MURDER TIME TRIO 🔪🧣🪓

Eventually, he spots it: Horror, crouching besides a bollard with thick ropes at his feet. Murder stops a couple feet away on the boardwalk, looking down at the pier where Horror is. The other skeleton sports a tank top, bit torn at the arm holes. His jacket is tied around his waist, smudged with oil and grease. He looks focused, with a frown between his eyes that Murder dares call cute. Horror wouldn't like that though.

And, the one-eyed monster stirs a little at the new presence he cannot see just yet, but his expression twists into one of annoyance. He throws the rope on the ground, grumbling.

"What? I told you. I don't know where Marc kept the fucking tool box. Just--" He turns halfway and meets Murder's eye with his singular de-powered one. His rant cuts off. "... What the hell are you doing here?"

Murder shrugs, hands in his pockets still. "Can't I visit?" he asks, voice muffled behind his mask. Horror cleans his hands with a filthy rag before tossing it aside, still frowning at Murder.

"You've never done it before," he says.

"I'm doing it now," Murder mutters, suddenly feeling out of step. Maybe he's doing wrong, coming here without saying anything. Maybe he's made a mistake.

... As if he'd never done it before. Ha.

A voice sounds behind Horror. "One-Eyed, who's this?" An arm slings over Horror, but the skeleton just scowls and slaps it away. The stranger, probably Horror's coworker, laughs and whistles at Murder. "Well, shit. That your beau? You have someone cook and bring breakfast for you, Rory? Kiss you goodbye at the dock like a wife with sailor at sea?"

"Shut your bitchass mouth before I knock all your teeth off," Horror grounds out, but barely any true malice behind the words, just pure annoyance.

The other fisherman just keeps going anyway. "Color me surprised, I guess. Didn't think anyone would tolerate your ugly ass long enough for a relationship. But hey, one man's trash, another man's treasure." He looks up at Murder with a crooked grin. "Sorry you got stuck with this guy, man."

Murder shifts, mostly from the cold. His hand adjusts his mask. "It's fine," he replies, almost mechanically. "I have shit taste, I know."

The fisherman laughs again. "He's such a miserable little shit, yeah. How did you two get together anyway?"

Horror turns fully towards his coworker, a storm taking over his face. "Go the fuck back to work."

"Can't. Busy talking to your mysterious boyfriend."

Horror picks up an anchor. A real metal anchor that scrapes loudly on the wooden boards.

The other guy takes one look at it and immediately backs off, hands in a placating gesture.

"Okay, okay. I'm backing off. Chill, man."

Horror only lets out a gruff, "Leave."

"I'm leaving."

"Don't bother me."

"You're such a charming guy."

"Die at sea."

The coworker laughs all the way down the dock. Murder watches his back, then turns his attention back to a still-fuming Horror.

He distinctly remembers what Killer told him before dropping him off here. You guys should hang out more, the tar-streaked skeleton crowed. You look really cute together, you know? And so, Murder is here, staring down at Horror and not knowing what he should do except existing in the same space as this specimen of a Sans. So confrontational. So antisocial. So unlikable. Murder could see how others eye Horror here. And in a sense, he could relate to that acute sense of alienation -- he's not exactly the best person around either.

Still, he feels the need to give unsolicited advice. Not like Horror can't tell him to fuck off.

"You should be nicer," he says.

Horror scoffs, "Fuck off." Yup, he was right on the money.

"Just saying. People will like you more."

"I don't want people to like me."

"... I want people to like you."

Horror sends him a look, the same one that carries so much silent derisive judgment. Murder resists the urge to duck his head, feeling stupid again, even though he knows he shouldn't. Still, being with a person like Horror -- being with someone who is so socially challenging -- sends his nerves all jittery. He wants to be with Horror. He does. But Horror is always making it hard to be seen with him. Always so brash and brutish and ill-mannered--

What kind of person thinks of his partner like that.

