Summary: Noot's got loot-

Nightmare stepped out of a dark viscous portal, entering the main common room of his and his followers' foreboding, stoney dwelling. He promptly moved to the side and ushered the trio through after him.

One by one, the three Sans exited the magical doorway. Heavy boxes and bags burdened their arms, the objects having forced their way there due to the murderous skeletons' lack of inventory space. (They foolishly failed to clear their inventories like the Guardian of Negativity had asked before they left for the mission.) Each carried an assortment of goods: non-perishables, medical supplies, and whatever else his followers had time to grab, whether that be a new pillow to adorn their bed with or a shiny trinket they couldn't resist grabbing.

Killer, Dust, and Horror instantly began sorting their respective hauls. No doubt eager to squirrel away the items they'd swiped for themselves if their messy, nigh nonexistent categorization and haphazard handling of the supplies were any indications.

Despite their chaotic enthusiasm, the dark lord gave himself a mental pat on the back for a successful raid. With the number of resources they managed to "liberate" from that Underfell AU, their food pantries and medical cabinets would have ample materials for a long while. Assuming his followers didn't accrue needless injuries via dares or attempt to prepare another "special breakfast" for him.

Nightmare experienced a hard enough time choking down the last meal they jointly cooked for him, and hell would sooner freeze over before he dared to brave their cooking again.

A sharp "Ow!" followed by an indignant whine of "Nightmare!" alongside giggling echoed throughout the room, pulling him out of his musings.

The negativity-laden skeleton sighed.

A leader's job truly never possessed a moment of respite.

"Killer, put it down." He ordered. His cyan eyelight narrowed at the aforementioned Sans as he hovered next to Dust, smirking while brandishing an old pipe. A scowl marred the latter of the two as he nursed the bruise blooming on his skull.

"No," The target-souled skeleton huffed and clutched the flaky red-orange metal cylinder against his chest. "It's my emotional support pipe!"

Nightmare resisted the urge to roll his eyelight. All the while, a gooey hand rose up to pinch the bridge of his nasal cavity. (It appeared to be a signature action whenever he was around his followers.) "I fail to see how a rusted, hollow cylinder of steel can offer you emotional aid."

"It brings me joy when I hit someone with it."

"Of course..." The Guardian of Negativity deadpanned.