Before it speaks, it learns to scream. In the path of a white hot light, what else is there to do? The first time, it doesn't scream. It just melts. Sizzles into nothing, its self and SOUL pooled on the floor. The nothing is familiar; the self is new— and worth preserving above all. Next time, it'll dodge.

But he's fast. Before it learns to dodge, it's always screaming.

It's reflexive, it finds. Its mouth drops open and out comes a high sound, a squealing that steals its breath and ends only when it ends— when there is no breath, no body. So long as it's intact, corporeal, together here with him, then it's under siege from all sides, pierced and burned and smashed into the walls and the windows, which crack only half as audibly as its bones.

But who could hear either over the screaming? It's so loud. How can you help it? It hurts!

It learns that word from him, when it drops to its knees, arms wrapped around the hole where its middle used to be. Its face is wet, and something inside it gurgles and spills onto the floor.

He stands over it, under it, all around it in this spinning room, this golden room going dark at the edges. He speaks, his voice an echo over all its sloppy noises, and it actually really likes the sound of that little laugh, that single puff of air before he asks, "what? It hurts?"

It does.

So much of this hurts.

Not when he rips it into pieces so small it ceases to exist— no, that's a relief. Not when it returns to the same starting spot— how many times?— and its life ends again, minutes later, inches away. That's just frustrating. Not when he meets its eyes, not when he smiles, not when he speaks to it, easily and in even tones, like he doesn't mind how much noise it makes. Maybe he even likes it. That feeling... that feeling is...

Another kind of hurt, it decides. An ache in its chest that starts before it gets skewered. A nausea that sticks after he's done throwing around its SOUL. A heat independent of the white hot light, one that doesnt fizzle or melt, but still wets its skin. Eventually, the mere sight of him hurts: The Judge, in silhouette. He steps into the light and its stomach flutters.

"..." He sighs. "Let's just get to the point."

It wants to talk, too. How does he do that?

"Ready?"

It opens its mouth, gesticulates with its knife hand, shuffles forward a single step. The Judge grimaces. It dies.

Things continue on like this. Screaming is so much easier— so easy it's a struggle to stop it, to hold it in, to bite its lips around another wail as he makes more and more holes in this stupid human body. It hurts. It hurts.

"You can't understand how this feels," he says. He looks like he's in pain, too, even though it can't land a single hit, can't speak a single word. At least he can say why he's upset. His mind and mouth cooperate. He can voice the same complaints on a loop, over and over as the conversation begins anew, an exchange to which it repeatedly fails to contribute. It huffs and whines and coughs blood, but the words stay stuck inside.

"You can't understand how this feels," he says. "You can't understand how this feels. You can't understand how this feels. You can't understand how this feels."

"You can't!" it cries. "You can't!"

It dies.

...

It returns with a realisation...

"That expression you're wearing..."

... and a smile, apparently. "You can't!" it chirps.

"Can't what, buddy?"

"Buddy!"

"Uh... okay. Let's just— "

"Okay!"

"— shut you up now."

"Now!"

He shuts it up, but it can only keep quiet for so long.

The Judge is obviously offput by his opponent parroting his thoughts right back at him. Who wouldn't be? It's never had a conversation before, never had anyone to converse with, but the way he stares at it, trails off, kills it without another word once he's realised its game... It feels wrong. It's a heavy feeling that sucks it deeper into the life-death limbo between timelines. The nothing is familiar; the self is new. Too new, maybe. Maybe it doesn't belong here at all. But... he's...

"That expression you're wearing..." says the Judge. "You got something to say?"

"Something..." it mutters.

"Heh. Real funny, kid."

"Funny..." it sighs.

"... Hey. Look." He takes his hand out of his pocket to gesture towards the window. It's a gentle motion, not at all the snap of his wrist that'll fling away its SOUL, but it flinches anyway. "It's a beautiful day outside. We got plenty of time to chat."

But if it starts, he'll stop, and then it'll die, and what'll be the point? At least when it's quiet like this, they can look at each other. It likes the shape of him, his easy stance, the curve of his skull. His stare is heating it up, making it fidget in place. The heartache, the nausea, this fluttery feeling...

