his gaze on Scarab.

Scarab felt sick. Prismo knew? If Prismo was aware that he had woken himself up before, it meant that he must have noticed the wounds from his self-inflicted injuries. Prismo had seen Scarab at his most vulnerable and did nothing about it? No, Prismo must have taken some kind of action! Scarab reflected on the months following his “break.” He did notice Prismo being more attentive and kind, but he had simply assumed that Prismo was growing accustomed to having the red beetle around. Scarab had made an assumption, and it had turned out to be his downfall. What else had Prismo seen? What else did he have in mind? There had to be something more! He couldn’t have just—

Prismo had seen Scarab’s face.

“Dude, stop, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” The Wishmaster suddenly interjected, his hands extending toward Scarab but halting just before reaching him. Scarab was oblivious to the fact that he was crushing his arm behind his back. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a torrent of anger and hatred, but his words died when he heard the faint clinking sound of broken carapce pieces hitting the floor.

A surge of hatred coursed through him, making his chest feel heavy. Scarab took a step forward, deliberately stomping onto one of the pink shadow’s hands with a hiss. The Wishmaster withdrew both his hands, nursing the injured one, but his gaze still reflected that horrible concern. “What is it that you want?” Scarab snarled, advancing toward the taller again. He could feel the begining growth of his claws, but that was a concern for later. “I know you must have some kind of plan. No one simply refrains from reporting someone who has flagrantly violated the rules. You’re plotting something, and I’m well aware of it. So, if you would be so kind, perhaps you’d care to elucidate your sinister plan?”

“What?” The shadow asked, sliding more away. “I promise, there’s no sinister plan, and, you know, people can sometimes overlook things.”

“Liar,” Scarab hissed.

“I’m not lying!” The other protested, his voice fraught with frustration. “I’m just trying to help. I don’t want you to get in trouble. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Scarab kept a close eye on the Wishmaster, ready to defend himself if needed. The pink shadow’s confusion and concern seemed genuine, but Scarab’s trust had been shattered too many times to believe it so easily. He decided to probe further. “Help? How? By allowing me to roam free when I’m supposed to be in punishment? What’s your real game, Wishmaster?”

The shadow’s expression shifted from concern to exasperation. “I don’t have a game! I just… I want to understand why you’re hurting yourself and help you if I can.”

Scarab’s anger flared, and he hissed, “You don’t understand anything about me! You’re just like the rest of them, trying to pity me, trying to change me, trying to fix me.” The last word was said with such bitterness that it hung in the air like a heavy fog.

The taller sighed, looking hurt by Scarab’s words. “I’m not trying to fix you. I just don’t want you to be in pain.”

Scarab hesitated, his rage still burning brightly. He wondered if there was a sliver of truth in the Wishmaster’s words. Maybe, just maybe, the pink shadow was different than before. Scarab lowered his guard a fraction but kept his sharp eyes fixed on the Wishmaster.

“Explain,” Scarab demanded, his voice softer yet still wary. “Explain why you didn’t report me when you found me awake. And don’t try to lie to me again.”

The pink shadow took a deep breath and met Scarab’s gaze, his expression sincere. “Because I know what it’s like to be lonely, Scarab, and I don’t want anyone else to suffer like I did.” Scarab felt himself freeze, knowing all too well that the Wishmaster was lying. He was everybody’s pal Prismo, the Wishmaster was never lonely. And yet, Scarab couldn’t pull away.

Scarab’s eyes narrowed as he listened to the Wishmaster’s explanation. “You claim to understand me, but you’re everybody’s pal Prismo. You’ve never been punished for your actions,” he retorted.

The shadow nodded slowly. “I… well, you’re right about that. I haven’t been punished before, and I certainly don’t want to now,” he admitted, a hint of regret in his expression. “But sometimes, I do.”

“What?” Scarab asked, his tone laced with suspicion. “Why would you want to get punished?”

“Because I want what you have, Scarab,” The Wishmaster said, a slightly pained expression taking over his face. “I want to have a 3D form again, to be able to go anywhere, do stupid things, and get stupid prizes. I want that freedom that you take for granted.”

Scarab scoffed. “You’ve got it perfect here, Wishmaster. You have everything you could ever want. Why would you give it up?”

“Okay, honestly, sometimes I wish I never became the Wishmaster,” The shadow confessed, surprising Scarab. “I thought it would be cool at the time, thought I could interact with all the newly created worlds and make sure they fit in right. I thought I could do anything as the Wishmaster. Turns out, you can’t, Scarab. You’re trapped in a giant cube, at the center of everything that is, able to make anything you could ever want or think of, but all you can ever do is watch. Watch the little universes you make. I’ve wanted to leave this cube and see those worlds I made. A universe born of a vague and unhelpful wish. I’ve wanted what you have for my entire career as Wishmaster. Because once the wish is granted, you’re useless.”

Scarab was taken aback by the shadow’s admission. “You are not useless,” Scarab retorted. “You are the most important because you make universes. As Wishmaster, you’re the most powerful being in the multiverse, among the gods. You’re isolated for the rest of your career, but at least whenever a mortal shows up, you could do anything with their wish. You could twist and warp their vague wish into the most horrible thing ever and relish in the fact that you made the wish exactly what they wanted. And other times, you can enjoy how perfect a wish could be when the mortal who wanted it made it detailed and exactly what they wanted. Sure, you’re stuck only to watch them, but you have the power to make them.” Scarab never really noticed that he had the power to destroy them instead.

“But what’s the point of having all that power when you can’t do anything with it?!” The shadow exclaimed, uncurling from his previous pose. Scarab felt the urge to step back and apologize, but he held his ground and continued to glare at the Wishmaster. “I don’t have friends because no one wants to hang around in a yellow cube all day. I’m a 2D being because that’s what the job requires, and I can’t leave this blasted cube!” Prismo’s color deepened to a redder hue, and Scarab took a step back, meeting his gaze.

“Well, at least you’re safe!” Scarab retorted. “Out there, in the 3D world, in the universes, you’ll constantly be threatened with death! Do you want that? Do you want to constantly run for your life?”

“I want to live!” Prismo yelled back, forcing Scarab into silence. They stared at each other intensely, ignoring the old man shifting in the corner. Scarab stared at Prismo, feeling a heavy weight settle on his chest. He had made Prismo angry, and where he should of felt pride, he only felt a weight greater than his hatred. After a moment, Prismo blinked and seemed to recoil, his breathing heavy even though he didn’t require air. The color of the shadow shifted to a grayish pink instead of the vibrant red it was before. Scarab felt like he had done something wrong, and he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

For the first time, Scarab found himself at a loss for words. His anger and hatred dimmed as he struggled to comprehend the fact the Wishmaster didn’t want to be Wishmaster. “I don’t understand,” he said quietly. The Wishmaster didn’t respond, instead wrapping his arms around himself and growing more grey as time went on. Scarab felt a familiar flame spark at the sight and he wanted to quickly estinguish it. The only way he knew how was to stop the shadow from going more grey. “Why..?”

“…I like having all that power,” The shadow admitted, his voice reduced to a whisper. “But what’s the point if I can’t share it? Cosmic can only come to me, and he always couldn’t. Jake was the closest thing to a true friend I ever had, but… he’s gone now. And when you kept talking about how great the role of Wishmaster was, I thought that maybe…” He paused, his voice trailing off.

“What did you think?” Scarab asked, voice soft as he watched the shadow carefully.

The shadow hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I do have a plan, but it’s not evil. I thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d get in trouble, and I could put in a good word for you. Then you’d come work under me and gain experience and learn more about the role. I planned that when you were finally ready and had learned enough, I’d fake my death when the next evil wizard showed up. Then, I’d take a 3D form in a random universe. You’d become the Wishmaster, and I’d be free.”

Scarab felt conflicted, anger melding uncomfortably with understanding. “So,” He began, thinking over the information he had just learned of the Wishmaster. Of Prismo. A complex mix of emotions swirling within him—anger, mistrust, but also the faintest hint of something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. “You want to make me Wishmaster so you’d have a 3D form?”

“That’s the plan,” Prismo responded, his eyes downcast as he looked at his host. Scarab found himself hateing the way Prismo looked, finding himself utterly confused by his own feelings. He knew he hated Prismo, he had loathed him ever since Prismo became the Wishmaster. But why did he detest that look on Prismo more than Prismo himself?

A heavy silence enveloped the room, not even the old man’s snoring breaking it. Scarab felt lost. He always had a plan, he prided himself on always knowing what to do. He had never lost a fight, never lost a hunt, never lost anything since he became an Auditor. That was his job: to ensure nothing went wrong and everything remained in its proper place. He never cared if the people he egged were outraged, never cared when they begged and pleaded, never cared about their emotions within the grand design of things. That was his job.

But he had lost control, hadn’t he? He had ignored his own anger, his own begging and pleading, his own emotions, to fulfill his duty. And when he finally had an opportunity to regain what he wanted, what he was born to do, his suppressed emotions exploded in a destructive fury that nearly cost him his life. He had wanted to destroy Prismo in the only way he truly knew how: by annihilating what Prismo loved. He had nearly succeeded, and up until now, he had been consumed by anger at himself for not finishing the job. He wanted to make Prismo suffer for everything, but now that he had heard the truth behind Prismo’s kindness, he was left feeling conflicted.

“I’m sorry,” Scarab whispered, overwhelmed by the emotions within him, too disoriented to retract his words. Prismo looked at him, still clutching his arms around himself. Without speaking further, Scarab took a hesitant step forward. When Prismo didn’t react, he took another step, then another, closing the distance between them until he sat right next to the shadow. Instead of acknowledging his actions, Scarab leaned against the wall.

Prismo’s light cast a soothing buzz onto his shoulder, and it was the only comfort he had allowed himself to feel in a long time.

Chapter 10: Blossoming

Chapter Text

“I’m not going to force you back into your 2D form,” Prismo had mentioned that day, after the two of them sat in silence. He knew Scarab was confused, but the red beetle didn’t show it at the time.

Since then, things have been… quiet between the two of them. It wasn’t quite tense or awkward, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It felt more like they were strangers working in an office, and that was getting under Prismo’s skin.

After his embarrassing confession, where he’d regretted taking on the job of Wishmaster, Prismo had wanted to talk to the beetle, to act like friendly acquaintances again. But every time he saw an opportunity, he chickened out and instead sat silently next to the other.

This day was yet another of those days, with Prismo silently observing Scarab as he wrote. He noticed that Scarab was growing increasingly more active, and he appeared… happier, in his 3D form. Prismo felt happy at the change. The impact of Scarab’s improved mood was most evident in his writing, as he managed to fill the pages five times faster. Scarab’s happiness had reflected onto Prismo’s too.

Quietly, Scarab swiveled the computer screen to allow Prismo a glimpse of what he was working on. Prismo nodded, not uttering a word, and sent a warm smile to Scarab before diving into the words. He had to lean a bit closer to Scarab, and that closeness was entirely intentional. Another little detail he had noticed was that Scarab seemed to lean in his general direction as well. Prismo vaguely recalled Scarab mentioning his heightened sensitivity to light compared to other gods, but that was in the past, before… well, before they had become rivals/enemies.

Prismo made a few notes, using the laptop’s note feature for the first time in a while, before passing the device back to Scarab. Scarab accepted it, reviewed Prismo’s notes, and then resumed his work. Prismo kept an eye on the other, silently hoping that the red beetle might say something, but his optimism waned when Scarab remained silent.

For what felt like the 300th time, Prismo examined Scarab, futilely wishing to see something beyond the usual guarded expression. He noticed that the cracks on Scarab’s arm had almost completely healed, but aside from that, the beetle appeared strangely impassive, resembling a statue.

Prismo recognized the presence of a frown on his face well before he felt it settle in. He sighed while watching Scarab type, then decided to summon his banjo. The clicking sounds paused briefly before quickly resuming their initial pace. Prismo listened to the rhythm within the keystrokes and plucked a few notes to gauge the tempo. As he noticed Scarab glancing his way, he put on a smile, only to let it wane when Scarab returned to work.

After a moment, Prismo played a few more notes, the beginning of a song. He looked at Scarab, uncertain if it was okay with him, but realized that Scarab had stopped typing. A glimmer of hope began to grow within him. Prismo started a song he had always cherished, his fingers skillfully dancing over the strings, honed over years of practice. He stretched it a bit longer than the song required, and he couldn’t contain his joy when he saw Scarab tapping the keys in time. Following a moment of the melody filling the room, Prismo pumped himself up and started to sing.

“People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one,
And we’ve just begun,”

Prismo was aware that his cheeks were probably turning red as he sang the lyrics, but the sight of Scarab letting out a small chuckle made it all worth it.

“Think I’m gonna have a son,
He will be like she and me, as free as a dove,”

The melody reverberated throughout the room, echoing down the hallways, creating a unique resonance that seemed just right. The longer Scarab watched him, the more Prismo’s confidence grew.

“Conceived in love,
Sun is gonna shine above,”

“And even though we ain’t got money,
I’m so in love with you, honey,
And everything will bring a chain of love, oh, oh, oh,”

Prismo blinked when he detected another sound joining the melody, one that wasn’t from the keyboard. He turned his gaze to Scarab, who was hunched over his screen. A soft hum emanated from him, akin to a cricket’s song. Prismo’s smile broadened.

“In the mornin’, when I rise,
You bring a tear of joy to my eyes,
And tell me everything is gonna be alright,”

He paused, allowing his fingers to linger longer than necessary. He nodded along while counting.

"Seems as though, a month ago, I was Beta-Chi,
Never got high,
Oh, was a sorry guy,”

“Now, I smile and face the girl that shares my name, yeah,
Now I’m through with the game,
This boy’ll never be the same,”

He noticed Scarab’s head bobbing slightly to the beat, and it filled Prismo with pride.

“And even though we ain’t got money,
I’m so in love with you, honey,
And everything will bring a chain of love, oh, oh, oh,
In the morning, when I rise,
You bring a tear of joy to my eyes,
And tell me everything is gonna be alright,”

Prismo noticed Scarab hesitate for a moment, lifting his hands off the keys and standing. He wondered what the red beetle was planning, and he was pleasantly surprised when Scarab summoned a violin. Scarab had impeccable taste, which was an undeniable fact. The instrument had a rich, deep brown color and was adorned with elegant symbols in white and gold. A striking mosaic of a beetle graced its center. Prismo didn’t miss a beat and resumed singing, excitement creeping into his voice.

“Pisces, Virgo rising is a very good sign,
Strong and kind,
And the little boy is mine,”

Scarab began to play, and if Prismo weren’t a god himself, he’d be invoking cosmic names in response to the enchanting sound.

“Now I see a family where once was none,
Now we’ve just begun,
Yeah, we’re gonna fly to the sun”

“And even though we ain’t got money,
I’m so in love with you, honey,
And everything will bring a chain of love, oh, oh, oh,”

For all the words Prismo had spoken, for all the talk of feeling trapped, he found himself in a moment with an incredible sense of freedom. He was unburdened by chains, even ones his original form had worn, whenever he played. Maybe being the Wishmaster wasn’t such a bad gig, as long as Scarab played by his side.

“And in the morning, when I rise,
You bring a tear of joy to my eyes,
And tell me everything is gonna be alright”

"Love the girl who holds the world in a paper cup,
Drink it up,
Love her and she’ll bring you luck,
And if you find she helps your mind,
Better take her home, home, yeah,
Don’t you live alone,
Try to earn what lovers own”

He wished for Scarab to share the same feeling. He wished that Scarab could release himself from the bitterness and eons-old grudges, hoping that perhaps, just perhaps, they could be friends again.

“And even though we ain’t got money
I’m so in love with you, honey
And everything will bring a chain of love, oh, oh, oh
In the morning, when I rise
You bring a tear of joy to my eyes
And tell me everything is gonna be alright”

Just like the good old days.

Chapter 11: Bloom

Chapter Text

Blossoming choices,

Home or freedom, once clear path,

Now, hesitation.

༻⭑··················✩⋆·········⭑✧⭑༺☆༻⭑✧⭑·········⋆✩··················⭑༺

Vermilion hissed a curse under his breath, pulling back a wince as Prism turned his arm a bit. Prism hummed something under his breath, channeling his healing magic in certain areas of his arm. “You got cursed real bad back there,” Prism commented as small black sludge dripped from the cuts on his flesh and onto the sheets of the bed they sat on.

“I know that,” Vermilion hissed, glaring at Prism through his helmet. “Can you just get rid of it already?” Prism hummed, hands gentle circling Vermilion’s wrist as he twisted to get a better look.

“I don’t know man,” Prism muttered, his brows furrowing slightly. “This is one high level, I’m not sure I can fully save the arm.” Vermilion hissed again, this time from frustration. Silence passed between the two as Prism worked, often looking back at the book by his side. The bed quivered as Prism eagerly flipped through the pages. Vermilion felt a sigh welling up within him, but it never made its way out when Prism emitted a happy sound.

“I found a small spell that can cancel most of the curse!” Prism exclaimed, presenting the book for Vermilion to examine. The healing spell-book Prism carried around was a perplexing thing to Vermilion. Filled with colorful notes and scribbled handwriting, it was far from the knight’s world of precise and organized techniques. Nevertheless, it contained a reversal spell, so Vermilion couldn’t complain.

Prism set the book in his lap and took hold of Vermilion’s arm. He offered a reassuring smile before closing his eyes and softly chanting unfamiliar words. After a few moments of incomprehensible muttering, Prism’s hands began to radiate with a gentle glow. Although Vermilion had the impulse to pull away, Prism’s grip held him fast. The radiant energy spread across his arm, and Vermilion withdrew slightly as it reached his shoulder. Once the light had completely enveloped his arm, it vanished, leaving behind a considerably healed limb. Prism, with dark circles forming under his closed eyes, seemed to slump in exhaustion.

Vermilion examined his arm, noting significantly less damage than before. The large, jagged wound had transformed into a multitude of smaller cuts oozing darkened blood. While not entirely painless, it was a vast improvement from the initial injury. He cast a glance at Prism, who had drifted into sleep, before gently shaking him awake with his unharmed arm. Prism jolted to consciousness with a little yelp before realizing his original goal and reaching for his bag.

They sat with silence as Prism retrieved bandages and began the task of wrapping Vermilion’s cursed arm. Vermilion noticed that each touch of Prism’s hands seemed to soothe and relax the affected area. It was likely Prism’s healing magic at work, yet Vermilion couldn’t deny the comforting sensation.

Once the bandaging was complete, Prism whispered, “There,” as he tied off the bandage and put away the remaining supplies. Vermilion raised his arm to inspect the damage himself. Already, dark, blotchy red stains began bleeding through the once-pristine white fabric, forcing a deep sigh from his throat. “I can’t completely remove the curse, but with time, it might weaken?” Prism’s tone held a hint of uncertainty, and Vermilion simply nodded, bringing his newly bandaged arm closer to his chest. It hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Prism whispered, his hands fidgeting as he sat down beside Vermilion. “You got hurt because of me.” Not because,Vermilion almost corrected him. But chose to offer a different response.

“…It was not your fault,” Vermilion settled, forcing his voice to be gentle. He shifted his gaze to Prism, expecting Prism to do his dismissive chuckle. Although Prism couldn’t see it because of Vermilion’s helmet, his eyes widened in a moment of panic. To his surprise, Prism’s cheeks glistened with silent tears that trailed down his soft face and dripped onto his golden cloak. Vermilion found himself at a loss, having never dealt with emotions other than his own. After a brief internal struggle, he tentatively raised his non-injured arm and placed his hand on Prism’s shoulder, hoping it showed some form of comfort. He didn’t dare look at Prism, somehow fearing his reaction.

To Prism, Vermilion’s gesture was the most kind thing he could have done. Ever since they’d met, Vermilion had been cold and distant, often treating Prism as if he were a forcing rather than a traveling companion. So, when Prism felt that reassuring pressure on his shoulder, he snapped his gaze to his friend’s hidden visage. A warmth unlike anything he had ever experienced blossomed in his chest as he recognized Vermilion’s comforting touch. Perhaps, hidden beneath that armor and tough exterior, there really was a kind and caring soul after all.

“Are they falling in love?” Prismo asked softly, leaning over Scarab to see the screen.

“No,” Scarab responded, checking over his work. He had returned to 2D after he hissed at a mortal who had prodded at him too much. Prismo still remembered the color drain from their face as they passed out. “I have planned too much to make them fall in love.”

“Why not? And what are you planning?” Prismo narrowed his eye, staring at Scarab. Scarab spared a glance at him.

“Hurt,” is all he answered. Prismo gasped, forcing his way closer to get Scarab’s attention.

“You’re gonna hurt them? Nuh uh, I won’t allow it,” Prismo reached for the laptop. Scarab gave a small gasp before snatching the laptop and quickly jumping away.

“No, you’re not doing that again,” Scarab said, quickly zapping away the device. Prismo groaned in defeat, not mentioning that he can very easily resummon the laptop. But he still regrets teaching Scarab the laptop’s specific code.

“Come on, man, let me tweak it a bit,” Prismo whined, sliding over to where Scarab smugly crossed his arms.

“No,”

“I won’t change anything,”

“No,”

“I won’t make them fall in love, promise!”

“No,”

“Pleeease!”

“Shut up, Prismo, the answer is no.” Scarab glared at the pink shadow, fully aware of his Prismo’s ability for infinite pleading, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Prismo pouted, giving Scarab his best puppy-dog eyes, which were, surprisingly, somewhat effective. Scarab turned away to avoid those pleading eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

“No,”

“Aw, come on!” Prismo cried out, projecting onto the floor in some form of a flop. Scarab intensified his glare.

“You’re not going to rewrite any of my projects. Last time was the only time.” Last time, Prismo completely rewrote what Scarab had created, erasing all elements of emotional conflict and replacing them with overwhelming comfort. It took Scarab hours to undo the damage, and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

Prismo huffed, pouting a bit. “I was just trying to make it better, you know? Add a little sweetness to the mix.”

Scarab sighed, his foot tapping impatiently on the ground. “It’s not about making it better, Prismo. It’s about telling a story, and stories need to have pain and conflict.”

“Not all of them,” Prismo muttered, projecting himself on the wall. “and I can write angst.”

“No you can’t and we both know it.” Scarab replied. “I’m going to the Time Core. Don’t go through my stuff.”

Prismo rolled his eye but finally gave up on the laptop. “Fine, fine, I get it. No more meddling in your projects. I’ll just stick to my usual antics.” He winked playfully, causing Scarab to shake his head before leaving through the door way he had opened.

Prismo knew he could easily take the laptop from wherever Scarab hid it, but that would betray Scarab’s trust, and he wasn’t about to destroy the work he had spent nearly an entire mortal year on. So, he sighed and turned on the TV wall. The most interesting thing was, of course, Fiona and Cake, who were currently walking around the park in their universe. He briefly considered sending them a letter and inviting them to hang out, but the idea was swiftly dismissed because he didn’t know what he would invite them to.

He groaned and switched over to another channel. “Hey, Prismo!” He yelped, quickly turning his attention to the entrance on the wall to see Orbo. The pink shadow cursed his luck and gave Orbo a wave.

“Hey, Orbo! How’s it going?” He had to warn Scarab and had to distract Orbo long enough for Scarab to get into his ‘professional’ mode, as he liked to call it.

“Going good, mate,” Orbo responded, jumping down from the entrance and landing with a bounce on the floor. He rolled over and smiled at the Wishmaster. “Came over to check up on Scrabby, annual check-ins and all that crap. Where is Scrabby anyway? I need to talk to him.”

“Uh,” Prismo panicked, pulling on his carefree grin. “Sent him down to, uh, look for trash! Yeah, beer cans can really roll a long way!” he laughed, forcing the panic down. Orbo joined in the laughter as Prismo sent another one of himself to Scarab.

He popped into the Time Core with a small noise and hastily began searching for the blue shadow. It didn’t take long, luckily, and he nearly sighed with relief. “Scarab! Hey!” His roomie started, snapping his head to scowl at Prismo.

“Didn’t any part of ‘I’m going to the Time Core’ mean I want you to leave me alone to you?” Scarab hissed.

“Uh, yeah, it did, trust me. I was gonna leave you be, but man, we’ve got a problem!”

“What kind of problem?” Scarab asked, crossing his arms.

“Orbo’s here!” Prismo said.

“What?!” Scarab hissed, really hissed, this time, his arms snapping to his sides. “Orbo’s here?! Why the glob would Orbo be here?!”

“I don’t know! He wants to talk to you!” Prismo replied quickly, stopping his other self from saying it as well. He returned his attention to Orbo, who was now looking concerned.

“Well, you’re definitely putting him to work. Can you bring him up here? It’s urgent, mate.” Prismo nodded and returned to Scarab.

“He really wants to talk to you, man,” Prismo said, remembering Orbo’s expression. “Orbo doesn’t get worried, so I don’t think I’ll be able to deter him.”

“Alright,” Scarab said, crossing his arms again. “I’ll be up there in a moment.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Orbo repeated. Crap. Prismo blinked and grinned, scratching his neck.

“Yeah, I’ll bring him up,” he responded, sighing quietly when Orbo turned and rolled around idly. Prismo split his conscience to follow Scarab and still talk to Orbo.

After about 5 minutes, Prismo faded out the other him and opened the wall for Scarab. “Scrabby! Hey mate, how’s it going?” Orbo said, rolling over to talk to the blue shadow. Prismo noticed Scarab step back a bit, but Orbo didn’t seem to notice or care.

“…I am well,” Scarab responded, his hands held tightly behind his back.

“Good!” Orbo replied, before turning to Prismo. “Hey mate, can you leave us for a second?” Prismo gave an acknowledging hum, spared a glance to his roomie, and opened a door.

“I’d prefer it if Prismo stayed,” The pink shadow halted and turned back towards Scarab. Orbo gave a confused hum, while Prismo gave the blue shadow a puzzled look. Scarab did not elaborate.

Orbo hummed, rolling a small bit before speaking. “Okay! Prismo, get comfy.” Prismo nodded and slid over to the wall where he normally sat. Orbo smiled, then turned back to the blue shadow. “I’m offering your old job back temporarily.” Both Scarab and Prismo froze, staring at Orbo in disbelief.

“…What?” Scarab asked, his voice low and almost a whisper. Prismo strained to hear it.

“I want you to come back as a God Auditor; we’ve been having a bit of a problem.” Scarab seemed to straighten himself, crossing his arms behind his back.

“And what kind of problem would require my skills?” Scarab asked, his tone polite and firm. Orbo ‘uhhed’ and glanced towards Prismo.

“The others can’t find our most wanted, and I remembered that you have like an 80% success rate,” Prismo heard Scarab mumble, “it was 100%,” before Orbo continued. “She’s an ice queen from her original dimension, might’ve done a wish a while back? Anyways, she found/made an artifact that made her immortal and she stole the last crystal our last guy had. So, she’s able to travel the multiverse.”

Scarab perked up and seemed to purr on his next words. “And what is her name?”

“Chronosia,”

“What?!” Prismo cried out, instantly covering his mouth when both jumped and turned their attention to the Wishmaster. When their stares didn’t let up, Prismo sighed. “Chronosia is, well… my ex.”

Scarab looked confused while Orbo burst out laughing. “Chronosia, our most wanted crossover criminal, is your ex? Hah! Prismo, mate, tell me you’re joking.” At Prismo’s silence, the white ball grew incredibly serious. He spoke again, his tone dropping into dangerous levels that only Scarab had heard before. Something in Scarab screamed to run. And another wanted to grab Prismo and fight. “Prismo, tell me you’re joking.”

“Sorry, bro,” Prismo mumbled.

“I believe we should stay on track,” Scarab interrupted, drawing attention away from Prismo. “You said you’re offering my job back temporarily. Please, elaborate.”

Orbo hummed and smiled, returning to his usual demeanor. “Well, I can’t really remove your punishment for trying to destroy an authorized universe, but I can suspend it. So, you’ll be a God Auditor until you catch Chronosia, and then you’ll return to work here. Oh, and you’ll be allowed to have your original form back and have all the tools you had before you went ‘crazy’. So, what do you say, mate?”

Scarab remained silent for a long while, staring blankly at Orbo. Prismo started to feel unnerved and reached out, but Orbo stopped him. “Don’t try, mate,” Orbo said, startling Prismo. “He’s thinking.”

“How can you tell?” Prismo asked, trying to remain as polite as possible.

“He always does this whenever he’s assigned two different jobs. I guess he’s thinking about either going back to his job or staying here. Hah, I expected the answer to be easy. You really have changed old Scrabby, haven’t you, mate,” Orbo explained, turning his attention back to Scarab.

It wasn’t long before Scarab spoke. “I’ll do it.”

“Great! See ya!” Orbo said, rolling back and slamming himself into the wall where Scarab stood. Prismo cried out, partly because his wall now had a massive dent in it and mostly because Orbo had slammed into Scarab with no hesitation. He turned back to Prismo, who still had his mouth open to stop Orbo. “Tell Scrabby we don’t know where she is right now, but do tell him I invite him to the big office party!”

Prismo gave him a strained smile and nodded. Orbo said his goodbyes and left Prismo alone in the room. The wall still had a dent.

Chapter 12: Sapphire

Chapter Text

Scarab woke with a scream almost tearing from his throat. Pain radiated through every fiber of his being, and he vaguely registered himself back in his 3D form. The searing agony nearly overwhelmed him, but he clenched his teeth and fought to maintain control. He was acutely aware that his mask’s face plates cracked open just enough to allow cool, fresh air onto his skin. Removing the mask entirely was out of the question, especially with Prismo around.

He concentrated on regulating his breathing, gradually quelling the shivers of pain coursing through him. He patiently waited for the searing torment to subside, enduring the relentless ache until he was sure it was safe to move. Only then did he attempt to rise from his prone position. As the intense pain began to recede to a more bearable level, he cautiously shifted into a sitting position, taking time to regain his composure.

After what seemed like hours (though it was probably just a few minutes), he felt stable enough to sit up and assess his condition. His carapace had completely healed, with only minor golden cracks left to act as scars. He let out a sigh of relief and gingerly stood, leaning against the wall as he gradually reacquainted himself with having a physical body. While he still needed the support of the wall, he could stand on his own, albeit unsteadily, without the need for a cane.

Scarab loathed those moments when Orbo sent him away – the damn circle always had the most agonizing departures imaginable. Yet he couldn’t even recall what he had done to have the orb send him away in the harshest fashion. With a deep sigh, he collected himself and began the unsteady trip to the Time Room.

Fortunately, it didn’t take too long. Scarab had learned over the long year spent here how to subtly manipulate the hallways to guide him to his chosen destination. He was glad that, even in his 3D form, the walls still listened to his influence, adapting to make his trip considerably smoother. Hallways closed when he approached them, and paths shifted to align with his footsteps. Eventually, he arrived at the Time Room, where Prismo was intently gazing at the wall where Orbo had previously sent him back to his physical form.

Scarab took a breath, steadied himself by shifting his weight away from the wall, and cleared his throat. Instantly, Prismo’s attention turned to him, and the Wishmaster let out a gasp before hurriedly sliding over. “Oh my glob, Scrabby, are you okay?” Prismo exclaimed. “I know you technically couldn’t feel any pain in the 2D dimension, but still, Orbo literally slammed into you like it was the most casual thing to do. That’s messed up! Are you okay?”

Scarab blinked, his mind lagging a bit as he processed the information. “He does it all the time,” he blurted out without thinking. Scarab instantly regretted his words at Prismo’s horrified look, but his mind finally caught up. “I am fine,” he added, hoping to reassure the worried Wishmaster. He noticed the Wishmaster go silent for a moment, the edges of his form bleeding with black before he took a deep breath and it cleared. He didn't realize Prismo's eyes also turned a tad bit pink where his pupils would be until after the Wishmaster started speaking again.

The pink shadow restarted his rant about how terrible it was for Orbo to behave that way and promised he would make sure Orbo didn’t do it again. Scarab was almost... touched by the extent of Prismo’s concern, but he quickly pushed that feeling aside and silenced the Wishmaster with a cleared throat.

The sound immediately made Prismo stop his rambling, and he returned to his normal pink (Scarab didn’t even realize Prismo had turned a bit red), albeit looking a bit flustered. However, he leaned down to Scarab’s level and asked once more, “Are you sure you’re okay?” Although Scarab should have simply said yes and dismissed the matter, he hesitated. Scarab never hesitated.

“Yes,” he eventually replied, albeit with a hint of frustration in his tone. Prismo still didn’t look entirely convinced, and that irked Scarab slightly. Prismo sighed and managed to put on a shaky smile.

“If you say you’re okay dude, then I’ll trust you,” he said before returning to his usual spot on the wall, slightly away from Scarab. “Orbo mentioned you’re invited to the century big office party, and they don’t know where Chronosia is.” Right, Scarab only took his old job back to hunt for the crossover ice queen, but there was another pressing matter.

