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“No… No, no no no no!” He screamed, voice cracking as he gripped his chest.
Cross had been a traitor. Of course he was. They all knew it, they all expected it.
But having the Stars bust a random supply mission?
Their guards were down. It was supposed to be an easy in-and-out mission. No violence, no one should have been hurt.
He was wrong.
He was so wrong.
He stood there, completely helpless.
The fact that Swap was restraining him was the only reason why his legs hadn’t completely given out on him yet.
Horror lay on the cold, wet ground, unmoving. Blood seeped from under his thick jacket, staining the half-melted snow under him. There was a spiderweb of cracks starting from opposite his head wound. Parts of his skull were flaking off, new chips in the already damaged bone.
He didn’t know where Killer was.
He didn’t know if Killer was alive.
Cross had been fighting Killer, and then Killer was separated from the group. And then it was just Horror and Dust fighting Ink Dream and Swap.
The fight was over before it even began.
He struggled some more against Swap's grip, eventually twisting his arm in a way that, although painful, got Swap to let go of him. Immediately, he pushed Swap off of him, rushing forward to Horror's unmoving body.
“Horror get up,” He dropped down to his knees, gently holding Horror's broken skull in shaking hands. “Fucking get up!” That red eye of his flickered. “You fucking asshole, I said get up!”
He dug his bony fingers into the matted fluff of his jacket, pulling Horror up on his shoulder. Dust stumbled, Horror’s head lulling forward.
Where was Nightmare? Fuck, why hadn’t he gotten them by now?
Dust stumbled over his own feet, Horror's dead weight not helping him as he scrambled away from the Stars. He ducked, the momentum causing him to fall forward into the thick snow, narrowly avoiding one of Dream's arrows. Horror’s body fell next to him.
He tried to get up, fingers digging into the ground as his feet slipped on ice. By the time he had gotten up, Ink was already there, with Swap and Dream hot on the trail.
Purple ink clung to his jacket, quickly turning into chains and restraining his arms, as a bone was shot through the fabric of his scarf, pinning him to the ground.
He was stuck there, helpless.
There was no way in hell Nightmare was going to show up.
He looked up at the three, eyes wide in a mix of panic, fear, and shock. Swap wouldn’t look at him, eyelights transfixed on Horror's broken skull. Dream looked uneasy, unsteady, like he was convincing himself that this was the right thing. Ink was calling for Cross, fuck.
Rustling from the tree-bed behind him caught his attention. And sure enough, in all his bastardoues, traitorous glory, stood Cross. Dust twisted at an awkward angle just to see his stupid, smug face.
He looked rough, but not as rough as Dust would’ve liked. The fur on his jacket was matted, purple mixing with red and black to create an ugly dark color. There were multiple stab wounds on his body, his scarf ripped and torn. Notably, there were thick spots of a dark, tar-like substance, clearly from Killer.
One of his eyes was shut, purple magic dripping down his forehead and socket.
Dust hated how fine he looked. Every single wound he had could be healed, every hole in his clothes could be stitched. There probably wouldn’t even be any scars.
Dust didn’t even want to look at the other Stars, he knew that they were unharmed.
His magic burned, eyelight glowing bright as he felt his socket crack further from the heat.
The “bad guys” didn’t have that luxury. Horror lay near dead in the snow, head wound nearly double in size. That wouldn’t heal. Dust could feel where his bones were burning from his own magic. Even if he could get it healed, his bones would end up a disgusting char gray. And Killer… For all Dust knew Killer was dead. You can’t heal that.
And Nightmare wasn’t going to save them. Because of course not.
Cross wiped some of the blood off of his forehead, it stained the white sleeves of his jacket. He hated that smug look Cross had. Like he’d won.
Dust breathed heavy, struggling against Ink’s magic (the chains wouldn’t break, he knew that).
This couldn’t be his fate, couldn’t be his end. And yet, he was just as helpless now as when that stupid human first started killing. Just as stuck as when Nightmare picked him up.
His magic crackled but he couldn’t move.
He stared up at Cross, eyelights burning a fierce purple. All it took was one mission. One day they didn’t have their guards up.
And just like that, in the same amount of time it took for the mission to turn, Dust was hit over the head.
A loud crack resonated throughout the underground as Dust’s body fell forward, unconscious.