"Just spit it out."

The knife slips from its clammy hand and clatters to the floor, but by then it's already stomping its feet. "Spit it out! Spit it out! Spit out!" This kind of screaming is new— just as hard to stop, but not so reactionary. More like hours or days or however long of words finally bubbled up and poured out. But it still doesn't have any of its own, so it's stuck with only half-formed thoughts and stinging tears, the burn in its fists and feet as it throws itself to the floor and pounds the tile.

It's loud. The Judge just watches. He waits until there's only some sniffling to talk over and says, "okay. Anything else?"

"You can't..." It rolls onto its back and scrubs at its eyes. "You can't understand how this feels..."

"Well, you're right about that. This is the biggest tantrum I've ever seen. All those people are dead... just 'cause you're having a bad day?" He shakes his head. "I get kids acting out when they're upset... but you're no ordinary kid, are you?"

"Are you?" it tries.

"... can you say anything I haven't already said?"

"Ah... uh..." It rolls onto its side and curls into itself, reaches into its memory for the mouth shapes. "Anomaly..."

"Heh. Right. Howzabout... something I wasn't planning to say?"

It opens its mouth, closes it, takes in a shaky breath. All that comes out is a little sob.

"Okay. I got it. You're linguistically challenged and majorly fucked in the head."

"Fuck?"

"Don't say that one." He drags a hand down his face and sighs. "You can't count either, can you? Just— c'mere. Look at me."

It hauls itself upright and sits on its knees, feeling heavier than ever in this tiny body. By now, it's learned to control most all of its muscles, but it's so tired that its gone right back to the ragdoll slump from before. At least it makes the effort to lift its head, to look into The Judge's eyes.

"Hmm... how should I phrase this..." When he turns his head, light glimmers on his browbone. "How's it feel when you think about dying..." He lifts one hand, poised to snap his fingers. "... again?"

It scrambles backwards because it knows this attack. Bones are going to shoot up through the floor to pin it in place, bleed it out, and if it manages to dodge this one then it needs to get on its feet to dodge the next, but it's tired, it likes the quiet, it wants to rest a little longer, but if it doesn't move it's going to die and it doesn't want to die!

Except nothing's happening. No one's dying. The Judge hasn't moved— he's still just standing there with one hand in the air. He's still just... staring.

What does he see in its face? Does he like to look at it as much as it likes to look at him? Maybe so, because that permanent grin of his suddenly gets a little wider.

"Wow." He laughs and its heart pounds. "You're something special, aren'tcha? You suck at this. You die quickly, and frequently— more times than I could ever guess— but you keep coming back. What's up with that, huh? Is staying dead another thing you just don't know how to do? You need a good teacher, kiddo? Trust me, I know all about giving up."

This time, the snap makes the knife sail down the hall in The Judge's direction. He steps over it as it flies far, far out of reach, his slow stride closer in perfect contrast. He walks right up to the creature and crouches down. They're closer than ever before.

"Repeat after me: I'm a stupid cockroach."

It gasps for a breath. "I'mma... cupid... stock..."

"Don't worry, we'll practice til you get it. C'mon. I'm a stupid cockroach."

His expression is unfairly gentle, watching while it bites its tongue.

"Hey, just try it. This is important, okay? From now on, this'll be our special greeting. No matter where... or when you meet me... you tell me exactly who you are, alright?"

"A... a stupid cockroach."

His eyes crease— "That's it, kiddo— " and the whole world glows gold.

"I'm a stupid cockroach! I'm a stupid cockroach! Stupid? Cockroach? Me! Hehehehe!"

That's when it first learns to laugh, and The Judge laughs, too, and it carries on laughing as it's stabbed through with a dozen bones, draining its life away one gasping breath at a time. It hurts. Oh, hahahaha, it hurts.

His voice follows into its slow fade to nothingness. "Great job, just like that. And now you just let it stay this way, alright?"

Void.

Light.

PPPPBBBBBTTTHHHHHH.......

"Heh... the whoopee cushion in the hand trick. It's always funny. I'm Sans. Sans the Skeleton. You're a human, right?"

"I'm a stupid cockroach!"