“Why am I invited to that party?” Scarab questioned. The Century Gathering was a significant event where entities gathered in a massive ballroom to review their work over the past 100 years. It was the occasion where promotions were granted and new job roles were established. Scarab had only attended this event once in his life, and it was a day he despised with a burning passion. That day was etched into his memory as a bitter disappointment, and he loathed himself for failing that century. He never attended the party again, and the invitations never came.

“I don’t know,” Prismo replied, but his smile became more stable. “But maybe you’ll get to experience a proper party. My parties can only dream of being that great.” Had Prismo forgotten that they had gone to the Century Gathering together that first time? Of course he did, he was Prismo after all.

Scarab crossed his arms and tapped his foot, making a conscious effort to maintain his composure. It was easier when he was in his 2D form, but those days were behind him. The opportunity to dethrone Prismo had long passed, and his only remaining option to regain what he believed was rightfully his was to bow to the king’s crown.

But perhaps, with the passage of time, he might find a way to dismantle that golden crown and finally work in peace. And yet, he felt a weight pull on his chest at the thought. He ignored it for another time. For the moment, it wouldn’t hurt to see how the party had evolved over the eons. “Fine, I’ll attend that party,” Scarab conceded, prompting a delighted grin from Prismo.

“Awesome! I’ll send a message to find out the theme,” Prismo said, summoning his laptop.

“Theme?” Scarab asked.

“Yeah, each party has a theme. The last one was a blue planet, and before that, it was the rings of ice. Sometimes, I have to be in a 3D form for it, which is honestly quite annoying because I can never remember how to walk,” he chuckled while rapidly typing on the keyboard.

After a moment of silence, other than the clicks on the keyboard, Prismo perked up and spoke. “The theme is ‘Celestial Fantasy.’ It sounds fun, right? And… aw man, it’s 3D only.” Prismo sighed with a hint of disappointment, but Scarab found himself slightly more interested. The Wishmaster, everybody’s pal Prismo, could almost certainly pull some strings to keep his 3D form. Scarab wondered if Prismo had changed much over the years.

“That should be a problem for you,” Scarab replied. “How would you be able to attend as a 2D form?” The short answer was that he wouldn’t be, but the red beetle was curious.

Prismo waved off the concern. “Oh, that’s not a problem. I can assume a temporary form, but I have to return to 2D often, or else I’d be forced into 2D and will be so exhausted, and trust me, you don’t want that.” He paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, before continuing. “As for my form… Well, I like to take a human shape when I need to be in 3D. It’s a bit… less intimidating, I guess.”

Without much ado, Prismo’s form shifted to a far smaller one, around Scarab’s shadow size, before he stepped out of the wall. A human came out in Prismo’s place, shorter than Scarab, and wearing pink pajamas with white hands, accentuated by fluffy pink bunny slippers. He was wrapped in an oversized orange blanket, which he had to tug from the wall when it got stuck. Scarab felt a mixture of surprise and nostalgia seeing Prismo in human form again. He had almost forgotten what Prismo looked like.

“Uh, so yeah,” Prismo said, glancing at himself. “I’m pretty sure I have other outfits, but this is my go-to. I like taking the human form.” His eyes, though tired-looking in this form, held the same spark of curiosity they always did. “After all these years, I still prefer this look, even if I’m just wearing pajamas.”

Scarab remained silent, choosing not to mention the scruff and bags under Prismo’s eyes, which were more pronounced in this form. Instead, he just nodded, some things about Prismo hadn’t changed at all. But the next point of contention was Prismo’s choice of attire as a newly transformed human. Scarab couldn’t fathom the thought of Prismo attending such an important party in his pajamas, which was probably his usual attire.

“You’re not going in pajamas. What do you plan on wearing?” Scarab asked, already preparing himself for a potential fashion intervention. It was clear that he needed to step in.

Prismo scratched his chin, gazing upward as if deep in thought. “Uuuh, wow, I don’t remember being so itchy,” he muttered before refocusing on Scarab. “I was just planning on going in this, to save myself the hassle.” The mere idea of Prismo showing up at a formal event in pajamas left Scarab feeling a mix of disbelief and indignation. He quickly put his foot down.

“No, you’re not going in that,” Scarab declared firmly. Prismo tried to protest, but Scarab wasn’t having any of it. He silenced Prismo and ordered, “Grab all your ‘formal’ clothes, and we’ll start from the top.”

Grumbling reluctantly, Prismo snapped his fingers to summon a worryingly short line of clothing made up of only three casual shirts and a pair of sweatpants. Scarab sarcastically commented, “I’ve got a lot to work with,” and held up a hand to preemptively halt any retort Prismo had in mind.

Prismo ignored Scarab’s hand and replied, “Relax, I’m just starting. I’ve got more in the closet; this is just the stuff I normally wear,” with a sheepish grin. He quickly conjured a seemingly endless line of outfits in various styles and colors. He proudly presented them to Scarab, showcasing his dazzling wardrobe.

However, Prismo’s enthusiasm took a hit when Scarab didn’t begin flitting around and gawking at the sight. Scarab remained his typically composed self, unsurprised by the vast array of choices, but relieved that Prismo kept such a versatile wardrobe in the Cube.

Scarab meticulously sorted through the array of clothing, assessing each option carefully. He laid out a stylish dark blue suit, complete with a crisp white shirt and a sleek black tie as the first choice. He laid it down on a table that lifted from the floor and glared at Prismo when he groaned. Undeterred, Scarab went for a black suit adorned with stars that twinkled, which made Prismo cringe. The next choice was a more relaxed but space-themed suit in dark blues and purples, which earned a nod of approval from Prismo. Scarab then presented a royal purple robe and another suit, continuing this process until there were 16 pairs of outfits to choose from.

With a sigh, Prismo shuffled over and sat on the table to look at the outfits, still unused to walking in a 3D form. Scarab chuckled softly when Prismo nearly fell multiple times. “Hm, still too little,” he muttered, and Prismo couldn’t believe his ears. Scarab had the audacity to call that selection too little?

“Okay, okay, okay, this is too much, man,” Prismo said, eyeing the outfits. “And they’re too dark for me anyway. How about something more pink?” As Scarab turned around to sort through the outfits again, Prismo seized the opportunity to zap them away and make a fresh start. After a brief moment, Scarab finally presented him with a white dress shirt, a pink with golden accents suit coat, a yellow vest, and very dark purple pants with black dress shoes.

Prismo grinned, clearly pleased with Scarab’s choice. “Oh, looking sharp! I knew you had an eye for fashion after all.”

Scarab merely gave a small nod to Prismo’s compliment without any change in his expression. “You’ll wear this,” he instructed firmly.

Prismo obediently snapped his fingers to put the suit on, then twirled around to show it off, a golden chain tinkling on his tie. He almost fell when he tripped on his yellow blanket, which surprisingly matched the outfit. “How do I look?”

Scarab examined him critically. “Acceptable,” he pronounced with a faint hint of approval. Prismo cheered, thrusting his arms into the air, and promptly fell down, much to Scarab’s amusem*nt.

Chapter 13: Endless

Chapter Text

The Century Party was still two months away, which gave Scarab ample time to select his outfit. The theme, “Celestial Fantasy,” posed a unique challenge because it was so vague, leaving Scarab grappling with decisions about what to wear. His usual red suit didn’t seem suitable after his long absence. He knew that people would notice his absence from his Auditor role, either assuming he was fired or had met an unfortunate end during one of his hunts. Wearing his iconic red suit felt out of place under these circ*mstances.

Resolving to opt for something more extravagant, Scarab contemplated various options. He had always been curious about donning a dress, particularly a dazzling one, yet he had never found the right moment. Now, with the perfect opportunity before him, he found himself struggling to choose the right dress. It became so overwhelming that Prismo took the initiative to create an entirely new room filled with the endless wardrobe for Scarab to explore.

At first, Prismo showed a clear sense of satisfaction when Scarab couldn’t stop his amazement from showing upon entering the new room. However, any trace of smugness promptly disappeared when Scarab threatened to confine the pink shadow to a cube, making it clear that there was no room for games or mockery.

After an extensive amount of time spent deliberating, Scarab had managed to narrow down his choices to a manageable number of 20 outfits. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, his gloved fingers tracing the contours of his mask as he considered each ensemble. Most of the outfits adhered to a distinct color scheme, featuring reds, whites, and blacks. Three outfits in particular seized his attention, and he carefully selected them, separating them from the rest of the choices.

The first outfit he considered was a striking white gown adorned with sharp black accents and featuring separate, flowing sleeves. It boasted a unique asymmetrical hem, with the back trailing longer than the front, which might make it challenging to run in, though Scarab doubted he’d be sprinting in a dress at the Century Party. He paired it with simple black boots, and the metallic clink of his gloved fingers on the golden button that would attach the cloak resonated pleasantly. He also had gloves that rested just under his elbow. The only drawback he noted was the open back, so he decided to include a cloak as an essential accessory.

The next outfit was decidedly more unconventional compared to the first. It was a single-leg dress, hugging comfortably to Scarab’s frame in pure white. It was embellished with golden lines and featured shimmering stars that dangled gracefully from them. These starry ornaments graced his shoulders, arms, wrists, and waist. And with a touch of magic, the stars elegantly dangled from the dress’s bottom. Three brown waist belts provided a nice touch of variety, and he had two tiny beetle-shaped brooches to secure the cloak, and, with another bit of magic, they held a sprinkling of additional stars. He also had small white gloves that attached to the stars on his wrist. A star necklace was also part of the ensemble, causing Scarab to briefly wonder whether he had overdone the starry additions. Lastly, he completed the look with heel boots to add a height advantage, which he deemed useful for the occasion, and that were also quite fitting for the outfit.

The final option was undoubtedly the darkest and most loose-fitting of the three. The first thing that drew Scarab to this choice was its high collar, which added a touch of elegance. However, the first thing he found less appealing was the large, open front instead of an exposed back. To counter this, he made use of the cloak, which gracefully covered his shoulder and arm while sparing his back from exposure. The outfit boasted three-quarter sleeves and included black arm guards that seamlessly concealed the transition between his gloves. It featured a high front and a lower back, but a substantial piece of cloth bridged the gap in the middle. Scarab embellished it with subtle beetle motifs and completed the look with black high-heeled boots that not only added a hint of height but also contributed to the overall aesthetics.

Scarab adored all three outfits, making it incredibly challenging for him to decide on a single one. While each ensemble perfectly matched the Celestial Fantasy theme of the upcoming party, none stood out as superior to the others. He felt a frown grow as he left the room, reluctantly scanning the surroundings for his pink roommate. Despite Prismo’s occasional foolishness, he was likely the best person to provide Scarab with insights into what the party entailed. After all, who better to learn from than someone with prior experience?

It didn’t take long, luckily, as the Wishmaster was in the Time Room, back as a 2D projection. “Prismo,” he called, pausing in the doorway, and watched as the Wishmaster yelped, causing a nearby mortal to scream as well, much to Scarab’s delight.

“Heeey, Scrabby!” Prismo greeted, lifting a hand to wave. Scarab rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, standing tall to intimidate the mortal who was now staring at him with a mix of fear and curiosity. He was grateful to be in his 3D form again.

“Uhh-” the mortal began speaking, but stopped abruptly when Scarab turned his piercing gaze toward it.

“Oh, uh, this is my roommate, Scarab. Don’t worry, he won’t bite,” Prismo reassured the mortal, who reluctantly returned his attention to Prismo. It still stole sidelong glances at Scarab, who found himself growing increasingly irritated by the creature’s presence. The way it gawked at him with wide, fearful eyes was an annoyance, even though he secretly relished the reaction it provoked.

“Speak up,” Scarab commanded impatiently, prompting a squeak from the terrified mortal.

“Take your time,” Prismo said soothingly, inching a bit closer to Scarab, causing his foot to buzz. Scarab stepped away.

“I-I,” the mortal stuttered, hesitating before taking a deep breath to continue. “I-I wish for world p-peace and an end to all conflicts and suffering.” The wish caused Prismo to break into a warm smile.

“Wish granted,” Prismo declared, and Scarab offered a small nod to the now-fading mortal. Once the mortal had vanished, Scarab and Prismo stood in the peaceful silence.

“Sooo, what did you come here for again?” Prismo finally inquired, shifting along the wall to sit next to Scarab. Scarab instinctively moved away a bit, as he found the buzz from Prismo’s light to be overwhelming when he was in active work. If one would call choosing a outfit for a party active work. He didn’t notice the disappointment in Prismo’s expression.

“I need your opinion on choosing an outfit,” Scarab replied, tapping his gloved fingers on his chitinous arm. Prismo’s interest piqued, resulting in him physically perking up.

“You know I couldn’t even choose between my outfits,” Prismo responded, following Scarab as the red beetle started to walk.

“That was for your outfit,” Scarab clarified, opening the wardrobe door with a swipe of his hand. He was thankful that the powers of a Wishmaster Apprentice extended even into his 3D form. “Now, it’s my own.”

˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

:*¨ ★ ¨*:·. . . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　.

. . ✦⠀ , *

⠀˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.

. ˚ * ✦ . .　✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚　. . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆.˚

:*¨ ★ *:·.

————————-✩⋆————⭑✧⭑————⋆✩———————-

*⠀ ⠀ ⠀✦

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:*¨ ★ ¨*:·.

. . ✦　˚ ˚　.˚ ✦ . . ˚　. ˳·˖✶ ✦ ˚ ✦ . . ˚

Prismo found himself helplessly dragged through each of the 20 outfits Scarab had chosen. Scarab demanded his honest opinions, and Prismo obliged, for better or for worse. Every time, whether he offered a favorable or unfavorable comment, Scarab would emit a huff of either satisfaction or irritation before they moved on to the next ensemble.

“Dude,” Prismo groaned, rubbing his eyes as he followed Scarab into another room. “We’ve done, like, a thousand of these already, how many more can you possibly have?” Scarab shot him a glare. Prismo recognized it carried no real heat, but he pretended to shrink a little, hoping to lighten the mood. The change in atmosphere was palpable, and Scarab seemed to offer a faint nod of approval, even if the red beetle remained oblivious to his own emotional shifts.

“For your information, there were around a hundred before I narrowed them down,” Scarab retorted, opening yet another door. The yellow walls of the previous room gave way to the magenta hues typical of the lower levels of the cube, and Prismo stopped squinting from the visual strain. Even cosmic entities could grow tired of a particular color, in this case, the nauseating shade of sh*t-brick yellow. Moreover, Prismo had always favored the redder tones of the cube, though definitely not because of a certain bug.

They reached yet another room. Scarab gave Prismo a sidelong glance before entering, and Prismo followed. The first striking difference was the change in color; it was a soothing blue, a divergence from the typical magenta or yellow. The next detail that caught his eye was the trio of elegant dresses displayed neatly on the wall. One in particular, the third dress, drew his attention, but he refrained from commenting on it to ask another question.

“You dragged me through 20 outfits just to show me three more?” Prismo questioned with a forced frown, eyeing Scarab’s crossed arms. “I mean, I doubt you’d need so many; your old look is pretty cool.”

Scarab scoffed in response, turning away from Prismo to fix a limp boot. “My ‘old look’ won’t suffice for the Century Party. It’s an event of new changes, and the change is that I’ll be reannounced as God Auditor. My old suit lacks the required gravitas.”

“Uh, I mean, you’re already pretty powerful as you are,” Prismo mumbled, but Scarab turned around, making him flinch slightly.

“Pardon?” Scarab inquired, and Prismo couldn’t determine if the red beetle was angry or not. Prismo stumbled over his words, his tongue twisting as Scarab’s glare positivly bore into him. His felt his face warm with embarrassment, and he fidgeted nervously under that intense scrutiny.

“I, uh, just meant, you know, you’ve always been really strong and, uh, capable,” Prismo stammered, struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t mean to imply you needed to stay the same, that’s not what I meant at all!”

Scarab appeared to relax somewhat, a hint of amusem*nt dancing behind his mask. Prismo took a deep breath and tried to salvage the situation.

“I just think that, well, whatever you choose to wear for the Century Party, you’ll look incredible, and it’ll be a fantastic change for the event,” Prismo said, trying and failing to put his thoughts into words. “You were already so cool and powerful, and you’re just getting cooler.”

Prismo hid his face in his hands, unable to meet Scarab’s gaze. He waited in silence, only looking up when he heard a soft chuckle.

“How sweet,” Scarab mumbled, his voice laced with a surprising lack of irritation. It took Prismo by surprise, prompting him to raise his head when Scarab spoke again, this time more audibly. “Choose one of the three.” Prismo nodded, offering a small, appreciative smile, before quickly turning his attention to the dresses.

Prismo examined the three dresses, appreciating their elegant designs and trying to picture how each might look on Scarab. As he focused on the dresses, Scarab patiently waited for his choice. After a few minutes, Prismo quietly groaned.

“What?” Scarab asked, looking over at the Wishmaster. Prismo shrugged, a slightly nervous look surely on his face.

“I can’t really decide,” The pink shadow replied, his cheeks slowly turning into a scarlet color. Scarab blinked and shifted his weight to further look at the Wishmaster. “Uhm-” Prismo began before cutting his words off. Embarrassment pooled in his gut, but he took a breath and said, “C-could you maybe, like, try them on?”

Scarab hummed, looking back over the outfits. After a moment, he spoke. “Very well,” and snapped his fingers. Instantly, the first dress vanished and reappeared on Scarab, causing the red beetle to offer a small hum as he looked himself over. Prismo froze, staring at Scarab before swallowing and shaking his head. Scarab looked at him before snapping his fingers, causing the first dress to reappear on the wall and the second to appear on Scarab.

Now that one really made Prismo lag. For one, every time Scarab would move, those little star accessories would jingle pleasantly, shining prettily in the light. Prismo couldn’t stop his eyes from trailing down Scarab’s exposed leg, memorizing every little detail he could see. A part of him didn’t want anyone else to see, and his mouth opened to answer before his mind could catch up with the thought.

“Nope,” Scarab hummed again before snapping his fingers, returning the dress back onto the wall. Prismo took a moment to run a hand down his face, heaving a quiet sigh. His face was burning. The last dress was the one he wanted Scarab to wear to the party from the start, but he was glad he asked Scarab to put on the outfits. The 2nd dress was definitely worth it, but he was sure Scarab would’ve appreciated a more darker palette for the party. The cloak also really helped on making him more mysterious. Prismo had already made his decision from the start; now he just had to say it. Scarab snapped his fingers to return the dress to its proper spot on the wall and put on his usual suit, turning to Prismo and crossing his arms.

“I think this one,” the pink shadow said, pointing to the third dress. “I think it looks the coolest.”

“Really? Coolest? That’s your reasoning?” Scarab asked, looking at Prismo, who offered a sheepish shrug. Scarab sighed and looked back at the chosen dress before shrugging. “Alright, then.”

Mission accomplished.

Chapter 14: Sea's

Chapter Text

Scarab was getting far too comfortable for his own good. It was a realization that eluded him when he existed as a shadow; after all, shadows don’t produce much sound. Other than his voice and the extremely faint echo of his steps, which he was pretty sure he was manifesting himself, his 2D projection remained eerily silent.

So, it was to his horror that he unintentionally let out a tiny, almost imperceptible chirp when Prismo picked up his cans and zapped them away. The minuscule sound, however, did not escape Prismo’s notice. Though the Wishmaster didn’t overtly react, Scarab caught a brief flicker in Prismo’s eye, acknowledging the unexpected noise before the pink shadow quickly returned his attention to the task.

Scarab stayed on the side of caution, keenly watching the Wishmaster for any potential interactions and keeping himself closely in check. Once their brief cleaning session concluded, Scarab promptly excused himself and headed to the Time Core. He executed several deliberate moves, checking to ensure Prismo wasn’t following him, and only when he was confident he was alone did he allow himself to relax.

The majestic aura of the Time Core further eased his tension, and for a moment, he simply stood there, basking in its magnificence. However, the low hum emanating from his elytra caught his attention, and he swiftly snapped them shut. “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, beginning to pace in circles. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. What if Orbo found out?” The prospect of facing Orbo’s wrath was daunting, considering how much had already been taken from him.

Scarab refused to dwell on the thought, choosing instead to remind himself of the dire consequences of allowing his more… insectoid features to manifest. The mental note to constantly check himself became a priority, and he pondered whether he emitted any inadvertent chirps or clicks while asleep.

Scarab set out to resolve the issue by deciding to make no sounds other than the intentional ones. He nodded to himself, a plan brewing in his mind. While controlling it would be a challenge, he had managed it before while hunting prey and facing his superiors. The only hitch was that he had never truly lived with his superiors. He groaned, quickening his steps and digging his gloved hands into his arms. The small pins of pain helped him think, but he stopped before his shell could crack again.

Prismo was bound to be a problem; Scarab was sure he would spill everything to Orbo when he eventually talked to Prismo during the Century Party. And that damn party, glob, he was growing tired. He could manage there; it was sure to be loud enough to cover any mistakes he made. So his primary (and only) goal was to ensure he stayed utterly silent around Prismo, preventing the pink shadow from mentioning anything that could get Scarab in trouble. He halted his pacing, a satisfied chirp escaping his mouth before he could stop it. He quickly brought a hand to cover the area where his mouth would be under the mask. This was going to be harder than he thought.

———————Woah——-Time-Skip———————

Scarab was seriously hating himself at the moment. His plan to remain silent was becoming increasingly challenging as the Wishmaster continued to ramble on about their story. Scarab struggled to suppress the stupid urge to click his mandibles together at least once in response to something the Wishmaster said. This was a problem he never encountered again after becoming the God Auditor, so retraining himself proved to be quite a challenge.

“And I was thinking that maybe Prism could get kidnapped or something by Amerilla or her goons, and VK would probably—” Prismo rambled on, gesturing and pointing to various spots of text on the screen. He didn’t seek the red beetle’s opinion, merely pausing to do what Scarab assumed was reading the screen before returning to his speech.

Scarab shut his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw, attempting to drown out the incessant chatter of the pink shadow. His hand unconsciously dug into his arm, causing him to concentrate on relaxing the troublesome limb before causing himself harm, even through the fabric. Maintaining focus became increasingly difficult as the Wishmaster continued to prattle on, turning his arm into an unintentional stress ball as his hand tensed repeatedly. While forcing himself to relax proved almost as difficult as suppressing the trills his instincts urged him to make, Scarab persevered. He could endure it, at least until the Wishmaster concluded his monologue and Scarab could make his escape. Yes, he could endure—

“Hey Scrabby?” A distinct crack echoed through the air as his carapace fractured audibly. Scarab glanced down at the injured arm before quickly concealing it, eyeing the oblivious Wishmaster who remained focused on the screen. “You know, you’ve been really quiet. You okay?”

Suppressing a growl, Scarab replied, “Yes, Prismo. You do not have to worry about me,” fixing the pink shadow with a glare.

“You sure?” Prismo inquired again, prompting Scarab to open his mouth to deliver a retort before Prismo continued, “You usually make some little click or something whenever you see something you don’t like. So either you’re not doing good or you like what I’ve been saying.” Prismo wore a slightly concerned expression, completely unaware of how Scarab froze.

“I—what?” Scarab questioned.

“You’re either happy with what I’m saying or you’re not doing too good?” Prismo repeated.

“No—what did you mean by clicks?” Scarab asked. Prismo blinked before offering a smile.

“You normally click or something whenever you’re annoyed or irritated with something, and it’s like really faint, so I can’t really tell your opinion on this,” Prismo explained, a small laugh escaping him as he rubbed his neck. “That’s why I’ve been pausing, if you’re annoyed at that.”

“No, it’s… your writing is fine,” Scarab responded, sneaking his uninjured arm behind his back. “How long has the clicking been going on?” he asked, tracing the stinging cracks.

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me,” Prismo responded, waving a hand in a casual gesture. “I actually find it kinda cute. Uh, ignore that. It’s been going on for a month or so.”

An entire month? How could he not realize he was clicking for an entire month? Also, Prismo finds it cute? “How could you find it cute?” Scarab asked, genuinely perplexed. No one likes the little sounds he makes; it’s practically a rule to his entire existence.

Prismo scratched the back of his neck, a nervous smile playing on his lips. “Well, I mean, it’s just one of those things that makes you, well, you. Like a quirky Scarab trademark, you know? It’s, um, endearing.”

Scarab raised a brow, his confusion deepening, and a strange warmth bloomed in his chest. Endearing? He didn’t understand how his insectoid sounds could be perceived that way. No one liked it; everybody always said so. It was a fact of his life, one of the many, many things people didn’t like about Scarab. He thought he’d gotten over it, but just when those little instincts came back to ruin him, Prismo, his eternal enemy, found it cute? It didn’t make sense. Then again, the Wishmaster never made sense.

Prismo’s cheeks flushed a faint shade of pink, and he awkwardly looked away. “I guess it’s just, uh, something I’ve gotten used to. I never mentioned it before because I didn’t want to make you self-conscious about it or anything,” Prismo admitted, rubbing the back of his head.

Scarab shifted uncomfortably, still not entirely grasping how or why Prismo found his habit endearing. “That doesn’t make sense,” Scarab said, utterly dumbfounded. “How could you like it?” Prismo chuckled, tucking his head a little as his cheeks took on a deeper shade of pink.

“Do you really want an answer to that?” The pink (well, more scarlet now) shadow asked, stealing a glance at the perplexed red beetle. Scarab nodded, and Prismo gave off a nervous chuckle. “W-well, it’s one of your many quirks, and, well, I find your little quirks charming.”

“But why?” Scarab repeated, attempting to quell the growing warmth in his chest that made his face feel hot. Prismo chuckled, avoiding direct eye contact.

“I- uh, well, I like-” He cut himself off before burying his face in his hands, the colors overlapping to form a more opaque hue. “…you?” He whispered the last part, his eye peeking out from his fingers to look at Scarab.

Scarab stared at Prismo, the warmth in his chest now a full-blown conflagration. He didn’t know how to respond. Prismo, his eternal nemesis, had just confessed to finding Scarab’s quirks charming, even endearing. Scarab’s mind struggled to reconcile this revelation with the reality he knew. It felt like a trick, another layer to the elaborate game Prismo always seemed to play.

“You’re joking,” Scarab finally muttered, a clear tone of disbelief in his voice. Prismo peeked at him through his fingers and shook his head.

“No joke, Scrabby. I mean it,” Prismo said, his words punctuated by a nervous laugh as he lifted his head to rest his chin on his hands. “I know it’s weird, but I’ve come to like those little sounds you make. It’s, I don’t know, comforting in a strange way.”

Scarab’s mind raced, searching for a rational explanation or a hidden agenda behind Prismo’s words. Yet, thought about the Wishmaster’s past actions, he saw a sincerity that unsettled him. Scarab wasn’t used to sincerity; it was a foreign concept in the complex tapestry of his existence. It was unfamiliar, and he always felt pain before he got rid of it.

“I don’t understand,” Scarab admitted, his guard still up despite Prismo’s apparent vulnerability.

Prismo sighed, dropping his hands and meeting Scarab’s gaze directly. “Maybe it’s just me being weird, but I’ve spent a long time alone in this cube. Having someone around, even someone as grumpy and mean as you, it’s… nice.”

Scarab was silent for a moment, absorbing Prismo’s words. The warmth in his chest lingered, and a hopeful part of him whispered that maybe, just maybe, Prismo wasn’t as much of an enemy as Scarab had always believed. But, he knew that part of him would always be wrong. So, he shoved it down and resolved to deal with the warmth and confusion mixture at a later time.

“Let’s just… focus on this story or whatever,” Scarab grumbled. Prismo offered a relieved grin as he brought the computer between them.

“Sure thing, Scrabby.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀. ⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀. . ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀. . ﾟ . . ✦ , .

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————————-✩⋆————⭑✧⭑————⋆✩———————-

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* .

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⠀ ⠀

The pickle room felt cool and comfortable, saturated with the familiar scent of vinegar and spices. The soft green ambiance reflected peacefully on the numerous jars that Prismo had spent many years perfecting. Despite the familiar surroundings, nothing about the room did anything to calm his raging nerves.

Prismo buried his face in his hands, attempting to quash the warmth that spread across his face, growing brighter and hotter the more he dwelled on thoughts of a certain bug.

“Ooh,” he groaned, rubbing his temples. “Stupid, you shouldn’t have…” His mutterings faded as he brought his hands down and cradled his special blend of crunchy golden dill pickles. Oh, how he wished Jake were here; he’d know what to do. Unfortunately, the closest he could get was confined to the basem*nt. With a sigh, Prismo opened one of the hidden staircases and descended to where his body slumbered.

His slumbering form remained unchanged since the last time Prismo laid eyes on him, but he offered a small, pained smile and a greeting nonetheless. “Hey, Jake,” he muttered, gliding over to hover just above the human’s dormant body. The smile on his face faltered, replaced by a frown as he sighed. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he asked, summoning the same jar of pickles. His only response was the gentle sound of soft snoring.

He sighed, cradling the jar a bit tighter. “I messed up, probably,” he began, sorting through his thoughts and memories. “I’m pretty sure I ruined my chance at friendship with Scrabby because of my stupid mouth. You see, when we were writing earlier, I noticed Scarab being more quiet than usual. He wasn’t making those cute little sounds at all, and— okay, that sounded creepy, wow.” He chuckled, covering his face with his hands again.

“He just normally makes all these little buggy sounds, like whenever he’s mad or annoyed, he chirps. Or when I played my banjo the other day, he was trilling, like making a cricket song that matched perfectly with what I was playing. And when he perks up at something, like grabbing a can he’d been struggling with or judging me, he makes these little clicking sounds. It’s adorable! I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it, those little chirps and trills. Sometimes, when I’m really close to him, like when we’re writing, he hums. It’s barely noticeable, and I really gotta get in his space, but it’s just a sweet little hum, and it’s so freaking cute. He’s so freaking cute.”

He didn’t know when he dropped his hands to grip onto the jar, didn’t know his eyes were closed, nor did he notice the wide smile on his face. All he thought about was his roommate. “It’s really helpful when getting a read on the beetle. And I’ve noticed he doesn’t get as angry or irritated as much nowadays. Normally, like normally a couple of months back, if I rolled a can over to him or helped him with cleaning, he’d give me one of his glares and refuse to pick it up until it was the last thing he needs to do. But now, he takes it! He doesn’t give me his glare, nor avoid the stuff I touch like the plague anymore.” Prismo sighed, leaning his cheek on a hand.

“He’s been opening up to me, and I’m really happy about it. He does all these little things that I’d never seen him do whenever he was on one of his hunts. Like, for example, he plays the violin!” Prismo opened his eyes, bringing the jar up and swishing the contents inside, completely oblivious to the blush on his face.

“Just the other day, I heard the main theme of Spirited Away echo through the halls! I didn’t know Scrabby had such a good memory, and to play that theme near perfectly after months of not hearing it! He plays so well. Oh! And another thing, he’s got this cute little habit of tapping his hands—claws?—on stuff. He normally does it when he’s bored or impatient, but whenever he’s tapping on the laptop or on his arm, he makes these satisfying clicks. He also clicks his tongue whenever he’s thinking really hard, and he hums sometimes too. Like, dude, his voice is so hot whenever he-”

Prismo cut himself off, covering his mouth as his entire face went aflame. He blinked, his brows furrowing as he mulled over what he had just said. The more he thought, the more certain things clicked into place. The warmth he’d feel all over whenever Scarab chuckled at him or at their story, the little sounds Scarab made that Prismo thought were akin to a puppy’s bark or a kitten’s meow, and the innate urge to do something that would make the beetle smile.

“Oh, sh*t,” he muttered, bringing his other hand up to cradle his jaw. He was sure he was completely scarlet, a color he’d only thought would come with anger before fading to black. “Oh, sh*t,” he repeated, burying his face in his hands. A short laugh escaped him, sounding of disbelief and slightly manic. He dug his hands through where his hair would be before looking up at the ceiling. A groan escaped him, and he rubbed at his eyes.

“Jake, dude, I really need your help,” he whispered, closing his eyes and resting his head on the wall. His hands returned to the pickle jar in his lap. “I don’t know when it began, man. I’m… I’m lost. Should I just ignore it? Hope things go back to normal?”

But how could they? He was sure he was developing a crush on Scarab, one that was certainly not platonic like the one he had with Jake. And even then, would the beetle accept his affections at all? He had watched Scarab when he was still a God Auditor; maybe it began when he longed for the freedom Scarab had. Or did it begin far earlier, before their friendship fell out, before he became Wishmaster, before Scarab became The Scarab?

