Hello, future vic— I mean, fans. Yes. Fans. Let's keep it professional. It's me — the Klimer of your dreams. I've been told that if I don't want to cough up a massive fine for allegedly sponsoring a slasher disaster that nearly got an entire Hasher team wiped, I need to "make amends" by helping clean it up.
Legal phrasing aside, that means I've got to hunt one of my own.
There was supposed to be someone else handling this — some handsome uncle type, all cane, scars, and silver hair. You know the kind. He was lined up to take the fall. Unfortunately for him, he's currently on forced recovery after an incident. Which may or may not have involved me. Slippery floors. Bad timing. Who's to say?
After all, some sexy dino dad and his sons chose to learn the hard way. They were such good cooks, too. Shame, really. But humans are fragile, even with all their enhancements. No matter how upgraded they get over the years, monsters still win — through evolution… or maybe devolution. Hard to tell the difference when the claws come out and the organs start getting rearranged.
For those who don't know me — shame on you — I'm Klimer. Yes, that Klimer. Nicky's ex. Or, as she so sweetly refers to me: "That bitch-ass, Slimerfucker salter who crawled out of some haunted sponsorship hole like the baby daddy from hell." Or sometimes: "The asshole who can't do a damn thing without hijacking my systems." And my personal favorite? "Crawl back into the trauma-hole you spawned from, you legally licensed tapeworm." Real poetic stuff.
Lady's got range — but she's still a fucking bitch. I've been paying goddamn child support since the '90s. Back when it actually started becoming a thing. You don't forget that kind of invoice — spiritually or financially.
Anyway, you should've seen the look she gave me when I walked into the room. Straight-up banshee fury. She screamed like hell opened a tab in her throat and lunged like she hadn't been held back in decades. Vicky ended up grabbing her by the waist before she could slice through space and logic. The Sonster tagging along held up a clipboard — actual paperwork, stamped and everything. Probably cursed. Nicky didn't even read it. Just jumped into the nearest portal and vanished like I was a glitch she didn't have time for.
Vicky stood there, arms crossed, eyes heavy like stone grinding down what little patience he had left. I gave him a sideways smile and said, "She's such a charmer, isn't she?"
He didn't laugh. Just raised one hand and started flipping through the clipboard the Sonster left behind like it was a divine warrant. His voice stayed dry, clipped, and annoyed: "Do not get me started, Klimer. Yes, I saw the post. And yes — Nicky stumbled on it. You know how hard it is to get her to calm down. Just 'cause y'all share custody of a lot of kids doesn't mean you've gotta be an asshat. Don't you ever get tired of it?"
I started to laugh and waved him off. "What? She was going to explain it sooner or later."
But even as I said it, I thought about the so-called 'rejects' Nicky saved from me. I didn't want them anyway. They ran to her like she could fix something they never understood. Like I wasn't the source. Like I wasn't the origin. They should be lucky she took them in… but that one child of stone she took from me? Yeah, I'm still mad about that one.
He didn't smile. Just finished signing the last form with a dramatic, frustrated flourish and handed the board off with a stare that could level city blocks. "It was only half your story to tell," he muttered, tone low and final. "So let's go."
We started walking — slowly, like the world hadn't already caught fire behind us — toward the next target zone. I tried to lighten the mood. That's what I do.
It's been a minute since Vicky and I teamed up. And no, it's not always about Nicky. We both got jobs outside our drama, you know. The realms don't revolve around us. We got other shit going on.
"It's been a minute since we had an adventure of our own. Oh honey, remember the '70s? You and Nicky being super messy, and I had to go undercover in one of your cul—"
Vicky stopped walking and slid his shield directly on top of my boot like it owed him rent. His eyes snapped to mine, cold and sharp. If I was not made of slime, then I am pretty sure I would've lost toes at that moment.
Though, I can see why Nicky fell for this man. He's got that pretty little light in him — the kind I'd love to snuff out just to watch it flicker. But at the same time? He can keep up with her… and with me. In battle, no less. That's not easy.
I mean, I know he doesn't use magic — he's all science and strategy — but still. Is he even a normal elf, by his kind's standards? Because honestly, he should've been dead a dozen times over with the missions our companies threw us into. But somehow, the slashers? They love him.
Still… listening to him talk? Gods, it's boring. This is the little speech he gives almost every time we team up — which, thankfully, isn't that often.
"Listen. Just because Nicky isn't here and I'm tolerating your ass for this job does not mean I won't shove this shield so far up your spine, you'll rattle every time someone says her name. And I know it can fit."
They would've paired me with Nicky instead, but we have a habit of going overboard. And, well... we hate each other.
I blew him a fake kiss and kept walking like I hadn't just nearly died via magical homicide. That's the dance, baby — one threat, one flirt, one step closer to chaos.
Then I heard it: low, old-school cackling, the kind of laugh that comes with splinters and regret baked in.
Oh yeah. We were close.
Vicky's steps slowed beside me, tension rippling off him like heat from cursed concrete. I could practically feel the curse words building behind his teeth, waiting to detonate.