Murder winces to himself, not turning his head at the disembodied voice. Somewhere, far away yet too close at the same time, he can hear the droning of his incompetent therapist, listing out what's wrong with him specifically, as if no one also has these floating thoughts about others.

At least, unlike some people, he does go to therapy.

He doesn't say anything though, just idly watching Horror do his work. The skeletal fisherman scowls at something, muttering to himself before jumping into his boat, ropes slung over his shoulder.

"--the fuck..." is all Murder could make out amidst the mumbling. The wind disperses the rest in the night.

"What is it?" Murder asks, just to fill in the silence. Horror just frowns deeper.

"Nothing."

Murder stays quiet afterwards, shuffling his feet as Horror goes back to his task once more. Awkwardly, he steps closer to the ledge and leans against the bollard.

"... You heading out all night?" he asks, lamely. He knows the answer anyway, but feels the need to talk.

"What do you think fishing boats do?" Horror grumbles.

Murder tilts his head. "Fish?"

"There. You're learning."

What an asshole. And yet, Murder cannot stop thinking fondly about it. There's something refreshing about such a disarmingly, unashamedly boorish Sans. They don't allow themselves to be such across universes much, but still Murder wants to cling onto some remnants of his old self.

Why though. You hate Sans.

"Do you usually take so much time preparing?" he asks another question.

"Yeah. Because I don't want to get stranded at sea. Shit's creepy."

"Is it?" Murder looks up at the horizon. "Looks peaceful to me."

"From here, maybe," Horror scoffs, finagling with some metal hooks. "Out there, the mistress' a bitch."

"Careful," a gruff voice chimes in, startling Murder. Fuck, are they all creepy silent in the dark like that? "Don't talk about her like that. Bad luck."

Horror snorts. "I can talk about it as much as I want."

Murder hesitates. "It sounds like a dangerous job," he settles.

"Eh, guess so," Horror mumbles. "Not any worse than back home. Least, the fuckers there weren't as superstitious as these ones."

Horror's old coworker smacks his arm. "It's called having sense, you stupid hotshot. Ain't any of us surviving without precaution!"

Horror rolls his eye, shooting Murder a look that perfectly conveys the message of 'Do you see what I have to deal with?'. Murder just grins back, nodding an amused yes.

Satisfied, Horror continues his work, snarking intermittently at his coworker. And Murder continues to watch, letting the conversation turn into soothing white noise in the background. He shifts his position, leaning backwards slightly so his legs would feel less cramped.

His sneaker steps on something slick.

His foot slips.

The world spins, going terrifyingly dark for a moment. Then--

Splash! Cold, dirty water envelops him. Murder tries very hard to activate his eyelights when water rushes directly into his skull. He floats to the surface, violently coughing out the disgusting water.

Above him, Horror was already shouting.

"--der! Murder!"

"I'm fine!" he shouts back, a bit hoarse. Stars, he hopes he doesn't get some rare viruses from this awful water.

Horror is halfway over the boat rail, throwing down some ladder. "Grab it!" he yells.

Murder flaps his arms to turn around and see the ladder. Good. It's only a few feet away; he can definitely reach it.

He moves a little closer, just as Horror asks loudly, "How the fuck did you fall? Be careful next time, fucking hell. You gave me a fright."

"Stop fretting," Murder mutters back, his fingers grabbing onto the net on the boat's surface. "Was just tired..."

"Ugh, sorry for worrying, I guess." Murder can hear Horror roll his eye. "But seriously, next time, look where you stand, dumbass."

Murder huffs. The cold water has shocked him out of his sleepiness somewhat. He's able to get one foot on the ladder, hoisting his hips out of the dark water at last. He tries to lift his other leg, only to find something snagging at the cuff of his pants.

He blinks. Tries to yank his leg again, to no avail.

"Stop dawdling and climb up here already!" Horror yells.

"I'm trying!" Murder yells back, a bit irritated. "But my leg is stuck on something! Anchor or some shit."

"Anc-- What? We didn't have any dead weight, right?"