Prismo didn’t know. He didn’t know what he should do. If he left it, their little peace would continue, and maybe they’d become friends again. But a part of him wanted to try and pursue the red beetle, to earn his affections and love Scarab. But…

“I’m scared, Jake,” His voice was so small, so quiet that he barely even heard it. He still felt warm, but it was quickly being diminished by his fear. Cold crept into his hands, so he made use of them by shaking the jar and looking at the pickles that moved with it. “I don’t know if I should… try,” He curled up, clutching the jar close to his chest and looking at his sleeping body. But it wasn’t really his, was it? “I don’t know what to do, Jake.” He remained there, contemplating his thoughts, the soft snores of his slumbering form providing the only company in the silent basem*nt.

After a while, Prismo slowly uncurled, his gaze still fixed on his sleeping self. The glow of his eyes seemed dimmer, the vibrant hues replaced by a more subdued tone. “Maybe I should just let it be,” he mumbled to himself, a sense of resignation settling in. “Things are fine now, and I don’t want to mess it up.”

He sighed and opened the pickle jar, absentmindedly twirling a pickle between his fingers. “Besides, Scarab doesn’t do… relationships,” He opened his mouth to sigh and to thank Jake, but he was interrupted by the distinct hiss of a nightmare. He recoiled as a small one slipped from the old man’s lips, the rest luckily sealed behind a tight frown. Prismo yelped when the nightmare hissed and charged at him. He ducked to avoid it as it slammed into the wall, and he quickly summoned a flashlight to cut at it. It hissed as it died, glaring at him with scorn.

Once he was sure the nightmare was dead, Prismo returned his gaze to the old man, seeing that his form was still frowning. He had a crease in his face and was gripping the pillow to the point it was barely holding on from being ripped. Was that a sign? He asked himself, sealing the pickle jar, which had gotten knocked over, and hovering to look more closely at the old man.

“Do you want me to..?” He muttered, blinking when the old man shuffled and made an exasperated noise. Prismo grinned, a warmth blooming in his chest as his colors returned to him. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll give it a go, but if it goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming you.” The old man relaxed, his face returning to its peaceful state, now looking a bit more pleased.

Prismo opened the stairway that would lead back to the pickle room, but he gave his body one more look. He smiled. “Thanks, Jake.”

Chapter 15: Expanse

Chapter Text

The world stirred from its slumber, bathed in the gentle hues of dawn as the sun wrested control from the moon and stars. Soft pink lights painted an ever-changing canvas, and the wind danced through the forest’s trees, rousing insects and birds from their nocturnal repose. A symphony of nature unfolded—the cooing of doves, the buzzing of crickets, and the gurgling of the river that meandered through the landscape.

A well-trodden path, worn by the passage of countless travelers and merchants over the years, eagerly beckoned two new adventurers. The red knight and his somewhat unwilling wizard companion strolled in tandem, flanked by vigilant trees observing their every move. The duo, attuned to the melody of nature, listened as the forest sang its morning song.

Prism released a loud yawn, stretching his arms above his head with a groan as his back emitted a series of satisfying pops. “Must you be so loud?” Vermilion inquired, his usually robust voice reduced to a hushed tone. Prism blinked, rubbing a tired eye with the back of his hand.

“Not my fault you dragged me out of bed at the ungodsly hour of 3,” Prismo muttered, his voice carrying a mix of volume and huskiness. Vermilion shot a glare in the wizard’s direction, prompting Prism to raise both hands in a weary gesture of surrender.

Vermilion hummed before refocusing his attention on the path ahead. Prism, however, chose to rouse himself by immersing in a thorough analysis of the environment. A subtle smile played on his features as he walked over to the tree line, letting his fingers brush the rough bark of the trees, feeling the varied textures under his touch. Syncing back into step with his knightly companion, Prism cupped his hands around his ears and listened.

The distant rustle of leaves harmonized with the low hum of unseen insects, weaving a symphony of nature’s whispers. Birdsong adorned the air, its melodic chirps and trills serenading Prism’s every step. Now and then, the soft clinking of Vermilion’s armor provided a metallic counterpoint to the natural orchestra enveloping them. “What are you doing?” Vermilion’s voice, unusually loud in such proximity, prompted Prism to open his eyes and offer a smile to the knight.

“Just listening,” he replied, reaching forward to grasp Vermilion’s uncursed arm. The knight attempted to pull away, but Prism kept the limb close to his chest. “It helps me wake up.”

“How can listening wake you up?” Vermilion questioned, futilely tugging at his arm. This time, Prism hummed.

“I like to play this little game,” he began, interrupted by a small groan from his companion, “where you use your senses to explore the place around you. Like touch—I touched the trees earlier. And I was listening just a moment ago.” The wizard smiled, gazing at the small splotches of sunlight filtering through the green leaves.

“That is pointless,” his companion muttered, and Prism stifled a giggle.

“Right now, I’m on sight,” Prism began, pulling the knight further toward the tree line and under the shadowy drape of leaves. “What do you see?”

Vermilion hummed, looking around as he gave up on grabbing his arm. His gaze settled on the tall wizard, and he frowned. “I see a pest,” he said, twisting his hand to stab a clawed finger into the wizard’s chest. Prism laughed, a bright and loud sound, seamlessly blending with the natural symphony around them. Vermilion felt a smile attempt to tug at his lips, but he pressed his mouth shut and tried to pull his arm free once again.

“You’re cute,” Prism remarked, bringing up a hand to rub at his eye, the other still tightly holding Vermilion’s arm.

“I am not cute!” Vermilion complained, finally tugging his arm free and attempting to stab it into the wizard’s chest. Prism laughed, skillfully evading the offending limb. Vermilion tried to swipe at the wizard once more but found himself with a face full of glitter instead. He froze, shocked that his entire visage was now covered in pink sparkles. Prism wheezed, wrapping both of his arms around his middle as he bent over in laughter.

Vermilion’s scowl deepened, glitter clinging to his armored face like a bizarre warpaint. With a swift motion, he reached up to wipe the glitter away, only succeeding in smearing it further.

“You look even cuter now, Vermilion,” Prism managed to say between fits of laughter. Vermilion shot him a deadly glare, but the glittery effect somehow only added to the amusem*nt.

“Enough of your games,” Vermilion grumbled, removing his helmet to assess the damage. Somehow, Prism’s laughter grew even stronger, forcing the wizard onto the ground. While he slammed his fist into the ground in laughter, Vermilion removed his gauntlets, now sparkly pink, and touched the skin where his helmet had openings for him to see. His hand came back with a sparkly pink hue.

“Why, you little-!” he yelled, rushing forward to seize the wizard’s robes. He lifted Prism up to eye level (the wizard was still on his knees) and began to shake him harshly. “Undo this right now!” Prism practically deflated in Vermilion’s grasp, wheezing and gasping for breath. Vermilion scowled and shook him again. Prism weakly raised a hand to pat Vermilion’s arm. Frowning, Vermilion let go, allowing the wizard to collapse onto his back.

The wizard lay there, gasping and attempting to stifle more laughs. He failed, erupting into laughter and wheezing when Vermilion leaned over him. “Shut up,” the knight said, lightly kicking the wizard in the shoulder. Prism took a big gulp of air, and for a moment, Vermilion thought he was finally going to quiet down. However, Prism lifted a shaky arm and pointed to Vermilion’s face.

“Raccoon,” he wheezed, tears trailing down his face as he began laughing again. Vermilion aimed for his stomach.

Prismo chuckled softly, reading over what he had written and fixing the mistakes he saw. It was peaceful in the Time Room, quiet except for the soft sweeping in the corner and the clicks of the keys. The Wishmaster saved his document and closed the computer, turning his attention to his roommate. “Hey Scrabby,” He called, capturing the other’s attention. Scarab sighed before walking over, leaning the broom on the wall. Prismo didn’t know why the red beetle insisted on continuing with his cleaning job, but whatever made him happy.

“Yes, Prismo?” Scarab asked, crossing his arms as he leaned on the wall.

“What do you think about making VK and Prism fall in love?” He asked, prompting a tired sigh from the other.

“Prismo, again, there is too much planned that would allow a relationship to blossom between them,” Scarab said.

“I know, but, I’m kinda getting a lovey vibe from them,” Prismo said, opening the computer and gesturing for the other to come over. Scarab sighed and did as the other asked, leaning over the screen to peer at the words upside down. The pink shadow moved the computer for the other to see better.

“Dude, how can you do that..?” Prismo mumbled, watching the red beetle easily read the words. Scarab remained silent before straightening himself and crossing his arms, shifting his weight on his left leg.

“You are right about a more… friendly atmosphere between the two, however, I don’t see how they could fall in love,” Scarab said. “And I’m a God-Auditor, I can read upside down.”

“That’s cool, dude,” Prismo said, before fixing the screen so he could look at it. “I can totally see it, y’know? The enemies-to-lovers trope? We could do that,” The Wishmaster pursed his lips as he thought. Then, a wide smile broke out on his face. “And it’d add to the hurt because I _know_ you’re gonna kill one of them.”

Scarab glared at him, but the lack of an immediate response told Prismo that the beetle was thinking it over. “Come oon~,” Prismo said, grinning and squinting his eye in what he hoped was a mischievous expression. “You’re liking it~” Scarab hummed, bringing a gloved hand to tap at his mask, before nodding.

“Fine, but only so I can hurt them more,” The beetle responded, prompting a cheer from the pink shadow.

“I promise you, buddy, you aren’t going to regret it,” Prismo said, beginning the outlines of what he hoped was a romantic situation between the two characters. Maybe he’d go with the classic couple confusion, or maybe they get stuck in a small place and have to talk while they wait it out. Oh, this will be so exciting!

“Okay, so I was thinking we’d maybe go with a classic Tripping and Falling scenario, like maybe Prism would trip over a rock and fall into VK’s arms, and VK gets all mad and like insults the wizard, and then-” As he talked, Scarab walked over to the wall and leaned onto it, looking down at the screen as the words formed on it. “Oh, maybe we could do a Sharing an Umbrella instead, but instead of an umbrella, it’s a tree in the middle of the fields or something. There are a whole lotta fields in this world, I gotta admit-”

His words broke off, instead replaced by a yelp of surprise as a sensation unlike he’d ever felt burned at his arm. He recoiled the limb, clutching it to his chest as he turned to Scarab, who was a few more steps away from the wall than before. The beetle was standing tense, looking ready to fight at any moment. They stared at each other in silence, Prismo wearing a confused expression on his face while Scarab wore his typical glare.

“…What was that?” Prismo spoke first, his voice barely above a whisper. He pulled his arm free, looking down at it. It didn’t look wrong, and there was only a fading tingle left from whatever the sensation was.

“What was that?” Scarab repeated, relaxing his stance only a little bit. But it was enough to show that the beetle was just as confused. “I don’t know, Prismo. You were the one who touched me.”

“I touched you?” Prismo parroted.

“Yes, Prismo,” Scarab hissed, his mask’s eyes narrowing. “You touched me.”

“How did I touch you?” Prismo asked, genuinely curious. Scarab made a growlish sigh and pointed to his shoulder.

“You put your hand here, why do you act so confused?”

“I-” Prismo clenched his jaw, thinking. Scarab stared at him expectantly, his gloved hand tapping irregularly on his hip. “…I’ve never really ‘touched’ someone before,” He began, slowly putting his thoughts into words. “Normally, my arm just projects onto them. Cos said it felt like your arm or foot was starting to fall asleep, but I’ve never felt anything before.”

“That’s to be expected,” Scarab said, crossing his arms again. “You are a 2D projection of an old wizard’s dream. You cannot feel, and you cannot touch.” Scarab sighed. “And yet you touched me.”

“Wait, how does that work?” Prismo asked, saving the document on the computer and zapping the device away.

“…I don’t know,” Scarab responded. They stared at each other in silence, one waiting for the other to speak. After a moment, Scarab relaxed a tiny bit, and Prismo decided to speak.

“What did it feel like?” He asked. Scarab remained silent, though he returned to his original position on the wall.

“I can’t explain it,” Scarab said, sitting down. Prismo lowered himself further onto the floor, basically laying down on it. “It just feels like a smaller time core.”

“So I feel like a migraine? Yeah, that’d make sense.” Prismo chuckled softly.

“No,” Scarab interrupted. “It’s not bad. It’s… pleasant.”

“Really?” Prismo asked. Scarab nodded.

“What did I feel like to you?” The beetle asked. Prismo hummed.

It was strange, an odd burn and something electric. Like a cold limb feeling warmth for the first time. Prismo didn’t know what to call it, but he did know he wanted to feel it again. “It felt… shocking? I’ve never felt anything, so I can’t tell you for sure,” Scarab hummed and dipped his head only the smallest bit, so subtle that Prismo barely even noticed it. “Maybe we could try again?” He suggested, holding out his hand. Scarab stared at the appendage before looking at Prismo.

Slowly, Scarab raised his own hand and hovered it over Prismo’s. He hesitated, looking over to Prismo again. The pink shadow gave the beetle his warmest smile. Scarab lowered his hand onto Prismo’s own, both tense and expecting something. Prismo felt nothing, and his smile fell, a disappointed expression crossing his face. “Wait,” Scarab said, taking back his hand. The beetle removed the nearly invisible fabric from the limb. His gloves!

This time, when Scarab laid down his hand, Prismo instantly felt something. It was indescribable, his first thought. The sensation was like a gentle current, an electric warmth that spread through his entire being. Prismo’s eyes widened. It was pleasant, it was sweet, and it was addicting.

“What do you feel?” Scarab asked, no doubt wondering why Prismo’s expression changed. The Wishmaster schooled his features and smiled, petting his thumb over the back of the beetle’s hand. He expected the other to pull his hand away from it, but instead, Prismo felt Scarab push his hand down a bit. The pink shadow wanted to thread his fingers with the others, to completely envelop the red hand in every crack and crevice he could get to. But he resisted, instead continuing to move his thumb.

“Warmth,” Prismo said, realizing that he had stayed silent for too long. “Warmth.” He repeated, quieter, to prove to himself that he was _feeling_. He never wanted to let go.

“Interesting. For me, it just feels like a more condensed and weaker Time Core,” Scarab said, looking down at the limb. Prismo laughed and leaned a bit closer into the beetle’s space. He bit down on a smile when Scarab leaned closer as well, not quite touching, but just enough for both of them.

It was warm.

Chapter 16: Love

Chapter Text

The Century Party, an extravagant event held only once every 100 years to celebrate a century of peaceful existence. It served as an enticing opportunity for cosmic entities from across the multiverse, offering new job prospects and promotions for those who had tirelessly worked for years. Filled with resplendent beauty and grandeur beyond mortal comprehension, this party represented a fresh start for every god in attendance.

In its early years, Scarab had been among those who held hopes for the opportunities the party might present. But the youthful innocence of those gatherings had been shattered, crushing every last vestige of hope and love he held within him. As a result, he had never returned, as there was no reason to subject himself to the same monotonous announcements over and over. And with his absence, the invitations never arrived at his door. And yet…

Scarab’s boots made a soft clinking sound against the glass path as he walked beneath the sparkling starlight. Each step was impeccably timed. On the other hand, Prismo’s gait was a touch unsteady, characterized by fidgety and ever-changing movements. It irked Scarab almost as much as it did Prismo, who held on to his arm to steady himself while walking. Despite countless practice sessions, the Wishmaster still struggled to adapt to having a physical body once again. At least he wasn’t tumbling to the ground.

Scarab felt an internal sigh building up as Prismo unintentionally pulled him back a step. The red beetle, without a word or change in expression, ignored the slight buzz Prismo’s touch gave him and gripped the other’s arm, allowing Prismo to regain his balance. He spared a brief glance at the human before returning his focus to the imposing building that would host the event. The structure radiated an intense brilliance far brighter than his last visit, and it was starting to give him a headache. Consequently, he shifted his attention to the two cosmic entities walking slightly ahead of him. They weren’t familiar from his past hunts, and soon, the interest in their presence faded, leaving Scarab tapping his fingers against his palm.

“Are you excited?” Prismo suddenly asked, a broad grin adorning his face. With nothing better to do than walk, Scarab turned his attention to the former pink shadow.

“No,” he responded curtly.

“Aw, come on,” Prismo persisted, momentarily surprised before his grin promptly returned. “They’re going to announce you as God Auditor again, and I bet you’ll be puffing up with all the shocked and horrified looks, gasps, and whatnot.” Prismo poked Scarab lightly in the side. Annoyed, Scarab retaliated by shoving Prismo back into line, which earned a small laugh from the human.

“I will not be ‘puffing up,’ as you so eloquently put it,” Scarab replied, his glare unwavering. Prismo didn’t react, instead adjusting his pace to match Scarab’s slower strides. Though Scarab found their pace frustrating, it did afford him more time to brace himself for what was certain to be an overwhelming event.

“You sure?” Prismo leaned forward slightly, studying Scarab’s expression. Scarab held the gaze a moment too long before looking away.

“Yes,” he answered, but Prismo simply hummed in response, refraining from further commentary.

The journey to the entrance of the grand building didn’t take too long. As they approached, the names of the entities in front of them were called out one by one. Scarab prepared himself as their turn arrived, releasing Prismo’s arm and taking the first steps forward. Fortunately, Prismo managed to maintain his balance.

“The Scarab and The Wishmaster Prismo!” a resounding voice announced, reverberating through the vast cathedral-like structure. All eyes turned toward the entrance, and Scarab noticed the numerous horrified expressions on the faces of the other guests. Although he would never admit it, he did swell with a hint of pride. He halted briefly, allowing Prismo to catch up, before stepping aside to let others pass.

Prismo appeared ready to speak, but his intentions were swiftly interrupted as fellow entities crowded around him with greetings and pleasantries. Scarab observed him for a moment before deciding to navigate the sea of guests on his own, partly to seek the location of the refreshments. He moved deftly through the crowd, benefiting from his agility and the fact that anyone who noticed him swiftly cleared a path. Eventually, he located the area where drinks were served and grabbed a cup filled with red liquid. He secretly hoped it was alcoholic; he could use a little relaxation.

“Is that Scarab?” an entity whispered from behind him. Scarab turned his attention to them, eavesdropping on the conversations.

“It can’t be. Where’s his iconic red suit?”

“Did you hear that he wasn’t announced as a God Auditor? It turns out he was fired!”

“He never attends the Century Party. What’s he doing here?”

“Oh glob, is he planning to crash the event?”

“Even the Scarab can’t crash this party. It’s the Century Party, after all.”

“But still, why is he here?”

“Maybe he’s seeking a new job?”

“Yeah, he was fired. What role could he possibly be considering now?”

Scarab gradually tuned out the idle chatter as he made his way toward a nearby wall. Leaning against a towering pillar, he watched the crowd as the guests eventually lost interest in their discussions about him. Scarab carefully raised the drink to his concealed mouth, dipping his proboscis into the liquid. As he took a sip, he had to stifle a cough when the fiery starlight within the drink assaulted his senses. With a somewhat disappointed expression, he raised the cup again and brought it to his faceplates to take another sip, this time more cautiously. The alcohol provided some comfort.

While he savored the drink, he heard a wave of greetings that marked Prismo’s arrival. Eventually, the pink human made his way past the crowd and joined the row of pillars, including the one Scarab was leaning against. It was just large enough for Prismo not to notice him, yet small enough for Scarab to eavesdrop on the other’s mutterings.

“If I were Scarab,” Prismo pondered, his voice dripping with mimicry. “Where would I be?” Scarab had to suppress a chuckle as he listened to Prismo’s less-than-stellar impersonation of him, complete with exaggerated tongue clicks. Then, Prismo snapped his fingers in realization. “Refreshments!” However, when he peered around the pillar and spotted Scarab, he promptly screamed and lost his balance, tumbling to the floor. Scarab let out a laugh, although he managed to contain it before it became too noticeable. Fortunately, no one paid them any mind, their attention firmly fixed on the center stage. Prismo raised his hand, silently pleading for assistance, which prompted Scarab to roll his eyes before helping the hapless human back to his feet.

“Good evening, everyone!” Scarab flinched slightly at the sound of Orbo’s voice, diverting his gaze to the center stage where the orb was speaking. He missed the concerned expression Prismo directed his way.

“Welcome to the… uh, I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve held this party,” Orbo continued. “But welcome to the Century Party!” The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Scarab raised his glass to cover his growing annoyance.

Orbo continued with his speech, elaborating on the agenda for the evening. “Anyway, we’ll start off with giving out promotions, announcing new job openings and placements, and all that jazz. Then, after that, it’s time to party!” The crowd erupted into cheers once again before falling back into a hushed silence. Orbo cleared his non-existent throat and began listing off jobs and the names of entities who were either getting promoted or filling new positions. Every time a name was called, the audience would clap and offer congratulations to the entity being recognized.

As the speech continued, Scarab found himself growing progressively tenser, to the point that he was beginning to inadvertently crush the red solo cup in his grip when he had emptied its contents. He froze as he felt a light jab in his side and turned his gaze to Prismo, who was pointing across the crowd. “Look,” Prismo said, directing Scarab’s attention toward Perry, the living island of insight. “Perry’s back! I heard you gave him a hard time.”

Scarab shrugged casually. “He’s fine now.” He noticed Prismo’s frown and sensed that the human was about to ask more questions, but Orbo’s announcement cut him off.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, one of the most anticipated moments—announcing the role of God Auditor!” The crowd hushed to a complete silence, every pair of eyes and form turning to focus on the central orb. “Due to our most wanted criminal, Chronosia, we are temporarily reinstating Scarab as God Auditor!” The silence that followed was even more profound than the earlier cheers. Whispers rippled through the audience, and Scarab felt his hand unconsciously shattering the cup he was holding. Whispers spread like wildfire, their words like daggers slicing through the air. The reappointment as God Auditor had caught everyone by surprise, and it was clear that many were still questioning the decision.

Prismo leaned in closer to Scarab, speaking in hushed tones. “Looks like they’ve got high hopes for you, Scarab.”

Scarab scowled and whispered back, “This is not a good time for jokes, Prismo.”

Orbo’s voice carried over the room again, bringing a momentary end to the murmurs. “I trust Scarab to uphold his position with the utmost diligence. He has proven himself as a capable and dedicated servant of our multiverse.” Orbo’s words, though supportive, did little to settle the unease that had settled over the crowd. It was evident that Scarab’s past actions had not been entirely forgotten.

The crowd reluctantly returned to its original vigor when Orbo announced it was time to party, turning on music that was offending to the meaning of the gathering. Prismo, adorned with a grin that made Scarab squint a little, grabbed onto the taller’s hand and began dragging him through the lively party crowd. The pulsating beat of the music resonated in Scarab’s chest, adding a rhythmic layer to the chaos around them. “Prismo-!” he began, attempting to pull away, before halting in his steps to narrowly avoid crashing into the human when he suddenly stopped.

“Hey Cos!” Prismo called, his voice barely audible over the music. Scarab felt the bass thump through the floor beneath his feet. Prismo’s other hand held a tight grip onto Scarab, who stood behind him, still adjusting to the lively atmosphere. The owl perked up, turning and raising his wing in response. Scarab, keenly observant, noticed the subtle freeze in the bird’s demeanor for a moment before Cosmic relaxed, turning around and urging a few others over. Prismo, with his infectious enthusiasm, quickly brought (dragged) Scarab over to where Cosmic was amidst the vibrant lights and animated chatter.

“Hey Death, Life, how have you two been?” Prismo greeted, releasing Scarab’s hand to give Cosmic a half hug. The atmosphere around them buzzed with lively conversations and the pulsating rhythm of the music. Death smiled (as much as a skeleton could), and Life gracefully leaned down to speak better over the rhythmic beats.

“Prismo!” She hissed happily, raising a hand to shake Prismo’s. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I am glad to see you this century; I was wondering if you wouldn’t make it.” Prismo laughed, waving a hand, while Scarab remained in the background, observing the interaction between the gods.

“I’d never miss a party,” Prismo said before turning to Scarab. Life noticed and perked up, offering a warm smile to the beetle when he came closer.

“Scarab, I am glad to meet you. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time.” She smiled, extending her hand for a shake.

“I am honored to meet you, Miss Life,” Scarab responded formally, his gaze respectfully meeting hers, earning a hissy laugh from her.

“Please, drop the formality. Any friend of Prismo’s is a friend of mine.” Scarab nodded politely as the snake woman turned to her shorter companion. Death stepped forward, offering a nod that Scarab reciprocated. They had already met before, and Scarab quite liked Death.

“Hey, why don’t we go over to the snack bar and grab a drink?” Cosmic suggested, the lively chatter of the party providing a dynamic backdrop. Agreement rippled through the group, and Scarab found himself trailing a bit behind as they departed. To his surprise, Prismo turned, gesturing for him to follow. After a moment’s hesitation, Scarab obliged, navigating the shifting crowd.

At the bar, Cosmic and Prismo enthusiastically indulged in cheese crackers, their laughter blending with the upbeat music. Death, ever stoic, opted for a red solo cup, while Life joined in on the merriment, laughter bubbling at something Cosmic said. Scarab, more reserved, discreetly snatched an orange slice, popping it into his mouth when he thought no one was looking.

“Hey, Prismo!” A god called out, breaking away from the crowd. Prismo turned, a wide grin lighting up his face.

“Party god, hey man!” Prismo greeted, eliciting a boisterous, howling laugh from the floating head.

“What a party, bro! Glad you could make it!” The wolfish entity exclaimed, its loud and somewhat grating voice causing a subtle frown on Scarab’s face. He moved to stand near Death, exchanging a nod with the skeletal deity.

“Yeah, man,” Prismo began, about to continue before being interrupted by the floating head.

“Hey, bro, why’s that roach with you?” Party god asked, his attention now on Scarab. Prismo froze, and Cosmic’s brow furrowed.

“Hey, man, Scarab’s not a roach. He doesn’t crawl on the ceiling or do weird stuff like that. He’s pretty good at card wars!” Cosmic interjected, coming to Scarab’s defense. However, despite the intended support, Scarab couldn’t shake the undercurrent of humiliation.

Party god frowned slightly, his attention lingering on Scarab for a moment before redirecting his grin toward Prismo. “Hey, man, whatever makes your party boom. You should host another soon; I’ve been dying to get a real beat on. Just make sure Scrabs doesn’t kill the mood! See ya!” With a small howl, the floating head retreated into the animated crowd. Scarab turned to Prismo, noting the strained smile on his face and the barely concealed glare. For someone who was not as experienced in auditing as Scarab was, Prismo would have seemed perfectly ordinary.

“Hey, man,” Cosmic said, offering a meek smile to Scarab. “Don’t mind him.” He then turned to Prismo and gave him a supportive smile. “I’m gonna go hang out with a few other gods if that’s cool.” Prismo’s expression shifted back to its usual cheerfulness as he waved goodbye to the departing owl.

Life chuckled softly at something Death said before addressing the duo. “Death and I will also go; you two have fun now.” In the blink of an eye, Scarab found himself left alone with Prismo, the energy of the party swirling around them. Prismo’s gaze met Scarab’s briefly, detecting a glint of irritation in the pink shadow’s eyes. The tension from the encounter with Party god lingered, and Scarab was unsure how to address it. Prismo, ever the optimist, seemed determined to shake off the momentary discomfort.

“So, Scarab,” Prismo began, clapping his hands together, “what do you think of the party so far?” He tried to inject enthusiasm into his voice, but Scarab could sense an undercurrent of something more, a subtle shift from the usual joviality.

Scarab shrugged, his usual stoicism intact. “It’s a party. People, music, and chaos.”

Prismo chuckled, though it sounded forced. “True, true! But you know, sometimes chaos is good. It shakes things up, brings unexpected surprises!” He nudged Scarab with his elbow, attempting to lighten the mood.

Scarab raised an eyebrow at the playful gesture, and Prismo withdrew, sensing that his usual antics might not be the right approach at the moment. The crowd surged around them, the music pulsating, creating a backdrop to their conversation.

“Party god seemed to have an issue with me,” Scarab observed, cutting to the heart of the matter.

Prismo sighed, his expression softening. “Yeah, sorry about that. He’s a bit… unpredictable. But don’t let it bother you. You’re my friend, and that’s what matters.”

Scarab nodded in acknowledgment and began to walk to a more isolated corner. Prismo quickly caught up, rambling over something that Scarab ignored.

“You know,” Prismo began again, “it’s been a while since we had a heart-to-heart. What’s been going on in the life of Scarab? Anything exciting?”

Scarab paused, considering the question. There hasn’t been anything that Prismo wasn’t already aware of, so he assumed the human was just trying to remove the old atmosphere and put in a newer and funnier one. “Not anything that you aren’t already aware of, Prismo. Same old routine. Cleaning, watching you manage the Time Room horribly, and dealing with your whimsical ideas.”

Prismo laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the party’s cacophony. “Ah, Scrabby, you make it sound like a chore. But admit it, you enjoy my company!”

A faint smile tugged at the edges of Scarab’s mask. He schooled his features, finding a darker corner and leaning on it. The muffled sounds of the party were much quieter, helping to lessen the headache that was blossoming in his skull. “Your company, and in extension, your whims, not so much.”

Prismo grinned, sensing a crack in the stoic facade. However, he resisted prodding at the beetle anymore, instead coming to lean on the wall beside him. They stood in silence, listening to the sounds of the party. Scarab allowed his eyes to close, heaving a sigh. The thumping bass from the party’s music reverberated through the walls, creating a pulsating rhythm that seemed to echo the subdued atmosphere between Prismo and Scarab. They shared the silence, each lost in their own thoughts, and the occasional laughter and chatter of the partygoers provided a distant backdrop.

“Hey, Scrabby?” Prismo began, his voice oddly soft and quiet, a departure from his usual exuberance. Scarab cracked an eye open to see the human, noticing that Prismo had raised a hand to rub at his neck. It was a nervous gesture, and for once, Scarab didn’t know why.

“Yes, Prismo?” He replied when the other seemed to get cold feet. Prismo fidgeted quietly, collecting his words. Scarab let him, savoring the extra moment of silence before the impending chaos.

“Are you—do—er, would—” Prismo stumbled over his words, biting them off with a sigh. Scarab opened both of his eyes, watching the Wishmaster’s struggle. He noticed when Prismo spoke next, it was on a different topic. “When you leave to chase Chronosia, do you think that maybe, you’d be able to—” He bit off his words again, looking away with a strained smile. “Ah, no, dumb question—”

“If what you are going to say is that dumb, then I will just forget about it tomorrow,” Scarab replied, tilting his head to show he was listening. “Besides, you’ve never been one to not ask stupid questions.”

Prismo laughed softly, looking away. Then, he took a breath and looked back at Scarab. “Could you maybe, like, visit me? In the time cube? When you’re out doing your job ‘n stuff?” He asked, his voice growing smaller with each word. He cut off his words by looking away, but not before Scarab caught the reddening of his cheeks. Scarab felt a smile grow beneath the mask, and for once, he let it stay.

“Well,” he began, feigning irritation as he met Prismo’s gaze when the human looked back. “If you’re really that lonely, then I guess I can indulge you and make sure you’re doing your work.” Prismo stared at him silently for a moment before a disbelieving laugh escaped him. Then, it grew more mirthful, and a wide grin split across the human’s face.

“Yeah! Sure, just making sure I don’t make any more unauthorized universes, yeah?” He responded, earning a nod from Scarab. Then, he grew nervous again, red enveloping his cheeks. “One more thing,” He said, a slight tremor in his voice. Scarab tilted his head in question. “Do you maybe want to—I don’t know, go on a—”

An explosion rocked the room, violently shaking both Prismo and Scarab off the walls. They bolted to the main room of the party, witnessing the chaotic scene that unfolded. The crowd had formed a large circle, and in the center stood a hooded figure surrounded by an icy spectacle. Prismo gasped, and Scarab instinctively shoved the human behind him. A sudden silence gripped the hall, all eyes fixed on the mysterious figure.

“Well!” The figure exclaimed, their voice echoing through the silent room. “Am I the first to crash a god’s party? Hehe!” The hood was pulled down, revealing a golden tiara atop a grey-haired head—an ice crown remade.

“f*ck! That’s Chronosia!” Prismo whispered urgently, seeking refuge behind Scarab. Orbo rolled near them, significantly smaller but still looking for cover among the gods.

“Scrabby!” The orb whispered, lifting a blue crystal to the beetle. A fleeting sense of joy washed over Scarab as he accepted the crystal, but he quickly suppressed it as Chronosia began to speak again.

“Listen, listen, I’m here for only one thing,” her voice rang out, her gaze scanning each god, a frown replacing the earlier crazed smile. The ice crystals surrounding her began to morph, shaping into several menacing figures that formed a protective circle. “I’m after the Wishmaster! Prismo, I’m sure you’ve all heard of him.” She extended her arm, conjuring a containment cube. Scarab moved to cover Prismo more effectively, joined by a few other gods who rallied to conceal the Wishmaster.