We'd made it — behind the stage — just as Vicky started cursing in Spanish.
And I knew why. Vicky hated puppets.
What, like I don't keep tabs? I know his file. Puppets aren't his thing — not even the cute ones. Did I try to use that to scare him once? Of course I did. Did it backfire? Tragically. Turns out he's been trained to fight them. Like, officially. Puppet-fighting certification and everything.
You vic— I mean, fans. You're probably expecting me to betray him right now, aren't you?
The drama, the setup, the history — it's all there. On paper, it'd make sense. But let me be clear:
Hell no.
Because if I did that? We'd shift genres, baby.
What you're watching right now — this story we're crawling through? It's *dark romance comedy-horror*. The blood comes with banter. The stakes stab, but you still laugh. Maybe even kiss.
But betrayal? That's how we flip the switch. That's how we end up in *pitch-black romance horror* — and trust me, that's a whole different beast.
See, dark romance is trauma with eyeliner and maybe some candles. You survive the monster, fall in love with the knife, and get a happy ending with bite marks.
But pitch-black? Pitch-black is where the monster wins. Where the knife talks back. Where every kiss tastes like ash and your "happy ending" is a curse that loops. It's funny… but not the ha-ha kind. It's the kind of comedy that leaves claw marks.
And baby, I've lived in that genre before.
I tried to betray them once — just once — and I ended up in a Hallmark curse.
Not a fun hell-torture room. A Hallmark curse.
The kind where everything smells like cinnamon trauma and fake snow, and you're stuck baking cookies with a ghost who wants to talk about "healing generational wounds." The kind where the pain is seasonal and the smiles are legally binding.
So, no.
We were close enough to the opening when Vicky shoved me forward and slammed the door shut behind me.
Didn't even give me time to glare at him.
That's about as close as he was willing to get to this task — the one I had to handle alone. Which, you know, *sucks*.
Because I wasn't walking into just another cleanup job. I was walking in to kill them.
And my system — the one that helped build this place, this zone, this entire fucking framework? It hates this.
It was humming in my blood like static. Angry. Wrong. Like I'd become the villain of my own patch notes.
Because this wasn't just a mission. This was mine.
Not just in paperwork. Not in oversight. But in blueprint, bone, and binding.
My power runs so deep I can gift it to others. Not lend. Not borrow. Gift.
I build frameworks other slashers live inside. I create zones. Design roles. Assign threat weight. Balance energy decay. My ability was made for real slashers — the ones who honor the craft. Who understand structure. Ritual. Respect.
But now? They were in here.
Trash slashers, chaos-glitched. Corrupted with no symmetry, no lore logic, no weight. Just teeth and trauma loops.
And they turned my puppets into a stage show of grief.
It's like building an MMORPG where everyone contributes. At first, it's fun. Gods, it's *so* fun. But then the troll squads move in. They exploit the mechanics, break the code, loot the soul-weapons, and turn your perfectly tuned horror engine into a laggy blood farm.
And if *you*, the dev, the creator, try to fix it?
You get punished.
That's what the system whispered to me now — Red UI flashing like a judgment in my skull:
\[System Violation Warning: Creator intervention will result in penalty.\] \[You have the right to reclaim or terminate assets, but any interference will flag as breach.\] \[Penalty: BROKE status – 24 hours. No access to linked systems, spells, or slashpass credit.\] \[Confirm: YOU are choosing this.\]
Twenty-four hours might not sound like much.
But for a slasher like me? That's an *eternity*.
No pings. No port access. No custom blades. No access to feedback threads, crisis pacts, or rebuild options. Twenty-four hours is enough time for an entire realm to rot.
And worse — I *trained* these puppets.
I knew each thread. Each voice node. I helped build their cores from broken performers, survivors, and dream-crafters who wanted something better.
Now I had to box them.
One by one, they attacked. One by one, I sealed them in.
They didn't hit hard. Not really. Most were weak. One tried to stab me with a glittered needle. Another tripped over its own foot trying to shield the others.
And the last one? A little marionette with tangled curls and a lullaby box stitched into its back? It tilted its head and whispered, *"I remember you."*
I almost dropped it.
But I wrapped it. Boxed it. Sealed the lid shut.
That's when Vicky stepped into the room.
He didn't say anything — just walked over and took the box from my hands like I was glass and static. Like he knew I couldn't carry it one more step.
I didn't stop him.
Then the portal opened behind him.
Nicky stepped through, quiet and fierce. Silver light rippling around her like the last threat before a spell detonates. Her eyes flicked from me… to Vicky… to the box.
She held out her hand.
Vicky gave it to her without hesitation.
And then — without a word — she walked over and handed the box *back to me.*
She looked me in the eye. And then? She handed me a napkin.
Not a spell. Not a charm. A napkin.
I took it. Wiped my face. Tried not to cry again.
And for just a second — just a flicker — I thought:
*Maybe she's not such a fucking bitch after all.*