"Uh, no?" comes another strange voice from above. "We shouldn't have any anchor--"

Something pulls Murder's leg, hard enough that he slips off the ladder and his head disappears entirely under the surface. Cold water rushes back into his skull. The harbor and night sky explode into bubbles and mushy dark shapes.

He kicks his leg out instinctively, trying to dislodge whatever is grabbing his ankle. The grip only tightens, much to his panic.

what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck is grabbing me

His magic lights up pitifully, snuffed out instantly by the magic suppressor right in his SOUL. He can't form any attack. He can't do any offensive magic. He can't kill whatever thing is killing him. This cannot be.

He tries to use blue magic on himself. Tries to shoot himself back up above the water surface and takes an unnecessary gasp of air. Horror's shouts sound broken mixed with those from others, clamoring at his flailing form in the water.

"Something--" he gasps out eventually. "Something-- Something's grabbing me--"

Hands reach for his raised ones. Some fishermen -- sailors too, he thinks amidst the panic -- hold him tightly above surface as something bubbles near his legs. Just what the fuck is going on?

There's a splash of water. More yells. And then, his leg feels lighter, and he's pulled out of the water. Blankets immediately cover his head and back. He grips onto them, shaking, still hearing the frantic beats of his SOUL, still hearing the rush of water in his skull.

He sits there, in the boat, and only jerks his head when a shadow falls over him. Startled, he looks up, only to see Horror, drenched, a bloodied harpoon in his hand, looking decidedly pissed.

"... You okay?" the one-eyed monster asks, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Murder nods, mutely.

"You sure?"

Another nod.

Silence. The crew around them runs around, their footsteps and voices loud enough to drown Murder's own hallucinations. For now.

"Oi, Fay," Horror calls out eventually, still staring dead at Murder. "Tell the old piss-drinker I'm not working today. He can bitch at the gulls about it."

"What--" A voice echoes somewhere, presumably Fay's. "You serious, Rory?"

"Yeah." Horror pulls Murder's arm up, the blanket still over his shoulders. "I'm taking my boyfriend home. Tell the decrepit fuck to fix the lights on the ship too. Tell him to stick his money up his stingy ass."

And then, everything goes by in a flash to Murder. He's on the boardwalk. Then, he's in the truck. Horror starts the engine. The harbor disappears from Murder's periphery.

They're quiet. The roads are relatively empty, save for a few other trucks running overnight.

Horror turns the radio. Some horror story podcast is playing. Ironic.

Eventually, Horror says, "Stop coming to my work next time." Bland. Matter-of-fact.

So, Murder responds, in kind, "Yeah. Okay."

The pay is horrible, but at least he's getting paid now.

Sometimes, he wishes he still worked for his old, much more malignant bosses.

It's raining today, something weather forecast didn't predict. It means more people staying inside and ordering takeout from the comfort of their houses or cubicles, so that's a good thing. The bad thing is that this might affect his date he arranged with Murder afterwards.

He stops at a small parking space in the tree's shade, a small congregation site for all delivery guys his kind to rest from the tepid rain. Some are lying across their old mopeds, taking a short nap from their work. Some are having their late soggy lunches, chatting among themselves like brothers in the same rickety boat.

Killer's phone buzzes not five minutes into his spaced-out break. A new order from a nearby noodle shop. Task received.

By eight thirty in the evening, his shoulders start to ache. He's been working nonstop for 30 hours after all. The app keeps offering tiny bonuses that he can't quite seem to reach, maybe because he's too slow to ensure delivery in the desired time frame. Maybe he should upgrade his moped into something nicer. More efficient. He wonders if he's accrued enough money for that yet.

He'll check once he's done his latest run of delivery. Delivering for 48 hours straight is a fun achievement. Another badge to earn for him, given by himself.

The next order sends him to a familiar industrial district at the edge of the city. Two bowls of pork rice, with extra chili oil. Nice.

He parks outside the front door to an office lot address. In the background, the factories glow in a row of orange heat, smog billowing like breaths from a slumbering dragon hoarding its gold. Like it's sleeping, eternally so.