“I’ve been banned from the Time Room since I’ve already used my wish, so I came here because I knew he’d be here,” she cackled, her ice minions rushing into the crowd. Black clouds suddenly enveloped the room, lifting her on their ethereal currents. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” she called, a wicked laughter trailing behind.

“Get Prismo out of here!” Scarab commanded the other gods, and they nodded in agreement, quickly ushering the Wishmaster away from the impending danger. Scarab summoned his scythe from the crystal, rushing forward to confront the ice minions.

“Hoho! Who do we have here?!” Chronosia giggled, sending ice spikes in his direction. Scarab hissed softly, effortlessly cutting through them. He used the frozen corpse of a minion to propel himself into the air. She cackled and unleashed more ice spikes at him. Scarab skillfully navigated through them, using them to launch himself forward. “My my, you’d make a fine piece of my collection!” Chronosia laughed, her sinister tone echoing through the room. Scarab ripped off his cloak and hurled it towards her, causing her to gasp and momentarily lose her balance as it covered her. She screeched as she tore herself free from the entangling fabric.

Scarab swiftly grabbed an egg from the crystal and threw it down as he descended. Chronosia screeched again as she landed, managing to lift her hand up into the air. “Not today, Buggy!” she yelled, freezing the egg in place. Scarab transformed his crystal into a spear, aiming for a decisive strike. She screeched once more but cut it off when she turned to face the crowd. A smile split her face as she turned back to Scarab, and dark clouds gathered beneath her feet, lifting her to meet Scarab in midair. She unleashed an ice beam that knocked his aim off course. Gasping, he reoriented himself just in time for her to rise before him and deliver a powerful punch that sent him crashing down. The ground cracked upon impact, but Scarab quickly rose to his feet, ready to face the impending battle.

“Prismo~” Chronosia purred, her laughter echoing through the chaotic air as she effortlessly maneuvered through the clouds. Scarab pursued her, gracefully leaping over other gods caught in the frenzy. An explosion of snow erupted, momentarily veiling his vision. Despite the momentary blindness and panic in his chest, Scarab pressed forward, slicing through the crowd just in time to witness Chronosia forcefully disperse Prismo’s guards.

“No!” Scarab’s enraged cry pierced the air as he sprinted forward, retracting his spear into a throwing stance. Ignoring Scarab, Chronosia seized Prismo, wrapping her icy arms around his neck. Prismo’s scream echoed, tears welling in his eyes as he pleaded for help from Scarab. Time seemed to freeze for an agonizing moment, the world holding its breath as Prismo’s desperate gaze met Scarab’s, all while Chronosia reveled in her cruel amusem*nt. Then, with a blinding burst of white, Scarab hurled the spear. As the snow settled, Scarab couldn’t contain the raw outcry that escaped his lips.

Prismo was gone, and the spear was embedded in the wall.

Chapter 17: Hue

Chapter Text

His fist bore the mark of brutality, blood oozing from the wounds caused by the relentless assault on his own carapace. Scarab paid no heed to the pain, his eyes fixated on the vacant space where Chronosia had spirited Prismo away. Chaos enveloped the gathering of gods—cries, screams, and the cacophony of rage echoed in the tumultuous air. Amidst the turmoil, Scarab remained an ominous figure, silent and towering, head held high, and a relentless glare fixed upon the now-deserted snowy ground.

His demeanor was an unsettling contrast—calm, unmoving, with measured breaths and a steady heartbeat. A god that typically never stood still, Scarab’s stoicism was an unsettling precursor to the tempest that brewed within. The searing pain in his hand acted as the sole restraint, preventing the release of a boundless rage that clawed at the edges of his being. The unfathomable fury that churned within Scarab’s core was an unfamiliar sensation, yet there was no room for introspection. He had more pressing matters at hand—his next hunt, destined to be the shortest and bloodiest of all, a savage pursuit that would leave its indelible mark on the annals of his relentless endeavors.

A quiet voice, filled with nervousness, sliced through the haze of Scarab’s wrath. “Scarab?” Orbo’s tentative query drew him from the frozen trance. Scarab, with an almost mechanical precision, strode past the unblemished snow to retrieve the spear, its cruel efficiency in terminating his prey now turned inward. Gripping the bloodied weapon, he turned to face Orbo. The star core flinched, a subtle tremor betraying his fear. Scarab, consumed by the task at hand, would have taken perverse satisfaction in the newfound ability to evoke fear if not for the intense focus required to restrain the imminent explosion of his wrath.

Scarab, with a subtle flick of his hand, metamorphosed the spear back into its crystalline form. Holding the artifact before him, he deftly opened the panel displaying the roster of malefactors, an array of faces etched in the crystalline memory of his tool. With precision, Scarab singled out Chronosia and swiftly programmed the crystal to trace her movements. He closed the panel, securing the crystal in the palm of his hand, as he strode past Orbo.

The call of “Wait” echoed behind him, and Scarab halted. Turning his head, he cast a cool gaze upon Orbo, who wore an expression of undisguised anger. The star core spoke. “I’m making you the manager of this case,” Orbo declared, and Scarab pivoted to face him fully. Unfazed by the sudden increase in size as Orbo loomed, Scarab absorbed the instructions with calmness. “You get three other Auditors, do what you want with them. But,” Orbo’s voice resonated with an underlying threat, yet Scarab remained unyielding. “You bring back Prismo by any means necessary. You kill Chronosia? I don’t care. Destroy a universe? Don’t care. Just bring back Prismo.”

The charge hung in the air, a weighty expectation that Scarab accepted without hesitation. His crystal beeped, prompting him to open the notifications. Three new profiles materialized, the Auditors designated to follow his lead, and his alone. With a curt nod, Scarab pivoted and left the gala behind. The crystalline surface of his tool glowed as he employed its power, opening a doorway to the Time Room. He had work to do.

He wasn’t merely a God Auditor anymore; now, he commanded three others to carry out his bidding. The long-desired role of managing Auditors had finally fallen into his lap. Scarab had yearned for this position, tired as he was after each exhilarating hunt. The thrill of the chase, his undeniable expertise – he wished to impart these skills to others. Although his desire for managerial responsibility had never surpassed that of the Wishmaster’s, he found himself occupying the very position he once aspired to. Yet, now, his ambition had morphed. He craved the hunt, an insatiable desire to pursue and capture. Chronosia was his prey, and he intended to make her feel the weight of his wrath.

The fabric adorning him became an inconsequential nuisance, a welcome distraction from the fervor building within. An attire change was warranted – a statement of intent for Chronosia. He wasn’t just any God Auditor; he was THE God Auditor, The Scarab, and she had infuriated him beyond measure.

He selected a black vest, a red-striped undershirt, and black pants, accentuated by a tie adorned with miniature beetles. His obsidian-black coat, draped over his shoulders, swished with purpose as he secured it with a simple gold chain. A small grunt accompanied the transformation of his legs, reverting to their insectoid form and breaking bones that had long since healed in a humanoid shape. Talons and clawed feet remained uncovered – natural and unapologetic. His form shifted back to the insectoid silhouette, spikes tearing through fabric and mending effortlessly at a tap of his claw. The regained balance allowed him to discard the cane that had supported him in his humanoid guise. However, he kept his crystal close, reshaped into its familiar spear form, a constant reminder of the weaponized justice he was about to unleash.

Having perfected his formidable form in the Time Core, Scarab considered himself ready for the imminent confrontation with Chronosia. Summoning the three auditors under his command, he opted for the scenic route to the Time Room. Despite his reluctance to admit it, the return to his insectoid shape presented some initial challenges in walking. However, he swiftly acclimated, progressively transitioning from a walk to a trot and then to a full-blown sprint through the Time Core’s labyrinthine halls. A triumphant laugh escaped him as he effortlessly vaulted over a chasm that would have stymied his humanoid form. Grinning beneath the mask, he adjusted his appearance, taking a moment to savor the thrill of excitement, rage, and adrenaline coursing through him. The desire to crush, capture, and kill pulsed within, yet he maintained his composure. He was nothing if not patent.

“Mr. Scarab, sir,” the three auditors greeted in unison, each bowing their heads respectfully upon his arrival in the Time Room. He hummed in response, scrutinizing each one as he addressed the mummy-like figure.

“Name and years in the job,” he commanded, and the mummy rose to provide the information.

“Ankhara Cryptshroud, sir. Auditing for around 3 centuries now,” Ankhara replied, Scarab noting a slight tremor in their hands.

“Success rate?” Scarab inquired.

“78%, sir,” Ankhara responded, prompting Scarab to shift his attention to the cat beside them.

“Name and years in the job,” he asked, the mummy stepping back.

“Cleo Velvetpaws, sir. Auditing for 397 years in two weeks, sir,” Cleo replied, her tail betraying a hint of nervousness.

“Success rate?” Scarab pressed, crossing his arms. Cleo winced, her ears darting behind her.

“48%, sir. I normally just collect information, sir,” she explained, her yellow eyes pleading with Scarab.

“What kind of information?” he probed.

“Recon, details about fugitive personal lives, tracking, sir,” she listed.

“And is your information accurate?” Scarab demanded. Cleo puffed up, nodding confidently.

“It is, sir. I maintain a 98% accuracy rate on information.”

“Good,” Scarab acknowledged before turning his gaze to the moth. He scrutinized the insectoid creature, causing the fuzz around its neck to puff up.

“Name and years in the job,” Scarab commanded, and the moth stammered in response.

“Uh, Pyralis Emberdust, s-sir,” he replied, fidgeting with the top pair of his arms. “I’ve been A-Auditoing for 5 centuries, sir.”

“Success rate?”

“Er, 83 p-percent, sir,” Pyralis responded. Satisfied, Scarab nodded. It was in an insect’s nature to do the very best he could, at least, if the moth came from the same homeworld Scarab did. He skipped any further contemplation to retrieve the remote from its spot on the floor.

He activated the expansive TV wall, drawing the attention of the assembled auditors. Scarab, now in control, initiated the briefing with a resounding and authoritative voice. The screens flickered through the tumultuous journey of the fugitive formerly known as Betty Grof, exploring her existence in her original universe. The narrative unfolded, tracing her early days as Grof to the catastrophic descent into madness when she attempted and failed to fuse with GOLB. The consequence was a monstrous transformation that eradicated any remnants of her human form.

“Chronosia,” Scarab declared, the very name resonating with gravity, “had made two wishes. The first, a desire to protect her Simon, was thwarted when she wished again after GOLB’s reformation. Seeking immortality, she cast her second wish, which aimed to harness Prismo’s multiverse-altering powers. This, too, failed, driving her to wish for boundless power.” He paused, allowing the auditors to digest the information.

“Prismo had given information that stated that Chronosia was once a partner to him. While the details of their connection elude me, it appears she seduced Prismo for more power. When he resisted, she resorted to theft, pilfering a multiverse crystal that bridged multiple dimensions. This act marked the inception of The Cult of Chronos, an expansive network that now spans numerous universes. The surge in crossover alerts suggests Chronosia is orchestrating a grand convergence, summoning entities from disparate dimensions to her own.” Scarab concluded the narrative with a sigh, redirecting his focus to the trio of auditors. Each nodded in comprehension, but Pyralis, the moth, raised a hesitant hand.

“Sir, with all due respect, if Chronosia has been a threat for so long, why weren’t you on her case earlier?” Pyralis queried, a question echoed by the other two auditors. Scarab pondered the inquiry.

“A valid question. Chronosia’s case unfolded nearly eight centuries ago. At that time, I was less experienced than I am now. Her case was swift, lasting only a few years, and more seasoned auditors had already taken charge. I wasn’t as equipped to handle such complexities back then,” Scarab explained, and the three before him nodded.

“Cryptshroud,” Scarab called, and the mummy emerged from their spot in the shadows, ready for his instructions. “Your task is to track down some of the cultists, infiltrate their gatherings, and remain discreet. No direct confrontations. Gather information covertly, and withdraw the moment they suspect your presence.” Ankhara, the mummy, nodded in silent acknowledgment, producing their crystal to commence their mission. Scarab then turned his attention to the feline auditor.

“Velvetpaws, your responsibility is to gather comprehensive intel on the entire cult. Uncover their plans, and collaborate with Cryptshroud to pinpoint their location. As with Cryptshroud, prioritize evasion if your cover is blown.” Cleo, the cat, acknowledged her assignment and exchanged a glance with Ankhara, who extended their crystal for coordination. Lastly, Scarab focused on Pyralis.

“Emberdust, your role is to apprehend cultists. Employ any means necessary to extract information about Chronosia. Once the interrogation is complete, eliminate them. No survivors.” Pyralis affirmed his understanding, a resolute expression on his face. Scarab’s gaze sharpened.

“Do not leave any survivors,” he emphasized, and a sinister smile crept across Pyralis’s features.

“Yes, sir,” Pyralis affirmed before grasping his crystal, ready to embark on his mission. The trio dispersed, each auditor now entrusted with a crucial aspect of the operation.

Scarab sighed heavily and redirected his attention to the screen, crossing his arms in contemplation. The moments dragged on, with nothing more to occupy his time until the other auditors returned with crucial information. Despite Prismo’s dreamer still residing in the Time Cube, Prismo himself was ensnared with Chronosia, rendering him incapable of granting wishes. With a sigh, Scarab brought his crystal before him and initiated a call to a familiar Orb.

“Hey, Scrabby!” Orbo’s jovial voice echoed through the communication screen, his form taking on a greenish hue. Scarab responded with a nonchalant hum. “Any luck finding Prismo, mate?”

“Not yet,” Scarab replied, starting to pace in front of the screen. “Cryptshroud, Velvetpaws, and Emberdust are out gathering information. However, I’m calling you for another reason.”

Orbo raised an eyebrow, inasmuch as an orb could express such a gesture. “Oh? And what would that be?”

“Who will tend to the Time Core and grant wishes in Prismo’s absence?” Scarab questioned. Orbo thought for a moment.

“Well, I guess it’s you. You’ve got the most experience in knowing how to grant wishes, and it seems like you’re just waiting around,” Orbo shrugged (Scarab couldn’t quite fathom how an orb managed to convey a shrug), and Scarab acknowledged the suggestion with a thoughtful hum. “So, yeah, I’m making you the temporary Wishmaster until Prismo is back. Oh, and while you’re out rescuing Prismo, I’ll handle the wishes.” The surge of power immediately filled Scarab’s chest, and the Time Room shifted around him. He fought to control the impulse to crush the crystal in his hand, a wide grin breaking out beneath his mask. Wishmaster, at last.

Thank you, Orbo,” Scarab acknowledged, concealing any trace of excitement in his voice. Orbo bid his farewells, and Scarab tucked the crystal into his suit. His gaze shifted to the adjacent wall, and with a single thought, it opened. He grinned, reveling in the ability to manipulate the walls at his command. A laugh escaped him as he discarded his mask, savoring the moment. Wishmaster! Finally! With a flick of his wrist, the opposite wall split open. The temptation to let Prismo languish in the cube, forever trapped in a universe while his dreamer slumbered peacefully in Scarab’s basem*nt, crossed his mind. The idea of ensuring that Scarab retained the role of Wishmaster seemed enticing.

Another laugh erupted from him as he twirled around, the walls reshaping according to his will. Yet, an unsettling sensation swelled within his chest, causing his smile to dissipate. The walls transformed into a labyrinth without boundaries, a void of pathways. Standing at its center, Scarab found himself in the very creation he had shaped the Time Room into. However, the anticipated joy was overshadowed by something sickening.

A heavy, suffocating feeling settled over Scarab’s chest, and he instinctively placed a hand over the source, attempting to crush the sensation. This wasn’t anger; anger was a familiar companion. It wasn’t joy either; joy, a fleeting pleasure, was absent. This feeling, gripping at his chest, persisted and intensified whenever he thought about Prismo trapped with Chronosia. He recalled a similar but overshadowed sensation when the ice queen vanished with Prismo. Rage had masked it then, fueled by the sheer fury he felt. Why, though, did he feel rage at Chronosia when she took Prismo?

Deciding that Prismo was the root of this overwhelming emotion, Scarab delved into the question. Why did this crushing feeling weigh on him only when Prismo wasn’t present? He replayed all his interactions with the former Wishmaster, reminiscing about the warm sensation that once rested in this crushing spot—something he reluctantly began to acknowledge as fondness. Where was that warmth now, now that he was Wishmaster? What was this frigid, crushing feeling, colder than Chronosia’s ice, which he knew wasn’t her doing?

Scarab’s breathing quickened involuntarily as he found himself following the seemingly limitless paths, leading deeper into the void that had once been the Time Room. The oppressive feeling intensified with each step, eventually prompting Scarab to halt abruptly. The distant thud of the Time Core echoed in his ears, providing a rhythmic background to the chaotic storm within him. He closed his eyes tightly, focusing on the repetitive sounds, attempting to ground himself. Standing there, he made a conscious effort to divert his thoughts away from Prismo, but the more he tried, the larger the encroaching feeling became, a vice tightening around his chest.

Desperation clawing at him, Scarab forced his breathing to slow, drawing in ragged breaths in an attempt to stave off the encroaching suffocation. “I’m fine,” he hissed, the words more a desperate mantra than a statement, an attempt to break the monotonous rhythm of the Time Core’s pounding. His voice, quiet and rough, was barely audible, and his throat constricted, resisting the reassurance he tried to utter. No, no, no—stop it. Stop it right now.

Unable to bear the weight any longer, he allowed himself to crumple to the ground, one hand instinctively flying to his throat as if attempting to grasp hold of the elusive breath. Stop it right now, he chastised himself internally, berating what he perceived as a weakness. This sensation in his chest had to be a vulnerability, but it felt as though an invisible force was constricting him, making it impossible to breathe.

The struggle intensified; Scarab’s chest tightened, the pain seeping in, the elusive feeling creeping down his limbs. Stop it, stop it now! He wrestled with his own mind, trying to impose order. What was it? He needed to name it. Focus, Scarab, think. His jaw opened, the act almost instinctive, attempting to capture more air. In a desperate attempt to regain control, he forced his lungs to freeze momentarily, hoping to shock his system into fixing itself. His attempt to freeze his lungs only seemed to exacerbate the situation, leaving Scarab even more breathless than before. Panic set in, and the desperation to regain control intensified.

“No, no, no, no!” He muttered urgently to himself, a futile attempt to ward off the encroaching chaos. A peculiar sensation gathered in his eyes, prompting him to lift a trembling hand to wipe it away. Crystal-clear water met his talons, and his widened eyes reflected the sudden realization. A silent curse escaped him as he fought against the rising tide of vulnerability. This wasn’t right. He couldn’t afford to be weak.

Strength drained from him, leaving him even more feeble than before. His limbs trembled uncontrollably, and in an attempt to steady himself, he wrapped them around his form. He was sure he would be drenched if he were capable of perspiration. The internal struggle persisted, a tumultuous whirlwind of emotions.

“Stop,” he muttered, the word a desperate plea, curling even deeper into himself as an agonizing pain emanated from his chest. Each gasp for breath seemed futile, the all-encompassing feeling relentlessly digging deeper into him, as if intent on stripping away everything, leaving him a pitiful, weak wreck. His head met the yellow path, his entire body shivering. All he could hear was his blood pounding away, far too fast to be normal. What was this feeling that made him so weak?

Gasping for breath, Scarab clung to the notion that strength was derived from control, yet control seemed elusive, slipping through his trembling fingers. The feeling persisted, a merciless thief that robbed him of his very essence. Scarab’s chest tightened further, his heart’s erratic cadence echoing the discord within. He wished for escape, for respite from this uncharted vulnerability.

Nausea washed over him, offering a glimmer of hope that perhaps this oppressive feeling could be physically expelled. A fleeting thought crossed his mind – maybe it was something he ate. However, the realization quickly sank in; he hadn’t consumed anything since the gala. A sob, the first of many, escaped his trembling lips as he grappled with the torment within him.

Tears blurred his vision as he desperately scanned the void for something, anything to divert his attention from this overwhelming sickness. All that met his gaze were distant yellow pathways leading into the endless void. In a silent plea, Scarab beseeched the Time Room to shift into something – anything – to distract him. He begged for respite.

As his vision remained obscured by tears, he could sense a change in the surroundings. The once-void transformed into soft magenta floors beneath him, offering a slight reprieve. Mentally coaching himself, he attempted to analyze his situation. Focusing on his training, he raised a shaky hand to wipe at his eyes, determined to take deep, albeit ragged, breaths.

Control over his breathing eluded him, causing multiple lapses where he choked on nothing but air. Persistent coughs followed, his throat parched and dry. Despite the struggle, he persevered, managing to quell the tendency to choke on the air he desperately drew in. A faint hiss reached his ears, but he chose to ignore it, concentrating instead on the challenging task of unfurling himself. Pain and weariness gripped him, making every movement a feat in itself.

A sudden cold sensation against his back jolted him, and without thinking, Scarab reacted instinctively. With a swift turn and a snarling hiss, he swung his claws through the air, only to find that whatever had touched him recoiled. Another sob escaped his lips, the sound echoing in the magenta-hued room. His bleary eyes darted around, searching for the unseen intruder, but finding nothing, he dismissed it as a figment of his distracted imagination. He took a breath, which transformed into a cough, wiping away the seemingly ceaseless tears.

Amidst his struggles, he heard another hiss, subtle yet audible. His shaky breaths continued, but he fought to regain control. Slowly lifting his head, he surveyed the room through blurred vision. Roughly wiping away the persistent tears, he caught sight of Prismo’s corporeal body. The realization that he was in the presence of Prismo’s host offered a modicum of distraction, finally allowing him to gain a semblance of emotional control. Though his chest still ached, he could breathe more freely now, and his throat had relented, permitting a small sigh. The oppressive feeling that had weighed on him found a name – dread. But what was the source of this overwhelming apprehension?

Another touch of cold, and this time Scarab identified the cause. With a shout of surprise, he leaped away, landing harshly against the wall. Clutching the stone with his talons, he hissed through bared teeth, his blurry eyes meeting the neon pink gaze of a nightmare. It flinched, its large black form shrinking slightly. Scarab coughed, dropping back to his knees. Slowly, cautiously, the nightmare’s black claws inched toward him. Hissing again, Scarab triggered another fit of coughing. The nightmare froze, watching him closely. Defending himself from this creature became an unexpected but effective distraction.

“…Are you alright?” a low, raspy voice emanated from the nightmare, and Scarab looked up at the enigmatic being.

“…What?” came Scarab’s quiet response, his voice low to avoid straining himself further.

“Are you alright?” the nightmare responded, its eyes filled with an unexpected emotion—empathy? Scarab growled out a gruff ‘fine’ in response, adjusting his position and wrapping his arms around his brought-up knees. “You don’t seem fine,” the nightmare observed slowly, as if engaging in conversation with another being was an unfamiliar experience. Scarab eyed it warily, fighting the encroaching urge to succumb to sleep. A nap might be tempting, but he knew that falling asleep would revert him to his 2D form as Wishmaster.

The two of them maintained a prolonged, silent stare, Scarab battling to remain awake. Gradually, the nightmare’s outstretched hand began to approach. Scarab glared at it, too fatigued to muster the energy to hiss in protest. He observed as the nightmare’s hand came within reach, only to pause where Scarab could still perceive it.

“I’m sorry,” the nightmare whispered, leaving Scarab puzzled.

“..What?” he muttered.

“Did you not want to become Wishmaster?” the nightmare asked, tilting its head in a manner reminiscent of Prismo. The feeling of dread slowly resurfaced at the thought of the pink shadow.

“I-” His voice was abruptly cut off by a fit of coughing, and he felt something being pressed into his side. Turning, he was surprised to find a water bottle. Keeping a wary eye on the still-distant hand of the nightmare, Scarab hesitently accepted the offering and eagerly guzzled down the water. After finishing, he sighed and wiped his face, the plastic bottle now empty. “I’ve wanted to be Wishmaster for a long time,” Scarab spoke slowly, his words occasionally interrupted by embarrassing hiccups. His response earned a growlish hum from the nightmare.

“If-” The nightmare cut itself off, looking away momentarily before returning its gaze. “If it’s okay, why were you panicking?” Scarab observed the nightmare, his eyes droopy and his head throbbing with a headache.

“I was thinking about getting Prismo back,” he responded, too exhausted to thoroughly consider his words.

“Prismo?” The nightmare’s voice took on a more gravelly and hiss-like quality than before. However, it managed to calm itself before speaking again. “Was Prismo taken?”

“Yes,” Scarab replied. The nightmare hummed.

“And do you plan on getting him back?” the nightmare asked, genuine curiosity in its husky voice. “You won’t be Wishmaster anymore if you do.”

Scarab stayed silent, contemplating. He did want to remain Wishmaster, but, for some odd reason, the idea of being Wishmaster without Prismo felt oddly… empty.

“I see,” the nightmare replied, and Scarab blearily realized he had spoken his thoughts out loud. “It sounds like you’ve gotten used to him.”

“‘Gotten used to’ doesn’t sound enough,” Scarab mumbled, allowing the nightmare to come closer.

“Then what would you call it?” it asked, stopping to rest beside Scarab. Its hand remained fixed in place, and Scarab was slowly coming to appreciate it.

“…I…” Scarab paused, trying to articulate his thoughts into words that he could understand. He was too tired to truly comprehend anything, and the nightmare’s cold and suffocating presence provided an odd comfort. “…I want him to… stay,” Scarab began slowly, his words muddled and warped. But the nightmare listened, leaning down to meet Scarab at his level. “I want to be Wishmaster… and I want Prismo to still be… with… me?” The nightmare hummed, leaning its head down on a clawed hand.

“It sounds like you like him,” the nightmare replied.

“…I do, don’t I?” Scarab muttered. “I don’t hate him anymore, and I’ve come to enjoy his presence… but-” he cut off his words with a shake of his head. The nightmare remained silent, offering a patient and understanding presence that encouraged Scarab to continue. But Scarab hesitated.

“…My mind has been wandering…” he began, his voice so quiet and small that it seemed uncharacteristic of him. Why was he speaking? Shut up, stop talking. “Thinking… about strange things…” His wings under his shell buzzed softly, creating a small cricket-like song that he felt embarrassed about. However, the nightmare closed its eyes and listened to the gentle melody, humming lowly to match the pitch. It reopened its eyes, looking back at Scarab attentively as he spoke again. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we could be… something more than friends, like the old days. Something… together?” Scarab sighed, lowering himself to the floor and rubbing his face with his talons. “I don’t know… who could want a bug?”

“Prismo would want a bug,” the nightmare uttered lowly, a statement so quiet that Scarab had to strain to catch it.

“Pardon?” Scarab asked, turning to face the nightmare. It blinked, appearing a bit surprised, but a gentle smile graced its features.

“I’m not going to say anything, little beetle,” The nightmare said, chuckling softly as Scarab frowned at the endearing nickname. “But I suggest you go get Prismo back and bring him home.”

“Why?” Scarab inquired.

“Because I want to see that ship sail, little beetle,” The nightmare responded, laughing at Scarab’s perplexed expression. “Sleep, little beetle. I will wake you when your servants return.”

“Sleep?” Scarab questioned. “I can’t sleep; I’ll just become 2D.” The nightmare hummed, its smile taking on a fond quality.

“Not after this, you won’t,” It assured him. “You need time to recover.” Scarab considered the notion, feeling the weariness settle deeper within him.

“What do I call you?” Scarab asked, glancing up at the nightmare from his prone position on the floor. A pillow appeared beneath his head, and the nightmare summoned a blanket from the shadows, tucking Scarab in. Thoroughly embarrassed yet too tired to care, Scarab found comfort in the gesture.

“Call me Nightmo,” The nightmare replied, and as the world around Scarab faded into darkness, he heard Nightmo’s soft laughter.

Chapter 18: Crimson

Chapter Text

“I believe I have found something, sir!” Cleo exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm as she lifted her crystal in offering. Scarab nodded approvingly, accepting the crystal from her and raising it to project the screen in front of him. His gaze focused intently on the infiltrated conversation between two large cultists.

“Well done,” he commended, his voice steady and authoritative. Returning the crystal to Cleo, he watched as she grinned with satisfaction, promptly turning to discuss the findings with Ankhara. In the expansive void they occupied, a resounding knock echoed, drawing Scarab’s attention. With a mere thought, he opened the door.

Pyralis flew in, landing somewhat unsteadily and offering a brief bow to Scarab. The red beetle crossed his arms, a talon tapping thoughtfully against his carapace.

“S-Sir, I believe I have found something useful,” Pyralis stammered, holding out his crystal for Scarab to take. Scarab accepted the crystal, bringing it up to examine its contents. A location revealed itself, prompting a pleased grin beneath Scarab’s mask.

“Good, Cleo, Ankhara, can you confirm this?” Scarab inquired, passing the crystal to Cleo. She took it, positioning it between herself and Ankhara. Her eyes carefully scrutinized the information, and she turned to Scarab, handing the crystal back.

“I will travel to the location and check, sir,” Ankhara declared, their concealed eyes shifting toward Cleo for a brief moment.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t get caught, sir,” Cleo affirmed, placing a paw over her chest. Both of them bowed in unison as Scarab granted his approval, and Cleo used Ankhara’s crystal to depart for the specified location.

“What tasks do you have for me, sir?” Pyralis inquired, his demeanor a mix of fidgeting nervousness and palpable excitement. Scarab regarded Pyralis for a moment, then unfolded his arms.

“Continue as you were.” He said, and the butterfly nodded, a determined expression on his face.

“Yes, sir,” he affirmed, a flame dancing in his eyes. With a crisp salute, Pyralis turned and exited the void, leaving Scarab once again to remain alone in the Time Room. Well, the Time Void, more precisely. With a deft flick of his hand, the ground beneath Scarab extended, contorting around him and seamlessly transporting him to a specific magenta-hued room. Nightmo, situated in their corner next to their host, perked up at Scarab’s arrival, offering a sharp-toothed grin as the beetle stepped forward.

“Little beetle, a pleasure,” Nightmo greeted, smoothly sliding over the wall and leaning on their palms. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I need a favor,” Scarab declared, turning to the nightmare. They hummed, arching a manifested eyebrow in curiosity. Scarab cleared his throat, fully facing the nightmare. “There are more of you, correct?” he asked, and Nightmo nodded, wearing a smug expression. Hisses echoed as multiple smaller nightmares slithered from Prismo’s host, fixating their gaze on Scarab. He turned back to Nightmo.

“I’d like to take a few of your nightmares with me to ensure Prismo’s protection when I go in to extract him,” he requested, prompting the large nightmare to burst into laughter. The diminutive shadows hissed in amusem*nt as well.

“Little beetle, having my nightmares accompany you means you may freeze to death. I know your kind, and even if you’re a god, you will suffer when pure darkness touches you,” Nightmo warned, a grin stretching across their face. Scarab scoffed.

“I can assure you, pure darkness will not affect me enough to impede me on my hunt.”

“Oh?” Nightmo inquired. “Then prove it. Wear one of my nightmares on your arm, little beetle.” Scarab was well aware of what he was getting into; he knew that the only way the shadows could leave the Time Cube was by attaching to a host, even if only temporarily. However, he was confident in his decision, so he stepped toward Prismo’s host. A diminutive nightmare hissed at him, growing slightly larger before disentangling itself from the human’s throat and charging at Scarab.

Without a sound, Scarab lifted his hand and snatched it from the air, enduring the burning cold that seeped into his carapace. The nightmare hissed at him from its place on the red shell, but it soon settled, transforming into a zigzagging line that resembled more of a tattoo on his carapace than a living nightmare. He turned toward Nightmo and approached, deliberately slow and composed, to drive home his point. No darkness, not even Nightmo’s, could compare to the one that had permanently claimed his wings and antennae.

“I’m impressed,” Nightmo hummed, lifting their head. Scarab raised his arm, allowing the nightmare on it to coalesce into the palm of his hand before detaching and merging into the larger mass. Then, they laughed, a gravelly sound resonating as they leaned down to meet Scarab eye to eye. “But how many do you wish to take, hmm? You only have four limbs, and I highly doubt you would want a nightmare anywhere else.”

“I will take only four,” Scarab responded, crossing his arms. Nightmo hummed and tilted their head.

“I’m curious,” they said, their eye narrowing as four little nightmares came to hover around Nightmo, each silent as the larger one spoke. “Why not take me? I am far more… stable than the ones you want.”

“I want you here to guard the Time Cube,” Scarab explained, causing Nightmo’s eye to widen.

“What?” The shadow laughed, reeling back with a confused grin.

“Orbo would be taking over wishes until my return when I leave to get Prismo, but I don’t trust him. I’d much prefer you to ensure wishes are handled properly.”

Nightmo stared at him, their eye wide with shock. Then, a disbelieving laugh escaped them as they raised a claw to wave Scarab off. “You wouldn’t want me to act as a Wishmaster, even if it’s for a few days at most.”

“I’d prefer it to be you than Orbo,” Scarab responded, and the nightmare fell silent. Then, they hummed.

“You don’t even know me, little beetle,” They said, tilting their head in that Prismo way. “I’ve only been able to speak with you since that damn Prismo finally let me go.”

This time, it was Scarab who tilted his head. “What do you mean?” He asked. The nightmare remained silent for a moment. Then, they hummed, looking more tired.

“I’m not surprised Prismo wouldn’t tell anyone of my existence,” They sighed. “I suppose he, being everybody’s pal Prismo, would be embarrassed of my very existence.” They leaned down, resting their head in the palm of their hand. “I am all the negativity that Prismo is all the positivity. One cannot exist without the other, and for a long time, I was just pushed to the back of his mind, trapped as a part of him because he couldn’t bear not being without me and risking me tarnishing his reputation.”

“If you are one of the same, then how come you’re here right now then?” Scarab asked.

The nightmare grinned. “Because he finally wants me to speak, little beetle.”

“Oh?” Scarab replied. Nightmo gave a little chuckle.

“I don’t know where Prismo is, but before Chronosia took him, he let me go, practically splitting himself into pieces. And do you know why?” They asked, a grin on their face. Scarab nodded. The nightmare leaned in, as if telling a secret. “He wanted me to give you a message.”

“What?” Scarab said, letting his arms fall to his sides. “What is this message?”

“Patience, little beetle,” Nightmo replied, a mischievous glint in their pink eye, causing Scarab to huff. They chuckled softly at the sound. Then, they cleared their throat and muttered something under their breath, their otherworldly eye closing briefly and reopening in the familiar blue hue that Scarab was accustomed to seeing.

“Scarab,” Prismo’s voice emanated from Nightmo, and the red beetle had to consciously halt himself from interrupting. “Don’t underestimate Chronosia. Trust me, I literally had to call multiple other Auditors when I broke up with her because she was so violent. She is obsessed with gaining power and-” His words were abruptly cut off with a wince, that blue eye closing and reopening in its original pink shade. Scarab instinctively took a step back, not even realizing he had leaned in.

“Jeez,” Nightmo remarked, their voice returning to its low, gravelly quality. They raised a hand to their head, cradling it for a moment.

“Is that it?” Scarab asked, his talons digging into his palms. “There has to be more!”

“Look, man, I don’t like doing that,” Nightmo grumbled. “It makes my head hurt.”

Scarab took a deep breath to calm himself, the familiar surge of rage settling into the tips of his claws. “Is there any more?” he inquired as calmly as he could manage, though an undercurrent of anger persisted. Nightmo laughed, lifting their head.

“There is much more, little beetle,” They responded before sighing. “But I just wish Prismo got to the point.” Scarab was tempted to fulfill that wish, even if Nightmo didn’t mean it, but he had more pressing matters. The nightmare’s pink eye slipped closed before reopening blue.

“-she’s got a massive collection of artifacts. The last thing she said to me is that she would trap me in a cube and put me on her bedside table. I’m probably already there by the time they gets this message across.” Nightmo’s voice scoffed. “Her cult is massive, dude, so maybe bring the remote with you so you can get out easy.” The sigh that escaped Nightmo mirrored Prismo’s voice.

“If I don’t get back, or if you guys can’t save me, just know that I want you as Wishmaster.” Scarab froze, and by the way Nightmo’s hands stilled, he sensed that they were equally taken aback. “I’ll probably be dead by the time you figure out where Chronosia is living, but that won’t stop me from trying to escape. I broke your cube; I can break hers too. But in case I don’t make it, I leave the Time Cube to you. And-” His words were abruptly cut off, and Scarab felt a surge of anxiety. He waited anxiously, staring at Nightmo. “You were a wonderful experience, Scarab. I hope you find your happiness.” Nightmo’s eye closed, the blue replaced by pink. There were no further words from the nightmare, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Scarab clenched his jaw, locking himself into place to prevent himself from destroying something. Hatred pooled into his chest, its weight all too familiar.

“How dare he,” Scarab muttered, his face plates cracking open slightly. Nightmo blinked, their pink eye meeting Scarab’s gaze. “How dare he! I’m going to f*cking kill Prismo before Chronosia ever gets the chance!” Scarab hissed, unable to prevent his fist from slamming into the wall. The impact shattered the wall with a resounding boom, causing Nightmo to flinch back, their form flickering slightly. Scarab breathed heavily, indifferent to the possibility of waking the old man in the corner.

“Prismo owes me so much gold,” Nightmo mumbled, staring wide-eyed at the red beetle.

“You’re connected to him, correct?” Scarab asked, forcefully pulling his fist from the fresh dent in the wall. The damage healed effortlessly with a single thought from the red beetle as he turned to face Nightmo.

“Yeah?” The nightmare replied.

“Good, give him a message from me,” Scarab demanded, and Nightmo nodded in acknowledgment. “Tell him that I am going to find him and bring him back to the cube, and tell him to expect to be stuck in that damn cube for at least a few millennia!” His words crescendoed into a hiss, the volume escalating by the end. Nightmo nodded, a smirk on their face.

“Will do.”

“Good,” Scarab replied, cradling his throbbing fist. “Now, will you act on my original request?” he asked, turning back to Nightmo and snapping his faceplates back into place.

“Original request?” Nightmo echoed before their eye widened in recognition. “Oh! To guard the Time Cube?” They asked.

“Yes,” Scarab affirmed. “Will you or will you not?” The nightmare remained silent for a moment before they emitted a low hum.

“Alright, I’ll do it,” Nightmo said, leaning on a palm. “But I’m not exactly a Wishmaster.”

“Not a problem,” Scarab responded. “All I’d like you to do is make sure Orbo is taking wishes seriously.”

Nightmo narrowed their eye. “That’s it? No nasty catch?”

Scarab tilted his head slightly. “No catch. Just keep an eye on things, and if any unusual or dangerous wishes come through, handle them appropriately.”

Nightmo chuckled lowly. “You must really be desperate to leave me in charge. But fine, little beetle, I’ll play overseer for your wishes. Just remember, I’m doing it for the entertainment.”

Scarab nodded. “Now, about the nightmares…”

“Oh, right,” Nightmo said, snapping their fingers. “You want a couple of my minions to accompany you on your little rescue mission. It won’t be pleasant for you, you know.”

“I can handle it,” Scarab replied confidently.

The nightmare grinned. “Very well, little beetle. They’re yours to command. Just don’t blame me if you find yourself in a bit of a chilling situation.”

With a wave of Nightmo’s clawed hand, four nightmares detached themselves from the shadows and hovered around Scarab. The cold, dark aura they emanated was palpable.

“Though, I am curious,” Nightmo said, watching Scarab roll up his sleeves and accept two of the nightmares. They were fascinated by the way Scarab made them into markings—still, plain, deeper-stained red tattoos that even they wouldn’t think would be a nightmare. Scarab nodded in acknowledgment, and a barely noticeable shiver passed through him. Nightmo grinned. “Where are you going to put the other two?” They asked.

“Simple,” Scarab responded as he pulled his second pair of arms from where they had hidden under his carapace. Nightmo shivered, sticking out their forked tongue.

“That’s some nasty jazz, dude,” the nightmare said before leaning in with an almost sultry look in their eyes. “I like it.” Scarab huffed, allowing the last two nightmares to attach to his arms before tucking them safely under his shell. Their cold forms pressed uncomfortably to Scarab’s pale flesh, but he didn’t care.

“Remember, they’re not to be taken lightly,” Nightmo warned and Scarab fixed his sleeves. He simply nodded again, already adjusting to the frigid presence of the nightmares. With a flick of his hand, the floor beneath him warped, and he found himself back in the Time Void.

Cleo and Ankhara were still there, waiting patiently. Scarab took a moment to prepare himself before addressing them. “Do you have a confirmed location?” Scarab asked, and Ankhara stepped forward.

“We have the confirmed location of where the cultists are gathering,” the mummy said, using his crystal to display the coordinates.

“We don’t yet have Chronosia’s location nor the whereabouts of Prismo,” Cleo added, stepping forward as well. Scarab hummed, tilting his head in thought.

The shimmering images on the crystal showed a darkened landscape, the meeting point of the cultists. Scarab studied it for a moment, then looked back at his auditors. “Good work. Our priority is finding Chronosia and Prismo. Once we locate them, we’ll proceed with the plan. Ankhara, Cleo, continue monitoring the cultists’ movements. I’ll need constant updates.”

Both auditors nodded in acknowledgment, their expressions determined. Scarab pulled out his crystal, calling Pyralis. The butterfly answered swiftly, and Scarab could discern groans of pain in the background.

“Emberdust, find out what kinds of artifacts Chronosia possesses. If you can find the most deadly of them, explore ways to either disable or destroy them.” The butterfly nodded in understanding and promptly disconnected the call.

“Um, sir?” Cleo nervously piped up, catching Scarab’s attention.

“Yes?” He replied, and she wilted a little bit.

“If I may, what are those peculiar markings on your arms?” she asked. Scarab tilted his head slightly before responding.

“Nightmares,”

“Nightmares?!” Ankhara exclaimed, quickly covering their mouth when Scarab and Cleo turned to them. They cleared their throat. “Apologies, it’s just, where I come from, nightmares are creatures of immense power and are overwhelmingly deadly to whoever encounters them,” Ankhara explained, nervously eyeing the jagged markings. “Are you sure you can handle them, sir?”

Scarab raised an arm to display the markings. “I can handle things far worse than a mere nightmare, Cryptshroud,” he declared, suppressing any hint of pride as the mummy gazed at him in amazement.

A knock resonated through the cube, prompting Scarab to open the door. Pyralis entered with an eager smile.

“I’ve discovered where Chronosia is celebrating,” the butterfly exclaimed, practically quivering with anticipation. “And it’s confirmed Wishmaster Prismo will be there.”

^{I’m coming}

✶

^{Please Hurry}

“Now, will you revert back to your 3D form so I can see you again?” Prismo quivered from within the cube, eyeing the deranged ice queen before him. She giggled at the clear fear in his eyes, circling the cube like a predator toying with its prey. The cube itself was cracked and shattered in multiple places, held together with ice nearly as cold as a certain darkness.

“N-n-no, I think I’m f-f-fine,” Prismo responded, shivering as he offered a wobbly smile. Chronosia laughed, reaching out with her hand. Prismo flinched as the frostbitten fingers touched the cube, freezing him into place.

“Please, Prismmy?” she cooed, lifting the cube and holding it up to her eyes. Prismo shrunk as much as he could within the cube, trying to escape the horrible pet name she had long since given him and the chilling touch of her hand. “Just for me?” Prismo remained silent, his eye shutting as he tried desperately to avoid the encroaching cold. Chronosia noticed, thank glob, and put him back down on the pedestal. He let out a breath of relief as the worst of the cold receded and reopened his eye.

Suddenly, her hand was back, crushing the cube in her grip. Prismo yelped, looking around for a way to escape before Chronosia laughed. No, cackled. “I miss us,” she said, leaning down with a cruel smile on her face. “I’ll let you go… if we get back together again.”

“T-That was a m-mistake!” Prismo protested, looking at her with fear. “Just a fling!” He screamed as the cube crunched under her palm, breaking more of his own form. The cracks healed quickly with ice as Chronosia growled.

“We were not just a fling, Prismo,” she said, her voice low. “We could have been something more if you weren’t just so…” She paused, thinking. “Scared.”

“You’re r-really t-toxic,” Prismo replied, instantly regretting it when Chronosia tightened her grip. Not even Scarab was that rough. The ice queen straightened, looking down on him with cruel glee and a sort of pity. Her hand left, and Prismo had to bite his lip to stop the breath of relief from escaping.

“Prismo, Prismo, Prismo,” she muttered slowly, beginning to circle around him again. “I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice…”

Prismo shivered, tugging his ice-trapped limbs free to follow her with his gaze. “W-with w-what?” She smirked.

“I’m going to take your power,” she said, bringing her hand to trace the edges of the cube. Prismo recoiled. “And I’m going to use it so well, and to think,” she brought a hand to her cheek, sighing dreamily. “You would still be alive if you decided to love me again.”

“I never l-loved you,” Prismo muttered, flinching when she looked at him. Luckily, it looked like she didn’t fully understand by the way she smiled at him. “H-how are you g-going to d-d-do it?” he risked, hoping that he might be able to stall her until Scarab or other gods showed. He hoped Scarab was on his way. He really did.

“Do what?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head like a cat. “Take your power, or kill you?”

“B-both?”

She hummed, tapping her fingers rhythmically on the cube. Prismo shivered at each painfully slow touch. “A wish,” she said. “I am going to wish that I become a celestial being and take the power as Wishmaster because I will become you.” She cackled loudly, cradling her cheek.

“H-how?” Prismo said. “I won’t grant your wish, y-you don’t even have a wish a-anymore.”

“There is a reason I told the mortals of multiple universes the truth of the cosmos,” she responded, a cat-like grin adorning her deathly pale face. “I’ve got thousands of wishes from servants who will do anything to please me. And,” she gasped, turning to face Prismo fully. “You have to grant a wish, no matter what you think you can do.”

“W-wishes alter r-reality by forming a n-new universe,” Prismo said. “No m-m-matter what you wish for, y-you can’t alter the space in between.”

Chronosia hummed, grabbing him into her hand and lifting him to her face. “You’re mine now, Prismmy. If I can’t take your place, you’ll either take the place of my bedside lamp, or die.”

“I-I can do a relationship if y-you want!” Prismo proposed, hoping that she still wanted one. She hummed.

“That time has passed, Prismmy.”

“W-wait! No!” Her thumb was placed over his mouth, freezing it with a simple touch.

“It’s time to party, Prismmy,” she whispered, showing off her sharp teeth in an unnatural smile. “I know you love parties. This one will be your last one.” She cackled, throwing the cube back onto the pedestal. Prismo panicked, sliding over the stone and onto the edge. He watched her leave, laughing all the way, until the frozen door closed with a rough bang.

Prismo found himself unable to stifle the guttural sob that clawed its way out of his throat. His entire being crumpled inward, a pitiful attempt to shield himself from the crushing weight of his emotions. If only he could retreat into the comforting abyss of darkness, but no such escape awaited him. He was left exposed, forced to confront the raw intensity of what had just transpired—his fear, his agony, his heartache—all converging upon him with ruthless efficiency. The overwhelming torrent threatened to drown him in a sea of despair.

However, an interruption shattered his descent into the abyss. His breath caught, his lone eye snapping open to survey the icy confines of the room. It became painfully clear that he had tumbled off the pedestal, and with that realization, a fragile shard of his hope shattered. What he had mistaken for the familiar cadence of a certain nightmare’s voice was nothing more than the sound of his own body colliding with the ice-coated stone.

As he lay there, curled into a pitiful ball, parts of him still encased in the frosty aftermath of Chronosia’s cruel touch, Prismo grappled with the sting of disappointment. The illusion of a final message conveyed by Nightmo’s voice evaporated, leaving behind the bitter taste of dashed expectations. He had released them, hoping to deliver a crucial message to Scarab. Whether Scarab received it would remain a mystery, but the mere thought of bringing some joy to Scarab’s world before his impending demise or perpetual imprisonment managed to elicit a small, melancholic smile from Prismo’s lips.

“Prismmy~” Chronosia’s voice pierced through whatever contemplation had enveloped him, compelling Prismo to lift his eye in her direction. Her sudden shock and outrage, directed at the pedestal, pulled him from his thoughts. She screeched and darted toward the platform, frantically scanning its surroundings before fixing her gaze on Prismo. In a heartbeat, her fury dissipated, replaced by an unsettling gentleness as she reached for him. He recoiled at the invasive chill of her touch, meeting her eyes as she cleared her throat.

“Excuse me,” she muttered before projecting her voice louder. “Did you have fun with your last moments alone?” Prismo refrained from responding, his inclination to nod almost overwhelming. Chronosia responded with a manic giggle, leaving the icy chamber behind as she strode through immaculate white halls.

The air beyond the frosty chamber cradled Prismo with a much-needed warmth, coaxing him to contort his form in an attempt to shield himself from the unwelcome touch of Chronosia. As he adjusted, he noticed the change in her attire; she had forsaken her typical blue outfit and green trench coat for long, elegant white robes. Right, he was going (forced) to a celebration, one that commemorated his own imprisonment. Shivers traced over his form once more as he averted his gaze, desperately seeking anything to distract him from the impending ordeal.

A voice interrupted his thoughts, drawing his attention back to Chronosia. A person, also adorned in white (albeit less extravagantly), bowed respectfully before her, a gentle smile gracing their face. Positioned opposite them was another individual, and Prismo recognized that they stood before a grand door. Chronosia’s grin widened, and with a gesture, the door swung open.

Applause greeted their entrance as they stepped into the room, a sea of white-clad attendees erupting in cheers and applause. Chronosia lifted her arms, still clutching Prismo, absorbing the adulation as she strolled through the crowd. Eventually, she halted in front of an opulent golden throne adorned with a myriad of precious gems. Taking her time, she settled into the seat, placing Prismo in a square slot on its arm. Contentedly, she sighed, running her fingers along the edges of the cube, as if stroking a pet. Then, rising once more, she lifted her arms, commanding silence from the room.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Chronosia exclaimed, her grin spreading wide. “This party has been long-awaited, and at last, we can celebrate!” The room echoed with applause, and she reveled in it for a moment before commanding silence. “At long last, Prismo the Wishmaster is here! Come forward, one by one, and make your wish! Of course, not without a price. Wish for me, and if your noble act fails, you may wish for yourself!” The room erupted in cheers once more, and Prismo couldn’t help but notice a few figures donning hoods. One by one, starting with the more elegantly dressed, they formed a line before Chronosia, kneeling in reverence.

“What is your wish, my lady?” inquired the first one, gazing up at her with admiration.

“Repeat after me,” she instructed, the person nodding eagerly. “‘I wish for my leader, Chronosia, to replace Prismo the Wishmaster and become the cosmic entity of wishes.’” They turned to Prismo and repeated her words, eliciting a grimace from him. His hesitation didn’t go unnoticed, and Chronosia dug her nails into the cube, causing him to hiss in pain.

“Okay, okay, stop,” he relented, feeling a slight ease as her nails lightened. “Wish… granted.” The familiar pull of the Time Core’s energy was feeble when he attempted to draw from it, but it proved just enough to thwart the wish. The person recoiled, confused between Chronosia and Prismo.

“Why wasn’t his wish granted?” Chronosia hissed, narrowing her eyes at Prismo.

“I told you before! You can’t make wishes to change what is in between universes!” he retorted, flinching as her nails dug into the cube once more. She sighed and turned back to the servant.

“Make your personal wish, for you shall be remembered for eternity to try and bring your leader justice,” she declared, prompting an excited nod from the servant. Their genuine wish, an eternity of gold, weakened his connection to the Time Core’s energy when Prismo used it again. One after another, each supplicant who approached Chronosia wished for her godhood, only to fail and eventually wish for themselves.

As the line dwindled, only a handful remained, still bearing wishes. The next person to step forward had a hood on, kneeling before Chronosia. She hummed with boredom, and as the person lifted their head, their hood slipped slightly, revealing familiar green eyes. Prismo’s breath caught, and he whispered, “Scrabby?” Fortunately, his words went unheard by Chronosia, but Scarab’s eyes briefly met Prismo’s.

“Well, look at you,” Chronosia remarked, leaning forward. Scarab’s eyes returned to Chronosia’s, his human face radiating positivity. He smiled sweetly, forcing his eyes to crinkle as if in absolute adoration. Prismo, however, saw the underlying rage beneath the surface, evidenced by the way Scarab’s hands clenched the fabric of his robe.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Chronosia commented, using her free hand to cradle Scarab’s face. He leaned into the touch hesitantly, a flicker of disgust passing through his eyes. However, it was interpreted as something positive by Chronosia, who smiled in response. Scarab’s hand twitched as he lifted it, and Chronosia fortunately mistook the gesture as shyness. “Are you new, pigeon?” she inquired, twisting her hand into Scarab’s blue hair. Scarab eyes hardened with disgust as he smiled, placing his hand on her wrist, gently cradling the offending limb.

“I am,” Scarab replied with a voice so light and sweet that Prismo began to doubt if it was truly Scarab. Yet, he noticed the fake human’s subtle twitching. Something was brewing, and Prismo wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Well, once this party is over, maybe I can show you the ropes,” Chronosia suggested with a suggestive tone, and Scarab let out a giggle. “But first, what is your wish?” she asked, pulling away. Scarab allowed it and turned to Prismo. His smile grew sharper, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and his voice took on a darker tone.

“I wish…”

Chapter 19: Endure

Chapter Text

“I wish…”

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This robe was itchy, and Scarab sighed, glaring at the back of a cultist’s head. The so-called party was a mockery, and infiltrating it had been all too easy, thanks to the human disguises the four auditors wore. The nightmare on his right arm shifted uncomfortably, conveying its agitation. Scarab rubbed the skin it was hidden on, a dual effort to distract both himself and the uneasy entity. Despite the discomfort, he had to remain focused on the plan, which that demanded a deceptive vulnerability, a façade of weakness Scarab hated to play, to ensure Prismo's safety.

“Wish granted…” Prismo’s voice reached him, and anticipation coiled in Scarab’s chest. Focus, Scarab. Time to play the part. His human disguise had always been described as soft, a critique he had tried to counter by adding sharp edges. Now, intentionally, he softened those edges, making himself appear weaker, more malleable. The objective was simple: to prevent Chronosia from recognizing him. She was cunning, and he wasn’t about to risk Prismo’s life in the chaos he was preparing to unleash.

The cultist before him knelt, expressing a wish for Chronosia’s godhood like countless others. She wore a bored expression, leaning on her hand, as the wish predictably failed. This particular cultist, Scarab noticed, lacked the unwavering loyalty of the others, evident in the snappy utterance of their personal wish. Prismo granted it, his exhaustion evident. Scarab’s rage flared at the sight of the cube that held the Wishmaster, shattered and broken in a concerning amount of places, held together by the very ice that had threatened to end Scarab’s existence merely a few days past.

The cultist moved away, a contented look on their face. Scarab took a deep breath, adjusting his expression to convey nervousness and eagerness. He stepped forward and knelt, allowing his hood to slip intentionally. Prismo’s eye widened at the sight of him. “Scrabby?” The voice Scarab heard was weak and rough, nearly drowned out by the spectacle surrounding them. Scarab offered no response, turning his attention to Chronosia as she leaned forward.

“Well, look at you,” Chronosia purred, a sultry expression playing on her face. Scarab forced his features to radiate admiration, suppressing the disgust welling within him. He smiled as sweetly as he could, crinkling his eyes for added effect. The ice queen licked her lips, reciprocating the smile.

Scarab’s hands tightened around the itchy fabric of his robes. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Chronosia continued, her hand moving towards his face. Scarab bit his cheek, resisting the itch of his teeth and mandibles to bite her hand off as she cradled his cheek. After stifling his rage, he leaned into the touch, bringing his hand up to appear nervously eager. An unintentional twitch in his hand only enhanced the act.

“Are you new, pigeon?” Chronosia inquired, her hand suggesting and digging through his blue hair. The stings of pain helped him concentrate as he cradled her wrist. After a moment of feigned hesitation, Scarab called upon his training to mold his voice into something weak-sounding.

“I am,” he responded, his voice adopting the perfect light and sweet tone. Chronosia hummed, digging her nails into his scalp.

“Well, once this party is over, maybe I can show you the ropes,” Chronosia suggested, her eyes half-lidded and filled with unsettling intent. Scarab giggled, a blend of maintaining the act and envisioning the shock on her face when he eventually tore her arm off. “But first, what is your wish?” she asked, pulling away and leaning back into her chair, casually plucking a few of his hairs. Scarab allowed it, feigning disappointment before turning to Prismo.

Allowing glimpses of his true personality to surface, Scarab let his smile become more genuine, his eyes shifting slightly into their authentic expression. When he spoke, his voice resonated with a touch of his true self. “I wish…”

He hesitated, seemingly contemplating his next move, his gaze shifting to Chronosia from the corner of his eye. Then, without warning, his facade shattered, and a sinister grin stretched across his face, revealing sharp teeth. Turning to face Chronosia, he declared, “Your death.” The room quaked with an explosion as Scarab lunged forward, grabbing Prismo mid-yelp and leaping away.

“TRAITORS!” Chronosia’s scream echoed, matching the panic that erupted among her cultists. The three auditors wasted no time, swiftly dispatching as many cultists as they could. Scarab sprinted, cradling the cube protectively, racing to exit the hall. A cultist blocked his path, compelling him to trip over his robe in an attempt to evade them. He tumbled, losing his grip on the cube. Prismo shouted something as he slid away, kicked by the cultists who had regained their senses and retaliated. Another explosion reverberated through the room, obliterating more than half of the building. Scarab swiftly rose, keeping his human form on as he tore off the robes, revealing the gray suit beneath.

“SCARAB!” Prismo’s scream pierced the chaos, and Scarab hissed at a cultist attempting to impede him. He allowed a grin on his face as he unleashed all the pent-up rage and hatred, tearing through the cultist’s flesh, rending them apart. Bolting forward, he ignored those who tried to block his path, swiftly dispatching any who dared to hinder him. He snatched the cube the moment he saw it, thrusting his free arm into a cultist’s chest as they attempted to impede him.

“Let me out!” Prismo’s desperate cry rang through the chaos, and Scarab swiftly complied, shattering the cube with his razor-sharp claws. Prismo’s pink form flowed like water, emerging from the cracks in the cube. Scarab’s heart sank as he witnessed the extent of Prismo’s injuries as the shadow weakly pushed himself from the floor into his 3D form. Opening his mouth to say something, Scarab was abruptly interrupted as a burly cultist encircled his neck in a chokehold. A low growl emanated from the fake human as he lifted his left arm, allowing the nightmare to slip out from under his sleeve. The nightmare hissed, its pink eye locking onto the cultist as it lunged at them.

Turning back to Prismo, Scarab noticed that he was still clad in his gala suit. Dark indigo blood seeped from the rips and wounds on his body as Prismo gazed up at Scarab with eyes that reflected both pain and relief. “You came for me,” he muttered, leaning into Scarab as the latter crouched down to pick him up.

“My training is not yet done, and I won’t let you die until it is,” Scarab replied, interlocking their hands and allowing the nightmare on his right arm to transfer onto Prismo. Prismo sighed at the familiar cold touch of the nightmare before yelping as Scarab scooped him up in a bridal style, elegantly maneuvering through the chaos of colliding cultists.

“Scarab, sir!” Cleo’s urgent voice cut through the chaos, prompting Scarab to turn and spot the cat sprinting toward him. He noticed her transformation back to her true form as she quickly halted before him. “Ankhara’s injured, and Pyralis is running out of explosions,” she reported, panting. Scarab handed Prismo to her, the human protesting at the abrupt movement, and shielded her behind him as his claws pierced through another cultist’s chest.

“Get yourselves out of here!” Scarab commanded, earning a nod from Cleo and a shout of protest from Prismo. She darted through the crowd, and Scarab felt a surge of relief. Finally, Prismo would be safe with her. Cultists closed in on him, forming a menacing circle as Chronosia pushed her way through the throng.

“NO!” Chronosia screeched, charging at him with a punch. Scarab raised his arms to shield himself as her hands latched onto his still-disguised flesh, freezing blood and veins. “You! How dare you!” she screamed, her face twisted into a mask of pure murder. Scarab grinned and shoved her off with a powerful kick to the stomach, effortlessly defrosting his near-frozen blood. He lunged forward, aiming a punch at her midsection. She screamed in response, managing to block the attack with a shield of ice. Scarab swiftly retrieved his crystal from his pocket, transforming it into an axe. The ice wall shattered like glass, sending sharp fragments in every direction, slicing into his artificial skin. Unfazed by the sparks of pain, he relished in the first glimmer of fear on Chronosia’s face.

Discarding his disguise, he shifted his flesh to reveal the red armor beneath. “Remember me?” he snarled, grinning beneath his mask as Chronosia’s eyes widened in fearful recognition. Scarab lunged forward, raising his axe above his head. Panicking, Chronosia erected another wall of ice. This time, his weapon sliced through cleanly, carving a path forward.

The fragments of ice showered around him as Scarab pressed on, closing the distance with the increasingly desperate Chronosia. She conjured frozen barriers in a frantic attempt to shield herself from his relentless assault. Each swing of Scarab’s axe cleaved through her icy defenses, sending shivers down her spine.

Chronosia realized the inadequacy of her tactics and summoned a surge of frigid power. Black clouds of snow enveloped her form, causing the temperature to plummet. Ice began to materialize around her, forming a grotesque suit of armor. The ice queen’s eyes glowed with an eerie intensity as she retaliated, launching icicle projectiles toward Scarab. He deftly dodged and parried, excitement welling up in him as he saw a clean victory.

Scarab jerked away from Chronosia, who now wielded a jagged ice sword. Chronosia fought with wild a desperation, summoning ice spikes and shields as often as she could, even flinging some of her cultists into the fray as living shields. Scarab cut through them effortlessly, shifting his axe into his scythe to smoothly carve through all of Chronosia's defenses. He didn't bother to show mercy to those drawn into their fight, focused on only winning what was sure to be the most satisfying fight he'd ever had.

Another explosion jolted the room, casting a cascade of sunlight onto Scarab’s form as Chronosia seized the chance to make a hasty escape. His mandibles ground together as he gave chase. “Come back here!” he bellowed, hot on her heels. Cultists rushed to her aid, swarming him and managing to restrain his arms and legs. Undeterred, Scarab growled, deftly tucking his mask behind his head. His maw split open, and he sank his teeth into the throat of the nearest cultist, mandibles latching onto flesh and preventing the cultist from escaping. Simultaneously, his second pair of arms ripped free from his carapace, with the two nightmares on them working efficiently to liberate him.

Shifting his crystal into a spear, he twirled the weapon with elegant precision, thrusting it into the back of another cultist. His additional arms tore through the flesh and bone of any feeble cultist daring to impede him, demonstrating a deadly dance of destruction. He sank his teeth deeper into the cultist’s throat, then jerked his head away, ripping away its life force. Spitting out the remnants of flesh, bone, and blood, he targeted another cultist, finally freeing himself enough to realign his jaw and mandibles to slot his mask back into place.

The two nightmares followed in his wake as he used the body of a cultist as a makeshift launchpad, hurtling himself into the air. His red eyes scanned the scene, searching for any trace of Chronosia. What he discovered was Cleo desperately clutching Ankhara, Pyralis valiantly defending them, and a chilling realization that Chronosia had Prismo. A feral roar erupted from him as he descended, shattering the ground beneath his landing. Crouching low, he transformed his spear into a longsword before charging forward, effortlessly cleaving through mortals attempting to obstruct him.

He propelled his legs faster, with a newfound ferocity that disregarded any cultist in his wake, solely focused on reaching Chronosia. Unconcerned with the mortal obstacles, he sprinted with increased speed, drawing closer, ever closer. His claws extended eagerly, poised to grasp Chronosia’s now dirtied robes when an obstinate cultist interposed. “NO!” he roared, momentarily halted, giving the ice queen just enough time to seize her pilfered crystal and escape to another universe. His limbs felt heavy as the surviving cultists descended upon him, their collective weight aiming to penetrate his armor, fracture his bones, snuff out his life. He snarled against their hold, thrashing and fighting, breaking his mask open to sink his fangs into the nearest cultist. Fog covered his mind as he tore through the fleshy restraints, rage clouding his mind and judgment as he shrieked.

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The world echoed with a haunting silence, drowned out only by the rush of blood in his ears, the laborious rhythm of his heaving breaths, and the steady cadence of blood dripping from his clenched claws. A foggy glaze veiled his eyes as he mechanically surveyed the red-stained ground beneath him. A soft whimper emanated from his left, drawing his attention. As he slowly turned, he became aware of the fact that his mask was absent. The next realization came when he cast his gaze toward the source of the whimper—the three auditors huddled together, terror etched across their faces as they observed him with wide-eyed horror.

With an unsettling series of cracks, he flexed his fingers back into their relaxed state. His head turned gradually to assess the desolation surrounding him. The once-sacred temple lay in ruins, with shattered stones stained in hues of red scattered about. The lifeless bodies of the cultists who had failed to escape adorned the gruesome tableau, their forms rendered nearly unrecognizable. Even against the backdrop of the bright blue sky above, it remained a scene of unspeakable horror.

“S-Sir?” Pyralis’s tentative voice jolted him from his trance, his head snapping toward the butterfly. Pyralis flinched, standing before the other two auditors, who stared at him with trepidation.

“…What?” His voice, gravelly and weathered, reverberated with a pained weariness. He swallowed, tasting the metallic tang of iron on his tongue.