"Order for... Ivaan?" He knocks on the door where a security guard sits behind. The door buzzes, and he's let in. Ha. These places will be so easy to infiltrate.

A clean-shaven, neat-looking office worker greets him and accepts the order. 10% tip. Not much, but better than nothing. Killer wishes them a good night shift, as per habit, then walks outside. He rides to where he knows Murder is working at, and waits, looking at inane cat videos to pass the time. Notifications from myriads of apps keep coming, but he barely pays them any mind.

Eventually, amidst the crowd, he spots Murder, who looks exhausted as always, even with his face mask on. The dark circles under his eyes are even deeper today, and his clothes look ruffled. He looks like he has only slept for four hours instead of eight, which tracks for his awful 6-to-9 work.

Killer leans against his moped, quickly checking himself in the rearview mirror -- good, he looks presentable especially with his mysterious helmet on -- before honking the horn. Murder turns his head immediately, sockets scrunching up in a smile-grimace.

"Hey there, handsome," Killer grins, waving his head. "You waiting for someone?"

Murder might have let out a huff, but Killer can't be sure. The hooded man walks towards him though, which is a glowing endorsement of his charisma. Killer leans back, smile stretching wider on his obscured face.

"Date stood you up?" he asked, tone cheeky. "Man, who would treat such a treat like you like that? Wanna take a ride... on my bike?"

Murder's sockets curve upwards, just a tiny bit, as if smiling. Killer grins wider.

"Is that a yes? Lucky for you, I have a spare helmet here." He takes off a helmet hanging from a small hook in the front and tosses it to Murder, who catches it with blue magic with ease. Angels inside, he loves his men who knows what to do with their insane command of magic. "Get on, handsome. Let me show you a good time."

Murder snorts as he puts the helmet on, this one without a visor. Killer quickly gets on the moped, and soon after Murder follows. The latter's arms wraps around Killer's waist and his cheek rests on Killer's back as the rider starts the engine. Aw, bunny is real tired today then.

"You wanna be my partner-in-crime today, bun?" Killer asks as he rides out of the parking lot. Night wind breezes past him, and Murder squeezes his arms tighter.

"Mm, sure..." the quiet skeleton murmurs, easily accepting the phone Killer gives him. The white light illuminates his cute face perfectly, but Killer has to focus on the road now.

The city blurs around them in traffic lights and neon signs and too-bright streetlamps and glaring LED headlights from fellow road travelers. Order after order, they pass by restaurants and hotel lobbies and tall apartments. Killer handles the driving and delivering, and Murder just sits behind him and murmurs the directions in a sleepy voice. Occasionally, Killer beams at a spot they see on the way: a cafe he notices just opened, a local game arcade, a spa too expensive for them to even use the parking lot at. New things, wonderful things that keep this city from being too stale for Killer's taste. There's always something to explore here, somewhere he'd like to bring Murder and/or Horror to experience with him.

"Turn right in three hundred meters," Murder says to him as they wait in a traffic jam. Killer laughs behind his visor.

"Which one, babe? There are like a dozen of alleys on the right here."

"The one in three hundred meters," Murder deadpans, then sighs. "Never mind. When you're near, I'll tell you."

"You're the best, bunny."

Murder pauses a little. "... This is kinda romantic," he says, pressing closer against Killer's back. "Guess nothing's more romantic than delivering overpriced lukewarm burritos together on a weekend."

"I don't know," Killer hums, kicking his pedal to start moving once more once the red light turns green. "We're spending quality time together, right?"

"We're working."

"Intimate knowledge of my day, even better."

Murder snorts, but doesn't contradict him. Killer takes that as another win.

At the apartment of their destination, they stop in the front yard as the customer told them to wait there and is taking forever to get down. Killer gets down from the moped while Murder still sits in the back seat, raising an eye ridge when Killer lifts his visor up.

"Nice place here, don't you think?" Killer grins, bonking the top of his helmet against Murder's. "Quiet. Clean. Lots of trees here. One day, I'll get us an apartment here."