Pyralis, fear etched on his face, ventured to speak as he witnessed Scarab descending from his tempestuous state. “U-um, we’re requesting a b-”

“Granted,” Scarab interrupted, turning away and striding through the macabre sea of blood. Pyralis stared after him in shock before hurriedly turning to the other auditors and retrieving his crystal. Unfazed by their departure, Scarab plunged his hands into the carnage, searching for his own crystal. His fingers flexed restlessly, yearning for the reassuring weight of the artifact that was conspicuously absent.

Soon after, he located the device, letting out a soft sigh of relief as he shook it free from the clinging blood. Twisting his wrist in an attempt to alleviate the pain and soreness, he opened the device with a simple touch, switching it over to the rarely used camera function. Thankfully, his reflection wasn’t tinged with an unnatural green hue, allowing him to see the toll the recent carnage had taken on him. Crimson marred his face, nearly as rich as his shell, especially around his mouth. He speculated that he might have bitten a few mortals, but his gaze then shifted to the conspicuously consumed cultist body nearby. Choosing not to dwell on that gruesome detail, he turned away, beginning to walk away from the battleground. Or, more accurately, the site of extermination.

His suit bore tatters in more places than he would have preferred; what remained of his sleeves was saturated in the deep red stain, rendering the fabric beyond salvation. His tie, a particular favorite, had been lost, and his vest dangled precariously. Fortunately, his pants remained intact (he would have been thoroughly embarrassed if they hadn’t), and the rest of his attire appeared relatively unscathed. No wounds adorned him, save for the occasional crack in his exoskeleton. Portions of it had chipped away, and Scarab felt a modicum of gratitude for having restrained his anger during the Fionna & Cake incident.

His mask, not too far off, caught his eye (how had it become detached?), concealed behind some of the remnants of shattered pillars. With a sigh, he slotted it back over his face, closing his eyes momentarily to readjust to the return of darkness over his vision. A low hiss disrupted the silence, drawing his attention as he reopened his eyes. There, hidden in the shadow of the pillar, cowered a nightmare. It regarded him warily, flinching back when he crouched down and extended an arm. Feeling overheated and drained, having a nightmare would provide a small comfort in the aftermath of the brutal fight.

“What was that?” The small, hissy voice of the nightmare, unmistakably Nightmo, reached Scarab’s ears. He surmised that Nightmo must be projecting through the diminutive creature, a thought he entertained as he rested his arms on his crouched knees.

“A rampage,” he replied bluntly, too fatigued to offer a more elaborate explanation.

“A rampage?!” The little creature hissed, its eye widening with horror.

“Been a while since I had one,” Scarab muttered, letting out a weary sigh and resting his head in his hands.

“Dude,” Nightmo muttered, a tone of both amazement and horror evident in its voice. “That was the bloodiest thing I had ever seen, and I’ve watched genocides before!” Scarab simply hummed in response.

“Can you find Chronosia on the TV wall?” he asked, brushing off Nightmo’s remark. The nightmare hissed before responding.

“Yeah, maybe, but talking through this little thing is really tiring, so I’ll try to get back to you soon.” Scarab simply nodded, watching as the intelligence in its eye faded, and it hissed. He extended his arm once again, allowing the nightmare to crawl higher until it nestled in the shadow of his throat. Sighing, Scarab got up, scanning the surroundings for a place to rest. Sleep was a necessity; he needed it.

^{Hold on just a little longer}

✶

^{I’m tired of waiting}

“Please, Chronosia! We can talk this out!” Prismo pleaded, straining against the unyielding metal chains that bound his hands behind his back. Some mysterious artifact, cleverly attached to the cuffs, prevented him from shifting back into his 2D form. The sharp bite of the chains tightened with each struggle, leaving him vulnerable. A brutal slap silenced his words, his head snapping back, nearly colliding with the cultist restraining him. Tears welled in his eyes as he winced at the numbing pain.

“How did they find me?” Chronosia hissed, her eyes narrowing as she prepared for another punishing blow. Prismo turned back to her, defiance in his gaze, only to receive another brutal slap that this time sent his head recoiling into the cultist behind him. A few frozen drops of blood clung to his cheeks as he hissed at the frigid sting.

The few tears that managed to escape his eyes froze instantly upon reaching the growing bruise on his face. Prismo flexed his jaw to stave off the encroaching frost. After a moment, he retorted, “You had a party. What did you think would happen?”

“Take him away and load him on the sled,” Chronosia commanded, her voice cutting through the tense air. The cultists surrounding her nodded in obedient unison. She retrieved her crystal, delivering a harsh smack to it. A hiss escaped her lips as it flickered, broken in Prismo's attempt to resist being taken again. It was a visible sign of Prismo’s small victory, etched across his smirk.

“Come on,” a cultist grunted, tugging violently on Prismo’s chains. He resisted as best he could, planting his feet firmly in the soil and pulling back against the relentless force. Chronosia, reacting to the defiance, turned toward him with a hiss on her tongue, delivering another stinging slap across his face. The kick that followed sent him sprawling backward, landing unceremoniously on the cold ground. Groaning in pain, he was forcibly yanked to his feet and shoved in a direction unknown.

Prismo staggered, caught off balance as the cultist forcefully shoved him again, threatening to send him sprawling onto the unforgiving ground once more. The grand ruins that loomed around them (Prismo assumed they were an old temple once) now gave way to an expansive field blanketed in snow. In the distance, a peculiar wooden contraption, resembling a rustic carriage, awaited.

Summoning whatever strength he could muster, Prismo tried to resist and attempted to anchor his feet in the snow. However, his resistance was met with an elbow to the stomach, the abrupt strike robbing him of breath, and he wilted, the cold air stinging his lungs as he gasped for breath.

The contraption, coated in a frosty layer, greeted him with frigid pain as he was shoved onto it. The cultist chained Prismo to a post on the strange sled, stepping back and allowing Prismo to get onto his knees. Chronosia’s winter aesthetic wasn’t lost on him, and despite his dire situation, he couldn’t resist a quip. “Really sticking to the winter wonderland theme, huh?” Prismo remarked, only to receive a grumble from the retreating cultist.

Alone, chained to the frost-covered post, Prismo strained against his restraints, attempting to tap into the Time Core’s power. Yet, the artifact on the cuffs thwarted his magical efforts, severing his connection to the Time Core and leaving him powerless.

Defeated, he sighed, flexing his hands to stave off the encroaching cold. The shifting metal echoed his futile struggles. Just as hope began to wane, a familiar hiss reached his ears. His head snapped toward the closest shadow, where two little pink eyes observed his plight. A smile broke across his face as the two nightmares converged, pooling their magic with his own. The fusion granted him a slim chance at escape.

“Oh, thank glob,” he muttered, relief flooding through him as the nightmares merged back into him, revitalizing his magic. Before he could reshape his hands into claws, Chronosia’s voice cut through the cold air.

“Prismmy! Time to go!” Her angry visage materialized, and Prismo braced himself for whatever awaited him, his chained form betraying his vulnerability. Chronosia’s hand swiped through the frigid air, and from the snowy ground emerged two imposing polar bear-shaped snow monsters. Their low moans echoed across the desolate field and Prismo involuntarily flinched at the sight of them. The ice queen, clearly pleased with her creations, hopped onto the contraption, turning to face him with a malevolent grin that sent shivers down his spine. She laughed at his reaction.

Turning her attention back to the snow monsters, she waved her hand theatrically. “Go!”

With a mighty roar, the colossal snow beasts surged forward, pulling the carriage along with them. The sudden acceleration caught Prismo off guard, and he yelped involuntarily as the makeshift sled shot forward. Chronosia opened her arms wide and laughed, the sound echoing across the snowy expanse. The bitter wind whipped through Prismo’s hair as he struggled against his restraints, the bleak landscape blurring around him. The icy air stung his face, and he squinted against the biting cold, his mind racing with thoughts of escape.

The stark landscape flashed by in a blur of white, leaving Prismo disoriented amid the vast, snowy field. As he struggled to make sense of their surroundings, he realized the desolation stretched in all directions. Confusion knitted his brow until he shifted his attention backward, finding five other brown sleds hurtling after them. The remaining cultists, he figured. The post holding him abruptly lifted, prompting a startled yelp as he turned to Chronosia.

She grinned wickedly. “Caught you peeking, love! Why not savor the view a bit more?” she taunted, jabbing the post back into the sled, forcing him to face backward. He regretted glancing behind him; he would rather have kept an eye on Chronosia than merely observe the landscape.

The ever-changing scenery brought a slight reprieve, and Prismo sighed with relief at the variety replacing the monotonous white. Blue trees zipped past him, the terrain becoming gradually more undulating. It dawned on him that he was being transported to Chronosia’s ice fortress. “Does everything have to be so damn cold?” he shouted over the wind, attempting to drown out the disconcerting clatter of chains.

“Don’t worry, Prismmy!” Chronosia’s voice carried back. “You’ll get used to it one way or another!” Unable to find enough surfaces to project onto, Prismo plotted his escape, intending to make a break for it and conceal himself within the slowly emerging spires of ice.

A resounding snap echoed through the chilly air as one of the chains gave way, a sound that filled Prismo with gratitude for Scarab’s foresight in bringing along the nightmares. “What was that?” Chronosia’s voice sliced through the frigid silence, demanding an explanation. Panic pricked at Prismo’s nerves as he froze in place.

“What was what?” he feigned innocence, subtly concealing his freed wrist as Chronosia approached, her gaze fixated on the trailing sleds. Her narrowed eyes scanned the horizon, and Prismo felt a wave of relief wash over him as he realized that whatever had caught her attention wasn’t him. With nothing better to do, he followed her gaze outward. The scenery remained unchanged, and boredom began to set in (as much boredom as he could have when he was in a life and death situation).

Suddenly, the tranquility shattered as the snow near the farthest sled erupted, drawing a surprised gasp from Prismo and a startled shout from Chronosia. A crimson-clad figure entered Prismo’s field of view, and a hopeful smile danced across his face. “Again?!” Chronosia’s enraged voice reverberated, and black smoke oozed from her outstretched hand. “Oh no, you don’t!” she hissed, conjuring frost from the other hand into a deadly beam. The snow around the attacked sled scattered, revealing Scarab wielding his crystal, now transformed into an axe, efficiently cutting through the cultists on the vehicle. The sled disintegrated rapidly, sinking into the snow. Prismo watched the growing distance between him and both Scarab and the wrecked sled, a flicker of concern etched on his face.

Yet, Scarab, that resilient bug, proved his persistence. Unbelievably fast, surpassing Prismo’s previous expectations, Scarab swiftly caught up with the next sled. From Prismo’s vantage point, the details were blurred, but the red beetle’s actions were unmistakable. The sled he had reached was sent soaring into the air, the snow monsters meeting their demise under the beetle’s spear. Only two sleds remained, each bearing cultists hurling large metal spears at Scarab. Effortlessly evading their attacks, Scarab leaped onto one sled, sending the mortals aboard tumbling off.

Chronosia, increasingly infuriated, unleashed her icy beam when Scarab attempted to leap towards the remaining sled, successfully striking his shoulder and sending him crashing into the snow. Prismo cried out, straining against the remaining chain, his frustration mounting. The red beetle swiftly regained his footing, bolting towards the last sled on leaping onto it. Prismo, seething with the desire to act, grew tired of being a damsel in distress.

“Enough!” he roared, redirecting his attention to Chronosia. Her surprise was evident before he kicked her off the sled. She screeched, grasping his foot and inadvertently pulling him off as well. Fortunately, the combined weight of both beings broke the chain cuff on his wrist, granting him access to his powers. With a renewed connection to the Time Core and the assistance of his nightmare aspect, a black claw emerged from his shadow, hurtling toward Chronosia’s face. She screamed as the claw struck her eye, allowing Prismo to free himself and dash towards Scarab. The red beetle intercepted him midway, catching him as Prismo leaped into his arms.

“I’m sorry for getting caught!” Prismo half-apologized, half-sobbed, earning an unexpected pat on the back from Scarab before being gently shoved behind the red beetle. Prismo’s protest was met with a light smack on Scarab’s arm, and he came to stand next to the red beetle. Watching as Chronosia recovered, her hand clutching her bleeding face, Prismo gritted his teeth, preparing for the impending confrontation.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” she screamed, summoning more snow monsters. “KILL THEM!” The monsters charged forward, prompting Scarab to retaliate by transforming his crystal into a spear and charging, stabbing the first monster and causing it to explode. A scowl etched across Prismo’s face as he lifted his hands, palms facing Scarab.

“Scarab!” he yelled, catching the beetle’s attention as he focused his magic into his hands and feet, causing the snow around him to glow. The beetle quickly jumped back, positioning himself slightly in front of Prismo.

“What?” Scarab asked, his stance defensive.

Prismo clapped his hands together, creating a massive circle of magic on the ground beneath him, adorned with thousands of symbols. He noticed Scarab flinch but ignored it, focusing on finalizing the magic beneath him. The circle turned pink, and the spaces between the geometric shapes were filled with the void of space. He turned to Scarab and offered a reassuring smile.

“I’ll be your shield, Scrabby,” he declared, the magic slipping into his voice in the form of subtle sub-vocals. Turning back to face Chronosia, a determined glare adorned his face. Scarab transformed his crystal into a sword and lifted it before him.

Scarab’s words brought a genuine smile to Prismo’s face. “Then I’ll be your sword.”

Chapter 20: Morrow

Chapter Text

The desire to f*cking obliterate Chronosia consumed Scarab as he raised the crystalline axe in front of him, taking a step forward to position himself slightly in front of Prismo. Even within the protective magic circle surrounding them, Scarab couldn’t shake the awareness that Prismo was far more vulnerable than he would have liked. Yet, Scarab knew that Prismo would not leave until it was all over.

Beside him, Prismo turned, offering a smile that carried an assurance Scarab welcomed. The human’s eyes glowed intensely – pure pink orbs with azure irises. “I’ll be your shield, Scrabby,” Prismo declared with a firm nod, his voice resonating with magical energy. Scarab felt a pleasant shudder coursing through him as a surge of power emanated from Prismo, causing his feet to practically go numb. Scarab responded with a small hum, morphing his crystalline weapon into a sword.

“Then I’ll be your sword,” he replied, adopting a focused stance. Chronosia unleashed a scream, creating massive black snow-filled clouds that materialized above them, shrouding the sun. In the glow of Prismo’s radiant magic, Scarab could see Chronosia summoning multiple ice monsters.

Chronosia raised her hand, a glint of icy power emanating from it, and unleashed an ice beam aimed directly at them. In response, Scarab surged forward, swiftly lifting his sword to intercept the attack. To his surprise, the icy onslaught was deflected by a pink hand raised before him. Stepping back, he turned to see Prismo’s 2D arm at work, providing an unexpected shield against the frigid assault. The sight left Scarab momentarily taken aback.

Prismo, however, greeted him with a grin, his hands glowing in a vibrant shade of pink. “Told you I’d be your shield!” he declared with confidence, lifting another pink hand barrier as more icy strikes were directed their way. “Literally!” he added, wiggling his fingers for emphasis, the 2D hands matching his influence.

Scarab nodded and seized the advantage of Prismo’s magical shield, surging forward with swift determination toward the encroaching ice monsters. A grotesque amalgamation of a bear and a moose rose before him, its sharp claws aimed menacingly. In a seamless motion, Prismo’s hand intercepted the creature’s attack, the pink glow shifting to an ominous black. Gripping the creature’s arm, Prismo’s darkened hand unleashed a destructive force, shattering the beast’s limb with a sickening crunch.

Exploiting the distraction, Scarab skillfully twisted his body, bringing his crystalline sword down with precision. The blade carved through the creature’s frozen flesh, cleaving it in half. The monster erupted into a cascade of sharp ice shards and swirling snow, dissipating in the wake of Scarab’s lethal strike.

Large, menacing spikes of ice rained down upon Scarab from the obsidian clouds overhead, prompting him to evade each deadly projectile with nimble agility. In the midst of his evasive maneuvers, another grotesque ice creature lunged at him, momentarily ensnaring him in its frigid grasp. Seizing the opportunity, a black arm emerged from the creature's form, wrapping around the creature and restraining it just long enough for Scarab to deliver a counterattack. With a deft maneuver, he plunged his crystalline sword into the creature’s eyes, freeing himself from its icy clutches. Prismo flicked his real wrist, and in an instant, the creature crumbled into a myriad of glittering shards.

“Fine then,” Chronosia hissed, conjuring large pillars of ice from the ground Scarab suppressed a yelp as an icy spire thrust upward beneath him, and he could hear a corresponding cry from Prismo. Rising above him, Prismo was provided with an elevated vantage point, affording him a clearer view of the swiftly darkening landscape. Seizing the opportunity, Scarab leaped from one frosty pinnacle to another, his hands and feet slipping slightly before he secured his grip and began to ascend the ice. “Really acting like the co*ckroach you are, huh?” Chronosia taunted, a sneer on her face. Her hands commanded a cascade of ice lightning, forcing Scarab to bound to another spire just in time, leaving the shattered remnants suspended in mid-air, creating a precarious platform for his next move.

“Hang on!” Prismo’s urgent cry echoed from above as Scarab teetered on the edge. Swiftly, two ghostly pink hands flowed down the icy spire, enveloping Scarab’s wrists. The sudden infusion of warmth clashed with the biting cold, rendering Scarab’s arms momentarily limp as Prismo’s magical grasp lifted him to safety. Scarab tried to aid the ascent by anchoring his feet into the ice, but the bone-chilling cackle of Chronosia echoed behind him.

“Hurry up, Prismo!” Scarab’s command cut through the frosty air as he pulled his second set of arms out from under his carapace, retrieving his crystal from his now-limp hand. With an unnatural twist, Scarab transformed the crystal into a shield, barely in time to intercept an incoming ice beam from Chronosia.

“I’m hurrying as fast as I can!” Prismo grunted in response. “I’m not exactly at my full strength!”

“Then go back to the Time Room!” Scarab retorted, leveraging his extra appendages to hoist himself onto the spire’s pinnacle.

“Hell no!” Prismo defiantly shot back, releasing his grip on Scarab’s wrists. The returning cold numbed Scarab’s extremities as he stood resolute, not bothering to conceal his second pair of arms.

“How sweet of you two!” Chronosia’s voice taunted as she unleashed another icy beam at Scarab, a threat he skillfully deflected with his crystal shield. “Acting like an old married couple!”

“Shut up!” Prismo’s defiant yell echoed as he conjured a massive black claw, launching it towards Chronosia. She yelped, skillfully evading the dark appendage. In a synchronized move, Scarab propelled himself forward, sinking his claws into Chronosia’s white robes while she was momentarily caught off guard. The fabric quickly became encased in frost, making Scarab’s foothold treacherous. Undeterred, he pierced through the icy layer, securing his grip on the material. Chronosia screeched at the sudden added weight, colliding forcefully with an imposing pillar of ice.

Scarab clawed his way up, talons sinking into the flesh of Chronosia’s leg and the frigid ice of the pillar. The ice queen screamed in pain, abruptly silenced when Scarab seized her throat, his massive body trapping her against the pillar. His face plates cracked open slightly as he hissed at her. Ice monsters burst forth from their icy perch, slashing at him and forcing him to recoil to evade their attacks. Inadvertently, this action loosened his grip on Chronosia’s neck. Desperation filled her gaze as she greedily gasped for air, her arms wrapping around one of Scarab’s, a wicked grin forming on her frostbitten lips.

She cackled triumphantly, encasing Scarab’s arm in ice, the appendage solidifying from the numbing cold. Scarab’s jaw clenched, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle a scream. In a decisive move, he turned away from Chronosia and with a forceful pull, shattered his frozen arm before she could gain control. He leaped off the spire, evading the snapping jaws of the pursuing ice monster.

“Scarab!” Prismo’s voice rang out in concern. The red beetle landed on another spire, quickly climbing the massive one Prismo was on. Despite his wounded arm leaving a trail of greenish-yellow hemolymph, Scarab was determined to reach Prismo.

“Scarab! Your arm!” Prismo exclaimed, rushing forward to assist Scarab as he reached the top of the spire.

“Focus your light on it, now!” Scarab commanded, gritting his teeth against the pain. Prismo nodded, concern etched on his face, as his light defrosted the lingering ice. Scarab seized Prismo’s wrist before he could pull away. “Don’t stop,” Scarab ordered, tapping into the Time Core’s energy. The combined magic of the Time Core and Prismo’s light worked swiftly to heal the wound. Scarab’s arm regenerated with a squelch, making Prismo briefly gag. Scarab flexed his newly healed arm, ensuring its full functionality. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the edge of the pillar.

“Wait,” Prismo’s hand caught Scarab’s wrist before he could leap, and Scarab turned to face him. The human opened his mouth to speak, but only silence followed.

“Speak up, Prismo,” Scarab urged, looking back into the swirling snowstorm. “Chronosia is recovering, and I’m being very nice by letting you stay.” Prismo bit his lip, his shimmering pink and blue eyes avoiding Scarab’s gaze. The red beetle sighed, suppressing a peculiar sense of hope, and gently tugged his wrist free.

“Scrabby, I—”

“Go home, Prismo,” Scarab interrupted, turning back toward the edge. Prismo hesitated, his gaze searching for the right words. Scarab waited, hoping for something more, but Prismo remained silent.

“I’ll stay here,” Prismo finally said after a contemplative pause, smiling at other. “Go get her, Scarab.” The red beetle stared at Prismo, his heart warring between disappointment and a strange sense of sadness. Prismo’s hand grasped Scarab’s wrist again, this time tugging him back toward the human. Scarab was about to protest when Prismo hugged him.

“You better be safe down there,” Prismo murmured into Scarab’s chest, attempting to sound authoritative, though the wobble in his voice betrayed the underlying emotion. Scarab allowed a smile to grow on his face, patting the human’s back until Prismo pulled away. Prismo’s hands lingered on Scarab’s wrists, warmth coursing through the appendages.

“There,” Prismo said, sounding wearier. He released his grip, leaving behind two faint pink bands on each wrist. “Go on, Scarab.”

Scarab turned toward the edge, spotting Chronosia regaining her composure. “I’ll come back,” he assured Prismo before stepping over the edge. His four hands, razor-sharp talons embedded in the icy surface, slowed his descent, leaving substantial trails in his wake. When Scarab reached the midpoint, he propelled himself off the surface, leaping into the frigid abyss. The relentless wind and swirling black clouds concealed the sound of him landing on another spire, where he clung to the icy surface, watching Chronosia’s desperate search for him.

“Where the hell did you go, roach?!” Her voice, carried away by the biting wind, echoed as if she anticipated a response. Scarab felt a twinge of amusem*nt, quickly stifling the laugh that threatened to escape. He remained silent, watching her summon more ice monsters. Each creature was a grotesque amalgamation of winter-themed animals, but as Chronosia’s frustration grew, the constructs became less recognizable animals and more like shapeless masses of living snow. While around 30 of them initially emerged, with 10 posing significant threats, Chronosia abruptly halted their summoning. Instead, she directed five snow monsters to scour the area around the pillars, hunting for any sign of Scarab.

Scarab deftly retrieved his crystal from its concealed compartment in his suit, transforming it into its deadly spear state. The rich blood-red hue, courtesy of Prismo’s magic, added an ominous aura to the former blue crystalline weapon. For an extra touch, Scarab shifted the crystal’s handle to a deep obsidian black color.

With a low growl, Scarab began circling Chronosia, leaping from one icy platform to another, each diminishing in size as he descended. The glow of his spear cut through the darkness, catching the attention of the snow beasts that roared in warning. Halting on a small pinnacle, Scarab stood at his full height, allowing the spear to rest beside him. A low trill escaped from beneath his mask, a wide grin splitting his hidden face in the darkness as Chronosia turned toward him. Fear was written across her face, almost audible in the hitch of her breath.

With a snap, he bent his legs backward and launched himself forward, swinging his spear to effortlessly slice through the ice monster attempting to shield Chronosia. A screech escaped her as he collided with her, spear raised to pierce her chest before a powerful strike knocked him aside. Sliding in the snow, Scarab quickly regained his footing, lifting himself on his hands just in time to evade a colossal ice club that crashed down. Using his spear with deadly precision, he stabbed and sliced through the feeble snow monsters converging on him.

Randomly sprouting pink hands became a mesmerizing dance of defense for Scarab. They intercepted strikes aimed at him, allowing black claws to extend and shatter the feeble snow beasts. Some of the pink hands contorted strangely, forming impromptu steps that Scarab utilized to lift himself back into the air. In a throwing stance, he held his spear over his shoulder, almost hurling the weapon toward Chronosia’s terrified face. However, a colossal ice fist slammed into him, and he clung to the ice surface against the force, maintaining a firm grip on his spear.

When the icy assault slowed, Scarab vaulted off the surface and clutched onto an ice spire, his grip slipping slightly. Turning back, he emitted a hiss of frustration. The remaining ice monsters had amalgamated, morphing into a colossal ice golem that roared menacingly. Its massive fist hurtled toward him with surprising speed, compelling Scarab to leap towards another spire, narrowly avoiding being crushed like a fly under a swatter.

Scarab landed on another spire, wobbling slightly before fixing his balance. His gaze locked onto the ice golem, a hiss escaping his throat. In response, it roared at him and began walking towards him, its weight far too much for the beast to try and run. But its steps were large and it had multiple legs, so it reached him quickly, its steps shaking the spire he clung to. It roared again, rearing back its fist. Scarab twirled his spear with practiced ease, the tip of it facing behind him, and tensed his limbs into a jump.

Its fist was fast, but Scarab was faster. The appendage collided with the spire in a massive boom, shattering the spire and sending it crashing to the ground. Scarab used the fall pieces to get above the golem. It had frozen, probably because of the crashing ice bouncing off of it, and Scarab used that pause to aim his spear toward its head. It moved before Scarab could get a good hit, his spear instead digging into the beast’s shoulder. Scarab twisted it to get a better grip, causing it to roar in pain. Cracks grew from where Scarab had struck, illuminated by the weapon’s red glow.

The beast’s large fist came barreling towards him, forcing him to rip the spear out and somersault away, barely escaping the fist as it crashed into its own shoulder. He landed on its arm, forcing him to dig his bottom pair of arms into the ice to stop himself from flying away. The golem rose the arm where Scarab was, its fist now becoming a large flat hand. Scarab couldn’t stop the yelp of surprise from escaping him as he quickly freed his grip and booked it up the beast’s arm, nearly falling off when the hand came crashing down where he once was.

Scarab felt an odd sense of familiarity as he evaded the beasts attacks. Fighting colossal entities had become a somewhat begrudging routine when he was still a God Auditor, and navigating their forms had become second nature to him. As much as he loathed to admit it, he was adept at behaving like a mere insect crawling on the surface of a much larger adversary. The ongoing battle seemed almost like a rehearsed performance, with his current opponent proving to be less intelligent than those he had faced in the past.

In response to the golem’s relentless assault, a combination of both pink and black hands emerged from Prismo’s magic, ensnaring one of the golem’s arms and temporarily restraining its movements. The golem, in its frustration, roared vehemently, prompting it to transform its free hand into two distinct arms—one with a hand and another fashioned into a jagged piece of ice. Quick on his feet, Scarab leaped over the slashing appendages, expertly positioning himself to offer a subtle hint to Prismo. His spear, glinting ominously, was poised for a lethal strike directly at the golem’s core.

Prismo luckily caught the message and acted swiftly. The pink and black hands relinquished their grip on the golem’s arm, redirecting their efforts to encircle its chest. This strategic move flawlessly positioned the ice golem for the decisive blow, aligning Scarab’s spear for a direct assault on its vulnerable core.

The spear struck true, and the resonance of the impact echoed through the frigid air as the ice golem succumbed to the decisive strike. A guttural cry emanated from the crumbling form of the golem, its once imposing figure now reduced to countless shards that contributed to the evolving landscape. Seizing the opportunity, Scarab utilized the newly formed ice platforms to ascend into the air, a low growl escaping his throat as he sought out the fleeing Chronosia. Failing to locate her on the ground, he figured that she must have taken to the skies.

Flexing his hands momentarily, Scarab leaped upward, expertly latching onto an ice spire to begin his ascent. In the wind’s symphony, distant shouts reached his ears, directing his attention to the pillar where Prismo stood. A yelp of surprise escaped him as he witnessed Chronosia forcibly knocking Prismo off the pillar, the helpless scream of the human rending the air. Panic surged through Scarab, propelling him into immediate action. Without hesitation, he launched himself forward, rebounding off the spires with swift agility, intercepting Prismo mid-fall.

Chronosia’s displeased cry was background noise as Scarab secured Prismo in the safety of his bottom pair of arms, shielding the fragile human as they collided with a nearby pillar. Scarab gasped, feeling the impact reverberate through him, but quickly utilized his top pair of arms and feet to cling to the pillar, catching his breath. The biting cold intensified, freezing the air in his lungs and causing Prismo to shiver uncontrollably. “T-Thanks,” Prismo managed to stammer through chattering teeth. Scarab remained silent, regaining his breath as he observed Chronosia.

Realizing he had lost his spear during the frantic rescue, Scarab cursed his momentary lapse in focus. Chronosia seized the opportunity and unleashed an ice beam toward them. Scarab instinctively covered Prismo, prepared to absorb the blow himself, when a protective pink sphere enveloped them. The ice beam rebounded off the sphere, striking Chronosia and sending her plummeting through the freezing air.

“Now it’s my turn to say thanks,” Scarab muttered, his eyes fixed on Chronosia’s descending form. Leaping off the pillar, they began their descent, Prismo laughing against him, the tremors of cold coursing through his frame.

“H-h-how are y-you not c-c-cold?” Prismo stuttered, his grip tightening on Scarab as the pillar beneath them cracked.

“I am freezing,” Scarab responded, a low hiss escaping his throat as he observed Chronosia standing amidst her snow crater. “I’m cold-blooded, remember?”

“Let’s go o-on a date t-then, I’d l-l-love to learn more about y-you,” Prismo joked, the lightheartedness evident in his tone. Scarab hummed, landing safely on another pillar. He gently set the human down and swiftly removed his jacket, wrapping it around Prismo.

“W-wow Scrabby, such a g-gentleman,” Prismo smiled, his face taking on an unnatural, nearly blue hue. Scarab frowned, pulling the jacket tighter around him.

“Use your magic to warm yourself,” he advised, offering a concerned glance before turning his attention back to Chronosia. The cold bit into his carapace as he cracked his knuckles. With a screech, Chronosia unleashed an ice bolt toward him. A pink hand knocked it away, and Scarab spotted his spear just behind her, its red glow evident. His eyes narrowed as he rushed forward, forming his hand into a fist. Scarab’s speed surpassed human comprehension, and Chronosia, despite her immortality, proved merely mortal as he struck her.

She cried out, managing to raise her arms just in time to prevent the blow from being fatal. Scarab grinned at the sickening sound of her bones cracking as she was sent flying into the snow. Seizing the opportunity, he retrieved his spear, transforming it into its scythe state. Chronosia recovered swiftly, frozen arms raised, summoning ice spikes that flew toward him at alarming speeds. Scarab was adept at finding patterns, and this on ewas no differnt. The wind was aiding the projectiles, causing a grin to grow under his mask as he realized Chronosia must have been avoiding direct confrontation to maintain the storm. He needed her focused on him, and solely on him.

He lunged forward, wielding his scythe with calculated precision, and shattered the ice shield that rose defiantly before him. The onslaught continued, more ice spikes hurtling towards him with deadly intent. Yet, pink hands sprouted across the field, not just blocking the projectiles but redirecting them back towards Chronosia. The ice queen was caught in a dance of defense, forced to either melt the oncoming ice or frantically raise shields to shield herself. Scarab’s plan was bearing fruit – sunlight began to pierce through the once ominous clouds, and the relentless wind started to wane. Even the heavy snow that had cloaked the surroundings began to settle.

“Duck!” Prismo’s urgent voice reached Scarab’s ears. Without hesitation, Scarab dropped to the icy ground, narrowly evading a colossal ice spike that whizzed above him. A quick survey of the battleground revealed that the very ice pillars themselves were becoming sources of formidable projectiles, further complicating the fight.

“Damn it all,” Scarab muttered, frustration bubbling within him as he deftly swung his scythe, striking down an incoming ice spike aiming for his heart. Amid the chaos, Chronosia attempted to exploit his diverted attention, but her path was abruptly blocked by a resilient barrier of pink energy. A displeased cry escaped her lips as black claws emerged from the ground, swiping menacingly in her direction.

However, Scarab’s focus shifted as he caught sight of Prismo, weakly standing amidst the snow, violently shaking, and taking on an unsettling bluish hue. The harsh cold threatened to claim him even if Chronosia did not. Scarab’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t afford to let Prismo succumb to the freezing temperatures. f*ck it – Chronosia could wait; he needed to save the fragile human first.

Swiftly retracting his crystal to its original form, Scarab raced toward Prismo. The human’s widened eyes met his, and a feeble attempt to lift his shaking hands created a small crack in the protective pink barrier.

“Oh no you don’t!” Chronosia’s venomous hiss echoed through the air as she wielded her frozen hands, commanding the spires to release a barrage of ice spikes simultaneously. Panic laced Prismo’s scream as the projectiles found their mark, tearing through Scarab’s limbs. Miraculously, his torso and head remained unscathed, but now he was ensnared, akin to a delicate red bug caught in a deadly trap.

f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. Scarab’s frustration turned into desperation as he groaned, attempting to free the remnants of his limbs from the icy prison. One arm and a leg were still functional; he could still make a move. The echoes of Chronosia’s laughter bounced off the ice spires, the dissipating clouds signaling the end of the tumultuous storm. At least the biting wind had ceased. Scarab strained his neck, scanning the area for Chronosia while persistently trying to extricate himself. His remaining hand pounded uselessly against the icy spikes, futilely attempting to create even the slightest crack.

“Looks like you’ve been pinned, co*ckroach,” Chronosia’s mocking voice reached him as she finally came into view. Despite multiple wounds, she limped confidently toward him, a satisfied smile gracing her single-eyed face. Scarab stole a momentary glance at Prismo, who had succumbed to the frigid embrace of the snow, desperately clinging to the little warmth that remained. A guttural combination of a growl and a hiss emanated from Scarab, and he took satisfaction in Chronosia’s instinctive recoil.

Chronosia swiftly seized Scarab’s crystal from one of his lifeless hands, a gleeful expression adorning her face. With swift movements, she brought the crystal to her face, tapping its surface to open the screen. However, her delighted grin gradually transformed into one of frustration as she failed to access the crystal’s functions. Frustrated, she turned her enraged gaze toward Scarab and hissed, “Why won’t it work?!”

Scarab, concealed by his mask, smirked even as his lifeless limbs began to freeze within the icy constraints. He needed just a little more time to break free. “You don’t know the password,” he replied, ensuring his voice remained steady despite the encroaching cold. A distant, feeble laugh from Prismo reached their ears, amplifying Chronosia’s seething anger.

“Open it,” Chronosia demanded, thrusting the crystal into Scarab’s face. He shot her a defiant glare.

“I don’t exactly have the means to do so,” he hissed, prompting an offended squawk from Chronosia and another laugh from Prismo. Based on the sounds, Prismo was either recovering or succumbing to that peculiar human hysteria.

“You’re the first cosmic entity with a password on their crystal,” Chronosia grumbled, raising her frozen hand and sending an ice beam into the spikes. They encroached upon him intentionally slowly, intensifying the chill in his limbs. Her other hand shattered his crystal, eliciting a growl from Scarab. She then lifted her now-free hand, aiming it at his face, causing him to instinctively recoil.

“Hold still, roach,” she said, a malicious grin returning to her face. “I want to see how ugly you look in your final moments.” The little pink markings Prismo had given him started to move, winding around his arms, effortlessly bypassing the ice and halting where his limbs would regenerate. Scarab would never admit it, but Prismo was far smarter than he would ever give credit for.

Her hand extended, icy, clawed fingers almost touching his face. Scarab responded with a hiss, breaking open his faceplates to reveal the menacing jaws beneath. With a swift motion, he bit down on her hand, the sickening crunch echoing through the icy expanse as he severed her finger. A shrill scream pierced the air, and Chronosia recoiled, cradling her wounded limb to her chest. The other hand, initially engaged in manipulating the ice spikes, now swiped at him, landing a successful blow on his face. His face plates, not fully reassembled, shattered under the impact, pieces of them torn away and sent flying.

Despite the pain, Scarab gritted his teeth, sinking his fangs further into the severed finger in his mouth. The taste of iron flooded his senses, threatening to make him gag, but he resisted, choosing instead to defiantly spit out the torn flesh at Chronosia. She recoiled, glaring at him with fury in her eyes. Scarab hissed as menacingly as he could, blood streaming down his face in a macabre display from where her ice claws has grazed his flesh.

“Why you f*cking ugly little-!” Chronosia’s enraged tirade was abruptly cut off as she summoned a large ice spike with her uninjured hand, preparing to strike Scarab down. Responding to the imminent threat, Scarab, fueled by a surge of training and instincts, shattered his frozen limbs with a powerful grunt, breaking free from the icy restraints. Drawing strength from Prismo’s pre-added magic and the Time Core’s energy, Scarab rapidly healed his limbs and reached out for Chronosia’s neck.

In the blink of an eye, Scarab’s hands regenerated just in time to seize Chronosia’s delicate flesh, cutting off any startled gasp she might have let out. His bottom pair of hands expertly deflected the incoming ice spike, the sound of its impact against a distant spire echoing through the icy battleground. The frozen shackles that once bound him crumbled to the ground, momentarily obscuring his view, but Scarab’s attention was singularly focused on Chronosia. His bottom pair of arms seized her arms, restraining her fully and finally allowing him to kill her. His relentless grip on her throat tightened, his eyes wide with intensity as he slowly choked the life out of her, watching her futile attempts to break free. A choked scream pierced the frozen atmosphere, one that was not from Chronosia, pulling Scarab’s attention away from the ice queen. He turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto where Prismo would. He saw the human stumble and fall onto his knees, confusion montarily overtaking Scarab before he saw the reason why the human had fallen.

The ice spike had pierced Prismo.

A startled, horrifed gasp escaped Scarab, his grip on Chronosia’s neck momentarily loosening, allowing her to draw in greedy gasps of air. He was stiffened with shock, an unbearable coldness coiling into his limbs and chest, settling over him in a weight that was even more frigid than when he was ensnared in ice.

Prismo remained motionless, and in that agonizing moment, Scarab snapped into action. With a surge of desperate strength, he lifted Chronosia, his sole focus on Prismo’s well-being. He hurled Chronosia with all his might into a nearby spire, the impact causing a substantial portion of the icy structure to shatter and crash down. Scarab cared little for the collateral damage, his sole focus shifted to Prismo, his silent pleas echoing in his mind—begging for the human’s well-being, a desperate hope that he was still alive.

“No, no, no!” Scarab’s frantic voice echoed through the icy battleground as he sprinted towards the fallen human, tripping over his feet as snow weakly tried to trap him. Fear gripped him as he reached the human and dropped to his knees beside Prismo, a horrified gasp escapeing his unmasked visage at the heart-wrenching sight. Indigo blood oozed from around the ice spike impaling Prismo’s stomach, a stark contrast against the pristine snow around him. Scarab’s hands trembled as he gently lifted the wounded human, his eyes widening with a mix of concern and devastating realization as he observed the spike fully pierced through Prismo’s fragile form.

Reputation and name meant nothing in this moment; Scarab discarded them all to the wind. His stoic demeanor shattered as he heard Prismo’s weak groan, the sound so unlike the human that Scarab reeled away from. The red beetle couldn’t conceal the devastation etched across his features. He abandoned all pretense, allowing the raw emotions of fear and sorrow to manifest openly on his face.

“Scarab?” Prismo’s voice, once vibrant and full of life, now sounded weak and strained. The bright blue eyes, usually filled with spark and energy, were dimming as Prismo’s magic waned. Scarab desperatly attempted to staunch the flow of starlight blood, pressing his hands around the wound. Yet, the ethereal substance proved elusive, slipping through his fingers thinner than water. Panic seized Scarab, rendering him deaf to Prismo’s voice, which, weakened and fading, called out to him.

Prismo winced in pain as Scarab applied slightly more pressure, prompting a gentle switch of the red beetle’s hands to maintain control over the wound. Prismo spoke his name again, prompting Scarab to lean closer to hear his voice, mandibles unhidden and clicking rapidly. The human managed a weak smile, though it was tainted by the grim reality of his condition.

“Don’t worry,” Scarab’s voice, usually a pillar of strength, sounded uncharacteristically frail and shaky. “Once we get you back to the Time Room, you’ll be fine.”

“No,” Prismo responded, and Scarab watched helplessly as the vibrant brown color of his skin began to fade to a lifeless grey. “Even if I’m 2D… I won’t make it…”

“That is a damn lie,” Scarab hissed, attempting to channel his usual anger to counter the overwhelming sadness that threatened to consume him. “Don’t lie to me, Prismo. You’re a terrible liar.”

A fleeting, feeble laugh escaped Prismo, only to dissolve into a wet and raggig couch, star filled blood dripping from his mouth as Prismo regained control over his breathing. Scarab's ever analyzing nature assumed the spike was high enough to graze, maybe even peirce, Prismo's lungs. “The longer I’m here dying,” Prismo paused, shifting with visible effort. From beneath him emerged a hand stained with the vibrant blue color that Scarab would have once found sick pleasure in witnessing. “The longer you’ll wait.”

“I won’t have to wait for anything if you just shut up,” Scarab retorted, his words tinged with a hint of frustration. He quickly corrected himself, realizing that this was not the time for bitterness, “No, how do you teleport to the Time Room?”

Prismo responded with a smile that radiated warmth, a warmth that cut through Scarab’s long-built walls, leaving behind a raw ache. “…I’m sorry,” he whispered, compelling Scarab to lean in closer. Prismo’s stained hand trembled as he raised it, gently cradling the beetle’s face. Scarab found himself, for the first time, willingly leaning into the touch.

And for the first time in his existence, he didn’t want the apology Prismo offered. “For what?” Scarab inquired. “Dying on me?” Prismo chuckled weakly, the sound dissolving into a cough that was worse than the one before, his hand shaking with the effort.

“No, for not telling you the truth,” Prismo confessed, his sightless gaze fixed on Scarab. The distant sound of ice falling signaled Chronosia’s recovery.

“The truth about what?” Scarab asked, feeling Prismo’s hand shift to cup his jaw. The human’s finger traced the line where his neckplates merged with the soft pink of his face.

“About wanting to leave the Time cube,” Prismo revealed. “About not wanting to be Wishmaster.”

“And why are you telling me this?” Scarab questioned, attempting to turn his head toward the spot where he had thrown Chronosia. However, a surprisingly steady hand guided him back.

“I don’t have enough time to explain,” Prismo replied, his gaze holding an emotion Scarab couldn’t quite identify. “Can I… do something?”

Scarab stared at him, searching for the usual anger, the repulsion he typically associated with the Wishmaster. But in this moment, the person before him wasn’t the formidable Wishmaster he had loathed for years. Instead, this person was his once best friend, someone with whom he thought he could spend his entire existence. Scarab had once vehemently believed he would never get the person who he knew Prismo was back, yet, in this moment, he saw the old peak through. Both had nothing, and both had everything. With that realization, Scarab nodded.

Gently, with a firmness that belied his weakened state, Prismo tugged Scarab’s face down. Scarab’s eyes widened in surprise at the sudden closeness, and he raised his hand to cradle the one on his cheek. With the last remnants of his strength, Prismo’s lips brushed against Scarab’s, the touch tender, weak, and warm. Prismo held still for a moment, simply existing against Scarab, who was frozen with a myriad of emotions. However, one emotion stood out, causing his eyes to flutter shut and prompting him to press back against the human, his mandibles somehow finding use in cradling the human's cheeks. His kind did not possess the ability to kiss, yet somehow, Prismo made it work. Scarab’s mind slowed as the ice and snow faded, leaving him with a simple desire mingling with profound sadness. Desire for more, so much more, as the human slowly peeled away. Sadness, all-encompassing sadness, as he gripped Prismo’s hand on his cheek.

“No,” Scarab muttered, his voice small and weak as his eyes opened. “No, no, please.” Prismo smiled at him and rubbed a thumb over his cheek. Scarab didn’t even realize the tears were falling. He felt hot, burning even, and the cold around him did nothing to cool him.

“…Thank you… Scarab…” Prismo whispered, his body falling back into the snow. He sighed one final time, and all at once, the last traces of his beautiful chocolate color faded into a horrid grey, and his once bright blue eyes dimmed into nothing, the color swallowed like the sunset taken by the night. Scarab stared at him, waiting for a sign that this was a joke, a cruel prank, aything to say this was not real.

And yet none came. “No, no, no!” Scarab’s hands trembled as he clutched the now grey hand in two hands. His second pair gently shook the human, the action desperate, uselessly trying to wake him. “Prismo! Prismo!” He yelled, and a sob interrupted him. He repeated the other’s name, over and over like a prayer, a plea for some reaction. And when none came, Scarab lifted the human and hugged him, tucking his head into the cold crook of his neck, searching fruitlessly for that warmth that was addicting.

Prismo was no true human, he was a cosmic entity, and as such, his body began unraveling into ribbons. Scarab withdrew silently, lifting the fading hand of the fallen being. He observed in solemn silence as Prismo’s fingers unraveled into delicate pink ribbons—his 2D form. These ribbons danced on the breeze, carried away into the air, and eventually dissipated into a constellation of shimmering stars.

The resounding crash of a collapsing ice spire snapped Scarab back to the harsh reality of the present. Slowly, deliberately, he tenderly lowered Prismo’s ethereal form to the snow-covered ground, stealing one last glance at the human’s diminishing essence. Driven by an inexplicable impulse, he leaned down, nuzzling Prismo’s forehead in a gesture akin to a kiss in his species. He lingered there for a poignant moment, absorbing the weight of the loss, before pulling away and rising to his full height.

His legs, numb from the icy terrain, protested as he stood, but the overwhelming surge of raw hatred coursing through him swiftly dispelled any lingering numbness. The world beneath him seemed to tremble as Scarab slowly, calmy, horribly calm, turned his gaze toward Chronosia, who had freed herself from the location where Scarab had forcibly hurled her.

The ice queen clutched the back of her head, feverishly freezing her broken limbs into place, crafting an icy suit of armor for herself. Scarab welcomed this, for now, he could savor the impending confrontation. “Chronosia!” His voice rang out, strangely steady, echoing through the frozen spires. The Ice Queen flinched, turning her gaze toward Scarab. Her eyes fell upon Prismo’s lifeless form, and a malevolent grin spread across her face. Scarab flexed his claws with a rhythmic precision, the intensity of his loathing sharpening his form, spikes emerging on his carapace.

Chronosia chuckled and summoned more ice spikes from the ground, shaping them into massive ice worms that bellowed a challenge. Scarab remained silent, an ominous peace enveloping him. His wide eyes locked onto his target, a quiet before the storm, as mortals often say. “What?” Chronosia shouted, conjuring more ice spikes. Scarab allowed her to revel in the illusion of potential victory. “Just gonna stand there while I kill you too?”

Scarab was a god. A God Auditor, and a f*cking damn good one at that. The speed with which he lunged at Chronosia was reserved for only the most formidable adversaries. His figure left barely a trace in the snow as he raised his fist. Chronosia was just a mere mortal, a creature lesser than a ant, having little time to react, let alone block the impending blow. Scarab’s fist soared through the air, narrowly missing Chronosia’s face, who only survived because she had flinched at his sudden presence. His hand split open with a resounding crack, claws poised for a devastating strike as he swung his arm back. This time, Chronosia anticipated the attack, leaping backward just in time. The ground beneath Scarab trembled, erupting in ice spikes that he agilely vaulted over.

Scarab aimed for Chronosia’s arm, one hand seizing the limb while the other slammed into the makeshift armor she wore. Her agonizing scream filled the air as Scarab shattered her bone. Ice spikes rose from the pillars around them, compelling Scarab to leap back skillfully, dodging the onslaught. The spikes halted abruptly, and Scarab surmised their likely recharge rate. In the brief respite from the assault, the ice worms Chronosia had summoned earlier advanced rapidly, coiling around the spires and launching toward him like the tongues of frogs.

Scarab executed a swift kick to the first ice worm, its frozen structure cracking audibly as it recoiled from the impact. In a deft maneuver, he caught the second one, gripping onto its icy surface as it darted across the snowy landscape. The third worm adjusted its position, preparing for a head-on collision with the one currently engaged with Scarab. Emitting a low growl, Scarab firmly planted his feet into the frozen ground, slowing the worm just enough to redirect it and liberate himself.

The third ice worm swiftly approached him, its roar resonating as it molded its head into a battering ram. Scarab widened his stance, firmly anchoring his toes into the icy terrain, and raised all four of his arms into tight fists. The worm collided with his fists with such force that it shattered along its entire form. The resounding impact echoed through the frozen landscape, the fracture lines in the ice worm emanating from the point of impact like a spider’s web.

Deprived of the magical assistance from Chronosia that once suspended the ice worm’s corpse in the air, Scarab found himself contending with deadly shards of ice raining down upon him. He swiftly snatched the largest shard within reach, holding it between two of his hands as he gracefully traversed the snowy landscape. The snow then sharpened into dangerous projectiles, reaching out for him, forcing him to use the spires to avoid it. His blue-stained hands ached, nearly numb from the freezing impact. Scarab emitted a stream of misty air, his focus unwavering as he redirected his attention to the fractured ice worm.

With a menacing roar, the beast rose into the air, initiating a tense standoff. Scarab slid through the snow, locking eyes with the creature before it lunged at him. Evading with ease, Scarab thrust his makeshift spear into the creature’s side, maintaining his hold even as he was violently pulled onto its back. Braving the biting wind, he relinquished the weapon and began ascending the creature’s back. The ice worm twisted and turned, occasionally lifting itself off the ground in a desperate attempt to dislodge Scarab. His laughter echoed as he sensed the creature’s panic, one of his hands buried into its back as it climbed a spire. Gravity proved no obstacle as Scarab maintained his ascent, a manic smile growing on his face.

The creature roared once more, capturing the attention of an unharnessed worm below. In response, the second worm emitted a resounding roar, signaling the one Scarab was riding to release its grip on the spire and begin plummeting. Scarab held on tenaciously, continuing his climb even as the creature fell. As it descended, Scarab located the core on its underside. He swiftly crawled towards the core and, with his top pair of arms transformed into lethal spikes, pierced the glowing center of the beast. The creature let out a pained cry, and Scarab reveled in the sensation, pulling his arms free and restoring them to their original state.

Mid-fall, the ice worm fractured into pieces, sending Scarab hurtling through the air. Using larger chunks of ice to soften his fall, Scarab landed with a graceful twist, immediately setting his sights on the remaining ice worm. The creature, aware to its impending doom, recklessly retreated toward Chronosia, unwittingly leading Scarab directly to her. A twisted amalgamation of a hiss and crazed laugh escaped him at the sight of her terrified expression as he laid his eyes on her. Desperately, she conjured ice spikes, each expertly dodged by Scarab, some even serving as stepping stones to expedite his approach. The worm curled protectively around Chronosia, constructing a makeshift dome. Scarab crashed into it, the impact cracking the transparent surface. Blue-stained fists pounded against it, each blow leaving a deeper fracture, his wide eyes locked onto her form within.

“Stop!” Chronosia’s voice pleaded, muffled within the confines of the ice dome. Scarab withdrew himself from the structure at the sound, lightly tracing one of the cracks. Wrath blended with something more primal, a desire for her blood to stain his hands rather than the ethereal essence of a Wishmaster. A malevolent smile played across his face, a low chuckle escaping him.

“Stop?” Scarab echoed, his voice low and guttural, akin to a predator closing in on its prey. “Why would I stop, Chronosia? This ends only when your blood stains my hands, not the essence of a fallen star.”

Chronosia’s shaky smile faltered as Scarab began circling the dome. His movements exuded fury, each step deliberately heavy, talons scratching against the dome’s surface, producing an ominous and scratchy hiss. “You win, you win! Just, stop, please,” she pleaded, lifting her hand and thickening the dome. Scarab responded with a low, short laugh.

“I do not seek victory, Chronosia,” he declared, coming to a halt and resting his hand on the dome. Chronosia, too, ceased her frantic movements within the enclosure. “I seek only your annihilation. I will repeat myself since you act so foolishly mortal. This ends when the last glimmer of your existence is dead.”

With that, he pulled back his hand and clenched it into a fist. His teeth ground together, eyes wide, as he began striking the dome, each hit causing the ice to crack further. Desperation painted Chronosia’s face, and her attempts to reinforce the ice became increasingly futile. Finally, a crack emerged large enough for Scarab to fit two hands inside. He curled his talons, taking only a moment before tearing apart the dome, shattering it into shards.

Chronosia reacted swiftly, summoning an ice spike that rushed through the falling debris and caught Scarab off guard. A roar escaped him as his arm was torn off, pain spiking through his senses. He felt the heat of his own blood as it pooled down his side, a guttural hiss escaping him. Despite the pain and the ice shards shaking under Chronosia’s control, Scarab rushed forward, lifting the stub of his arm. He called upon the Time Core’s energy, healing his arm’s muscles, tendons, and bones with a simple thought, the process far more painful without Prismo's magic to numb it. His newly healed hand spasmed in the air before fixing itself, and Scarab forced it forward, instinctively latching onto Chronosia’s armor. The sharp talons dug into the armor, trapping Chronosia in his hold.

Chronosia’s pale features momentarily shifted from terror to pure terror as Scarab’s attack caught her off guard. In a heartbeat, she shifted from the brink of panic to focused anger. Her ice-clawed hands turned into tightly clenched fists. Scarab reeled his own fist back, aiming for another strike on her chest. Chronosia spun on her heel, evading most of the attack. With sharp, inexperienced movements, she redirected his momentum, using the force of his own aggression against him. She targeted Scarab’s midsection with a surprising punch, her icy knuckles making contact with the unyielding exoskeleton. The impact reverberated through Scarab’s frame, momentarily halting his relentless advance.

Seeing an opportunity in Scarab’s brief pause, Chronosia shifted into a defensive stance as Scarab aimed another attack. Her movements were sharp, jagged, and clearly inexperienced as she deflected Scarab’s next strike. She brought her free fist up, slamming it down onto the hand that held her captive.

The sudden burst of force forced Scarab to release his grip, the fingers that had been like vices opening involuntarily. With her newfound freedom, Chronosia foolishly turned her back and attempted to run. Scarab grabbed the large spikes on the back of her armor and yanked her towards him. She screamed in panic as Scarab lifted her up with a small grunt and threw her into a spire. The ice shattered, sending down large chunks onto them. Unfazed, Scarab rushed past the falling ice and slammed his spiked forearm into her, digging into the chest of her armor. She cried out as the air in her lungs was pushed out, raising her arms to claw at his. He used his top left arm to seize both hands, breaking her wrists with one flex of the muscles, and trapping them over her head. His bottom pair of arms seized her midsection, digging through the armor and piercing her flesh. She screamed, lifting her legs in an attempt to push him away. Scarab responded quickly, slamming his knee into one of her legs and breaking her femur. Both feet fell to the ground, no longer supporting her, and Scarab grinned as she screamed when he stomped on her foot and tore through the flesh there.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you?” he sneered, his face so close that he could easily lick the tears from her face if he wanted to. The thought tempted him, but another was far more appealing. He pulled the arm on her chest away, giving her the breathing room that she so desired. Chronosia shook her head, a sob escaping her, making Scarab’s grin wider as his mandibles clicked in delight.

“Please, stop, please,” she wept, her words turning into a blubbering mess. Scarab slowly traced the armor up her arm, giving one wrist to his free hand. He gripped the broken wrist, making her cry out in pain, and he held it out. Slowly, methodically, he watched her increasing toggles of pain and begged for mercy as he began to pull her arm. The arm popped from her shoulder first, causing her to scream and sob. Words begging for mercy poured from her lips, but Scarab didn’t listen, only staring as he slowly pulled. Her elbow came next, forcing an even more anguished scream from her throat. Scarab let up on the force for a moment, turning to look at the way the limb was limp, blood seeping from her white robes as the skin began to tear, ice armor scattered and clinging uselessly. He felt his smile fade.

“You’ve done this to yourself,” Scarab muttered, tightening his hold and pulling the limb straight out. The motion forced another scream that Scarab took with pleasure. “You should have never showed youself, Chronosia.”

“I’m s-sorry!” Chronosia’s wail filled the air, a futile struggle accompanying her desperate plea. “I w-w-won’t m-make you angry a-any more! P-PLEASE!” Her plea transformed into a full-fledged scream as Scarab resumed pulling, this time with a swifter motion. The intoxicating rush of wrath and hatred that had consumed him, which had forced him to confront the fog in his mind, began to ebb away. Exhaustion and pain took its place. With the lack of adrenaline, he remembered the barrage of ice spikes Chronosia had unleashed on him during his rage, the pain in his side serving as a brutal reminder.

A low hum escaped Scarab as he grappled with the conflicting sensations. Chronosia’s anguished scream yanked him back into the present, and he refocused his eyes to witness the severed limb dangling from his grasp. A small, almost mocking laugh slipped from his lips. Dismissing the discarded flesh with a callous toss, he redirected his attention to Chronosia, placing his now free hand on her neck. Fatigue weighed heavily on him, tempering the desire to inflict more pain. Yet, satisfaction lingered in the air. Scarab showed no mercy, opting for a slow, methodical chokehold. Her cries mutated into distorted sounds, teary eyes fixed on him, silently pleading for release. Finally, those eyes closed, and she surrendered to limpness in his grasp.

Her lifeless body met the ground with a muted thump, blood staining the pristine snow around her. Scarab cast a vacant gaze upon his hand. It was still stained blue.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, dragging his steps as he moved forward, arms hanging limply at his sides. His half-lidded eyes wandered across the scene of destruction—the shattered dome, the lifeless corpses of the ice monsters, and the hovering remnants of the shattered spire platforms. Eventually, his gaze settled on a splotch of blue staining the otherwise untouched snow. He halted, standing over the mark that held the weight of myriad emotions. Numbness enveloped him, but guilt gnawed at his fingers like a relentless frostbite.

Closing his eyes, Scarab tilted his head back, allowing the sunlight to wash over his features. He stood in silence, breathing in the tranquility that replaced the earlier chaos. Summoning magic enveloped him, and the biting cold transformed into a mellowed warmth, yet Scarab remained still, his eyes shut. Even when Orbo called out, concern evident in his voice, Scarab didn’t open his eyes. It wasn’t until Orbo mentioned Prismo that he finally relented, eyes opening and looking, but not quite seeing.

“Where’s Prismo?” Orbo’s question ignited a deep ache within him, a surge of tears threatening to break the surface. Scarab, struggling to keep his voice steady, uttered a single word.

“Leave.”

“What?” Orbo’s confusion was palpable, but Scarab repeated his command with unwavering conviction.

“Leave.” There was no room for argument, and the weariness etched across Scarab’s form was impossible to ignore.

Orbo’s stained smile flashed in Scarab’s blurry vision. “Well, okay then, mate. Uh, congrats on becoming Wishmaster permanently.” With those words, Orbo departed, leaving Scarab alone with his grief and the haunting silence of the yellow room.

The Time Cube welcomed its master home and shielded him as he broke.

Chapter 21: Seraphyllic

Chapter Text

The world was silent, wrapped in the gentle misting of rain that descended from the artificial clouds. The tranquility remained undisturbed, save for the delightful chirps of birds playing amidst the raindrops and the rhythmic rustling of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees and plants so lovingly taken care of.

It was a serene and peaceful ambiance, allowing Scarab’s thoughts to be nothing more than a contemplative echo against the quietude.

“Hey, Scrabby?” The peace was shattered by the voice of the old man beside him, prompting a groan from Scarab as he turned to the human companion beside him.

“Must I remind you that Scrabby is not yours to say?” Scarab retorted, his head slightly turning. His gaze remained fixed on the rain-soaked surroundings, reluctant to acknowledge the human beside him. The old man chuckled, the jingle of his accessories accompanying his movement as he rose to rub his neck.

“Right, sorry, old habit,” the old man laughed, prompting Scarab to suppress the urge to retort that it wasn’t his habit at all, simply sighing instead. Silence settled once again, Scarab half-waiting for the old man’s next words, half-absorbed in the soothing patter of raindrops.

The old man eventually broke the silence with curiosity, “How do you make the rain fall like that?” He asked, his golden accessories tinkling as he shifted. “I thought we were in some giant cube?”

“We are,” Scarab replied, a subtle frown creasing his otherwise peaceful expression. “If I tell you the answer, will you shut up?” His words carried a faint hiss, quickly stifled as he took a deep breath, swallowing back the anger that threatened to surface. It wasn’t meant for the old man, it was no fault of his that he was just the dreamer. No, it was Scarab’s for letting Chronosia-

Scarab cut off that train of thought, shifting his gaze from the leaves blocking the rain to the simulated clouds. The old man gave a hum of approval, prompting Scarab to continue. “We are in a specialized room of the Time Cube that I have fashioned into a terrarium dome. Once I figured out the mechanics of time passing through it, creating the atmosphere became a simple task. The rain is merely a manifestation of my control over this environment.” Scarab explained, noting the old man’s genuine interest.

“So you can turn off the rain at any moment?” the old man inquired. Scarab nodded, still avoiding direct eye contact, focusing on the task at hand. Although he hadn’t fully mastered his control over the weather (he still mourned the loss of his alocasia), he had gained enough proficiency to halt the rain. After a few minutes, the weather transitioned from a downpour to a drizzle, then a mist, until finally dissipating entirely, revealing the light of the Time Core overhead. Scarab was grateful for the trick he’d discovered to move rooms beneath the Time Core, making it easier to care for the small plants.

“That’s cool, dude,” the old man remarked. Scarab heard him get up, and he shut his eyes as the human came into view. The old man turned, and Scarab tensed when he heard a gasp before the man spoke. With a thought, the grass-covered floor opened (gently, he didn’t want to damage the clover) and allowed the old man to fall in with a yelp. Once the floor closed with a small click, Scarab reopened his eyes and sighed, silently setting the timer to track how long his solitude would last before the inevitable return of the talkative human.

A distant knock echoed, drawing Scarab’s attention to the Cube, sensing that a wisher awaited at the door. Scarab sighed, rising from his comfortable spot beneath the willow, and summoned a yellow wall in front of him. It had taken him longer than he’d care to admit to grasp the false 3D form after fully accepting he was (the only) Wishmaster. And even longer before he’d become accustomed to the sensation of his 2D form transitioning into the 3D plane. Nevertheless, Scarab had mastered the shift in form.

With a simple thought, he opened the door to the Cube, granting entry to the creature that had knocked. Scarab placed his hand on the wall he had summoned, gently pushing into it. The wall phased in, returning to its 2D state as the rest of his body followed suit. (Scarab didn’t understand why the Boss insisted Wishmasters be 2D, perhaps to rid the desires of the body?)

He checked his appearance, ensuring his mask, a new version that was adorned with tiny star and comet beads, with chains hanging from some, was secure and safely protecting his face from sight. Scarab was proud of the design. The rest of him intentionally took on a shade of blue, adorned with delicate golden lines that traced constellations across his carapace. Streamers trailed behind him like ethereal tails, connecting to a sizable belt adorned with glittering stars that chimed melodiously when he moved. The same starry ornaments adorned his shoulders and chest, contributing to the celestial ensemble. Scarab recalled the old man’s comment about looking “boring.” While the old man’s dream was quite literally a simple pink blob with blue eyes, Scarab believed his appearance wasn’t dull. With sharp edges and geometric shapes, Scarab was far from boring. Yet, the streamers behind him still swayed like tails of comets.

Scarab phased from the wall, splitting into little stars that floated around in his void. Thousands of eyes focused on the creature in the doorway. Stars in his void came to greet him, twinkling joyfully. Scarab pushed them away gently, fixating on the wisher who remained frozen in the doorway. He sighed and opened his mouth.

“Come in,” His voice was loud, echoing through the void from everywhere and nowhere at once. The creature flinched, eliciting a low chuckle from Scarab.

“This was not in the book,” the creature muttered to itself before hesitantly stepping onto one of the many paths offered to it. Scarab followed as the wisher began aimlessly wandering and jumping between paths, venturing deeper into the winding nothingness of his void. A few stars curiously approached the wisher, causing Scarab to chuckle as they screeched when the wisher attempted to touch them.

As the creature navigated the intricate paths of the Time Room, several hours passed in its perception of time. Eventually, it found itself standing at the center of the paths, facing a colossal cube affectionately dubbed the Visitor Cube by the old man. The cube, a blank canvas, awaited the wisher’s command.

“Welcome to the Time Cube,” Scarab’s voice resonated through the void, causing the creature to flinch and scan for its source. A low chuckle escaped Scarab, rippling through the emptiness before he materialized on the cube. His form, grander and larger than Prismo’s, forced him to tilt his body to peer down at the creature. Turning from the void to the cube, the creature yelped when it noticed the yellow had transformed into blue. It had to crane its head to look up at Scarab, who raised the stone below it. Another yelp escaped the wisher as it flailed its arms before regaining balance.