"Really?" Murder smiles drowsily against his teeth. "With what money?"

"Mine. Or, well, ours." Killer chuckles. "I'm hard-working. We can get it in, well, maybe ten years or so, if we're saving just right."

"Mm..."

They stay close like that, under the single warm streetlamp casting elongated shadows on the parking lot lines. Their mouths almost brush each other, but they don't close the distance. They never do. Or, more like, Killer never does. He's seen Horror and Murder kiss many times. It's cute, yeah, but not something he feels like doing. For some reason, it feels too real for what he's playing with these two -- a simulacrum of a real relationship.

He's not like them. He has to remind himself that.

When the customer comes down, they profusely apologize while accepting the bag from Killer's nimble hands. Their gaze shifts from Killer to Murder, a hesitant polite smile on their face.

"Uh, sorry to ask but... Are you guys together?" they say. "You're very cute."

"Yep," Killer beams. "That's my boo right there. We're having a date but, you know, no rest for the wicked."

"Oh... Sounds-- Uhm..." The customer shuffles their feet, then reaches inside their pocket. "I have twenty dollars here. You guys should... take a break."

"Aww! Thanks a lot!" Killer smiles, accepting the cash. "Don't forget to leave a good review!"

"Thank you," Murder mutters to the customer, more reticent than his partner. The customer just blinks and smiles at them both.

"It's nothing. Have a good night, you two."

"We will!" Killer shouts as the person goes back to their apartment, then he turns to Murder, whistling. "Twenty dollar tip. We're rich."

Murder snorts, humoring him. "Enough for a yacht, I see."

"And a car. And trip to Bangkok. And a sauna day. And--"

And they keep working, until around one thirty in the morning when there's no more regular orders in the area. Killer stops at a convenience store near the river. One cashier mans the booth, looking bored as they flip through magazines. Killer and Murder pick out some cup noodles (with sausages because they have money today), microwave dumplings, and two cans of coffee. Feeling a bit fancy today, Killer grabs a pack of peach-shaped popsicles he's seen on social media lately, prompting Murder to eye him strangely.

They take the seat by the window, looking out from the front of the store. Murder starts slurping on his noodles while Killer slowly sips on the canned coffee.

"That one tastes like battery acid," Murder grumbles, his own can opened but abandoned on the side.

"All coffee tastes like that, I think," Killer chortles through the sips. "Besides, it's not the taste but the caffeine that makes me like it."

"It's because you have no taste."

Killer hums, a noncommittal noise. The river looks dark, decorated only by the shimmers of lights on its shiny surface. The scene is nothing spectacular, especially with trash bags littering the riverbed, but it's something to look at. Far away, he can hear the echoing horn of a cargo ship. It's time for Horror to go to work, he muses. They have such contradicting schedules, it's hard to organize some meetup between all three of them.

For a while, comfortable silence blankets over both him and Murder. Then, the quiet monster breaks it.

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing," Killer hums. "Just, you know, work."

"... You ever miss the old one?"

Pause. Killer taps on the can, a habit he's learned from Horror of all people.

"Sometimes," he replies after a while. "I miss not having to pay rent."

"Fair."

"I miss having more people around."

"Mm," Murder makes a sound in his throat. "You have us."

A grin, artificial as ever. "I do."

"... I like you."

The answer comes easy. Practiced. "I like you too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A rustle. Murder throws the empty cup noodle in the trash can with terrifying accuracy. Such good talent wasted on working a bone-crushing assembly line job.

"Cool," Murder mutters, not looking at him. Killer can see the side of his skull turning a slight blushing purple.

"Cool," he echoes, grinning. His SOUL is deathly still. "You wanna go home now?"

Murder does.

Killer waves him outside, checking his phone. Almost two thirty, so they've spent around an hour on break. It's not optimal, but having some time with Murder is worth the dip in productivity, if only a little.

The engine sputters to life. Murder rests against his back again as he rides off into the night. He wouldn't mind if Murder fell asleep right here. The wind must be cozy.