“U-uh,” the creature stammered, hesitantly sitting down on the pillar and looking up at Scarab. Scarab watched patiently, waiting for the creature to speak. “Um, great Wishmaster?” The creature’s voice shook, likely from nerves, and Scarab nodded slightly, encouraging it to continue. “Er, you look a lot different than what I thought you’d look.”

Offering a warm chuckle to ease its nerves, Scarab responded, “Many mortals say that.” His voice, now quieter and calmer, echoed slightly through the void. “Now, do you know where you are and who you stand before?” he asked, prompting the creature to stumble over its words in response.

“I-I- um- I’m in the Time Cube,” it spoke slowly, gaining confidence as it went along. Scarab inwardly sighed, his claws tapping on his arm. “And, uh, n-no, I don’t know who y-you are.”

Humming contemplatively, Scarab spoke, “I am Scarab, a Wishmaster,” earning a nod from the creature. “Now, I assume you know everything there is to wishing?” The wisher offered a meek nod. Satisfied, Scarab was eager to expedite the process. “Then what do you wish for?” The wish itself was Scarab’s favorite aspect of being a Wishmaster. He relished the way he could twist and turn a wish, molding it into the wisher’s greatest dream or their worst nightmare. Whether he distorted the wish through vagueness or incompleteness, or crafted perfection from a clear and concise wish, the thrill of wielding such power exhilarated him. Knowing that Prismo once wielded the same power only intensified the experience.

The reminder of Prismo’s dream intruded on Scarab’s thoughts, darkening his mood beneath his mask as he observed the creature hesitate. “I wish…” The creature’s words trailed off, and twinkles of sound emanated from Scarab as he uncrossed his arms and tilted his head slightly. “I wish… I wish for my planet’s eternal safety.” Simple, yet intricate and advanced, it presented itself as a canvas for Scarab’s creative manipulation. Scarab offered a simple nod, opting to be benevolent in this instance. He orchestrated words, shifted realities, created new paths, and broke others—all in the blink of an eye.

“Wish granted,” he declared, snapping his fingers. The mortal looked surprised as it faded away, offering a gleeful wave towards Scarab. He simply nodded in response.

Alone once more, Scarab found himself in familiar solitude, a state he had grown accustomed to. Deciding to make the most of his brief respite before the old man inevitably appeared, he opted to wander through the vast expanse of the Time Cube. Shrinking his form back to its usual size, he placed a hand on the wall and pushed it outward with a resonant pop. The rest of his body followed, and now his 3D guise, albeit a simulated one, he roamed through the vastness of the Time Cube. Each step resonated in the void, coaxing twinkling stars to dance in response. Unlike Prismo, who seemingly haphazardly scattered universes like stones, Scarab approached his creations with meticulous care. The little worlds he crafted became stars, adorning the cosmic canvas of his realm, and over the eons, quite a collection had amassed.

A gentle smile graced his features as a star descended toward him, prompting him to raise his hands and cradle the miniature universe within his grasp. Faint echoes of childlike laughter and joy accompanied the celestial visitor before he tenderly released it back into the void.

Continuing his aimless stroll, Scarab allowed the smaller stars to accompany him, some persistently following despite his attempts to push them away. He found the diversity in the personalities of each universe fascinating. It almost made him comprehend Prism’s inclination to create Fionna & Cake’s universe—a realm imbued with its own unique personality, marked by determination, vigor, and kindness. A universe worth protecting, had it not been created illegally.

“Hey Scrabby!” The familiar voice sliced through the quiet ambiance of the void. The corners of Scarab’s mouth turned downward, the fleeting joy stolen by the intrusion. The stars around him sensed the shift in his mood and, like distant companions, distanced themselves from the beetle. A few, however, stayed close, offering their subtle forms of comfort in the form of gentle twinkles. Sighing, Scarab closed his eyes, his form of vision shifting to the non-universe stars, navigating the path ahead without needing to see the details of the old man.

“That’s not my name,” Scarab asserted, creating a new path beneath him. He effortlessly jumped onto the fresh trail, distancing himself from the old one. The soft thud of the old man’s landing echoed behind him. Scarab kept his eyes closed, only vaguely aware as the human caught up and walked beside him once again.

“Right, sorry, don’t know why I keep calling you Scrabby,” the old man apologized, twirling his robe’s (Scarab had to force the old man into clothes, ignoring the protests of ‘I’m covered by my beard!’) sash absentmindedly. Scarab observed the human’s actions without giving him a direct gaze. “Nearly got me with that one, by the way. Took me a good couple of hours to find my way out of wherever you dropped me.” The nonchalance with which the old man spoke about Scarab’s attempts to distance him never failed to perplex the beetle. He had exhausted every conceivable method to keep the human away, from confining him within the Time Room to casting him into the void to mingle with the stars. Yet, without fail, the old man somehow reappeared after a few hours, unwavering tethered to Scarab’s side. It was as if the human were an unshakable companion, the longest period of separation being a mere eight hours, achieved accidentally when Scarab had thrown him out of the Cube into the surrounding space. Even then, the old man found his way back.

“A shame,” Scarab remarked, his voice a low murmur that echoed in the vastness of the void. “I was hoping to trap you forever.” The old man’s laughter, a buoyant melody, rippled through the quiet expanse. He playfully jabbed at Scarab, the gesture directed more at the beetle’s thigh than anything else; the human was notably short.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy,” the human responded, his voice carrying a teasing note. “Ah, that reminds me of that time when we first met. Remember that?” Scarab did, vividly. It was a memory that vied for the title of the worst day of his existence.

Scarab stared at the old man standing before him, pain and shock twisting in the beetle’s chest. The beetle knew his expression was one of shock, wide-eyed and mouth slightly ajar, conveying his stunned silence. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes. The old man, oblivious to the turmoil, greeted him with a warm smile and a friendly wave.

“Hi!” the old man’s cheerful greeting hung in the air. Scarab was unable to muster a coherent response, overwhelmed by the shock of witnessing Prismo’s host body awake and walking. Prismo was dead, the death of the dream should have shocked the human enough to stop the human’s heart. His immortality stemmed from the connection to the Time Core, without which the human was merely the greatest mortal wizard ever to exist. Yet, here he stood, vibrant blue eyes locking onto Scarab with innocent curiosity, completely oblivious to the anguish he stirred.

“Do you know where I am?” he inquired, the harmless interest in his eyes reminding Scarab uncomfortably of Prismo. Before Scarab could answer, another sob threatened to escape, and he abruptly cut himself off. The old man’s eyes widened further, mirroring Prismo’s expression in a way that sent shivers down Scarab’s exoskeleton. With a quick wave of his hand, Scarab manipulated the surroundings to ensure he was alone.

“Trapped me in that box for well over a week until I figured out I could move the walls a bit,” the old man reminisced, bringing Scarab back to the present. “Looked at me like I was someone that came back from the dead!” The laughter that followed echoed through the void, the old man blissfully unaware of the stark similarity to the past event.

“I wish I had that peace again,” Scarab muttered, forming another path and leaping down. The path abruptly terminated before the human could follow suit, yet Scarab still perceived the grunt as the old man made the leap. He felt the warmth of the human beside him as they walked once more.

"Aw, come on Scarab," The old man said, chuckling. "You'd miss me." Not you, Scarab thought bitterly. But he refrained from speaking instead to shift the paths back to the miniature pocket of life he had created.

They walked in silence, the old man humming some small tune in beat with the beetle's steps. Of course, the silence was broken by the old man's aggravating voice. "Hey, Scrabby- er, Scarab?" Scarab offered a simple hum to show he was listening. "Do you think you could maybe play your violin again?" he asked.

"Why do you want that?" Scarab asked, tilting his head slightly. He formed another path before him, jumping down onto it. The old man followed quickly, taking a bit longer to catch up to the other than before.

"Just wanna hear your playing," the old man replied, casually shrugging. "Also I'm kinda feelin' sleepy." Scarab stifled the budding hope that dared to surface. It had been squashed one too many times by the old man's return. The human often took short naps throughout their days together, and Scarab had long given up on hoping. Perhaps Orbo was right. Perhaps Chronosia had truly extinguished the dream.

Before delving into the darker recesses of his thoughts, the path led Scarab into a hidden crevice within the void. It unveiled the massive white dome, his miniature ecosystem concealed in plain sight—an artful camouflage that pleased Scarab. Shifting his vision from the stars to his real eyes, he blinked, dispelling the slight blur that accompanied the transition. As they entered the room, the old man eagerly trotted into the small forest Scarab had cultivated, disappearing into the lush vegetation. Scarab welcomed the short-lived peace this brought him and chose a random path, navigating effortlessly among the flourishing plants. Birds greeted his presence with joyful tweets, small animals observed him with curiosity, and every living thing regarded him without fear; he was an integral part of the dome, even if he didn't truly belong.

Approaching a small clearing, Scarab blinked against the brilliant light of the Time Core flooding his vision upon stepping out from the forest shade. Pausing at the edge, he looked up at the muffled and distant hues above him, creating almost rainbow-like clouds that enhanced the room's beauty. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he redirected his attention to the large weeping willow standing majestically in the center of the clearing, acting as the heart of the forest. Scarab navigated toward the tree, skillfully avoiding the many potted plants that surrounded the clearing, forming a nurturing environment akin to a nursery.

Under the willow, the old man patiently awaited Scarab's arrival. Ignoring him, Scarab found his spot next to the imposing tree. Silence enveloped them, the soft whispers of the wind carrying away any sounds they might have made. After a few moments, during which Scarab leaned his head back against the rough bark and closed his eyes, he spoke.

"What would you like to hear?" Scarab was in the mood to play anyway. He heard the old man clap softly in celebration before the sound was replaced by a low hum. As the old man pondered, Scarab summoned his violin, accompanied by his bow. His fingers, cautious of the claws, traced the small engravings he had personally added to the wood, outlining the intricate beetle that adorned the front.

“How about Nausicaa Requiem?” the old man finally spoke, and Scarab's fingers instinctively found their way to the strings.

“Why that one?” he asked, bringing the instrument to rest comfortably against his neck and shoulder. The old man's accessories shook as he shrugged.

“I just feel like listening to it,” the old man responded.

“That one would sound better with a piano,” Scarab replied, scanning the bow to ensure it had no damage. “You can easily watch one of the big concerts.”

“Nah,” the old man replied. “I wanna hear it alone.”

“Fine then,” Scarab responded and brought the bow up. With delicate grace, Scarab positioned his ebony bow just above the strings. Scarab’s fingers aligned perfectly on the strings, carefully tilting his claws to avoid tearing at the reinforced material. With a soft sigh, he began, the first whispers of the notes emerging. He played slower than the song required, not excessively so, smoothly gliding the bow over the strings with his right hand and coaxing the sound into existence. His left hand danced across the neck of the violin, navigating with precision, finesse, and occasional trembling of his fingers when necessary.

As the melody unfolded, weaving its hauntingly beautiful strains through the silent forest, Scarab added a few other parts, including the cello's melancholic notes, in the spaces between. The old man sighed, a smile apparent in his breath as he absorbed the music. Scarab gradually accelerated, effortlessly returning to the original tempo, his focus entirely on the strings. Music had always served as a refuge for him, a fact he had known since his mortal days. The song, quick by nature, yielded to Scarab's influence, slowing in parts to assume a mellower tone, infusing the melody with a touch of sadness. Scarab stole a glance at the human resting beneath his tree, his features softening as the old man hummed in tune.

How long had he been waiting now? Scarab's fingers glided over the notes with practiced ease, and the beetle's eyes slipped shut as he simply listened to the song. It had been far longer than a thousand years, perhaps an eon or three. Scarab couldn't fathom why he waited for the old man to fall back asleep and revive Prismo. There was so much Scarab needed to say, so much left unspoken during that time. His thoughts drifted to one of the first times he had spoken to the old man, recalling the moment when he discovered the odd emotion in the Wishmaster's eyes before they dulled and lost all vitality.

Scarab was furious. That was certain. A wisher had come through, disrespecting him and demanding things that Scarab couldn't or wouldn't grant. The mortal's wish wasn't even entertaining to twist, as Scarab was too preoccupied with what it had said to him before he retreated to the Time Core to avoid harming it.

"You're not a real Wishmaster," it had declared, words painfully true. Scarab didn't feel like a Wishmaster. He knew he was undeserving of the title. Scarab hadn't earned it, hadn't worked for it. As much as he hated to admit it, it was nothing more than a small reward for completing a target on his hunts. Sure, it was a lifelong reward, but a reward nonetheless. And Scarab despised how he didn't even deserve the reward.

The song reached its midpoint, where vocals would typically join. Scarab softly muttered the la's that accompanied the song, his thoughts still lingering. He wondered if Prismo didn't truly die that day. What if Prismo was still partially present, disoriented and lost, as his dreamer woke up and sealed him away with simple magic? Did Prismo suffer after he faded away? Glob, Scarab hoped not. He couldn't fathom how agonizing that must have felt, how dreadful it must have been.

"Are you alright?" the old man had asked that day, a few years after Scarab had become the only Wishmaster. The beetle was still unaccustomed to hearing a voice so similar to Prismo's yet so horribly different. That voice didn't belong to the old man who addressed him, nor did the eyes, brimming with compassion, that looked at him so intently. Yet those features belonged to the old man; they were his. Prismo was nothing more than a dream of a wrinkled old man, so why did it hurt so much to think that the dreamer didn't bear the memories of him?

"Leave me alone," Scarab had hissed, truly hissed. He recalled the way his carapace seethed with irritation, his throat constricted with anger. He remembered the pain as the old man spoke to him in a voice he both wanted to listen to forever and cut off forever, the pain he was all too familiar with.

"You sure, Scrabby?" The old man had asked, tentatively raising a hand to place it on the beetle. The touch burned Scarab, prompting him to whip around and screech at the human.

"YOU DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

Scarab's fingers naturally slowed, drawing out the conclusion of the song. Purposefully, he seamlessly transitioned into one of his all-time favorite pieces. Inspired, primarily, by a piano but enhanced by the delicate strains of a violin. The tempo was slightly faster, but with over three eons of free time, Scarab had honed his skills.

He had hurt the human. Scarab remembered that. He remembered pushing the human away, swiping at him when he got too close, screeching at him whenever he tried to speak. He recalled the way the walls shook around them with his anger. He remembered the desire to just kill something, anything to alleviate the pain. He remembered the soft flesh grasped between his hands, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. He remembered staring at the human, held tight in his hands clamped around his neck, looking down with pure hate. He remembered the human's hands, calmly, unshakenly rising to gently cradle the beetle's wrists. The warmth against the cold in his limbs was all he needed to release the human. The old man's body fell like a ragdoll, collapsing onto the floor as he coughed. Scarab took a step back, two, three, breathing heavily as he stared at the human before him, limbs trembling with barely contained rage and guilt.

"...I'm sorry," the old man rasped, his voice quiet and hoarse from the pressure, a black bruise beginning to form on the wrinkly brown skin.

The song he played required two instruments to reach its true beauty. Scarab summoned his second pair of arms, his fingers instinctively paused, causing Scarab to blink in momentary confusion. Oh, right, he had developed a habit with this song. He summoned his cherished treble viol and nestled it against the inside of his legs.

Why are you sorry?" Scarab asked, his voice shaky with guilt. "I tried to kill you."

"I've seen grief before," the old man responded, rising to his feet and gingerly rubbing at the bruise. "It's not your fault you're hurting."

"But it is," Scarab retorted, remembering the day clearer than the ice that trapped him. "If I hadn't knocked away that spike, he might've lived." Guilt bit at his fingers, trailing up, higher, and higher, causing a burning desire in Scarab to rip off the affected limbs and just grow them back.

"You can't change the past," the old man responded, looking at him with something akin to empathy. But Scarab, in his rage, assumed it was pity.

"I know that," Scarab hissed, glaring at the human. "But that doesn't stop me from wishing it had gone differently. You weren't there that day; you don't know what it's like to taste the greatest happiness you've ever had. To have it on the cusp of your life, there, right in your fingers, yet so f*cking far away."

As his fingers moved with an ingrained muscle memory, Scarab delicately plucked at the strings of the violin, coaxing forth enchanting notes that reverberated through the surrounding trees. The melodies danced on the simulated wind, creating an ethereal symphony in the quiet forest. Summoning the viols matching bow, he held it over the strings, the subtle tap of his foot keeping time.

The old man simply stared at him, his gaze encouraging Scarab's outpouring of emotion. "Have you ever had something right there," Scarab's voice wavered, a raw edge cutting through each word, "so damn close that you could touch it, yet so damn far away because it's the end of it all? I gave it all up in that moment. My reputation, my hatred, my name. I gave up my damn name just to have that happiness. But no, I just had to lose it!" Scarab ranted, tears glistening in his eyes as he shook with the urge to do something. The old man watched in silence, offering Scarab the space to express himself.

"I lost everything I ever wanted in a single moment! Not even ten minutes! I was too damn stuck in the past to realize I had it right there! And when I finally relized, fully relized, that I cared for him, it was years after he died! And I got stuck with you! You! You're him! You're his dreamer, possessing his voice, his habits, his quirks, even his damn eyes! Yet you're not him; no, you're so different. Do you know what it feels like? To have everything in your hands in one moment, only for it to be snatched away in the next, returning to the place you were starting to call home, only to encounter a mimic of the one you loved?"

His words cracked with the weight of his anguish, and a deep sob escaped him. He raised his hand to muffle the sound, his legs finally giving in under the overwhelming emotions. Scarab remembered the old man approached slowly, knelt beside the beetle, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. And he remembered the old man pulling him into a tender hug.

Scarab concluded the song with a hauntingly drawn-out note, allowing its lingering melody to entwine with the whispering wind and eventually dissolve into the realm of fleeting moments. Slowly reopening his eyes, he gazed out into the dense forest, his vision seemingly unseeing, as a solitary tear traced a path down his cheek beneath the mask. The passing hours marked the automated daylight timer of the dome, initiating the gradual closure of its cover. Blinking back into focus, Scarab observed the simulated sunset casting its warm hues across the surroundings.

Against his better judgment, Scarab stole a glance toward the old man. Bathed in the soft palette of pinks, purples, and golden lights, the human bore an expression of peace with his closed eyes, acting as a living canvas of beauty. The sight evoked a pang of sorrow within Scarab's chest.

Turning away, Scarab swiftly banished his instruments with a zap, rising to his feet. Exiting the dome, he embarked on an aimless stroll along the intricate paths he had crafted. A small, contemplative smile graced his features as a star descended toward him. Raising his hand, he cradled the miniature universe within his palm, absorbing the echoes of winds and markets it carried before releasing it back into the void.

Continuing his meandering journey, Scarab indulged in touching each star, reveling in their unique sounds. The variety was immense, each star a distinct universe unto itself. Gradually, multiple stars began to gather around him, twinkling in their endearing way. Scarab chuckled softly as one playfully collided with his mask, prompting him to shift the faceplates to the back of his head, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh underneath. The stars twinkled joyfully, a few nestling into the curves of his neck and shoulders. One daringly nuzzled into his cheek.

In that moment, Scarab simply stood there, immersed in the symphony of universes surrendered by the stars. His eyes slipped shut as he softly petted one on his shoulder, its unique sounds reminiscent of a summer day. Abruptly, the stars began to float away from him, some choosing to linger in proximity while others trailed behind him. Tempted to turn and investigate, Scarab resisted, opening his eyes to focus instead on gently plucking the universes off of him and tossing them back into the void, each one returning to its cosmic home.

“Wow, Scrabby, love what you’ve done with the place,” came the familiar voice, and Scarab’s serene demeanor crumbled into a frown. Without turning around, he continued pushing stars away, a futile attempt to keep the cosmic ambience undisturbed.

“I have repeatedly told you not to use that nickname on me,” Scarab stated, his tone tinged with irritation. An affable chuckle slipped from the lips of the old man as they strolled in the cosmic tableau. Stars oddly converged around them, as if drawn to the interaction.

“I thought I’d get a special pass,” The old man’s playful retort echoed, and Scarab could already anticipate the headache that awaited him in the old man’s company.

“Go back to the garden and leave me be,” Scarab insisted, his desire for solitude palpable.

“Wow, you hurt me, Scrabby,” The old man paused, and Scarab felt a twitch in his brow. “I just noticed you changed your outfit! You look hot—er, very good. Very—very nice.”

A resigned sigh escaped Scarab. “Will you ever shut up?”

“But why are you short? I mean, not that it’s a bad thing, you look—”

“Human,” Scarab interjected, cutting off the old man behind him, hearing a confused sound in response. “I have told you over and over; I chose this form while I wait for someone else. Now, if you’ll leave me be, go on and do whatever you old humans do.”

“Scrabby—”

Finally, Scarab turned with a snarl, ready to deliver another reprimand. However, his words evaporated, and shock replaced his anger. Instead of the old man he had tolerated for years, he beheld the one person Scarab had longed to see. “Prismo?” Scarab whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. The human before him smiled, rubbing the back of his neck, adorned in long, flowing robes with golden accessories, showcasing that familiar chocolate skin and hot pink hair.

“Hey, that’s me—!” Prismo’s words were abruptly cut off as Scarab rushed forward, enveloping the human in a tight, desperate hug, as if fearing he might vanish at any moment. Scarab couldn’t contain the surge of emotions, and tears flowed freely down his face. He made no attempt to suppress them, choosing instead to bury his face into Prismo’s shoulder. The human responded with warm, comforting arms, holding Scarab close as he sobbed.

“H-hey,” Prismo spoke gently, patting the beetle’s back. “What’s with the waterworks?” Scarab pulled back, his expression contorted in a snarl as he glared at the human.

“You idiot! Why the hell did you go out and die when I specifically told you to return to the Time Cube?!” Scarab yelled, his caws digging int fabric on Prismo’s shoulders, fiercely shaking him. Despite the intensity of his words, there was an underlying vulnerability, a lack of the usual sharpness in Scarab’s actions. “If I wasn’t so happy to see you came back, I would kill you myself!”

Prismo’s dizzily charming smile met Scarab’s scowl as the beetle reluctantly allowed his hands to be pried away. Turning away, Scarab crossed his arms, attempting to conceal the telltale signs of tears and embarrassment. He didn’t anticipate revealing such vulnerability upon meeting Prismo again. He didn't expect to see Prismo again at all, and he was still in shock that Prismo was right behind him.

A soft laugh escaped Prismo, and he made another attempt to engage the beetle. “I’m sorry, Scrabby,” he said, but Scarab remained stoic, pushing away inquisitive stars and wiping away tears.

“Sorry that I died,” Prismo tried again, stepping forward to place a comforting hand on Scarab’s shoulder, causing the beetle to shiver slightly at the warm touch. “Should I say more?”

Scarab shot a stern look over his shoulder, brushing away the hand in a attempt to keep up apperences. “You should say that you should’ve listened to me, gone back to the Time Cube, and not ended up dying like a complete fool,” he hissed, swatting (gently) away a star that dared to approach.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you, go back to the Time Cube, and ended up dying like a complete fool,” Prismo repeated, the smile evident in his voice. “Happy now?”

Scarab hummed and then shook his head. “No.”

“Okay, okay, no need for the dramatics,” Prismo teased, moving to stand beside Scarab, who continued to avoid eye contact. The beetle swatted away persistent tears while Prismo chuckled. “Besides, it’s not like I planned on dying, you know. Stuff happens.”

Scarab huffed, his refusal to face Prismo still firm. “Stuff happens? Stuff wouldn’t have happened, and you would have been perfectly fine if you had listened to me.” The beetle was beginning to get overwhelmed by the reaperence of the human, causing him to take a few deep, albiet shakey, breaths to calm himself.

“I said I was sorry, Scrabby,” Prismo smiled. “I promise to listen to you and not die in the future, okay?”

Turning his head for a side-eye, Scarab grumbled, “You better. I’ve had enough of that nonsense.” Prismo laughed and draped an arm around Scarab’s shoulders, pulling him into a half-hug. The stars twinkled around them in celebration, amplifying the blush on Scarab’s face as Prismo curiously observed. He raised a hand, inviting the stars in, and immediately got swarmed. Scarab smiled slightlly at the pure panic on the human’s face.

“Don’t worry,” Scarab reassured, gently lifting one of the stars. He tossed it into the void, accompanied by the sounds of rivers and lakes. “They won’t hurt you.”

Prismo, curious and bewildered, asked, “What are they?” as he tried to coax the stars away. Scarab chuckled.

“Universes,” he replied, shooing the stars off Prismo. Holding a smaller star, he presented it to Prismo. The sounds of rain, wind, and a dog’s bark emanated from the star. Scarab grabbed Prismo’s hand, placing the star in the palm of his hand, admiring the wonder in Prismo’s expression.

“Wow,” Prismo uttered, releasing the star after a moment. “I didn’t know they did that.”

“There is a lot more to being Wishmaster than just granting wishes, Prismo,” Scarab teased, evoking a surprised look. He blinked, tilting his head.

“Okay, one, what did you do to my Scarab?” Prismo inquired, earning a soft chuckle from the beetle. Then his face warmed when he realized what Prismo had said. “And two, I just realized you don’t have your mask on.”

Scarab had forgotten that he'd removed the mask. Growing self-conscious, Scarab tried to pull the faceplates back over his face. “Oh, right. Sorry, I’ll—” Scarab’s words were cut off as Prismo released him and grabbed his wrist with both hands, brining the limb up and holding it gently. He looked at the human, surprised to see that very same emotion Scarab witnessed all those years ago. After a moment of recognition, his face went aflame when he identified it.

Love.

“You’re beautiful,” Prismo whispered, sliding his hand up Scarab’s arm before it rested on his elbow, easily avoiding the sharp spikes. Scarab didn’t move, allowing the human to slowly raise a hand and cradle his cheek. “Don’t ever cover yourself up, please.”

Scarab stood frozen, his senses attuned to the warmth of Prismo’s hand on his skin. The human maintained a steady gaze, thumb gently wiping away the traces of Scarab’s tears. The touch elicited a profound warmth within Scarab, emboldening him to find his voice amidst the emotional turmoil. “Prismo,” he uttered, the word delicate, wispy, laden with unspoken emotions. Prismo blinked, his face suddenly aflame, and he instinctively withdrew.

“S-sorry! Don’t know what—” Prismo’s words were cut short as Scarab seized the human’s face, gently pulling him down. Scarab didn't know what he was doing, having only imagined meeting the other in locked away written drafts and fantasies of his. And despite that, he couldn’t resist a fleeting glance at the lips he had only dreamt of feeling again.

“Can I try something?” Scarab hesitently whispered, his voice fragile yet miraculously devoid of stutter. Prismo’s eyes flickered downward before swiftly returning to meet Scarab’s gaze.

Prismo managed an awkward nod, hindered by Scarab’s hands still on his face. “Sure,” he responded, his voice oddly breathless.

“Then close your eyes,” Scarab instructed, embaressemnt heating his cheeks. Prismo complied, allowing his pretty blue eyes to slip shut. Scarab withdrew one of his hands, a small smile forming as he observed Prismo’s furrowed brows. Hesitant yet determined, Scarab gently took hold of Prismo’s wrist and guided it to his waist, the other hand quickly following suit. Scarab inhaled deeply, seeking to quell the rising nerves, relying on a thousand-year plan before tilting Prismo’s head downward.

With a hint of hesitation, Scarab brought their faces closer, causing Prismo to draw in a breath through his nose. It was a fleeting moment, just a simple peck, but when Scarab attempted to withdraw, Prismo chased, his hand rising from its previous place to cradle the back of Scarab’s neck. The human held him in place as Prismo initiated a full-fledged kiss. Scarab froze in brief shock before responding promptly, meeting the kiss with equal enthusiasm as his mandibles found their place on the human's cheeks.

Prismo’s lips felt soft and warm against Scarab’s, carrying a hint of salt from lingering tears on their skin. Behind the salt, there was a sweet taste of cotton candy and other delectable treats, a flavor as addictive as poison—an intoxication that Scarab found himself eager to indulge in. His heart thundered in his chest, creating a near-deafening rhythm that paradoxically made him feel overwhelmingly alive. Prismo’s hand glided from Scarab’s neck to his cheek, deepening the kiss. A small trill escaped Scarab, prompting Prismo to break away, a soft laugh resonating against his face. When Scarab opened his eyes, he found Prismo gazing at him with a warmth that nearly burned.

“What’s so funny?” Scarab inquired, his voice hoarse and filled with longing.

“Nothing, lovebug,” Prismo replied, and the endearing nickname set Scarab’s cheeks ablaze. “You just made a cute noise.”

“I did?” Scarab asked, pulling away slightly. His reaction rewarded with a small kiss on his forehead, causing him to chrip softly. He bit his lip to try and stifle any other noises he might make.

“Mhm, is this alright?” Prismo inquired, planting tender kisses all over Scarab’s face. Scarab offered no verbal response, only closing his eyes and sighing contently as Prismo continued with delicate kisses on his eyelids. A small trill escaped him when Prismo placed a gentle kiss at the base of his antennae, prompting Scarab’s eyes to snap open as he instinctively covered his face. Prismo chuckled softly, reaching up to gently remove Scarab’s hand and proceeding to pepper more kisses on each talon.

“That’s new,” Scarab whispered, earning a warm smile in response. Scarab looked away, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Prismo, ever perceptive, gently guided Scarab’s hand to rest on his shoulder and used his free hand to turn Scarab’s face toward him.

“Do you want some more?” Prismo asked, relinquishing control to Scarab. Scarab hesitated, nerves flaring up in his stomach, before he indicated his desires with a subtle nod. Without further words, they reunited, their bodies and lips pressed together. Scarab’s hands found their places—one tangled in Prismo’s soft pink hair, eliciting a pleased noise from Prismothat Scarab eagerly swallowed, and the other pressing firmly against Prismo’s back, drawing them even closer. Prismo’s hands mirrored the intimacy, one resting on Scarab’s waist and the other caressing his cheek in gentle circles. Scarab sought more, more, more, pressing closer, searching for that high.

A soft gasp escaped Scarab when he felt Prismo nip at him, opening his mouth in anticipation for more, only to emit a soft whine when Prismo pulled away. Overwhelmed and embarressed, Scarab leaned into Prismo’s chest, his breaths coming in heavy, labored gasps, and his face burning with a deep blush. The world seemed to spin around him, and he clung to Prismo, listening to the comforting rhythm of the human’s own accelerated heartbeat.

“T-there’s a wisher that’s been waiting for the better part of an hour,” Prismo said, his voice hoarse and breathless, an undertone of delight evident in his words. The realization filled Scarab with a sense of accomplishment before he fully registered what Prismo had said. Groaning into the human’s chest, Scarab reluctantly pulled away, took a step back, and examined the situation for himself. Indeed, there was a wisher patiently waiting. With a casual flick of his wrist, Scarab opened the door and turned to face Prismo.

“You are still the Wishmaster, Prismo,” Scarab reminded him, his own voice slightly breathless. “Do you want to handle this one?”

“Nah,” Prismo responded, wrapping Scarab in a hug and resting his head on the beetle’s head. “I did just come back from the dead.” Scarab huffed and peeled the human off of him.

“Then go back to the garden,” Scarab instructed, earning a hum and a nod from Prismo.

“We’ll continue this later,” Prismo added with a wink before manipulating the floor beneath him. The yellow surface enveloped him, and a moment later, they fell back into the floor, leaving Scarab alone with a few curious stars. Scarab buried his face in his hands, a mix of positive emotions and embarrassment flooding over him for appearing so desperate.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Scarab conjured a wall and pressed his form into it, reverting to his 2D state. He appeared at the visitor block and scrutinized his own appearance. Good, he didn't look desprete or flustered. Adjusting the paths to expedite the wisher’s arrival, Scarab impatiently tapped his talons against his arm while he waited. As soon as the wisher appeared, offering a respectful bow, Scarab cut to the chase.

“Great Wishmaster! I am-”

“Do you know who I am and what a wish is?” Scarab interrupted. The creature paused, then nodded. “Good, make your wish.”

“Forgive me, great Wishmaster, but may I request some time to refine my wish?” the wisher politely asked. Scarab silently cursed his luck. Of course, one of his absolute favorite types of clients would show up now.

“Fine,” he spat, “but hurry up.” Thankfully, they thought quickly and collected their words, pausing just before revealing their wish.

“Great Wishmaster,” they said, earning a glare from Scarab. “If I may, why is it that you look so… flustered?”

“You interrupted me at a very important time,” Scarab responded, sharpening his glare. “Now hurry up, what’s your wish?” The wisher smiled and nodded.

“I wish for the power to protect my loved ones, ever changing to suit the time I need to protect them, and never running out.”

“Wish granted,” he declared, fortunate that the wish was so detailed. The wisher faded with a smile, finally leaving Scarab alone.

Now, it was time to return to his garden.